‘Actually, I’ve been thinking up a plan.’
She peers under the bed, bringing out the artist’s sketchbook, which she opens and drops on my lap. This is the book that’s been guiding her all day, but the intricate spiderweb of cause and effect I’d anticipated is nowhere to be seen.
Its contents are gibberish, as far as I can tell.
‘I thought I wasn’t allowed to see this?’ I say, craning my head to read her awkward upside-down writing. ‘I’m honoured.’
‘Don’t be, I’m only letting you see the bit you need,’ she says.
Circled warnings and sketches of the day’s events have been scrawled in an erratic hand, snatches of conversation dashed onto the page, without any context to explain them. I recognise a few of the moments, including a hasty drawing of the butler’s beating at the hands of Gold, but most of them are meaningless.
It’s only after I’ve been assaulted by the chaos, that I begin to see Anna’s attempt to bring order. Using a pencil, she’s diligently written notes for herself near the entries. Guesses have been made, times noted down, our conversations recorded and cross-referenced with those in the book, teasing out the useful information contained within.
‘I doubt you’ll be able to do much with it,’ says Anna, watching me struggle. ‘One of your hosts gave it to me. Might as well be written in another language. A lot of it doesn’t make any sense, but I’ve been adding to it, using it to keep track of your comings and goings. This is everything I know about you. Every host, everything they’ve done. It’s the only way I can keep up, but it’s not complete. There are holes. That’s why I need you to show me the best time to approach Bell.’
‘Bell, why?’
‘This footman is looking for me, so we’re going to tell him exactly where I’ll be,’ she says, writing a note on a loose piece of paper. ‘We’ll gather some of your other hosts and be waiting for him when he gets his knife out.’
‘And how are we going to trap him?’ I say.
‘With this’ – she hands me the note. ‘If you tell me about Bell’s day, I can make sure to put it somewhere he’ll find it. Once I mention it in the kitchen, the meeting will be up and down the house in an hour. The footman’s sure to hear of it.’
Don’t leave Blackheath, more lives than your own are depending on you. Meet me by the mausoleum in the family graveyard at 10:20 p.m. and I’ll explain everything.
Love, Anna
I’m transported back to that evening, when Evelyn and Bell stalked into the dank graveyard, revolver in hand, finding only shadows and a shattered compass covered in blood.
As omens go, it’s not reassuring, but it’s not definitive either. It’s another piece of the future come loose from the whole, and until I get there, I’ll have no idea what it means.
Anna’s waiting for my reaction, but my unease isn’t sufficient reason for objection.
‘Have you seen how this ends, does it work?’ she asks, fingering the hem of her sleeve nervously.
‘I don’t know, but it’s the best plan we have,’ I say.
‘We’re going to need help, and you’re running short of hosts.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll find it.’
I pull a fountain pen from my pocket, adding one more line to the message, something to spare poor Bell a great deal of frustration.
Oh, and don’t forget your gloves, they’re burning.
37
I hear the horses before I see them, dozens of shoes clopping along the cobblestones ahead of me. Not far behind is their smell, a musty odour mingled with the stench of manure, a thick rolling mix even the wind can’t disturb. Only after I’ve been assaulted by their impression do I finally come upon the animals themselves, thirty or so being led out of the stables and up the main road towards the village, carriages harnessed to their backs.
Stable hands are guiding them on foot, their uniform flat caps, white shirts and loose grey trousers rendering them as indistinguishable from each other as the horses in their care.
I’m watching the hooves nervously. In a flash of memory, I recall being thrown from a horse as a boy, the beast’s hooves catching me in the chest, my bones cracking...
Don’t let Dance get a grip on you.
I tear myself free of my host’s memories, lowering the hand which had instinctively gone to the scar on my chest.
It’s getting worse.
Bell’s personality rarely surfaced at all, but between Derby’s lust and Dance’s manners and childhood traumas, it’s becoming difficult to keep a straight course.
A few horses in the middle of the mass are nipping at those to the side of them, a ripple of agitation passing through the muscular brown tide. It’s enough for me to take an ill-advised step off the road, straight into a pile of manure.
I’m flicking the filth free when one of the stable hands peels away from the pack.
‘Something I can help you with, Mr Dance?’ he says, tipping his cap at me.
‘You know me?’ I say, surprised by this recognition.
‘Sorry, sir, name’s Oswald, sir, I saddled the stallion you rode yesterday. Fine thing, sir, seeing a gentleman on a horse. Not many know how to ride that way any more.’
He smiles, showing off two rows of gappy teeth stained brown with tobacco.
‘Of course, of course,’ I say, the passing horses nudging him in the back. ‘Actually, Oswald, I was looking for Lady Hardcastle. She was supposed to be meeting Alf Miller, the stablemaster.’
‘Not sure ’bout her ladyship, sir, but you’ve just missed Alf. Left with somebody about ten minutes gone. Heading to the lake, best I could tell, took the path alongside the paddock. It’s on your right as you pass under the arch, sir, you can probably still catch them if you hurry.’
‘Thank you, Oswald.’
‘Of course, sir.’