A few gentlemen are smoking outside Blackheath, sharing stories of last night’s debauchery. Their cheerful greetings follow me up the steps, but I pass by without comment. My legs are aching, my lower back demanding a soak in the bathtub, but I don’t have time. The hunt begins in half an hour and I can’t miss it. I have too many questions and most of the answers will be carrying shotguns.
Taking a decanter of Scotch from the drawing room, I retire to my room, knocking back a couple of stiff drinks to smother the pain. I can feel Dance’s objection, his distaste not only at my acknowledgement of the discomfort, but my need to dim it. My host despises what’s happening to him, seeing age as a malignancy, a consumption and an erosion.
Stripping out of my muddy clothes, I take myself over to the mirror, realising I still have no idea what Dance looks like. Putting on a new body every day has already become commonplace, and it’s only the hope of catching some glimpse of the real Aiden Bishop that compels me to keep looking.
Dance is in his late seventies, as withered and grey on the outside as the inside. Almost bald, his face is a river of wrinkles running off his skull, pinned in place only by a large roman nose. Either side of that are a small grey moustache and dark, lifeless eyes suggesting nothing of the man within, except, perhaps, that there may not be a man within. Anonymity seems to be a compulsion with Dance, whose clothes – though good quality – come in shades of grey, with only the handkerchiefs and bow ties offering anything in the way of colour. Even then, the choice is either dark red or dark blue, giving the impression of a man camouflaged within his own life.
His hunting tweeds are a little tight around the middle, but they’ll suffice, and with another glass of Scotch warming my throat, I cross the corridor to Doctor Dickie’s bedroom, rapping on the door.
Steps approach from the other side, Dickie opening it wide. He’s dressed for the hunt.
‘I don’t work this much at my surgery,’ he grumbles. ‘I should warn you, I’ve already tended knife wounds, memory loss and a severe beating this morning, so whatever your ailment, it needs to be interesting. And above the waist, preferably.’
‘You peddle drugs through Sebastian Bell,’ I say bluntly, watching the smile vanish from his face. ‘He sells them, you supply them.’
White as a sheet, he’s forced to steady himself against the doorframe.
Seeing weakness, I press my advantage. ‘Ted Stanwin would pay handsomely for this information, but I don’t need Stanwin. I need to know if you treated Helena Hardcastle, or anybody else, for a gunshot wound the day Thomas Hardcastle was murdered?’
‘The police asked me the same question at the time and I answered honestly,’ he rasps, loosening his collar. ‘No, I did not.’
Scowling, I turn away from him. ‘I’m going to Stanwin,’ I say.
‘Dammit man, I’m telling the truth,’ he says, catching my arm.
We look each other in the eyes. His are old and dim and lit by fear. Whatever he finds in mine causes him to release me immediately.
‘Helena Hardcastle loves her children more than life itself, and she loved Thomas the most,’ he insists. ‘She couldn’t have harmed him, she wouldn’t have been able. I swear to you, on my honour as a gentleman, nobody came to me that day with an injury, and I don’t have the first clue who Stanwin shot.’
I hold his pleading gaze for a second, searching for some flicker of deceit, but he’s telling the truth, I’m certain of it.
Deflated, I let the doctor go and return to the entrance hall where the rest of the gentlemen are gathering, smoking and chatting, impatient for the hunt to begin. I was certain Dickie would confirm Helena’s involvement, and in so doing, give me a starting point for Evelyn’s death.
I need to get a better picture of what happened to Thomas, and I know precisely the man to ask.
Searching for Ted Stanwin, I step into the drawing room, where I find Philip Sutcliffe in green hunting tweeds, attacking the keys of the pianoforte with a great deal of gusto and very little skill, the almost-music transporting me back to my first morning in the house – a memory currently being lived by Sebastian Bell, who’s standing alone and uncomfortable in the far corner, nursing a drink he doesn’t even know the name of. My pity for him is balanced by Dance’s irritation, the old lawyer having little patience for ignorance of any sort. Given the chance, he’d tell Bell everything, consequences be damned, and I must admit the idea is tempting.
Why shouldn’t Bell know that he saw a maid called Madeline Aubert in the forest this morning and not Anna? And that neither of them died, so his guilt is unnecessary? I could explain the loop, and how Evelyn’s murder is the key to escape, preventing him from wasting his day as Donald Davies by trying to flee. Cunningham is Charlie Carver’s son, I’d say, and it looks like he’s trying to prove Carver didn’t kill Thomas Hardcastle. When the time comes, this is the information you’ll blackmail Cunningham with, because Ravencourt abhors scandal and would almost certainly get rid of his valet if he found out. I’d tell him to find the mysterious Felicity Maddox and, most importantly, Helena Hardcastle, because every road leads back to the missing lady of the house.
It wouldn’t work.
‘I know,’ I mutter ruefully.
Bell’s first thought would be that I’d escaped from the madhouse, and when he finally realised it was all true, his investigation would change the day completely. Much as I want to help him, I’m too close to my answer to risk unravelling this loop.
Bell will have to do this alone.
An arm catches my elbow, Christopher Pettigrew appearing beside me with a plate in his hand. I’ve never been this near to him before, and if it weren’t for Dance’s impeccable manners, my disgust would be plain on my face. Up close, he looks like something recently dug up.
‘Soon be rid of him,’ says Pettigrew, nodding over my shoulder towards Ted Stanwin, who’s picking at the cold cuts on the dining table, while watching his fellow guests through narrowed eyes. His disgust is obvious.
Until this moment, I’d always taken him for a simple bully, but it’s more than that I see now. His business is blackmail, which means he knows every secret and hidden shame, every possible scandal and perversity lapping around this house. Worse, he knows who got away with what. He despises everybody in Blackheath, including himself for protecting their secrets, so he spends every day picking fights to make himself feel better.
Somebody pushes by me, a confused Charles Cunningham arriving from the library with Ravencourt’s letter in his hand, while the maid Lucy Harper clears away plates, oblivious to the events brewing around her. With a pang, I realise that she looks a little like my dead wife Rebecca. In her younger days, of course. There’s a similarity of movement, a gentleness of action, as though...
Rebecca wasn’t your wife.
‘Dammit, Dance,’ I say, shaking myself free of him.
‘Sorry, didn’t catch that, old man,’ says Pettigrew, frowning at me.
Flushing with embarrassment, I open my mouth to respond, but I’m distracted by poor Lucy Harper as she tries to squeeze past Stanwin to fetch an empty plate. She’s prettier than I recall, freckled and blue-eyed, trying to tuck her wild red hair back under her cap.
‘’Scuse me, Ted,’ she says.
‘Ted?’ he says angrily, grabbing her wrist and squeezing hard enough to make her wince. ‘Who the hell do you think you’re talking to, Lucy? It’s Mr Stanwin to you, I’m not downstairs with the rats any more.’
Shocked and afraid, she searches our faces for help.
Unlike Sebastian Bell, Dance is a keen observer of human nature and, watching this scene play out before me, I’m struck by something queer. When I first witnessed this moment, I’d taken note only of Lucy’s fear at being manhandled, but she isn’t merely afraid, she’s surprised. Upset even. And rather oddly, so is Stanwin.
‘Let her go, Ted,’ says Daniel Coleridge from the doorway.
The rest of the confrontation goes as I remember, Stanwin retreating, Daniel collecting Bell and taking him through into the study to meet Michael, offering me a small nod of acknowledgement along the way.
‘Shall we go?’ asks Pettigrew. ‘I suspect our entertainment is at an end.’
I’m tempted to search for Stanwin, but I have no desire to climb those stairs and make my way into the east wing when I know for certain he’s coming on this hunt. Better to wait for him here, I decide.
Shouldering our way through the scandalised throng, we pass through the entrance hall and out onto the driveway to find Sutcliffe already waiting, along with Herrington and a couple of other chaps I don’t recognise. Dark clouds are clambering atop one another, pregnant with a storm I’ve now seen batter Blackheath half a dozen times. The hunters are huddled in a pack, holding onto their hats and jackets as the wind tugs at them with a thousand thieving hands. Only the dogs seem eager, straining at their leads and barking into the gloom. It’s going to be a miserable afternoon and the knowledge that I’m going to be striding into it only makes things worse.
‘What ho?’ says Sutcliffe upon our approach, the shoulders of his jacket dusted with dandruff.
Herrington nods at us, trying to scrape something unpleasant off his shoes. ‘Did you see Daniel Coleridge’s little showdown with Stanwin?’ he asks. ‘I think we’ve backed the right horse after all.’
‘We’ll see,’ says Sutcliffe darkly. ‘Where’s Daniel gone, anyway?’
I look around, but Daniel’s nowhere to be seen and all I can offer in reply is a shrug.
Gamekeepers are handing out shotguns to those who haven’t brought their own, including me. Mine’s been polished and oiled, the barrels are cracked open to display the two red shells stuffed in the cylinders. The others seem to have some experience with firearms, immediately checking the sights by aiming at imaginary targets in the sky, but Dance does not share their enthusiasm for the pursuit, leaving me somewhat at a loss. After watching me fiddle with the shotgun for some minutes, the impatient gamekeeper shows me how to settle it across my forearm, handing me a box of shells and moving on to the next man.
I must admit the gun makes me feel better. All day I’ve felt eyes upon me, and I’ll be glad of a weapon when the forest surrounds me. No doubt the footman’s waiting to catch me alone, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to make it easy for him.
Appearing out of nowhere, Michael Hardcastle is by our side, blowing warm breaths into his hands.
‘Sorry for the delay, gentlemen,’ he says. ‘My father sends his apologies, but something’s come up. He’s asked us to press on ahead without him.’
‘And what should we do if we spot Bell’s dead woman?’ asks Pettigrew sarcastically.
Michael scowls at him. ‘A little Christian charity, please,’ he says. ‘The doctor’s been through a lot.’
‘Five bottles at least,’ says Sutcliffe, bringing guffaws from everybody except Michael. Catching the younger man’s withering look, he throws his hands up in the air. ‘Oh, come, Michael, you saw the state he was in last night. You can’t believe we’re actually going to find anything? Nobody’s missing, the man’s raving.’
‘Bell wouldn’t make this up,’ says Michael. ‘I saw his arm, somebody cut him to ribbons out there.’
‘Probably fell over his own bottle,’ snorts Pettigrew, rubbing his hands together for warmth.
We’re interrupted by the gamekeeper, who hands Michael a black revolver. Aside from a long scratch down the barrel, it’s identical to the gun Evelyn will carry into the graveyard tonight, one of the pair taken from Helena Hardcastle’s bedroom.
‘Oiled it for you, sir,’ says the gamekeeper, tipping his cap and moving off.
Michael slips the weapon into the holster at his waist, resuming our conversation, quite oblivious to my interest.
‘I don’t see why everybody’s taking it so hard,’ he continues. ‘This hunt’s been arranged for days, we’re merely going in a different direction than originally intended, that’s all. If we spot something, very well. If not, we’ve lost nothing in setting the doctor’s mind at rest.’
A few expectant glances are cast my way, Dance usually being the deciding voice in these matters. I’m spared having to comment by the barking dogs, who’ve been given a little lead by the gamekeepers and are now tugging our company across the lawn towards the forest.
Looking back towards Blackheath, I search out Bell. He’s framed by the study window, his body half obscured by the red velvet drapes. In this light, at this distance, there’s something of the spectre about him, though in this case I suppose the house is haunting him.
The other hunters are already entering the forest, the group having fractured into smaller knots by the time I finally catch up. I need to talk to Stanwin about Helena, but he’s moving quickly, holding himself apart from us. I can barely keep sight of him, let alone talk with him, and eventually I give up, deciding to corner him when we stop to rest.
Wary of encountering the footman, I join Sutcliffe and Pettigrew, who are still pondering the implications of Daniel’s deal with Lord Hardcastle. Their good cheer doesn’t last. The forest is oppressive, bludgeoning every utterance down to a whisper after an hour, and crushing all conversation twenty minutes after that. Even the dogs have gone quiet, sniffing at the ground as they tug us deeper into the murk. The shotgun is a comforting weight in my arms and I cling to it fiercely, tiring quickly, but never letting myself fall too far behind the group.
‘Enjoy yourself, old man,’ Daniel Coleridge calls out from behind me.
‘I’m sorry?’ I stir sluggishly from my thoughts.
‘Dance is one of the better hosts,’ says Daniel, drawing closer. ‘Good mind, calm manner, able-enough body.’
‘This able-enough body feels like it’s walked a thousand miles, not ten,’ I say, hearing the weariness in my voice.
‘Michael’s arranged for the hunting party to split,’ he says. ‘The older gents will take a breather, while the younger lot carry on. Don’t worry, you’ll have a chance to rest your legs soon.’
Thick bushes have sprung up between us, forcing us to carry on our conversation blind, like two lovers in a maze.
‘It’s a damn nuisance being tired all of the time,’ I say, seeing glimpses of him through the leaves. ‘I’m looking forward to Coleridge’s youth.’
‘Don’t let this handsome face of his fool you,’ he muses. ‘Coleridge’s soul is black as pitch. Keeping hold of him is exhausting. Mark my words, when you’re wearing this body, you’ll look back on Dance with a great deal of fondness, so enjoy him while you can.’
The bushes recede, allowing Daniel to fall into step beside me. He has a black eye and is walking with a slight limp, every step accompanied by a wince of pain. I remember seeing these injuries at dinner, but the gentle candlelight made them look far less severe. Shock must show on my face, because he smiles weakly.
‘It’s not as bad as it looks,’ he says.
‘What happened?’
‘I chased the footman through the passages,’ he says.
‘You went without me?’ I say, surprised by his recklessness. When we made the plan to corner the footman beneath the house, it was evident that it required six people to be successful, a pair to watch each of the three exits. Once Anna refused to help and Derby was knocked unconscious, I assumed Daniel would drop it. Evidently, Derby isn’t the last of my bull-headed hosts.
‘No choice, old chap,’ he says. ‘Thought I had him. Turns out I was mistaken. Luckily, I managed to fight him off before he loosed his knife.’
Anger sizzles deep in every word. I can only imagine how it must feel to be so preoccupied by the future that you’re blindsided by the present.
‘Have you found a way to free Anna yet?’ I ask.
With a painful groan, Daniel hitches his shotgun up his arm. Even limping at my slow pace, he’s barely able to stand up straight.
‘I haven’t, and I don’t think I’m going to,’ he says. ‘I’m sorry, hard as it is to hear, only one of us can leave, and the closer we get to 11 p.m., the more likely it is Anna will betray us. We can only trust each other from here on.’
She’ll betray you.
Is this the moment behind the Plague Doctor’s warning? Friendship is a simple matter when everybody stands to benefit, but now... how will she react knowing Daniel’s giving up on her?
How will you react?
Sensing my hesitation, Daniel lays a comforting hand on my shoulder. With a start I realise that Dance admires this man. He finds his sense of purpose exhilarating, his single-mindedness resonating with a quality my host values in himself. Perhaps that’s why Daniel approached me with this information rather than any of our other hosts. These two are reflections of each other.
‘You didn’t tell her, did you?’ he says anxiously. ‘About our offer being hollow?’
‘I was distracted.’
‘I know it’s difficult, but you must keep all of this to yourself,’ says Daniel, sweeping me into his confidence as one would a child entrusted with a secret. ‘If we’re to outfox the footman, we’ll need Anna’s help. We won’t get that if she knows we can’t hold up our end of the bargain.’
Heavy steps sound behind us, and, looking over my shoulder, I see Michael advancing on us, his customary grin replaced by a scowl.
‘Heavens,’ says Daniel. ‘You look like somebody kicked your dog. What on earth’s wrong?’
‘It’s this damnable search,’ he says irritably. ‘Belly saw a girl murdered out here, and yet I can’t get a single person to take it seriously. I’m not asking much, just that they look around as they walk. Maybe knock over a pile of leaves, that sort of thing.’
Daniel coughs, shooting Michael an embarrassed glance.
‘Oh, dear,’ says Michael, frowning at him. ‘This is bad news, isn’t it?’
‘Good news, really,’ says Daniel hastily. ‘There’s no dead girl. It was a misunderstanding.’
‘A misunderstanding,’ says Michael slowly. ‘How on earth could it be a misunderstanding?’
‘Derby was out here,’ says Daniel. ‘He frightened a maid, things got heated and your sister took a shot at him. Bell mistook it for a murder.’
‘Blast Derby!’ Michael turns abruptly for the house. ‘I’ll not have it. He can go to the devil under somebody else’s roof.’
‘It wasn’t his fault,’ interrupts Daniel. ‘Not this time at least. Hard as it is to believe, Derby was trying to help. He simply got the wrong end of the stick.’
Michael stops, eyeing Daniel suspiciously.
‘Are you certain?’ he asks.
‘I am,’ says Daniel, putting an arm around his friend’s tense shoulders. ‘It was a dreadful misunderstanding. Nobody’s fault.’
‘That’s a first for Derby.’
Michael lets out a rueful sigh, the fury evaporating from his face. He’s a man of fleeting emotions this one, quick to anger, easily amused and just as easily bored, I shouldn’t wonder. I briefly imagine what it would be like to inhabit that mind. Dance’s coldness has its drawbacks, but it’s undoubtedly preferable to Michael’s mood hopscotch.
‘All morning I’ve been telling the chaps there’s a dead body out here, and they should be ashamed of being so jolly,’ says Michael, abashed. ‘As if this weekend wasn’t already miserable enough for them.’
‘You were helping a friend.’ Daniel offers him a fatherly smile. ‘You have nothing to be ashamed of.’
I’m taken aback by Daniel’s kindness, and more than a little pleased. While I admire his commitment to escaping Blackheath, I’m alarmed by his ruthless pursuit of it. Suspicion is already my first emotion, and fear binds me tighter every minute. It would be easy to mistake everybody for enemies, and treat them accordingly, and I’m heartened to see Daniel is still capable of rising above such thoughts.
As Daniel and Michael walk close together, I take my opportunity to question the young man. ‘I couldn’t help but notice your revolver,’ I say, pointing to his holster. ‘It’s your mother’s, isn’t it?’
‘Is it?’ He seems genuinely surprised. ‘I didn’t even know Mother kept a gun. Evelyn gave it to me this morning.’
‘Why would she give you a revolver?’ I ask.
Michael flushes with embarrassment.
‘Because I don’t like hunting very much,’ he says, kicking at some leaves in his path. ‘All that blood and thrashing, it makes me feel damn queer. I wasn’t even supposed to be out here, but between the search and Father’s absence, I didn’t have a great deal of choice. I was in a dreadful state about it, but Evelyn’s a clever old stick. She gave me this’ – he taps the gun – ‘said it was impossible to hit anything, but I’d look very dashing trying.’
Daniel’s trying to suppress laughter, drawing a good-natured smile from Michael.
‘Where are your parents, Michael?’ I say, ignoring the teasing. ‘I thought this was their party, but the burden of it seems to have fallen solely on your shoulders.’
He scratches the back of his neck, looking gloomy.
‘Father’s locked himself in the gatehouse, Uncle Edward. He’s brooding as usual.’
Uncle?
Snatches of Dance’s memory surface, fleeting glimpses of a lifelong friendship with Peter Hardcastle that made me an honorary part of the family. Whatever we had has long since faded, but I’m surprised by the affection I still feel for this boy. I’ve known him his entire life. I’m proud of him. Prouder than of my own son.
‘As for Mother,’ continues Michael, oblivious to my momentary confusion. ‘To tell you the truth, she’s been acting strangely since we got here. Actually, I was hoping you’d speak with her privately. I think she’s avoiding me.’
‘And me,’ I counter. ‘I haven’t managed to catch hold of her all day.’
He pauses, making his mind up on something. Lowering his voice, he continues confidentially, ‘I’m worried she’s gone off the deep end.’
‘Deep end?’
‘It’s like she’s somebody else entirely,’ he says, worried. ‘Happy one minute, angry the next. It’s impossible to keep track, and the way she looks at us now, it’s as if she doesn’t recognise us.’
Another rival?
The Plague Doctor said there were three of us: the footman, Anna and myself. I can’t see what purpose would be served by lying. I steal a glance at Daniel, trying to gauge whether he knows anything more about this, but his attention is riveted on Michael.
‘When did this behaviour start?’ I ask casually.
‘I couldn’t tell you, feels like forever.’
‘But when was the first time you noticed it?’
He chews his lip, cycling back in his memories.
‘The clothes!’ he says suddenly. ‘That would be it. Did I tell you about the clothes?’ He’s looking at Daniel, who shakes his head blankly. ‘Come now, I must have? Happened about a year ago?’
Daniel shakes his head again.
‘Mother had come up to Blackheath for her annual morbid pilgrimage, but when she got back to London, she burst into my place in Mayfair and started ranting about finding the clothes,’ says Michael, telling the story as though expecting Daniel to leap in at any moment. ‘That’s all she’d say, that she’d found the clothes, and did I know anything about them.’
‘Whose clothes were they?’ I say, humouring him.
I’d been excited to hear about Helena’s altered personality, but if she changed a year ago, it’s unlikely she’s another rival. And while there’s certainly something strange about her, I don’t see how laundry can help me decipher what it is.
‘Damned if I know,’ he says, throwing his hands up. ‘I couldn’t get a sensible thing out of her. In the end, I managed to calm her down, but she wouldn’t keep quiet about the clothes. Kept saying everybody would know.’
‘Know what?’ I say.
‘She never did say, and she left shortly after, but she was adamant.’
Our group is thinning out as the dogs draw the hunters in a different direction, Herrington, Sutcliffe and Pettigrew waiting for us a little further ahead. They’re obviously hanging back for further directions, and after saying his goodbyes, Michael jogs ahead to point the way.
‘What did you make of that?’ I ask Daniel.
‘I haven’t yet,’ he says vaguely.
He’s preoccupied, his gaze dragging behind Michael. We continue in silence until we reach an abandoned village at the bottom of a cliff. Eight stone cottages are arranged around a dirt junction, the thatched roofs rotted away, the logs that once supported them collapsed. Echoes of old lives linger still; a bucket among the rubble, an anvil tipped over by the side of the road. Some might find them charming, but I see only relics of former hardships, happily deserted.
‘Nearly time,’ Daniel mutters, staring at the village.
There’s a look on his face I can’t quite place, married to a tone that’s impatient, excited and a little afraid. It makes my skin prickle. Something of note is about to happen here, but for the life of me I can’t see what it could be. Michael’s showing Sutcliffe and Pettigrew one of the old stone houses, while Stanwin leans against a tree, his thoughts far afield.
‘Be ready,’ Daniel says enigmatically, disappearing into the trees before I have the chance to question him further. Any other host would follow him, but I’m exhausted. I need to sit down somewhere.
Settling myself on a crumbling wall, I rest while the others talk, my eyelids drooping. Age is coiling around me, its fangs in my neck, drawing my strength when I need it most. It’s an unpleasant sensation, perhaps even worse than the burden of Ravencourt’s bulk. At least the initial shock of being Ravencourt waned, allowing me to become accustomed to his physical limitations. Not so with Dance, who still thinks of himself as a vigorous young man, waking up to his age only when he catches sight of his wrinkled hands. Even now, I can feel him frowning at my decision to sit down, to give in to my tiredness.
I pinch my arm, struggling to stay awake, irritated at my vanishing energy.
It makes me wonder how old I am outside of Blackheath. It’s not something I’ve allowed myself to dwell on before, time being short enough without indulging in pointless musing, but here and now I pray for youth, for strength, good health and a sound mind. To escape all this only to find myself permanently trapped in—