‘How’s that?’ I ask.
‘He was living here when the murder happened,’ says Sutcliffe, glancing over his shoulder at me. ‘Just a boy back then, of course, bit older than Evelyn, as I remember. Rumour had it he was Peter’s bastard. Helena gave him to the cook to raise, or something like that. Never could work out who she was punishing.’
His voice is thoughtful, a rather strange sound coming from this shaggy, shapeless creature. ‘Pretty little thing that cook, lost her husband in the war,’ he muses. ‘The Hardcastles paid for the boy’s education, even got him the job with Ravencourt when he came of age.’
‘What’s Ravencourt want with a nineteen-year-old murder?’ asks Pettigrew.
‘Due diligence,’ says Herrington bluntly, stepping around horse manure. ‘Ravencourt’s buying a Hardcastle, he wants to know what baggage she’s bringing along.’
Their conversation swiftly frays into trivialities, but my thoughts remain fixed on Cunningham. Last night, he pressed a note into Derby’s hand that read ‘all of them’ and told me he was rounding up guests on behalf of a future host. That would suggest I can trust him, but he clearly has his own agenda in Blackheath. I know he’s Peter Hardcastle’s illegitimate son, and that he’s asking questions about the murder of his half-brother. Somewhere between those two facts is a secret he’s so desperate to keep, he’s allowed himself to be blackmailed with it.
I grit my teeth. For once, it would be refreshing to find somebody in this place who was exactly what they appeared to be.
Passing the cobbled path towards the stables, we push south along the never-ending road into the village, before finally coming upon the gatehouse. One by one we fill the narrow corridor, hanging our coats and shaking the rain free of our clothes while complaining about the conditions outside.
‘Through here, chaps,’ says a voice from behind a door on our right.
We follow the voice into a gloomy sitting room lit by an open fire, where Lord Peter Hardcastle is sitting in an armchair near the window. He has one leg flung across the other, a book flat on his lap. He’s somewhat older than his portrait suggested, though still broad chested and fit-looking. Dark eyebrows slide towards each other in a V-shape, pointing towards a long nose and mopey mouth curved downwards at the edges. A ragged spectre of beauty suggests itself, but his stash of splendour has almost run dry.
‘Why the hell are we meeting all the way out here?’ asks Pettigrew grumpily, dropping into a chair. ‘You’ve a perfectly good...’ – he waves in the direction of Blackheath – ‘well, you’ve got something that resembles a house down the road.’
‘That damn house has been a curse on this family ever since I was a boy,’ says Peter Hardcastle, pouring drinks into five glasses. ‘I won’t set foot inside until it’s absolutely necessary.’
‘Perhaps you should have thought of that before throwing history’s most tasteless party,’ says Pettigrew. ‘Do you really intend on announcing Evelyn’s engagement on the anniversary of your own son’s murder?’
‘Do you think any of this is my idea?’ asks Hardcastle, slamming the bottle down and glaring at Pettigrew. ‘Do you think I want to be here?’
‘Easy, Peter,’ soothes Sutcliffe, shambling over to awkwardly pat his friend’s shoulder. ‘Christopher’s grumpy because, well, he’s Christopher.’
‘Of course,’ says Hardcastle, whose red cheeks suggest anything but understanding. ‘It’s just... Helena’s acting damn queer, and now all this. It’s been quite trying.’
He goes back to pouring drinks, an uneasy silence gagging everything but the rain thumping on the windows.
Personally I’m glad of the quiet, and the chair.
My companions walked quickly and keeping up was a chore. I need to catch my breath and pride dictates that nobody notice me doing it. In lieu of conversation, I look around the room, but there’s little worthy of scrutiny. It’s long and narrow, with furniture piled up against the walls like wreckage on a riverbank. The carpet is worn through, the flowery wallpaper gaudy. Age is thick in the air, as though the last owners sat here until they crumbled into dust. It’s nowhere near as uncomfortable as the east wing, where Stanwin has sequestered himself, but it’s still an odd place to find the lord of the house.
I’ve not had cause to ask what Lord Hardcastle’s role in his daughter’s murder might be, but his choice of lodging suggests he’s looking to stay out of sight. The question is, what is he doing with that anonymity?
Drinks are deposited before us, Hardcastle resuming his former seat. He’s rolling his glass between his palms, gathering his thoughts. There’s an endearing awkwardness to his manner that immediately reminds me of Michael.
To my left, Sutcliffe – who’s already halfway through his Scotch and soda – digs a document from his jacket and hands it to me, indicating that I should pass it along to Hardcastle. It’s a marriage contract drafted by the firm Dance, Pettigrew & Sutcliffe. Evidently, myself, the lugubrious Philip Sutcliffe and the oily Christopher Pettigrew are business partners. Even so, I’m certain Hardcastle hasn’t brought us here to talk about Evelyn’s nuptials. He’s too distracted for that, too fidgety. Besides, why request Herrington’s presence if you only needed your solicitors.
Confirming my suspicion, Hardcastle takes the contract from me, offering it the faintest of glances before dropping it on the table.
‘Dance and I worked on it ourselves,’ says Sutcliffe, rising to fetch another drink. ‘Have Ravencourt and Evelyn put their signatures on the bottom and you’re a rich man again. Ravencourt will pay a lump sum upon signing, with the outstanding amount held in trust until after the ceremony. In a couple of years he’ll take Blackheath off your hands as well. Not a bad piece of work if I do say so myself.’