The water’s long cold, leaving me blue and shivering. Vainglorious though it may be, I can’t bear the thought of Ravencourt’s valet lifting me out of this bath like a sodden sack of potatoes.
A polite knock on the bedroom door relieves me of the decision.
‘Lord Ravencourt, is all well?’ he calls, entering the room.
‘Quite well,’ I insist, my hands numb.
His head appears around the edge of the screen, his eyes taking hold of the scene. After a moment’s scrutiny, he approaches without my beckoning, rolling up his sleeves to pull me out of the water with a strength that belies his thin frame.
This time I do not protest. I have too little pride left to salvage.
As he helps me out of the bathtub, I spot the edge of a tattoo poking from beneath his shirt. It’s smeared green, the details lost. Noticing my attention, he hurriedly pulls his sleeve down.
‘Folly of youth, my lord,’ he says.
For ten minutes I stand there, quietly humiliated, as he towels me dry, mothering me into my suit; one leg then the next, one arm then the other. The clothes are silk, beautifully tailored but tugging and pinching like a roomful of elderly aunts. They’re a size too small, fitting Ravencourt’s vanity rather than his body. When all is done, the valet combs my hair, rubbing coconut oil into my fleshy face before handing me a mirror that I might better inspect the results. The reflection is nearing sixty, with suspiciously black hair and brown eyes the colour of weak tea. I search them for some sign of myself, the hidden man working Ravencourt’s strings, but I’m obscured. For the first time I wonder who I was before coming here, and the chain of events that led me into this trap.
Such speculation would be intriguing if it weren’t so frustrating.
As with Bell, my skin prickles when I see Ravencourt in the mirror. Some part of me remembers my real face and is perplexed by this stranger staring back.
I hand the mirror to the valet.
‘We need to go to the library,’ I say.
‘I know where it is, my lord,’ he says. ‘Shall I fetch you a book?’
‘I’m coming with you.’
The valet pauses, frowning. He speaks hesitatingly, his words testing the ground they’re tiptoeing across.
‘It’s a fair walk, my lord. I fear you may find it... tiring.’
‘I’ll manage, besides I need the exercise.’
Arguments queue behind his teeth, but he fetches my cane and an attaché case and leads me into a dark corridor, oil lamps spilling their warm light across the walls.
We walk slowly, the valet tossing news at my feet, but my mind is fixed on the ponderousness of this body I’m dragging forward. It’s as though some fiend has remade the house overnight, stretching the rooms and thickening the air. Wading into the sudden brightness of the entrance hall, I’m surprised to discover how steep the staircase now appears. The steps I sprinted down as Donald Davies would require climbing equipment to surmount this morning. Little wonder Lord and Lady Hardcastle lodged Ravencourt on the ground floor. It would take a pulley, two strong men and a day’s pay to hoist me into Bell’s room.
Requiring frequent rests at least allows me to observe my fellow guests as they make their way around the house, and it’s immediately evident that this is not a happy gathering. Whispered arguments spill out of nooks and crannies, raised voices moving hurriedly up the stairs only to be cut off by slamming doors. Husbands and wives goad each other, drinks gripped too tightly, faces flushed red with barely controlled rage. There’s a needle in every exchange, the air prickly and dangerous. Perhaps it’s nerves, or the hollow wisdom of foresight, but Blackheath seems fertile ground for tragedy.
My legs are trembling by the time we arrive at the library, my back aching with the effort of holding myself erect. Unfortunately, the room offers scant reward for such suffering. Dusty, overburdened bookshelves line the walls, a mouldy red carpet smothering the floor. The bones of an old fire lie in the grate, opposite a small reading table with an uncomfortable wooden chair placed beside it.
My companion sums up his feelings in a single tut.
‘One moment, my lord, I’ll fetch you a more comfortable chair from the drawing room,’ he says.
I’ll need it. My left palm is blistered where it’s rubbed against the top of the cane and my legs are wobbling beneath me. Sweat has soaked through my shirt, leaving my entire body itchy. Crossing the house has left me a wreck, and if I’m to reach the lake tonight before my rivals, I’m going to need a new host, preferably one capable of conquering a staircase.
Ravencourt’s valet returns with a wingback chair, placing it on the floor in front of me. Taking my arm, he lowers me into the green cushions.
‘May I ask our purpose here, my lord?’
‘If we’re very lucky, we’re meeting friends,’ I reply, mopping my face with a handkerchief. ‘Do you have a piece of paper to hand?’
‘Of course.’
He retrieves some foolscap and a fountain pen from his attaché case, standing ready to take dictation. I open my mouth to dismiss him, but one look at my sweaty, blistered hand dissuades me. In this instance, pride is a poor cousin to legibility.
After taking a minute to arrange the words in my head, I begin speaking aloud.
‘It’s logical to believe that many of you have been here longer than I and possess knowledge of this house, our purpose here and our captor, the Plague Doctor, that I do not.’
I pause, listening to the scratching of the pen.
‘You have not sought me out, and I must assume there’s a good reason for that, but I ask you now to meet me in the library at lunchtime and help me apprehend our captor. If you cannot, I ask you to share what you’ve learned by writing it on this paper. Whatever you know, no matter how trivial, may be of use in helping speed our escape. They say two heads are better than one, but I believe in this case our combined head may be sufficient.’
I wait for the scribbling to end, then look up at my companion’s face. It’s mystified, though also a touch amused. He’s a curious fellow this one, not at all the straight edge he first appears.
‘Should I post this, my lord?’ he asks.
‘No need,’ I say, pointing towards the bookshelf. ‘Slide it within the pages of the first volume of the Encyclopaedia Britannica, they’ll know where to find it.’
He eyes me, then the note, before doing as I ask, the page slipping neatly inside. It seems a fitting home.
‘And when should we expect a response, my lord?’
‘Minutes, hours, I can’t be certain. We’ll have to keep checking back.’
‘And until then?’ he asks, wiping the dust from his hands with a pocket square.
‘Talk to the servants, I need to know if any of the guests has a medieval plague doctor costume in their wardrobe.’
‘My lord?’
‘Porcelain mask, black greatcoat, that sort of thing,’ I say. ‘In the meantime I’m going to have a nap.’
‘Here, my lord?’
‘Indeed.’
He watches me with a frown, trying to stitch together the scraps of information scattered before him.
‘Should I light a fire?’ he asks.
‘No need, I’ll be quite comfortable,’ I say.
‘Very well,’ he says, hovering.
I’m not sure what he’s waiting for but it never arrives and with a final look he leaves the room, his confusion creeping out quietly behind him.
Placing my hands on my stomach, I close my eyes. Every time I’ve slept I’ve woken up in a different body, and while it’s risky sacrificing a host this way, I can’t see what more I can accomplish in Ravencourt. With any luck, when I awaken my other selves will have made contact through the encyclopaedia and I’ll be among them.