Turning on the spot, my eyes sweep the furnishings, searching for something I’ve missed. I can’t be wrong about the suicide, no other explanation makes sense. That’s when my gaze alights on the tapestry concealing the communicating door into Helena’s bedroom. Taking an oil lamp, I pass through, repeating my search.
I’ve almost given up hope when I lift the mattress off the bed and find a cotton bag tied to one of the bars. Unpicking the drawstring, I find two guns inside. One is a harmless starting pistol, the stalwart of village fêtes everywhere. The other is the black revolver Evelyn took from her mother’s room, the one she had in the forest this morning and will carry into the graveyard this evening. It’s loaded. A single bullet missing from the chamber. There’s also a vial of blood and a small syringe filled with a clear liquid.
My heart is racing.
‘I was right,’ I mutter.
It’s the stirring of the curtains that saves my life.
The breeze from the opened door touches my neck an instant before a step sounds behind me. Throwing myself to the floor, I hear a knife slashing through the air. Rolling onto my back, I bring the revolver up in time to see the footman fleeing into the corridor.
Letting my head drop onto the floorboards, I rest the gun on my stomach and thank my lucky stars. If I’d noticed the curtains a second later, this would all be over.
I give myself a chance to recover my breath, then get to my feet, replacing the two weapons and the syringe in the bag, but taking the vial of blood. Cautiously departing the bedroom, I ask around for Evelyn until somebody points me towards the ballroom, which is echoing with loud banging, a stage being finished by builders. The French doors have been thrown open in hopes of evacuating the paint fumes and dust, maids scrubbing their youth away on the floor.
I spot Evelyn by the stage, speaking with the bandleader. She’s still in the green dress she wears during the day, but Madeline Aubert is standing behind her with a mouthful of pins, hurriedly jabbing them into escaping locks of hair, trying to fashion the style she’ll wear tonight.
‘Miss Hardcastle,’ I call out, crossing the room.
Dismissing the bandleader with a friendly smile and a squeeze of the arm, she turns towards me.
‘Evelyn, please,’ she says, holding out her hand. ‘And you are?’
‘Jim Rashton.’
‘Ah, yes, the policeman,’ she says, her smile vanishing. ‘Is everything well? You look a little flushed.’
‘I’m not used to the hustle and bustle of polite society,’ I say.
I shake her hand lightly, surprised by how cold it is.
‘How can I help you, Mr Rashton?’ she asks.
Her voice is distant, almost annoyed. I feel like a squashed insect she’s discovered on the bottom of her shoe.
As with Ravencourt, I’m struck by the disdain with which Evelyn armours herself. Of all Blackheath’s tricks, being exposed to every unpleasant side of a person you once considered a friend is surely the cruellest.
The thought brings me pause.
Evelyn was kind to Bell, and the memory of that kindness has driven me ever since, but the Plague Doctor said he’d experimented with different combinations of hosts over many different loops. If Ravencourt had been my first host, as he surely was at some point, I’d have known nothing of Evelyn beyond her contempt. Derby drew only anger, and I doubt she’d have spared any kindness for servants like the butler, or Gold. That means there were loops where I watched this woman die and felt almost nothing about it, my only concern being to solve her murder, rather than desperately trying to prevent it.
I almost envy them.
‘May I speak with you’ – I glance at Madeline – ‘privately?’
‘I really am awfully busy,’ she says. ‘What’s this about?’
‘I’d prefer to speak privately.’
‘And I’d prefer to finish getting this ballroom ready before fifty people arrive and find there’s nowhere for them to dance,’ she says, sharply. ‘You can imagine which preference I’m giving greater weight to.’
Madeline smirks, and pins another lock of Evelyn’s loose hair into place.
‘Very well,’ I say, producing the vial of blood I found in the cotton sack. ‘Let’s talk about this.’
I might as well have slapped her, but the shock slides off her face so quickly, I have trouble believing it was ever there.
‘We’ll finish this later, Maddie,’ says Evelyn, fixing me with a cool, level stare. ‘Go down to the kitchen and get yourself some food.’
Madeline’s gaze is equally mistrusting, but she drops the pins into her apron pocket before curtsying and leaving the room.
Taking me by the arm, Evelyn leads me towards the corner of the ballroom, far from the ears of the servants.
‘Is it your habit to root through people’s personal possessions, Mr Rashton?’ she asks, taking a cigarette from her case.
‘Lately, yes,’ I say.
‘Maybe you need a hobby.’
‘I have a hobby, I’m trying to save your life.’
‘My life doesn’t need saving,’ she says coolly. ‘Perhaps you should try gardening instead.’
‘Or perhaps I should fake a suicide so I don’t have to marry Lord Ravencourt?’ I say, pausing to enjoy the collapse of her supercilious expression. ‘That seems to be keeping you busy lately. It’s very clever; unfortunately, somebody’s going to use that fake suicide to murder you, which is a great deal cleverer.’
Her mouth hangs open, her blue eyes sick with surprise.
Averting her glance, she tries to light the cigarette held between her fingers, but her hand is trembling. I take the match from her and light it myself, the flame singeing my fingertips.
‘Who put you up to this?’ she hisses.
‘What are you talking about?’
‘My plan,’ she says, snatching the vial of blood from my hand. ‘Who told you about it?’
‘Why, who else is involved?’ I ask. ‘I know you invited somebody called Felicity to the house, but I don’t know who that is yet.’
‘She’s...’ She shakes her head. ‘Nothing, I shouldn’t even be talking to you.’
She turns for the door, but I catch her by the wrist, pulling her back rather more forcefully than I’d intended. Anger flashes on her face and I immediately release her, raising my hands.
‘Ted Stanwin told me everything,’ I say desperately, trying to keep her from storming out of the room.
I need a plausible explanation for the things I know, and Derby overheard Stanwin and Evelyn arguing this morning. If I’m very lucky, the blackmailer has a hand in all of this. It’s not much of a stretch. He has a hand in everything else that’s happening today.
Evelyn’s still, watchful, like a deer in the woods that’s just heard a branch snap.
‘He said you were planning to kill yourself by the reflecting pool this evening, but that made no sense,’ I press on, trusting to Stanwin’s formidable reputation to sell the story. ‘Forgive me for being blunt, Miss Hardcastle, but if you were serious about ending your life, you’d already be dead, not playing the dutiful hostess to people you despise. My second idea was that you wanted everybody to see it happen, but then why not do it in the ballroom, during the party? I couldn’t make sense of it until I stood on the edge of the reflecting pool and realised how dark it was, how easily it could conceal something dropped into it.’
Scorn glitters in her eyes.
‘And what is it you want, Mr Rashton? Money?’
‘I’m trying to help you,’ I insist. ‘I know you intend to go to the reflecting pool at 11 p.m., press a black revolver to your stomach and collapse into the pool. I know you won’t actually pull the trigger of the black revolver and a starter’s pistol will make the sound of the gunshot everybody hears, just as I know you plan to drop the starter’s pistol into the water when you’re done. The vial of blood will be hung from a long cord around your neck and will crack open when you hit it with the revolver, providing the gore.