‘Rochester, Rochester, over here!’ somebody yells to him.
We turn at the same time, another fellow in a plague doctor costume approaching us. There’s another behind him, three more in the crowd. My quarry has multiplied, yet none of them can be my interlocutor. They’re too stout and short, too tall and thin; too many imperfect copies of the real thing. They try to drag their friend away, but I catch hold of the nearest arm – any arm, they’re all the same.
‘Where did you get these costumes?’ I ask.
The fellow scowls at me, his grey eyes bloodshot. They’re lightless, expressionless. Empty doorways without a coherent thought behind them. Shaking himself loose of my grip, he prods me in the chest.
‘Ask me nicely,’ he slurs drunkenly. He’s itching for a fight and, lashing out with my cane, I give it to him. The heavy wood catches him on the leg, a curse detonating on his lips as he drops to one knee. Attempting to steady himself, he places his palm flat on the dance floor, the point of my cane landing on top of his hand, pinning him to the ground.
‘The costumes,’ I shout. ‘Where did you find them?’
‘The attic,’ he says, his face now as pale as the discarded mask. ‘There’s dozens of them hanging on a rack.’
He strains to free himself, but only a fraction of my weight is resting on the cane. I add a little more, pain unsettling his features.
‘How did you know about them?’ I ask, taking a little pressure off his hand.
‘A servant found us last night,’ he says, tears forming in his eyes. ‘He was already wearing one, mask and hat, the entire get-up. We didn’t have costumes, so he took us up to the attic to find some. He was helping everybody, must have been two dozen people up there, I swear.’
Seems the Plague Doctor doesn’t want to be found.
I watch him squirm for a second or two, balancing the veracity of his story against the pain on his face. Content that the two are of equal weight, I lift my cane, allowing him to stumble away, clutching his aching hand. He’s barely out of my sight before Michael emerges from the crowd, spotting me at a distance and driving straight towards me. He’s flustered, two red spots on his cheeks. His mouth is moving frantically, but his words are lost in the music and laughter.
I signal that I cannot understand, and he comes closer.
‘Have you seen my sister?’ he yells.
I shake my head, suddenly fearful. I can see in his eyes that something is wrong, but before I can quiz him further, he’s pushing back through the whirling dancers. Hot and giddy, oppressed by a sense of foreboding, I fight my way to my seat, removing my bow tie and loosening my collar. Masked figures drift by, naked arms glittering with perspiration.
I feel nauseous, unable to take pleasure in anything I see. I’m contemplating joining the search for Evelyn when Cunningham returns with a bottle of champagne in a silver bucket crammed with ice, and two long-stemmed glasses tucked under his arm. The metal’s sweating, as is Cunningham. It’s been so long I’d quite forgotten what he’d left to do, and I yell into his ear.
‘Where have you been?’
‘Thought... saw Sutcliffe,’ he yells back, about half the words carrying through the music, ‘... costume.’
Evidently Cunningham’s had much the same experience I had.
Nodding my understanding, we sit and drink silently, keeping our eyes open for Evelyn, my frustration mounting. I need to be on my feet, searching the house, questioning guests, but Ravencourt’s incapable of such feats. This room is too crowded, his body too weary. He’s a man of calculation and observation, not action, and if I’m to help Evelyn, these are the skills I must embrace. Tomorrow I’ll dash, but today I must watch. I need to see everything that’s happening in this ballroom, cataloguing every detail, in order to get ahead of this evening’s events.
The champagne calms me, but I put my glass down, wary of dulling my faculties. That’s when I spot Michael, climbing the few steps that lead to the mezzanine overlooking the ballroom.
The orchestra is silenced, the laughter and chatter slowly dying down as all heads turn towards their host.
‘I’m sorry to interrupt,’ says Michael, gripping the banister, ‘I feel foolish for asking, but does anybody know where my sister is?’
A ripple of conversation washes over the crowd as heads turn to look at one another. It takes only a minute to determine she’s not in the ballroom.
It’s Cunningham who spots her first.
Touching my arm, he points towards Evelyn, who’s weaving drunkenly as she follows the braziers towards the reflecting pool. She’s some distance away already, drifting in and out of the light. A small silver pistol’s glinting in her hand.
‘Fetch Michael,’ I cry.
As Cunningham pushes through the crowd, I drag myself to my feet, lurching towards the window. Nobody else has seen her and the commotion’s building again, the temporary fuss of the announcement already fading. The violin player tests a note; the clock shows 11 p.m.
I’ve reached the French doors when Evelyn arrives at the pool.
She’s swaying, trembling.
Standing in the trees, only feet away, the Plague Doctor watches passively, the flames of the brazier reflected on his mask.
The silver pistol flashes as Evelyn raises it to her stomach, the gunshot slicing through conversation and music.
And yet, for a moment, all seems well.