Dinner’s being served, the guests taking their seats at the table, as I crouch in the bushes near the reflecting pool. It’s early, but my plan depends on being the first person to reach Evelyn when she emerges from the house. I can’t risk the past tripping me up.
Rain drips from the leaves, icy cold on my skin.
The wind stirs, my legs cramping.
Shifting my weight, I realise I haven’t eaten or taken a drink all day, which isn’t ideal preparation for the evening ahead. I’m light-headed and without anything to distract me I can feel every one of my hosts pressed up against the inside of my skull. Their memories crowd the edges of my mind, the weight of them almost too much to bear. I want everything they want. I feel their aches and am made timid by their fears. I’m no longer a man, I’m a chorus.
Oblivious to my presence, two servants spill out of the house, their arms laden with wood for the braziers, oil lamps hanging from their belts. One by one they ignite the braziers, drawing a line of fire into the pitch-black evening. The last one is next to the greenhouse, the flames reflecting on the glass panels so that the entire thing seems to be ablaze.
As the wind howls and the trees drip, Blackheath flickers and changes, following the guests as they make their way from the dining hall to their bedrooms and finally into the ballroom, where the band have taken to the stage, and the evening guests await. Servants open the French doors, music exploding outwards, tumbling across the ground and into the forest.
‘Now you see them as I do,’ says the Plague Doctor, in a low voice. ‘Actors in a play, doing the same thing night after night.’
He’s standing behind me, mostly obscured by trees and bushes. In the uncertain light of the brazier, his mask appears to float in the gloom like a soul trying to tug free of its body.
‘Did you tell the footman about Anna?’ I hiss.
It’s taking every ounce of self-control I have not to leap up and throttle him.
‘I have no interest in either of them,’ he says flatly.
‘I saw you outside the gatehouse with Daniel, then again near the lake, and now Anna’s missing,’ I say. ‘Did you tell him where to find her?’
For the first time, the Plague Doctor sounds uncertain.
‘I assure you, I wasn’t at either of those locations, Mr Bishop.’
‘I saw you,’ I growl. ‘You spoke with him.’
‘It wasn’t...’ He trails off, and when he speaks again, it’s with a spark of understanding. ‘So that’s how he’s been doing it. I wondered how he knew so much.’
‘Daniel lied to me from the start, and you kept his secret.’
‘It isn’t my place to interfere. I knew you’d see through him eventually.’
‘So why warn him about Anna?’
‘Because I worried that you wouldn’t.’
The music stops sharply, and, checking my watch, I discover it’s a few minutes before eleven. Michael Hardcastle has silenced the orchestra to ask if anybody’s seen his sister. There’s movement by the side of the house, darkness stirred by darkness as Derby takes his position by the rock, following Anna’s instructions.
‘I wasn’t in that clearing, Mr Bishop, I promise you,’ says the Plague Doctor. ‘I’ll explain everything soon, but for the moment, I have my own investigation to undertake.’
He departs quickly, leaving only questions in his wake. If this were any other host, I’d run after him, but Rashton’s a subtler creature, slow to startle, quick to think. For the moment, Evelyn’s my only concern. I put the Plague Doctor out of my thoughts and creep closer to the reflecting pool. Thankfully, the leaves and twigs are so demoralised by the earlier rain they don’t have the heart to cry out beneath my feet.
Evelyn’s approaching, sobbing, looking for me in the trees. Whatever her involvement in all this, she’s clearly afraid, her entire body shaking. She must have already taken the muscle relaxant because she’s swaying slightly, as though moved by some music only she can hear.
I rustle a nearby bush to let her know I’m here, but the drug’s doing its work, she can barely see, let alone find me in the darkness. Even so, she keeps on walking, the silver pistol glinting in her right hand, and the starting pistol in her left. It’s pressed against her leg, out of sight.
She has courage, I’ll give her that.
Reaching the edge of the reflecting pool, Evelyn hesitates, and, knowing what comes next, I wonder if perhaps the silver pistol is too heavy for her now, the weight of the plan too much.
‘God help us,’ she says quietly, turning the gun towards her stomach and pulling the trigger of the starting pistol by her leg.
The shot is so loud it cracks the world, the starting pistol slipping from Evelyn’s hand into the inky blackness of the reflecting pool as the silver pistol hits the grass.
Blood spreads across her dress.
She watches it, bemused, then topples forward into the pool.
Anguish paralyses me, some combination of the gunshot and Evelyn’s expression before she fell nudging an old memory loose.
You don’t have time for this.
It’s so close. I can almost see another face, hear another plea. Another woman I failed to save, who I came to Blackheath to... what?
‘Why did I come here?’ I gasp out loud, struggling to pull the memory up from the darkness.
Save Evelyn, she’s drowning!
Blinking, I look at the reflecting pool, where Evelyn’s floating face down. Panic washes away the pain, and I scramble to my feet, leaping through the bushes and into the icy water. Her dress has spread across the surface, as heavy as a sodden sack, and the base of the reflecting pool is covered in slippery moss.
I can’t get any purchase on her.
There’s a commotion by the ballroom. Derby is fighting with Michael Hardcastle, drawing almost as much attention as the dying woman in the pool.
Fireworks explode overhead, staining everything in red and purple, yellow and orange light.
I hook my arms around Evelyn’s midriff, wrestling her out of the water and onto the grass.
Slumped in the mud, I catch my breath, checking to make sure Cunningham’s taken firm hold of Michael as I asked him to.
He has.
The plan’s working. No thanks to me. The old memory the gunshot stirred almost paralysed me. Another woman, and another death. It was the fear on Evelyn’s face. That’s what did it. I recognised that fear. It’s what brought me to Blackheath, I’m certain of it.
Doctor Dickie runs up to me. He’s flushed, panting, a fortune going up in flames behind his eyes. Evelyn told me he’d been paid to fake the death certificate. The jovial old soldier’s got quite the criminal empire up and running.
‘What happened?’ he says.
‘She shot herself,’ I respond, watching the hope blossom on his face. ‘I saw the entire thing, but I couldn’t do anything.’
‘You mustn’t blame yourself.’ He clasps me by the shoulder. ‘Listen here, why don’t you go and get a brandy while I look her over. Leave it to me, eh?’
As he kneels beside the body, I scoop the silver pistol off the ground and make my way to Michael, who’s still being held fast by Cunningham. Looking at the two of them, I wouldn’t have thought it possible. Michael’s short and stocky, a bull ensnared by Cunningham’s rope-like arms. Even so, Michael’s writhing is only tightening Cunningham’s grip. A pry bar and a chisel couldn’t free him at this point.
‘I’m terribly sorry, Mr Hardcastle,’ I say, placing a sympathetic hand on the struggling man’s arm. ‘Your sister took her own life.’
The fight goes out of him immediately, tears building in his eyes as his anguished gaze goes out towards the pool.
‘You can’t know that,’ he says, straining to see past me. ‘She might still be—’
‘The doctor has confirmed it, I’m so sorry,’ I say, taking the silver pistol from my pocket and pressing it into his palm. ‘She used this gun, do you recognise it?’
‘No.’
‘Well, you should keep hold of it for the moment,’ I suggest. ‘I’ve asked a couple of footmen to carry her body into the Sun Room, away from’ – I gesture towards the gathered crowds – ‘well, everybody. If you’d like a few minutes alone with your sister, I can arrange it.’
He’s staring at the pistol dumbly, as though he’s been delivered some object from the far future.
‘Mr Hardcastle?’
Shaking his head, his empty eyes find me.
‘What... yes, of course,’ he says, his fingers closing around the gun. ‘Thank you, Inspector.’
‘Just a constable, sir,’ I say, waving Cunningham over. ‘Charles, would you mind escorting Mr Hardcastle to the Sun Room? Keep him away from the crowds, would you?’
Cunningham meets my request with a curt nod, placing a hand on Michael’s lower back and gently guiding him towards the house. Not for the first time I’m glad the valet is on my side. Watching him depart, I feel a pang of sadness that this will probably be the last time we meet. For all the mistrust and lies, I’ve grown fond of him this last week.
Dickie’s finished his examination, the old man getting slowly to his feet. Under his watchful eye, the footmen drag Evelyn’s body onto a stretcher. He wears his sadness like a second-hand suit. I don’t know how I didn’t see it before. This is murder as pantomime and everywhere I look the curtain is rustling.
As Evelyn is lifted off the ground, I race through the rain towards the Sun Room, on the far side of the house, slipping inside through the French doors I unlocked earlier, and concealing myself behind an Oriental screen. Evelyn’s grandmother watches me from the painting above the fireplace. In the flickering candlelight, I could swear she’s smiling. Perhaps she knows what I know. Maybe she’s always known and has been forced to watch day after day as the rest of us blundered through here oblivious to the truth.
No wonder she was scowling before.
Rain raps the windows as the footmen arrive with their stretcher. They move slowly, trying not to jostle the body, which is now draped in Dickie’s jacket. In no time at all they’re inside, transferring the body onto the sideboard, pressing their flat caps to their chests in respect before departing, closing the French doors behind them.
I watch them go, catching sight of myself in the glass, my hands stuffed into my pockets, Rashton’s quietly competent face suggesting nothing but certainty.
Even my reflection is lying to me.
Certainty was the first thing Blackheath took from me.
The door swings open, the draught from the corridor swiping at the candle flames. In the gaps between the screen’s panels, I can see Michael, pale and shaking, gripping the doorframe for support, tears in his eyes. Cunningham’s behind him, and after flashing a covert glance towards the screen where I’m hiding, he closes the door on us.
The instant he’s alone, Michael springs out of his grief, his shoulders straightening and eyes hardening, his sorrow transformed into something altogether more feral. Hurrying over to Evelyn’s body, he searches her bloodied stomach for a bullet hole, murmuring to himself when he doesn’t find one.
Frowning, he removes the magazine from the gun I gave him outside, finding it loaded. Evelyn was supposed to take a black revolver to the pool, not this silver pistol. He must be wondering what caused her to change the plan, and whether she’s actually carried through on the plot.
Satisfied she’s still alive, he backs away, fingers drumming his lips as he weighs the pistol. He appears to be in communion with it, frowning and biting his lip as though navigating a series of tricky questions. I lose sight of him momentarily when he strides off into the corner of the room, forcing me to lean out a little from my hiding place to get a better look. He’s picked up an embroidered pillow from one of the chairs and he brings it to Evelyn, pressing it against her stomach, presumably to muffle the sound of the pistol jammed up against it.
There isn’t even a pause, any sort of goodbye. Turning his face away, he pulls the trigger.
The pistol clicks impotently. He tries again and again, until I step out from behind the screen, putting an end to this charade.
‘It won’t work,’ I say. ‘I filed down the firing pin.’
He doesn’t turn around. He doesn’t even let go of the pistol.
‘I’ll make you a rich man if you let me kill her, Inspector,’ he says, a quiver in his voice.
‘I can’t do that, and as I told you outside, I’m a constable.’
‘Oh, not for very much longer with a mind like yours, I’m sure.’
He’s trembling, the pistol still held firm against Evelyn’s body. Sweat is trickling down my spine, the tension in the room thick enough to scoop up in handfuls.
‘Drop the weapon and turn around, Mr Hardcastle. Slowly, if you please.’
‘You don’t need to fear me, Inspector,’ he says, dropping the pistol into a plant pot and turning around with his hands in the air. ‘I have no desire to hurt anybody.’
‘No desire?’ I say, surprised by the sorrow on his face. ‘You tried to put five bullets into your own sister.’
‘And every one of them would have been a kindness, I assure you.’
Hands still raised, he angles a long finger towards an armchair near the chessboard where I first met Evelyn.
‘Mind if I sit down?’ he asks. ‘I’m feeling a little light-headed.’
‘Be my guest,’ I say, watching him closely as he drops into the chair. Part of me worries he’s going to make a dash for the door, but truth be told he looks like a man who’s had all the fight wrung out of him. He’s pale and twitchy, arms hanging limp by his sides, legs splayed out before him. If I had to guess, I’d say it took all his strength to decide to pull the trigger.
Murder didn’t come easy to this man.
I let him settle, then drag a wingback chair over from the window to sit opposite him.
‘How did you know what I was planning to do?’ he asks.
‘It was the revolvers,’ I say, sinking a little deeper into the cushion.
‘The revolvers?’
‘Two matching black revolvers were taken from your mother’s room, early this morning. Evelyn had one, and you the other. I couldn’t understand why.’
‘I’m not following.’
‘The only obvious reasons Evelyn had to steal a gun were because she thought herself in danger – a rather redundant explanation for somebody about to commit suicide – or because she planned to use it in the suicide. The latter being more likely, what reason could she possibly have for taking both of the revolvers? Surely one was up to the task.’
‘And where did these thoughts lead you?’
‘Nowhere, until Dance noticed you carrying the second revolver on the hunt. What had been odd, was now damn peculiar. A woman contemplating suicide, at her lowest ebb, has enough forethought to remember her brother’s aversion to hunting and steal the second weapon for him?’
‘My sister loves me a great deal, Inspector.’
‘Perhaps, but you told Dance that you didn’t know you were going hunting until midday, and the revolvers disappeared from your mother’s room early in the morning, well before that decision was made. Evelyn couldn’t possibly have taken the second gun for the reason you suggested. Once I heard about your sister’s fake suicide scheme I realised you were lying, and from there everything became clear. Evelyn didn’t take the revolvers from your mother’s room. You did. You kept one, and gave Evelyn the other to use as a prop.’
‘Evelyn told you about the fake suicide?’ he asks, his tone dubious.
‘Partially,’ I say. ‘She explained how you’d agreed to help her by running up to the reflecting pool and dragging her onto the grass, as a grieving brother naturally would. That’s when I saw how you could commit the perfect crime, and why you needed two matching revolvers. Before pulling her out of the pool, all you had to do was shoot her in the stomach using the fireworks as cover for the second shot. The murder weapon would disappear into the murky water, and the bullet would match the identical gun she’d just dropped on the grass. Murder by suicide. It was quite brilliant, really.’
‘Which is why you made her use the silver pistol instead,’ he says, understanding coming into his voice. ‘You needed me to change my plan.’
‘I had to bait the trap.’
‘Very clever,’ he says, miming applause.
‘Not clever enough,’ I say, surprised by his calmness. ‘I still don’t understand how you could go through with it. Time and again today I’ve been told how close you and Evelyn are. How much you care for her. Was that all a lie?’
Anger brings him upright in his chair.
‘I love my sister more than anything in this world,’ he says, glaring at me. ‘I would do anything for her. Why else do you think she came to me for help? Why else would I have said yes?’
His passion has thrown me. I set this plan in motion believing I knew the story Michael would be telling, but this isn’t it. I expected to hear how his mother had put him on this path while she orchestrated events elsewhere. Not for the first time, I have the unmistakable feeling of having misread the map.
‘If you love your sister, why betray her?’ I ask, confused.
‘Because her plan wasn’t going to work!’ he says, slapping his palm down on the arm of the chair. ‘We couldn’t pay the amount Dickie wanted for the fake death certificate. He agreed to assist us anyway, but yesterday Coleridge found out that Dickie was planning to sell our secret to Father later this evening. Do you see? After all this, Evelyn would have woken up in Blackheath trapped in the same life she was so desperate to escape.’
‘Did you tell her this?’
‘How could I?’ he asks miserably. ‘This plan was her one chance to be free, to be happy. How could I take that away from her?’
‘You could have killed Dickie.’
‘Coleridge said the same thing, but when? I needed him to confirm Evelyn’s death, and he intended on meeting my father directly afterwards.’ He shakes his head. ‘I made the only decision I could.’
There are two glasses of Scotch beside his chair, one halfway full and smeared with lipstick, the other unmarked, a little alcohol left at the bottom. He reaches towards the lipstick-smeared one slowly, keeping his eyes on me.
‘Mind if I have a drink?’ he asks. ‘It’s Evelyn’s. We had a toast in here before the ball began. Best of luck and all that.’
There’s a catch in his throat. Any other host might think him repentant, but Rashton can spot fear a mile away.
‘Of course.’
He picks it up gratefully, and takes a stiff slug. If nothing else, it serves to steady his trembling hands.
‘I know my sister, Inspector,’ he says, his voice hoarse. ‘She’s always hated being forced into things, even when we were children. She couldn’t bear the humiliation of a life with Ravencourt, knowing people were laughing behind her back. Look at what she was willing to do to avoid it. Slowly but surely that marriage would have destroyed her. I wanted to spare her that suffering.’
His cheeks are flushed, his green eyes glazed. They’re filled with such a sweet, sincere sorrow that I almost believe him.
‘And I suppose the money had nothing to do with it?’ I say flatly.
A scowl mars his sadness.
‘Evelyn told me that your parents threatened to cut you from the will if she didn’t do as they asked,’ I say. ‘You were leverage, and it worked. That threat was the reason she obeyed their summons in the first place, but who knows if she’d have done the same thing again knowing her escape plan was gone? With Evelyn dead, that uncertainty is laid to rest.’
‘Look around you, Inspector,’ he says, gesturing around the room with his glass. ‘Do you really think any of this is worth killing for?’
‘Now your father can’t squander the family fortune, I imagine your prospects have improved immeasurably.’
‘Squandering the fortune is all my father’s good for,’ he snorts, finishing his drink.
‘Is that why you killed him?’
His scowl deepens. He’s tight-lipped, pale.
‘I found his body, Michael. I know you poisoned him, probably when you went to fetch him for the hunt. You left a note blaming Evelyn. The boot print outside the window was particularly devious.’ His expression flickers uncertainly. ‘Or was that somebody else?’ I say slowly. ‘Felicity, perhaps? I’ll admit, I still haven’t untangled that knot. Or was it your mother’s? Where is she, Michael? Or did you kill her, as well?’
His eyes widen as his face crumples in shock, his glass slipping from his hand onto the floor.
‘You deny it?’ I ask, suddenly uncertain.
‘No... I... I...’
‘Where’s your mother, Michael? Did she put you up to this?’
‘She... I...’
At first I mistake his floundering for remorse, his gasping for the shallow breaths of a man searching for the right words. It’s only when his fingers grip the arm of the chair, white foam running down his lips, that I realise he’s been poisoned.
I spring to my feet in alarm, but I have no idea what to do.
‘Somebody help us,’ I yell.
His back arches, his muscles tense, his eyes turning red as the blood vessels pop. Gurgling, he falls forward onto the floor. From behind me I hear rattling. Swinging around, I find Evelyn convulsing on the sideboard, the same white foam bubbling up between her lips.
The door bursts open, Cunningham taking in the scene with an open mouth.
‘What’s happening?’ he asks.
‘They’ve been poisoned,’ I say, looking from one to the other. ‘Fetch Dickie.’
He’s gone before the words have fallen from my lips. Hand to my forehead, I stare helplessly at them. Evelyn is writhing on the sideboard as if possessed, while Michael’s clenched teeth crack in his mouth.
The drugs, you fool.
My hand dives into my pocket, retrieving the three vials I was instructed to steal from Bell’s trunk when Cunningham and I ransacked it this afternoon. Unwrapping the note, I search for instructions I know aren’t on it. Presumably, I mix everything together, but I don’t know how much to give them. I don’t even know if I have enough for two doses.
‘I don’t know who to save,’ I cry, looking from Michael to Evelyn.
Michael knows more than he’s told us.
‘But I gave Evelyn my word I’d protect her,’ I say.
Evelyn spasms on the table so violently she falls to the floor, as Michael continues to thrash, his eyes now rolled so far back in his head only the whites can be seen.
‘Damn it,’ I say, running over to the bar.
Emptying the three vials into a Scotch glass, I add water from a jug and stir it all together until it foams. Evelyn’s back is arched, her fingers biting into the thick weave of a rug. Tilting her head back, I pour the entire filthy creation down her throat, even as Michael chokes behind me.
Evelyn’s seizures end as abruptly as they started. Blood weeping from her eyes, she sucks in deep, hoarse breaths. Letting out a sigh of relief, I touch my fingers to her neck, checking for a pulse. It’s frantic, but it’s strong. She’s going to live. Unlike Michael.
I cast a guilty glance at the body of the young man. He looks exactly as his father did in the sitting room. They’ve clearly been poisoned by the same hand, using the strychnine Sebastian Bell smuggled into the house. It must have been in the Scotch he drank. Evelyn’s Scotch. Her glass was half full. Judging by how long it took to affect her, she can only have taken a sip or two. Michael, by contrast, finished the lot in under a minute. Did he know it was poisoned? The alarm I saw on his face suggests not.
This was somebody else’s work.
There’s another killer in Blackheath.
‘But who?’ I demand, angry with myself for allowing this to happen. ‘Felicity? Helena Hardcastle? Who was Michael working with? Or was it somebody he knew nothing about?’
Evelyn’s stirring, the colour already returning to her cheeks. Whatever was in that concoction, it’s working fast, though she’s still weak. Her fingers paw at my sleeve, her lips forming empty sounds.
I lower my ear to her mouth.
‘I’m not...’ – she swallows – ‘Millicent was... murder.’
Very weakly she tugs at her throat, pulling out the chain which was concealed by her dress. There’s a signet ring on the end of it, bearing the Hardcastle family seal if I’m not very much mistaken.
I blink at her, not understanding.
‘I hope you got everything you needed,’ says a voice from the French doors. ‘It’s not going to do you much good though.’
Looking over my shoulder, I see the footman emerging out of the darkness, his knife glinting in the candlelight as he taps the point against his thigh. He’s wearing his red and white livery, the jacket dotted with grease spots and dirt, as though the essence of him is somehow leaking through. A clean, empty hunting sack is tied to his waist, and with mounting horror I remember how he tossed a full sack at Derby’s feet, the material so blood soaked it hit the ground with a wet slap.
I check the clock. Derby will be out there now, sitting in the warmth of a brazier, watching the party dissolve around him. Whatever the footman’s going to put in the bag, he plans to carve off Rashton.
The footman smiles at me, his eyes glittering in anticipation.
‘You’d think I’d get bored of killing you, wouldn’t you?’ he asks.
The silver pistol’s still in the plant pot where Michael discarded it. It won’t fire, but the footman doesn’t know that. If I could reach it, I might be able to bluff him into fleeing. It will be a close-run thing, but there’s a table in his way. I should be able to get there before him.
‘I’m going to do it slow,’ he says, touching his broken nose. ‘I owe you for this.’
Fear doesn’t come easily to Rashton, but he’s afraid now, and so am I. I have two hosts left after today, but Gregory Gold is going to spend most of his day strung up in the gatehouse and Donald Davies is stranded on a dirt road, miles from here. If I die now, there’s no telling how many more chances I’ll get to escape Blackheath.
‘Don’t worry about the gun,’ says the footman. ‘You won’t need it.’
Mistaking his meaning, hope flares in my chest, fizzling again when I see his smirk.
‘Oh, no, my handsome lad, I’m going to kill you,’ he says, wagging the knife at me. ‘I just mean you ain’t going to fight me,’ he adds, coming closer. ‘See, I’ve got Anna, and if you don’t want her to die messy, you’re going to give yourself to me, and then you’re going to bring whoever’s left to the graveyard tonight.’
Opening his palm, he reveals Anna’s chess piece, spotted with blood. With a flick of his wrist, he tosses it into the fire, the flames consuming it immediately.
Another step closer.
‘What’s it to be?’ he asks.
My hands are clenched by my sides, my mouth dry. For as long as he can remember, Rashton expected to die young. In a dark alley, or on a battlefield, a place beyond light and comfort, beyond friendship, his situation hopeless. He knew how sharp the edges of his life had become, and he’d made peace with it, because he knew he’d die fighting. Futile as it may have been, weak as it may have been, he expected to wade into the darkness with his fists in the air.
And now the footman has taken even that away. I’m to die without a struggle, and I feel ashamed.
‘What’s the answer?’ says the footman, his impatience growing.
I can’t bring myself to say the words, to admit how thoroughly defeated I am. Another hour in this body and I’d have solved it, and that knowledge makes me want to scream.
‘Your answer!’ he demands.
I manage to nod as he looms over me, his stench wrapping itself around me when he sinks the blade into the familiar spot beneath my ribs, blood filling my throat and mouth.
Gripping my chin, he lifts my face, looking me in the eyes.
‘Two to go,’ he says, and with that he twists the blade.