‘I don’t know a thing, but when I wake up in my next host, I’m going to dedicate myself to the task of uncovering your secret. I’m then going to return to this room and place the information in that envelope for you to find. Should this conversation not go the way I want, I’ll place the envelope where the other guests can find it.’
He snorts at me, his contempt a slap in the face.
‘You may not be Ravencourt, but you sound exactly like him.’
The idea is so startling it momentarily silences me. Until now I’d assumed my personality – whatever that might be – was carried into each new host, filling them as pennies fill a pocket, but what if I was wrong?
None of my previous hosts would have thought to blackmail Cunningham, let alone had the stomach to act on the threat. In fact, looking back at Sebastian Bell, Roger Collins, Donald Davies and now Ravencourt, I can see little in their behaviour to suggest a common hand at work. Could it be that I’m bending to their will, rather than the other way around? If so, I must be wary. It’s one thing to be caged in these people, quite another to abandon oneself entirely to their desires.
My thoughts are interrupted by Cunningham, who’s setting fire to a corner of the letter with a lighter from his pocket.
‘What is it you want from me?’ he says in a hard, flat voice, dropping the burning paper into the grate.
‘Four things, initially,’ I say, counting them off on my thick fingers. ‘First, I need you to find an old well off the road into the village. There’ll be a note tucked into a crack in the stone. Read it, put it back and return to me with the message. Do it soon, the note will be gone within the hour. Secondly, you need to find that plague doctor costume I asked about earlier. Thirdly, I want you scattering the name Anna around Blackheath like confetti. Let it be known Lord Ravencourt is looking for her. Finally, I need you to introduce yourself to Sebastian Bell.’
‘Sebastian Bell, the doctor?’
‘That’s the chap.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I remember being Sebastian Bell, but I don’t remember meeting you,’ I say. ‘If we change that, it means I prove to myself that something else can be changed today.’
‘Evelyn Hardcastle’s death?’
‘Precisely.’
Letting out a long breath, Cunningham turns to face me. He seems diminished, as though our conversation were a desert he’s spent a week crossing.
‘If I do these things, can I expect the contents of this letter to stay between us?’ he says, his expression conveying more hope than expectation.
‘It will, you have my word.’
I extend a sweaty hand.
‘Then it seems I have no choice,’ he says, shaking it firmly, only the slightest flicker of disgust showing on his face.
He departs in a hurry, probably wary of being burdened with more tasks should he linger. In his absence, the damp air seems to settle upon me, sinking through my clothes and into my bones. Judging the library too cheerless to stay in any longer, I struggle out of my seat, using my cane to hoist myself onto my feet.
I pass through the study on my way to Ravencourt’s parlour, where I’ll settle myself ahead of my meeting with Helena Hardcastle. If she’s plotting to murder Evelyn this evening, then, by Lord, I mean to have it out of her.
The house is still, the men out hunting and the women drinking in the Sun Room. Even the servants have disappeared, scattering back below stairs to prepare for the ball. In their wake a great hush has fallen, my only company the rain tapping at the windows, demanding to be let inside. Bell missed the noise, but as somebody finely tuned to the malice of others, Ravencourt finds this silence refreshing. It’s like airing a musty room.
Heavy steps disturb my reverie, each one deliberate and slow, as if determined to draw my attention. I’ve reached as far as the dining hall, where a long oak table is overlooked by the mounted heads of long-slaughtered beasts, their fur faded and thick with dust. The room is empty, and yet the steps seem to be all around, mimicking my hobbling gait.
I stiffen, coming to a halt, sweat beading my brow.
The steps stop in turn.
Dabbing my forehead, I look around nervously, wishing Bell’s paperknife were to hand. Buried in Ravencourt’s sluggish flesh, I feel like a man dragging an anchor. I can neither run nor fight, and even if I could, I’d be swinging at air. I’m quite alone.
After a brief hesitation, I begin walking again, those ghostly steps trailing me. I stop suddenly, and they stop with me, a sinister giggle drifting out of the walls. My heart’s pounding, hair standing up on my arms as fright sends me lurching towards the safety of the entrance hall visible through the drawing-room door. By now the steps aren’t bothering mimicking me, they’re dancing, that giggle seeming to come from every direction.
I’m panting by the time I reach the doorway, blinded by sweat and moving so fast I’m in danger of tripping over my own cane. As I pass into the entrance hall, the laughter stops abruptly, a whisper chasing me out.
‘We’ll meet soon, little rabbit.’
16
Ten minutes later, the whisper’s long faded, but the terror it provoked echoes still. It wasn’t the words themselves, so much as the glee they carried. That warning was a down payment on the blood and pain to come, and only a fool wouldn’t see the footman behind it.
Holding my hand up, I check to see how badly it’s trembling, and, deciding that I’m at least moderately recovered, I continue onwards to my room. I’ve only taken a step or two when sobbing draws my attention to a dark doorway at the back of the entrance hall. For a full minute I hover on the periphery, peering into the dimness, fearing a trap. Surely the footman wouldn’t try something so soon, or be able to summon up these pitiable gulps of sadness I’m hearing now?
Sympathy compels me to take a tentative step forward, and I find myself in a narrow gallery adorned with Hardcastle family portraits. Generations wither on the walls, the current incumbents of Blackheath hanging nearest the door. Lady Helena Hardcastle is sitting regally beside her standing husband, both of them dark-haired and dark-eyed, beautifully supercilious. Next to them are the portraits of the children, Evelyn at a window, fingering the edge of the curtain as she watches for somebody’s arrival, while Michael has one leg flung over the arm of the chair he’s sitting in, a book discarded on the floor. He looks bored, shimmering with a restless energy. In the corner of each portrait is a splashed signature; that of Gregory Gold if I’m not very much mistaken. The memory of the butler’s beating at the artist’s hands is still fresh and I find myself gripping my cane, tasting the blood in my mouth once again. Evelyn told me Gold had been brought to Blackheath to touch up the portraits and I can see why. The man may be insane, but he’s talented.
Another sob issues from the corner of the room.
There are no windows in the gallery, only burning oil lamps, and it’s so dim I have to squint to locate the maid slumped in the shadows, weeping into a soggy handkerchief. Tact would advise that I approach quietly, but Ravencourt’s ill designed for stealth. My cane raps the floor, the sound of my breathing running on ahead, announcing my presence. Catching sight of me, the maid leaps to her feet, her cap coming loose, curly red hair springing free.
I recognise her immediately. This is Lucy Harper, the maid Ted Stanwin abused at lunch, and the woman who helped me down to the kitchen when I awoke as the butler. The memory of that kindness echoes within me, a warm rush of pity shaping the words in my mouth.
‘I’m sorry, Lucy, I didn’t mean to startle you,’ I say.
‘No, sir, it’s not... I shouldn’t...’ She casts around for some escape, miring herself further in etiquette.
‘I heard you crying,’ I say, attempting to push a sympathetic smile onto my face. It’s a difficult thing to achieve with somebody else’s mouth, especially when there’s so much flesh to move around.