‘There you are,’ I say, glancing around to make sure nobody’s listening. ‘Is it true you’re what’s left of the original Aiden Bishop?’
Silence greets my question, and somewhere within I can feel Dance sneering at me. I can only imagine what the stiff old solicitor would say about a man talking to himself in this fashion.
Aside from the dim light of the fire, my bedroom is shrouded, the servants having forgotten to light the candles ahead of my arrival. Suspicion pricks me. I raise the shotgun to my shoulder. A gamekeeper tried to collect it when we came inside, but I brushed him off, insisting it was part of my personal collection.
Sparking the lantern beside the door, I see Anna standing in the corner of the room, arms by her sides, expression blank.
‘Anna,’ I say, surprised, lowering the shotgun. ‘What’s the—’
Wood creaks behind me, pain flares in my side. A rough hand yanks me backwards, covering my mouth. I’m spun around, bringing me face to face with the footman. There’s a smirk on his lips, his eyes scratching at my face, as though digging for something buried beneath.
Those eyes.
I try to scream, but he clamps my jaw shut.
He holds his knife up. Very slowly he runs the point down my chest, before ramming it into my stomach, the pain of each blow eclipsing the one before until pain is all there is.
I’ve never been so cold, never felt so quiet.
My legs buckle, his arms taking my weight, lowering me carefully to the floor. He keeps his eyes on mine, soaking up the life slipping out of them.
I open my mouth to scream, but no sound comes out.
‘Run, rabbit,’ he says, his face close to mine. ‘Run.’
42
Day Two (continued)
I scream, lurching up from the butler’s bed only to be pressed back down by the footman.
‘This him?’ he says, looking over his shoulder at Anna, who’s standing by the window.
‘Yes,’ she says, a tremor in her voice.
The footman leans close, his voice hoarse, ale-thick breath warm on my cheek.
‘Didn’t leap far enough, rabbit,’ he says.
The blade slips into my side, my blood spilling onto the sheets, taking my life with it.
43
Day Seven
I scream into suffocating darkness, my back against a wall, my knees tucked under my chin. Instinctively I grab the spot where the butler was stabbed, cursing my stupidity. The Plague Doctor was telling the truth. Anna betrayed me.
I feel sick, my mind scrambling for a reasonable explanation, but I saw her myself. She’s been lying to me this whole time.
She isn’t the only one guilty of that.
‘Shut up,’ I say angrily.
My heart is racing, my breathing shallow. I need to calm down, or I’ll be no use to anybody. Taking a minute, I try to think of anything but Anna, but it’s surprisingly difficult. I hadn’t realised how often my mind has reached for her in the quiet.
She was safety, and comfort.
She was my friend.
Shifting position, I try to work out where I’ve woken up and whether I’m in any immediate danger. At first blush, it doesn’t appear so. My shoulders are touching the walls either side of me, a sliver of light piercing a crack near my right ear, dusting cardboard boxes on my left and bottles down by my feet.
I move my wristwatch to the light, discovering that it’s 10:13 a.m. Bell hasn’t even reached the house yet.
‘It’s still morning,’ I say to myself, relieved. ‘I still have time.’
My lips are dry, my tongue cracked, the air so thick with mildew it feels like a dirty rag’s been stuffed down my throat. A drink would be nice, something cold, anything with ice. It seems a long time since I’ve woken up beneath cotton sheets, the day’s torments queuing patiently on the other side of a warm bath.
I didn’t know when I was well off.
My host must have slept in this position all night because it’s agony to move. Thankfully, the panel to the right of me is loose and pushes open without too much effort, my eyes watering as they’re exposed to the harsh brightness of the room beyond.
I’m in a long gallery stretching the length of the house, cobwebs dangling from the ceiling. The walls are dark wood, the floor littered with dozens of pieces of old furniture that are thick with dust and almost hollowed out by woodworm. Brushing myself off, I get to my feet, shaking some life into my iron limbs. Turns out my host spent the night in a storage cupboard beneath a small flight of stairs leading up to a stage. Yellowed sheet music sits open in front of a dusty cello, and looking at it, I feel like I’ve slept through some great calamity, judgement having come and gone while I was stuffed in that cupboard.
What the hell was I doing under there?
Aching, I stagger over to one of the windows lining the gallery. It’s shrouded with grime, but wiping a spot clear with my sleeve reveals Blackheath’s gardens below. I’m on the top floor of the house.
Out of habit, I begin searching my pockets for some clue as to my identity, but realise I don’t need it. I’m Jim Rashton. I’m twenty-seven, a constable in the police force, and my parents Margaret and Henry beam with pride whenever they tell anybody. I have a sister, I have a dog and I’m in love with a woman called Grace Davies, who’s the reason I’m at this party.
Whatever barrier used to exist between myself and my hosts is almost completely knocked through. I can barely tell Rashton’s life from my own. Unfortunately, my recollection of how I came to end up in the cupboard is clouded by the bottle of Scotch that Rashton was drinking last night. I remember telling old stories, laughing and dancing, barrelling recklessly through an evening that had no other purpose than pleasure.
Was the footman there? Did he do this?
I strain for the memory, but last night’s a drunken smear. Agitation instinctively sends my hand to the leather cigarette case Rashton keeps in his pocket, but there’s only one cigarette left inside. I’m tempted to light it to calm my nerves, but given the circumstances a frayed temper might serve me better, especially if I have to fight my way out of here. The footman tracked me from Dance into the butler, so it’s doubtful I’ll find safe harbour in Rashton.
Caution will be my truest friend now.
Casting around for a weapon, I find a bronze statue of Atlas. I creep forwards with it held above my head, picking my way through walls of armoires and giant webs of interlocking chairs until I arrive at a faded black curtain stretching the length of the room. Cardboard trees are propped against the walls, near clothes racks stuffed with costumes. Among them are six or seven plague doctor outfits, the hats and masks piled in a box on the floor. It appears the family used to put on plays up here.
A floorboard creaks, the curtain twitching. Somebody’s shuffling around back there.
I tense. Raising Atlas above my head, I—
Anna bursts through, her cheeks red.
‘Oh, thank God,’ she says, catching sight of me.
She’s out of breath, dark circles surrounding bloodshot brown eyes. Her blonde hair is loose and tangled, her cap scrunched up in her hand. The artist’s sketchbook chronicling each of my hosts bulges in her apron.
‘You’re Rashton, right? Come on, we only have half an hour to save the others,’ she says, lunging forward to take hold of my hand.
I step back, the statue still raised, but the breathlessness of the introduction has knocked me off balance, as has the lack of guilt in her voice.
‘I’m not going anywhere with you,’ I say, gripping Atlas a little tighter.
Confusion paints her face, followed by a dawning realisation.
‘Is this because of what happened to Dance and the butler?’ she asks. ‘I don’t know anything about that, about anything really. I’ve haven’t been up long. I just know you’re in eight different people and a footman’s killing them, and we need to go and save the ones that are left.’
‘You expect me to trust you?’ I say, stunned. ‘You distracted Dance while the footman murdered him. You were standing in the room when he killed the butler. You’ve been helping him, I’ve seen you!’