Stanwin and Michael are quiet when I come upon them, but I can hear the things not being said and the unease that stands in its place.
‘Michael, may I have a private word with Mr Stanwin?’ I ask.
‘Of course,’ says Michael, inclining his head and withdrawing.
I hand Stanwin the drink, ignoring the suspicion with which he glances at the glass.
‘Rare that you’d lower yourself to come and talk with me, Dance,’ says Stanwin, sizing me up the way a boxer might an opponent in the ring.
‘I thought we could help each other,’ I say.
‘I’m always interested in making new friends.’
‘I need to know what you saw on the morning of Thomas Hardcastle’s murder.’
‘It’s an old story,’ he says, tracing the edge of his glass with a fingertip.
‘But worth hearing from the horse’s mouth, surely,’ I say.
He’s looking over my shoulder, watching Madeline and Lucy depart with their hamper. I have the sense he’s searching for a distraction. Something about Dance puts him on edge.
‘No harm in it, I suppose,’ he says with a grunt, returning his attention to me. ‘I was Blackheath’s gamekeeper back then. I was on my rounds around the lake, same as every morning, when I saw Carver and another devil with his back to me stabbing the little boy. I took a shot at him, but he escaped into the woods while I was wrestling with Carver.’
‘And for that Lord and Lady Hardcastle gave you a plantation?’ I say.
‘They did, not that I asked,’ he sniffs.
‘Alf Miller, the stablemaster, says Helena Hardcastle was with Carver that morning, a few minutes before the attack. What do you say to that?’
‘That he’s a drunk and a damned liar,’ says Stanwin smoothly.
I search for some tremor, some hint of unease, but he’s an accomplished deceiver this one, his fidgeting put away now he knows what I want. I can feel the scales tipping in his direction, his confidence growing.
I’ve misjudged this.
I believed I could bully him as I did the stablemaster and Dickie, but Stanwin’s nervousness wasn’t a symptom of fear, it was the unease of a man finding a lone question in his pile of answers.
‘Tell me, Mr Dance,’ he says, leaning close enough to whisper into my ear. ‘Who’s the mother of your son? I know it wasn’t your dearly departed Rebecca. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve got a few ideas, but it would save me the cost of confirming them if you’d tell me up front. I might even discount your monthly payment afterwards, for services rendered.’
My blood freezes. This secret sits at the core of Dance’s being. It’s his greatest shame, his only weakness, and Stanwin’s just closed his fist around it.
I couldn’t respond even if I wanted to.
Stepping away from me, Stanwin tosses the untouched brandy into the bushes with a flick of his wrist.
‘Next time you come to trade, make sure you have something—’
A shotgun explodes behind me.
Something splashes my face, Stanwin’s body jolting backwards before hitting the ground in a mangled heap. My ears are ringing and, touching my cheek, I find blood on my fingertips.
Stanwin’s blood.
Someone shrieks, others gasp and cry out.
Nobody moves, then everybody does.
Michael and Clifford Herrington race towards the body, hollering for somebody to fetch Doctor Dickie, but it’s obvious the blackmailer’s dead. His chest is broken open, the malice that drove him flown the coop. One good eye is pointed in my direction, an accusation held within. I want to tell him this wasn’t my fault, that I didn’t do this. Suddenly, that seems like the most important thing in the world.
It’s shock.
Bushes rustle, Daniel stepping out, smoke rising from the barrel of his shotgun. He’s looking down at the body with so little emotion I could almost believe him innocent of the crime.
‘What did you do, Coleridge?’ cries Michael, checking Stanwin for a pulse.
‘Exactly what I promised your father I would do,’ he says flatly. ‘I’ve made sure Ted Stanwin will never blackmail any of you again.’
‘You murdered him!’
‘Yes,’ says Daniel, meeting his shocked gaze. ‘I did.’
Reaching into his pocket, Daniel hands me a silk handkerchief.
‘Clean yourself up, old man,’ he says.
I take it unthinkingly, even thanking him. I’m dazed, bewildered. Nothing about this feels real. Wiping Stanwin’s blood off my face, I stare at the crimson smear on the handkerchief, as if it can somehow explain what’s happening. I was speaking with Stanwin, and then he was dead, and I don’t understand how that could be. Surely there should be more? A chase, fear, a warning of some sort. We shouldn’t simply die. It feels like a swindle. So much paid, too much asked.
‘We’re ruined,’ wails Sutcliffe, slumping against a tree. ‘Stanwin always said that if anything happened to him, our secrets would be made common knowledge.’
‘That’s your concern?’ yells Herrington, wheeling on him. ‘Coleridge murdered a man in front of us!’
‘A man we all hated,’ Sutcliffe shoots back. ‘Don’t pretend you weren’t thinking the same thing. Don’t any of you pretend! Stanwin bled us dry in life and he’s going to destroy us in death.’
‘No, he won’t,’ says Daniel, resting the shotgun across his shoulder.
He’s the only one who’s calm, the only one who isn’t acting like an entirely different person. None of this means anything to him.
‘Everything he has on us—’ says Pettigrew.
‘Is written in a book that I now own,’ interrupts Daniel, retrieving a cigarette from his silver case.
His hand’s not even shaking. My hand. What the hell does Blackheath make me?
‘I commissioned somebody to steal it for me,’ he continues casually, lighting his cigarette. ‘Your secrets are my secrets and they’ll never see the light of day. Now, I believe each of you owes me a promise. It’s this: you won’t mention this to anybody for the rest of the day. Is that understood? If anybody asks, Stanwin stayed behind when we left. He didn’t say why, and that was the last you saw of him.’