‘I’m for it,’ I say grandly. ‘Stanwin’s come-uppance is long overdue.’
‘I concur,’ says Pettigrew, waving cigar smoke from his face. ‘His hand has been around my neck for far too long already. What about you, Clifford?’
‘I agree,’ says the old sailor.
All heads turn to Sutcliffe, whose eyes are running circuits of the room.
‘We’re trading devils,’ says the shaggy lawyer eventually.
‘Perhaps,’ says Hardcastle, ‘but I’ve read my Dante, Philip. Not all hells are created equal. Now, what do you say?’
He nods grudgingly, eyes lowered to his glass.
‘Good,’ says Hardcastle. ‘I’ll meet with Coleridge and we’ll confront Stanwin before dinner. All being well, this will be over by the time we announce the wedding.’
‘And just like that we climb out of one pocket and into another,’ says Pettigrew, finishing off his drink. ‘How splendid it is to be a gentleman.’
35
Our business settled, Sutcliffe, Pettigrew and Herrington trail out of the sitting room in a long curl of cigar smoke, as Peter Hardcastle walks over to the gramophone on the sideboard. Wiping the dust from a record with a cotton handkerchief, he lowers the needle and flicks a switch, Brahms blowing out through the flared bronze tube.
Motioning to the others to go on without me, I close the door to the hallway. Peter’s taken a seat by the fire, a window opened on his thoughts. He’s yet to notice I’ve stayed behind and it feels as though some great chasm divides us, though in truth he’s only a step or two away.
Dance’s reticence in this matter is paralysing. As a man who despises interruption, he is equally wary of disturbing others, and the personal nature of the questions I must ask is only compounding the problem. I’m mired in my host’s manners. Two days ago, this wouldn’t have been an obstacle, but every host is stronger than the last, and fighting Dance is like trying to walk into a gale.
Decorum allows a polite cough, Hardcastle turning in his seat to find me by the door.
‘Ah, Dance old man,’ he says. ‘Did you forget something?’
‘I was hoping we could talk privately.’
‘Is there some problem with the contract?’ he says warily. ‘I must admit, I was worried Sutcliffe’s drinking might—’
‘It’s not Sutcliffe, it’s Evelyn,’ I say.
‘Evelyn,’ he says, wariness replaced by weariness. ‘Yes, of course. Come, sit by the fire, this damned house is draughty enough without inviting its chill.’
Giving me time to settle myself, he hitches his trouser leg, dancing a foot before the flames. Whatever his faults, his manners are meticulous.
‘So,’ he says after a moment, judging the rigours of etiquette to have been adequately obeyed. ‘What’s this about Evelyn? I assume she doesn’t want to go through with the wedding?’
Finding no easy way of framing the matter, I decide to simply toss it into his lap.
‘I’m afraid it’s more serious than that,’ I say. ‘Somebody’s set their mind to murdering your daughter.’
‘Murder?’
He frowns, smiling a little, waiting for the rest of the joke to present itself. Undone by my sincerity, he leans forward, confusion wrinkling his face.
‘You’re serious?’ he says, hands clasped.
‘I am.’
‘Do you know who, or why?’
‘Only how. She’s being compelled to commit suicide, otherwise somebody she loves will be murdered. The information was relayed in a letter.’
‘A letter?’ he scoffs. ‘Sounds damn iffy to me. Probably just a game. You know how these girls can be.’
‘It’s not a game, Peter,’ I say sternly, knocking the doubt from his face.
‘May I ask how you came by this information?’
‘The same way I come by all my information, I listen.’
He sighs, pinching his nose, weighing the facts and the man bringing them to him.
‘Do you believe somebody’s trying to sabotage our deal with Ravencourt?’ he asks.
‘I hadn’t considered it,’ I say, startled by his response. I’d expected him to be concerned for his daughter’s well-being, perhaps spurred into making plans to ensure her safety. But Evelyn’s incidental. The only loss he fears is that of his fortune.
‘Can you think of anybody whose interests would be served by Evelyn’s death?’ I say, struggling to contain my sudden distaste for this man.
‘One makes enemies, old families who’d happily see us ruined, but none of them would resort to this. Whispers are more their thing, gossip at parties, spiteful comments in The Times, you know how it is.’
He raps the arm of the chair in frustration.
‘Dash it all, Dance, are you sure about this? It seems so outlandish.’
‘I’m certain, and truth be told, my suspicions lie a little closer to home,’ I say.
‘One of the servants?’ he asks, lowering his voice, his gaze leaping to the door.
‘Helena,’ I say.
His wife’s name strikes him like a blow.
‘Helena, you must be... I mean... my dear man...’
His face is turning red, his words boiling over and spilling out of his mouth. I can feel a similar heat in my own cheeks. This line of questioning is poison to Dance.
‘Evelyn suggested the relationship was fractured,’ I say quickly, laying the words down like stones across a boggy field.
Hardcastle’s gone to the window, where he’s standing with his back to me. Civility clearly does not allow for confrontation, though I can see his body trembling, his hands clenched behind him.
‘I won’t deny Helena has no great fondness for Evelyn, but without her we’ll be bankrupt in a couple of years,’ he says, measuring every word as he struggles to keep his anger in check. ‘She wouldn’t put our future in jeopardy.’
He didn’t say she’s not capable of it.
‘But—’