I’d like to believe I’m a good man who came to help, but if that’s the case I’m making a damn mess of things. Tonight, as every night, Evelyn’s going to kill herself and if this morning’s actions are any guide, my attempts to paddle away from the disaster may only hurry us towards it. For all I know, my fumbling attempts to save Evelyn are actually the reason she ends up at that reflecting pool with a silver pistol in her hand.
I’m so lost in these thoughts I don’t notice Millicent until I’m almost on top of her. The old lady is shivering on an iron bench that looks out across the garden, her arms folded against the wind. Three shapeless coats encase her completely, her eyes peering out over a scarf pulled up above her mouth. She’s blue with cold, a hat pulled down over her ears. Hearing my steps, she turns to meet me, surprise showing on her wrinkled face.
‘By Jove, you look dreadful,’ she says, pulling the scarf down from her mouth.
‘Good morning to you too, Millicent,’ I say, taken aback by the sudden surge of warmth her presence stokes within me.
‘Millicent?’ she says, pursing her lips. ‘That’s rather modern of you, dear. I prefer ‘‘Mother’’ if it’s all the same to you. I wouldn’t want people thinking I picked you up off the street. Though sometimes I wonder if I mightn’t have been better off.’
My mouth hangs open. I hadn’t previously made the connection between Jonathan Derby and Millicent Derby, probably because it’s easier to imagine him being delivered onto this earth by a biblical plague.
‘Sorry, Mother,’ I say, stuffing my hands into my pockets and sitting down beside her.
She cocks an eyebrow at me, those clever grey eyes alight with amusement.
‘An apology and an appearance before midday, are you feeling quite all right?’ she asks.
‘It must be the country air,’ I say. ‘What about you, why are you out on this dreadful morning?’
She grunts, hugging herself even tighter. ‘I’m supposed to be meeting Helena for a stroll, but I’ve seen neither hide nor hair of the woman. No doubt she’s got her times wrong as usual. I know she’s meeting Cecil Ravenscourt this afternoon, she’s probably gone there instead.’
‘Ravenscourt’s still asleep.’ I say.
Millicent peers at me inquisitively.
‘Cunningham told me, Ravencourt’s valet,’ I lie.
‘You know him?’
‘Vaguely.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t get too friendly,’ she tuts. ‘I understand how much you enjoy dubious society, but from what Cecil’s told me, this one’s most unsuitable, even by your low standards.’
That piques my interest. I’m fond of the valet, but he only agreed to help me after I threatened to blackmail him with a secret he’s keeping. Until I know what he’s hiding, I can’t depend on him, and Millicent might be the key to unearthing it.
‘How so?’ I ask casually.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she says, waving an airy hand at me. ‘You know Cecil, secrets tucked between every fold of skin. If you believe the rumours, he only hired Cunningham because Helena asked him to. Now, he’s uncovered something unsavoury about the boy and is thinking of letting him go.’
‘Unsavoury?’ I say.
‘Well, that’s what Cecil said, not that I could get the rest out of him. Blasted fellow has a bear trap for a mouth, but you know how he hates scandal. Given Cunningham’s parentage, it must be desperately salacious if he’s worried. Wish I knew what it was.’
‘Cunningham’s parentage?’ I ask. ‘I think I’ve missed a step.’
‘The boy was raised at Blackheath,’ she says. ‘Cook’s son, or that’s the story at least.’
‘It’s not true?’
The old lady cackles, looking at me slyly.
‘Word has it the Honourable Lord Peter Hardcastle used to enjoy himself in London from time to time. Well, on one occasion his enjoyment followed him back to Blackheath with a baby in her arms, which she claimed was his. Peter was ready to send the child to the church, but Helena stepped in and demanded they keep it.’
‘Why would she do that?’
‘Knowing Helena, she probably meant it as an insult,’ sniffs Millicent, turning her face away from the bitter wind. ‘She was never very fond of her husband and inviting his shame into the house would have tickled her. Poor Peter has probably cried himself to sleep every night for the last thirty-three years. Either way, they gave the baby to Mrs Drudge, the cook, to raise, and Helena made sure everybody knew whose child he was.’
‘Does Cunningham know any of this?’
‘Can’t see how he wouldn’t, it’s one of those secrets people shout at each other,’ says the old lady, plucking a handkerchief from her sleeve to wipe her running nose. ‘Anyway, you can ask him yourself seeing as you’re so chummy. Shall we walk? I see little point in us freezing on this bench waiting for a woman who isn’t coming.’
She stands before I have a chance to respond, stamping her boots and blowing warm air into her gloved hands. It really is a dreadful day, the grey sky spitting rain, lathering itself into the fury of a storm.
‘Why are you even out here?’ I ask, our feet crunching along the gravel path that circles the house. ‘Couldn’t you have met Lady Hardcastle inside?’
‘Too many people I’d rather not bump into,’ she says.
Why was she in the kitchen this morning?
‘Speaking of bumping into people, I hear you were in the kitchen this morning,’ I say.
‘Who told you that?’ she bridles.
‘Well—’
‘I haven’t been anywhere near the kitchen,’ she continues, not waiting for a response. ‘Filthy places. The smell doesn’t come out for weeks.’
She seems genuinely irritated by the suggestion, which means she probably hasn’t done it yet. A moment later she nudges me good-naturedly, her voice suddenly gleeful. ‘Did you hear about Donald Davies? Apparently he took an automobile last night and ran off back to London. The stablemaster saw him, said he turned up in the pouring rain, dressed in every colour under the sun.’
That brings me pause. Surely, I should have returned to Donald Davies by now, as I have done with the butler. He was my third host, and Anna told me I’m obliged to live one full day in each of them, whether I want to or not. It can’t have been much past mid-morning when I left him asleep on the road, so why haven’t I seen him again?
You left him defenceless and alone.