‘Come now, Christopher, surely you’re ready to listen to me. Stanwin’s the reason...’ – storm clouds of embarrassment drift across his grey face – ‘well, perhaps Elspeth wouldn’t have left if...’
Pettigrew sips at his drink, offering neither rebuke nor encouragement. Only I can see the heat rising up his neck, or how his fingers are squeezing the glass so tightly the skin behind his nails has turned white.
Hardcastle hurriedly turns his attention towards me.
‘We can rip Stanwin’s hand from our throat, but we need to confront him together,’ he says, striking a balled fist into his palm. ‘Only by showing that we’re all ready to act against him will he listen.’
Sutcliffe puffs up. ‘That’s—’
‘Quiet, Philip,’ interrupts Herrington, the naval officer’s eyes never leaving Hardcastle’s. ‘What have you got on Stanwin?’
Hardcastle flicks a suspicious glance at the door, before lowering his voice.
‘He has a child squirrelled away somewhere,’ he says. ‘He’s kept her hidden for fear she may be used against him, but Daniel Coleridge claims to have uncovered her name.’
‘The gambler?’ says Pettigrew. ‘How’s he mixed up in all of this?’
‘Didn’t seem prudent to ask, old chap,’ says Hardcastle, swirling his drink. ‘Some men walk in dark places the rest of us shouldn’t tread.’
‘Word has it he pays half the servants in London for information on their masters,’ says Herrington, pulling his lip. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if the same was true of Blackheath, and Stanwin certainly worked here long enough to have let a secret slip. There could be something in this, you know.’
Hearing them discuss Daniel gives me an odd tingle of excitement. I’ve known for some time he’s my final host, but he’s been operating so far in my future, I’ve never truly felt connected to him. To see our investigations converging this way is like catching sight of something long sought on the horizon. Finally, there’s a road between us.
Hardcastle’s on his feet, warming his hands by the heat of the fire. Lit by the flames, it’s clear the years have taken more from him than they’ve given. Uncertainty is a crack through the centre of him, undermining any suggestion of solidity or strength. This man’s been broken in two and put back together crooked, and if I had to guess, I’d say there was a child-shaped hole right in the middle.
‘What does Coleridge want from us?’ I ask.
Hardcastle looks at me with flat, unseeing eyes.
‘I’m sorry?’ he says.
‘You said Daniel Coleridge has something on Stanwin, which means he wants something from us in exchange for it. I assume that’s why you’ve called us all together.’
‘Just so,’ says Hardcastle, fingering a loose button on his jacket. ‘He wants a favour.’
‘Only one?’ asks Pettigrew.
‘From each of us, with the promise that we’ll honour it whenever he calls upon us, no matter what it might be.’
Glances are exchanged, doubt handed from face to face. I feel like a spy in the enemy camp. I’m not certain what Daniel’s up to, but I’m obviously meant to help sway this argument in his favour. In my favour. Whatever this favour turns out to be, hopefully it will help free us and Anna from this dreadful place.
‘I’m for it,’ I say grandly. ‘Stanwin’s come-uppance is long overdue.’
‘I concur,’ says Pettigrew, waving cigar smoke from his face. ‘His hand has been around my neck for far too long already. What about you, Clifford?’
‘I agree,’ says the old sailor.
All heads turn to Sutcliffe, whose eyes are running circuits of the room.
‘We’re trading devils,’ says the shaggy lawyer eventually.
‘Perhaps,’ says Hardcastle, ‘but I’ve read my Dante, Philip. Not all hells are created equal. Now, what do you say?’
He nods grudgingly, eyes lowered to his glass.
‘Good,’ says Hardcastle. ‘I’ll meet with Coleridge and we’ll confront Stanwin before dinner. All being well, this will be over by the time we announce the wedding.’
‘And just like that we climb out of one pocket and into another,’ says Pettigrew, finishing off his drink. ‘How splendid it is to be a gentleman.’
35
Our business settled, Sutcliffe, Pettigrew and Herrington trail out of the sitting room in a long curl of cigar smoke, as Peter Hardcastle walks over to the gramophone on the sideboard. Wiping the dust from a record with a cotton handkerchief, he lowers the needle and flicks a switch, Brahms blowing out through the flared bronze tube.
Motioning to the others to go on without me, I close the door to the hallway. Peter’s taken a seat by the fire, a window opened on his thoughts. He’s yet to notice I’ve stayed behind and it feels as though some great chasm divides us, though in truth he’s only a step or two away.
Dance’s reticence in this matter is paralysing. As a man who despises interruption, he is equally wary of disturbing others, and the personal nature of the questions I must ask is only compounding the problem. I’m mired in my host’s manners. Two days ago, this wouldn’t have been an obstacle, but every host is stronger than the last, and fighting Dance is like trying to walk into a gale.
Decorum allows a polite cough, Hardcastle turning in his seat to find me by the door.
‘Ah, Dance old man,’ he says. ‘Did you forget something?’
‘I was hoping we could talk privately.’
‘Is there some problem with the contract?’ he says warily. ‘I must admit, I was worried Sutcliffe’s drinking might—’
‘It’s not Sutcliffe, it’s Evelyn,’ I say.
‘Evelyn,’ he says, wariness replaced by weariness. ‘Yes, of course. Come, sit by the fire, this damned house is draughty enough without inviting its chill.’
Giving me time to settle myself, he hitches his trouser leg, dancing a foot before the flames. Whatever his faults, his manners are meticulous.
‘So,’ he says after a moment, judging the rigours of etiquette to have been adequately obeyed. ‘What’s this about Evelyn? I assume she doesn’t want to go through with the wedding?’
Finding no easy way of framing the matter, I decide to simply toss it into his lap.
‘I’m afraid it’s more serious than that,’ I say. ‘Somebody’s set their mind to murdering your daughter.’
‘Murder?’
He frowns, smiling a little, waiting for the rest of the joke to present itself. Undone by my sincerity, he leans forward, confusion wrinkling his face.
‘You’re serious?’ he says, hands clasped.
‘I am.’
‘Do you know who, or why?’
‘Only how. She’s being compelled to commit suicide, otherwise somebody she loves will be murdered. The information was relayed in a letter.’
‘A letter?’ he scoffs. ‘Sounds damn iffy to me. Probably just a game. You know how these girls can be.’
‘It’s not a game, Peter,’ I say sternly, knocking the doubt from his face.
‘May I ask how you came by this information?’
‘The same way I come by all my information, I listen.’
He sighs, pinching his nose, weighing the facts and the man bringing them to him.
‘Do you believe somebody’s trying to sabotage our deal with Ravencourt?’ he asks.
‘I hadn’t considered it,’ I say, startled by his response. I’d expected him to be concerned for his daughter’s well-being, perhaps spurred into making plans to ensure her safety. But Evelyn’s incidental. The only loss he fears is that of his fortune.
‘Can you think of anybody whose interests would be served by Evelyn’s death?’ I say, struggling to contain my sudden distaste for this man.
‘One makes enemies, old families who’d happily see us ruined, but none of them would resort to this. Whispers are more their thing, gossip at parties, spiteful comments in The Times, you know how it is.’
He raps the arm of the chair in frustration.
‘Dash it all, Dance, are you sure about this? It seems so outlandish.’
‘I’m certain, and truth be told, my suspicions lie a little closer to home,’ I say.
‘One of the servants?’ he asks, lowering his voice, his gaze leaping to the door.
‘Helena,’ I say.
His wife’s name strikes him like a blow.