Dance’s years fall on me like a thousand small weights.
Michael and Stanwin are speaking behind me, Sutcliffe and Pettigrew laughing uproariously with drinks in their hands.
Rebecca hovers over me with a silver tray, one last glass of brandy for the taking.
‘Rebecca,’ I say fondly, almost reaching out a hand to touch my wife’s cheek.
‘No, sir, it’s Lucy, sir, Lucy Harper,’ says the maid, concerned. ‘Sorry to wake you, I was worried you were going to fall off the wall.’
I blink away the memory of Dance’s dead wife, cursing myself for a fool. What a ridiculous mistake to make. Thankfully, the remembrance of Lucy’s kindness towards the butler tempers my irritation at being caught in a moment of such sentiment.
‘Would you like a drink, sir?’ she asks. ‘Something to warm you up?’
I look past her to see Evelyn’s lady’s maid, Madeline Aubert, packing dirty glasses and half-empty brandy bottles into a hamper. The two of them must have carried it over from Blackheath, arriving while I slept. I seem to have dozed for longer than I suspected, as they’re already readying themselves to leave.
‘I think I’m unsteady enough,’ I say.
Her gaze flickers over my shoulder towards Ted Stanwin, whose hand is gripping Michael Hardcastle’s shoulder. Uncertainty writes itself in large letters across her face, which is little wonder considering his treatment of her at lunchtime.
‘Don’t worry, Lucy, I’ll take it over to him,’ I say, rising and removing the glass of brandy from the tray. ‘I need to speak with him anyway.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ she says with a wide smile, departing before I can change my mind.
Stanwin and Michael are quiet when I come upon them, but I can hear the things not being said and the unease that stands in its place.
‘Michael, may I have a private word with Mr Stanwin?’ I ask.
‘Of course,’ says Michael, inclining his head and withdrawing.
I hand Stanwin the drink, ignoring the suspicion with which he glances at the glass.
‘Rare that you’d lower yourself to come and talk with me, Dance,’ says Stanwin, sizing me up the way a boxer might an opponent in the ring.
‘I thought we could help each other,’ I say.
‘I’m always interested in making new friends.’
‘I need to know what you saw on the morning of Thomas Hardcastle’s murder.’
‘It’s an old story,’ he says, tracing the edge of his glass with a fingertip.
‘But worth hearing from the horse’s mouth, surely,’ I say.
He’s looking over my shoulder, watching Madeline and Lucy depart with their hamper. I have the sense he’s searching for a distraction. Something about Dance puts him on edge.
‘No harm in it, I suppose,’ he says with a grunt, returning his attention to me. ‘I was Blackheath’s gamekeeper back then. I was on my rounds around the lake, same as every morning, when I saw Carver and another devil with his back to me stabbing the little boy. I took a shot at him, but he escaped into the woods while I was wrestling with Carver.’
‘And for that Lord and Lady Hardcastle gave you a plantation?’ I say.
‘They did, not that I asked,’ he sniffs.
‘Alf Miller, the stablemaster, says Helena Hardcastle was with Carver that morning, a few minutes before the attack. What do you say to that?’
‘That he’s a drunk and a damned liar,’ says Stanwin smoothly.
I search for some tremor, some hint of unease, but he’s an accomplished deceiver this one, his fidgeting put away now he knows what I want. I can feel the scales tipping in his direction, his confidence growing.
I’ve misjudged this.
I believed I could bully him as I did the stablemaster and Dickie, but Stanwin’s nervousness wasn’t a symptom of fear, it was the unease of a man finding a lone question in his pile of answers.
‘Tell me, Mr Dance,’ he says, leaning close enough to whisper into my ear. ‘Who’s the mother of your son? I know it wasn’t your dearly departed Rebecca. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve got a few ideas, but it would save me the cost of confirming them if you’d tell me up front. I might even discount your monthly payment afterwards, for services rendered.’
My blood freezes. This secret sits at the core of Dance’s being. It’s his greatest shame, his only weakness, and Stanwin’s just closed his fist around it.
I couldn’t respond even if I wanted to.
Stepping away from me, Stanwin tosses the untouched brandy into the bushes with a flick of his wrist.
‘Next time you come to trade, make sure you have something—’
A shotgun explodes behind me.
Something splashes my face, Stanwin’s body jolting backwards before hitting the ground in a mangled heap. My ears are ringing and, touching my cheek, I find blood on my fingertips.
Stanwin’s blood.
Someone shrieks, others gasp and cry out.
Nobody moves, then everybody does.
Michael and Clifford Herrington race towards the body, hollering for somebody to fetch Doctor Dickie, but it’s obvious the blackmailer’s dead. His chest is broken open, the malice that drove him flown the coop. One good eye is pointed in my direction, an accusation held within. I want to tell him this wasn’t my fault, that I didn’t do this. Suddenly, that seems like the most important thing in the world.
It’s shock.
Bushes rustle, Daniel stepping out, smoke rising from the barrel of his shotgun. He’s looking down at the body with so little emotion I could almost believe him innocent of the crime.
‘What did you do, Coleridge?’ cries Michael, checking Stanwin for a pulse.
‘Exactly what I promised your father I would do,’ he says flatly. ‘I’ve made sure Ted Stanwin will never blackmail any of you again.’
‘You murdered him!’
‘Yes,’ says Daniel, meeting his shocked gaze. ‘I did.’
Reaching into his pocket, Daniel hands me a silk handkerchief.
‘Clean yourself up, old man,’ he says.
I take it unthinkingly, even thanking him. I’m dazed, bewildered. Nothing about this feels real. Wiping Stanwin’s blood off my face, I stare at the crimson smear on the handkerchief, as if it can somehow explain what’s happening. I was speaking with Stanwin, and then he was dead, and I don’t understand how that could be. Surely there should be more? A chase, fear, a warning of some sort. We shouldn’t simply die. It feels like a swindle. So much paid, too much asked.
‘We’re ruined,’ wails Sutcliffe, slumping against a tree. ‘Stanwin always said that if anything happened to him, our secrets would be made common knowledge.’
‘That’s your concern?’ yells Herrington, wheeling on him. ‘Coleridge murdered a man in front of us!’
‘A man we all hated,’ Sutcliffe shoots back. ‘Don’t pretend you weren’t thinking the same thing. Don’t any of you pretend! Stanwin bled us dry in life and he’s going to destroy us in death.’
‘No, he won’t,’ says Daniel, resting the shotgun across his shoulder.
He’s the only one who’s calm, the only one who isn’t acting like an entirely different person. None of this means anything to him.
‘Everything he has on us—’ says Pettigrew.
‘Is written in a book that I now own,’ interrupts Daniel, retrieving a cigarette from his silver case.
His hand’s not even shaking. My hand. What the hell does Blackheath make me?
‘I commissioned somebody to steal it for me,’ he continues casually, lighting his cigarette. ‘Your secrets are my secrets and they’ll never see the light of day. Now, I believe each of you owes me a promise. It’s this: you won’t mention this to anybody for the rest of the day. Is that understood? If anybody asks, Stanwin stayed behind when we left. He didn’t say why, and that was the last you saw of him.’
Blank faces find each other, everybody too stunned to speak. I can’t tell whether they’re aghast at what they’ve witnessed or simply overcome by their good fortune.
For my part, the shock is fading, the horror of Daniel’s actions finally sinking in. Half an hour ago, I was praising him for showing a modicum of kindness to Michael. Now I’m covered in another man’s blood, realising how deeply I’ve underestimated his desperation.
My desperation. This is my future I’m seeing, and it makes me feel sick.
‘I need to hear the words, gentleman,’ says Daniel, blowing smoke from the corner of his mouth. ‘Tell me you understand what happened here.’
Assurances arrive in a jumble, muted but sincere. Only Michael seems upset.
Meeting his gaze, Daniel speaks coldly.
‘And don’t forget, I have all of your secrets in my hands.’ He lets that settle. ‘Now, I think you should head back before anybody comes looking for us.’
The suggestion is met with a murmur of agreement, everybody disappearing back into the forest. Signalling for me to remain behind, Daniel waits until they’re out of earshot before speaking.
‘Help me go through his pockets,’ he says, rolling up his sleeves. ‘The other hunters will be coming back this way soon, and I don’t want them to see us with the body.’
‘What have you done, Daniel?’ I hiss.
‘He’ll be alive tomorrow,’ he says, waving his hand dismissively. ‘I’ve knocked over a scarecrow.’
‘We’re supposed to be solving a murder, not committing one.’
‘Give a little boy an electric train set and he’ll immediately try to derail it,’ he says. ‘The act does not speak to his character, nor do we judge him for it.’
‘You think this is a game?’ I snap, pointing at Stanwin’s body.
‘A puzzle, with disposable pieces. Solve it and we get to go home.’ He frowns at me, as if I’m a stranger who’s asked directions to a place that doesn’t exist. ‘I don’t understand your concern.’
‘If we solve Evelyn’s murder in the manner you’re suggesting, we don’t deserve to go home! Can’t you see, these masks we wear betray us. They reveal us.’
‘You’re babbling,’ he says, searching Stanwin’s pockets.
‘We are never more ourselves than when we think people aren’t watching, don’t you realise that? It doesn’t matter if Stanwin’s alive tomorrow, you murdered him today. You murdered a man in cold blood, and that will blot your soul for the rest of your life. I don’t know why we’re here, Daniel, or why this is happening to us, but we should be proving that it’s an injustice, not making ourselves worthy of it.’
‘You’re misguided,’ he says, contempt creeping into his voice. ‘We can no more mistreat these people than we could their shadow cast upon the wall. I don’t understand what you’re asking of me.’
‘That we hold ourselves to a higher standard,’ I say, my voice rising. ‘That we be better men than our hosts! Murdering Stanwin was Daniel Coleridge’s solution, but it shouldn’t be yours. You’re a good man, you can’t lose sight of that.’
‘A good man,’ he scoffs. ‘Avoiding unpleasant acts doesn’t make a man good. Look at where we are, what’s been done to us. Escaping this place requires that we do what is necessary, even if our nature compels us otherwise. I know this makes you squeamish, that you don’t have the stomach for it. I was the same, but I no longer have the time to tiptoe around my ethics. I can end this tonight and I mean to, so don’t measure me by how tightly I cling to my goodness, measure me by what I’m willing to sacrifice that you might cling to yours. If I fail, you can always try another way.’
‘And how will you live with yourself when you’re done?’ I demand.
‘I’ll look at the faces of my family, and know that what I lost in this place was not nearly as important as my reward for leaving it.’
‘You can’t believe that,’ I say.
‘I do, and so will you after a few more days in this place,’ he says. ‘Now, please, help me search him before the hunters find us here. I have no intention of wasting my evening answering a policeman’s questions.’
It’s no use arguing with him, shutters have come down behind his eyes.
I sigh, taking myself over to the body.
‘What am I looking for?’ I ask.
‘Answers, same as always,’ he says, unbuttoning the blackmailer’s bloody jacket. ‘Stanwin collected every lie in Blackheath, including the last piece of our puzzle, the reason for Evelyn’s murder. Every scrap of knowledge he holds is contained in a book written in code, with a separate book of ciphers required to read it. I have the first, Stanwin keeps the latter on him at all times.’
That was the book Derby stole from Stanwin’s bedroom.
‘Did you take it from Derby?’ I ask. ‘I was coshed on the head almost as soon as I got my hands on it.’
‘Of course not,’ he says. ‘Coleridge had already commissioned somebody to retrieve the book before I took control of him. I didn’t even know he was interested in Stanwin’s blackmail business until the book was delivered to me. If it’s any consolation, I did consider warning you.’
‘So, why didn’t you?’
He shrugs. ‘Derby’s a rabid dog, it seemed better for everybody to let him sleep for a few hours. Now come along, we’re short of time.’
Shuddering, I kneel beside the body. This is no way for a man to die, even one such as Stanwin. His chest is mincemeat and blood has soaked through his clothing. It oozes around my fingers when I delve inside his trouser pockets.
I work slowly, barely able to look.
Daniel has no such qualms, patting down Stanwin’s shirt and jacket, seemingly impervious to the tattered flesh showing through. By the time we’re finished, we’ve uncovered a cigarette case, pocket knife and lighter, but no codebook.
We glance at each other.
‘We have to roll him over,’ says Daniel, voicing my thoughts.
Stanwin was a large man, and it takes a great deal of effort to push him onto his front. It’s worth it. I’m much more comfortable searching a body that isn’t looking up at me.
As Daniel runs his hands along Stanwin’s trouser legs, I lift his jacket, spotting a bulge in the lining surrounded by haphazard stitching.
A ripple of excitement shames me. The last thing I want is to justify Daniel’s methods, but now we’re on the verge of a discovery, I’m growing more elated.
Using the dead man’s pocket knife, I slice the stitches, letting the codebook slide into my palm. No sooner has it come free, than I notice there’s something else in there. Reaching inside, I pull out a small silver locket, its chain removed. There’s a painting inside, and though it’s old and cracked it’s obviously of a little girl, around seven or eight with red hair.
I hold it out to Daniel, but’s he too busy flipping through the codebook to pay attention.
‘This is it,’ he says excitedly. ‘This is our way out.’
‘I certainly hope so,’ I say. ‘We paid a high price for it.’
He looks up from the book a different man to the one who started reading it. This is neither Bell’s Daniel, nor Ravencourt’s. It’s not even the man of a few minutes ago, arguing the necessity of his actions. This is a man victorious, one foot already out of the door.
‘I’m not proud of what I did,’ he says. ‘But we couldn’t have done this any other way, you must believe that.’
He may not be proud, but he’s not ashamed either. That much is evident, and I’m reminded of the Plague Doctor’s warning.
The Aiden Bishop who first entered Blackheath... the things he wanted and his way of getting them were unyielding. That man could never have escaped Blackheath.
In his desperation, Daniel’s making the same mistakes I always have, exactly as the Plague Doctor warned me I would.
Whatever happens, I can’t let myself become this.
‘Are you ready to go?’ says Daniel.
‘Do you know the way home?’ I say, searching the forest and realising I have no idea how we arrived here.
‘It’s east,’ he says.
‘And which way is that?’
Thrusting a hand into his pocket, he brings out Bell’s compass.
‘I borrowed it from him this morning,’ he says, laying it flat in his palm. ‘Funny how things repeat, isn’t it?’