The looming shape of Blackheath appears through the gaps in the trees. I’ve come out around the back of the house, which is in an even worse state of repair than the front. Several windows are cracked, the brickwork crumbling. A stone balustrade has tumbled from the roof to lodge itself in the grass, thick moss covering it. Clearly, the Hardcastles only repaired the sections of the house their guests would see – little wonder considering the paucity of their finances.
Just as I lingered on the edge of the forest that first morning, I now find myself crossing the garden with similar foreboding. If I came here voluntarily, I must have had a reason, but no matter how hard I strain for the memory, it’s beyond reach.
I’d like to believe I’m a good man who came to help, but if that’s the case I’m making a damn mess of things. Tonight, as every night, Evelyn’s going to kill herself and if this morning’s actions are any guide, my attempts to paddle away from the disaster may only hurry us towards it. For all I know, my fumbling attempts to save Evelyn are actually the reason she ends up at that reflecting pool with a silver pistol in her hand.
I’m so lost in these thoughts I don’t notice Millicent until I’m almost on top of her. The old lady is shivering on an iron bench that looks out across the garden, her arms folded against the wind. Three shapeless coats encase her completely, her eyes peering out over a scarf pulled up above her mouth. She’s blue with cold, a hat pulled down over her ears. Hearing my steps, she turns to meet me, surprise showing on her wrinkled face.
‘By Jove, you look dreadful,’ she says, pulling the scarf down from her mouth.
‘Good morning to you too, Millicent,’ I say, taken aback by the sudden surge of warmth her presence stokes within me.
‘Millicent?’ she says, pursing her lips. ‘That’s rather modern of you, dear. I prefer ‘‘Mother’’ if it’s all the same to you. I wouldn’t want people thinking I picked you up off the street. Though sometimes I wonder if I mightn’t have been better off.’
My mouth hangs open. I hadn’t previously made the connection between Jonathan Derby and Millicent Derby, probably because it’s easier to imagine him being delivered onto this earth by a biblical plague.
‘Sorry, Mother,’ I say, stuffing my hands into my pockets and sitting down beside her.
She cocks an eyebrow at me, those clever grey eyes alight with amusement.
‘An apology and an appearance before midday, are you feeling quite all right?’ she asks.
‘It must be the country air,’ I say. ‘What about you, why are you out on this dreadful morning?’
She grunts, hugging herself even tighter. ‘I’m supposed to be meeting Helena for a stroll, but I’ve seen neither hide nor hair of the woman. No doubt she’s got her times wrong as usual. I know she’s meeting Cecil Ravenscourt this afternoon, she’s probably gone there instead.’
‘Ravenscourt’s still asleep.’ I say.
Millicent peers at me inquisitively.
‘Cunningham told me, Ravencourt’s valet,’ I lie.
‘You know him?’
‘Vaguely.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t get too friendly,’ she tuts. ‘I understand how much you enjoy dubious society, but from what Cecil’s told me, this one’s most unsuitable, even by your low standards.’
That piques my interest. I’m fond of the valet, but he only agreed to help me after I threatened to blackmail him with a secret he’s keeping. Until I know what he’s hiding, I can’t depend on him, and Millicent might be the key to unearthing it.
‘How so?’ I ask casually.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she says, waving an airy hand at me. ‘You know Cecil, secrets tucked between every fold of skin. If you believe the rumours, he only hired Cunningham because Helena asked him to. Now, he’s uncovered something unsavoury about the boy and is thinking of letting him go.’
‘Unsavoury?’ I say.
‘Well, that’s what Cecil said, not that I could get the rest out of him. Blasted fellow has a bear trap for a mouth, but you know how he hates scandal. Given Cunningham’s parentage, it must be desperately salacious if he’s worried. Wish I knew what it was.’
‘Cunningham’s parentage?’ I ask. ‘I think I’ve missed a step.’
‘The boy was raised at Blackheath,’ she says. ‘Cook’s son, or that’s the story at least.’
‘It’s not true?’
The old lady cackles, looking at me slyly.
‘Word has it the Honourable Lord Peter Hardcastle used to enjoy himself in London from time to time. Well, on one occasion his enjoyment followed him back to Blackheath with a baby in her arms, which she claimed was his. Peter was ready to send the child to the church, but Helena stepped in and demanded they keep it.’
‘Why would she do that?’
‘Knowing Helena, she probably meant it as an insult,’ sniffs Millicent, turning her face away from the bitter wind. ‘She was never very fond of her husband and inviting his shame into the house would have tickled her. Poor Peter has probably cried himself to sleep every night for the last thirty-three years. Either way, they gave the baby to Mrs Drudge, the cook, to raise, and Helena made sure everybody knew whose child he was.’
‘Does Cunningham know any of this?’
‘Can’t see how he wouldn’t, it’s one of those secrets people shout at each other,’ says the old lady, plucking a handkerchief from her sleeve to wipe her running nose. ‘Anyway, you can ask him yourself seeing as you’re so chummy. Shall we walk? I see little point in us freezing on this bench waiting for a woman who isn’t coming.’
She stands before I have a chance to respond, stamping her boots and blowing warm air into her gloved hands. It really is a dreadful day, the grey sky spitting rain, lathering itself into the fury of a storm.
‘Why are you even out here?’ I ask, our feet crunching along the gravel path that circles the house. ‘Couldn’t you have met Lady Hardcastle inside?’
‘Too many people I’d rather not bump into,’ she says.
Why was she in the kitchen this morning?
‘Speaking of bumping into people, I hear you were in the kitchen this morning,’ I say.
‘Who told you that?’ she bridles.
‘Well—’
‘I haven’t been anywhere near the kitchen,’ she continues, not waiting for a response. ‘Filthy places. The smell doesn’t come out for weeks.’
She seems genuinely irritated by the suggestion, which means she probably hasn’t done it yet. A moment later she nudges me good-naturedly, her voice suddenly gleeful. ‘Did you hear about Donald Davies? Apparently he took an automobile last night and ran off back to London. The stablemaster saw him, said he turned up in the pouring rain, dressed in every colour under the sun.’
That brings me pause. Surely, I should have returned to Donald Davies by now, as I have done with the butler. He was my third host, and Anna told me I’m obliged to live one full day in each of them, whether I want to or not. It can’t have been much past mid-morning when I left him asleep on the road, so why haven’t I seen him again?
You left him defenceless and alone.
I felt a ripple of guilt. For all I know, the footman has already found him.
‘Were you listening to me?’ says Millicent, annoyed. ‘I said Donald Davies took off in an automobile. They’re cracked that family, every one of them, and that’s an official medical opinion.’
‘You’ve been talking to Dickie,’ I say absently, still thinking about Davies.
‘Been talked at more like,’ she scoffs. ‘Thirty minutes I spent trying to keep my eyes off that moustache. I’m surprised sound can penetrate it.’
That makes me laugh.
‘Do you actually like anybody at Blackheath, Mother?’
‘Not that I recall, but it’s envy I suspect. Society’s a dance, darling, and I’m too old to take part. Speaking of dancing, here comes the organ grinder himself.’
I follow her gaze to see Daniel approaching us from the opposite direction. Despite the cold, he’s dressed in a cricket sweater and linen trousers, the same outfit he’ll be wearing when he encounters Bell in the entrance hall for the first time. I check my watch, that meeting can’t be far off.
‘Mr Coleridge,’ calls out Millicent with forced bonhomie.
‘Mrs Derby,’ he says, drawing alongside us. ‘Broken any hearts this morning?’
‘They don’t even quiver these days, Mr Coleridge, more’s the pity.’ There’s something cautious in her tone, as if she’s crossing a bridge she feels certain will break. ‘What disreputable business brings you out on such a terrible morning?’
‘I’ve a favour to ask your son, and I assure you, it’s entirely above board.’
‘Well, that’s disappointing.’
‘For you and me both.’ He looks at me for the first time. ‘A minute, Derby?’
We step aside, Millicent doing her best to appear uninterested, while shooting us speculative glances from above her scarf.
‘What’s wrong?’ I ask.
‘I’m going after the footman,’ he says, that handsome face of his caught somewhere between fear and excitement.
‘How?’ I say, immediately taken with the idea.
‘We know he’s going to be in the dining hall tormenting Ravencourt around one,’ he says. ‘I propose catching hold of the dog there.’
Recalling those ghostly steps and that evil laughter is enough to raise goose bumps on my neck, and the thought of finally laying hands on the devil sets fire to my veins. The ferocity of the feeling isn’t far off what Derby felt in the forest, when we were chasing the maid, and it immediately puts me on my guard. I can’t give this host an inch.
‘What’s your scheme?’ I say, tempering my enthusiasm. ‘I was in that room alone, I couldn’t even guess at where he was hiding.’
‘Nor could I, until I got talking to an old friend of the Hardcastles at dinner last night,’ he says, drawing me a little further away from Millicent, who’s managed to sidle near the edge of our conversation. ‘Turns out there’s a warren of priest tunnels beneath the floorboards. That’s where the footman was hiding, and that’s where we’ll put an end to him.’
‘How?’
‘My new friend tells me there are entrances in the library, drawing room and gallery. I suggest we each watch an entrance and grab him when he comes out.’
‘Sounds ideal,’ I say, struggling to contain Derby’s rising excitement. ‘I’ll take the library, you take the drawing room. Who’s in the gallery?’
‘Ask Anna,’ he says, ‘but none of us is strong enough to tackle the footman alone. Why don’t you two guard the library, and I’ll round up some of our other hosts to help me with the drawing room and gallery?’
‘Magnificent,’ I say, beaming.
If I didn’t have a hand on Derby’s lead, he’d already be running towards the tunnels with a lantern and a kitchen knife.
‘Good,’ he says, lavishing a smile of such affection upon me it’s impossible to imagine how we could ever fail. ‘Take your position a few minutes before one. With any luck, this will all be over by dinner.’
He turns to depart, but I catch his arm.
‘Did you tell Anna you’d find a way for both of us to escape if she helped us?’ I ask.
He gazes at me steadily, and I quickly withdraw my hand.
‘Yes,’ he says.
‘It’s a lie, isn’t it?’ I say. ‘Only one of us can escape Blackheath.’
‘Let’s call it a potential lie, shall we? I’ve not given up hope of fulfilling our end of the bargain.’
‘You’re my last host, how much hope do you have?’
‘Not a great deal,’ he says, his expression softening. ‘I know you’re fond of her. Believe me, I haven’t forgotten how that felt, but we need her on our side. We won’t escape this house if we have to spend the day looking over our shoulder for both the footman and Anna.’
‘I have to tell her the truth,’ I say, aghast at his callous disregard of my friend.
He stiffens.
‘Do that and you make an enemy of her,’ he hisses, looking around to make sure we’re not being overheard. ‘At which point, any hope of genuinely helping her goes up in smoke.’
Puffing out his cheeks, he ruffles his hair and smiles at me, agitation leaking out of him like air from a punctured balloon.
‘Do what you think is right,’ he says. ‘But at least wait until we’ve caught the footman.’ He checks his watch. ‘Three more hours, that’s all I’m asking.’
Our eyes meet, mine doubtful and his appealing. I can’t help but submit.
‘Very well,’ I say.
‘You won’t regret it,’ he says.
Squeezing my shoulder, he waves cheerily at Millicent, before striding back towards Blackheath, a man possessed by purpose.
I turn to find Millicent contemplating me through pursed lips.
‘You have some rotten friends,’ she says.
‘I’m a rotten sort of chap,’ I respond, holding her gaze, until finally she shakes her head and carries on walking, slowing enough for me to fall in step beside her. We come upon a long greenhouse. Most of the windowpanes are cracked, the plants inside so overgrown they’re bulging against the glass. Millicent peers inside, but the foliage is much too dense. She gestures for me to follow, and we head to the far end, finding the doors locked with a new chain and padlock.
‘Pity,’ she says, rattling it futilely. ‘I used to love coming here when I was younger.’
‘You’ve visited Blackheath before?’
‘I summered here when I was girl, we all did: Cecil Ravencourt, the Curtis twins, Peter Hardcastle and Helena – that’s how they met. When I married, I brought your brother and sister down. They practically grew up with Evelyn, Michael and Thomas.’
She links my arm, continuing our walk.
‘Oh, I used to love those summers,’ she says. ‘Helena was always frightfully jealous of your sister, because Evelyn was so plain. Michael wasn’t much better mind, with that squashed face of his. Thomas was the only one with a dash of beauty and he ended up in that lake, which strikes me as fate kicking the poor woman twice, but there it is. Wasn’t a one of them could measure up to you, my handsome lad,’ she says, cupping my cheek.
‘Evelyn turned out all right,’ I protest. ‘She’s quite striking actually.’
‘Really?’ says Millicent disbelievingly. ‘Must have blossomed in Paris, not that I’d know. The girl’s been avoiding me all morning. Like mother, like daughter, I suppose. Explains why Cecil’s circling, though. Vainest man I’ve ever met, which is saying something after fifty years of living with your father.’
‘The Hardcastles hate her, you know. Evelyn, I mean.’
‘Who’s filled your head with that rot?’ says Millicent, gripping my arm while she shakes her foot, trying to dislodge some mud from her boot. ‘Michael adores her. He’s over in Paris almost every month, and from what I understand they’ve been thick as thieves since she got back. And Peter doesn’t hate her, he’s indifferent. It’s only Helena, and she’s never been quite right since Thomas died. Still comes up here, you know. Every year on the anniversary of his death, she takes a walk around the lake, even talks to him sometimes. Heard her myself.’
The path has brought us to the reflecting pool. This is where Evelyn will take her life tonight, and as with everything at Blackheath, its beauty is dependent on distance. Viewed from the ballroom the reflecting pool’s a magnificent sight, a long mirror conveying all the drama of the house. Here and now though, it’s just a filthy pond, the stone cracked, moss growing thick as carpet on the surface.
Why take her life here? Why not in her bedroom, or the entrance hall?
‘Are you okay, dear?’ asks Millicent. ‘You look a little pale.’
‘I was thinking it’s a shame they’ve let the place go,’ I say, hoisting a smile onto my face.
‘Oh, I know, but what could they do?’ she says, adjusting her scarf. ‘After the murder they couldn’t live here, and nobody wants these big piles any more, especially not when they have Blackheath’s history. Should have left it to the forest, if you ask me.’
It’s a maudlin thought, but nothing lingers in Jonathan Derby’s mind for too long and I’m soon distracted by the preparations for tonight’s party, which I can see through the ballroom windows beside us. Servants and workmen are scrubbing the floors and painting the walls, while maids balance on teetering stepladders with long feather dusters. At the far end of the hall, bored-looking musicians are scraping semiquavers off the surface of their polished instruments as Evelyn Hardcastle points and gesticulates, arranging things from the centre of the room. She’s flitting from group to group, touching arms and spreading kindness, making me ache for that afternoon we spent together.
I search for Madeline Aubert, finding her laughing with Lucy Harper – the maid abused by Stanwin and befriended by Ravencourt – the two of them arranging a chaise longue by the stage. That these two mistreated women have found each other brings me a small measure of comfort, though it by no means alleviates my guilt over this morning’s events.
‘I told you last time I wouldn’t clean up another of your indiscretions,’ says Millicent sharply, her entire body stiff.
She’s watching me watching the maids. Loathing and love swirl within her eyes, the shape of Derby’s secrets visible in the fog. What I’d only vaguely understood before, now stands in stark relief. Derby’s a rapist, more than once over. They’re all there, held in Millicent’s gaze, every woman he’s attacked, every life he’s destroyed. She carries them all. Whatever darkness lurks inside Jonathan Derby, Millicent tucked it in at night.
‘It’s always the weak ones with you, isn’t it?’ she says. ‘Always the—’
She falls silent, her mouth hanging open as though the next words simply evaporated on her lips.
‘I have to go,’ she says suddenly, squeezing my hand. ‘I’ve had a very strange thought. I’ll see you at dinner, darling.’
Without another word Millicent turns back the way we came, disappearing around the corner of the house. Perplexed, I look back into the ballroom, trying to see what she saw, but everybody’s moved around except for the band. That’s when I notice the chess piece on the window ledge. If I’m not mistaken, it’s the same hand-carved piece I found in Bell’s trunk, speckled with white paint and looking at me through clumsily whittled eyes. There’s a message etched into the dirt on the glass above it.
Behind you.
Sure enough Anna’s waving at me from the edge of the forest, her tiny body shrouded by a grey coat. Pocketing the chess piece, I glance left and right to make sure we’re alone, and then follow her deeper into the trees, beyond Blackheath’s sight. She looks to have been waiting for some time and is dancing from foot to foot to keep warm. Judging by her blue cheeks, it’s not doing the blindest bit of good. Little wonder given her attire. She’s draped in shades of grey, her coat threadbare, her knitted hat thin as gossamer. These are clothes passed down and down and down, patched so many times the original material is long gone.
‘Don’t suppose you’ve got an apple or something,’ she says without preamble. ‘I’m bloody starving.’
‘I’ve got a hip flask,’ I say, holding it out to her.
‘Have to do I suppose,’ she says, taking it from me and unscrewing the cap.
‘I thought it was too dangerous for us to meet outside of the gatehouse.’
‘Who told you that?’ she asks, wincing as she tastes the flask’s contents.
‘You did,’ I say.
‘Will.’
‘What?’
‘I will tell you it isn’t safe for us to meet, but I haven’t yet,’ she says. ‘I couldn’t have, I’ve only been awake a few hours, and I’ve spent most of that time keeping the footman from making pincushions out of your future hosts. Missed breakfast doing it, too.’
I blink at her, struggling to stitch together a day being delivered in the wrong order. Not for the first time, I find myself wishing for the speed of Ravencourt’s mind. Working within the confines of Jonathan Derby’s intellect is like stirring croutons into a thick soup.
Seeing my confusion, she frowns.
‘Do you know about the footman yet? I never know where we’re up to.’
I very quickly tell her about Bell’s dead rabbit and the ghostly steps that dogged Ravencourt in the dining hall, her expression darkening with each fresh detail.
‘That bastard,’ she splutters, when I’m finished. She’s prowling back and forth, her hands clenched and shoulders rolled forwards. ‘Wait until I get my hands on him,’ she says, shooting the house a murderous glance.
‘You won’t have to wait long,’ I say. ‘Daniel thinks he’s hiding in some tunnels. There’s a few entrances, but we’re going to guard the library. He wants us in there before one.’
‘Or we could slit our own throats and save the footman the bother of killing us,’ she says, her tone frank and unimpressed. She’s looking at me as if I’ve lost my mind.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘The footman’s not an idiot,’ she says. ‘If we know where he is, it’s because we’re supposed to know. He’s been one step ahead of us since this started. Wouldn’t surprise me one bit if he’s lying in wait, hoping to trip us up on our own cleverness.’
‘We have to do something!’ I protest.
‘We will, but what’s the point of doing something stupid when we can do something smart,’ she says patiently. ‘Listen to me, Aiden, I know you’re desperate, but we’ve got a deal, you and me. I keep you alive so you can find Evelyn’s killer, and then we both get out of here. This is me, doing my job. Now promise me, you won’t go after the footman.’
Her argument makes sense, but it’s weightless against my fear. If there’s a chance to put an end to this madman before he finds me, I’m going to take it, no matter the risk. I’d rather die on my feet than cowering in a corner.
‘I promise,’ I say, adding another lie to the pile.
Thankfully, Anna’s too cold to notice the catch in my voice. Despite having drunk from the hip flask, she’s shivering so hard all the colour has abandoned her face. In an attempt to shelter from the wind, she presses against me. I can smell the soap on her skin, forcing me to avert my gaze. I don’t want her to see Derby’s lust squirming within me.
Sensing my discomfort, she tilts her head to meet my downcast face.
‘Your other hosts are better, I promise,’ she says. ‘You have to keep hold of yourself. Don’t give in to him.’
‘How do I do that when I don’t know where they start and I begin?’
‘If you weren’t here, Derby would have his hands all over me,’ she says. ‘That’s how you know who you are. You don’t just remember it, you do it, and you keep doing it.’
Even so, she takes a step back into the wind, freeing me from my discomfort.
‘You shouldn’t be out in this weather,’ I say, removing my scarf and wrapping it around her neck. ‘You’ll catch your death.’
‘And if you keep this up, people might begin mistaking Jonathan Derby for a human being,’ she says, tucking the loose ends of the scarf into her coat.
‘Tell Evelyn Hardcastle that,’ I say. ‘She nearly shot me this morning.’
‘You should have shot her back,’ says Anna matter-of-factly. ‘We could have solved her murder then and there.’
‘I can’t tell if you’re joking or not,’ I say.
‘Of course I am,’ she says, blowing into her chapped hands. ‘If it were that simple, we’d have been out of here ages ago. Mind you, I’m not sure trying to save her life is a much better plan.’
‘You think I should let her die?’
‘I think we’re spending a lot of time not doing the thing we’ve been asked to do.’
‘We can’t protect Evelyn without knowing who wants her dead,’ I say. ‘One thing will give us the other.’
‘I hope you’re right,’ she says dubiously.
I search for some encouraging platitude, but her doubts have crawled under my skin, and they’re beginning to itch. I told her that saving Evelyn’s life would deliver us the murderer, but that was an evasion. There’s no plan here. I don’t even know if I can save Evelyn any more. I’m working at the behest of blind sentiment, and losing ground to the footman as I’m doing it. Anna deserves better, but I have no idea how to give it to her without abandoning Evelyn – and for some reason the thought of doing that is unbearable to me.
There’s a commotion on the path, voices carried through the trees by the wind. Taking my arm, Anna pulls me further into the forest.
‘As fun as this has been, I came to ask for a favour.’
‘Always, what can I do?’
‘What’s the time?’ she says, pulling the artist’s sketchbook from her pocket. It’s the same one I saw her holding in the gatehouse, crumpled sheets and a cover riddled with holes. She’s holding it up so I can’t see inside, but, judging by the way she’s flicking through the pages, it says something important.
I check my watch. ‘It’s 10:08 a.m.,’ I say, itching with curiosity. ‘What’s in the book?’
‘Notes, information; everything I’ve managed to learn about your eight hosts and what they’re doing,’ she says absently, running her finger down one of the pages. ‘And don’t ask to see it because you can’t. We can’t risk you pulling the day down around our ears with what you know.’
‘I wasn’t going to,’ I protest, hastily averting my eyes.
‘Right, 10:08 a.m. Perfect. In a minute, I’m going to put a rock on the grass. I need you standing by it when Evelyn kills herself. You can’t move, Aiden, not an inch, understand?’
‘What’s the meaning of all this, Anna?’
‘Call it Plan B.’ She pecks me on the cheek, cold lips meeting numb flesh, as she slides the book back in her pocket.
She’s only taken a step when she clicks her fingers and turns back to me, holding out two white tablets in her palm.
‘Take these for later,’ she says. ‘I filched them from Doctor Dickie’s bag when he came to see the butler.’
‘What are they?’
‘Headache pills, I’ll trade them for my chess piece.’
‘This ugly old thing?’ I say, handing her the hand-carved bishop. ‘Why would you want it?’
She smiles at me, watching as I wrap the tablets in a blue pocket handkerchief.
‘Because you gave it to me,’ she says, clutching it protectively in her hand. ‘It was the first promise you made me. This ugly old thing is the reason I stopped being scared of this place. It’s the reason I stopped being scared of you.’
‘Me? Why would you be afraid of me?’ I say, genuinely hurt by the idea of anything coming between us.
‘Oh, Aiden,’ she says, shaking her head. ‘If we do this right, everybody in this house is going to be afraid of you.’
She’s carried away on those words, blown through the trees and out onto the grass surrounding the reflecting pool. Perhaps it’s her youth, or her personality, or some curious alchemy of all the miserable ingredients surrounding us, but I can’t see an ounce of doubt within her. Whatever her plan, she seems extraordinarily confident in it. Maybe dangerously so.
From my position in the treeline, I watch her pick up a large white rock from the flower bed and pace out six steps before dropping it on the grass. Holding an arm straight out from her body, she measures a line to the ballroom’s French doors, and then, seemingly satisfied with her work, she wipes the mud from her hands, shoves them in her pockets and strolls away.
For some reason, this little display makes me uneasy.
I came here voluntarily, and Anna did not. The Plague Doctor brought her to Blackheath for a reason, and I have no idea what that could be.
Whoever Anna really is, I’m following her blindly.