There are no windows in the gallery, only burning oil lamps, and it’s so dim I have to squint to locate the maid slumped in the shadows, weeping into a soggy handkerchief. Tact would advise that I approach quietly, but Ravencourt’s ill designed for stealth. My cane raps the floor, the sound of my breathing running on ahead, announcing my presence. Catching sight of me, the maid leaps to her feet, her cap coming loose, curly red hair springing free.
I recognise her immediately. This is Lucy Harper, the maid Ted Stanwin abused at lunch, and the woman who helped me down to the kitchen when I awoke as the butler. The memory of that kindness echoes within me, a warm rush of pity shaping the words in my mouth.
‘I’m sorry, Lucy, I didn’t mean to startle you,’ I say.
‘No, sir, it’s not... I shouldn’t...’ She casts around for some escape, miring herself further in etiquette.
‘I heard you crying,’ I say, attempting to push a sympathetic smile onto my face. It’s a difficult thing to achieve with somebody else’s mouth, especially when there’s so much flesh to move around.
‘Oh, sir, you shouldn’t... it was my fault. I made a mistake at lunch,’ she says, dabbing the last of her tears away.
‘Ted Stanwin treated you atrociously,’ I say, surprised by the alarm rising on her face.
‘No, sir, you mustn’t say that,’ she says, her voice hurdling an entire octave. ‘Ted, Mr Stanwin, I mean, he’s been good to us servants. Always treated us right, he has. He’s just... now he’s a gentleman, he can’t be seen...’
She’s on the verge of tears again.
‘I understand,’ I say hastily. ‘He doesn’t want the other guests treating him like a servant.’
A smile swallows her face.
‘That’s it, sir, that’s just it. They’d never have caught Charlie Carver if it weren’t for Ted, but the other gentlemen still look at him like he’s one of us. Not Lord Hardcastle though, he calls him Mr Stanwin and everything.’
‘Well, as long as you’re quite all right,’ I say, taken aback by the pride in her voice.
‘I am, sir, really I am,’ she says earnestly, emboldened enough to scoop her cap from the floor. ‘I should be getting back, they’ll be wondering where I’ve got to.’
She takes a step towards the door, but is too slow to prevent me throwing a question in her path.
‘Lucy, do you know anybody called Anna?’ I ask. ‘I was thinking she could be a servant.’
‘Anna?’ She pauses, tossing the full weight of her thought at the problem. ‘No, sir, can’t say as I do.’
‘Any of the maids acting strangely?’
‘Now, sir, would you believe, you’re the third person to ask that question today,’ she says, twisting a lock of her curly hair around her finger.
‘Third?’
‘Yes, sir, Mrs Derby was down in the kitchen only an hour ago wondering the same thing. Gave us a right fright she did. High-born lady like that wandering around downstairs, ain’t ever heard of such a thing.’
My hand grips my cane. Whoever this Mrs Derby is, she’s acting oddly and asking the same questions I am. Perhaps I’ve found another of my rivals.
Or another host.
The suggestion makes me blush, Ravencourt’s familiarity with women extending only so far as acknowledging their existence in the world. The thought of becoming one is as unintelligible to him as a day spent breathing water.
‘What can you tell me about Mrs Derby?’ I ask.
‘Nothing much, sir,’ says Lucy. ‘Older lady, sharp tongue. I liked her. Not sure if it means anything, but there was a footman as well. Came in a few minutes after Mrs Derby asking the same question: any of the servants acting funny?’
My hand squeezes the knob of my cane even tighter, and I have to bite my tongue to keep from cursing.
‘A footman?’ I say. ‘What did he look like?’
‘Blond hair, tall, but...’ she drifts off, looking troubled, ‘I don’t know, pleased with himself. Probably works for a gentleman, sir, they get like that, pick up airs and graces they do. Had a broken nose, all black and purple, like it only recently happened. I reckon somebody took exception to him.’
‘What did you tell him?’
‘Wasn’t me, sir, was Mrs Drudge, the cook. Said the same thing she said to Mrs Derby, that the servants were fine, it was the guests gone –’ she blushes – ‘oh, begging your pardon, sir, I didn’t mean—’
‘Don’t worry, Lucy, I find most of the people in this house as peculiar as you do. What have they been doing?’
She grins, her eyes darting towards the doors guiltily. When she speaks again, her voice is almost low enough to be drowned out by the creaking of the floorboards.
‘Well, this morning Miss Hardcastle was out in the forest with her lady’s maid, French she is, you should hear her, quelle this and quelle that. Somebody attacked them out by Charlie Carver’s old cottage. One of the guests apparently, but they wouldn’t say which one.’
‘Attacked, you’re certain?’ I say, recalling my morning as Bell, and the woman I saw fleeing through the forest. I assumed it was Anna, but what if I was wrong? It wouldn’t be the first assumption to trip me up in Blackheath.
‘That’s what they said, sir,’ she says, falling shy in the face of my eagerness.
‘I think I need to have a chat with this French maid, what’s her name?’
‘Madeline Aubert, sir, only I’d prefer it if you didn’t let on who told you. They’re keeping quiet about it.’
Madeline Aubert. That’s the maid who gave Bell the note at dinner last night. In the confusion of recent events, I’d quite forgotten about his slashed arm.
‘My lips are sealed, Lucy, thank you,’ I say, miming the action. ‘Even so, I must speak with her. Could you let her know I’m looking for her? You don’t have to tell her why, but there’s a reward in it for both of you if she comes to my parlour.’