Snatches of Dance’s memory surface, fleeting glimpses of a lifelong friendship with Peter Hardcastle that made me an honorary part of the family. Whatever we had has long since faded, but I’m surprised by the affection I still feel for this boy. I’ve known him his entire life. I’m proud of him. Prouder than of my own son.
‘As for Mother,’ continues Michael, oblivious to my momentary confusion. ‘To tell you the truth, she’s been acting strangely since we got here. Actually, I was hoping you’d speak with her privately. I think she’s avoiding me.’
‘And me,’ I counter. ‘I haven’t managed to catch hold of her all day.’
He pauses, making his mind up on something. Lowering his voice, he continues confidentially, ‘I’m worried she’s gone off the deep end.’
‘Deep end?’
‘It’s like she’s somebody else entirely,’ he says, worried. ‘Happy one minute, angry the next. It’s impossible to keep track, and the way she looks at us now, it’s as if she doesn’t recognise us.’
Another rival?
The Plague Doctor said there were three of us: the footman, Anna and myself. I can’t see what purpose would be served by lying. I steal a glance at Daniel, trying to gauge whether he knows anything more about this, but his attention is riveted on Michael.
‘When did this behaviour start?’ I ask casually.
‘I couldn’t tell you, feels like forever.’
‘But when was the first time you noticed it?’
He chews his lip, cycling back in his memories.
‘The clothes!’ he says suddenly. ‘That would be it. Did I tell you about the clothes?’ He’s looking at Daniel, who shakes his head blankly. ‘Come now, I must have? Happened about a year ago?’
Daniel shakes his head again.
‘Mother had come up to Blackheath for her annual morbid pilgrimage, but when she got back to London, she burst into my place in Mayfair and started ranting about finding the clothes,’ says Michael, telling the story as though expecting Daniel to leap in at any moment. ‘That’s all she’d say, that she’d found the clothes, and did I know anything about them.’
‘Whose clothes were they?’ I say, humouring him.
I’d been excited to hear about Helena’s altered personality, but if she changed a year ago, it’s unlikely she’s another rival. And while there’s certainly something strange about her, I don’t see how laundry can help me decipher what it is.
‘Damned if I know,’ he says, throwing his hands up. ‘I couldn’t get a sensible thing out of her. In the end, I managed to calm her down, but she wouldn’t keep quiet about the clothes. Kept saying everybody would know.’
‘Know what?’ I say.
‘She never did say, and she left shortly after, but she was adamant.’
Our group is thinning out as the dogs draw the hunters in a different direction, Herrington, Sutcliffe and Pettigrew waiting for us a little further ahead. They’re obviously hanging back for further directions, and after saying his goodbyes, Michael jogs ahead to point the way.
‘What did you make of that?’ I ask Daniel.
‘I haven’t yet,’ he says vaguely.
He’s preoccupied, his gaze dragging behind Michael. We continue in silence until we reach an abandoned village at the bottom of a cliff. Eight stone cottages are arranged around a dirt junction, the thatched roofs rotted away, the logs that once supported them collapsed. Echoes of old lives linger still; a bucket among the rubble, an anvil tipped over by the side of the road. Some might find them charming, but I see only relics of former hardships, happily deserted.
‘Nearly time,’ Daniel mutters, staring at the village.
There’s a look on his face I can’t quite place, married to a tone that’s impatient, excited and a little afraid. It makes my skin prickle. Something of note is about to happen here, but for the life of me I can’t see what it could be. Michael’s showing Sutcliffe and Pettigrew one of the old stone houses, while Stanwin leans against a tree, his thoughts far afield.
‘Be ready,’ Daniel says enigmatically, disappearing into the trees before I have the chance to question him further. Any other host would follow him, but I’m exhausted. I need to sit down somewhere.
Settling myself on a crumbling wall, I rest while the others talk, my eyelids drooping. Age is coiling around me, its fangs in my neck, drawing my strength when I need it most. It’s an unpleasant sensation, perhaps even worse than the burden of Ravencourt’s bulk. At least the initial shock of being Ravencourt waned, allowing me to become accustomed to his physical limitations. Not so with Dance, who still thinks of himself as a vigorous young man, waking up to his age only when he catches sight of his wrinkled hands. Even now, I can feel him frowning at my decision to sit down, to give in to my tiredness.
I pinch my arm, struggling to stay awake, irritated at my vanishing energy.
It makes me wonder how old I am outside of Blackheath. It’s not something I’ve allowed myself to dwell on before, time being short enough without indulging in pointless musing, but here and now I pray for youth, for strength, good health and a sound mind. To escape all this only to find myself permanently trapped in—
39
Day Two (continued)
I wake abruptly, stirring the Plague Doctor who’s staring at a gold pocket watch, his mask painted a sickly yellow colour by the candle in his hand. I’m back in the butler, swaddled in cotton sheets.
‘Right on time,’ says the Plague Doctor, snapping the watch shut.
It looks to be dusk, the room mired in a gloom only partially beaten back by our small flame. Anna’s shotgun is lying on the bed beside me.
‘What happened?’ I say, my voice hoarse.
‘Dance is dozing on his wall.’ The Plague Doctor chuckles, placing his candle on the floor and dropping into the small chair by the bed. It’s far too small for him, his greatcoat swallowing the wood completely.
‘No, I meant, the shotgun. Why do I have it?’
‘One of your hosts left it for you. Don’t bother calling for Anna,’ he says, noticing that I’m eyeing the door. ‘She’s not in the gatehouse. I came to warn you that your rival has almost solved the murder. I’m expecting him to find me at the lake tonight. You must work quickly from this point onwards.’