He searches my face expectantly, his green eyes narrowing at my lack of recognition.
‘It’s true then, you can’t remember a thing,’ he says, tossing a quick glance at Daniel. ‘You lucky devil! Let’s get to the bar so I can introduce you to a hangover.’
‘News travels fast in Blackheath,’ I say.
‘Boredom’s very flat ground,’ he says. ‘Name’s Michael Hardcastle. We’re old friends, though I suppose we’re better described as recent acquaintances now.’
There’s no hint of disappointment in the statement. In fact, he seems amused by it. Even at first meeting, it’s evident Michael Hardcastle will be amused by most things.
‘Michael was sat next to you at dinner last night,’ says Daniel, who’s taken up Michael’s inspection of the gramophone. ‘Come to think of it, that’s probably why you went out and coshed yourself on the head.’
‘Play along, Belly, we’re hoping one day he’ll accidentally say something funny,’ says Michael.
There’s an instinctive pause for my rejoinder, the rhythm of the moment collapsing under the weight of its absence. For the first time since I woke up this morning, I feel a yearning for my old life. I miss knowing these men. I miss the intimacy of this friendship. My sorrow is mirrored on the faces of my companions, an awkward silence digging a trench between us. Hoping to recover at least some of the trust we must once have shared, I roll up my sleeve to show them the bandages covering my arm, blood already beginning to seep through.
‘I wish I had coshed myself on the head,’ I say. ‘Doctor Dickie believes somebody attacked me last night.’
‘My dear fellow,’ gasps Daniel.
‘This is because of that damn note, isn’t it?’ says Michael, his eyes tracing my injuries.
‘What are you talking about, Hardcastle?’ asks Daniel, raising his eyebrows. ‘Are you saying you know something about this? Why didn’t you say so earlier?’
‘There’s not much to it,’ says Michael sheepishly, digging at the thick carpet with the toe of his shoe. ‘A maid brought a note to the table during our fifth bottle of wine. Next thing I know Belly’s making his excuses and trying to remember how doors work.’ He looks at me, shamefaced. ‘I wanted to go with you, but you were adamant you had to go alone. I assumed you were meeting some woman or other so I didn’t press the issue, and that was the last I saw of you until now.’
‘What did the message say?’ I ask.
‘Haven’t the foggiest, old bean, I didn’t see it.’
‘Do you remember the maid who brought it, or if Bell mentioned anybody called Anna?’ asks Daniel.
Michael shrugs, wrapping his entire face around the memory. ‘Anna? Doesn’t ring any bells, I’m afraid. As for the maid, well...’ He puffs up his cheeks, blowing out a long breath. ‘Black dress, white apron. Oh, dash it all, Coleridge, be reasonable. There’s dozens of them, how’s a man meant to keep track of their faces.’
He hands each of us a helpless look, Daniel meeting it with a disgusted shake of the head.
‘Don’t worry, old boy, we’ll get to the bottom of all this,’ he says to me, squeezing my shoulder. ‘And I’ve an idea how.’
He motions towards a framed map of the estate hanging on the wall. It’s an architectural drawing, rain spotted and yellowing at the edges, but quite beautiful in its depiction of the house and grounds. As it turns out, Blackheath is a huge estate with a family graveyard to the west and a stable to the east, a trail winding down to a lake with a boathouse clinging to the bank. Aside from the driveway, which is actually a stubborn road cutting straight towards the village, everything else is forest. As the view from the upper windows suggests, we’re quite alone among the trees.
A cold sweat prickles my skin.
I was meant to disappear in that expanse, as Anna did this morning. I’m searching for my own grave.
Sensing my disquiet, Daniel glances at me.
‘Lonely sort of place, isn’t it?’ he murmurs, tapping a cigarette loose from a silver case. It dangles from his lower lip as he searches his pockets for a lighter.
‘My father brought us out here when his political career keeled over,’ says Michael, lighting Daniel’s cigarette and taking one for himself. ‘The old man fancied himself a country squire. Didn’t work out quite the way he’d hoped, of course.’
I raise a questioning eyebrow.
‘My brother was murdered by a chap called Charlie Carver, one of our groundskeepers,’ says Michael calmly, as though declaring the racing results.
Aghast that I could forget something so horrific, I stammer out an apology.
‘I’m... I’m sorry, that must have been—’
‘A terribly long time ago,’ interrupts Michael, a hint of impatience in his voice. ‘Nineteen years, in fact. I was only five when it happened, and truthfully, I can barely recall it.’
‘Unlike most of the gutter press,’ adds Daniel. ‘Carver and another fellow drank themselves into a mania and grabbed Thomas near the lake. They half drowned him, then finished the job with a knife. He was seven or so. Ted Stanwin came running and drove them off with a shotgun, but Thomas was already dead.’
‘Stanwin?’ I ask, struggling to keep the shock from my voice. ‘The lout from lunch?’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t go saying that too loudly,’ says Daniel.
‘He’s very well thought of by my parents is old Stanwin,’ says Michael. ‘He was a lowly gamekeeper when he tried to save Thomas, but Father gave him one of our African plantations in thanks and the blighter made his pile.’
‘What happened to the murderers?’ I ask.