He pauses, tutting. ‘I’m more concerned by that arm.’
We’re interrupted by a knock on the door, Dickie opening it before I can protest. It’s Daniel’s valet delivering the pressed clothes he promised. Sensing my indecision, Dickie takes the clothes, dismisses the valet and lays them out on the bed for me.
‘Now, where were we?’ he says. ‘Ah, yes, that arm.’
I follow his gaze to find blood drawing patterns on my shirtsleeve. Without preamble, he tugs it up to reveal ugly slashes and tattered flesh beneath. They look to have scabbed over, but my recent exertions must have reopened the wounds.
After bending my stiff fingers one by one, he fishes a small brown bottle and some bandages from his bag, cleaning my injuries before dabbing them in iodine.
‘These are knife wounds, Sebastian,’ he says in a concerned voice, all his good cheer turned to ash. ‘Recent ones, too. It looks like you held your arm up to protect yourself, like so.’
He demonstrates with a glass dropper from his medical bag, slashing violently at his forearm, which he’s raised in front of his face. His re-enactment is enough to bring me out in goose bumps.
‘Do you recall anything of the evening?’ he says, binding my arm so tightly that I hiss in pain. ‘Anything at all?’
I push my thoughts towards my missing hours. Upon waking I’d assumed everything was lost, but now I perceive this isn’t the case. I can sense my memories just out of reach. They have weight and shape, like shrouded furniture in a darkened room. I’ve simply misplaced the light to see them by.
With a sigh, I shake my head.
‘Nothing’s forthcoming,’ I say. ‘But this morning I saw a—’
‘Woman murdered,’ interrupts the doctor. ‘Yes, Daniel told me.’
Doubt stains every word, but he knots my bandage without voicing any objection.
‘Either way, you need to inform the police immediately,’ he says. ‘Whoever did this was trying to cause you significant harm.’
Lifting his case from the bed, he clumsily shakes my hand.
‘Strategic retreat, my boy, that’s what’s required here,’ he says. ‘Talk to the stablemaster, he should be able to arrange transport back to the village, and from there you can rouse the constabulary. In the meantime, it’s probably best you keep a weather eye out. There are twenty people staying in Blackheath this weekend, and thirty more arriving for the ball tonight. Most of them aren’t above this sort of thing, and if you’ve offended them... well –’ he shakes his head – ‘be careful, that’s my advice.’
He lets himself out and I hurriedly take the key from the sideboard to lock the door after him, my shaking hands causing me to miss the hole more than once.
An hour ago, I’d thought myself a murderer’s plaything, tormented, but beyond any physical threat. Surrounded by people, I felt safe enough to insist we try recovering Anna’s body from the forest, thereby spurring the search for her killer. That’s no longer the case. Somebody’s already tried to take my life, and I have no intention of staying long enough for them to try again. The dead cannot expect a debt from the living, and whatever I owe Anna will have to be paid at distance. Once I’ve met with my Samaritan in the drawing room, I’m going to follow Dickie’s advice and arrange transport back to the village.
It’s time I went home.
4
Water slops over the edges of the bathtub as I quickly slough off the second skin of mud and leaves coating me. I’m inspecting my scrubbed pink body for birthmarks or scars, anything that might trigger a memory. I’m due downstairs in twenty minutes, and I know nothing more of Anna than when I first stumbled up Blackheath’s steps. Banging into the brick wall of my mind was frustrating enough when I thought I’d be helping with the search, but now my ignorance could scupper the entire endeavour.
By the time I’m finished washing, the bathwater is as black as my mood. Feeling despondent, I towel myself dry and inspect the pressed clothes the valet dropped off earlier. His selection of attire strikes me as rather prim, but peering at the alternatives in the wardrobe, I immediately understand his dilemma. Bell’s clothing – for truly, I can’t yet reconcile us – consists of several identical suits, two dinner jackets, hunting wear, a dozen shirts and a few waistcoats. They come in shades of grey and black, the bland uniform of what appears thus far to be an extraordinarily anonymous life. The idea that this man could have inspired anybody to violence is becoming the most outlandish part of this morning’s events.
I dress quickly, but my nerves are so ragged, it takes a deep breath and a stern word to coax my body towards the door. Instinct prompts me to fill my pockets before I leave, my hand leaping towards the sideboard only to hover there uselessly. I’m trying to collect possessions that aren’t there and I can no longer remember. This must be Bell’s old routine, a shadow of my former life haunting me still. The pull is so strong, I feel damn queer coming away empty handed. Unfortunately, the only thing I managed to carry back from the forest was that damnable compass but I can’t see it anywhere. My Samaritan – the man Doctor Dickie called Daniel Coleridge – must have taken it.
Agitation pricks me as I step into the corridor.