Grace keeps watch by the door as Cunningham and I slip into Bell’s bedroom, nostalgia painting everything in cheerful colours. After wrestling with the domineering natures of my other hosts, my attitude towards Bell has softened considerably. Unlike Derby, Ravencourt or Rashton, Sebastian Bell was a blank canvas, a man in retreat, even from himself. I poured into him, filling the empty spaces so completely I didn’t even realise he was the wrong shape.
In an odd way, he feels like an old friend.
‘Where do you think he keeps the stuff?’ Cunningham asks, closing the door behind us.
Though I know perfectly well where Bell’s trunk is, I feign ignorance, giving myself the opportunity to wade about in his absence for a little while, enjoying the sensation of walking back into a life I once inhabited.
Cunningham uncovers the trunk soon enough though, engaging my help to drag it out of the wardrobe, making a terrible racket as he scrapes it on the wooden floorboards. It’s as well everybody’s hunting as the noise could wake the dead.
The key fits perfectly, the latch springing open on well-oiled hinges to reveal an interior stuffed to bursting with brown vials and bottles arranged in neat rows.
Cunningham has brought a cotton sack and, kneeling either side of the trunk, we begin filling it with Bell’s stash. There are tinctures and concoctions of every sort and not merely those designed to put a foolish smile on the face. Among the dubious pleasures is a half-empty flask of strychnine, the white grains looking for all the world like large chunks of salt.
Now what’s he doing with that?
‘Bell will sell anything to anyone, won’t he?’ says Cunningham with a tut, plucking the flask from my hand and dropping it into the sack. ‘Not for much longer, though.’
Plucking the bottles from the trunk, I remember the note Gold pushed under my door, and the three things it demanded I pilfer.
Thankfully, Cunningham’s so enraptured by his task he doesn’t notice me slipping the bottles into my pocket, or the chess piece I drop into the trunk. Amid all the plots, it seems an inconsequential thing to bother with, but I can still remember how much comfort it brought me, how much strength. It was a kindness when I needed one most, and it cheers me to be the one delivering it.
‘Charles, I need you to tell me the truth about something,’ I begin.
‘I’ve told you, I’m not getting between you and Grace,’ he says distantly, carefully filling his sack. ‘Whatever you’re arguing about this week, admit you’re wrong and be grateful when she accepts your apology.’
He flashes me a grin, but it evaporates when he sees my grim expression.
‘What’s wrong?’ he asks.
‘Where did you get the key to the trunk?’ I reply.
‘If you must know, one of the servants gave it to me,’ he says, avoiding my gaze as he continues to pack.
‘No, they didn’t,’ I say, scratching my neck. ‘You took it off Jonathan Derby’s body after you coshed him over the head. Daniel Coleridge hired you to steal Stanwin’s blackmail ledger, didn’t he?’
‘Th... That’s nonsense,’ he says.
‘Please, Charles,’ I say, my voice rough with emotion. ‘I’ve already spoken with Stanwin.’
Rashton has counted on Cunningham’s friendship and counsel many times over the years, and watching him squirm under the spotlight of my questioning is unbearable.
‘I... I didn’t mean to hit him,’ says Cunningham, shamefaced. ‘I’d just put Ravencourt into his bath and was going for my breakfast when I heard a commotion on the stairs. I saw Derby hare into the study with Stanwin on his tail. I thought I could slip into Stanwin’s room while everybody was distracted and grab the ledger, but the bodyguard was in there, so I hid in one of the rooms opposite, waiting to see what would happen.’
‘You saw Dickie give the bodyguard a sedative, and then Derby find the ledger,’ I say. ‘You couldn’t let him walk out of there with it. It was too valuable.’
Cunningham nods eagerly.
‘Stanwin knows what happened that morning, he knows who really killed Thomas,’ he says. ‘He’s been lying all this time. It’s in that ledger of his. Coleridge is going to decipher it for me and then everybody will know my father, my real father, is innocent.’
Fear swells in his eyes.
‘Does Stanwin know about the bargain I struck with Coleridge?’ he asks suddenly. ‘Is that why you met with him?’
‘He doesn’t know anything,’ I say gently. ‘I went to ask about Thomas Hardcastle’s murder.’
‘And he told you?’
‘He owed me for saving his life.’
Cunningham is still on his knees, his hands gripping my shoulders. ‘You’re a miracle worker, Rasher,’ he says. ‘Don’t leave me in suspense.’
‘He saw Lady Hardcastle covered in blood and cradling Thomas’s body,’ I say, watching him closely. ‘Stanwin drew the obvious conclusion, but Carver arrived some minutes later and insisted Stanwin place the blame on him.’
Cunningham stares through me as he tries to pick holes in an answer long sought. When he speaks again, there’s bitterness in his voice.
‘Of course,’ he says, sagging to the floor. ‘I’ve spent years trying to prove my father was innocent, so naturally I find out that my mother’s the murderer instead.’
‘How long have you known who your real parents are?’ I say, doing my best to sound consoling.
‘Mother told me when I turned twenty-one,’ he says. ‘She said my father wasn’t the monster he was accused of being, but would never explain why. I’ve spent every day since then trying to work out what she meant.’
‘You saw her this morning, didn’t you?’
‘I took her tea,’ he says gently. ‘She drank it in bed while we spoke. I used to do the same thing when I was a child. She’d ask after my happiness, my education. She was kind to me. It was my favourite time of the day.’
‘And this morning? I assume she didn’t mention anything suspicious?’
‘About murdering Thomas? No, it didn’t come up,’ he says sarcastically.
‘I meant anything out of character, unusual.’
‘Out of character,’ he snorts. ‘She’s barely been in character for a year, or more. Can’t keep up with her. One minute she’s giddy, the next she’s in tears.’
‘A year,’ I say thoughtfully. ‘Ever since she visited Blackheath on the anniversary of Thomas’s death?’
It was after that visit she turned up on Michael’s doorstep raving about clothes.
‘Yes... maybe,’ he says, tugging an earlobe. ‘I say, you don’t think it all got on top of her, do you? The guilt I mean. That would explain why she’s been acting so queer. Maybe she’s been building up her courage to finally confess. It would certainly make sense of her mood this morning.’
‘Why, what did you speak about?’
‘She was calm, actually. A touch distant. She talked about putting things right, and how she was sorry I’d had to grow up ashamed of my father’s name.’ His face falls. ‘That’s it, isn’t it? She means to confess at the party tonight. That’s why she’s gone to all this trouble to reopen Blackheath and invite the same guests back.’
‘Maybe,’ I say, unable to keep my doubt from surfacing. ‘Why were your fingerprints all over her planner? What were you looking for?’
‘When I pressed her for more information, she asked me to look up what time she was meeting the stablemaster. She said she’d be able to tell me more after that, and I should come by the stables. I waited, but she never arrived. I’ve been looking for her all day, but nobody’s seen her. Maybe she’s gone to the village.’
I ignore that.
‘Tell me about the stable hand who went missing,’ I say. ‘You asked the stablemaster about him.’
‘Nothing to tell really. A few years back I got drunk with the inspector who investigated Thomas’s murder. He never believed my father – Carver, I mean – did it, mainly because this other boy, Keith Parker, had gone missing a week earlier while my father was in London with Lord Hardcastle, and he didn’t like the coincidence. The inspector asked around after the boy, but nothing came of it. By all accounts, Parker upped and left without a word to anybody, and never came back. They never found a body, so couldn’t disprove the rumour that he’d run away.’
‘Did you know him?’
‘Vaguely, he used to play with us sometimes, but even the servants’ children had jobs to do around the house. He worked in the stables most of the time. We rarely saw him.’
Catching my mood, he looks at me inquisitively.
‘Do you really think my mother’s a murderer?’ he says.
‘That’s what I need your help to find out,’ I say. ‘Your mother entrusted Mrs Drudge to raise you, yes? Does that mean they were close?’
‘Very close, Mrs Drudge was the only other person who knew about my real father before Stanwin found out.’
‘Good, I’m going to need a favour.’
‘What sort of favour?’
‘Two favours actually,’ I say. ‘I need Mrs Drudge to... Oh!’
I’ve just caught up to my past. The answer to a question I was about to ask has already been delivered to me. Now I need to make sure it happens again.
Cunningham waves a hand in front of my face. ‘You quite all right, Rasher? You seem to have come over a bit queer.’
‘Sorry, old chap, I got distracted,’ I say, batting away his confusion. ‘As I was saying, I need Mrs Drudge to clear something up for me, and then I need you to gather a few people together. When you’re done, find Jonathan Derby and tell him everything you’ve discovered.’
‘Derby? What’s that scoundrel got to do with this?’
The door opens, Grace poking her head inside the room.
‘For heaven’s sake, what’s taking so long?’ she asks. ‘If we wait any longer, we’re going to have to run Bell a bath and pretend we’re servants.’
‘One more minute,’ I say, laying my hand on Cunningham’s arm. ‘We’re going to put this right, I promise you. Now listen closely, this is important.’