I glare at him from the floor, but he’s already on his way out. Passing into the corridor, he nods to his companion who steps into the room. He looks at me without emotion, peeling off his jacket.
‘On your feet, lad,’ he says. ‘Sooner we get started, sooner it’ll be over.’
Somehow, he seems even bigger than he did at the door. His chest is a shield, his arms straining the seams of his white shirt. Terror takes hold of me as he closes the distance between us, my fingers searching blindly for a weapon and finding the heavy chessboard on the table.
Without thinking, I hurl it at him.
Time seems to hang as the chessboard turns in the air, an impossible object in flight, my future clinging onto its surface for dear life. Evidently, fate has a soft spot for me because it hits his face with a sickening crunch, sending him reeling backwards into the wall with a muffled cry.
I’m on my feet as the blood pours between his fingers, sprinting down the corridor with Stanwin’s angry voice at my back. A quick glance behind me reveals Stanwin’s halfway out of the reception room, his face red with rage. Fleeing down the staircase, I follow the burble of voices into the drawing room, which is now full of red-eyed guests digging into their breakfasts. Doctor Dickie’s guffawing with Michael Hardcastle and Clifford Herrington, the naval officer I met at dinner, while Cunningham piles food onto the silver platter that will greet Ravencourt when he wakes up.
A sudden quieting of chatter tells me Stanwin’s approaching, and I slip through into the study, hiding behind the door. I’m half hysterical, my heart beating hard enough to shatter my ribs. I want to laugh and cry, to pick up a weapon and throw myself at Stanwin, screaming. It’s taking all my concentration to stand still, but if I don’t, I’m going to lose this host and one more precious day.
Peering through the gap between the door and frame, I watch as Stanwin wrenches people around by the shoulder, searching for my face. Men stand aside for him, the powerful mumbling vague apologies as he approaches. Whatever his hold on these people, it’s complete enough that nobody takes umbrage at his manhandling of them. He could beat me to death in the middle of the carpet and they wouldn’t say a word about it. I’ll find no help here.
Something cold touches my fingers, and, looking down, I discover my hand has closed around a heavy cigarette box on a shelf.
Derby’s arming himself.
Hissing at him, I let it go and return my attention to the drawing room, almost crying out in shock.
Stanwin’s a few paces away, and he’s walking directly towards the study.
I look for places to hide, but there aren’t any, and I can’t flee into the library without passing the door he’s about to walk through. I’m trapped.
Picking up the cigarette box, I take a deep breath, preparing to pounce on him when he walks in.
Nobody appears.
Slipping back to the gap, I peek into the drawing room. He’s nowhere to be seen.
I’m shaking, uncertain. Derby isn’t built for indecision, he doesn’t have the patience, and before I know it, I’m creeping around the door to get a better view.
I immediately see Stanwin.
He has his back to me, and is talking to Doctor Dickie. I’m too far away to catch their conversation but it’s enough to propel the good doctor out of the room, presumably to tend to Stanwin’s stricken bodyguard.
He has sedatives.
The idea delivers itself fully formed.
I just need to get out of here without being seen.
A voice calls to Stanwin from near the table, and the moment he’s out of sight, I drop the cigarette case and flee into the gallery, taking the long way around to reach the entrance hall unseen.
I catch Doctor Dickie as he’s leaving his bedroom, his medical case swinging in his hand. He smiles as he sees me, that ridiculous moustache of his leaping about two inches up his face.
‘Ah, young Master Jonathan,’ he says cheerfully, as I fall into step beside him. ‘Everything well? You seem a little puffed.’
‘I’m fine,’ I say, hurrying to keep up with him. ‘Well, I’m not actually. I need a favour.’
His eyes narrow, the cheerful tone dropping out of his voice. ‘What have you done this time?’
‘The man you’re going to see, I need you to sedate him.’
‘Sedate him? Why the devil would I sedate him?’
‘Because he’s going to harm my mother.’
‘Millicent?’ He stops dead, grabbing me by the arm with a surprising amount of strength. ‘What’s all this about, Jonathan?’
‘She owes Stanwin money.’
His face falls, his grip loosening. Without his joviality inflating him, he seems a tired old thing, the lines on his face a little deeper, the sorrows less obscure. For a moment, I feel a little guilty about what I’m doing to him, but then I remember the look in his eyes when he sedated the butler, and all my doubts are wiped away.
‘So he has dear Millicent under his thumb, does he?’ he says, sighing. ‘Shouldn’t be surprised I suppose, the fiend’s got something on the lot of us. Still, I thought...’
He carries on walking, though slower than before. We’re at the top of the staircase leading down to the entrance hall, which is flooded with cold. The front door is open, a group of old men departing for a walk, taking their laughter with them.
I can’t see Stanwin anywhere.
‘So this fellow threatened your mother and you attacked him, eh?’ says Dickie, evidently having made up his mind. He beams at me, clapping me on the back. ‘I see there’s some of your father in you, after all. But how will sedating this ruffian help?’
‘I need a chance to talk with Mother before he gets to her.’
For all Derby’s faults, he’s an accomplished liar, the deceits queuing in orderly fashion on his tongue. Doctor Dickie’s silent, rolling the story around his head, kneading it into shape as we cross into the abandoned east wing.
‘I’ve got just the thing, should put the blighter out for the rest of the afternoon,’ he says, clicking his fingers. ‘You wait here, I’ll signal when it’s done.’
Squaring his shoulders and puffing out his chest, he strides towards Stanwin’s bedroom, the old soldier given one last battle to fight.
It’s too exposed in the corridor and once Dickie’s out of sight, I step through the nearest door, my reflection staring back at me from a cracked mirror. Yesterday, I couldn’t have imagined anything worse than being stuck inside Ravencourt, but Derby’s an entirely different torment – a restless, malevolent imp scurrying between tragedies of his own devising. I can’t wait to be free of him.
Ten minutes later, the floorboards creak outside.
‘Jonathan,’ whispers Doctor Dickie. ‘Jonathan, where are you?’
‘Here,’ I say, poking my head outside.
He’s already passed the room, and jumps at the sound of my voice.
‘Gently, young man, the old ticker, you know,’ he says, tapping his chest. ‘Cerberus is asleep and will be for most of the day. Now, I’m going to deliver my prognosis to Mr Stanwin. I suggest you use this time to hide yourself somewhere he won’t find you. Argentina, perhaps. Good luck to you.’
He stands to attention, offering me a sharp salute. I throw one back at him, earning a pat on the shoulder before he saunters off down the corridor, whistling tunelessly.
I rather suspect I’ve made his day, but I have no intention of hiding. Stanwin is going to be distracted by Dickie for a few minutes at least, giving me a chance to search his belongings for Evelyn’s letter.
Crossing the reception room previously guarded by Stanwin’s bodyguard, I open the door into the blackmailer’s bedroom. It’s a desolate place, the floorboards barely covered by a threadbare rug, a single iron bed pushed against the wall, flakes of white paint clinging stubbornly to the rust. The only comforts are a starving fire spitting ash and a small bedside table with two dog-eared books on it. As promised, Stanwin’s man is asleep on the bed, looking for all the world like a monstrous marionette with all of its strings cut. His face is bandaged and he’s snoring loudly, his fingers twitching. I can only imagine he’s dreaming of my neck.