Flip over the chessboard, change this moment. Prove yourself unique.
My hand reaches out, but the thought of Evelyn’s reaction, her disdain, the laughter of the assembled ladies, is too much. Shame cripples me, and I jerk my hand back. There’ll be further opportunities, I need to keep watch for them.
Thoroughly demoralised and with defeat unavoidable, I dash the last few moves, putting my king to the sword with unseemly haste before staggering from the room, Sebastian Bell’s voice fading behind me.
15
As ordered, Cunningham’s waiting for me in the library. He’s sitting on the edge of a chair, the letter I gave him unfolded and trembling slightly in his hand. He stands as I enter, but in my desire to put the Sun Room behind me I’ve moved too quickly. I can hear myself breathing, wheezy desperate bursts from my overburdened lungs.
He doesn’t venture to help.
‘How did you know what was going to happen in the drawing room?’ he asks.
I try to answer, but there isn’t room for both words and air in my throat. I choose the latter, guzzling it with the same appetite as everything else in Ravencourt’s life, while staring into the study. I’d hoped to catch the Plague Doctor while he chatted with Bell, but my futile attempt to warn Evelyn dragged on longer than I expected.
Perhaps I shouldn’t be surprised.
As I saw on the road to the village, the Plague Doctor seems to know where I’ll be and when, no doubt timing his appearances so I can’t ambush him.
‘It happened exactly as you described it,’ continues Cunningham, staring at the paper in disbelief. ‘Ted Stanwin insulted the maid and Daniel Coleridge stepped in. They even spoke the words you wrote down. They spoke them exactly.’
I could explain, but he hasn’t got to the section troubling him yet. Instead, I hobble over to the chair, lowering myself onto the cushion with a great deal of effort. My legs throb in pitiful gratitude.
‘Was it a trick?’ he asks.
‘No trick,’ I say.
‘And this... the final line, where you say...’
‘Yes.’
‘... that you’re not Lord Ravencourt.’
‘I’m not Ravencourt,’ I say.
‘You’re not?’
‘I’m not. Get a drink, you’re looking a little pale.’
He does as I say, obedience seemingly being the only part of him that hasn’t thrown its hands up in defeat. He returns with a glass of something and sits down, sipping it, his eyes never leaving mine, legs pressed together, shoulders bowed.
I tell him everything, from the murder in the forest and my first day as Bell, right through to the never-ending road and my recent conversation with Daniel. Doubt flickers on his face, but every time it seems to have a foothold, he glances at the letter. I almost feel sorry for him.
‘Do you need another drink?’ I ask, nodding towards his half-empty glass.
‘If you’re not Lord Ravencourt, where is he?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Is he alive?’
He can barely make eye contact.
‘Would you rather he wasn’t?’ I ask.
‘Lord Ravencourt’s been good to me,’ he says, anger flashing across his face.
That doesn’t answer the question.
I look at Cunningham again. Downcast eyes and dirty hands, a smeared tattoo from a troubled past. In a flash of intuition, I realise he’s afraid, but not of what I’ve told him. He’s afraid of what somebody who’s already seen this day unfold might know. He’s hiding something, I’m certain of it.
‘I need your help, Cunningham,’ I say. ‘There’s lots to do and while I’m shackled to Ravencourt, I don’t have the legs to do any of it.’
Draining his glass, he gets to his feet. The drink’s painted two spots of colour on his cheeks and when he speaks his voice drips with the bottle’s courage.
‘I’m going to take my leave now and resume service tomorrow when Lord Ravencourt has...’ – he pauses, considering the right word – ‘returned.’
He bows stiffly, before heading for the door.
‘Do you think he’ll take you back when he knows your secret?’ I say abruptly, an idea dropping into my head like a stone into a pond. If I’m right and Cunningham is hiding something, it may be shameful enough to use as leverage.
He stops dead beside my chair, hands clenched tight.
‘What do you mean?’ he says, staring straight ahead.
‘Look beneath the cushion of your seat,’ I say, trying to keep the tension from my voice. The logic of what I’m attempting is sound, but that doesn’t mean it will actually work.
He glances at the chair, then back towards me. Without a word he does as I say, discovering a small white envelope. Triumph twists a smile from my lips as he tears it open, his shoulders sagging.
‘How did you know?’ he asks, his voice cracked.
‘I don’t know a thing, but when I wake up in my next host, I’m going to dedicate myself to the task of uncovering your secret. I’m then going to return to this room and place the information in that envelope for you to find. Should this conversation not go the way I want, I’ll place the envelope where the other guests can find it.’
He snorts at me, his contempt a slap in the face.
‘You may not be Ravencourt, but you sound exactly like him.’
The idea is so startling it momentarily silences me. Until now I’d assumed my personality – whatever that might be – was carried into each new host, filling them as pennies fill a pocket, but what if I was wrong?
None of my previous hosts would have thought to blackmail Cunningham, let alone had the stomach to act on the threat. In fact, looking back at Sebastian Bell, Roger Collins, Donald Davies and now Ravencourt, I can see little in their behaviour to suggest a common hand at work. Could it be that I’m bending to their will, rather than the other way around? If so, I must be wary. It’s one thing to be caged in these people, quite another to abandon oneself entirely to their desires.
My thoughts are interrupted by Cunningham, who’s setting fire to a corner of the letter with a lighter from his pocket.