‘Pity,’ she says, rattling it futilely. ‘I used to love coming here when I was younger.’
‘You’ve visited Blackheath before?’
‘I summered here when I was girl, we all did: Cecil Ravencourt, the Curtis twins, Peter Hardcastle and Helena – that’s how they met. When I married, I brought your brother and sister down. They practically grew up with Evelyn, Michael and Thomas.’
She links my arm, continuing our walk.
‘Oh, I used to love those summers,’ she says. ‘Helena was always frightfully jealous of your sister, because Evelyn was so plain. Michael wasn’t much better mind, with that squashed face of his. Thomas was the only one with a dash of beauty and he ended up in that lake, which strikes me as fate kicking the poor woman twice, but there it is. Wasn’t a one of them could measure up to you, my handsome lad,’ she says, cupping my cheek.
‘Evelyn turned out all right,’ I protest. ‘She’s quite striking actually.’
‘Really?’ says Millicent disbelievingly. ‘Must have blossomed in Paris, not that I’d know. The girl’s been avoiding me all morning. Like mother, like daughter, I suppose. Explains why Cecil’s circling, though. Vainest man I’ve ever met, which is saying something after fifty years of living with your father.’
‘The Hardcastles hate her, you know. Evelyn, I mean.’
‘Who’s filled your head with that rot?’ says Millicent, gripping my arm while she shakes her foot, trying to dislodge some mud from her boot. ‘Michael adores her. He’s over in Paris almost every month, and from what I understand they’ve been thick as thieves since she got back. And Peter doesn’t hate her, he’s indifferent. It’s only Helena, and she’s never been quite right since Thomas died. Still comes up here, you know. Every year on the anniversary of his death, she takes a walk around the lake, even talks to him sometimes. Heard her myself.’
The path has brought us to the reflecting pool. This is where Evelyn will take her life tonight, and as with everything at Blackheath, its beauty is dependent on distance. Viewed from the ballroom the reflecting pool’s a magnificent sight, a long mirror conveying all the drama of the house. Here and now though, it’s just a filthy pond, the stone cracked, moss growing thick as carpet on the surface.
Why take her life here? Why not in her bedroom, or the entrance hall?
‘Are you okay, dear?’ asks Millicent. ‘You look a little pale.’
‘I was thinking it’s a shame they’ve let the place go,’ I say, hoisting a smile onto my face.
‘Oh, I know, but what could they do?’ she says, adjusting her scarf. ‘After the murder they couldn’t live here, and nobody wants these big piles any more, especially not when they have Blackheath’s history. Should have left it to the forest, if you ask me.’
It’s a maudlin thought, but nothing lingers in Jonathan Derby’s mind for too long and I’m soon distracted by the preparations for tonight’s party, which I can see through the ballroom windows beside us. Servants and workmen are scrubbing the floors and painting the walls, while maids balance on teetering stepladders with long feather dusters. At the far end of the hall, bored-looking musicians are scraping semiquavers off the surface of their polished instruments as Evelyn Hardcastle points and gesticulates, arranging things from the centre of the room. She’s flitting from group to group, touching arms and spreading kindness, making me ache for that afternoon we spent together.
I search for Madeline Aubert, finding her laughing with Lucy Harper – the maid abused by Stanwin and befriended by Ravencourt – the two of them arranging a chaise longue by the stage. That these two mistreated women have found each other brings me a small measure of comfort, though it by no means alleviates my guilt over this morning’s events.
‘I told you last time I wouldn’t clean up another of your indiscretions,’ says Millicent sharply, her entire body stiff.
She’s watching me watching the maids. Loathing and love swirl within her eyes, the shape of Derby’s secrets visible in the fog. What I’d only vaguely understood before, now stands in stark relief. Derby’s a rapist, more than once over. They’re all there, held in Millicent’s gaze, every woman he’s attacked, every life he’s destroyed. She carries them all. Whatever darkness lurks inside Jonathan Derby, Millicent tucked it in at night.
‘It’s always the weak ones with you, isn’t it?’ she says. ‘Always the—’
She falls silent, her mouth hanging open as though the next words simply evaporated on her lips.
‘I have to go,’ she says suddenly, squeezing my hand. ‘I’ve had a very strange thought. I’ll see you at dinner, darling.’
Without another word Millicent turns back the way we came, disappearing around the corner of the house. Perplexed, I look back into the ballroom, trying to see what she saw, but everybody’s moved around except for the band. That’s when I notice the chess piece on the window ledge. If I’m not mistaken, it’s the same hand-carved piece I found in Bell’s trunk, speckled with white paint and looking at me through clumsily whittled eyes. There’s a message etched into the dirt on the glass above it.
Behind you.
Sure enough Anna’s waving at me from the edge of the forest, her tiny body shrouded by a grey coat. Pocketing the chess piece, I glance left and right to make sure we’re alone, and then follow her deeper into the trees, beyond Blackheath’s sight. She looks to have been waiting for some time and is dancing from foot to foot to keep warm. Judging by her blue cheeks, it’s not doing the blindest bit of good. Little wonder given her attire. She’s draped in shades of grey, her coat threadbare, her knitted hat thin as gossamer. These are clothes passed down and down and down, patched so many times the original material is long gone.
‘Don’t suppose you’ve got an apple or something,’ she says without preamble. ‘I’m bloody starving.’
‘I’ve got a hip flask,’ I say, holding it out to her.