‘If freeing me is within your power, why not just do it, damn you!’ I say. ‘Why play these games?’
‘Because eternity is dull,’ he says. ‘Or maybe because playing is the important part. I’ll leave you to speculate. Just don’t procrastinate for too long, Mr Davies. This day will be repeated eight times, and you’ll see it through the eyes of eight different hosts. Bell was your first, the butler your second and Mr Davies the third. That means you only have five hosts left to discover. If I were you, I would move quickly. When you have an answer, bring it to the lake, along with proof, at 11 p.m. I’ll be waiting for you.’
‘I will not play these games for your amusement,’ I snarl, leaning towards him.
‘Then fail out of spite, but know this: if you don’t solve this problem by midnight in your final host, we’ll strip your memories and return you to the body of Doctor Bell and this will all begin again.’
He checks his watch, dropping it into his pocket with an irritated tut. ‘Time runs away from us. Cooperate and I’ll answer more of your questions next time we meet.’
A breeze slips through the window, extinguishing the light and draping us in darkness. By the time I find the matches and relight it, the Plague Doctor is gone.
Confused and afraid, I jump out of bed as though stung, throwing open the bedroom door and stepping into the cold. The corridor’s black. He could be standing five paces away and I’d never see him.
Closing the door, I fly towards the wardrobe, dressing myself in whatever comes to hand first. Whoever I’m wearing, he’s skinny and short with a penchant for the garish, and when I’m finished I’m splashed in purple trousers, an orange shirt and a yellow waistcoat. There’s a coat and scarf at the back of the cupboard and I pull them on, before heading out. Murder in the morning and costumes at night, cryptic notes and burnt butlers; whatever’s happening here, I will not be yanked around like some puppet on a string.
I must escape this house.
The grandfather clock at the top of the stairs points its weary arms at 3:17 a.m., tutting at my haste. Though I’m loathe to wake the stablemaster at such a frightful hour, I can see no other choice if I’m to escape this madness, so I take the staircase two steps at a time, nearly tripping over this peacock’s ridiculously tiny feet.
It wasn’t like this with Bell or the butler. I feel myself pressed up against the walls of this body, straining at its seams. I’m clumsy, almost drunk.
Leaves scatter inside as I open the front door. It’s blowing a gale outside, rain swirling in the air, the forest cracking and swaying. It’s a filthy night, the colour of tossed soot. I’ll need more light if I’m to find my way without falling and breaking my neck.
Retreating inside, I head down the servants’ staircase at the rear of the entrance hall. The wood of the banister is rough to the touch, the steps rickety. Thankfully, the lamps are still leaking their rancid light, though the flames burn low and quiet, their flicker indignant. The corridor is longer than I remember, the whitewashed walls sweating with condensation, the smell of earth spilling through the plaster. Everything’s damp, rotten. I’ve seen most of Blackheath’s dirty edges, but none so purposefully neglected. I’m surprised the place has any staff at all, given how little regard they appear to be held in by their masters.
In the kitchen I bounce between the stacked shelves until I find a hurricane lamp and matches. Two strikes to light it and I’m bounding back up the stairs and through the front door into the storm.
The lamp claws at the darkness, the rain stinging my eyes.
I follow the driveway to the cobbled road leading up to the stables, the forest heaving around me. Slipping over the uneven stones, I strain my eyes for the stablemaster’s cottage, but the lamp’s too bright, concealing much of what it should reveal. I’m beneath the arch before I see it, sliding on horse manure. As before, the yard is a crush of carriages, each covered in a rippling canvas sheet. Unlike earlier, the horses are in the stables, snorting in their sleep.
Shaking the manure from my feet, I throw myself on the mercy of the cottage, banging the knocker. The light comes on after a few minutes, the door opening a crack to reveal the sleepy face of an old man in his long johns.
‘I need to leave,’ I say.
‘At this hour, sir?’ he asks dubiously, rubbing his eyes and glancing at the pitch-black sky. ‘You’ll catch your death.’
‘It’s urgent.’
He sighs, taking in the scene, then gestures me inside, opening the door fully. Putting on a pair of trousers, he tugs the braces over his shoulders, moving in that sluggish daze that marks someone roused unaccountably from their sleep. Taking his jacket from the peg, he drags himself outside, motioning for me to stay where I am.
I must confess I do so happily. The cottage bulges with warmth and homeliness, the smell of leather and soap a solid, comforting presence. I’m tempted to check the rota by the door to see if Anna’s message is already written there, but no sooner have I reached out my hand than I hear a god-awful commotion, lights blinding me through the window. Stepping into the rain, I find the old stablemaster sitting in a green automobile, the entire thing coughing and shuddering as if afflicted by some terrible disease.
‘Here you go, sir,’ he says, getting out. ‘I got her started for you.’
‘But...’
I’m at a loss for words, aghast at the contraption before me.
‘Are there no carriages?’ I ask.
‘There are, but the horses are skittish around thunder, sir,’ he says, reaching under his shirt to scratch an armpit. ‘With respect, you couldn’t keep hold of them.’
‘I can’t keep hold of this,’ I say, staring at the dreadful mechanical monster, horror strangling my voice. Rain is pinging off the metal and making a pond of the windscreen.
‘Easy as breathing it is,’ he says. ‘Grip the wheel and point it where you want to go, then press the pedal to the floor. You’ll make sense of it in no time.’
His confidence pushes me inside as firmly as any hand, the door closing with a soft click.
‘Follow this cobbled road until the end, and then turn left onto the dirt track,’ he says, pointing into the darkness. ‘That will lead you to the village. It’s long and straight, a bit uneven, mind. Takes anywhere between forty minutes and an hour, depending on how carefully you drive, but you can’t miss it, sir. If you wouldn’t mind, leave the automobile somewhere obvious and I’ll have one of my boys collect it first thing in the morning.’
With that, he’s gone, disappearing back into his cottage, the door slamming shut behind him.
Gripping the wheel, I stare at the levers and dials, trying to find some semblance of logic in the controls. I tentatively press the pedal, the dreaded contraption lurches forward, and, applying a little more pressure, I urge the automobile beneath the arch and along the bumpy cobbled road, until we reach the left turn the stablemaster mentioned.