Stanwin’s story seems cut and dried, but it doesn’t explain why the past is reaching up to claim another Hardcastle child. It doesn’t explain who’s behind it, or what they hope to gain. I thought coming here would bring some clarity, but whatever the lake remembers, it has little interest in sharing. Unlike Stanwin it cannot be bartered with and unlike the stablemaster it cannot be bullied.
Cold and wet, I might be tempted to give up, but Rashton is already tugging me towards the reflecting pool. The policeman’s eyes aren’t soft like my other hosts. They seek the edges, the absences. My memories of this place aren’t enough for him; he needs to see it all afresh. And so, hands deep in my pockets, I arrange myself at the edge of the water, which is high enough to touch the bottom of my shoes. A light rain is rippling the surface, plinking against thick patches of floating moss.
At least the rain is constant. It’s tapping Bell’s face as he walks with Evelyn, and the windows of the gatehouse where the butler sleeps and Gold is strung up. Ravencourt’s listening to it in his parlour, wondering where Cunningham has got to, and Derby... well, Derby’s still unconscious, which is the best thing for him. Davies is collapsed on the road, or maybe walking back. Either way, he’s getting wet. As is Dance, who’s traipsing through the forest, a shotgun slung over his arm, wishing he was anywhere else.
As for me, I’m standing exactly where Evelyn will stand tonight, where she’ll press a silver pistol to her stomach and pull the trigger.
I’m seeing what she’ll see.
Trying to understand.
The murderer found a way to force Evelyn to commit suicide, but why not have her shoot herself in her bedroom out of sight? Why bring her out here during the middle of the party?
So everybody would see.
‘Then why not the middle of the dance floor, or the stage?’ I mutter.
All this, it’s too theatrical.
Rashton’s worked on dozens of murders. They aren’t stage-managed, they’re immediate, impulsive acts. Men crawl into their cups after a hard day’s work, stirring the bitterness settled at the bottom. Fights break out, wives grow tired of their black eyes and pick up the nearest kitchen knife. Death happens in alleys and quiet rooms with doilies on the tables. Trees fall, people are crushed, tools slip. People die the way they’ve always died, quickly, impatiently or unluckily; not here, not in front of a hundred people in ball gowns and dinner jackets.
What kind of mind makes theatre of murder?
Turning back towards the house, I try to recall Evelyn’s route to the reflecting pool, remembering how she drifted from flame to darkness, wobbling as if drunk. I remember the silver pistol glinting in her hand, the shot, the silence and then the fireworks as she tumbled into the water.
Why take two guns when one will do?
A murder that doesn’t look like a murder.
That’s how the Plague Doctor described it... but what if... my mind gropes at the edges of a thought, teasing it forward out of the dimness. An idea emerges, the queerest of ideas.
The only one that makes sense.
I’m startled by a tap on my shoulder, almost sending me stumbling into the reflecting pool. Thankfully, Grace catches hold of me, pulling me back into her arms. It’s not, I must admit, an unpleasant predicament, especially when I turn around to meet those blue eyes, looking up at me with a mixture of love and bemusement.
‘What on earth are you doing out here?’ she asks. ‘I’ve been searching for you all over. You missed lunch.’
There’s concern in her voice. She holds my gaze, searching my eyes, though I have no idea what she’s looking for.
‘I came for a walk,’ I say, trying to slip free of her worry. ‘And I started imagining what this place must have been like in its pomp.’
Doubt flickers on her face, but it vanishes in a blink of her glorious eyes as she slips an arm through mine, the heat of her body warming me up.
‘It’s difficult to remember now,’ she says. ‘Every memory I have of this place, even the happy ones, are stained by what happened to Thomas.’
‘Were you here when it happened?’
‘Have I never told you this?’ she says, resting her head on my shoulder. ‘I suppose I wouldn’t have, I was only young. Yes, I was here, nearly everybody here today was.’
‘Did you see it?’
‘Thank heavens, no,’ she says, aghast. ‘Evelyn had arranged a treasure hunt for the children. I can’t have been more than seven, same for Thomas. Evelyn was ten. She was all grown up, so we were her responsibility for the day.’
She grows distant, distracted by a memory taking flight.
‘Of course, now I know she just wanted to go riding and not have to look after us, but at the time we thought her terribly kind. We were having a jolly time chasing each other through the forest looking for clues, when all of a sudden Thomas bolted off. We never saw him again.’
‘Bolted? Did he say why he was leaving, or where he was going?’
‘You sound like the policeman who questioned me,’ she says, hugging me closer. ‘No, he didn’t hang around for questions. He asked after the time and left.’
‘He asked the time?’
‘Yes, it was like he had somewhere to be.’
‘And he didn’t tell you where he was going?’
‘No.’
‘Was he acting strangely, did he say anything odd?’
‘Actually, we could barely get a word out of him,’ she says. ‘He’d been in a strange mood all week come to think of it, withdrawn, sulky, not like him at all.’
‘What was he normally like?’
She shrugs. ‘A pest most of the time. He was at that age. He liked to tug our ponytails, and scare us. He’d follow us through the woods, then jump out when we least expected it.’
‘But he’d been acting strangely for a week?’ I say. ‘Are you certain that’s how long it had been?’
‘Well, that’s how long we were at Blackheath before the party, so yes.’ She’s shivering now, peering up at me. ‘What’s that mind of yours got hold of, Mr Rashton?’ she asks.
‘Got hold of?’
‘I can see the little crease’ – she taps the spot between my eyebrows – ‘you get when something’s bothering you.’
‘I’m not sure yet.’
‘Well, try not to do it when you meet grandmother.’
‘Crease my forehead?’
‘Think, silly.’
‘Why the heavens not?’