Ten minutes later, the whisper’s long faded, but the terror it provoked echoes still. It wasn’t the words themselves, so much as the glee they carried. That warning was a down payment on the blood and pain to come, and only a fool wouldn’t see the footman behind it.
Holding my hand up, I check to see how badly it’s trembling, and, deciding that I’m at least moderately recovered, I continue onwards to my room. I’ve only taken a step or two when sobbing draws my attention to a dark doorway at the back of the entrance hall. For a full minute I hover on the periphery, peering into the dimness, fearing a trap. Surely the footman wouldn’t try something so soon, or be able to summon up these pitiable gulps of sadness I’m hearing now?
Sympathy compels me to take a tentative step forward, and I find myself in a narrow gallery adorned with Hardcastle family portraits. Generations wither on the walls, the current incumbents of Blackheath hanging nearest the door. Lady Helena Hardcastle is sitting regally beside her standing husband, both of them dark-haired and dark-eyed, beautifully supercilious. Next to them are the portraits of the children, Evelyn at a window, fingering the edge of the curtain as she watches for somebody’s arrival, while Michael has one leg flung over the arm of the chair he’s sitting in, a book discarded on the floor. He looks bored, shimmering with a restless energy. In the corner of each portrait is a splashed signature; that of Gregory Gold if I’m not very much mistaken. The memory of the butler’s beating at the artist’s hands is still fresh and I find myself gripping my cane, tasting the blood in my mouth once again. Evelyn told me Gold had been brought to Blackheath to touch up the portraits and I can see why. The man may be insane, but he’s talented.
Another sob issues from the corner of the room.
There are no windows in the gallery, only burning oil lamps, and it’s so dim I have to squint to locate the maid slumped in the shadows, weeping into a soggy handkerchief. Tact would advise that I approach quietly, but Ravencourt’s ill designed for stealth. My cane raps the floor, the sound of my breathing running on ahead, announcing my presence. Catching sight of me, the maid leaps to her feet, her cap coming loose, curly red hair springing free.
I recognise her immediately. This is Lucy Harper, the maid Ted Stanwin abused at lunch, and the woman who helped me down to the kitchen when I awoke as the butler. The memory of that kindness echoes within me, a warm rush of pity shaping the words in my mouth.
‘I’m sorry, Lucy, I didn’t mean to startle you,’ I say.
‘No, sir, it’s not... I shouldn’t...’ She casts around for some escape, miring herself further in etiquette.
‘I heard you crying,’ I say, attempting to push a sympathetic smile onto my face. It’s a difficult thing to achieve with somebody else’s mouth, especially when there’s so much flesh to move around.
‘Oh, sir, you shouldn’t... it was my fault. I made a mistake at lunch,’ she says, dabbing the last of her tears away.
‘Ted Stanwin treated you atrociously,’ I say, surprised by the alarm rising on her face.
‘No, sir, you mustn’t say that,’ she says, her voice hurdling an entire octave. ‘Ted, Mr Stanwin, I mean, he’s been good to us servants. Always treated us right, he has. He’s just... now he’s a gentleman, he can’t be seen...’
She’s on the verge of tears again.
‘I understand,’ I say hastily. ‘He doesn’t want the other guests treating him like a servant.’
A smile swallows her face.
‘That’s it, sir, that’s just it. They’d never have caught Charlie Carver if it weren’t for Ted, but the other gentlemen still look at him like he’s one of us. Not Lord Hardcastle though, he calls him Mr Stanwin and everything.’
‘Well, as long as you’re quite all right,’ I say, taken aback by the pride in her voice.
‘I am, sir, really I am,’ she says earnestly, emboldened enough to scoop her cap from the floor. ‘I should be getting back, they’ll be wondering where I’ve got to.’
She takes a step towards the door, but is too slow to prevent me throwing a question in her path.
‘Lucy, do you know anybody called Anna?’ I ask. ‘I was thinking she could be a servant.’
‘Anna?’ She pauses, tossing the full weight of her thought at the problem. ‘No, sir, can’t say as I do.’
‘Any of the maids acting strangely?’
‘Now, sir, would you believe, you’re the third person to ask that question today,’ she says, twisting a lock of her curly hair around her finger.
‘Third?’
‘Yes, sir, Mrs Derby was down in the kitchen only an hour ago wondering the same thing. Gave us a right fright she did. High-born lady like that wandering around downstairs, ain’t ever heard of such a thing.’
My hand grips my cane. Whoever this Mrs Derby is, she’s acting oddly and asking the same questions I am. Perhaps I’ve found another of my rivals.
Or another host.
The suggestion makes me blush, Ravencourt’s familiarity with women extending only so far as acknowledging their existence in the world. The thought of becoming one is as unintelligible to him as a day spent breathing water.
‘What can you tell me about Mrs Derby?’ I ask.
‘Nothing much, sir,’ says Lucy. ‘Older lady, sharp tongue. I liked her. Not sure if it means anything, but there was a footman as well. Came in a few minutes after Mrs Derby asking the same question: any of the servants acting funny?’
My hand squeezes the knob of my cane even tighter, and I have to bite my tongue to keep from cursing.
‘A footman?’ I say. ‘What did he look like?’
‘Blond hair, tall, but...’ she drifts off, looking troubled, ‘I don’t know, pleased with himself. Probably works for a gentleman, sir, they get like that, pick up airs and graces they do. Had a broken nose, all black and purple, like it only recently happened. I reckon somebody took exception to him.’
‘What did you tell him?’
‘Wasn’t me, sir, was Mrs Drudge, the cook. Said the same thing she said to Mrs Derby, that the servants were fine, it was the guests gone –’ she blushes – ‘oh, begging your pardon, sir, I didn’t mean—’
‘Don’t worry, Lucy, I find most of the people in this house as peculiar as you do. What have they been doing?’
She grins, her eyes darting towards the doors guiltily. When she speaks again, her voice is almost low enough to be drowned out by the creaking of the floorboards.
‘Well, this morning Miss Hardcastle was out in the forest with her lady’s maid, French she is, you should hear her, quelle this and quelle that. Somebody attacked them out by Charlie Carver’s old cottage. One of the guests apparently, but they wouldn’t say which one.’
‘Attacked, you’re certain?’ I say, recalling my morning as Bell, and the woman I saw fleeing through the forest. I assumed it was Anna, but what if I was wrong? It wouldn’t be the first assumption to trip me up in Blackheath.
‘That’s what they said, sir,’ she says, falling shy in the face of my eagerness.
‘I think I need to have a chat with this French maid, what’s her name?’
‘Madeline Aubert, sir, only I’d prefer it if you didn’t let on who told you. They’re keeping quiet about it.’
Madeline Aubert. That’s the maid who gave Bell the note at dinner last night. In the confusion of recent events, I’d quite forgotten about his slashed arm.
‘My lips are sealed, Lucy, thank you,’ I say, miming the action. ‘Even so, I must speak with her. Could you let her know I’m looking for her? You don’t have to tell her why, but there’s a reward in it for both of you if she comes to my parlour.’
She looks doubtful, but agrees readily enough, bolting before I have time to slip any more promises around her neck.
If Ravencourt were able, I’d have a bounce in my step as I depart the gallery. Whatever apathy Evelyn may feel towards Ravencourt, she’s still my friend and my will is still bent on saving her. If somebody threatened her in the forest this morning, it’s not a stretch to assume the same person will play some part in her murder this evening. I must do everything in my power to intercept them, and hopefully this Madeline Aubert will be able to help. Who knows, by this point tomorrow I might have the murderer’s name in hand. If the Plague Doctor honours his offer, I could escape this house with hosts to spare.
This jubilation persists only as far as the corridor, my whistling faltering with each step further away from the brightness of the entrance hall. The footman’s presence has transformed Blackheath, its leaping shadows and blind corners populating my imagination with a hundred horrible deaths at his hands. Every little noise is enough to set my already overburdened heart racing. By the time I reach my parlour, I’m soaked with sweat, a knot in my chest.
Closing the door behind me, I let out a long shuddering breath. At this rate, the footman won’t need to kill me, my health will give out first.
The parlour’s a beautiful room, a chaise longue and an armchair beneath a chandelier reflecting the flames of a roaring fire. A sideboard is laid with spirits and mixers, sliced fruit, bitters and a bucket of half-melted ice. Beside that sits a teetering pile of roast beef sandwiches, mustard running down the severed edges. My stomach would drag me towards the food, but my body’s collapsing beneath me.
I need to rest.
The armchair takes my weight with ill temper, the legs bowing under the strain. Rain’s thumping the windows, the sky bruised black and purple. Are these the same drops that fell yesterday, the same clouds? Do rabbits dig the same warrens, disturbing the same insects? Do the same birds fly the same patterns, crashing into the same windows? If this is a trap, what kind of prey is worthy of it?
‘I could do with a drink,’ I mutter, rubbing my throbbing temples.
‘Here you go,’ says a woman from directly behind me, the drink arriving over my shoulder in a small hand, the fingers bony and calloused.
I attempt to turn, but there’s too much of Ravencourt and too little of the seat.
The woman shakes the glass impatiently, rattling the ice inside.
‘You should drink this before the ice melts,’ she says.
‘You’ll forgive me if I’m suspicious of taking a drink from a woman I don’t know,’ I say.
She lowers her lips to my ear, her breath warm on my neck.
‘But you do know me,’ she whispers. ‘I was in the carriage with the butler. My name’s Anna.’
‘Anna!’ I say, trying to raise myself from the seat.
Her hand is an anvil on my shoulder, pushing me back down onto the cushions.
‘Don’t bother, by the time you get up I’ll be gone,’ she says. ‘We’ll meet soon, but I need you to stop looking for me.’
‘Stop looking, why?’
‘Because you’re not the only one searching,’ she says, withdrawing a little. ‘The footman’s hunting me as well, and he knows we’re working together. If you keep looking, you’re going to lead him straight to me. We’re both safe while I’m hidden, so call off the dogs.’
I feel her presence recede, steps moving towards the far door.
‘Wait,’ I cry. ‘Do you know who I am, or why we’re here? Please, there must be something you can tell me.’
She pauses, considering it.
‘The only memory I woke up with was a name,’ she says. ‘I think it’s yours.’
My hands clutch the armrests.
‘What was it?’ I ask.
‘Aiden Bishop,’ she says. ‘Now, I’ve done as you asked, so do as I ask. Stop looking for me.’