Their silence is maddening.
If Lucy Harper’s gossip isn’t too far from the mark, Evelyn’s going to be somewhere near the cottage with her lady’s maid when she’s attacked. If I can discover who’s threatening her, perhaps I can save her life and escape this house all at the same time – though I have no clue as to how I’m going to help free Anna as well. She’s put aside her own schemes to aid me, believing I have some plan that will free us both. For the moment, I can’t see how that’s anything other than a hollow promise, and judging by her worried frown when we talked in the gatehouse, she’s beginning to suspect as much.
My only hope is that my future hosts are a great deal cleverer than my previous ones.
Further questioning of the maids drives them deeper into their silence, forcing me to look around for help. The rooms either side of the entrance hall are deathly quiet, the house still knee-deep in last night, and, seeing no other option, I pick my way through the broken glass and head below stairs towards the kitchen.
The passage to the kitchen is grimier than I remember, the clatter of dishes and smell of roasting meat making me sick. Servants eye me as they pass, turning their heads away whenever I open my mouth to ask a question. It’s clear they think I shouldn’t be here and just as clear they don’t know how to get rid of me. This is their place, a river of unguarded conversations and giggling gossip flowing beneath the house. I sully it with my presence.
Agitation rubs me up and down, blood thumping in my ears. I feel tired and raw, the air made of sandpaper.
‘Can I help you?’ says a voice behind me.
The words are rolled up and flung at my back.
I turn to find the cook, Mrs Drudge, staring up at me, ample hands on ample hips. Through these eyes she looks like something a child might make out of clay, a small head on a misshapen body, her features pressed into her face by clumsy thumbs. She’s stern, no trace of the woman who’s going to give the butler a warm scone in a couple of hours’ time.
‘I’m looking for Evelyn Hardcastle,’ I say, meeting her fierce gaze. ‘She went for a walk in the forest with Madeline Aubert, her lady’s maid.’
‘And what’s that to you?’
Her tone is so abrupt I almost recoil. Clenching my hands, I try to keep hold of my rising temper. The servants crane their necks as they scurry by, desperate for theatre, but terrified of the star.
‘Somebody means her harm,’ I say through gritted teeth. ‘If you’ll point me towards Charlie Carver’s old cottage, I’ll be able to warn her.’
‘Is that what you were doing with Madeline last night? Warning her? Is that how her blouse got torn, is that why she was crying?’
A vein pulses in her forehead, indignation bubbling beneath every word. She takes a step forwards, jabbing a finger into my chest as she speaks.
‘I know what—’ she says.
White-hot anger explodes out of me. Without thinking, I slap her across the face and shove her backwards, advancing on her with the devil’s own wrath.
‘Tell me where she’s gone!’ I scream, spittle flying out of my mouth.
Squeezing her bloody lips together, Mrs Drudge glowers at me.
My hands ball into fists.
Walk away.
Walk away now.
Summoning my will, I turn my back on Mrs Drudge, stalking up the suddenly silent passage. Servants leap aside as I pass, but my rage can’t make sense of anything but itself.
Turning a corner, I slump against a wall and let out a long breath. My hands are trembling, the fog in my mind clearing. For those few terrifying seconds, Derby was utterly beyond my control. That was his poison spilling out of my mouth, his bile coursing through my veins. I can feel it still. Oil on my skin, needles in my bones, a yearning to do something dreadful. Whatever happens today, I need to keep tight hold of my temper or this creature is going to slip loose again and goodness knows what he’ll do.
And that’s the truly scary part.
My hosts can fight back.
23
Mud sucks at my boots as I hurry into the gloom of the trees, desperation tugging me along by a leash. After my failure to glean any information in the kitchen, I’m striking out into the forest in hopes of stumbling upon Evelyn along one of the marked trails. I’m counting on endeavour succeeding where calculation has failed. Even if it doesn’t, I need to put some distance between Derby and the temptations of Blackheath.
I’ve not gone far when the red flags bring me to a stream, water surging around a large rock. A smashed wine bottle is half-encased in sludge, beside a thick black overcoat, Bell’s silver compass having fallen out of the pocket. Plucking it from the mud, I turn it over in my palm just as I did that first morning, my fingers tracing the initials SB engraved on the underside of the lid. Sebastian Bell’s initials. What a fool I felt when Daniel pointed that out to me. Half a dozen cigarette butts lie discarded on the ground, suggesting Bell stood here for a little while, probably waiting for somebody. This must have been where he came after receiving the note at the dinner table, though what could have driven him into the rain and cold at such an hour I cannot fathom. Searching his discarded coat offers no clues, his pockets turning up nothing but a lonely silver key, probably to his trunk.