I need to get a better picture of what happened to Thomas, and I know precisely the man to ask.
Searching for Ted Stanwin, I step into the drawing room, where I find Philip Sutcliffe in green hunting tweeds, attacking the keys of the pianoforte with a great deal of gusto and very little skill, the almost-music transporting me back to my first morning in the house – a memory currently being lived by Sebastian Bell, who’s standing alone and uncomfortable in the far corner, nursing a drink he doesn’t even know the name of. My pity for him is balanced by Dance’s irritation, the old lawyer having little patience for ignorance of any sort. Given the chance, he’d tell Bell everything, consequences be damned, and I must admit the idea is tempting.
Why shouldn’t Bell know that he saw a maid called Madeline Aubert in the forest this morning and not Anna? And that neither of them died, so his guilt is unnecessary? I could explain the loop, and how Evelyn’s murder is the key to escape, preventing him from wasting his day as Donald Davies by trying to flee. Cunningham is Charlie Carver’s son, I’d say, and it looks like he’s trying to prove Carver didn’t kill Thomas Hardcastle. When the time comes, this is the information you’ll blackmail Cunningham with, because Ravencourt abhors scandal and would almost certainly get rid of his valet if he found out. I’d tell him to find the mysterious Felicity Maddox and, most importantly, Helena Hardcastle, because every road leads back to the missing lady of the house.
It wouldn’t work.
‘I know,’ I mutter ruefully.
Bell’s first thought would be that I’d escaped from the madhouse, and when he finally realised it was all true, his investigation would change the day completely. Much as I want to help him, I’m too close to my answer to risk unravelling this loop.
Bell will have to do this alone.
An arm catches my elbow, Christopher Pettigrew appearing beside me with a plate in his hand. I’ve never been this near to him before, and if it weren’t for Dance’s impeccable manners, my disgust would be plain on my face. Up close, he looks like something recently dug up.
‘Soon be rid of him,’ says Pettigrew, nodding over my shoulder towards Ted Stanwin, who’s picking at the cold cuts on the dining table, while watching his fellow guests through narrowed eyes. His disgust is obvious.
Until this moment, I’d always taken him for a simple bully, but it’s more than that I see now. His business is blackmail, which means he knows every secret and hidden shame, every possible scandal and perversity lapping around this house. Worse, he knows who got away with what. He despises everybody in Blackheath, including himself for protecting their secrets, so he spends every day picking fights to make himself feel better.
Somebody pushes by me, a confused Charles Cunningham arriving from the library with Ravencourt’s letter in his hand, while the maid Lucy Harper clears away plates, oblivious to the events brewing around her. With a pang, I realise that she looks a little like my dead wife Rebecca. In her younger days, of course. There’s a similarity of movement, a gentleness of action, as though...
Rebecca wasn’t your wife.
‘Dammit, Dance,’ I say, shaking myself free of him.
‘Sorry, didn’t catch that, old man,’ says Pettigrew, frowning at me.
Flushing with embarrassment, I open my mouth to respond, but I’m distracted by poor Lucy Harper as she tries to squeeze past Stanwin to fetch an empty plate. She’s prettier than I recall, freckled and blue-eyed, trying to tuck her wild red hair back under her cap.
‘’Scuse me, Ted,’ she says.
‘Ted?’ he says angrily, grabbing her wrist and squeezing hard enough to make her wince. ‘Who the hell do you think you’re talking to, Lucy? It’s Mr Stanwin to you, I’m not downstairs with the rats any more.’
Shocked and afraid, she searches our faces for help.
Unlike Sebastian Bell, Dance is a keen observer of human nature and, watching this scene play out before me, I’m struck by something queer. When I first witnessed this moment, I’d taken note only of Lucy’s fear at being manhandled, but she isn’t merely afraid, she’s surprised. Upset even. And rather oddly, so is Stanwin.
‘Let her go, Ted,’ says Daniel Coleridge from the doorway.
The rest of the confrontation goes as I remember, Stanwin retreating, Daniel collecting Bell and taking him through into the study to meet Michael, offering me a small nod of acknowledgement along the way.
‘Shall we go?’ asks Pettigrew. ‘I suspect our entertainment is at an end.’
I’m tempted to search for Stanwin, but I have no desire to climb those stairs and make my way into the east wing when I know for certain he’s coming on this hunt. Better to wait for him here, I decide.
Shouldering our way through the scandalised throng, we pass through the entrance hall and out onto the driveway to find Sutcliffe already waiting, along with Herrington and a couple of other chaps I don’t recognise. Dark clouds are clambering atop one another, pregnant with a storm I’ve now seen batter Blackheath half a dozen times. The hunters are huddled in a pack, holding onto their hats and jackets as the wind tugs at them with a thousand thieving hands. Only the dogs seem eager, straining at their leads and barking into the gloom. It’s going to be a miserable afternoon and the knowledge that I’m going to be striding into it only makes things worse.
‘What ho?’ says Sutcliffe upon our approach, the shoulders of his jacket dusted with dandruff.
Herrington nods at us, trying to scrape something unpleasant off his shoes. ‘Did you see Daniel Coleridge’s little showdown with Stanwin?’ he asks. ‘I think we’ve backed the right horse after all.’
‘We’ll see,’ says Sutcliffe darkly. ‘Where’s Daniel gone, anyway?’