It wouldn’t work.
‘I know,’ I mutter ruefully.
Bell’s first thought would be that I’d escaped from the madhouse, and when he finally realised it was all true, his investigation would change the day completely. Much as I want to help him, I’m too close to my answer to risk unravelling this loop.
Bell will have to do this alone.
An arm catches my elbow, Christopher Pettigrew appearing beside me with a plate in his hand. I’ve never been this near to him before, and if it weren’t for Dance’s impeccable manners, my disgust would be plain on my face. Up close, he looks like something recently dug up.
‘Soon be rid of him,’ says Pettigrew, nodding over my shoulder towards Ted Stanwin, who’s picking at the cold cuts on the dining table, while watching his fellow guests through narrowed eyes. His disgust is obvious.
Until this moment, I’d always taken him for a simple bully, but it’s more than that I see now. His business is blackmail, which means he knows every secret and hidden shame, every possible scandal and perversity lapping around this house. Worse, he knows who got away with what. He despises everybody in Blackheath, including himself for protecting their secrets, so he spends every day picking fights to make himself feel better.
Somebody pushes by me, a confused Charles Cunningham arriving from the library with Ravencourt’s letter in his hand, while the maid Lucy Harper clears away plates, oblivious to the events brewing around her. With a pang, I realise that she looks a little like my dead wife Rebecca. In her younger days, of course. There’s a similarity of movement, a gentleness of action, as though...
Rebecca wasn’t your wife.
‘Dammit, Dance,’ I say, shaking myself free of him.
‘Sorry, didn’t catch that, old man,’ says Pettigrew, frowning at me.
Flushing with embarrassment, I open my mouth to respond, but I’m distracted by poor Lucy Harper as she tries to squeeze past Stanwin to fetch an empty plate. She’s prettier than I recall, freckled and blue-eyed, trying to tuck her wild red hair back under her cap.
‘’Scuse me, Ted,’ she says.
‘Ted?’ he says angrily, grabbing her wrist and squeezing hard enough to make her wince. ‘Who the hell do you think you’re talking to, Lucy? It’s Mr Stanwin to you, I’m not downstairs with the rats any more.’
Shocked and afraid, she searches our faces for help.
Unlike Sebastian Bell, Dance is a keen observer of human nature and, watching this scene play out before me, I’m struck by something queer. When I first witnessed this moment, I’d taken note only of Lucy’s fear at being manhandled, but she isn’t merely afraid, she’s surprised. Upset even. And rather oddly, so is Stanwin.
‘Let her go, Ted,’ says Daniel Coleridge from the doorway.
The rest of the confrontation goes as I remember, Stanwin retreating, Daniel collecting Bell and taking him through into the study to meet Michael, offering me a small nod of acknowledgement along the way.
‘Shall we go?’ asks Pettigrew. ‘I suspect our entertainment is at an end.’
I’m tempted to search for Stanwin, but I have no desire to climb those stairs and make my way into the east wing when I know for certain he’s coming on this hunt. Better to wait for him here, I decide.
Shouldering our way through the scandalised throng, we pass through the entrance hall and out onto the driveway to find Sutcliffe already waiting, along with Herrington and a couple of other chaps I don’t recognise. Dark clouds are clambering atop one another, pregnant with a storm I’ve now seen batter Blackheath half a dozen times. The hunters are huddled in a pack, holding onto their hats and jackets as the wind tugs at them with a thousand thieving hands. Only the dogs seem eager, straining at their leads and barking into the gloom. It’s going to be a miserable afternoon and the knowledge that I’m going to be striding into it only makes things worse.
‘What ho?’ says Sutcliffe upon our approach, the shoulders of his jacket dusted with dandruff.
Herrington nods at us, trying to scrape something unpleasant off his shoes. ‘Did you see Daniel Coleridge’s little showdown with Stanwin?’ he asks. ‘I think we’ve backed the right horse after all.’
‘We’ll see,’ says Sutcliffe darkly. ‘Where’s Daniel gone, anyway?’
I look around, but Daniel’s nowhere to be seen and all I can offer in reply is a shrug.
Gamekeepers are handing out shotguns to those who haven’t brought their own, including me. Mine’s been polished and oiled, the barrels are cracked open to display the two red shells stuffed in the cylinders. The others seem to have some experience with firearms, immediately checking the sights by aiming at imaginary targets in the sky, but Dance does not share their enthusiasm for the pursuit, leaving me somewhat at a loss. After watching me fiddle with the shotgun for some minutes, the impatient gamekeeper shows me how to settle it across my forearm, handing me a box of shells and moving on to the next man.
I must admit the gun makes me feel better. All day I’ve felt eyes upon me, and I’ll be glad of a weapon when the forest surrounds me. No doubt the footman’s waiting to catch me alone, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to make it easy for him.
Appearing out of nowhere, Michael Hardcastle is by our side, blowing warm breaths into his hands.
‘Sorry for the delay, gentlemen,’ he says. ‘My father sends his apologies, but something’s come up. He’s asked us to press on ahead without him.’
‘And what should we do if we spot Bell’s dead woman?’ asks Pettigrew sarcastically.
Michael scowls at him. ‘A little Christian charity, please,’ he says. ‘The doctor’s been through a lot.’
‘Five bottles at least,’ says Sutcliffe, bringing guffaws from everybody except Michael. Catching the younger man’s withering look, he throws his hands up in the air. ‘Oh, come, Michael, you saw the state he was in last night. You can’t believe we’re actually going to find anything? Nobody’s missing, the man’s raving.’
‘Bell wouldn’t make this up,’ says Michael. ‘I saw his arm, somebody cut him to ribbons out there.’
‘Probably fell over his own bottle,’ snorts Pettigrew, rubbing his hands together for warmth.
We’re interrupted by the gamekeeper, who hands Michael a black revolver. Aside from a long scratch down the barrel, it’s identical to the gun Evelyn will carry into the graveyard tonight, one of the pair taken from Helena Hardcastle’s bedroom.
‘Oiled it for you, sir,’ says the gamekeeper, tipping his cap and moving off.
Michael slips the weapon into the holster at his waist, resuming our conversation, quite oblivious to my interest.
‘I don’t see why everybody’s taking it so hard,’ he continues. ‘This hunt’s been arranged for days, we’re merely going in a different direction than originally intended, that’s all. If we spot something, very well. If not, we’ve lost nothing in setting the doctor’s mind at rest.’
A few expectant glances are cast my way, Dance usually being the deciding voice in these matters. I’m spared having to comment by the barking dogs, who’ve been given a little lead by the gamekeepers and are now tugging our company across the lawn towards the forest.
Looking back towards Blackheath, I search out Bell. He’s framed by the study window, his body half obscured by the red velvet drapes. In this light, at this distance, there’s something of the spectre about him, though in this case I suppose the house is haunting him.