‘I...’
‘You didn’t leave, did you?’ I say, catching the guilt on his face. ‘You wanted to see who was coming, so you hid somewhere nearby.’
‘For a minute, sir, just to see, to make sure he was all right.’
‘Why didn’t you tell anybody this?’ I say, frowning at him.
‘I was told not to, sir.’
‘By whom?’
He looks up at me, chewing the silence into a desperate plea.
‘By whom, dammit?’ I persist.
‘Well, Lady Hardcastle, sir. That’s what made me... well, she wouldn’t have let Charlie kill her son, would she? And if he had, she wouldn’t have told me to keep it quiet. Doesn’t make no sense, does it? He has to be innocent.’
‘And you kept this secret all these years?’
‘I was afraid, sir. Terrible afraid, sir.’
‘Of Helena Hardcastle?’
‘Of the knife, sir. The one used to kill Thomas. They found it in Carver’s cabin, hidden under the floorboards. That’s what did for him in the end, sir.’
‘Why would you be afraid of the knife, Miller?’
‘Because it was mine, sir. Horseshoe knife, it was. Went missing from my cottage a couple of days before the murder. That and a nice blanket right off my bed. I thought they might, well, blame me, sir. Like I was in on it with Carver, sir.’
The next few minutes pass in a blur, my thoughts far afield. I’m vaguely aware of promising to keep Miller’s secrets, just as I’m vaguely aware of leaving the cottage, the rain soaking me as I head back towards the house.
Michael Hardcastle told me somebody had been with Charlie Carver the morning of Thomas’s death, somebody Stanwin had clipped with a shotgun before they escaped. Could that person have been Lady Hardcastle? If so, her injuries would have needed tending quietly.
Doctor Dickie?
The Hardcastles were hosting a party the weekend Thomas was murdered, and by Evelyn’s account the same guests were invited back for this ball. Dickie’s in the house today, so it’s likely he was here nineteen years ago.
He won’t talk, he’s loyal as a dog.
‘He’s in the drug-peddling business with Bell,’ I say, remembering the marked-up Bible I found in his room when I was Derby. ‘That will be enough leverage to force the truth from him.’
My excitement’s building. If Dickie confirms that Lady Hardcastle was shot in the shoulder, she’d have to be a suspect in Thomas’s death. But why on earth would she take her own son’s life, or allow Carver – a man Lord Hardcastle claimed she loved – to take the blame on her behalf?
This is the closest Dance gets to glee, the old lawyer having spent his life following the facts like a hunting dog with the scent of blood in its nose, and it’s not until Blackheath lifts itself off the horizon that I finally awake to my surroundings. At this distance, with these weak eyes, the house is smudged, the cracks obscured, and one sees Blackheath as it must formerly have been, back when a young Millicent Derby summered here with Ravencourt and the Hardcastles, when children played in the forest without fear, their parents enjoying parties and music, laughter and singing.
How glorious it must have been.
One could understand why Helena Hardcastle might yearn for those days again, and might even attempt to restore them by throwing another party. One could understand, but only a fool would accept that as the reason any of this is happening.
Blackheath cannot be restored. The murder of Thomas Hardcastle hollowed it out forever, making it fit only for ruin, and yet, despite that, she’s invited the same guests to the same party, nineteen years later to the day. The past has been dug up and dressed up, but to what purpose?
If Miller’s right and Charlie Carver didn’t kill Thomas Hardcastle, chances are it was Helena Hardcastle, the spinner of this dreadful web we’re all tangled in, and the woman I’m increasingly convinced is at the centre of it.
Chances are she’s planning to kill Evelyn tonight, and I still don’t have any idea how to find her, let alone stop her.
38
A few gentlemen are smoking outside Blackheath, sharing stories of last night’s debauchery. Their cheerful greetings follow me up the steps, but I pass by without comment. My legs are aching, my lower back demanding a soak in the bathtub, but I don’t have time. The hunt begins in half an hour and I can’t miss it. I have too many questions and most of the answers will be carrying shotguns.
Taking a decanter of Scotch from the drawing room, I retire to my room, knocking back a couple of stiff drinks to smother the pain. I can feel Dance’s objection, his distaste not only at my acknowledgement of the discomfort, but my need to dim it. My host despises what’s happening to him, seeing age as a malignancy, a consumption and an erosion.
Stripping out of my muddy clothes, I take myself over to the mirror, realising I still have no idea what Dance looks like. Putting on a new body every day has already become commonplace, and it’s only the hope of catching some glimpse of the real Aiden Bishop that compels me to keep looking.
Dance is in his late seventies, as withered and grey on the outside as the inside. Almost bald, his face is a river of wrinkles running off his skull, pinned in place only by a large roman nose. Either side of that are a small grey moustache and dark, lifeless eyes suggesting nothing of the man within, except, perhaps, that there may not be a man within. Anonymity seems to be a compulsion with Dance, whose clothes – though good quality – come in shades of grey, with only the handkerchiefs and bow ties offering anything in the way of colour. Even then, the choice is either dark red or dark blue, giving the impression of a man camouflaged within his own life.
His hunting tweeds are a little tight around the middle, but they’ll suffice, and with another glass of Scotch warming my throat, I cross the corridor to Doctor Dickie’s bedroom, rapping on the door.
Steps approach from the other side, Dickie opening it wide. He’s dressed for the hunt.
‘I don’t work this much at my surgery,’ he grumbles. ‘I should warn you, I’ve already tended knife wounds, memory loss and a severe beating this morning, so whatever your ailment, it needs to be interesting. And above the waist, preferably.’
‘You peddle drugs through Sebastian Bell,’ I say bluntly, watching the smile vanish from his face. ‘He sells them, you supply them.’
White as a sheet, he’s forced to steady himself against the doorframe.
Seeing weakness, I press my advantage. ‘Ted Stanwin would pay handsomely for this information, but I don’t need Stanwin. I need to know if you treated Helena Hardcastle, or anybody else, for a gunshot wound the day Thomas Hardcastle was murdered?’
‘The police asked me the same question at the time and I answered honestly,’ he rasps, loosening his collar. ‘No, I did not.’
Scowling, I turn away from him. ‘I’m going to Stanwin,’ I say.
‘Dammit man, I’m telling the truth,’ he says, catching my arm.
We look each other in the eyes. His are old and dim and lit by fear. Whatever he finds in mine causes him to release me immediately.
‘Helena Hardcastle loves her children more than life itself, and she loved Thomas the most,’ he insists. ‘She couldn’t have harmed him, she wouldn’t have been able. I swear to you, on my honour as a gentleman, nobody came to me that day with an injury, and I don’t have the first clue who Stanwin shot.’
I hold his pleading gaze for a second, searching for some flicker of deceit, but he’s telling the truth, I’m certain of it.
Deflated, I let the doctor go and return to the entrance hall where the rest of the gentlemen are gathering, smoking and chatting, impatient for the hunt to begin. I was certain Dickie would confirm Helena’s involvement, and in so doing, give me a starting point for Evelyn’s death.