And I blamed Blackheath.
I look up at the Plague Doctor through eyes raw with tears. He’s looking me full in the face, weighing my reaction. I wonder what he sees, because I have no idea what to think. All of this is happening to me because of the person I’m trying to save.
This is Anna’s fault.
Annabelle.
‘What?’ I ask, surprised by how insistent the voice in my head sounds.
It’s Annabelle Caulker’s fault, not Anna’s. That’s who we hated.
‘Aiden?’ asks the Plague Doctor.
And Annabelle Caulker’s dead.
‘Annabelle Caulker’s dead,’ I repeat slowly, meeting the Plague Doctor’s startled gaze.
He shakes his head. ‘You’re wrong.’
‘It took thirty years,’ I say. ‘And it wasn’t done with violence and it wasn’t done with hatred. It was done with forgiveness. Annabelle Caulker is dead.’
‘You’re mistaken.’
‘No, you are,’ I say, building in confidence. ‘You asked me to listen to the voice in my head, and I am. You asked me to believe Blackheath could rehabilitate people, and I have. Now you need to do the same, because you’re so blinded by who Anna used to be, you’re ignoring who she’s become, and if you’re not willing to accept she’s changed, then what good is any of this?’
Frustrated, he kicks at the dirt with the toe of his boot.
‘I should never have taken the mask off,’ he growls, getting to his feet and striding into the garden, scattering the rabbits that had been eating the grass. Hands on hips, he stares at Blackheath in the distance, and for the first time, I realise it’s as much his master as mine. While I was free to tinker and change, he’s been forced to watch murder, rape and suicide, wrapped in enough lies to bury the entire place. He’s had to accept whatever the day brought him, no matter how horrific. And unlike me, he wasn’t allowed to forget. A man could go mad. Most men would, unless they had faith. Unless they believed the ends justified the means.
As if privy to my thoughts, the Plague Doctor turns towards me.
‘What is it you’re asking of me, Aiden?’
‘Come to the lake at eleven,’ I say firmly. ‘There’ll be a monster there, and I guarantee it won’t be Anna. Watch her, give her a chance to prove herself. You’ll see who she really is, and you’ll see I’m right.’
He looks uncertain.
‘How can you know that?’ he asks.
‘Because I’ll be in danger.’
‘Even if you convince me she’s rehabilitated, you’ve already solved the mystery of Evelyn’s death,’ he says. ‘The rules are clear: the first prisoner to explain who killed Evelyn Hardcastle will be released. That’s you. Not Anna. What’s your solution to that?’
Getting to my feet, I stumble over to my sketch of the tree, jabbing at the knots, the holes in my knowledge.
‘I haven’t solved everything,’ I say. ‘If Michael Hardcastle planned to shoot his sister in the reflecting pool, why would he also poison her? I don’t think he did. I don’t think he knew there was poison in the drink that killed him. I think somebody else put it there in case Michael failed.’
The Plague Doctor’s followed me inside.
‘That’s thin reasoning, Aiden.’
‘We still have too many questions for anything else,’ I say, recalling Evelyn’s pale face after I saved her in the Sun Room, and the message she worked so hard to deliver. ‘If this was finished, why would Evelyn tell me Millicent Derby was murdered? What does that achieve?’
‘Perhaps Michael killed her also?’
‘And what was his motive? No, we’re missing something.’
‘What sort of something?’ he asks, his conviction wavering.
‘I think Michael Hardcastle was working with somebody else, somebody who’s kept out of sight all along,’ I say.
‘A second killer,’ he says, taking a second to consider it. ‘I’ve been here for thirty years, and I’ve never suspected... nobody ever has. It can’t be, Aiden. It’s impossible.’
‘Everything about today is impossible,’ I say, thumping my charcoal tree. ‘There’s a second killer, I know there is. I have an idea who it may be and, if I’m right, they killed Millicent Derby to cover their tracks. They’re as implicated in Evelyn’s murder as Michael, and that means you need two answers. If Anna delivers Michael’s partner, will that be enough to set her free?’ I ask.
‘My superiors do not want to see Annabelle Caulker leave Blackheath,’ he says. ‘And I’m not certain they can be convinced she’s changed. Even if they can, they’ll be looking for any excuse to keep her imprisoned, Aiden.’
‘You helped me because I don’t belong here,’ I say. ‘If I’m right about Anna, the same is now true for her.’
Running his hand across his scalp, he paces back and forth, casting anxious glances between myself and the sketch.
‘I can only promise I’ll be at the lake tonight with an open mind,’ he says.
‘It’s enough,’ I say, clapping him on the shoulder. ‘Meet me by the boathouse at eleven, and you’ll see I’m right.’
‘And may I ask what you’ll be doing in the meantime?’
‘I’m going to find out who murdered Millicent Derby.’
54
Keeping to the trees, I approach Blackheath unseen, my shirt damp with fog, my shoes caked in mud. The Sun Room lies a few paces away and crouching among the dripping bushes, I look for any movement within. It’s still early, but I don’t know when Daniel wakes up, or when he’s recruited by Silver Tear. For safety’s sake, I must assume he and his spies are still a threat, which means I must remain concealed until he’s lying face down in the lake, all his plots drowned with him.
After the sun’s early foray, it’s abandoned us to the gloom, the sky a muddle of greys. I search the flower beds for splashes of red, hints of purple, pink or white. I search for the brighter world behind this one, imagining Blackheath alight, wearing a crown of flames and a cape of fire. I see the grey sky burning, black ash falling like snow. I imagine the world remade, if only for an instant.
I come to a halt, suddenly uncertain of my purpose. I look around, not recognising anything, wondering why I left the cottage without my brushes and easel. Surely I came to paint, but I’m not a fan of the morning light here. It’s too dreary, too quiet, a gauze across the landscape.
‘I don’t know why I’m here,’ I say to myself, looking down at my charcoal-stained shirt.
Anna. You’re here for Anna.
Her name shakes me loose of Gold’s confusion, my memories returning in a flood.
It’s getting worse.
Taking a deep breath of cold air, I clutch the chess piece from the mantel in my hand, building a wall between myself and Gold by using every memory I have of Anna. I make bricks of her laughter, her touch, her kindness and warmth, and only when I’m content my wall is high enough, do I resume my study of the Sun Room, letting myself inside when I’m satisfied the house sleeps.
Dance’s drunken friend, Philip Sutcliffe, is asleep on one of the couches, his jacket drawn up over his face. He stirs briefly, smacking his lips and peering at me blearily. He murmurs something, shifts his weight, and then falls asleep again.
I wait, listening. Dripping. Breathing heavily.
Nothing else moves.
Evelyn’s grandmother watches me from the portrait above the fireplace. Her lips are pursed, the artist capturing her exactly at the moment of rebuke.
My neck prickles.
I find myself frowning at the painting, dismayed by how gently she’s been rendered. My mind repaints it, the curves as harsh as scars, the oil piled like mountains. It becomes a mood smeared on canvas. A black one at that. I’m certain the old battleaxe would have preferred its honesty.
A peal of shrill laughter sounds through the open door, a dagger driven into somebody’s story. The guests must have started drifting down to breakfast.
I’m running out of time.