She looks doubtful, but agrees readily enough, bolting before I have time to slip any more promises around her neck.
If Ravencourt were able, I’d have a bounce in my step as I depart the gallery. Whatever apathy Evelyn may feel towards Ravencourt, she’s still my friend and my will is still bent on saving her. If somebody threatened her in the forest this morning, it’s not a stretch to assume the same person will play some part in her murder this evening. I must do everything in my power to intercept them, and hopefully this Madeline Aubert will be able to help. Who knows, by this point tomorrow I might have the murderer’s name in hand. If the Plague Doctor honours his offer, I could escape this house with hosts to spare.
This jubilation persists only as far as the corridor, my whistling faltering with each step further away from the brightness of the entrance hall. The footman’s presence has transformed Blackheath, its leaping shadows and blind corners populating my imagination with a hundred horrible deaths at his hands. Every little noise is enough to set my already overburdened heart racing. By the time I reach my parlour, I’m soaked with sweat, a knot in my chest.
Closing the door behind me, I let out a long shuddering breath. At this rate, the footman won’t need to kill me, my health will give out first.
The parlour’s a beautiful room, a chaise longue and an armchair beneath a chandelier reflecting the flames of a roaring fire. A sideboard is laid with spirits and mixers, sliced fruit, bitters and a bucket of half-melted ice. Beside that sits a teetering pile of roast beef sandwiches, mustard running down the severed edges. My stomach would drag me towards the food, but my body’s collapsing beneath me.
I need to rest.
The armchair takes my weight with ill temper, the legs bowing under the strain. Rain’s thumping the windows, the sky bruised black and purple. Are these the same drops that fell yesterday, the same clouds? Do rabbits dig the same warrens, disturbing the same insects? Do the same birds fly the same patterns, crashing into the same windows? If this is a trap, what kind of prey is worthy of it?
‘I could do with a drink,’ I mutter, rubbing my throbbing temples.
‘Here you go,’ says a woman from directly behind me, the drink arriving over my shoulder in a small hand, the fingers bony and calloused.
I attempt to turn, but there’s too much of Ravencourt and too little of the seat.
The woman shakes the glass impatiently, rattling the ice inside.
‘You should drink this before the ice melts,’ she says.
‘You’ll forgive me if I’m suspicious of taking a drink from a woman I don’t know,’ I say.
She lowers her lips to my ear, her breath warm on my neck.
‘But you do know me,’ she whispers. ‘I was in the carriage with the butler. My name’s Anna.’
‘Anna!’ I say, trying to raise myself from the seat.
Her hand is an anvil on my shoulder, pushing me back down onto the cushions.
‘Don’t bother, by the time you get up I’ll be gone,’ she says. ‘We’ll meet soon, but I need you to stop looking for me.’
‘Stop looking, why?’
‘Because you’re not the only one searching,’ she says, withdrawing a little. ‘The footman’s hunting me as well, and he knows we’re working together. If you keep looking, you’re going to lead him straight to me. We’re both safe while I’m hidden, so call off the dogs.’
I feel her presence recede, steps moving towards the far door.
‘Wait,’ I cry. ‘Do you know who I am, or why we’re here? Please, there must be something you can tell me.’
She pauses, considering it.
‘The only memory I woke up with was a name,’ she says. ‘I think it’s yours.’
My hands clutch the armrests.
‘What was it?’ I ask.
‘Aiden Bishop,’ she says. ‘Now, I’ve done as you asked, so do as I ask. Stop looking for me.’
17
‘Aiden Bishop,’ I say, wrapping my tongue around the vowels. ‘Aiden... Bishop. Aiden, Aiden, Aiden.’
I’ve been trying different combinations, intonations and deliveries of my name for the last half hour, hoping to lure some memories from my recalcitrant mind. Thus far, all I’ve managed to do is give myself a dry mouth. It’s a frustrating way to pass the time, but I’ve few alternatives. One-thirty has come and gone, with no word from Helena Hardcastle to explain her absence. I summoned a maid to fetch her, but was informed that nobody’s seen the lady of the house since this morning. The damn woman has disappeared.
To make matters worse, neither Cunningham nor Madeline Aubert has visited me, and while I’d hardly expected Evelyn’s maid to answer my summons, Cunningham’s been gone for hours. I can’t imagine what’s keeping him but I’m growing impatient. We’ve so much to do, and little time left to do it.
‘ ’Allo, Cecil,’ says a rasping voice. ‘Is Helena still here? I heard you were meeting her.’
Standing at the door is an elderly lady buried beneath a huge red coat, hat and mud-spattered wellington boots that almost reach her knees. Her cheeks are raw with cold, a scowl frozen on her face.
‘I haven’t seen her, I’m afraid,’ I say. ‘I’m still waiting for her.’
‘You too, eh? Bloody woman was supposed to meet me in the garden this morning, left me shivering on a bench for an hour instead,’ she says, stomping over to the fire. She’s wearing so many layers a spark will send her up like a Viking funeral.
‘Wonder where she’s got to?’ she says, tugging off her gloves and tossing them on the seat next to mine. ‘It’s not like there’s a lot to do in Blackheath. Fancy a drink?’
‘Still working on this one,’ I say, waving my glass in her direction.