I’m out of my chair before the draught fades, pulling open the drawers in my nightstand, searching for some mention of Anna among my possessions, anything to prove that she isn’t the product of a lurching mind. Unfortunately, the bedroom is proving remarkably tight-lipped. Aside from a pocketbook containing a few pounds, the only other personal item I come across is a gold-embossed invitation, a guest list on the front and a message on the back, written in an elegant hand.
Lord and Lady Hardcastle request the pleasure of your company at a masquerade ball celebrating the return of their daughter, Evelyn, from Paris. Celebrations will take place at Blackheath House over the second weekend of September. Owing to Blackheath’s isolation, transport to the house will be arranged for all of our guests from the nearby village of Abberly.
The invitation is addressed to Doctor Sebastian Bell, a name it takes me a few moments to recognise as my own. My Samaritan mentioned it earlier, but seeing it written down, along with my profession, is an altogether more unsettling affair. I don’t feel like a Sebastian, let alone a doctor.
A wry smile touches my lips.
I wonder how many of my patients will stay loyal when I approach them with my stethoscope on upside down.
Tossing the invitation back into the drawer, I turn my attention to the Bible on the nightstand, flipping through its well-thumbed pages. Paragraphs are underlined, random words circled in red ink, though for the life of me I can’t make sense of their significance. I’d been hoping to find an inscription or a letter concealed inside, but the Bible’s empty of wisdom. Clutching it in both hands, I make a clumsy attempt at prayer, hoping to rekindle whatever faith I once possessed, but the entire endeavour feels like foolishness. My religion has abandoned me along with everything else.
The cupboard is next and though the pockets of my clothes turn up nothing, I discover a steamer trunk buried beneath a pile of blankets. It’s a beautiful old thing, the battered leather wrapped in tarnished iron bands, a heavy clasp protecting the contents from prying eyes. A London address – my address presumably – is written in the slip, though it stirs no recollection.
Taking off my jacket, I heave the trunk onto the bare floorboards, the contents clinking with every jolt. A murmur of excitement escapes me as I press the button on the clasp, transforming into a groan when I discover the damned thing is locked. I tug at the lid, once, twice, but it’s unyielding. I search the open drawers and sideboard again, even dropping to my stomach to look under the bed, but there’s nothing under there but pellets of rat poison and dust.
The key isn’t anywhere to be found.
The only place I haven’t searched is the area around the bathtub, and I round the folding screen like a man possessed, nearly leaping out of my skin when I discover a wild-eyed creature lurking on the other side.
It’s a mirror.
The wild-eyed creature looks as abashed as I at this revelation.
Taking a tentative step forward, I examine myself for the first time, disappointment swelling within me. Only now, staring at this shivering, frightened fellow, do I realise that I had expectations of myself. Taller, shorter, thinner, fatter, I don’t know, but not this bland figure in the glass. Brown hair, brown eyes and no chin to speak of, I’m any face in a crowd; just the Lord’s way of filling in the gaps.
Quickly tiring of my reflection, I continue searching for the key to my trunk but aside from some toiletries and a jug of water, there’s nothing back here. Whoever I used to be, it appears I tidied myself away before disappearing. I’m on the verge of howling in frustration when I’m interrupted by a knock on the door, an entire personality conveying itself in five hearty raps.
‘Sebastian, are you there?’ says a gruff voice. ‘My name’s Richard Acker, I’m a doctor. I was asked to look in on you.’
I open the door to find a huge grey moustache on the other side. It’s a remarkable sight, the tips curling off the edge of the face they’re theoretically attached to. The man behind it is in his sixties, perfectly bald, with a bulbous nose and bloodshot eyes. He smells of brandy, but cheerfully so, as though every drop went down smiling.
‘Lord, you look dreadful,’ he says. ‘And that’s my professional opinion.’
Taking advantage of my confusion, he strolls past me, tossing his black medical case onto the bed and having a good look around the room, paying particular attention to my trunk.
‘Used to have one of these myself,’ he says, running an affectionate hand across the lid. ‘Lavolaille, isn’t it? Took me to the Orient and back when I was in the army. They say you shouldn’t trust a Frenchman, but I couldn’t do without their luggage.’
He gives it an experimental kick, wincing as his foot bounces off the obstinate leather.
‘You must have bricks in there,’ he says, cocking his head at me expectantly, as though there’s some sensible response to such a statement.
‘It’s locked,’ I stammer.
‘Can’t find the key, hmmm?’
‘I... no. Doctor Acker, I—’
‘Call me Dickie, everybody else does,’ he says briskly, going to the window to peer outside. ‘I’ve never enjoyed the name truth be told, but I can’t seem to shake it. Daniel says you’ve suffered a misfortune.’
‘Daniel?’ I ask, just about holding onto the back of the conversation as it streaks away from me.
‘Coleridge. Chap who found you this morning.’
‘Right, yes.’
Doctor Dickie beams at my bafflement.
‘Memory loss, is it? Well, not to worry, I saw a few of these cases in the war and everything came back after a day or so, whether the patient wanted it to or not.’
He shoos me towards the trunk, making me sit down on top of it. Tilting my head forward, he examines my skull with a butcher’s tenderness, chuckling as I wince.
‘Oh, yes, you’ve a nice bump back here.’ He pauses, considering it. ‘Probably banged your head at some point last night. I’d imagine that’s when it all spilled out, so to speak. Any other symptoms, headaches, nausea, that sort of thing?’
‘There’s a voice,’ I say, a little embarrassed by the admission.
‘A voice?’
‘In my head. I think it’s my voice, only, well, it’s very certain about things.’
‘I see,’ he says thoughtfully. ‘And this... voice, what does it say?’
‘It gives me advice, sometimes it comments on what I’m doing.’
Dickie’s pacing behind me, tugging his moustache.
‘This advice, is it, how should I say, all above board? Nothing violent, nothing perverse.’
‘Absolutely not,’ I say, riled by the inference.
‘And are you hearing it now?’
‘No.’
‘Trauma,’ he says abruptly, raising a finger in the air. ‘That’s what it’ll be, very common in fact. Somebody bangs their head and all manner of strange things start going on. They see smells, taste sounds, hear voices. Always passes in a day or two, month at the outside.’
‘A month!’ I say, spinning on the trunk to look at him. ‘How am I going to manage like this for a month? Perhaps I should visit a hospital?’
‘God no, terrible things, hospitals,’ he says, aghast. ‘Sickness and death swept into corners, diseases curled up in the beds with the patients. Take my advice and go for a stroll, root through your belongings, talk to some friends. I saw you and Michael Hardcastle sharing a bottle at dinner last night, several bottles actually. Quite an evening by all accounts. He should be able to help, and mark my words, once your memories return, that voice will be no more.’
He pauses, tutting. ‘I’m more concerned by that arm.’
We’re interrupted by a knock on the door, Dickie opening it before I can protest. It’s Daniel’s valet delivering the pressed clothes he promised. Sensing my indecision, Dickie takes the clothes, dismisses the valet and lays them out on the bed for me.
‘Now, where were we?’ he says. ‘Ah, yes, that arm.’
I follow his gaze to find blood drawing patterns on my shirtsleeve. Without preamble, he tugs it up to reveal ugly slashes and tattered flesh beneath. They look to have scabbed over, but my recent exertions must have reopened the wounds.
After bending my stiff fingers one by one, he fishes a small brown bottle and some bandages from his bag, cleaning my injuries before dabbing them in iodine.
‘These are knife wounds, Sebastian,’ he says in a concerned voice, all his good cheer turned to ash. ‘Recent ones, too. It looks like you held your arm up to protect yourself, like so.’
He demonstrates with a glass dropper from his medical bag, slashing violently at his forearm, which he’s raised in front of his face. His re-enactment is enough to bring me out in goose bumps.
‘Do you recall anything of the evening?’ he says, binding my arm so tightly that I hiss in pain. ‘Anything at all?’
I push my thoughts towards my missing hours. Upon waking I’d assumed everything was lost, but now I perceive this isn’t the case. I can sense my memories just out of reach. They have weight and shape, like shrouded furniture in a darkened room. I’ve simply misplaced the light to see them by.
With a sigh, I shake my head.
‘Nothing’s forthcoming,’ I say. ‘But this morning I saw a—’
‘Woman murdered,’ interrupts the doctor. ‘Yes, Daniel told me.’
Doubt stains every word, but he knots my bandage without voicing any objection.
‘Either way, you need to inform the police immediately,’ he says. ‘Whoever did this was trying to cause you significant harm.’
Lifting his case from the bed, he clumsily shakes my hand.
‘Strategic retreat, my boy, that’s what’s required here,’ he says. ‘Talk to the stablemaster, he should be able to arrange transport back to the village, and from there you can rouse the constabulary. In the meantime, it’s probably best you keep a weather eye out. There are twenty people staying in Blackheath this weekend, and thirty more arriving for the ball tonight. Most of them aren’t above this sort of thing, and if you’ve offended them... well –’ he shakes his head – ‘be careful, that’s my advice.’
He lets himself out and I hurriedly take the key from the sideboard to lock the door after him, my shaking hands causing me to miss the hole more than once.
An hour ago, I’d thought myself a murderer’s plaything, tormented, but beyond any physical threat. Surrounded by people, I felt safe enough to insist we try recovering Anna’s body from the forest, thereby spurring the search for her killer. That’s no longer the case. Somebody’s already tried to take my life, and I have no intention of staying long enough for them to try again. The dead cannot expect a debt from the living, and whatever I owe Anna will have to be paid at distance. Once I’ve met with my Samaritan in the drawing room, I’m going to follow Dickie’s advice and arrange transport back to the village.
It’s time I went home.