‘She owes Stanwin money.’
His face falls, his grip loosening. Without his joviality inflating him, he seems a tired old thing, the lines on his face a little deeper, the sorrows less obscure. For a moment, I feel a little guilty about what I’m doing to him, but then I remember the look in his eyes when he sedated the butler, and all my doubts are wiped away.
‘So he has dear Millicent under his thumb, does he?’ he says, sighing. ‘Shouldn’t be surprised I suppose, the fiend’s got something on the lot of us. Still, I thought...’
He carries on walking, though slower than before. We’re at the top of the staircase leading down to the entrance hall, which is flooded with cold. The front door is open, a group of old men departing for a walk, taking their laughter with them.
I can’t see Stanwin anywhere.
‘So this fellow threatened your mother and you attacked him, eh?’ says Dickie, evidently having made up his mind. He beams at me, clapping me on the back. ‘I see there’s some of your father in you, after all. But how will sedating this ruffian help?’
‘I need a chance to talk with Mother before he gets to her.’
For all Derby’s faults, he’s an accomplished liar, the deceits queuing in orderly fashion on his tongue. Doctor Dickie’s silent, rolling the story around his head, kneading it into shape as we cross into the abandoned east wing.
‘I’ve got just the thing, should put the blighter out for the rest of the afternoon,’ he says, clicking his fingers. ‘You wait here, I’ll signal when it’s done.’
Squaring his shoulders and puffing out his chest, he strides towards Stanwin’s bedroom, the old soldier given one last battle to fight.
It’s too exposed in the corridor and once Dickie’s out of sight, I step through the nearest door, my reflection staring back at me from a cracked mirror. Yesterday, I couldn’t have imagined anything worse than being stuck inside Ravencourt, but Derby’s an entirely different torment – a restless, malevolent imp scurrying between tragedies of his own devising. I can’t wait to be free of him.
Ten minutes later, the floorboards creak outside.
‘Jonathan,’ whispers Doctor Dickie. ‘Jonathan, where are you?’
‘Here,’ I say, poking my head outside.
He’s already passed the room, and jumps at the sound of my voice.
‘Gently, young man, the old ticker, you know,’ he says, tapping his chest. ‘Cerberus is asleep and will be for most of the day. Now, I’m going to deliver my prognosis to Mr Stanwin. I suggest you use this time to hide yourself somewhere he won’t find you. Argentina, perhaps. Good luck to you.’
He stands to attention, offering me a sharp salute. I throw one back at him, earning a pat on the shoulder before he saunters off down the corridor, whistling tunelessly.
I rather suspect I’ve made his day, but I have no intention of hiding. Stanwin is going to be distracted by Dickie for a few minutes at least, giving me a chance to search his belongings for Evelyn’s letter.
Crossing the reception room previously guarded by Stanwin’s bodyguard, I open the door into the blackmailer’s bedroom. It’s a desolate place, the floorboards barely covered by a threadbare rug, a single iron bed pushed against the wall, flakes of white paint clinging stubbornly to the rust. The only comforts are a starving fire spitting ash and a small bedside table with two dog-eared books on it. As promised, Stanwin’s man is asleep on the bed, looking for all the world like a monstrous marionette with all of its strings cut. His face is bandaged and he’s snoring loudly, his fingers twitching. I can only imagine he’s dreaming of my neck.
Keeping an ear out for Stanwin’s return, I quickly open the cupboard, sifting through the pockets of his jackets and trousers, finding only lint and mothballs. His trunk is equally bereft of personal objects, the man seemingly immune to sentiment of any kind.
Frustrated, I check my watch.
I’ve already been here longer than is safe, but Derby’s not easily deterred. My host knows deceit. He knows men like Stanwin and the secrets they keep. The blackmailer could have had the most luxurious room in the house if he’d wanted, but he chose to sequester himself in a ruin. He’s paranoid and clever. Whatever his secrets, he wouldn’t carry them with him, not when he’s surrounded by enemies.
They’re here. Hidden and under guard.
My gaze falls on the fireplace and its anaemic flames. Odd, considering how cold the bedroom is. Kneeling down, I stick my hand up the flume, feeling around and finding a small shelf, my groping fingers closing on a book. Withdrawing it, I see that it’s a small black journal, its cover bearing the scars of a lifetime’s abuse. Stanwin was keeping the fire low to avoid scorching his prize.
Flicking through the tattered pages, I discover it’s a ledger of sorts containing a list of dates going back nineteen years alongside entries written in strange symbols.
It must be some sort of code.
Evelyn’s letter is stuffed between the last two pages.
Dearest Evelyn,
Mr Stanwin has informed me of your plight, and I can quite understand your concern. Your mother’s behaviour is certainly alarming, and you’re quite right to be on guard against whatever scheme she’s cooking up. I stand ready to help, but I’m afraid Mr Stanwin’s word will not be enough. I require some proof of your agency in these matters. In the society pages, I’ve often seen you wearing a signet ring, a small castle engraved on its surface. Send me this, and I’ll know of your serious intent.
Warmest regards,
Felicity Maddox
Looks like clever old Evelyn didn’t accept her fate as easily as I first believed. She brought in somebody called Felicity Maddox to help, and the description of the small castle recalls the one drawn on the note at the well. It may be serving as a signature, which suggests the message to ‘stay away from Millicent Derby’ was from Felicity.
The bodyguard snores.
Unable to wring any further information from the letter, I replace it in the ledger and slip both in my pocket.
‘Thank heavens for devious minds,’ I mutter, stepping through the door.
‘You said it,’ says somebody behind me.
Pain explodes in my head as I slam into the floor.
27
Day Two (continued)
I’m coughing blood, red drops spattering my pillow. I’m back in the butler, my aching body screaming as my head jerks upwards. The Plague Doctor’s sitting in Anna’s chair, one leg thrown across the other, his top hat in his lap. He’s drumming it with his fingers, coming to a stop when he notices me stirring.
‘Welcome back, Mr Bishop,’ he says, his voice muffled by the mask.
I stare at him absently, my coughing subsiding as I begin to piece together the pattern of this day. The first time I found myself in this body, it was morning. I answered the door to Bell and was attacked by Gold after running up the stairs for answers. The second time wasn’t more than fifteen minutes later. I was transported to the gatehouse in the carriage with Anna. Must have been midday when I woke up and we were properly introduced, but, judging by the light outside the window, it’s now early afternoon. It makes sense. Anna told me we get a full day in each of our hosts, but it never occurred to me that I’d experience one in so many fragments.
It feels like a perverse joke.
I was promised eight hosts to solve this mystery, and I’ve been given them, except that Bell was a coward, the butler was beaten half to death, Donald Davies fled, Ravencourt could barely move, and Derby can’t hold a thought.
It’s like I’ve been asked to dig a hole with a shovel made of sparrows.
Shifting in his seat, the Plague Doctor leans closer to me. His clothes are musty, that old attic smell of something long forgotten and badly aired.