I pass through the study on my way to Ravencourt’s parlour, where I’ll settle myself ahead of my meeting with Helena Hardcastle. If she’s plotting to murder Evelyn this evening, then, by Lord, I mean to have it out of her.
The house is still, the men out hunting and the women drinking in the Sun Room. Even the servants have disappeared, scattering back below stairs to prepare for the ball. In their wake a great hush has fallen, my only company the rain tapping at the windows, demanding to be let inside. Bell missed the noise, but as somebody finely tuned to the malice of others, Ravencourt finds this silence refreshing. It’s like airing a musty room.
Heavy steps disturb my reverie, each one deliberate and slow, as if determined to draw my attention. I’ve reached as far as the dining hall, where a long oak table is overlooked by the mounted heads of long-slaughtered beasts, their fur faded and thick with dust. The room is empty, and yet the steps seem to be all around, mimicking my hobbling gait.
I stiffen, coming to a halt, sweat beading my brow.
The steps stop in turn.
Dabbing my forehead, I look around nervously, wishing Bell’s paperknife were to hand. Buried in Ravencourt’s sluggish flesh, I feel like a man dragging an anchor. I can neither run nor fight, and even if I could, I’d be swinging at air. I’m quite alone.
After a brief hesitation, I begin walking again, those ghostly steps trailing me. I stop suddenly, and they stop with me, a sinister giggle drifting out of the walls. My heart’s pounding, hair standing up on my arms as fright sends me lurching towards the safety of the entrance hall visible through the drawing-room door. By now the steps aren’t bothering mimicking me, they’re dancing, that giggle seeming to come from every direction.
I’m panting by the time I reach the doorway, blinded by sweat and moving so fast I’m in danger of tripping over my own cane. As I pass into the entrance hall, the laughter stops abruptly, a whisper chasing me out.
‘We’ll meet soon, little rabbit.’
16
Ten minutes later, the whisper’s long faded, but the terror it provoked echoes still. It wasn’t the words themselves, so much as the glee they carried. That warning was a down payment on the blood and pain to come, and only a fool wouldn’t see the footman behind it.
Holding my hand up, I check to see how badly it’s trembling, and, deciding that I’m at least moderately recovered, I continue onwards to my room. I’ve only taken a step or two when sobbing draws my attention to a dark doorway at the back of the entrance hall. For a full minute I hover on the periphery, peering into the dimness, fearing a trap. Surely the footman wouldn’t try something so soon, or be able to summon up these pitiable gulps of sadness I’m hearing now?
Sympathy compels me to take a tentative step forward, and I find myself in a narrow gallery adorned with Hardcastle family portraits. Generations wither on the walls, the current incumbents of Blackheath hanging nearest the door. Lady Helena Hardcastle is sitting regally beside her standing husband, both of them dark-haired and dark-eyed, beautifully supercilious. Next to them are the portraits of the children, Evelyn at a window, fingering the edge of the curtain as she watches for somebody’s arrival, while Michael has one leg flung over the arm of the chair he’s sitting in, a book discarded on the floor. He looks bored, shimmering with a restless energy. In the corner of each portrait is a splashed signature; that of Gregory Gold if I’m not very much mistaken. The memory of the butler’s beating at the artist’s hands is still fresh and I find myself gripping my cane, tasting the blood in my mouth once again. Evelyn told me Gold had been brought to Blackheath to touch up the portraits and I can see why. The man may be insane, but he’s talented.
Another sob issues from the corner of the room.
There are no windows in the gallery, only burning oil lamps, and it’s so dim I have to squint to locate the maid slumped in the shadows, weeping into a soggy handkerchief. Tact would advise that I approach quietly, but Ravencourt’s ill designed for stealth. My cane raps the floor, the sound of my breathing running on ahead, announcing my presence. Catching sight of me, the maid leaps to her feet, her cap coming loose, curly red hair springing free.
I recognise her immediately. This is Lucy Harper, the maid Ted Stanwin abused at lunch, and the woman who helped me down to the kitchen when I awoke as the butler. The memory of that kindness echoes within me, a warm rush of pity shaping the words in my mouth.
‘I’m sorry, Lucy, I didn’t mean to startle you,’ I say.
‘No, sir, it’s not... I shouldn’t...’ She casts around for some escape, miring herself further in etiquette.
‘I heard you crying,’ I say, attempting to push a sympathetic smile onto my face. It’s a difficult thing to achieve with somebody else’s mouth, especially when there’s so much flesh to move around.
‘Oh, sir, you shouldn’t... it was my fault. I made a mistake at lunch,’ she says, dabbing the last of her tears away.
‘Ted Stanwin treated you atrociously,’ I say, surprised by the alarm rising on her face.
‘No, sir, you mustn’t say that,’ she says, her voice hurdling an entire octave. ‘Ted, Mr Stanwin, I mean, he’s been good to us servants. Always treated us right, he has. He’s just... now he’s a gentleman, he can’t be seen...’
She’s on the verge of tears again.
‘I understand,’ I say hastily. ‘He doesn’t want the other guests treating him like a servant.’
A smile swallows her face.
‘That’s it, sir, that’s just it. They’d never have caught Charlie Carver if it weren’t for Ted, but the other gentlemen still look at him like he’s one of us. Not Lord Hardcastle though, he calls him Mr Stanwin and everything.’
‘Well, as long as you’re quite all right,’ I say, taken aback by the pride in her voice.
‘I am, sir, really I am,’ she says earnestly, emboldened enough to scoop her cap from the floor. ‘I should be getting back, they’ll be wondering where I’ve got to.’
She takes a step towards the door, but is too slow to prevent me throwing a question in her path.
‘Lucy, do you know anybody called Anna?’ I ask. ‘I was thinking she could be a servant.’
‘Anna?’ She pauses, tossing the full weight of her thought at the problem. ‘No, sir, can’t say as I do.’
‘Any of the maids acting strangely?’
‘Now, sir, would you believe, you’re the third person to ask that question today,’ she says, twisting a lock of her curly hair around her finger.
‘Third?’
‘Yes, sir, Mrs Derby was down in the kitchen only an hour ago wondering the same thing. Gave us a right fright she did. High-born lady like that wandering around downstairs, ain’t ever heard of such a thing.’
My hand grips my cane. Whoever this Mrs Derby is, she’s acting oddly and asking the same questions I am. Perhaps I’ve found another of my rivals.
Or another host.
The suggestion makes me blush, Ravencourt’s familiarity with women extending only so far as acknowledging their existence in the world. The thought of becoming one is as unintelligible to him as a day spent breathing water.
‘What can you tell me about Mrs Derby?’ I ask.
‘Nothing much, sir,’ says Lucy. ‘Older lady, sharp tongue. I liked her. Not sure if it means anything, but there was a footman as well. Came in a few minutes after Mrs Derby asking the same question: any of the servants acting funny?’
My hand squeezes the knob of my cane even tighter, and I have to bite my tongue to keep from cursing.
‘A footman?’ I say. ‘What did he look like?’
‘Blond hair, tall, but...’ she drifts off, looking troubled, ‘I don’t know, pleased with himself. Probably works for a gentleman, sir, they get like that, pick up airs and graces they do. Had a broken nose, all black and purple, like it only recently happened. I reckon somebody took exception to him.’
‘What did you tell him?’