Hardcastle looks bewildered.
‘I don’t, though I must confess Evelyn and I haven’t spoken much since her return. The circumstances of her arrival, the marriage... they’ve put a barrier between us. It’s peculiar Michael wasn’t able to tell you more, though. They’ve been inseparable since she came back, and I know he visited often and wrote frequently while Evelyn was in Paris. I would expect him to know this Felicity, if anybody does.’
‘I’ll talk to him again, but the letter was correct, was it not? Helena has been acting oddly?’
The record catches on the gramophone, the soaring violin solo yanked back to earth over and over again, like a kite in a child’s overeager hands.
Peter glances at it, frowning, hoping his dissatisfaction alone will right it. Defeated, he moves to the gramophone, lifting the needle, blowing dust from the record and holding it up to the light.
‘It’s scratched,’ he says, with a shake of the head.
He replaces the record, new music taking flight.
‘Tell me about Helena,’ I nudge. ‘It was her idea to announce the engagement on the anniversary of Thomas’s death and throw the party in Blackheath, wasn’t it?’
‘She’s never forgiven Evelyn for abandoning Thomas that morning,’ he says, watching the record spin. ‘I confess, I thought the years might dull her pain, but’ – he spreads his arms – ‘all this, it’s so...’ He breathes deeply, composing himself. ‘Helena means to embarrass Evelyn, I admit. She calls the marriage a punishment, but it’s a rather fine match, if you look at the details. Ravencourt won’t lay a finger on Evelyn, told me as much himself. “I’m too old for all that” is what he said. She’ll have the run of his homes, nice allowance, any life she chooses, so long as it doesn’t embarrass him. In return, he’ll get... well, you know the rumours about his valets. Good-looking chaps coming and going at all hours. Scandalmongering is all it is, but the marriage will put a stop to it.’ He pauses, his stare defiant. ‘You see, Dance? Why would Helena arrange all of this if she meant to kill Evelyn? She wouldn’t, she couldn’t. Beneath it all, she loves Evelyn. Not well, I admit, but well enough. She needs to feel as if Evelyn has been thoroughly punished, and then she’ll start making it up to her. You’ll see. Helena will come around, and Evelyn will realise this marriage is a blessing in disguise. Believe me, you’re barking up the wrong tree.’
‘I still need to speak with your wife, Peter.’
‘My organiser’s in the drawer; it has her appointments in it.’ He laughs grimly. ‘Our marriage is one of overlapping duties these days, but it should tell you where to find her.’
I rush to the drawer, unable to contain my excitement.
Somebody in the house, possibly Helena herself, tore these appointments from her day-planner to conceal her activities. Whoever did it either forgot, or didn’t know, that her husband kept his own copy, and now they’re in my hands. Here and now, we might finally discover what was worth all the trouble.
The drawer is stiff, swollen with damp. It comes open grudgingly, revealing a moleskin book held fast with string. Flipping through the pages, I quickly find Helena’s appointments, my ebullience draining out of me immediately. Most of them I already know about. Helena met with Cunningham at 7:30 a.m., though there’s no indication why. After that she arranged to see Evelyn at 8:15 a.m. and Millicent Derby at 9 a.m., both of which she missed. She has a meeting with the stablemaster at 11:30 a.m., which is in an hour’s time, and then she’s expected in Ravencourt’s parlour early this afternoon.
She won’t attend.
My finger roams the schedule, searching for something suspicious. Evelyn and Ravencourt I know about, and Millicent was an old friend, so that’s understandable, but what could be so urgent she’d need to see her husband’s bastard son first thing in the morning?
He refused to tell me when I asked, but he’s the only person who’s seen Helena Hardcastle today, which means I can no longer tolerate his evasions.
I must have the truth out of him.
Before that, I need to visit the stables.
For the first time, I know where the elusive lady of the house is going to be.
‘Do you know why Helena met Charles Cunningham this morning?’ I ask Peter, as I replace the organiser in the drawer.
‘Likely Helena wanted to say hello,’ he says, pouring himself another drink. ‘She was always close to the boy.’
‘Is Charles Cunningham the reason Stanwin’s blackmailing you?’ I ask. ‘Does Stanwin know he’s your son?’
‘Come now, Dance!’ he says, glaring at me.
I meet his gaze, my host’s too. Dance is slipping apologies onto my tongue, urging me to flee the room. It’s a bloody nuisance. Every time I open my mouth to speak, I have to force aside another man’s embarrassment first.
‘You know me, Peter, so you know what it takes for me to ask such a thing,’ I say. ‘I must have all the pieces of this nasty business to hand.’
He considers this, returning to the window with his drink. Not that there’s much to see. The trees have grown so close to the house the branches are pressed right up against the glass. Judging by Peter’s demeanour, he’d invite them inside now if he could.
‘Charles Cunningham’s parentage isn’t why I’m being blackmailed,’ he says. ‘That nugget of scandal was on every society page at one time, Helena made sure of it. There’s no money in it.’
‘Then what is it Stanwin knows?’
‘I need your word it won’t go any further,’ he says.
‘Of course,’ I say, my pulse quickening.
‘Well’ – he takes a fortifying sip of his drink – ‘before Thomas was murdered, Helena was having an affair with Charlie Carver.’
‘The man who murdered Thomas?’ I exclaim, sitting a little straighter in my chair.
‘They call this sort of thing cuckolding, don’t they?’ he says, standing stiff at the window. ‘In my case it’s an unusually perfect metaphor. He took my son from me and left his own child in my nest instead.’
‘His own child?’
‘Cunningham isn’t my illegitimate child, Dance. He’s my wife’s. Charlie Carver was his father.’
‘That blackguard!’ I exclaim, temporarily losing control of Dance, whose outrage mirrors my shock. ‘How on earth did this happen?’
‘Carver and Helena loved each other,’ he says ruefully. ‘Our marriage was never... I had the name, Helena’s family had the money. It was convenient, necessary one might say, but there was no affection. Carver and Helena grew up together, his father was the gamekeeper on her family’s estate. She kept their relationship from me, but brought Carver to Blackheath when we married. I’m sorry to say my indiscretions got back to her, our marriage faltered, and a year or so later she fell into Carver’s bed, becoming pregnant soon after.’
‘But you didn’t raise Cunningham as your own?’
‘No, she led me to believe it was mine during the pregnancy, but couldn’t be certain herself who the real father was, as I’d continued to... well, a man’s needs are... you understand?’
‘I believe I do,’ I say coldly, remembering the love and respect that governed Dance’s marriage for so long.
‘Anyway, I was out hunting when Cunningham was born, so she had the midwife smuggle him out of the house to be nursed in the village. When I returned, I was told the child died during the delivery, but six months later, when she was certain he didn’t look too much like Carver, the baby turned up on our doorstep, carried by some wench I’d had the misfortune to spend time with in London, who was happy enough to take my wife’s money and pretend it was mine. Helena played the victim, insisting we take the boy in, and to my shame I agreed. We handed the child to the cook, Mrs Drudge, who raised him as her own. Believe it or not, we actually managed to find several peaceful years after that. Evelyn, Thomas and Michael were born in short order, and for a while we were a happy family.’