The key fits perfectly, the latch springing open on well-oiled hinges to reveal an interior stuffed to bursting with brown vials and bottles arranged in neat rows.
Cunningham has brought a cotton sack and, kneeling either side of the trunk, we begin filling it with Bell’s stash. There are tinctures and concoctions of every sort and not merely those designed to put a foolish smile on the face. Among the dubious pleasures is a half-empty flask of strychnine, the white grains looking for all the world like large chunks of salt.
Now what’s he doing with that?
‘Bell will sell anything to anyone, won’t he?’ says Cunningham with a tut, plucking the flask from my hand and dropping it into the sack. ‘Not for much longer, though.’
Plucking the bottles from the trunk, I remember the note Gold pushed under my door, and the three things it demanded I pilfer.
Thankfully, Cunningham’s so enraptured by his task he doesn’t notice me slipping the bottles into my pocket, or the chess piece I drop into the trunk. Amid all the plots, it seems an inconsequential thing to bother with, but I can still remember how much comfort it brought me, how much strength. It was a kindness when I needed one most, and it cheers me to be the one delivering it.
‘Charles, I need you to tell me the truth about something,’ I begin.
‘I’ve told you, I’m not getting between you and Grace,’ he says distantly, carefully filling his sack. ‘Whatever you’re arguing about this week, admit you’re wrong and be grateful when she accepts your apology.’
He flashes me a grin, but it evaporates when he sees my grim expression.
‘What’s wrong?’ he asks.
‘Where did you get the key to the trunk?’ I reply.
‘If you must know, one of the servants gave it to me,’ he says, avoiding my gaze as he continues to pack.
‘No, they didn’t,’ I say, scratching my neck. ‘You took it off Jonathan Derby’s body after you coshed him over the head. Daniel Coleridge hired you to steal Stanwin’s blackmail ledger, didn’t he?’
‘Th... That’s nonsense,’ he says.
‘Please, Charles,’ I say, my voice rough with emotion. ‘I’ve already spoken with Stanwin.’
Rashton has counted on Cunningham’s friendship and counsel many times over the years, and watching him squirm under the spotlight of my questioning is unbearable.
‘I... I didn’t mean to hit him,’ says Cunningham, shamefaced. ‘I’d just put Ravencourt into his bath and was going for my breakfast when I heard a commotion on the stairs. I saw Derby hare into the study with Stanwin on his tail. I thought I could slip into Stanwin’s room while everybody was distracted and grab the ledger, but the bodyguard was in there, so I hid in one of the rooms opposite, waiting to see what would happen.’
‘You saw Dickie give the bodyguard a sedative, and then Derby find the ledger,’ I say. ‘You couldn’t let him walk out of there with it. It was too valuable.’
Cunningham nods eagerly.
‘Stanwin knows what happened that morning, he knows who really killed Thomas,’ he says. ‘He’s been lying all this time. It’s in that ledger of his. Coleridge is going to decipher it for me and then everybody will know my father, my real father, is innocent.’
Fear swells in his eyes.
‘Does Stanwin know about the bargain I struck with Coleridge?’ he asks suddenly. ‘Is that why you met with him?’
‘He doesn’t know anything,’ I say gently. ‘I went to ask about Thomas Hardcastle’s murder.’
‘And he told you?’
‘He owed me for saving his life.’
Cunningham is still on his knees, his hands gripping my shoulders. ‘You’re a miracle worker, Rasher,’ he says. ‘Don’t leave me in suspense.’
‘He saw Lady Hardcastle covered in blood and cradling Thomas’s body,’ I say, watching him closely. ‘Stanwin drew the obvious conclusion, but Carver arrived some minutes later and insisted Stanwin place the blame on him.’
Cunningham stares through me as he tries to pick holes in an answer long sought. When he speaks again, there’s bitterness in his voice.
‘Of course,’ he says, sagging to the floor. ‘I’ve spent years trying to prove my father was innocent, so naturally I find out that my mother’s the murderer instead.’
‘How long have you known who your real parents are?’ I say, doing my best to sound consoling.
‘Mother told me when I turned twenty-one,’ he says. ‘She said my father wasn’t the monster he was accused of being, but would never explain why. I’ve spent every day since then trying to work out what she meant.’
‘You saw her this morning, didn’t you?’
‘I took her tea,’ he says gently. ‘She drank it in bed while we spoke. I used to do the same thing when I was a child. She’d ask after my happiness, my education. She was kind to me. It was my favourite time of the day.’
‘And this morning? I assume she didn’t mention anything suspicious?’
‘About murdering Thomas? No, it didn’t come up,’ he says sarcastically.
‘I meant anything out of character, unusual.’
‘Out of character,’ he snorts. ‘She’s barely been in character for a year, or more. Can’t keep up with her. One minute she’s giddy, the next she’s in tears.’
‘A year,’ I say thoughtfully. ‘Ever since she visited Blackheath on the anniversary of Thomas’s death?’
It was after that visit she turned up on Michael’s doorstep raving about clothes.
‘Yes... maybe,’ he says, tugging an earlobe. ‘I say, you don’t think it all got on top of her, do you? The guilt I mean. That would explain why she’s been acting so queer. Maybe she’s been building up her courage to finally confess. It would certainly make sense of her mood this morning.’
‘Why, what did you speak about?’
‘She was calm, actually. A touch distant. She talked about putting things right, and how she was sorry I’d had to grow up ashamed of my father’s name.’ His face falls. ‘That’s it, isn’t it? She means to confess at the party tonight. That’s why she’s gone to all this trouble to reopen Blackheath and invite the same guests back.’