The lamps have been lowered to dim flames. It’s quiet and oppressive, a forgotten edge of the world. I’m halfway up the passage when I notice a splash of red emerging from the shadows.
A footman’s livery.
He’s blocking the passage.
I freeze. Glancing behind me, I try to work out whether I can reach the entrance hall before he’s on me. The odds are slim. I’m not even sure my legs will listen when I tell them to move.
‘Sorry, sir,’ says a chirpy voice, the footman taking a step closer and revealing himself to be a short, wiry boy, no more than thirteen, with pimples and a nervous smile. ‘Excuse me,’ he adds after a moment, and I realise I’m in his way. Mumbling an apology, I let him pass and blow out an explosive breath.
The footman’s made me so afraid, the mere suggestion of his presence is enough to cripple even Derby, a man who’d throw a punch at the sun because it burnt him. Was that his intention? The reason he taunted Bell and Ravencourt, rather than killing them? If this continues, he’ll be able to pick off my hosts without a shred of resistance.
I’m earning the ‘rabbit’ nickname he’s given me.
Proceeding cautiously, I continue to Evelyn’s bedroom, finding it locked. Knocking brings no answer and, unwilling to leave without something to show for my efforts, I take a step backwards, intending to put my shoulder through it. That’s when I notice the door to Helena’s bedroom is in exactly the same place as the door into Ravencourt’s parlour. Poking my head into both rooms, I find the dimensions are identical. That suggests Evelyn’s bedroom was once a parlour. If that’s the case, there will be a connecting door from Helena’s room, which is useful, because the lock is still broken from this morning.
My guess is proven correct: the connecting door is hidden behind an ornate tapestry hanging on the wall. Thankfully, it’s unlocked and I’m able to slip through into Evelyn’s room.
Given her fractured relationship with her parents, I’d half expected to find her sleeping in a broom closet, but the bedroom is comfortable enough, if modest. There’s a four-poster bed at the centre, a bathtub and bowl behind a curtain on a rail. Evidently the maid hasn’t been allowed in for some time because the bath is full of cold, dirty water, towels discarded in soggy heaps on the floor, a necklace tossed carelessly on the dressing table beside a pile of scrunched-up tissues, all stained with make-up. The curtains are drawn, Evelyn’s fire piled high with logs. Four oil lamps stand in the corners of the room, pinching the gloom between their flickering light and that of the fireplace.
I’m shaking with pleasure, Derby’s excitement at this intrusion a warm blush rising through my body. I can feel my spirit trying to recoil from my host, and it’s all I can do to hold onto myself as I sift through Evelyn’s possessions, searching for anything that might drive her towards the reflecting pool later tonight. She’s a messy sort, discarded clothes stuffed wherever they happen to fit, costume jewellery heaped in the drawers, tangled up with old scarves and shawls. There’s no system, no order, no hint that she allows a maid anywhere near her things. Whatever her secrets, she’s hiding them from more than me.
I catch myself stroking a silk blouse, frowning at my own hand before realising it’s not me that wants this, it’s him.
It’s Derby.
With a cry I pull my hand back, slamming the wardrobe shut.
I can feel his yearning. He’d have me on my knees, pawing through her belongings, inhaling her scent. He’s a beast and for a second he had control.
Wiping the beads of desire from my forehead, I take a deep breath to collect myself before pushing on with the search.
I narrow my concentration to a point, keeping hold of my thoughts, allowing no gap for him to creep through. Even so, the investigation is fruitless. About the only item of interest is an old scrapbook containing curios from Evelyn’s life: old correspondence between herself and Michael, pictures from her childhood, scraps of poetry and musings from her adolescence, all combining to present a portrait of a very lonely woman who loved her brother desperately and now misses him terribly.
Closing the book, I push it back under the bed where I found it, departing the room as quietly as I came, dragging a thrashing Derby within me.
30
I’m sitting in an armchair in a dim corner of the entrance hall, the seat arranged to give me a clear view to Evelyn’s bedroom door. Dinner’s under way, but Evelyn will be dead in three hours and I plan to dog her every step to the reflecting pool.
Such patience would normally be beyond my host, but I’ve discovered that he enjoys smoking, which is handy because it makes me light-headed, dulling the cancer of Derby in my thoughts. It’s a pleasant, if unexpected, benefit of this inherited habit.
‘They’ll be ready when you need them,’ says Cunningham, appearing through the fog and crouching by my chair. There’s a pleased grin on his face I can make neither head nor tail of.
‘Who’ll be ready?’ I say, looking at him.
This grin disappears, embarrassment taking its place as he lurches to his feet.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Derby, I thought you were somebody else,’ he says hastily.
‘I am somebody else, Cunningham, it’s me, Aiden. I still don’t have the foggiest idea what you’re talking about, though.’
‘You asked me to get some people together,’ he says.
‘No, I didn’t.’
Our confusions must mirror each other, because Cunningham’s face has twisted into the same knot as my brain.
‘I’m sorry, he said you’d understand,’ says Cunningham.
‘Who said?’
A sound draws my attention to the entrance hall, and, turning in my seat, I see Evelyn fleeing across the marble, weeping into her hands.
‘Take this, I have to go,’ says Cunningham, thrusting a piece of paper into my hand with the phrase ‘all of them’ written on it.