‘I wasn’t going to,’ I protest, hastily averting my eyes.
‘Right, 10:08 a.m. Perfect. In a minute, I’m going to put a rock on the grass. I need you standing by it when Evelyn kills herself. You can’t move, Aiden, not an inch, understand?’
‘What’s the meaning of all this, Anna?’
‘Call it Plan B.’ She pecks me on the cheek, cold lips meeting numb flesh, as she slides the book back in her pocket.
She’s only taken a step when she clicks her fingers and turns back to me, holding out two white tablets in her palm.
‘Take these for later,’ she says. ‘I filched them from Doctor Dickie’s bag when he came to see the butler.’
‘What are they?’
‘Headache pills, I’ll trade them for my chess piece.’
‘This ugly old thing?’ I say, handing her the hand-carved bishop. ‘Why would you want it?’
She smiles at me, watching as I wrap the tablets in a blue pocket handkerchief.
‘Because you gave it to me,’ she says, clutching it protectively in her hand. ‘It was the first promise you made me. This ugly old thing is the reason I stopped being scared of this place. It’s the reason I stopped being scared of you.’
‘Me? Why would you be afraid of me?’ I say, genuinely hurt by the idea of anything coming between us.
‘Oh, Aiden,’ she says, shaking her head. ‘If we do this right, everybody in this house is going to be afraid of you.’
She’s carried away on those words, blown through the trees and out onto the grass surrounding the reflecting pool. Perhaps it’s her youth, or her personality, or some curious alchemy of all the miserable ingredients surrounding us, but I can’t see an ounce of doubt within her. Whatever her plan, she seems extraordinarily confident in it. Maybe dangerously so.
From my position in the treeline, I watch her pick up a large white rock from the flower bed and pace out six steps before dropping it on the grass. Holding an arm straight out from her body, she measures a line to the ballroom’s French doors, and then, seemingly satisfied with her work, she wipes the mud from her hands, shoves them in her pockets and strolls away.
For some reason, this little display makes me uneasy.
I came here voluntarily, and Anna did not. The Plague Doctor brought her to Blackheath for a reason, and I have no idea what that could be.
Whoever Anna really is, I’m following her blindly.
25
The bedroom door’s locked, no noise coming from inside. I’d hoped to catch Helena Hardcastle before she set about her day, but it appears the lady of the house is not one to idle. I rattle the handle again, pressing my ear to the wood. Aside from a few curious glances from passing guests, my efforts are in vain. She’s not here.
I’m walking away, when the thought hits me: the room hasn’t been broken into yet. Ravencourt will find the door shattered early this afternoon, so it’s going to happen in the next few hours.
I’m curious to see who’s responsible, and why they’re so desperate to get inside. I’d originally suspected Evelyn because she had one of the two revolvers stolen from Helena’s bureau, but she nearly killed me with it in the forest this morning. If it’s already in her possession, she has no need to break in.
Unless there’s something else she wants.
The only other thing that was obviously missing was the appointments page in Helena’s day-planner. Millicent believed Helena tore it out herself to conceal some suspicious deed, but Cunningham’s fingerprints were all over the remaining pages. He refused to explain himself, and denied being responsible for the break-in, but if I could catch him with his shoulder to the door, he’d have no choice but to come clean.
My mind made up, I stride into the shadows at the far end of the corridor and begin my vigil.
Five minutes later, Derby is already impossibly bored.
I’m fidgeting, stalking back and forth. I can’t calm him.
At a loss, I follow the smell of breakfast towards the drawing room, planning to carry a plate of food and a chair back to the corridor. Hopefully, they’ll placate my host for half an hour, after which time I’ll have to come up with some new amusement.
I find the room smothered in sleepy conversation. Most of the guests are only halfway out of their beds and they reek of the prior evening, sweat and cigar smoke baked into their skin, spirits curled around every breath. They’re talking quietly and moving slowly, porcelain people riddled with cracks.
Taking a plate from the sideboard, I scoop piles of eggs and kidneys onto a large plate, pausing to eat a sausage from the platter and wipe the grease from my lips with my sleeve. I’m so preoccupied, it takes a little while to realise everybody’s gone silent.
A burly fellow is standing at the door, his gaze passing from face to face, relief coursing through those he slips over. This nervousness is not unwarranted. He’s a brutish-looking chap with a ginger beard and sagging cheeks, his nose so mangled it resembles an egg cracked in a frying pan. An old frayed suit strains to contain his width, raindrops sparkling on shoulders you could serve a buffet on.
His gaze lands on me like a boulder in the lap.
‘Mr Stanwin wants to see you,’ he says.
His voice is coarse, filled with jagged consonants.
‘What for?’ I ask.
‘I expect he’ll tell you.’
‘Well, offer my regrets to Mr Stanwin, but I’m afraid I’m very busy at present.’
‘Either you walk or I carry you,’ he says in a low rumble.