‘Where is old Ravencourt?’ asks Pettigrew, glancing at the door. ‘Shouldn’t he be here for this?’
‘Helena’s looking after him,’ says Hardcastle, taking a wooden case from the lintel above the fireplace and opening it to reveal rows of fat cigars that draw childish coos from the party. Declining one, I watch Hardcastle as he offers them around. His smile hides a dreadful eagerness, his pleasure in this display a foundation for other matters.
He wants something.
‘How is Helena?’ I ask, tasting my drink. It’s water. Dance doesn’t even allow himself the pleasure of alcohol. ‘All of this must be hard on her.’
‘ I should hope so, it was her damn idea to come back,’ snorts Hardcastle, taking a cigar for himself and closing the box. ‘You know, a chap wants to do his best, be supportive, but dash it all, I’ve barely seen her since we got here. Can’t get two words out of the woman. If I were a spiritual sort of fellow, I’d think her possessed.’
Matches are passing from hand to hand, each man indulging his own cigar-lighting ritual. Forgoing Pettigrew’s back and forth motion, Herrington’s gentle touches and Sutcliffe’s circular theatrics, Hardcastle simply lights it, shooting me an exasperated glance.
A flicker of affection stirs within me, the remnants of some stronger emotion reduced to embers.
Blowing out a long trail of yellow smoke, Hardcastle settles back in his chair.
‘Gentleman, I invited you here today, because we all have something in common.’ His delivery is stiff, rehearsed. ‘We are all being blackmailed by Ted Stanwin, but I have a way to free us, if you’ll hear me out.’
He’s watching each of us for a reaction.
Pettigrew and Herrington remain quiet, but the lumpen Sutcliffe splutters, taking a hasty gulp of his drink.
‘Go on, Peter,’ says Pettigrew.
‘I have something on Stanwin we can exchange for our freedom.’
The room is still. Pettigrew is on the edge of his seat, the cigar quite forgotten in his hands.
‘And why haven’t you used it already?’ he asks.
‘Because we’re in this together,’ says Hardcastle.
‘Because it’s damn risky more like,’ interjects a red-faced Sutcliffe. ‘You know what happens if one of us moves against Stanwin, he releases what he has on each of us, dropping us all in the pot. Exactly like Myerson’s lot.’
‘He’s bleeding us dry,’ says Hardcastle heatedly.
‘He’s bleeding you dry, Peter,’ says Sutcliffe, jabbing the table with a thick finger. ‘You’re about to make a pile out of Ravencourt and you don’t want Stanwin getting his hands on it.’
‘That devil’s had his hand in my pocket for nearly twenty years,’ exclaims Hardcastle, flushing a little. ‘How much longer can I be expected to let it go on?’
He turns his gaze on Pettigrew.
‘Come now, Christopher, surely you’re ready to listen to me. Stanwin’s the reason...’ – storm clouds of embarrassment drift across his grey face – ‘well, perhaps Elspeth wouldn’t have left if...’
Pettigrew sips at his drink, offering neither rebuke nor encouragement. Only I can see the heat rising up his neck, or how his fingers are squeezing the glass so tightly the skin behind his nails has turned white.
Hardcastle hurriedly turns his attention towards me.
‘We can rip Stanwin’s hand from our throat, but we need to confront him together,’ he says, striking a balled fist into his palm. ‘Only by showing that we’re all ready to act against him will he listen.’
Sutcliffe puffs up. ‘That’s—’
‘Quiet, Philip,’ interrupts Herrington, the naval officer’s eyes never leaving Hardcastle’s. ‘What have you got on Stanwin?’
Hardcastle flicks a suspicious glance at the door, before lowering his voice.
‘He has a child squirrelled away somewhere,’ he says. ‘He’s kept her hidden for fear she may be used against him, but Daniel Coleridge claims to have uncovered her name.’
‘The gambler?’ says Pettigrew. ‘How’s he mixed up in all of this?’
‘Didn’t seem prudent to ask, old chap,’ says Hardcastle, swirling his drink. ‘Some men walk in dark places the rest of us shouldn’t tread.’
‘Word has it he pays half the servants in London for information on their masters,’ says Herrington, pulling his lip. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if the same was true of Blackheath, and Stanwin certainly worked here long enough to have let a secret slip. There could be something in this, you know.’
Hearing them discuss Daniel gives me an odd tingle of excitement. I’ve known for some time he’s my final host, but he’s been operating so far in my future, I’ve never truly felt connected to him. To see our investigations converging this way is like catching sight of something long sought on the horizon. Finally, there’s a road between us.
Hardcastle’s on his feet, warming his hands by the heat of the fire. Lit by the flames, it’s clear the years have taken more from him than they’ve given. Uncertainty is a crack through the centre of him, undermining any suggestion of solidity or strength. This man’s been broken in two and put back together crooked, and if I had to guess, I’d say there was a child-shaped hole right in the middle.
‘What does Coleridge want from us?’ I ask.
Hardcastle looks at me with flat, unseeing eyes.
‘I’m sorry?’ he says.
‘You said Daniel Coleridge has something on Stanwin, which means he wants something from us in exchange for it. I assume that’s why you’ve called us all together.’
‘Just so,’ says Hardcastle, fingering a loose button on his jacket. ‘He wants a favour.’
‘Only one?’ asks Pettigrew.
‘From each of us, with the promise that we’ll honour it whenever he calls upon us, no matter what it might be.’
Glances are exchanged, doubt handed from face to face. I feel like a spy in the enemy camp. I’m not certain what Daniel’s up to, but I’m obviously meant to help sway this argument in his favour. In my favour. Whatever this favour turns out to be, hopefully it will help free us and Anna from this dreadful place.