The dining hall has long emptied of guests, the servants having finally cleared away the last of the platters when Cunningham comes to collect me. He’s been standing outside for over an hour, but every time he’s tried to enter, I’ve waved him back. After the humiliation of dinner, having anybody see my valet help me from my seat would be an indignity too far. When he does stroll in, there’s a smirk on his face. No doubt word of my shaming has run laps around the house: fat old Ravencourt and his runaway bride.
‘Why didn’t you tell me about Ravencourt’s marriage to Evelyn?’ I demand, stopping him in his tracks.
‘To humiliate you,’ he says.
I stiffen, my cheeks reddening, as he meets my gaze.
His eyes are green, the pupils uneven, like splashed ink. I see conviction enough to raise armies and burn churches. God help Ravencourt should this boy ever decide to stop being his footstool.
‘Ravencourt is a vain man, easy to embarrass,’ continues Cunningham in a level voice. ‘I noticed you’d inherited this quality and I made sport of it.’
‘Why?’ I ask, stunned by his honesty.
‘You blackmailed me,’ he says, shrugging. ‘You didn’t think I’d take that lying down, did you?’
I blink at him for a few seconds before laughter erupts out of me. It’s a belly laugh, the rolls of my flesh shaking in appreciation at his audacity. I humiliated him and he handed back an equal weight of that misery, using nothing more than patience. What man wouldn’t be charmed by such a feat?
Cunningham frowns at me, his eyebrows knitting together.
‘You’re not angry?’ he asks.
‘I suspect my anger is of little concern to you,’ I say, wiping a tear from my eye. ‘Regardless, I threw the first stone. I can’t complain if a boulder comes back at me.’
My mirth prompts an echoing smile in my companion.
‘It appears there are some differences between yourself and Lord Ravencourt, after all,’ he says, measuring each word.
‘Not least a name,’ I say, holding out my hand. ‘Mine is Aiden Bishop.’
He shakes it firmly, his smile deepening.
‘Very good to make your acquaintance, Aiden, I’m Charles.’
‘Well, I have no intention of telling anybody your secret, Charles, and I apologise for threatening it. I wish only to save Evelyn Hardcastle’s life and escape Blackheath, and I don’t have a lot of time to do either. I’ll need a friend.’
‘Probably more than one,’ he says, cleaning his glasses on his sleeve. ‘In all honesty, this tale’s so peculiar I’m not sure I could walk away now, even if I wished to.’
‘Shall we go then,’ I say. ‘By Daniel’s reckoning, Evelyn will be murdered at the party at 11 p.m. If we’re to save her, that’s where we have to be.’
The ballroom is on the other side of the entrance hall, Cunningham supporting me at the elbow as we walk there. Carriages are arriving from the village, queuing up on the gravel outside. Horses nicker, footmen opening the doors for costumed guests, who flutter like canaries released from their cages.
‘Why is Evelyn being compelled to marry Ravencourt?’ I whisper to Cunningham.
‘Money,’ he says. ‘Lord Hardcastle’s got an eye for a bad investment, and not nearly enough intelligence to learn from his mistakes. Rumour suggests he’s driving the family towards bankruptcy. In return for Evelyn’s hand, Lord and Lady Hardcastle will receive a rather generous dowry and Ravencourt’s promise to buy Blackheath in a couple of years for a tidy sum.’
‘So that’s it,’ I say. ‘The Hardcastles are hard up and they’re pawning their daughter off like old jewellery.’
My thoughts flock back to this morning’s chess game, the smile on Evelyn’s face as I winced out of the Sun Room. Ravencourt isn’t buying a bride, he’s buying a bottomless well of spite. I wonder if the old fool understands what he’s getting into.
‘And what of Sebastian Bell?’ I say, remembering the task I set him. ‘Did you speak with him?’
‘Afraid not, the poor fellow was passed out on the floor of his room when I arrived,’ he says, genuine pity in his voice. ‘I saw the dead rabbit; seems your footman has a twisted sense of humour. I called for the doctor and left them to it. Your experiment will have to wait another day.’
My disappointment is drowned out by the music beating at the ballroom’s closed doors, the sound tumbling into the hall when a servant sweeps them open for us. There must be at least fifty people inside, whirling through a soft puddle of light cast by a chandelier wreathed in candles. An orchestra is playing with bravado on a stage pressed against the far wall, but the majority of the room has been given over to the dance floor where Harlequins in full livery court Egyptian queens and grinning devils. Jesters leap and mock, dislodging powdered wigs and gold masks held up on long sticks. Dresses, capes and cowls swoop and swish across the floor, the crush of bodies disorientating. The only space to be found surrounds Michael Hardcastle in his dazzling sun mask, its pointed rays extending such a distance from his face that it’s unsafe to venture anywhere near him.
We’re viewing all this from a mezzanine, a small staircase leading down to the dance floor. My fingers are rapping the banister, keeping time with the music. Some part of me, the part that’s still Ravencourt, knows this song and is enjoying it. He yearns to pick up an instrument and play.
‘Ravencourt’s a musician?’ I ask Cunningham.
‘In his youth,’ he says. ‘Talented violinist, by all accounts. Broke his arm riding, and could never play as well again. He still misses it, I think.’
‘He does,’ I say, surprised by the depth of his longing.
Putting it aside, I return my attention to the matter at hand, but I have no idea how we’re going to spot Sutcliffe among the crowd.
Or the footman.
My heart sinks. I hadn’t considered that. Amid the noise and the crush of bodies, a blade could do its work and vanish without anybody ever being the wiser.
Such thoughts would have caused Bell to flee back to his room, but Ravencourt is made of sterner stuff. If this is where the attempt will be made on Evelyn’s life, this is where I must be, come what may, and so with Charles supporting my arm, we descend the stairs, keeping to the shadowy edges of the ballroom.
Clowns slap me on the back and women swirl in front of me, butterfly masks in hand. I ignore much of it, pushing my way to the couches near the French doors, where I can better rest my weary legs.
Until now, I’d only witnessed my fellow guests in their handfuls, their spite spread thin across the house. To be ensnared among them all, as I am now, is something else entirely, and the further I descend into the uproar, the thicker their malice seems to become. Most of the men look to have spent the afternoon soaking in their cups and are staggering instead of dancing, snarling and staring, their conduct savage. Young women throw their heads back and laugh, their make-up running and hair coming loose as they’re passed from body to body, goading a small group of wives who’ve grouped together for safety, wary of these panting, wild-eyed creatures.
Nothing like a mask to reveal somebody’s true nature.
Beside me Charles has grown increasingly tense, his fingers digging deeper into my forearm with every step. All of this is wrong. The celebration is too desperate. This is the last party before Gomorrah fell.
We reach a couch, Charles lowering me onto the cushions. Waitresses are moving through the crowd with trays of drinks, but it’s proving impossible to signal them from our position on the fringe of the party. It’s too loud to talk, but he points towards the champagne table guests are stumbling away from arm in arm. I nod, dabbing the sweat from my forehead. Perhaps a drink will serve to settle my nerves. As he leaves to fetch a bottle, I feel a breeze on my skin and notice that somebody has opened the French doors, presumably to let a little air circulate. It’s pitch-black outside, but braziers have been lit, the flickering flames winding all the way up to a reflecting pool surrounded by trees.
The darkness swirls, taking shape, solidifying as it sweeps inside, candlelight dripping onto a pale face.
Not a face, a mask.
A white porcelain beak mask.
I look around for Charles, hoping he’s near enough to lay hands on the fellow, but the crowd has carried him away. Looking back towards the French doors, I see the Plague Doctor slipping through the revellers shoulder first.
Gripping my cane, I heave myself to my feet. Wrecks have been raised from the ocean bed with less effort, but I hobble towards the cascade of costumes shrouding my quarry. I follow glimpses – the glint of a mask, the swirl of a cloak – but he’s fog in a forest, impossible to snatch hold of.
I lose him somewhere in the far corner.
Turning on the spot, I try to catch sight of him, but somebody comes clattering into me. I bellow in fury, finding myself looking into a pair of brown eyes peering out from behind a porcelain beak mask. My heart leaps and so do I evidently, for the mask is swiftly removed to reveal the pinched boyish face behind.
‘Gosh, I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I didn’t—’
‘Rochester, Rochester, over here!’ somebody yells to him.
We turn at the same time, another fellow in a plague doctor costume approaching us. There’s another behind him, three more in the crowd. My quarry has multiplied, yet none of them can be my interlocutor. They’re too stout and short, too tall and thin; too many imperfect copies of the real thing. They try to drag their friend away, but I catch hold of the nearest arm – any arm, they’re all the same.
‘Where did you get these costumes?’ I ask.
The fellow scowls at me, his grey eyes bloodshot. They’re lightless, expressionless. Empty doorways without a coherent thought behind them. Shaking himself loose of my grip, he prods me in the chest.
‘Ask me nicely,’ he slurs drunkenly. He’s itching for a fight and, lashing out with my cane, I give it to him. The heavy wood catches him on the leg, a curse detonating on his lips as he drops to one knee. Attempting to steady himself, he places his palm flat on the dance floor, the point of my cane landing on top of his hand, pinning him to the ground.
‘The costumes,’ I shout. ‘Where did you find them?’
‘The attic,’ he says, his face now as pale as the discarded mask. ‘There’s dozens of them hanging on a rack.’
He strains to free himself, but only a fraction of my weight is resting on the cane. I add a little more, pain unsettling his features.
‘How did you know about them?’ I ask, taking a little pressure off his hand.
‘A servant found us last night,’ he says, tears forming in his eyes. ‘He was already wearing one, mask and hat, the entire get-up. We didn’t have costumes, so he took us up to the attic to find some. He was helping everybody, must have been two dozen people up there, I swear.’
Seems the Plague Doctor doesn’t want to be found.
I watch him squirm for a second or two, balancing the veracity of his story against the pain on his face. Content that the two are of equal weight, I lift my cane, allowing him to stumble away, clutching his aching hand. He’s barely out of my sight before Michael emerges from the crowd, spotting me at a distance and driving straight towards me. He’s flustered, two red spots on his cheeks. His mouth is moving frantically, but his words are lost in the music and laughter.
I signal that I cannot understand, and he comes closer.
‘Have you seen my sister?’ he yells.
I shake my head, suddenly fearful. I can see in his eyes that something is wrong, but before I can quiz him further, he’s pushing back through the whirling dancers. Hot and giddy, oppressed by a sense of foreboding, I fight my way to my seat, removing my bow tie and loosening my collar. Masked figures drift by, naked arms glittering with perspiration.
I feel nauseous, unable to take pleasure in anything I see. I’m contemplating joining the search for Evelyn when Cunningham returns with a bottle of champagne in a silver bucket crammed with ice, and two long-stemmed glasses tucked under his arm. The metal’s sweating, as is Cunningham. It’s been so long I’d quite forgotten what he’d left to do, and I yell into his ear.
‘Where have you been?’
‘Thought... saw Sutcliffe,’ he yells back, about half the words carrying through the music, ‘... costume.’
Evidently Cunningham’s had much the same experience I had.
Nodding my understanding, we sit and drink silently, keeping our eyes open for Evelyn, my frustration mounting. I need to be on my feet, searching the house, questioning guests, but Ravencourt’s incapable of such feats. This room is too crowded, his body too weary. He’s a man of calculation and observation, not action, and if I’m to help Evelyn, these are the skills I must embrace. Tomorrow I’ll dash, but today I must watch. I need to see everything that’s happening in this ballroom, cataloguing every detail, in order to get ahead of this evening’s events.
The champagne calms me, but I put my glass down, wary of dulling my faculties. That’s when I spot Michael, climbing the few steps that lead to the mezzanine overlooking the ballroom.
The orchestra is silenced, the laughter and chatter slowly dying down as all heads turn towards their host.
‘I’m sorry to interrupt,’ says Michael, gripping the banister, ‘I feel foolish for asking, but does anybody know where my sister is?’
A ripple of conversation washes over the crowd as heads turn to look at one another. It takes only a minute to determine she’s not in the ballroom.
It’s Cunningham who spots her first.
Touching my arm, he points towards Evelyn, who’s weaving drunkenly as she follows the braziers towards the reflecting pool. She’s some distance away already, drifting in and out of the light. A small silver pistol’s glinting in her hand.
‘Fetch Michael,’ I cry.
As Cunningham pushes through the crowd, I drag myself to my feet, lurching towards the window. Nobody else has seen her and the commotion’s building again, the temporary fuss of the announcement already fading. The violin player tests a note; the clock shows 11 p.m.
I’ve reached the French doors when Evelyn arrives at the pool.
She’s swaying, trembling.
Standing in the trees, only feet away, the Plague Doctor watches passively, the flames of the brazier reflected on his mask.
The silver pistol flashes as Evelyn raises it to her stomach, the gunshot slicing through conversation and music.
And yet, for a moment, all seems well.
Evelyn’s still standing on the edge of the water, as though admiring her reflection. Then her legs buckle, the gun dropping from her hand as she topples face first into the pool, the Plague Doctor bowing his head and disappearing into the blackness of the trees.
I’m only dimly aware of the screams, or the crowd at my back, surging past me onto the grass as the promised fireworks explode in the air, drenching the pool in colourful light. I’m watching Michael, sprinting into the darkness towards a sister he’s too late to save. He’s screaming her name, his voice drowned out by the fireworks as he wades into the inky water to scoop up her body. Slipping and stumbling, he tries to drag her from the pool, before eventually collapsing, Evelyn still cradled in his arms. Kissing her face, he begs her to open her eyes, but it’s a fool’s hope. Death’s rolled his dice and Evelyn’s paid her debt. All that was of value has been taken.
Burying his face in her wet hair, Michael sobs.
He’s oblivious as the crowd gather, as strong arms pry him from his sister’s limp body, hoisting her onto the grass so Doctor Dickie can kneel down and make his examination. Not that his skills are required, the hole in her stomach and the silver pistol on the grass tell the story eloquently enough. Despite that, he lingers over her, pressing his fingers to her neck to check for a pulse, before tenderly wiping the dirty water from her face.
Still kneeling, he gestures for Michael to come closer, and, taking the weeping man’s hand, he bows his head and begins muttering what looks to be a prayer under his breath.
I’m grateful for his reverence.
A few women are crying into accommodating shoulders, but there’s something hollow about their performance. It’s as though the ball hasn’t really ended. They’re all still dancing, they’ve just changed the steps. Evelyn deserves better than to be entertainment for people she despised. The doctor seems to understand this, his every action, no matter how small, restoring some small part of her dignity.
The prayer only takes a minute, and when it’s done, he drapes his jacket across Evelyn’s face, as though her unblinking stare is of greater offence than the blood staining her dress.
There’s a tear on his cheek as he gets to his feet, and placing an arm around Michael, he leads Evelyn’s sobbing brother away. To my eyes, they depart older men, slower and more bent, carrying a great weight of sadness across their shoulders.
No sooner are they inside the house, than rumours bounce through the crowd. The police are coming, a suicide note’s been found, Charlie Carver’s spirit has claimed another Hardcastle child. The stories are spun from one mouth to another and by the time they reach me, they’re rich with details and patterns, strong enough to be carried out of here and into society.
I look for Cunningham, but he’s nowhere to be seen. I can’t imagine what he could be doing, but he’s got a quick eye and willing hands so no doubt he’s found a purpose – unlike myself. The shot has shattered my nerves.
Taking myself back to the now empty ballroom, I drop onto the couch from earlier, where I sit and tremble, my mind racing.
I know my friend will be alive again tomorrow, but it doesn’t change what happened, or the devastation I feel at having witnessed it.
Evelyn took her own life, and I’m responsible. Her marriage to Ravencourt was a punishment, a humiliation designed to push her over the edge, and, however unwittingly, I was part of it. It was my face she hated, my presence that drove her to the water’s edge with a pistol in her hand.
And what of the Plague Doctor? He offered me freedom in return for solving a murder that wouldn’t look like a murder, but I watched Evelyn shoot herself after fleeing a dinner in despair. There can be no doubt about her actions or motivation, which makes me wonder at my captor’s. Was his offer just another torment, a slither of hope to go mad chasing?
What about the graveyard? The gun?
If Evelyn were truly so despondent, why did she seem in such good cheer when she accompanied Bell into the graveyard, less than two hours after the dinner? And what about the gun she was carrying? It was a large black revolver, almost too big for her clutch bag. The gun she used to take her life was a silver pistol. Why would she change weapons?
I don’t know how long I sit there thinking about it, amid the delighted mourners, but the police never come.
The crowds thin and the candles gutter, the party flickers and goes out.
The last thing I see before falling asleep in my chair is the image of Michael Hardcastle, kneeling on the grass cradling the dripping-wet body of his dead sister.