‘I have to find Daniel,’ I protest weakly. ‘And Anna.’
‘Something awful is happening here,’ she hisses. ‘The slashes on your arm, the drugs, Anna and now this compass. These are pieces in a game neither of us knows how to play. You must leave, for me, Sebastian. Let the police deal with all of this.’
I nod. I’ve not the will to fight. Anna was the only reason I stayed in the first place, the shreds of my courage convincing me there was some honour to be found in obeying a request delivered so cryptically. Without that obligation, the ties binding me to this place have been severed.
We return to Blackheath in silence, Evelyn leading the way, her revolver poking at the darkness. I trail behind quietly, little more than a dog at her heel, and before I know it I’m saying goodbye to my friend and opening the door into my bedroom.
All is not how I left it.
There’s a box sitting on my bed, wrapped in a red ribbon that comes loose with a single tug. Sliding away the lid, my stomach flips, bile rushing into my throat. Stuffed inside is a dead rabbit with a carving knife stabbed through its body. Blood has congealed at the bottom, staining its fur and almost obscuring the note pinned to its ear.
From your friend,
The footman.
Black swims up into my eyes.
A second later I faint.
9
Day Two
A deafening clanging jolts me upright, my hands flying to my ears. Wincing, I look around for the source of the noise to find I’ve been moved in the night. Instead of the airy bedroom with the bathtub and welcoming fire, I’m in a narrow room with whitewashed walls and a single iron bed, dusty light poking through a small window. There’s a chest of drawers on the opposite wall beside a ratty brown dressing gown hanging from a door peg.
Swinging my legs from the bed, my feet touch cold stone, a shiver dancing up my spine. After the dead rabbit, I immediately suspect the footman of perpetrating some new devilry, but this incessant noise is making it impossible to concentrate.
I pull on the dressing gown, nearly choking on the smell of cheap cologne, and poke my head into the corridor beyond. Cracked tiles cover the floor, whitewashed walls ballooning out with damp. There are no windows, only lamps staining everything with a dirty yellow light that never seems to settle. The clanging is louder out here and, covering my ears, I follow the din until I reach the bottom of a splintered wooden staircase, leading up into the house. Dozens of large tin bells are attached to a board on the wall, each with a plaque beneath it naming a section of the house. The bell for the front door is shaking so hard I’m worried it’s going to unsettle the foundations.
Hands pressed to my ears, I stare at the bell, but short of ripping it from the wall, there’s no obvious way of quietening the clamour beyond answering the door. Belting the dressing gown tight, I rush up the stairs, emerging at the rear of the entrance hall. It’s much quieter here, the servants moving through in a calm procession, their arms filled with bouquets of flowers and other decorations. I can only assume they’re too busy clearing away the detritus of last night’s party to have heard the noise.
With an annoyed shake of the head, I open the door to find myself confronted by Doctor Sebastian Bell.
He’s wild-eyed and dripping wet, shivering with cold.
‘I need your help,’ he says, spitting panic.
My world empties.
‘Do you have a telephone?’ he continues, the desperation terrible in his eyes. ‘We need to send for the authorities.’
This is impossible.
‘Don’t just stand there, you devil!’ he cries out, shaking me by the shoulders, the cold of his hands seeping through my pyjamas.
Unwilling to wait for a response, he pushes past me into the entrance hall, searching for aid.
I try to make sense of what I’m seeing.
This is me.
This is me yesterday.
Somebody is speaking to me, tugging on my sleeve, but I can’t focus on anything except the imposter dripping on the floor.
Daniel Coleridge has appeared at the top of the staircase.
‘Sebastian?’ he says, descending with one hand on the banister.
I watch him for the trick, some flicker of rehearsal, of jest, but he pads down the steps exactly as he did yesterday, just as light of foot, just as confident and admired.
There’s another tug on my arm, a maid placing herself in my eyeline. She’s looking at me with concern, her lips moving.
Blinking away my confusion, I focus on her, finally hearing what she’s saying.
‘... Mr Collins, you all right, Mr Collins?’
Her face is familiar, though I can’t place it.
I look over her head to the stairs, where Daniel is already ushering Bell up to his room. Everything’s happening precisely as it did yesterday.
Pulling free of the maid, I rush to a mirror on the wall. I can barely look at it. I’m badly burnt, my skin mottled and rough to the touch like fruit left too long in the sweltering sun. I know this man. Somehow, I’ve awoken as the butler.
My heart hammering, I turn back to the maid.
‘What’s happening to me?’ I stammer, clutching at my throat, surprised by the hoarse northern voice coming out of it.
‘Sir?’
‘How did...’
But I’m asking the wrong person. The answers are caked in dirt and trudging up the stairs to Daniel’s room.
Picking up the edges of my dressing gown, I hurry after them, following a trail of leaves and muddy rainwater. The maid is calling my name. I’m halfway up when she bolts past me, planting herself in the way with both hands pressed against my chest.
‘You can’t go up there, Mr Collins,’ she says. ‘There’ll be merry hell to pay if Lady Helena catches you running around in your smalls.’
I try to go around her, but she steps sideways, blocking me again.
‘Let me pass, girl!’ I demand, immediately regretting it. This isn’t how I speak, blunt and demanding.
‘You’re having one of your turns, Mr Collins, that’s all,’ she says. ‘Come down to the kitchen, I’ll make us a pot of tea.’
Her eyes are blue, earnest. They flick over my shoulder self-consciously, and I look behind me to find other servants gathered at the bottom of the stairs. They’re watching us, their arms still laden with flowers.
‘One of my turns?’ I ask, doubt opening its mouth and swallowing me.
‘On account of your burns, Mr Collins,’ she says quietly. ‘Sometimes you say things, or see things that ain’t right. A cup of tea’s all it takes, a few minutes and you’re right as rain.’
Her kindness is crushing, warm and heavy. I’m reminded of Daniel’s pleas yesterday, his delicate way of speaking, as though I might fracture if pressed too hard. He thought I was mad, as this maid does now. Given what’s happening to me, what I think is happening to me, I can’t be certain they’re wrong.
I offer her a helpless look and she takes my arm, guiding me back down the steps, the crowd parting to let us through.
‘Cup of tea, Mr Collins,’ she says reassuringly. ‘That’s all you need.’
She leads me like a lost child, the soft grip of her calloused hand as calming as her tone. Together we leave the entrance hall, heading back down the servants’ staircase and along the gloomy corridor into the kitchen.
Sweat stands up on my brow, heat rushing out of ovens and stoves, pots bubbling over open flames. I smell gravy, roasted meats and baking cakes, sugar and sweat. Too many guests and too few working ovens, that’s the problem. They’ve had to start preparing dinner now to make sure everything goes out on time later.
The knowledge bewilders me.
It’s true, I’m certain of it, but how could I know that unless I really am the butler?
Maids are rushing out carrying breakfast, scrambled eggs and kippers heaped on silver platters. A wide-hipped, ruddy-faced elderly woman is standing by the oven bellowing instructions, her pinafore covered in flour. No general ever wore a chestful of medals with such conviction. Somehow she spots us through the commotion, her iron glare striking the maid first, then myself.