‘Lead on, Herrington, old boy,’ he says magnanimously, unscrewing the cap and taking a hearty slug.
Shaking his head, Herrington gestures us out into the corridor, where Sutcliffe begins telling a boisterous joke at the top of his voice, his friend trying, unsuccessfully, to quieten him. They’re buffoons both, their good cheer possessing an arrogance that sets my teeth on edge. My host has little time for excess of any kind and would happily stride off ahead, but I do not want to walk these corridors alone. As a compromise, I follow two steps behind, far enough away that I don’t have to join the conversation, but close enough to give the footman pause should he be lurking nearby.
We’re met at the bottom of the stairs by somebody called Christopher Pettigrew, who turns out to be the oily chap Daniel was conferring with at dinner. He’s a thin man, built to sneer, with dark, greasy hair swept over to one side. He’s as stooping and sly as I remember, his gaze running its hands through my pockets before taking in my face. I wondered two nights ago if he might be a future host, but if so I must have given myself freely to his vices as he’s already soft with alcohol, happily taking up the bottle being shared between his chums. It never veers in my direction, meaning I never have to refuse. Clearly, Edward Dance stands apart from this rabble and I’m happy it’s so. They’re a queer bunch; friends certainly, but desperately so, like three men stranded on the same island. Thankfully, their good cheer fades the further we draw from the house, their laughter whipped away by the wind and rain, the bottle forced into a warm pocket along with the cold hand holding it.
‘Did anybody else get yapped at by Ravencourt’s poodle this morning?’ says the oily Pettigrew, who’s little more than a pair of deceitful eyes above a scarf at this point. ‘What’s his name again?’
He clicks his fingers trying to summon the memory.
‘Charles Cunningham,’ I say distantly, only half listening. Further along the path, I’m certain I saw somebody shadowing us in the trees. Just a flash, enough for doubt, except they appeared to be wearing a footman’s livery. My hand goes to my throat, and for an instant I feel his blade again.
Shuddering, I squint at the trees, trying to wring some use out of Dance’s awful eyes, but if it was my enemy, he’s gone now.
‘That’s the one, Charles bloody Cunningham,’ says Pettigrew.
‘Was he asking about Thomas Hardcastle’s murder?’ says Herrington, his face turned resolutely towards the wind, no doubt a habit of his naval background. ‘I heard he was up visiting Stanwin this morning, collared him first thing,’ he adds.
‘Damned impertinent,’ says Pettigrew. ‘What about you Dance, did he come sniffing around?’
‘Not that I’m aware,’ I say, still staring at the forest. We’re passing close to the spot where I thought I spotted the footman, but now I see the splash of colour is a red trail marker nailed to a tree. My imagination’s painting monsters in the woods.
‘What did Cunningham want?’ I say, reluctantly returning my attention to my companions.
‘It’s not him,’ says Pettigrew. ‘He was asking questions on behalf of Ravencourt, seems the fat old banker’s taken an interest in Thomas Hardcastle’s murder.’
That brings me up short. Of all the tasks I set Cunningham when I was Ravencourt, asking questions about Thomas Hardcastle’s murder wasn’t one of them. Whatever Cunningham’s doing, he’s using Ravencourt’s name to curry favour. Perhaps this is part of the secret he was so keen to keep me from revealing, the secret which still needs to find its way into an envelope beneath the chair in the library.
‘What sort of questions?’ I say, my interest kindled for the first time.
‘Kept asking me about the second killer, the one Stanwin said he clipped with his shotgun before he escaped,’ says Herrington, who’s tipping a hip flask to his lips. ‘Wanted to know if there were any rumours about who they were, any descriptions.’
‘Were there?’ I ask.
‘Never heard anything,’ says Herrington. ‘Wouldn’t have told him if I had. Sent him away with a flea in his ear.’
‘Not surprised Cecil’s got Cunningham on it though,’ adds Sutcliffe, scratching his whiskers. ‘He’s thick as thieves with every charwoman and gardener who ever took a shilling at Blackheath, probably knows more about this place than we do.’
‘How’s that?’ I ask.
‘He was living here when the murder happened,’ says Sutcliffe, glancing over his shoulder at me. ‘Just a boy back then, of course, bit older than Evelyn, as I remember. Rumour had it he was Peter’s bastard. Helena gave him to the cook to raise, or something like that. Never could work out who she was punishing.’
His voice is thoughtful, a rather strange sound coming from this shaggy, shapeless creature. ‘Pretty little thing that cook, lost her husband in the war,’ he muses. ‘The Hardcastles paid for the boy’s education, even got him the job with Ravencourt when he came of age.’
‘What’s Ravencourt want with a nineteen-year-old murder?’ asks Pettigrew.
‘Due diligence,’ says Herrington bluntly, stepping around horse manure. ‘Ravencourt’s buying a Hardcastle, he wants to know what baggage she’s bringing along.’
Their conversation swiftly frays into trivialities, but my thoughts remain fixed on Cunningham. Last night, he pressed a note into Derby’s hand that read ‘all of them’ and told me he was rounding up guests on behalf of a future host. That would suggest I can trust him, but he clearly has his own agenda in Blackheath. I know he’s Peter Hardcastle’s illegitimate son, and that he’s asking questions about the murder of his half-brother. Somewhere between those two facts is a secret he’s so desperate to keep, he’s allowed himself to be blackmailed with it.
I grit my teeth. For once, it would be refreshing to find somebody in this place who was exactly what they appeared to be.
Passing the cobbled path towards the stables, we push south along the never-ending road into the village, before finally coming upon the gatehouse. One by one we fill the narrow corridor, hanging our coats and shaking the rain free of our clothes while complaining about the conditions outside.
‘Through here, chaps,’ says a voice from behind a door on our right.
We follow the voice into a gloomy sitting room lit by an open fire, where Lord Peter Hardcastle is sitting in an armchair near the window. He has one leg flung across the other, a book flat on his lap. He’s somewhat older than his portrait suggested, though still broad chested and fit-looking. Dark eyebrows slide towards each other in a V-shape, pointing towards a long nose and mopey mouth curved downwards at the edges. A ragged spectre of beauty suggests itself, but his stash of splendour has almost run dry.
‘Why the hell are we meeting all the way out here?’ asks Pettigrew grumpily, dropping into a chair. ‘You’ve a perfectly good...’ – he waves in the direction of Blackheath – ‘well, you’ve got something that resembles a house down the road.’
‘That damn house has been a curse on this family ever since I was a boy,’ says Peter Hardcastle, pouring drinks into five glasses. ‘I won’t set foot inside until it’s absolutely necessary.’
‘Perhaps you should have thought of that before throwing history’s most tasteless party,’ says Pettigrew. ‘Do you really intend on announcing Evelyn’s engagement on the anniversary of your own son’s murder?’
‘Do you think any of this is my idea?’ asks Hardcastle, slamming the bottle down and glaring at Pettigrew. ‘Do you think I want to be here?’
‘Easy, Peter,’ soothes Sutcliffe, shambling over to awkwardly pat his friend’s shoulder. ‘Christopher’s grumpy because, well, he’s Christopher.’