It’s only after I’ve been assaulted by the chaos, that I begin to see Anna’s attempt to bring order. Using a pencil, she’s diligently written notes for herself near the entries. Guesses have been made, times noted down, our conversations recorded and cross-referenced with those in the book, teasing out the useful information contained within.
‘I doubt you’ll be able to do much with it,’ says Anna, watching me struggle. ‘One of your hosts gave it to me. Might as well be written in another language. A lot of it doesn’t make any sense, but I’ve been adding to it, using it to keep track of your comings and goings. This is everything I know about you. Every host, everything they’ve done. It’s the only way I can keep up, but it’s not complete. There are holes. That’s why I need you to show me the best time to approach Bell.’
‘Bell, why?’
‘This footman is looking for me, so we’re going to tell him exactly where I’ll be,’ she says, writing a note on a loose piece of paper. ‘We’ll gather some of your other hosts and be waiting for him when he gets his knife out.’
‘And how are we going to trap him?’ I say.
‘With this’ – she hands me the note. ‘If you tell me about Bell’s day, I can make sure to put it somewhere he’ll find it. Once I mention it in the kitchen, the meeting will be up and down the house in an hour. The footman’s sure to hear of it.’
Don’t leave Blackheath, more lives than your own are depending on you. Meet me by the mausoleum in the family graveyard at 10:20 p.m. and I’ll explain everything.
Love, Anna
I’m transported back to that evening, when Evelyn and Bell stalked into the dank graveyard, revolver in hand, finding only shadows and a shattered compass covered in blood.
As omens go, it’s not reassuring, but it’s not definitive either. It’s another piece of the future come loose from the whole, and until I get there, I’ll have no idea what it means.
Anna’s waiting for my reaction, but my unease isn’t sufficient reason for objection.
‘Have you seen how this ends, does it work?’ she asks, fingering the hem of her sleeve nervously.
‘I don’t know, but it’s the best plan we have,’ I say.
‘We’re going to need help, and you’re running short of hosts.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll find it.’
I pull a fountain pen from my pocket, adding one more line to the message, something to spare poor Bell a great deal of frustration.
Oh, and don’t forget your gloves, they’re burning.
37
I hear the horses before I see them, dozens of shoes clopping along the cobblestones ahead of me. Not far behind is their smell, a musty odour mingled with the stench of manure, a thick rolling mix even the wind can’t disturb. Only after I’ve been assaulted by their impression do I finally come upon the animals themselves, thirty or so being led out of the stables and up the main road towards the village, carriages harnessed to their backs.
Stable hands are guiding them on foot, their uniform flat caps, white shirts and loose grey trousers rendering them as indistinguishable from each other as the horses in their care.
I’m watching the hooves nervously. In a flash of memory, I recall being thrown from a horse as a boy, the beast’s hooves catching me in the chest, my bones cracking...
Don’t let Dance get a grip on you.
I tear myself free of my host’s memories, lowering the hand which had instinctively gone to the scar on my chest.
It’s getting worse.
Bell’s personality rarely surfaced at all, but between Derby’s lust and Dance’s manners and childhood traumas, it’s becoming difficult to keep a straight course.
A few horses in the middle of the mass are nipping at those to the side of them, a ripple of agitation passing through the muscular brown tide. It’s enough for me to take an ill-advised step off the road, straight into a pile of manure.
I’m flicking the filth free when one of the stable hands peels away from the pack.
‘Something I can help you with, Mr Dance?’ he says, tipping his cap at me.
‘You know me?’ I say, surprised by this recognition.
‘Sorry, sir, name’s Oswald, sir, I saddled the stallion you rode yesterday. Fine thing, sir, seeing a gentleman on a horse. Not many know how to ride that way any more.’
He smiles, showing off two rows of gappy teeth stained brown with tobacco.
‘Of course, of course,’ I say, the passing horses nudging him in the back. ‘Actually, Oswald, I was looking for Lady Hardcastle. She was supposed to be meeting Alf Miller, the stablemaster.’
‘Not sure ’bout her ladyship, sir, but you’ve just missed Alf. Left with somebody about ten minutes gone. Heading to the lake, best I could tell, took the path alongside the paddock. It’s on your right as you pass under the arch, sir, you can probably still catch them if you hurry.’
‘Thank you, Oswald.’
‘Of course, sir.’
Tipping his cap again, he falls in with the pack.
Keeping to the edge of the road, I carry on towards the stables, the loose cobbles slowing me down considerably. In my other hosts, I simply leapt aside when one slid beneath me. Dance’s old legs aren’t nimble enough for that, and every time one wobbles under my weight, it twists my ankles and knees, threating to tip me over.
Vexed, I pass beneath the arch to find oats, hay and smashed fruit littering the courtyard, a boy doing his best to sweep the debris into the corners. He’d probably have more luck if he wasn’t half the size of the brush. He peeks at me shyly as I pass, trying to doff his cap but only succeeding in losing it to the wind. The last I see of him, he’s chasing it across the yard as though all his dreams were stuffed inside.
The path nestled alongside the paddock is little more than a muddy trail rotten with puddles, and my trousers are already filthy by the time I’m halfway along. Twigs are cracking, rain dripping from the plants. I have the sense of being watched, and though there’s nothing to suggest it’s anything more than nerves, I swear I can feel a presence among the trees, a pair of eyes dogging my steps. I can only hope I’m mistaken, because if the footman does spring onto the path, I’m too weak to fight and too slow to run. The rest of my life will be precisely how long it takes him to pick a way of killing me.
Seeing no sign of the stablemaster or Lady Hardcastle, I sacrifice my deportment completely, splattering mud up my back as I break into a worried trot.
The trail soon veers away from the paddock and into the forest, that sense of being watched only growing as I move further away from the stables. Brambles snatch at my clothes as I push through, until finally I hear the murmur of approaching voices and the lapping of water against the shore. Relief overwhelms me, and I realise I’ve been holding my breath this entire time. We’re face to face in two steps, though it’s not Lady Hardcastle I find accompanying the stablemaster, but rather Cunningham, Ravencourt’s valet. He’s wearing a thick coat and the long purple scarf he’ll struggle to tug loose when he interrupts Ravencourt speaking with Daniel.
The banker must be asleep in the library. Their alarm at bumping into me suggests they were discussing far more than mere gossip.
It’s Cunningham who recovers first, smiling amiably.
‘Mr Dance, what a pleasant surprise,’ he says. ‘What brings you out on this foul morning?’
‘I was looking for Helena Hardcastle,’ I say, glancing from Cunningham to the stablemaster. ‘I was under the impression she was taking a walk with Mr Miller here.’
‘No, sir,’ says Miller, kneading his cap between his hands. ‘Supposed to be meeting at my cottage, sir. I’m on my way there now.’