A warm liquid floods my veins, drowning my thoughts. The doctor melts, colours blossoming and fading into darkness.
‘Sleep, Roger,’ he says. ‘I’ll deal with Mr Gold.’
22
Day Five
Coughing up a lungful of cigar smoke, I open a new pair of eyes to find myself almost fully clothed on wooden floorboards, one hand lying victorious on an untouched bed. My trousers are around my ankles, a bottle of brandy clutched to my stomach. Clearly an attempt was made at undressing last night, but such a course appears to have been beyond my new host, whose breath stinks like an old beer mat.
Groaning, I claw my way up the side of the bed, dislodging a throbbing headache that nearly knocks me to the floor again.
I’m in a similar bedroom to the one Bell was given, the embers of last night’s fire winking at me from the grate. The curtains are open, the sky sagging with early morning light.
Evelyn’s in the forest, you need to find her.
Hoisting my trousers up to my waist, I stumble over to the mirror to better inspect this fool I now inhabit.
I nearly run straight into it.
After being shackled to Ravencourt for so long, this new chap feels weightless, a leaf being blown about by a breeze. It’s not too surprising when I see him in the glass. He’s short and slight, somewhere in his late twenties, with longish brown hair and bloodshot blue eyes above a neatly trimmed beard. I try out his smile, discovering a row of slightly awkward white teeth.
It’s the face of a rascal.
My possessions are sitting in a pile on the bedside table, an invitation addressed to Jonathan Derby on top. At least I know who to curse for this hangover. I sift through the items with a fingertip, uncovering a pocketknife, a weathered hip flask, a wristwatch showing 8:43 a.m. and three brown vials with cork stoppers and no labels. Yanking a cork loose, I sniff the liquid within, my stomach twisting at the sickly sweet scent that drifts out.
This must be the laudanum Bell was selling.
I can see why it’s so popular. Simply sniffing the stuff has filled my mind with bright lights.
There’s a jug of cold water beside a small sink in the corner and, stripping naked, I wash off last night’s sweat and grime, digging out the person beneath. What’s left of the water I tip to my mouth, drinking until my belly sloshes. Unfortunately, my attempts to drown the hangover only dilute it, aches seeping into every bone and muscle.
It’s a foul morning, so I dress in the thickest clothes I can find: hunting tweeds and a heavy black coat that trails along the floor as I leave the bedroom.
Despite the early hour, a drunken couple is squabbling at the top of the stairs. They’re in last night’s evening wear, drinks still clutched in their hands, accusations passed back and forth in escalating voices, and I give their flailing arms a wide berth as I walk by. Their bickering chases me into the entrance hall, which has been upended by the previous evening’s escapades. Bow ties are dangling from the chandelier, leaves and shards of a smashed decanter littering the marble floor. Two maids are cleaning it up, leaving me to wonder what it must have looked like before they started.
I try asking them where Charlie Carver’s cottage is located, but they’re mute as sheep, lowering their eyes and shaking their heads in response to my questions.
Their silence is maddening.
If Lucy Harper’s gossip isn’t too far from the mark, Evelyn’s going to be somewhere near the cottage with her lady’s maid when she’s attacked. If I can discover who’s threatening her, perhaps I can save her life and escape this house all at the same time – though I have no clue as to how I’m going to help free Anna as well. She’s put aside her own schemes to aid me, believing I have some plan that will free us both. For the moment, I can’t see how that’s anything other than a hollow promise, and judging by her worried frown when we talked in the gatehouse, she’s beginning to suspect as much.
My only hope is that my future hosts are a great deal cleverer than my previous ones.
Further questioning of the maids drives them deeper into their silence, forcing me to look around for help. The rooms either side of the entrance hall are deathly quiet, the house still knee-deep in last night, and, seeing no other option, I pick my way through the broken glass and head below stairs towards the kitchen.
The passage to the kitchen is grimier than I remember, the clatter of dishes and smell of roasting meat making me sick. Servants eye me as they pass, turning their heads away whenever I open my mouth to ask a question. It’s clear they think I shouldn’t be here and just as clear they don’t know how to get rid of me. This is their place, a river of unguarded conversations and giggling gossip flowing beneath the house. I sully it with my presence.
Agitation rubs me up and down, blood thumping in my ears. I feel tired and raw, the air made of sandpaper.
‘Can I help you?’ says a voice behind me.
The words are rolled up and flung at my back.
I turn to find the cook, Mrs Drudge, staring up at me, ample hands on ample hips. Through these eyes she looks like something a child might make out of clay, a small head on a misshapen body, her features pressed into her face by clumsy thumbs. She’s stern, no trace of the woman who’s going to give the butler a warm scone in a couple of hours’ time.
‘I’m looking for Evelyn Hardcastle,’ I say, meeting her fierce gaze. ‘She went for a walk in the forest with Madeline Aubert, her lady’s maid.’
‘And what’s that to you?’
Her tone is so abrupt I almost recoil. Clenching my hands, I try to keep hold of my rising temper. The servants crane their necks as they scurry by, desperate for theatre, but terrified of the star.
‘Somebody means her harm,’ I say through gritted teeth. ‘If you’ll point me towards Charlie Carver’s old cottage, I’ll be able to warn her.’
‘Is that what you were doing with Madeline last night? Warning her? Is that how her blouse got torn, is that why she was crying?’
A vein pulses in her forehead, indignation bubbling beneath every word. She takes a step forwards, jabbing a finger into my chest as she speaks.
‘I know what—’ she says.
White-hot anger explodes out of me. Without thinking, I slap her across the face and shove her backwards, advancing on her with the devil’s own wrath.
‘Tell me where she’s gone!’ I scream, spittle flying out of my mouth.
Squeezing her bloody lips together, Mrs Drudge glowers at me.
My hands ball into fists.
Walk away.
Walk away now.
Summoning my will, I turn my back on Mrs Drudge, stalking up the suddenly silent passage. Servants leap aside as I pass, but my rage can’t make sense of anything but itself.
Turning a corner, I slump against a wall and let out a long breath. My hands are trembling, the fog in my mind clearing. For those few terrifying seconds, Derby was utterly beyond my control. That was his poison spilling out of my mouth, his bile coursing through my veins. I can feel it still. Oil on my skin, needles in my bones, a yearning to do something dreadful. Whatever happens today, I need to keep tight hold of my temper or this creature is going to slip loose again and goodness knows what he’ll do.
And that’s the truly scary part.
My hosts can fight back.
23