‘Charles Cunningham’s parentage isn’t why I’m being blackmailed,’ he says. ‘That nugget of scandal was on every society page at one time, Helena made sure of it. There’s no money in it.’
‘Then what is it Stanwin knows?’
‘I need your word it won’t go any further,’ he says.
‘Of course,’ I say, my pulse quickening.
‘Well’ – he takes a fortifying sip of his drink – ‘before Thomas was murdered, Helena was having an affair with Charlie Carver.’
‘The man who murdered Thomas?’ I exclaim, sitting a little straighter in my chair.
‘They call this sort of thing cuckolding, don’t they?’ he says, standing stiff at the window. ‘In my case it’s an unusually perfect metaphor. He took my son from me and left his own child in my nest instead.’
‘His own child?’
‘Cunningham isn’t my illegitimate child, Dance. He’s my wife’s. Charlie Carver was his father.’
‘That blackguard!’ I exclaim, temporarily losing control of Dance, whose outrage mirrors my shock. ‘How on earth did this happen?’
‘Carver and Helena loved each other,’ he says ruefully. ‘Our marriage was never... I had the name, Helena’s family had the money. It was convenient, necessary one might say, but there was no affection. Carver and Helena grew up together, his father was the gamekeeper on her family’s estate. She kept their relationship from me, but brought Carver to Blackheath when we married. I’m sorry to say my indiscretions got back to her, our marriage faltered, and a year or so later she fell into Carver’s bed, becoming pregnant soon after.’
‘But you didn’t raise Cunningham as your own?’
‘No, she led me to believe it was mine during the pregnancy, but couldn’t be certain herself who the real father was, as I’d continued to... well, a man’s needs are... you understand?’
‘I believe I do,’ I say coldly, remembering the love and respect that governed Dance’s marriage for so long.
‘Anyway, I was out hunting when Cunningham was born, so she had the midwife smuggle him out of the house to be nursed in the village. When I returned, I was told the child died during the delivery, but six months later, when she was certain he didn’t look too much like Carver, the baby turned up on our doorstep, carried by some wench I’d had the misfortune to spend time with in London, who was happy enough to take my wife’s money and pretend it was mine. Helena played the victim, insisting we take the boy in, and to my shame I agreed. We handed the child to the cook, Mrs Drudge, who raised him as her own. Believe it or not, we actually managed to find several peaceful years after that. Evelyn, Thomas and Michael were born in short order, and for a while we were a happy family.’
All through the story I’ve watched his face for some emotion, but it’s been a bland recital of the facts. Once again I’m struck by the callowness of this man. An hour ago, I’d assumed Thomas’s death had reduced his feelings to ash, but now I wonder if that soil wasn’t always infertile. Nothing grows in this man but greed.
‘How did you discover the truth?’ I ask.
‘Sheer chance,’ he says, laying his hands against the wall either side of the window. ‘I went for a walk and stumbled upon Carver and Helena arguing over the boy’s future. She admitted everything.’
‘So why not divorce her?’ I ask.
‘And have everybody know my shame?’ he says, aghast. ‘Bastard children are common currency these days, but imagine the tattle if people discovered Lord Peter Hardcastle had been cuckolded by a common gardener. No, Dance, that wouldn’t do.’
‘What happened after you found out?’
‘I let Carver go, gave him a day to get off the estate.’
‘Was that the same day he killed Thomas?’
‘Exactly so, our confrontation sent him into a rage and he... he...’
His eyes are blurry, red with drink. He’s been emptying and refilling that glass all morning.
‘Stanwin came to Helena a few months later with his hand out. You see, Dance, I’m not being blackmailed directly. It’s Helena, and my reputation with her. I simply pay for it.’
‘And what of Michael, Evelyn and Cunningham?’ I ask. ‘Do they know any of this?’
‘Not to my knowledge. A secret’s hard enough to keep without putting it in the mouths of children.’
‘So how did Stanwin come by it?’
‘I’ve been asking myself that question for nineteen years and I’m no closer to an answer. Perhaps he was friends with Carver, servants talk after all. Otherwise I’m at a loss. All I know is that should word get out, I’ll be ruined. Ravencourt’s sensitive to scandal and he won’t marry into a family on the front pages.’
His voice lowers, drunk and mean, his finger pointed directly at me.
‘Keep Evelyn alive and I’ll give you anything you ask, you hear me? I won’t let that bitch cost me my fortune, Dance. I won’t allow it.’
36
Peter Hardcastle has fallen into a drunken sulk, gripping his glass as though worried somebody will take it from him. Judging his usefulness at an end, I grab an apple from the fruit bowl and slip out of the room on the end of a hollow apology, closing the sitting-room door that I might ascend the stairs without his noticing. I need to speak with Gold and I’d rather not wade through a cloud of questions to do so.
A draught greets me at the top of the staircase, twisting and curling in the air, sneaking through the cracked windows and beneath the doors to stir the leaves littering the floor. I’m reminded of walking these corridors as Sebastian Bell, searching for the butler with Evelyn at my side. It’s odd to think of them here, odder still to remember that Bell and I are the same man. His cowardice makes me cringe, but there’s enough distance between us now that it sits apart from me. He feels like an embarrassing story I once overheard at a party. Somebody else’s shame.
Dance despises men such as Bell, but I can’t be so judgemental. I have no idea who I am beyond Blackheath, or how I think when I’m not wedged inside somebody else’s mind. For all I know, I’m exactly like Bell... and would that truly be so bad? I envy him his compassion, as I envy Ravencourt’s intelligence, and Dance’s ability to see through the shroud to the heart of things. If I carry any of these qualities out of Blackheath, I’ll be proud to have them.
Making certain I’m alone in the corridor, I enter the room where Gregory Gold is hanging from the ceiling by his bound wrists. He’s murmuring, jerking in pain, trying to outrun some untiring nightmare. Compassion compels me to cut him down, but Anna wouldn’t have left him strung up like this without a very good reason.
Even so, I still need to speak with him, so I shake him gently, then more firmly.
Nothing.
I slap his face, then splash him with water from the nearby jug, but he doesn’t stir. This is horrendous. Doctor Dickie’s sedative is unyielding and no matter how hard Gold writhes he can’t free himself of it. My stomach turns, a chill settling on my bones. Until now, the horrors in my future had always been vague, insubstantial things, dark shapes lurking in a fog. But this is me, my fate. Reaching up on my tiptoes, I pull his sleeves down to reveal the slashes on his arms he showed me last night.
‘Don’t get out of the carriage,’ I murmur, recalling his warning.
‘Step away from him,’ says Anna from behind me. ‘And turn around nice and slow. I won’t ask twice.’
I do as she bids.
She is standing in the doorway with a shotgun pointed at me. Blonde hair spills from her cap, her expression fierce. Her aim is steady, her finger pressing against the trigger. One wrong move and I have no doubt she’d kill me to protect Gold. No matter the odds arrayed against me, knowing somebody cares this deeply is enough to make even Dance’s cold heart swell.
‘It’s me, Anna,’ I say. ‘It’s Aiden.’
‘Aiden?’
The shotgun lowers a little as she steps close, her face breathing distance from my own as she inspects my newly acquired crags and lines.
‘The book mentioned you’d get old,’ she says, holding the gun in one hand. ‘Didn’t mention you’d end up with a face like a headstone, though.’