LongBench v2 / 670bf6ddbb02136c067d2379 / Please try to deduce the true story based on the evidence currently known. Who…

THE SEVEN DEATHS OF
EVELYN HARDCASTLE


To my parents, who gave me everything and asked for nothing.
My sister, first and fiercest of my readers from the bumblebees
onwards. And my wife, whose love, encouragement, and
reminders to look up from my keyboard once in a while, made
this book so much more than I thought it could be.


CONTENTS
One: Day One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine: Day Two
Ten: Day Three
Eleven: Day Four
Twelve
Thirteen: Day Two (continued)
Fourteen: Day Four (continued)
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One: Day Two (continued)
Twenty-Two: Day Five
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven: Day Two (continued)
Twenty-Eight: Day Five (continued)
Twenty-Nine


Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two: Day Six
Thirty-Three: Day Two (continued)
Thirty-Four: Day Six (continued)
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine: Day Two (continued)
Forty: Day Six (continued)
Forty-One
Forty-Two: Day Two (continued)
Forty-Three: Day Seven
Forty-Four
Forty-Five
Forty-Six
Forty-Seven
Forty-Eight
Forty-Nine
Fifty
Fifty-One
Fifty-Two: Day Three (continued)
Fifty-Three: Day Eight
Fifty-Four
Fifty-Five
Fifty-Six
Fifty-Seven: Day Two (continued)
Fifty-Eight: Day Eight (continued)
Fifty-Nine
Sixty


Acknowledgements
A Note on the Author




 
You are cordially invited to Blackheath House for
The Masquerade
Introducing your hosts, the Hardcastle family
Lord Peter Hardcastle & Lady Helena Hardcastle
&
Their son, Michael Hardcastle
Their daughter, Evelyn Hardcastle
-Notable Guests-
Edward Dance, Christopher Pettigrew & Philip Sutcliffe,
family solicitors
Grace Davies & her brother, Donald Davies, socialites
Commander Clifford Herrington, naval officer (retired)
Millicent Derby & her son, Jonathan Derby, socialites
Daniel Coleridge, professional gambler
Lord Cecil Ravencourt, banker
Jim Rashton, police officer
Dr Richard (Dickie) Acker
Dr Sebastian Bell
Ted Stanwin


 
 
-Principal household staff-
The butler, Roger Collins
The cook, Mrs Drudge
First maid, Lucy Harper
Stablemaster, Alf Miller
Artist in residence, Gregory Gold
Lord Ravencourt’s valet, Charles Cunningham
Evelyn Hardcastle’s lady’s maid, Madeline Aubert
 
We ask all guests to kindly refrain from discussing
Thomas Hardcastle and Charlie Carver, as the tragic
events surrounding them still grieve the family greatly
 


1
Day One
I forget everything between footsteps.
‘Anna!’ I finish shouting, snapping my mouth shut in
surprise.
My mind has gone blank. I don’t know who Anna is or why
I’m calling her name. I don’t even know how I got here. I’m
standing in a forest, shielding my eyes from the spitting rain.
My heart’s thumping, I reek of sweat and my legs are shaking.
I must have been running but I can’t remember why.
‘How did—’ I’m cut short by the sight of my own hands.
They’re bony, ugly. A stranger’s hands. I don’t recognise them
at all.
Feeling the first touch of panic, I try to recall something else
about myself: a family member, my address, age, anything, but
nothing’s coming. I don’t even have a name. Every memory I
had a few seconds ago is gone.
My throat tightens, breaths coming loud and fast. The forest
is spinning, black spots inking my sight.
Be calm.
‘I can’t breathe,’ I gasp, blood roaring in my ears as I sink
to the ground, my fingers digging into the dirt.
You can breathe, you just need to calm down.
There’s comfort in this inner voice, cold authority.
Close your eyes, listen to the forest. Collect yourself.
Obeying the voice, I squeeze my eyes shut but all I can hear
is my own panicked wheezing. For the longest time it crushes
every other sound, but slowly, ever so slowly, I work a hole in
my fear, allowing other noises to break through. Raindrops are
tapping the leaves, branches rustling overhead. There’s a
stream away to my right and crows in the trees, their wings
cracking the air as they take flight. Something’s scurrying in
the undergrowth, the thump of rabbit feet passing near enough


to touch. One by one I knit these new memories together until
I’ve got five minutes of past to wrap myself in. It’s enough to
staunch the panic, at least for now.
I get to my feet clumsily, surprised by how tall I am, how
far from the ground I seem to be. Swaying a little, I wipe the
wet leaves from my trousers, noticing for the first time that
I’m wearing a dinner jacket, the shirt splattered with mud and
red wine. I must have been at a party. My pockets are empty
and I don’t have a coat, so I can’t have strayed too far. That’s
reassuring.
Judging by the light, it’s morning, so I’ve probably been out
here all night. No one gets dressed up to spend an evening
alone, which means somebody must know I’m missing by
now. Surely, beyond these trees, a house is coming awake in
alarm, search parties striking out to find me? My eyes roam
the trees, half-expecting to see my friends emerging through
the foliage, pats on the back and gentle jokes escorting me
back home, but daydreams won’t deliver me from this forest,
and I can’t linger here hoping for rescue. I’m shivering, my
teeth chattering. I need to start walking, if only to keep warm,
but I can’t see anything except trees. There’s no way to know
whether I’m moving towards help, or blundering away from it.
At a loss, I return to the last concern of the man I was.
‘Anna!’
Whoever this woman is, she’s clearly the reason I’m out
here, but I can’t picture her. Perhaps she’s my wife, or my
daughter? Neither feels right, and yet there’s a pull in the
name. I can feel it trying to lead my mind somewhere.
‘Anna!’ I shout, more out of desperation than hope.
‘Help me!’ a woman screams back.
I spin, seeking the voice, dizzying myself, glimpsing her
between distant trees, a woman in a black dress running for
her life. Seconds later, I spot her pursuer crashing through the
foliage after her.
‘You there, stop,’ I yell, but my voice is weak and weary;
they trample it underfoot.


Shock pins me in place, and the two of them are almost out
of sight by the time I give chase, flying after them with a haste
I’d never have thought possible from my aching body. Even
so, no matter how hard I run, they’re always a little ahead.
Sweat pours off my brow, my already weak legs growing
heavier until they give out, sending me sprawling into the dirt.
Scrambling through the leaves, I heave myself up in time to
meet her scream. It floods the forest, sharp with fear, and is cut
silent by a gunshot.
‘Anna!’ I call out desperately. ‘Anna!’
There’s no response, just the fading echo of the pistol’s
report.
Thirty seconds. That’s how long I hesitated when I first
spotted her and that’s how far away I was when she was
murdered. Thirty seconds of indecision, thirty seconds to
abandon somebody completely.
There’s a thick branch by my feet and, picking it up, I swing
it experimentally, comforted by the weight and rough texture
of the bark. It won’t do me very much good against a pistol,
but it’s better than investigating these woods with my hands in
the air. I’m still panting, still trembling after the run, but guilt
nudges me in the direction of Anna’s scream. Wary of making
too much noise, I brush aside the low-hanging branches,
searching for something I don’t really want to see.
Twigs crack to my left.
I stop breathing, listening fiercely.
The sound comes again, footsteps crunching over leaves and
branches, circling around behind me.
My blood runs cold, freezing me in place. I don’t dare look
over my shoulder.
The cracking of twigs moves closer, shallow breaths only a
little behind me. My legs falter, the branch dropping from my
hands.
I would pray, but I don’t remember the words.


Warm breath touches my neck. I smell alcohol and
cigarettes, the odour of an unwashed body.
‘East,’ a man rasps, dropping something heavy into my
pocket.
The presence recedes, his steps retreating into the woods as
I sag, pressing my forehead to the dirt, inhaling the smell of
wet leaves and rot, tears running down my cheeks.
My relief is pitiable, my cowardice lamentable. I couldn’t
even look my tormentor in the eye. What kind of man am I?
It’s some minutes before my fear thaws sufficiently for me
to move and even then I’m forced to lean against a nearby tree
to rest. The murderer’s gift jiggles in my pocket and dreading
what I might find I plunge my hand inside, withdrawing a
silver compass.
‘Oh!’ I say, surprised.
The glass is cracked and the metal scuffed, the initials SB
engraved on the underside. I don’t understand what they mean,
but the killer’s instructions were clear. I’m to use the compass
to head east.
I glance at the forest guiltily. Anna’s body must be near, but
I’m terrified of the killer’s reaction should I arrive upon it.
Perhaps that’s why I’m alive, because I didn’t come any
closer. Do I really want to test the limits of his mercy?
Assuming that’s what this is.
For the longest time, I stare at the compass’s quivering
needle. There’s not much I’m certain of any more, but I know
murderers don’t show mercy. Whatever game he’s playing, I
can’t trust his advice and I shouldn’t follow it, but if I don’t…
I search the forest again. Every direction looks the same, trees
without end beneath a sky filled with spite.
How lost do you have to be to let the devil lead you home?
This lost, I decide. Precisely this lost.
Easing myself off the tree, I lay the compass flat in my
palm. It yearns for north, so I point myself east, against the
wind and cold, against the world itself.


Hope has deserted me.
I’m a man in purgatory, blind to the sins that chased me
here.


2
The wind howls, the rain has picked up and is hammering
through the trees to bounce ankle high off the ground as I
follow the compass.
Spotting a flash of colour among the gloom, I wade towards
it, coming upon a red handkerchief hammered to a tree – the
relic of some long-forgotten child’s game I’d guess. I search
for another, finding it a few feet away, then another and
another. Stumbling between them, I make my way through the
murk until I reach the edge of the forest, the trees giving way
to the grounds of a sprawling Georgian manor house, its
redbrick façade entombed in ivy. As far as I can tell it’s
abandoned. The long gravel driveway leading to the front door
is covered in weeds, and the rectangle lawns either side of it
are marshland, their flowers left to wither in the verge.
I look for some sign of life, my gaze roaming the dark
windows until I spot a faint light on the first floor. It should be
a relief, yet still I hesitate. I have the sense of having stumbled
upon something sleeping, that uncertain light the heartbeat of a
creature vast and dangerous and still. Why else would a
murderer gift me this compass, if not to lead me into the jaws
of some greater evil?
It’s the thought of Anna that drives me to take the first step.
She lost her life because of those thirty seconds of indecision
and now I’m faltering again. Swallowing my nerves, I wipe
the rain from my eyes and cross the lawn, climbing the
crumbling steps to the front door. I hammer it with a child’s
fury, dashing the last of my strength on the wood. Something
terrible happened in that forest, something that can still be
punished if I can only rouse the occupants of the house.
Unfortunately, I cannot.
Despite beating myself limp against the door, nobody comes
to answer it.
Cupping my hands, I press my nose to the tall windows
either side, but the stained glass is thick with dirt, reducing
everything inside to a yellowy smudge. I bang on them with


my palm, stepping back to search the front of the house for
another way in. That’s when I notice the bell pull, the rusty
chain tangled in ivy. Wrenching it free, I give it a good yank
and keep going until something shifts behind the windows.
The door’s opened by a sleepy-looking fellow so
extraordinary in his appearance that for a moment we simply
stand there, gawping at each other. He’s short and crooked,
shrivelled by the fire that’s scarred half his face. Overlarge
pyjamas hang off a coat-hanger frame, a ratty brown dressing
gown clinging to his lopsided shoulders. He looks barely
human, a remnant of some prior species lost in the folds of our
evolution.
‘Oh, thank heavens, I need your help,’ I say, recovering
myself.
He looks at me, mouth agape.
‘Do you have a telephone?’ I try again. ‘We need to send for
the authorities.’
Nothing.
‘Don’t just stand there, you devil!’ I cry, shaking him by the
shoulders, before pushing past him into the entrance hall, my
jaw dropping as my gaze sweeps the room. Every surface is
glittering, the checked marble floor reflecting a crystal
chandelier adorned with dozens of candles. Framed mirrors
line the walls, a wide staircase with an ornate railing sweeping
up towards a gallery, a narrow red carpet flowing down the
steps like the blood of some slaughtered animal.
A door bangs at the rear of the room, and half a dozen
servants appear from deeper in the house, their arms laden
with pink and purple flowers, the scent just about covering the
smell of hot wax. All conversation stops when they notice the
nightmare panting by the door. One by one they turn towards
me, the hall holding its breath. Before long, the only sound is
the dripping of my clothes on their nice clean floor.
Plink.
Plink.
Plink.


‘Sebastian?’
A handsome blond fellow in a cricket sweater and linen
trousers is trotting down the staircase two steps at a time. He
looks to be in his early fifties, though age has left him
decadently rumpled rather than weary and worn. Keeping his
hands in his pockets, he crosses the floor towards me, cutting a
straight line through the silent servants, who part before him. I
doubt he even notices them so intent are his eyes upon me.
‘My dear man, what on earth happened to you?’ he asks,
concern crumpling his brow. ‘Last I saw—’
‘We must fetch the police,’ I say, clutching his forearm.
‘Anna’s been murdered.’
Shocked whispers spring up around us.
He frowns at me, casting a quick glance at the servants,
who’ve all taken a step closer.
‘Anna?’ he asks in a hushed voice.
‘Yes, Anna, she was being chased.’
‘By whom?’
‘Some figure in black, we must involve the police!’
‘Shortly, shortly, let’s go up to your room first,’ he soothes,
ushering me towards the staircase.
I don’t know if it’s the heat of the house, or the relief of
finding a friendly face, but I’m beginning to feel faint, and I
have to use the banister to keep from stumbling as we climb
the steps.
A grandfather clock greets us at the top, its mechanism
rusting, seconds turned to dust on its pendulum. It’s later than I
thought, almost 10:30 a.m.
Passages either side of us lead off into opposite wings of the
house, although the one into the east wing is blocked by a
velvet curtain that’s been hastily nailed to the ceiling, a small
sign pinned to the material proclaiming the area ‘under
decoration’.


Impatient to unburden myself of the morning’s trauma, I try
again to raise the issue of Anna, but my Samaritan silences me
with a conspiratorial shake of the head.
‘These damnable servants will smear your words up and
down the house in half a minute,’ he says, his voice low
enough to scoop off the floor. ‘Best we talk in private.’
He’s away from me in two strides, but I can barely walk in a
straight line, let alone keep pace.
‘My dear man, you look dreadful,’ he says, noticing that
I’ve fallen behind.
Supporting my arm, he guides me along the passage, his
hand at my back, fingers pressed against my spine. Though it’s
a simple gesture, I can feel his urgency as he leads me along a
gloomy corridor with bedrooms either side, maids dusting
inside. The walls must have been recently repainted for the
fumes are making my eyes water, further evidence of a hurried
restoration gathering as we progress along the passage.
Mismatched stain is splashed across the floorboards, rugs laid
down to try and muffle creaking joints. Wingback chairs have
been arranged to hide the cracks in the walls, while paintings
and porcelain vases attempt to lure the eye from crumbling
cornices. Given the extent of the decay, such concealment
seems a futile gesture. They’ve carpeted a ruin.
‘Ah, this is your bedroom, isn’t it?’ says my companion,
opening a door near the end of the corridor.
Cold air slaps me in the face, reviving me a little, but he
walks ahead to close the raised window it’s pouring through.
Following behind, I enter a pleasant room with a four-poster
bed sitting in the middle of the floor, its regal bearing only
slightly let down by the sagging canopy and threadbare
curtains, their embroidered birds flying apart at the seams. A
folding screen has been pulled across the left side of the room,
an iron bathtub visible through the gaps between the panels.
Other than that, furniture’s sparse – just a nightstand and a
large wardrobe near the window, both of them splintered and
faded. About the only personal item I can see is a King James


Bible on the nightstand, its cover worn through and pages dog-
eared.
As my Samaritan wrestles with the stiff window, I come to
stand beside him, the view momentarily driving all else from
my mind. Dense forest surrounds us, its green canopy
unbroken by either a village or a road. Without that compass,
without a murderer’s kindness, I’d never have found this
place, and yet I cannot shake the feeling that I’ve been lured
into a trap. After all, why kill Anna and spare myself, if there
wasn’t some grander plan behind it? What does this devil want
from me that he couldn’t take in the forest?
Slamming the window shut, my companion gestures to an
armchair next to a subdued fire, and, passing me a crisp white
towel from the cupboard, he sits down on the edge of the bed,
tossing one leg across the other.
‘Start at the beginning, old love,’ he says.
‘There isn’t time,’ I say, gripping the arm of the chair. ‘I’ll
answer all your questions in due course, but we must first call
for the police and search those woods! There’s a madman
loose.’
His eyes flicker across me, as though the truth of the matter
is to be found in the folds of my soiled clothing.
‘I’m afraid we can’t call anybody, there’s no line up here,’
he says, rubbing his neck. ‘But we can search the woods and
send a servant to the village should we find anything. How
long will it take you to change? You’ll need to show us where
it happened.’
‘Well…’ – I’m wringing the towel in my hands – ‘It’s
difficult, I was disorientated.’
‘Descriptions then,’ he says, hitching up a trouser leg,
exposing the grey sock at his ankle. ‘What did the murderer
look like?’
‘I never saw his face, he was wearing a heavy black coat.’
‘And this Anna?’


‘She was also wearing black,’ I say, heat rising into my
cheeks as I realise this is the extent of my information. ‘I…
well, I only know her name.’
‘Forgive me, Sebastian, I assumed she was a friend of
yours.’
‘No…’ I stammer. ‘I mean, perhaps. I can’t be certain.’
Hands dangling between his knees, my Samaritan leans
forward with a confused smile. ‘I’m missing something, I
think. How can you know her name, but not be certain—’
‘My memory is lost, dammit,’ I interrupt, the confession
thudding on the floor between us. ‘I can’t remember my own
name, let alone those of my friends.’
Scepticism billows up behind his eyes. I can’t blame him;
even to my ears, this all sounds absurd.
‘My memory has no bearing on what I witnessed,’ I insist,
clutching at the tatters of my credibility. ‘I saw a woman being
chased, she screamed and was silenced by a gunshot. We have
to search those woods!’
‘I see,’ he pauses, brushing some lint from a trouser leg. His
next words are offerings, carefully chosen and even more
carefully placed before me.
‘Is there a chance the two people you saw were lovers?
Playing a game in the woods, perhaps? The sound might have
been a branch cracking, even a starter’s pistol.’
‘No, no, she called for help, she was afraid,’ I say, my
agitation sending me leaping from the chair, the dirty towel
thrown on the floor.
‘Of course, of course,’ he says reassuringly, watching me
pace. ‘I do believe you, my dear fellow, but the police are so
precise about these things and they do delight in making their
betters look foolish.’
I stare at him helplessly, drowning in a sea of platitudes.
‘Her killer gave me this,’ I say, suddenly remembering the
compass, which I tug from my pocket. It’s smeared with mud,


forcing me to wipe it clean with my sleeve. ‘There are letters
on the back,’ I say, pointing a trembling finger towards them.
He views the compass through narrowed eyes, turning it
over in methodical fashion.
‘SB,’ he says slowly, looking up at me.
‘Yes!’
‘Sebastian Bell.’ He pauses, weighing my confusion.
‘That’s your name, Sebastian. These are your initials. This is
your compass.’
My mouth opens and closes, no sound coming out.
‘I must have lost it,’ I say, eventually. ‘Perhaps the killer
picked it up.’
‘Perhaps,’ he nods.
It’s his kindness that knocks the wind out of me. He thinks
I’m half mad, a drunken fool who spent the night in the forest
and came back raving. Yet instead of being angry, he pities
me. That’s the worst part. Anger’s solid, it has weight. You can
beat your fists against it. Pity’s a fog to become lost within.
I drop into the chair, my head cradled in my hands. There’s
a killer on the loose and I have no way of convincing him of
the danger.
A killer who showed you the way home?
‘I know what I saw,’ I say.
You don’t even know who you are.
‘I’m sure you do,’ says my companion, mistaking the nature
of my protest.
I stare at nothing, thinking only of a woman called Anna
lying dead in the forest.
‘Look, you rest here,’ he says, standing up. ‘I’ll ask around
the house, see if anybody’s missing. Maybe that will turn
something up.’
His tone is conciliatory, but matter of fact. Kind as he’s been
to me, I cannot trust his doubt will get anything done. Once


that door closes behind him, he’ll scatter a few half-hearted
questions among the staff, while Anna lies abandoned.
‘I saw a woman murdered,’ I say, getting to my feet wearily.
‘A woman I should have helped, and if I have to search every
inch of those woods to prove it, I’ll do so.’
He holds my gaze a second, his scepticism faltering in the
face of my certainty.
‘Where will you start?’ he asks. ‘There are thousands of
acres of forest out there, and for all your good intentions, you
could barely make it up the stairs. Whoever this Anna is, she’s
already dead and her murderer’s fled. Give me an hour to
gather a search party and ask my questions. Somebody in this
house must know who she is and where she went. We’ll find
her, I promise, but we have to do it the right way.’
He squeezes my shoulder.
‘Can you do as I ask? One hour, please.’
Objections choke me, but he’s right. I need to rest, to
recover my strength, and as guilty as I feel about Anna’s death,
I do not want to stalk into that forest alone. I barely made it
out of there the first time.
I submit with a meek nod of the head.
‘Thank you, Sebastian,’ he says. ‘A bath’s been run. Why
don’t you clean yourself up? I’ll send for the doctor and ask
my valet to lay out some clothes for you. Rest a little, we’ll
meet in the drawing room at lunchtime.’
I should ask after this place before he leaves, my purpose
here, but I’m impatient for him to start asking his questions so
we can get on with our search. Only one question seems
important now and he’s already opened the door by the time I
find the words to ask it.
‘Do I have any family in the house?’ I ask. ‘Anybody who
might be worried about me?’
He glances at me over his shoulder, wary with sympathy.
‘You’re a bachelor, old man. No family to speak of beyond
a dotty aunt somewhere with a hand on your purse strings. You


have friends, of course, myself among them, but whoever this
Anna is, you’ve never mentioned her to me. Truth be told,
until today, I’ve never even heard you say the name.’
Embarrassed, he turns his back on my disappointment and
disappears into the cold corridor, the fire flickering uncertainly
as the door closes behind him.


3
I’m out of my chair before the draught fades, pulling open the
drawers in my nightstand, searching for some mention of
Anna among my possessions, anything to prove that she isn’t
the product of a lurching mind. Unfortunately, the bedroom is
proving remarkably tight-lipped. Aside from a pocketbook
containing a few pounds, the only other personal item I come
across is a gold-embossed invitation, a guest list on the front
and a message on the back, written in an elegant hand.
Lord and Lady Hardcastle request the pleasure of your company at a
masquerade ball celebrating the return of their daughter, Evelyn, from
Paris. Celebrations will take place at Blackheath House over the second
weekend of September. Owing to Blackheath’s isolation, transport to the
house will be arranged for all of our guests from the nearby village of
Abberly.
The invitation is addressed to Doctor Sebastian Bell, a name
it takes me a few moments to recognise as my own. My
Samaritan mentioned it earlier, but seeing it written down,
along with my profession, is an altogether more unsettling
affair. I don’t feel like a Sebastian, let alone a doctor.
A wry smile touches my lips.
I wonder how many of my patients will stay loyal when I
approach them with my stethoscope on upside down.
Tossing the invitation back into the drawer, I turn my
attention to the Bible on the nightstand, flipping through its
well-thumbed pages. Paragraphs are underlined, random
words circled in red ink, though for the life of me I can’t make
sense of their significance. I’d been hoping to find an
inscription or a letter concealed inside, but the Bible’s empty
of wisdom. Clutching it in both hands, I make a clumsy
attempt at prayer, hoping to rekindle whatever faith I once
possessed, but the entire endeavour feels like foolishness. My
religion has abandoned me along with everything else.
The cupboard is next and though the pockets of my clothes
turn up nothing, I discover a steamer trunk buried beneath a
pile of blankets. It’s a beautiful old thing, the battered leather
wrapped in tarnished iron bands, a heavy clasp protecting the
contents from prying eyes. A London address – my address


presumably – is written in the slip, though it stirs no
recollection.
Taking off my jacket, I heave the trunk onto the bare
floorboards, the contents clinking with every jolt. A murmur
of excitement escapes me as I press the button on the clasp,
transforming into a groan when I discover the damned thing is
locked. I tug at the lid, once, twice, but it’s unyielding. I search
the open drawers and sideboard again, even dropping to my
stomach to look under the bed, but there’s nothing under there
but pellets of rat poison and dust.
The key isn’t anywhere to be found.
The only place I haven’t searched is the area around the
bathtub, and I round the folding screen like a man possessed,
nearly leaping out of my skin when I discover a wild-eyed
creature lurking on the other side.
It’s a mirror.
The wild-eyed creature looks as abashed as I at this
revelation.
Taking a tentative step forward, I examine myself for the
first time, disappointment swelling within me. Only now,
staring at this shivering, frightened fellow, do I realise that I
had expectations of myself. Taller, shorter, thinner, fatter, I
don’t know, but not this bland figure in the glass. Brown hair,
brown eyes and no chin to speak of, I’m any face in a crowd;
just the Lord’s way of filling in the gaps.
Quickly tiring of my reflection, I continue searching for the
key to my trunk but aside from some toiletries and a jug of
water, there’s nothing back here. Whoever I used to be, it
appears I tidied myself away before disappearing. I’m on the
verge of howling in frustration when I’m interrupted by a
knock on the door, an entire personality conveying itself in
five hearty raps.
‘Sebastian, are you there?’ says a gruff voice. ‘My name’s
Richard Acker, I’m a doctor. I was asked to look in on you.’
I open the door to find a huge grey moustache on the other
side. It’s a remarkable sight, the tips curling off the edge of the


face they’re theoretically attached to. The man behind it is in
his sixties, perfectly bald, with a bulbous nose and bloodshot
eyes. He smells of brandy, but cheerfully so, as though every
drop went down smiling.
‘Lord, you look dreadful,’ he says. ‘And that’s my
professional opinion.’
Taking advantage of my confusion, he strolls past me,
tossing his black medical case onto the bed and having a good
look around the room, paying particular attention to my trunk.
‘Used to have one of these myself,’ he says, running an
affectionate hand across the lid. ‘Lavolaille, isn’t it? Took me
to the Orient and back when I was in the army. They say you
shouldn’t trust a Frenchman, but I couldn’t do without their
luggage.’
He gives it an experimental kick, wincing as his foot
bounces off the obstinate leather.
‘You must have bricks in there,’ he says, cocking his head at
me expectantly, as though there’s some sensible response to
such a statement.
‘It’s locked,’ I stammer.
‘Can’t find the key, hmmm?’
‘I… no. Doctor Acker, I—’
‘Call me Dickie, everybody else does,’ he says briskly,
going to the window to peer outside. ‘I’ve never enjoyed the
name truth be told, but I can’t seem to shake it. Daniel says
you’ve suffered a misfortune.’
‘Daniel?’ I ask, just about holding onto the back of the
conversation as it streaks away from me.
‘Coleridge. Chap who found you this morning.’
‘Right, yes.’
Doctor Dickie beams at my bafflement.
‘Memory loss, is it? Well, not to worry, I saw a few of these
cases in the war and everything came back after a day or so,
whether the patient wanted it to or not.’


He shoos me towards the trunk, making me sit down on top
of it. Tilting my head forward, he examines my skull with a
butcher’s tenderness, chuckling as I wince.
‘Oh, yes, you’ve a nice bump back here.’ He pauses,
considering it. ‘Probably banged your head at some point last
night. I’d imagine that’s when it all spilled out, so to speak.
Any other symptoms, headaches, nausea, that sort of thing?’
‘There’s a voice,’ I say, a little embarrassed by the
admission.
‘A voice?’
‘In my head. I think it’s my voice, only, well, it’s very
certain about things.’
‘I see,’ he says thoughtfully. ‘And this… voice, what does it
say?’
‘It gives me advice, sometimes it comments on what I’m
doing.’
Dickie’s pacing behind me, tugging his moustache.
‘This advice, is it, how should I say, all above board?
Nothing violent, nothing perverse.’
‘Absolutely not,’ I say, riled by the inference.
‘And are you hearing it now?’
‘No.’
‘Trauma,’ he says abruptly, raising a finger in the air.
‘That’s what it’ll be, very common in fact. Somebody bangs
their head and all manner of strange things start going on.
They see smells, taste sounds, hear voices. Always passes in a
day or two, month at the outside.’
‘A month!’ I say, spinning on the trunk to look at him.
‘How am I going to manage like this for a month? Perhaps I
should visit a hospital?’
‘God no, terrible things, hospitals,’ he says, aghast.
‘Sickness and death swept into corners, diseases curled up in
the beds with the patients. Take my advice and go for a stroll,
root through your belongings, talk to some friends. I saw you


and Michael Hardcastle sharing a bottle at dinner last night,
several bottles actually. Quite an evening by all accounts. He
should be able to help, and mark my words, once your
memories return, that voice will be no more.’
He pauses, tutting. ‘I’m more concerned by that arm.’
We’re interrupted by a knock on the door, Dickie opening it
before I can protest. It’s Daniel’s valet delivering the pressed
clothes he promised. Sensing my indecision, Dickie takes the
clothes, dismisses the valet and lays them out on the bed for
me.
‘Now, where were we?’ he says. ‘Ah, yes, that arm.’
I follow his gaze to find blood drawing patterns on my
shirtsleeve. Without preamble, he tugs it up to reveal ugly
slashes and tattered flesh beneath. They look to have scabbed
over, but my recent exertions must have reopened the wounds.
After bending my stiff fingers one by one, he fishes a small
brown bottle and some bandages from his bag, cleaning my
injuries before dabbing them in iodine.
‘These are knife wounds, Sebastian,’ he says in a concerned
voice, all his good cheer turned to ash. ‘Recent ones, too. It
looks like you held your arm up to protect yourself, like so.’
He demonstrates with a glass dropper from his medical bag,
slashing violently at his forearm, which he’s raised in front of
his face. His re-enactment is enough to bring me out in goose
bumps.
‘Do you recall anything of the evening?’ he says, binding
my arm so tightly that I hiss in pain. ‘Anything at all?’
I push my thoughts towards my missing hours. Upon
waking I’d assumed everything was lost, but now I perceive
this isn’t the case. I can sense my memories just out of reach.
They have weight and shape, like shrouded furniture in a
darkened room. I’ve simply misplaced the light to see them by.
With a sigh, I shake my head.
‘Nothing’s forthcoming,’ I say. ‘But this morning I saw a—’


‘Woman murdered,’ interrupts the doctor. ‘Yes, Daniel told
me.’
Doubt stains every word, but he knots my bandage without
voicing any objection.
‘Either way, you need to inform the police immediately,’ he
says. ‘Whoever did this was trying to cause you significant
harm.’
Lifting his case from the bed, he clumsily shakes my hand.
‘Strategic retreat, my boy, that’s what’s required here,’ he
says. ‘Talk to the stablemaster, he should be able to arrange
transport back to the village, and from there you can rouse the
constabulary. In the meantime, it’s probably best you keep a
weather eye out. There are twenty people staying in
Blackheath this weekend, and thirty more arriving for the ball
tonight. Most of them aren’t above this sort of thing, and if
you’ve offended them… well –’ he shakes his head – ‘be
careful, that’s my advice.’
He lets himself out and I hurriedly take the key from the
sideboard to lock the door after him, my shaking hands
causing me to miss the hole more than once.
An hour ago, I’d thought myself a murderer’s plaything,
tormented, but beyond any physical threat. Surrounded by
people, I felt safe enough to insist we try recovering Anna’s
body from the forest, thereby spurring the search for her killer.
That’s no longer the case. Somebody’s already tried to take my
life, and I have no intention of staying long enough for them to
try again. The dead cannot expect a debt from the living, and
whatever I owe Anna will have to be paid at distance. Once
I’ve met with my Samaritan in the drawing room, I’m going to
follow Dickie’s advice and arrange transport back to the
village.
It’s time I went home.


4
Water slops over the edges of the bathtub as I quickly slough
off the second skin of mud and leaves coating me. I’m
inspecting my scrubbed pink body for birthmarks or scars,
anything that might trigger a memory. I’m due downstairs in
twenty minutes, and I know nothing more of Anna than when I
first stumbled up Blackheath’s steps. Banging into the brick
wall of my mind was frustrating enough when I thought I’d be
helping with the search, but now my ignorance could scupper
the entire endeavour.
By the time I’m finished washing, the bathwater is as black
as my mood. Feeling despondent, I towel myself dry and
inspect the pressed clothes the valet dropped off earlier. His
selection of attire strikes me as rather prim, but peering at the
alternatives in the wardrobe, I immediately understand his
dilemma. Bell’s clothing – for truly, I can’t yet reconcile us –
consists of several identical suits, two dinner jackets, hunting
wear, a dozen shirts and a few waistcoats. They come in
shades of grey and black, the bland uniform of what appears
thus far to be an extraordinarily anonymous life. The idea that
this man could have inspired anybody to violence is becoming
the most outlandish part of this morning’s events.
I dress quickly, but my nerves are so ragged, it takes a deep
breath and a stern word to coax my body towards the door.
Instinct prompts me to fill my pockets before I leave, my hand
leaping towards the sideboard only to hover there uselessly.
I’m trying to collect possessions that aren’t there and I can no
longer remember. This must be Bell’s old routine, a shadow of
my former life haunting me still. The pull is so strong, I feel
damn queer coming away empty handed. Unfortunately, the
only thing I managed to carry back from the forest was that
damnable compass but I can’t see it anywhere. My Samaritan
– the man Doctor Dickie called Daniel Coleridge – must have
taken it.
Agitation pricks me as I step into the corridor.
I only have a morning’s worth of memories and I can’t even
keep hold of those.


A passing servant directs me to the drawing room, which
turns out to be on the far side of the dining hall, a few doors
down from the marble entrance hall I entered this morning. It’s
an unpleasant place, the dark wood and scarlet drapes bringing
to mind an overlarge coffin, the coal fire breathing oily smoke
into the air. A dozen people are gathered, and though a table’s
been laid with cold cuts, most of the guests are flopped in
leather armchairs or standing at the leaded windows, staring
mournfully at the frightful weather, while a maid, with jam
stains on her apron, slips unobtrusively among them, gathering
dirty plates and empty glasses onto a huge silver tray she can
barely hold. A rotund fellow in green hunting tweeds has set
himself up on the pianoforte in the corner and is playing a
bawdy tune that causes offence only for the ineptness of its
delivery. Nobody is paying much attention to him, though he’s
doing his best to rectify that.
It’s almost midday, but Daniel is nowhere to be seen, and so
I busy myself inspecting the various decanters in the drinks
cabinet without any clue as to what they are, or what I enjoy.
In the end, I pour myself something brown and turn to stare at
my fellow guests, hoping for a flash of recognition. If one of
these people is responsible for the wounds on my arm, their
irritation at seeing me hale and healthy should be obvious.
And, surely, my mind wouldn’t conspire to keep their identity
secret should they choose to reveal themselves? Assuming of
course my mind can find some way of telling them apart.
Nearly every man is a braying, beef-faced bully in hunting
tweeds, while the women are dressed soberly in skirts, linen
shirts and cardigans. Unlike their boisterous husbands, they
move in hushed tones, finding me from the corner of their
eyes. I have the impression of being surreptitiously observed,
like a rare bird. It’s terribly unsettling, though understandable I
suppose. Daniel couldn’t have asked his questions without
revealing my condition in the process. I’m now part of the
entertainment, whether I like it or not.
Nursing my drink, I attempt to distract myself by
eavesdropping on the surrounding conversations, a sensation
akin to sticking my head into a rose bush. Half of them are
complaining, the other half are being complained at. They


don’t like the accommodation, the food, the indolence of the
help, the isolation or the fact they couldn’t drive up themselves
(though heaven knows how they would have found the place).
Mostly though, their ire is reserved for the lack of a welcome
from Lady Hardcastle, who has yet to surface despite many of
them having arrived in Blackheath last night – a fact they
appear to have taken as a personal insult.
‘’Scuse me, Ted,’ says the maid, trying to squeeze past a
man in his fifties. He’s broad chested and sunburnt beneath a
thinning crop of red hair. Hunting tweeds stretch around a
thick body that’s slipping towards fat, his face lit by bright
blue eyes.
‘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.’
She nods, shocked, searching our faces for help. Nobody
moves, even the piano bites its tongue. They’re all terrified of
this man, I realise. To my shame, I’m little better. I’m frozen
in place, watching this exchange from the corner of my
lowered eyes, desperately hoping his vulgarity doesn’t turn in
my direction.
‘Let her go, Ted,’ says Daniel Coleridge from the doorway.
His voice is firm, cold. It clatters with repercussions.
Stanwin breathes through his nose, staring at Daniel out of
narrowed eyes. It shouldn’t be a contest. Stanwin is squat and
solid and spitting venom. Yet there’s something in the way
Daniel stands there, hands in his pockets, head tilted, that
gives Stanwin pause. Perhaps he’s wary of being hit by the
train Daniel appears to be waiting for.
A clock drums up its courage and ticks.
With a grunt, Stanwin releases the maid, brushing past
Daniel on his way out, muttering something I can’t quite hear.
The room breathes, the piano resumes, the heroic clock
carrying on as though nothing happened.
Daniel’s eyes weigh us one by one.


Unable to face his scrutiny, I stare at my reflection in the
window. There’s disgust on my face, revulsion at the endless
shortcomings of my character. First the murder in the woods,
and now this. How many injustices will I allow to walk by
before I pluck up the courage to intervene?
Daniel approaches, a ghost in the glass.
‘Bell,’ he says softly, laying a hand on my shoulder. ‘Do
you have a minute?’
Hunched beneath my shame, I follow him into the study
next door, every pair of eyes at my back. It’s even gloomier in
here, untrimmed ivy shrouding the leaded windows, paintings
in dark oils soaking up what little light manages to squirm
through the glass. A writing desk has been arranged with a
view onto the lawn, and looks recently vacated, a fountain pen
leaking ink onto a torn piece of blotting paper, a paper knife
beside it. One can only imagine the missives written in such an
oppressive atmosphere.
In the opposite corner, near a second door out of the room, a
puzzled young man in hunting tweeds is peering down the
speaker of a phonograph, clearly wondering why the spinning
record isn’t flinging sound into the room.
‘A single term at Cambridge and he thinks he’s Isambard
Kingdom Brunel,’ says Daniel, causing the young man to look
up from his puzzle. He’s no more than twenty-four, with dark
hair and wide, flattened features that give the impression of his
face being pressed up against a pane of glass. Seeing me, he
grins broadly, the boy in the man appearing as if through a
window.
‘Belly, you bloody idiot, there you are,’ he says, squeezing
my hand and clapping me on the back at the same time. It’s
like being caught in an affectionate vice.
He searches my face expectantly, his green eyes narrowing
at my lack of recognition.
‘It’s true then, you can’t remember a thing,’ he says, tossing
a quick glance at Daniel. ‘You lucky devil! Let’s get to the bar
so I can introduce you to a hangover.’


‘News travels fast in Blackheath,’ I say.
‘Boredom’s very flat ground,’ he says. ‘Name’s Michael
Hardcastle. We’re old friends, though I suppose we’re better
described as recent acquaintances now.’
There’s no hint of disappointment in the statement. In fact,
he seems amused by it. Even at first meeting, it’s evident
Michael Hardcastle will be amused by most things.
‘Michael was sat next to you at dinner last night,’ says
Daniel, who’s taken up Michael’s inspection of the
gramophone. ‘Come to think of it, that’s probably why you
went out and coshed yourself on the head.’
‘Play along, Belly, we’re hoping one day he’ll accidentally
say something funny,’ says Michael.
There’s an instinctive pause for my rejoinder, the rhythm of
the moment collapsing under the weight of its absence. For the
first time since I woke up this morning, I feel a yearning for
my old life. I miss knowing these men. I miss the intimacy of
this friendship. My sorrow is mirrored on the faces of my
companions, an awkward silence digging a trench between us.
Hoping to recover at least some of the trust we must once have
shared, I roll up my sleeve to show them the bandages
covering my arm, blood already beginning to seep through.
‘I wish I had coshed myself on the head,’ I say. ‘Doctor
Dickie believes somebody attacked me last night.’
‘My dear fellow,’ gasps Daniel.
‘This is because of that damn note, isn’t it?’ says Michael,
his eyes tracing my injuries.
‘What are you talking about, Hardcastle?’ asks Daniel,
raising his eyebrows. ‘Are you saying you know something
about this? Why didn’t you say so earlier?’
‘There’s not much to it,’ says Michael sheepishly, digging at
the thick carpet with the toe of his shoe. ‘A maid brought a
note to the table during our fifth bottle of wine. Next thing I
know Belly’s making his excuses and trying to remember how
doors work.’ He looks at me, shamefaced. ‘I wanted to go with
you, but you were adamant you had to go alone. I assumed


you were meeting some woman or other so I didn’t press the
issue, and that was the last I saw of you until now.’
‘What did the message say?’ I ask.
‘Haven’t the foggiest, old bean, I didn’t see it.’
‘Do you remember the maid who brought it, or if Bell
mentioned anybody called Anna?’ asks Daniel.
Michael shrugs, wrapping his entire face around the
memory. ‘Anna? Doesn’t ring any bells, I’m afraid. As for the
maid, well…’ He puffs up his cheeks, blowing out a long
breath. ‘Black dress, white apron. Oh, dash it all, Coleridge, be
reasonable. There’s dozens of them, how’s a man meant to
keep track of their faces.’
He hands each of us a helpless look, Daniel meeting it with
a disgusted shake of the head.
‘Don’t worry, old boy, we’ll get to the bottom of all this,’ he
says to me, squeezing my shoulder. ‘And I’ve an idea how.’
He motions towards a framed map of the estate hanging on
the wall. It’s an architectural drawing, rain spotted and
yellowing at the edges, but quite beautiful in its depiction of
the house and grounds. As it turns out, Blackheath is a huge
estate with a family graveyard to the west and a stable to the
east, a trail winding down to a lake with a boathouse clinging
to the bank. Aside from the driveway, which is actually a
stubborn road cutting straight towards the village, everything
else is forest. As the view from the upper windows suggests,
we’re quite alone among the trees.
A cold sweat prickles my skin.
I was meant to disappear in that expanse, as Anna did this
morning. I’m searching for my own grave.
Sensing my disquiet, Daniel glances at me.
‘Lonely sort of place, isn’t it?’ he murmurs, tapping a
cigarette loose from a silver case. It dangles from his lower lip
as he searches his pockets for a lighter.
‘My father brought us out here when his political career
keeled over,’ says Michael, lighting Daniel’s cigarette and


taking one for himself. ‘The old man fancied himself a country
squire. Didn’t work out quite the way he’d hoped, of course.’
I raise a questioning eyebrow.
‘My brother was murdered by a chap called Charlie Carver,
one of our groundskeepers,’ says Michael calmly, as though
declaring the racing results.
Aghast that I could forget something so horrific, I stammer
out an apology.
‘I’m… I’m sorry, that must have been—’
‘A terribly long time ago,’ interrupts Michael, a hint of
impatience in his voice. ‘Nineteen years, in fact. I was only
five when it happened, and truthfully, I can barely recall it.’
‘Unlike most of the gutter press,’ adds Daniel. ‘Carver and
another fellow drank themselves into a mania and grabbed
Thomas near the lake. They half drowned him, then finished
the job with a knife. He was seven or so. Ted Stanwin came
running and drove them off with a shotgun, but Thomas was
already dead.’
‘Stanwin?’ I ask, struggling to keep the shock from my
voice. ‘The lout from lunch?’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t go saying that too loudly,’ says Daniel.
‘He’s very well thought of by my parents is old Stanwin,’
says Michael. ‘He was a lowly gamekeeper when he tried to
save Thomas, but Father gave him one of our African
plantations in thanks and the blighter made his pile.’
‘What happened to the murderers?’ I ask.
‘Carver swung,’ says Daniel, tapping ash onto the carpet.
‘The police found the knife he used under the floorboards in
his cottage, along with a dozen pilfered bottles of brandy. His
accomplice was never caught. Stanwin says he clipped him
with the shotgun, but no one turned up at the local hospital
with an injury and Carver refused to give him up. Lord and
Lady Hardcastle were hosting a party that weekend, so it could
have been one of the guests, but the family were adamant that
none of them knew Carver.’


‘Rum business all round,’ says Michael tonelessly, his
expression black as the clouds crowding the windows.
‘So the accomplice is still out there?’ I say, dread creeping
up my spine. A murder nineteen years ago and a murder this
morning. Surely that can’t be a coincidence.
‘Does make you wonder what the police are for, doesn’t it?’
says Daniel, falling silent.
My eyes find Michael, who’s staring into the drawing room.
It’s emptying out as the guests drift towards the entrance hall,
carrying their conversations with them. Even from here, I can
hear the stinging, swirling swarm of insults touching on
everything from the rundown state of the house, to Lord
Hardcastle’s drunkenness, and Evelyn Hardcastle’s icy
demeanour. Poor Michael, I can’t imagine how it must feel to
have one’s family so openly ridiculed, in their own home no
less.
‘Look, we didn’t come here to bore you with ancient
history,’ says Daniel, fracturing the quiet. ‘I’ve been asking
around after Anna. It’s not good news, I’m afraid.’
‘Nobody knows her?’
‘There isn’t anybody by that name among the guests or the
staff,’ says Michael. ‘More to the point, nobody’s missing
from Blackheath.’
I open my mouth to protest, but Michael holds his hand up,
silencing me. ‘You never let me finish, Belly. I can’t gather a
search party, but the chaps are going hunting in about ten
minutes. If you give me a vague idea where you woke up this
morning, I’ll make sure we head in that direction and keep our
eyes open. Fifteen of us are going out, so there’s a good
chance we’ll spot something.’
Gratitude swells in my chest.
‘Thank you, Michael.’
He smiles at me through a cloud of cigarette smoke. ‘I’ve
never known you to over-egg the pudding, Belly, can’t
imagine you’re doing it now.’


I stare at the map, eager to do my part, but I have no clue
where I spotted Anna. The murderer pointed me east and the
forest disgorged me towards the front of Blackheath, but I can
only guess for how long I walked or where I may have started
from. Taking a breath and trusting to providence, I prod the
glass with my fingertip as Daniel and Michael hover over my
shoulder.
Michael nods, rubbing his chin.
‘I’ll tell the chaps.’ He looks me up and down. ‘You’d better
get changed. We’ll be leaving soon.’
‘I’m not coming,’ I say, my voice strangled by shame. ‘I
have to… I just can’t…’
The young man shifts awkwardly. ‘Come now—’
‘Use your head, Michael,’ interrupts Daniel, clapping a
hand on my shoulder. ‘Look what was done to him. Poor Bell
barely got out of that forest, why would he want to go back?’
His tone softens.
‘Don’t you worry, Bell, we’ll find your missing girl, and the
man who murdered her. It’s in our hands now. Get yourself as
far away from this mess as you can.’


5
I stand at the leaded window, half concealed by the velvet
drapes. Out on the driveway, Michael is mingling with the
other men. They’re heaving beneath their thick coats, shotguns
crooked over their elbows, laughing and chatting, cold breath
escaping their lips. Freed from the house with a slaughter to
enjoy, they seem almost human.
Daniel’s words were comforting, but they can’t absolve me.
I should be out there with them, searching for the body of the
woman I failed. Instead, I’m running away. The very least I
can do is endure the shame of watching them set off without
me.
Dogs pass by the window, straining at leads their masters
are struggling to hold. The two commotions merge, striking
off across the lawn towards the forest, in precisely the
direction I indicated to Daniel, although I can’t see my friend
among them. He must be joining the group later.
I wait for the last of them to disappear among the trees
before returning to the map on the wall. If it’s correct, the
stables aren’t too far from the house. Surely that’s where I’ll
find the stablemaster. He can arrange a carriage to the village
and from there I’ll catch a train home.
I turn for the drawing room, only to find the doorway
blocked by a huge black crow.
My heart leaps, and so do I, straight into the sideboard,
sending family photographs and trinkets clattering to the floor.
‘You don’t need to be afraid,’ says the creature, taking a half
step out of the gloom.
It’s not a bird at all. It’s a man dressed as a medieval plague
doctor, his feathers a black greatcoat, the beak belonging to a
porcelain mask, glinting in the light of a nearby lamp.
Presumably this is his costume for the ball tonight, though that
doesn’t explain why he’s wearing such sinister garb in the
middle of the day.


‘You startled me,’ I say, clutching my chest and laughing in
embarrassment as I try to shake off my fright. He cocks his
head, examining me as if I’m a stray animal he’s found sitting
on the carpet.
‘What did you bring with you?’ he asks.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘You woke up with a word on your lips, what was it?’
‘Do we know each other?’ I ask, glancing through the door
into the drawing room, hoping to see another guest.
Unfortunately, we’re alone, which was almost certainly his
intention, I realise with growing alarm.
‘I know you,’ he says. ‘That’s enough for now. What was
the word, please?’
‘Why not take off the mask so we might speak face to face,’
I say.
‘My mask is the least of your concerns, Doctor Bell,’ he
says. ‘Answer the question.’
Though he’s said nothing threatening, the porcelain muffles
his voice, adding a low animal rumble to every sentence.
‘Anna,’ I say, clamping my hand on my thigh to stop my leg
from jogging.
He sighs. ‘That’s a pity.’
‘Do you know who she is?’ I say, hopefully. ‘Nobody else
in the house has ever heard of her.’
‘I’d be surprised if they had,’ he says, waving away my
question with a gloved hand. Reaching into his coat, he pulls
out a golden pocket watch, tutting at the time. ‘We’ll have
work to do before long, but not today and not while you’re in
this state. We’ll speak again soon, when everything’s a little
clearer. In the meantime, I’d advise you to acquaint yourself
with Blackheath and your fellow guests. Enjoy yourself while
you can, Doctor, the footman will find you soon.’
‘The footman?’ I say, the name ringing an alarm bell
somewhere deep within me. ‘Is he responsible for Anna’s


murder, or the wounds on my arm?’
‘I very much doubt it,’ says the Plague Doctor. ‘The
footman isn’t going to stop with your arm.’
There’s a tremendous thump behind me, and I spin towards
the noise. A small splash of blood smears the window, a dying
bird thrashing the last of its life away among the weeds and
withered flowers below. The poor thing must have flown into
the glass. I’m startled by the pity I feel, a tear creeping into my
eye at this wasted life. Resolving to bury the bird before I do
anything else, I turn around, intending to make my excuses to
my enigmatic companion, but he’s already left.
I look at my hands. They’re clutched so tightly my
fingernails are digging into my palms.
‘The footman,’ I repeat to myself.
The name means nothing, but the feeling it evokes is
unmistakable. For some reason, I’m terrified of this person.
Fear carries me over to the writing desk and the letter
opener I saw earlier. It’s small, but sharp enough to draw blood
from the tip of my thumb. Sucking the wound, I pocket the
weapon. It’s not much, but it’s enough to stop me barricading
myself in this room.
Feeling a touch more confident, I head for my bedroom.
Without the guests to distract from the décor, Blackheath is a
melancholy pile indeed. Aside from the magnificent entrance
hall, the other rooms I pass through are musty, thick with
mildew and decay. Pellets of rat poison have been piled up in
the corners, dust covering any surface too high for a maid’s
short arm to reach. The rugs are threadbare, the furniture
scratched, the smeared silver crockery arranged behind the
dirty glass of display cabinets. As unpleasant as my fellow
guests seem, I miss the thrum of their conversations. They’re
the lifeblood of this place, filling up the spaces where
otherwise this grim silence would fall. Blackheath’s only alive
so long as people are in it. Without them, it’s a depressing ruin
waiting on the mercy of a wrecking ball.


I collect my coat and umbrella from my bedroom and make
my way outside where rain is bouncing off the ground, the air
smothered by the stink of rotten leaves. Uncertain of which
window the bird crashed against, I follow the verge until I
locate its body, and, using the paperknife as a makeshift
shovel, I bury it in a shallow grave, soaking my gloves in the
process.
Already shivering, I consider my route. The cobbled road to
the stables skirts the bottom edge of the lawn. I could cut
across the grass, but my shoes seem ill suited to the venture.
Instead, I take the safer option, following the gravel driveway
until the road appears on my left. Unsurprisingly, it’s in a
terrible state of repair. Tree roots have overturned the stones,
untrimmed branches hang low like pilfering fingers. Still
unsettled by my meeting with the strange man in the plague
doctor costume, I clutch the paperknife and move slowly, wary
of losing my footing, afraid of what might spring out at me
from the woods if I do. I’m not sure what his game is, dressing
up like that, but I can’t seem to shrug off his warnings.
Somebody murdered Anna, and gave me a compass. It’s
doubtful that same person attacked me last night only to save
me this morning, and now I must contend with this footman.
Who must I have been to assemble so many enemies?
At the end of the road is a tall, redbrick arch with a
shattered glass clock at the centre, and beyond that a
courtyard, stables and outbuildings arranged around its edge.
Troughs overflow with oats, and carriages stand wheel to
wheel, draped in green canvas covers to keep the weather off.
The only things missing are the horses.
Every stable is empty.
‘Hello?’ I call out tentatively, my voice echoing around the
yard but meeting no response.
A plume of black smoke is escaping from the chimney of a
little cottage and, finding the door unlocked, I chase my
hollered greetings inside. No one’s home, which is curious as a
fire’s burning in the hearth, porridge and toast laid out on the
table. Removing my soggy gloves, I hang them on the kettle


pole above the fire, hoping to spare myself a little discomfort
on the walk back.
Touching the food with a fingertip, I discover it’s lukewarm,
so not long abandoned. A saddle lies discarded beside a leather
patch, suggesting an interrupted repair. I can only assume
whoever lives here has rushed out to deal with some
emergency and I consider waiting for them to return. It’s not
an unpleasant refuge, though the air’s thick with burning coal
and smells rather strongly of polish and horsehair. Of greater
concern is the cottage’s isolation. Until I know who attacked
me last night, everybody in Blackheath must be treated with
caution, including the stablemaster. I will not meet him alone,
if it can be helped.
A work rota hangs on a nail by the door, a pencil dangling
from a piece of string beside it. Taking it down, I turn the sheet
over intending to leave a message requesting a ride to the
village, but there’s a note already written there.
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. Oh, and don’t forget your gloves, they’re burning.
Love, Anna
Smoke fills my nostrils and I swing round to see my gloves
smouldering above the fire. Snatching them down, I stamp the
ashes out, eyes wide and heart pounding, as I search the
cottage for some indication as to how the trick might have
come to pass.
Why don’t you ask Anna when you meet her tonight?
‘Because I saw her die,’ I snarl at the empty room,
embarrassing myself.
Recovering my composure, I read the note once more, the
truth of it no nearer at hand. If Anna’s survived, she’d have to
be a cruel creature to play such games with me. More likely
after word of this morning’s misadventure spread around the
house, somebody has decided to play a trick on me. Why else
would they choose such a sinister location and hour for the
meeting?
Is this somebody a fortune teller?


‘It’s a foul day, anybody could have predicted I’d dry my
gloves once I arrived.’
The cottage listens politely, but even to my ears that
reasoning’s desperate. Almost as desperate as my urge to
discredit the message. So defective is my character, I’d
happily abandon any hope of Anna being alive in order to flee
this place with a clean conscience.
Feeling miserable, I pull on my singed gloves. I need to
think and walking seems to help.
Heading around the stables, I come upon an overgrown
paddock, the grass grown waist high and the fences so badly
rotted they’ve all but collapsed. On the far side, two figures
huddle beneath an umbrella. They must be following a hidden
path as they’re moving easily, arm-in-arm. Heaven knows how
they spot me, but one of them raises a hand in greeting. I
return the gesture, sparking a brief moment of distant kinship,
before they disappear into the gloom of the trees.
Lowering my hand, I make my decision.
I told myself that a dead woman could lay no claim to me,
and that’s why I was free to leave Blackheath. It was a
coward’s reason, but at least it had a ring of truth to it.
If Anna’s alive, that’s no longer the case.
I failed her this morning, and it’s all I’ve thought about
since. Now that I have a second chance, I cannot turn my back.
She’s in danger and I can help, so I must. If that’s not enough
to keep me at Blackheath, I don’t deserve the life I’m so
fearful of losing. Come what may, I must be in the graveyard
at 10:20 p.m.


6
‘Somebody wants me dead.’
It feels strange to say it out loud, as though I’m calling fate
down upon myself, but if I’m to survive until this evening, I’ll
need to face down this fear. I refuse to spend any more time
cowering in my bedroom. Not while there are so many
questions to answer.
I’m walking back to the house, scouring the trees for any
sign of danger, my mind running back and forth across the
morning’s events. Over and over again I wonder about the
slashes on my arm and the man in the plague doctor costume,
the footman and this mysterious Anna, who now appears to be
alive and well, and leaving enigmatic notes for me to find.
How did she survive in the forest?
I suppose she could have written the note earlier this
morning, before she was attacked, but then how did she know
I’d be in that cottage, drying my gloves over the fire? I didn’t
tell anybody about my plans. Did I speak out loud? Could she
have been watching?
Shaking my head, I take a step away from that particular
rabbit hole.
I’m looking too far forward, when I need to be looking
back. Michael told me that a maid delivered a note to the
dinner table last night, and that was the last he saw of me.
Everything started with that.
You need to find the servant who brought the note.
I’m barely through Blackheath’s doors when voices pull me
towards the drawing room, which is empty aside from a couple
of young maids clearing the lunchtime detritus onto two huge
trays. They work side by side, heads bowed in hushed gossip,
oblivious to my presence at the door.
‘… Henrietta said she’d gone mad,’ says one girl, brown
curls tumbling free of her white cap.


‘It’s not right to say that about Lady Helena, Beth,’ scolds
the older girl. ‘She’s always been good to us, treated us fair,
hasn’t she?’
Beth weighs this fact against the wealth of her gossip.
‘Henrietta told me she was raving,’ she continues.
‘Screaming at Lord Peter. Said it was probably on account of
being back in Blackheath after what happened to Master
Thomas. Does funny things to a person, she said.’
‘She says a lot of things does Henrietta, I’d put them out of
your mind. Not like we haven’t heard them fighting before, is
it? Besides, if it were serious Lady Helena would tell Mrs
Drudge, wouldn’t she? Always does.’
‘Mrs Drudge can’t find her,’ says Beth triumphantly, the
case against Lady Helena well and truly proven. ‘Hasn’t seen
her all morning, but—’
My entrance slaps the words out of the air, the maids
attempting startled curtsies that swiftly devolve into a tangle of
arms, legs and blushes. Waving away their confusion, I ask
after the servants who served dinner last night, prompting only
blank stares and mumbled apologies. I’m on the verge of
giving up, when Beth ventures that Evelyn Hardcastle is
entertaining the ladies in the Sun Room towards the rear of the
house and would certainly know more.
After a brief exchange, one of them leads me through a
communicating door into the study where I met Daniel and
Michael this morning. There’s a library beyond it, which we
cross briskly, exiting the room into a dim connecting passage.
Darkness stirs to greet us, a black cat drifting out from beneath
a small telephone table, its tail dusting the wooden floor. On
silent feet, it pads up the corridor, slipping through a door left
slightly ajar at the far end. A warm orange light is seeping
through the gap, voices and music on the other side.
‘Miss Evelyn’s in there, sir,’ says the maid.
Her tone succinctly describes both the room and Evelyn
Hardcastle, neither of which she seems to hold in particularly
high regard.


Brushing off her scorn, I open the door, the heat of the room
hitting me full in the face. The air is heavy, sweet with
perfume, stirred only by a scratchy music that soars and glides
and stuns itself against the walls. Large leaded windows look
out over the garden at the rear of the house, grey clouds piling
up beyond a cupola. Chairs and chaise longues have been
gathered around the fire, young women draped over them like
wilted orchids, smoking cigarettes and clinging to their drinks.
The mood in the room is one of restless agitation rather than
celebration. About the only sign of life comes from an oil
painting on the far wall, where an old woman with coals for
eyes sits in judgement of the room, her expression rather
eloquently conveying her distaste for this gathering.
‘My grandmother, Heather Hardcastle,’ says a woman from
behind me. ‘It’s not a flattering picture, but then she wasn’t a
flattering woman by all accounts.’
I turn to meet the voice, reddening as a dozen faces swim up
through their boredom to inspect me. My name runs laps of
the room, a sudden excited buzz chasing it like a swarm of
bees.
Sitting either side of a chess table are a woman I must
assume to be Evelyn Hardcastle and an elderly, extremely fat
man wearing a suit that’s a size too small for him. They’re an
odd couple. Evelyn’s in her late twenties, and rather resembles
a shard of glass with her thin, angular body and high
cheekbones, her blonde hair tied up away from her face. She’s
wearing a green dress, fashionably tailored and belted at the
waist, its sharp lines mirroring the severe expression on her
face.
As for the fat man, he can’t be less than sixty-five, and I can
only imagine what contortions must have been necessary to
persuade his enormous bulk behind the table. His chair’s too
small for him, too stiff. He’s a martyr to it. Sweat is gleaming
on his forehead, the soaking wet handkerchief clutched in his
hand testifying to the duration of his suffering. He’s looking at
me queerly, an expression somewhere between curiosity and
gratitude.
‘My apologies,’ I say. ‘I was—’


Evelyn slides a pawn forward without looking up from the
board. The fat man returns his attention to the game, engulfing
his knight with a fleshy fingertip.
I surprise myself by groaning at his mistake.
‘You know chess?’ Evelyn asks me, her eyes still fixed on
the board.
‘It appears so,’ I say.
‘Then perhaps you would play after Lord Ravencourt?’
Ignorant of my warning, Ravencourt’s knight swaggers into
Evelyn’s trap, only to be cut down by a lurking rook. Panic
takes hold of his play as Evelyn urges her pieces forward,
hurrying him when he should be patient. The game’s over in
four moves.
‘Thank you for the diversion, Lord Ravencourt,’ says
Evelyn, as he topples his king. ‘Now, I believe you had
somewhere else to be.’
It’s a curt dismissal and with an awkward bow, Ravencourt
disentangles himself from the table and limps out of the room,
offering me the slightest of nods on the way.
Evelyn’s distaste chases him through the door, but it
evaporates as she gestures to the seat opposite.
‘Please,’ she says.
‘I’m afraid I can’t,’ I say. ‘I’m looking for a maid who
brought me a message at the dinner table last night, but I know
nothing more of her. I was hoping you could help.’
‘Our butler could,’ she says, restoring the pieces of her
bedraggled army to their line. Each is placed precisely at the
centre of a square, its face turned towards the enemy. Clearly,
there’s no place for cowards on this board.
‘Mr Collins knows every step every servant takes in this
house, or so he leads them to believe,’ she says.
‘Unfortunately, he was assaulted this morning. Doctor Dickie
had him moved to the gatehouse so he could rest more
comfortably. I’ve actually been meaning to look in on him
myself, perhaps I could escort you.’


I momentarily hesitate, weighing the danger. One can only
assume that if Evelyn Hardcastle intended me harm, she
wouldn’t announce our intention to go off together in front of
an entire room of witnesses.
‘That would be very kind,’ I respond, earning a flicker of a
smile.
Evelyn stands, either not noticing or pretending not to
notice the curious glances nudging us. There are French doors
onto the gardens, but we forgo them, departing instead from
the entrance hall, so we might collect our coats and hats from
our bedrooms first. Evelyn’s still tugging hers on as we step
out of Blackheath into the blustery, cold afternoon.
‘May I ask what happened to Mr Collins?’ I say, wondering
if perhaps his assault might be linked to my own last night.
‘Apparently he was set upon by one of our guests, an artist
named Gregory Gold,’ she says, knotting her thick scarf. ‘It
was an unprovoked attack by all accounts, and Gold managed
to thrash him pretty soundly before somebody intervened. I
should warn you, Doctor, Mr Collins has been heavily sedated,
so I’m not sure how helpful he’ll be.’
We’re following the gravel driveway that leads to the
village and, once again, I’m struck by the peculiarity of my
condition. At some point in the last few days, I must have
arrived along this very road, happy and excited, or perhaps
annoyed at the distance and isolation. Did I understand the
danger I was in, or did it come later during my stay? So much
of me is lost, memories simply blown aside like the leaves on
the ground, and yet here I stand, remade. I wonder if Sebastian
Bell would approve of this man I’ve become. If we’d even get
along?
Without a word, Evelyn links an arm through my own, a
warm smile transforming her face. It’s as though a fire has
been kindled within, her eyes sparkling with life, banishing the
shrouded woman of earlier.
‘It’s so good to be out of that house,’ she cries, tipping her
face to meet the rain. ‘Thank goodness you came along when


you did, Doctor. Honestly, a minute later and you’d have
found me with my head in the grate.’
‘Lucky I stopped by then,’ I say, somewhat startled by her
change in mood. Sensing my confusion, Evelyn laughs lightly.
‘Oh, don’t mind me,’ she says. ‘I loathe getting to know
people, so whenever I meet somebody I like, I just assume a
friendship immediately. It saves a great deal of time in the
long run.’
‘I can see the appeal,’ I say. ‘May I ask what I did to earn a
favourable impression?’
‘Only if you allow me to be frank in my answer.’
‘You’re not being frank now?’
‘I was trying to be polite, but, you’re right, I never seem to
land on the right side of the fence,’ she says with mock regret.
‘Well, to be frank, I like your pensiveness, Doctor. You strike
me as a man who’d much rather be somewhere else, a feeling I
can wholeheartedly sympathise with.’
‘Am I to assume you’re not enjoying your homecoming?’
‘Oh, this hasn’t been my home in a very long time,’ she
says, skipping over a large puddle. ‘I’ve lived in Paris for the
last nineteen years, ever since my brother was killed.’
‘What about the women I saw you with in the Sun Room,
are they not your friends?’
‘They arrived this morning and, truth be told, I didn’t
recognise a single one of them. The children I knew have shed
their skins and slithered into society. I’m as much a stranger
here as yourself.’
‘At least you’re not a stranger to yourself, Miss Hardcastle,’
I say. ‘Surely you can take some solace in that?’
‘Quite the contrary,’ she says, looking at me. ‘I imagine it
would be rather splendid to wander away from myself for a
little while. I envy you.’
‘Envy?’


‘Why not?’ she says, wiping the rain from her face. ‘You’re
a soul stripped bare, Doctor. No regrets, no wounds, none of
the lies we tell ourselves so we can look in the mirror each
morning. You’re –’ she bites her lip, searching for the word –
‘honest.’
‘Another word for that is “exposed”,’ I say.
‘Am I to take it you’re not enjoying your homecoming?’
There’s a crook in her smile, a slight twist of the lips that
could easily be damning, yet somehow comes across as
conspiratorial.
‘I’m not the man I’d hoped to be,’ I say quietly, surprised by
my own candour. Something about this woman puts me at
ease, though for the life of me I can’t tell what it is.
‘How so?’ she asks.
‘I’m a coward, Miss Hardcastle,’ I sigh. ‘Forty years of
memories wiped away and that’s what I find lurking beneath it
all. That’s what remains to me.’
‘Oh, do call me Evie, that way I can call you Sebastian and
tell you not to fret about your flaws. We all have them, and if I
were newly born into this world, I might be cautious too,’ she
says, squeezing my arm.
‘You’re very kind, but this is something deeper, instinctive.’
‘Well, so what if you are?’ she asks. ‘There are worse things
to be. At least you’re not mean-spirited or cruel. And now you
get to choose, don’t you? Instead of assembling yourself in the
dark like the rest of us – so that you wake up one day with no
idea of how you became this person – you can look at the
world, at the people around you, and choose the parts of your
character you want. You can say, “I’ll have that man’s honesty,
that woman’s optimism”, as if you’re shopping for a suit on
Saville Row.’
‘You’ve made my condition into a gift,’ I say, feeling my
spirits lift.
‘Well, what else would you call a second chance?’ she asks.
‘You don’t like the man you were, very well, be somebody


else. There’s nothing stopping you, not any more. As I said, I
envy you. The rest of us are stuck with our mistakes.’
I have no response to that, though one is not immediately
required. We’ve arrived upon two giant fence posts, fractured
angels blaring their noiseless horns on top. The gatehouse is
set back among the trees on our left, splashes of its red-tile
roof showing through the dense canopy. A path leads towards
a peeling green door, which is swollen with age and riddled
with cracks. Ignoring it, Evelyn pulls me by the fingers
towards the back of the house, pushing through branches so
overgrown they’re touching the crumbling brickwork.
The back door is held fast with a simple latch, and undoing
it, she lets us into a dank kitchen, a layer of dust coating the
countertops, the copper pans still out on the hob. Once inside,
she pauses, listening intently.
‘Evelyn?’ I say.
Motioning for quiet, she takes a step closer to the corridor.
Unsettled by this sudden caution, my body tenses, but she
breaks the spell with laughter.
‘I’m sorry, Sebastian, I was listening out for my father.’
‘Your father?’ I say, puzzled.
‘He’s staying here,’ she says. ‘He’s supposed to be out
hunting, but I didn’t want to risk bumping into him if he was
running late. I’m afraid we don’t like each other terribly
much.’
Before I have the chance to ask any more questions, she
beckons me into a tiled hallway and up a narrow staircase, the
bare wooden steps shrieking beneath our feet. I keep to her
heels, snatching backward glances every few steps. The
gatehouse is narrow and crooked, doors set into the walls at
odd angles like teeth grown wild in a mouth. Wind whistles
through the windows carrying with it the smell of the rain, the
entire place seeming to rattle on its foundations. Everything
about this house seems designed to unseat the nerves.
‘Why put the butler all the way out here?’ I ask Evelyn,
who’s trying to choose between the doors either side of us.


‘There must have been somewhere more comfortable.’
‘All the rooms in the main house are full, and Doctor Dickie
ordered peace and quiet, and a good fire. Believe it or not, this
might be the best place for him. Come on, let’s try this one,’
she says, rapping lightly on a door to our left, pushing it open
when there’s no response.
A tall fellow in a charcoal-stained shirt is bound by his
wrists and dangling from a hook on the ceiling, his feet only
barely touching the floor. He’s unconscious, a head full of dark
curly hair slumped against his chest, blood speckling his face.
‘Nope, must be the other side,’ says Evelyn, her voice bland
and unconcerned.
‘What the devil?’ I say, taking a step back in alarm. ‘Who is
this man, Evelyn?’
‘This is Gregory Gold, the fellow who assaulted our butler,’
says Evelyn, eyeing him as one would a butterfly pinned to a
corkboard. ‘The butler was my father’s batman during the war.
Seems Father’s taken the assault rather personally.’
‘Personally?’ I say. ‘Evie, he’s been strung up like a pig!’
‘Father’s never been a subtle man, or a particularly clever
one,’ she shrugs. ‘I suspect the two things go hand in hand.’
For the first time since I awoke, my blood is boiling.
Whatever this man’s crimes, justice can’t be served by a length
of rope in a locked room.
‘We can’t leave him like this,’ I protest. ‘It’s inhuman.’
‘What he did was inhuman,’ says Evelyn, her chill touching
me for the first time. ‘Mother commissioned Gold to tidy up a
few of the family portraits, nothing more. He didn’t even
know the butler and yet this morning he took after him with a
poker and beat him half to death. Believe me, Sebastian, he
deserves worse than what’s happening to him here.’
‘What’s to become of him?’ I ask.
‘A constable is coming from the village,’ says Evelyn,
ushering me out of the small room, and closing the door
behind us, her mood brightening immediately. ‘Father wants to


let Gold know of his displeasure in the meantime, that’s all.
Ah, this must be the one we wanted.’
She opens another door on the opposite side of the hall, and
we enter a small room with whitewashed walls and a single
window blinded by dirt. Unlike the rest of the house, there’s
no draught in here and a good fire’s burning in the grate,
plenty of wood stacked nearby to feed it. There’s an iron bed
in the corner, the butler shapeless beneath a grey blanket. I
recognise this chap. It’s the burnt man who let me in this
morning.
Evelyn was right, he’s been cruelly treated. His face is
hideously bruised and livid with cuts, dried blood staining the
pillowcase. I might have mistaken him for dead if it weren’t
for his constant murmuring, distress poisoning his sleep.
A maid is sitting beside him in a wooden chair, a large book
open in her lap. She can’t be more than twenty-three, small
enough to tuck into a pocket, with blonde hair spilling from
beneath her cap. She looks up as we enter, slamming the book
closed and leaping to her feet when she realises who we are,
hastily smoothing out her white apron.
‘Miss Evelyn,’ she stammers, eyes on the floor. ‘I didn’t
know you’d be visiting.’
‘My friend here needed to see Mr Collins,’ says Evelyn.
The maid’s brown eyes flick towards me, before pinning
themselves to the ground once more.
‘I’m sorry, miss, he hasn’t stirred all morning,’ says the
maid. ‘The doctor gave him some tablets to help him sleep.’
‘And he can’t be woken?’
‘Haven’t tried, miss, but you made an awful racket coming
up them stairs and he didn’t bat an eyelid. Don’t know what
else would do it, if that didn’t. Dead to the world, he is.’
The maid’s eyes find me once again, lingering long enough
to suggest some sort of familiarity, before resuming their
former contemplation of the floor.
‘I’m sorry, but do we know each other?’ I ask.


‘No, sir, not really, it’s just… I served you at dinner last
night.’
‘Did you bring me a note?’ I ask excitedly.
‘Not me, sir, it was Madeline.’
‘Madeline?’
‘My lady’s maid,’ interrupts Evelyn. ‘The house was short-
staffed so I sent her down to the kitchen to help out. Well,
that’s fortunate’ – she checks her wristwatch – ‘she’s taking
refreshments out to the hunters, but she’ll be back around three
p.m. We can question her together when she returns.’
I turn my attention back to the maid.
‘Do you know anything more about the note?’ I ask. ‘Its
contents, perhaps?’
The maid shakes her head, wringing her hands. The poor
creature looks quite on the spot, and, taking pity on her, I offer
my thanks and leave.


7
We’re following the road to the village, the trees drawing
closer with every step. It’s not quite what I’d anticipated. The
map in the study conjured images of some grand labour, a
boulevard hewn from the forest. The reality is little more than
a wide dirt track, wretched with potholes and fallen branches.
The forest hasn’t been tamed so much as bartered with, the
Hardcastles winning the barest of concessions from their
neighbour.
I don’t know our destination, but Evelyn believes we can
intercept Madeline on her way back from the hunt. Secretly, I
suspect she’s simply looking for an excuse to prolong her
absence from the house. Not that any subterfuge is necessary.
This last hour in Evelyn’s company is the first time since
waking that I’ve felt myself a whole person, rather than the
remnants of one. Out here, in the wind and rain, with a friend
by my side, I’m happier than I have been all day.
‘What do you believe Madeline can tell you?’ asks Evelyn,
picking a branch off the path and tossing it into the forest.
‘The note that she brought me last night lured me out into
the woods so somebody could attack me,’ I say.
‘Attack!’ interrupts Evelyn, shocked. ‘Here? Why?’
‘I don’t know, but I’m hoping Madeline can tell me who
sent the note. She might even have peeked at the message.’
‘There’s no “might” about it,’ says Evelyn. ‘Madeline was
in Paris with me. She’s loyal and she makes me laugh, but
she’s an atrocious maid. She probably considers peeking at
other people’s mail a perk of the job.’
‘That’s very lenient of you,’ I say.
‘I have to be, I can’t pay very well,’ she says. ‘And after
she’s revealed the contents of the message, what then?’
‘I tell the police,’ I say. ‘And hopefully put this matter to
bed.’


Turning left at a crooked signpost, we follow a small trail
into the woods, dirt tracks criss-crossing each other until the
way back is impossible to discern.
‘Do you know where you’re going?’ I ask nervously,
swiping a low-hanging branch from my face. The last time I
entered this forest my mind never made it back.
‘We’re following these,’ she says, tugging at a fragment of
yellow material nailed to a tree. It’s similar to the red one I
found when I stumbled upon Blackheath this morning, the
memory only serving to unsettle me further.
‘They’re markers,’ she says. ‘The groundskeepers use them
to navigate in the woods. Don’t worry, I’ll not lead you too far
astray.’
The words are barely out of her mouth when we enter a
small clearing with a stone well at its centre. The wooden
shelter has collapsed, the iron wheel that once raised the
bucket now left to rust in the mud, almost buried by fallen
leaves. Evelyn claps in delight, laying an affectionate hand on
the mossy stone. She’s clearly hoping I haven’t noticed the slip
of paper tucked between the cracks, or the way her fingers are
now covering it. Friendship compels me to play along and I
hastily avert my attention when she looks back towards me.
She must have some suitor in the house and I’m ashamed to
say I’m jealous of this secret correspondence and the person
on the other side of it.
‘This is it,’ she says with a theatrical sweep of her arm.
‘Madeline will be passing through this clearing on her way
back to the house. Shouldn’t be too long now. She’s due back
at the house by three to help finish setting up the ballroom.’
‘Where are we?’ I ask, looking around.
‘It’s a wishing well,’ she says, leaning over the edge to peer
into the blackness. ‘Michael and I used to come here when we
children. We’d make our wishes with pebbles.’
‘And what sorts of things did young Evelyn Hardcastle wish
for?’ I ask.
She wrinkles her brow, the question flummoxing her.


‘You know, for the life of me, I can’t remember,’ she says.
‘What does a child who has everything want?’
More, just like everybody else.
‘I doubt I could have told you even when I did have my
memories,’ I say, smiling.
Dusting the grime from her hands, Evelyn looks at me
quizzically. I can see the curiosity burning inside her, the joy at
encountering something unknown and unexpected in a place
where everything is familiar. I’m out here because I fascinate
her, I realise with a flash of disappointment.
‘Have you thought about what you’ll do if your memories
don’t return?’ she asks, softening the question with the
gentleness of her tone.
Now it’s my turn to be flummoxed.
Since my initial confusion passed, I’ve tried not to dwell
upon my condition. If anything, the loss of my memories has
proven a frustration rather than a tragedy, my inability to recall
Anna being one of the few moments when it’s seemed
anything more than an inconvenience. Thus far in the
excavation of Sebastian Bell I’ve unearthed two friends, an
annotated Bible and a locked trunk. Precious little return for
forty years on this earth. I don’t have a wife weeping for our
lost time together, or a child worrying that the father she loved
might not return. At this distance, Sebastian Bell’s life seems
an easy one to lose and a difficult one to mourn.
A branch snaps somewhere in the forest.
‘Footman,’ says Evelyn, my blood immediately running
cold as I recall the Plague Doctor’s warning.
‘What did you say?’ I ask, frantically searching the forest.
‘That noise, it’s a footman,’ she says. ‘They’re collecting
wood. Shameful, isn’t it? We don’t have enough servants to
stock all the fireplaces, so our guests are having to send their
own footmen to do it.’
‘They? How many are there?’


‘One for every family visiting, and there’s more coming,’
she says. ‘I’d say there’s already seven or eight in the house.’
‘Eight?’ I say in a strangled voice.
‘My dear Sebastian, are you quite all right?’ says Evelyn,
catching my alarm.
Under different circumstances I would welcome this
concern, this affection, but here and now her scrutiny only
embarrasses me. How can I explain that a strange chap in a
plague doctor costume warned me to keep an eye out for a
footman – a name which means nothing to me, and yet fills me
with a crippling fear every time I hear it?
‘I’m sorry, Evie,’ I say, shaking my head ruefully. ‘There’s
more I need to tell you, but not here, and not quite yet.’
Unable to hold her questioning stare, I look around the
clearing for a distraction. Three trails intersect before striking
off into the forest, one of them cutting a straight path through
the trees towards water.
‘Is that—’
‘A lake,’ says Evelyn, looking past me. ‘The lake, I suppose
you’d say. That’s where my brother was murdered by Charlie
Carver.’
A shiver of silence divides us.
‘I’m sorry, Evie,’ I say at last, embarrassed by the poverty
of the sentiment.
‘You’ll think me awful, but it happened so long ago it barely
seems real,’ she says. ‘I can’t even remember Thomas’s face.’
‘Michael shared a similar sentiment,’ I say.
‘That’s not surprising, he was five years younger than me
when it happened.’ She’s hugging herself, her tone distant. ‘I
was supposed to be looking after Thomas that morning, but I
wanted to go riding and he was always pestering me, so I
arranged a treasure hunt for the children and left him behind.
If I hadn’t been so selfish, he’d never have been at the lake in
the first place, and Carver wouldn’t have got his filthy hands
on him. You can’t imagine what that thought does to a child. I


didn’t sleep, barely ate. I couldn’t feel anything that wasn’t
anger or guilt. I was monstrous to anybody who tried to
console me.’
‘What changed?’
‘Michael’ – she smiles wistfully – ‘I was vile to him,
positively horrid, but he stayed by my side, no matter what I
said. He saw I was sad and he wanted to make me feel better. I
don’t even think he knew what was happening, not really. He
was just being nice, but he kept me from drifting away
completely.’
‘Is that why you went to Paris, to get away from it all?’
‘I didn’t choose to leave, my parents sent me away a few
months after it happened,’ she says, biting her lip. ‘They
couldn’t forgive me and I wouldn’t have been allowed to
forgive myself if I’d stayed. I know it was supposed to be a
punishment, but exile was a kindness, I think.’
‘And yet you came back?’
‘You make it sound like a choice,’ she says bitterly,
tightening her scarf as the wind carves through the trees. ‘My
parents ordered my return, they even threatened to cut me out
of the will should I refuse. When that didn’t work, they
threatened to cut Michael out of the will instead. So here I
am.’
‘I don’t understand, why would they behave so despicably
and then throw you a party?’
‘A party?’ she says, shaking her head. ‘Oh, my dear man,
you really have no idea what’s happening here, do you?’
‘Perhaps if you—’
‘My brother was murdered nineteen years ago tomorrow,
Sebastian. I don’t know why, but my parents have decided to
mark the occasion by reopening the house where it happened
and inviting back the very same guests who were here that
day.’
Anger is rising in her voice, a low throb of pain I’d do
anything to make go away. She’s turned her head to face the


lake, her blue eyes glossy.
‘They’re disguising a memorial as a party and they’ve made
me the guest of honour, which I can only assume means
something dreadful is coming for me,’ she continues. ‘This
isn’t a celebration, it’s a punishment, and there’ll be fifty
people in their very finest clothes watching it happen.’
‘Are your parents really so spiteful?’ I ask, shocked. I feel
much as I did when that bird hit the window earlier this
morning, a great swell of pity mingled with a sense of injustice
at life’s sudden cruelties.
‘My mother sent me a message this morning, asking me to
meet her by the lake,’ she says. ‘She never came, and I don’t
think she ever meant to. She just wanted me to stand out there,
where it happened, remembering. Does that answer your
question?’
‘Evelyn… I… I don’t know what to say.’
‘There’s nothing to say, Sebastian. Wealth is poisonous to
the soul and my parents have been wealthy a very long time –
as have most of the guests who will be at this party,’ says
Evelyn. ‘Their manners are a mask, you’d do well to
remember that.’
She smiles at my pained expression, taking my hand. Her
fingers are cold, her gaze warm. She has the brittle courage of
a prisoner walking their final steps to the gallows.
‘Oh, don’t fret, dear heart,’ she says. ‘I’ve done all the
tossing and turning it’s possible to do. I see little benefit in
your losing sleep over it also. If you want, you could make a
wish in the well on my behalf, though I’d understand if you
have more pressing concerns.’
From her pocket she pulls out a small coin.
‘Here,’ she says, handing it to me. ‘I don’t think our pebbles
did much good.’
The coin travels a long way, hitting rock rather than water at
the bottom. Despite Evelyn’s advice, I hitch no hopes for
myself to its surface. Instead, I pray for her deliverance from
this place, for a happy life and freedom from her parents’


machinations. Like a child I close my eyes in the hopes that
when I open them again, the natural order will be overturned,
the impossible made plausible by desire alone.
‘You’ve changed so much,’ mutters Evelyn, a ripple of
emotion disturbing her face, the slightest indication of
discomfort when she realises what she’s said.
‘You knew me before?’ I say, surprised. Somehow it never
occurred to me that Evelyn and I might have had a relationship
prior to this one.
‘I shouldn’t have said anything,’ she says, walking away
from me.
‘Evie, I’ve been in your company for over an hour, which
makes you my best friend in this world,’ I say. ‘Please, be
honest with me. Who am I?’
Her eyes criss-cross my face.
‘I’m not the right person to say,’ she protests. ‘We met two
days ago, and only briefly. Most of what I know is innuendo
and rumour.’
‘I’m sitting at an empty table, I’ll take whatever crumbs I’m
fed.’
Her lips are tight. She’s tugging her sleeves down
awkwardly. If she had a shovel, she’d dig herself an escape
tunnel. The deeds of good men are not related so reluctantly,
and I’m already beginning to dread what she has to tell me.
Even so, I cannot let this go.
‘Please,’ I plead. ‘You told me earlier I could choose who I
wanted to be, but I cannot do that without knowing who I
was.’
Her obstinacy flickers, and she looks up at me from under
her eyelashes.
‘Are you certain you wish to know?’ she asks. ‘The truth
isn’t always a kindness.’
‘Kind or not, I need to understand what’s been lost.’


‘Not a great deal in my opinion,’ she sighs, squeezing my
hand in both of hers. ‘You were a dope dealer, Sebastian. You
made your living alleviating the boredom of the idle rich, and
quite a living it was too, if your practice on Harley Street is
anything to go by.’
‘I’m a…’
‘Dope dealer,’ she repeats. ‘Laudanum’s the fashion I
believe, though from what I understand, your trunk of tricks
has something to cater to every taste.’
I slump within myself. I wouldn’t have believed I could be
so wounded by the past, but the revelation of my former
profession tears a hole right through me. Though my failings
were numerous, against them was always stacked the small
pride of being a doctor. There was nobility in that course,
honour even. But no, Sebastian Bell took the title and twisted
it to his own selfish ends, making it perverse, denying what
little good remained to him.
Evelyn was right, the truth isn’t always a kindness, but no
man should discover himself this way, like an abandoned
house stumbled upon in the darkness.
‘I shouldn’t worry about it,’ says Evelyn, cocking her head
to catch my averted eye. ‘I see little of that odious creature in
the man before me.’
‘Is that why I’m at this party?’ I ask quietly. ‘To sell my
wares?’
Her smile is sympathetic. ‘I suspect so.’
I’m numb, two steps behind myself. Every strange glance
over the course of the day, every whisper and commotion as I
walked into a room is explained. I thought people were
concerned for my well-being, but they were wondering when
my trunk would reopen for business.
I feel such a fool.
‘I have to…’
I’m moving before I understand how that sentence ends, my
body carrying me back through the forest at an ever increasing


pace. I’m almost running by the time I arrive on the road.
Evelyn’s at my heels, struggling to keep up. She’s trying to
anchor me with words, reminding me of my desire to meet
Madeline, but I’m impervious to reason, consumed by my
hatred for the man I was. His flaws I could accept, perhaps
even overcome, but this is a betrayal. He made his mistakes
and fled, leaving me holding the tatters of his scorched life.
Blackheath’s door stands open and I’m up the staircase and
into my room so quickly the smell of damp earth still clings to
me, as I stand panting over the trunk. Is this what drove me
into the forest last night? Is this what I spilled blood for? Well,
I’m going to smash it all, and with it any connection to the
man I was.
Evelyn arrives to find me ransacking my bedroom for
something heavy enough to break the lock. Intuiting my
purpose, she ducks into the corridor, returning with the bust of
some Roman emperor or other.
‘You’re a treasure,’ I say, using it to hammer the lock.
When I yanked the trunk out of the cupboard this morning,
it was so heavy it took all my strength to lift, but now it’s
sliding backwards with each blow. Once again Evelyn comes
to the rescue, sitting on the trunk to keep it in place, and after
three enormous strikes, the lock clatters to the floor.
Tossing the bust on the bed, I lift the heavy lid.
The trunk’s empty.
Or at least mostly empty.
In a dark corner is a solitary chess piece with Anna’s name
carved into the base.
‘I think it’s time you told me the rest of your story,’ says
Evelyn.


8
Darkness presses up against my bedroom window, its cold
breath leaving frost on the glass. The fire hisses in response,
the swaying flames my only light. Steps hurry down the
corridor beyond my closed door, a jumble of voices on their
way to the ball. Somewhere in the distance I hear the tremble
of a violin coming awake.
Stretching my feet towards the fire, I wait for silence.
Evelyn asked me to attend both dinner and the party, but I
can’t mingle with these people, knowing who I am and what it
is they really want from me. I’m tired of this house, their
games. I’m going to meet Anna at 10:20 p.m. in the graveyard,
and then I’ll have a stable hand take us to the village, away
from this madness.
My gaze returns to the chess piece I found in the trunk. I’m
holding it up to the light in the hopes of worrying loose some
further memories. Thus far it’s kept quiet and there’s little
about the piece itself to illuminate my memory. It’s a bishop,
hand-carved and freckled with white paint; a far cry from the
expensive ivory sets I’ve seen around the house, and yet… it
means something to me. Regardless of any memory there’s a
feeling associated with it, a sense of comfort almost. Holding
it brings me courage.
There’s a knock on the door, my hand tightening around the
chess piece as I start from the chair. The closer I come to the
meeting in the graveyard the more highly strung I’ve become,
practically leaping out of the window every time the fire pops
in the grate.
‘Belly, you in there?’ asks Michael Hardcastle.
He knocks again. It’s insistent. A polite battering ram.
Placing the chess piece on the mantel above the fireplace, I
open the door. The hall’s awash with people in costume,
Michael wearing a bright orange suit and fiddling with the
straps of a giant sun mask.
‘There you are,’ he says, frowning at me. ‘Why aren’t you
dressed yet?’


‘I’m not coming,’ I say. ‘It’s been…’
A wave towards my head, but my sign language is too
vague for him.
‘Are you feeling faint?’ he asks. ‘Should I call Dickie? I just
saw him—’
I have to catch Michael’s arm to prevent him from flying off
down the corridor in search of the doctor.
‘I simply don’t feel up to it,’ I say.
‘Are you sure? There are going to be fireworks and I’m
certain my parents have been cooking up a surprise all day.
Seems a shame to—’
‘Honestly, I’d rather not.’
‘If you’re certain,’ he says reluctantly, his voice as
crestfallen as his face. ‘I’m sorry you’ve had such a wretched
day, Belly. Here’s hoping tomorrow will be better, with fewer
misunderstandings, at least.’
‘Misunderstandings?’ I say.
‘The murdered girl?’ He smiles in confusion. ‘Daniel told
me it was all a big mistake. I felt a right bloody fool calling off
the search halfway through. No harm done, though.’
Daniel? How could he possibly have known Anna was
alive?
‘It was a mistake, wasn’t it?’ he asks, noting my bafflement.
‘Of course,’ I say brightly. ‘Yes… terrible mistake. I’m
sorry to have bothered you with it.’
‘Not to worry,’ he says slightly dubiously. ‘Think no more
about it.’
His words are stretched thin, like overburdened elastic. I can
hear his doubt, not only in the story, but in the man standing
before him. After all, I’m not the person he knew and I think
he’s coming to realise that I no longer wish to be. This
morning I’d have done almost anything to repair the fracture
between us, but Sebastian Bell was a drug peddler and a


coward, the consort of vipers. Michael was a friend of that
man, so how could he ever be a friend of mine?
‘Well, I’d best be off,’ he says, clearing his throat. ‘Feel
better, old man.’
Rapping the doorframe with his knuckle, he turns away,
following the rest of the guests on their way to the party.
I watch him go, digesting the news. I’d quite forgotten
about Anna’s flight through the woods this morning, our
imminent meeting in the graveyard sapping much of the horror
from my first memory. And yet, something momentous clearly
happened, even if Daniel has been telling people it didn’t. I’m
certain of what I witnessed, the gunshot and the fear. Anna
was chased by a figure in black, whom I must now assume to
have been the footman. Somehow she survived, as did I after
my assault last night. Is that what she wants to talk about? Our
mutual enemy, and why he wants us dead? Perhaps he’s after
the drugs? They’re clearly valuable. Maybe Anna’s my partner
and she removed them from the trunk to keep them out of his
hands? That would, at least, explain the presence of the chess
piece. Maybe it’s some sort of calling card?
After taking my coat from the wardrobe, I wrap myself in a
long scarf and slip my hands into a thick pair of gloves,
pocketing the paperknife and chess piece on the way out. I’m
rewarded by a crisp, cold night. As my eyes adjust to the
gloom, I breathe in the fresh air, still damp with the storm, and
follow the gravel path around the house towards the
graveyard.
My shoulders are tense, my stomach unsettled.
I’m frightened of this forest, but I’m more frightened by this
meeting.
When I first awoke I wanted nothing more than to
rediscover myself, but last night’s misadventure now seems a
blessing. Injury has given me the chance to start again, but
what if meeting Anna brings all my old memories flooding
back? Can this higgledy-piggledy personality I’ve cobbled
together over the course of the day survive such a deluge, or
will it be washed away entirely?


Will I be washed away?
The thought is almost enough to turn me around by the
shoulders, but I cannot confront the person I was by running
from the life he built. Better to make a stand here, confident of
whom I wish to become.
Gritting my teeth, I follow the path through the trees,
coming upon a small gardener’s cottage, the windows dark.
Evelyn’s leaning against the wall, smoking a cigarette, a
lantern burning by her feet. She’s wearing a long beige coat
and wellington boots, an outfit somewhat at odds with the blue
evening dress beneath it and the diamond tiara sparkling in her
hair. She’s really quite beautiful, though she carries it
awkwardly.
She notices me noticing.
‘I didn’t have time to change after dinner,’ she says
defensively, tossing her cigarette away.
‘What are you doing here, Evie?’ I ask. ‘You’re supposed to
be at the ball.’
‘I slipped away. You didn’t think I’d miss all the fun?’ she
says, grinding the cigarette beneath her heel.
‘It’s dangerous.’
‘Then it would be foolish for you to go alone, besides I
brought some help.’
From her handbag, she pulls out a black revolver.
‘Where on earth did you find that?’ I ask, feeling shocked
and slightly guilty. The idea that my problem has put a weapon
in Evelyn’s hand seems like a betrayal somehow. She should
be warm and safe in Blackheath, not out here in harm’s way.
‘It’s my mother’s, so the better question might be where she
found it.’
‘Evie, you can’t—’
‘Sebastian, you’re my only friend in this dreadful place and
I’m not going to let you stroll into a graveyard alone, without


knowing what’s waiting for you. Somebody’s already tried to
kill you once. I have no intention of letting them try again.’
A lump of gratitude lodges itself in my throat.
‘Thank you.’
‘Don’t be silly, it’s either this or I stay in that house with
everybody’s eyes upon me,’ she says, lifting the lantern into
the air. ‘I should be thanking you. Now, shall we go? There’ll
be hell to pay if I’m not back for the speeches.’
Darkness weighs heavy on the graveyard, the iron fence
buckled, trees bent low over crooked gravestones. Thick piles
of rotting leaves smother the plots, the tombs cracked and
crumbling, taking the names of the dead with them. ‘I spoke
with Madeline about the note you received last night,’ says
Evelyn, pushing open the squeaking gate and leading us
inside. ‘I hope you don’t mind.’
‘Of course, I don’t,’ I say, looking around nervously. ‘It
slipped my mind, truth be told. What did she say?’
‘Only that the note was given to her by Mrs Drudge, the
cook. I spoke to her separately, and she told me it had been left
in the kitchen, though she couldn’t say by whom. There was
too much coming and going.’
‘And did Madeline read it?’ I ask.
‘Of course,’ says Evelyn, wryly. ‘She didn’t even blush
when she admitted to it. The message was very brief, it asked
you to come immediately to the usual spot.’
‘That was all? No signature?’
‘I’m afraid not. I’m sorry Sebastian, I’d hoped to have
better news.’
We’ve reached the mausoleum at the far end of the
graveyard, a large marble box watched over by two broken
angels. A lantern hangs from one of their beckoning hands and
though it flickers in the gloom, there’s nothing of note to
illuminate. The graveyard’s empty.
‘Perhaps Anna’s running a little late,’ says Evelyn.


‘Then who left the lantern burning?’ I ask.
My heart is racing, damp seeping up my trousers as I wade
through ankle-deep leaves. Evelyn’s watch assures us of the
time, but Anna’s nowhere to be seen. There’s just that
damnable lantern, squeaking as it sways in the breeze, and for
fifteen minutes or more, we stand stiff beneath it, the light
draping our shoulders, our eyes searching for Anna and
finding her everywhere: in the shifting shadows and stirring
leaves, the low-hanging branches disturbed by the breeze.
Time and again one of us taps the other on the shoulder,
drawing their attention to a sudden sound or startled animal
darting through the underbrush.
As the hour grows later, it’s difficult to keep one’s thoughts
from venturing to more frightening places. Doctor Dickie
believed the wounds on my arms were defensive in nature, as
though I’d been fending off an assault with a knife. What if
Anna isn’t an ally, but an enemy? Perhaps that’s why her name
was fixed in my mind? For all I know, she penned the note I
received at the dinner table, and has now lured me out here to
finish the job started yesterday evening.
These thoughts spread like cracks through my already brittle
courage, fear pouring into the hollowness behind. Only
Evelyn’s presence keeps me upright, her own courage pinning
me in place.
‘I don’t think she’s coming,’ says Evelyn.
‘No, I rather think not,’ I say, speaking quietly to mask my
relief. ‘Perhaps we should head back.’
‘I think so,’ she says. ‘I’m so sorry, dear heart.’
With an unsteady hand, I take the lantern down from the
angel’s arm, and follow Evelyn towards the gate. We’ve only
taken a couple of steps when Evelyn clutches my arm,
lowering her flame towards the ground. Light splashes the
leaves, revealing blood splattered across their surface.
Kneeling down, I rub the sticky substance between my thumb
and forefinger.
‘Here,’ says Evelyn quietly.


She’s followed the drips to a nearby tombstone, where
something glitters beneath the leaves. Sweeping them aside, I
find the compass that led me out of the forest this morning. It’s
bloodstained and shattered, yet still unwavering in its devotion
to north.
‘Is that the compass the killer gave you?’ says Evelyn, her
voice hushed.
‘It is,’ I say, weighing it in my palm. ‘Daniel Coleridge took
it from me this morning.’
‘And then it appears somebody took it from him.’
Whatever danger Anna intended to warn me about, it seems
to have found her first and Daniel Coleridge was involved
somehow.
Evelyn lays a hand on my shoulder as she squints warily
into the darkness beyond the glow of the lantern.
‘I think it’s best we get you out of Blackheath,’ she says.
‘Go to your room and I’ll send a carriage to fetch you.’
‘I have to find Daniel,’ I protest weakly. ‘And Anna.’
‘Something awful is happening here,’ she hisses. ‘The
slashes on your arm, the drugs, Anna and now this compass.
These are pieces in a game neither of us knows how to play.
You must leave, for me, Sebastian. Let the police deal with all
of this.’
I nod. I’ve not the will to fight. Anna was the only reason I
stayed in the first place, the shreds of my courage convincing
me there was some honour to be found in obeying a request
delivered so cryptically. Without that obligation, the ties
binding me to this place have been severed.
We return to Blackheath in silence, Evelyn leading the way,
her revolver poking at the darkness. I trail behind quietly, little
more than a dog at her heel, and before I know it I’m saying
goodbye to my friend and opening the door into my bedroom.
All is not how I left it.
There’s a box sitting on my bed, wrapped in a red ribbon
that comes loose with a single tug. Sliding away the lid, my


stomach flips, bile rushing into my throat. Stuffed inside is a
dead rabbit with a carving knife stabbed through its body.
Blood has congealed at the bottom, staining its fur and almost
obscuring the note pinned to its ear.
From your friend,
The footman.
Black swims up into my eyes.
A second later I faint.


9
Day Two
A deafening clanging jolts me upright, my hands flying to my
ears. Wincing, I look around for the source of the noise to find
I’ve been moved in the night. Instead of the airy bedroom with
the bathtub and welcoming fire, I’m in a narrow room with
whitewashed walls and a single iron bed, dusty light poking
through a small window. There’s a chest of drawers on the
opposite wall beside a ratty brown dressing gown hanging
from a door peg.
Swinging my legs from the bed, my feet touch cold stone, a
shiver dancing up my spine. After the dead rabbit, I
immediately suspect the footman of perpetrating some new
devilry, but this incessant noise is making it impossible to
concentrate.
I pull on the dressing gown, nearly choking on the smell of
cheap cologne, and poke my head into the corridor beyond.
Cracked tiles cover the floor, whitewashed walls ballooning
out with damp. There are no windows, only lamps staining
everything with a dirty yellow light that never seems to settle.
The clanging is louder out here and, covering my ears, I follow
the din until I reach the bottom of a splintered wooden
staircase, leading up into the house. Dozens of large tin bells
are attached to a board on the wall, each with a plaque beneath
it naming a section of the house. The bell for the front door is
shaking so hard I’m worried it’s going to unsettle the
foundations.
Hands pressed to my ears, I stare at the bell, but short of
ripping it from the wall, there’s no obvious way of quietening
the clamour beyond answering the door. Belting the dressing
gown tight, I rush up the stairs, emerging at the rear of the
entrance hall. It’s much quieter here, the servants moving
through in a calm procession, their arms filled with bouquets
of flowers and other decorations. I can only assume they’re too
busy clearing away the detritus of last night’s party to have
heard the noise.


With an annoyed shake of the head, I open the door to find
myself confronted by Doctor Sebastian Bell.
He’s wild-eyed and dripping wet, shivering with cold.
‘I need your help,’ he says, spitting panic.
My world empties.
‘Do you have a telephone?’ he continues, the desperation
terrible in his eyes. ‘We need to send for the authorities.’
This is impossible.
‘Don’t just stand there, you devil!’ he cries out, shaking me
by the shoulders, the cold of his hands seeping through my
pyjamas.
Unwilling to wait for a response, he pushes past me into the
entrance hall, searching for aid.
I try to make sense of what I’m seeing.
This is me.
This is me yesterday.
Somebody is speaking to me, tugging on my sleeve, but I
can’t focus on anything except the imposter dripping on the
floor.
Daniel Coleridge has appeared at the top of the staircase.
‘Sebastian?’ he says, descending with one hand on the
banister.
I watch him for the trick, some flicker of rehearsal, of jest,
but he pads down the steps exactly as he did yesterday, just as
light of foot, just as confident and admired.
There’s another tug on my arm, a maid placing herself in
my eyeline. She’s looking at me with concern, her lips
moving.
Blinking away my confusion, I focus on her, finally hearing
what she’s saying.
‘… Mr Collins, you all right, Mr Collins?’
Her face is familiar, though I can’t place it.


I look over her head to the stairs, where Daniel is already
ushering Bell up to his room. Everything’s happening
precisely as it did yesterday.
Pulling free of the maid, I rush to a mirror on the wall. I can
barely look at it. I’m badly burnt, my skin mottled and rough
to the touch like fruit left too long in the sweltering sun. I
know this man. Somehow, I’ve awoken as the butler.
My heart hammering, I turn back to the maid.
‘What’s happening to me?’ I stammer, clutching at my
throat, surprised by the hoarse northern voice coming out of it.
‘Sir?’
‘How did…’
But I’m asking the wrong person. The answers are caked in
dirt and trudging up the stairs to Daniel’s room.
Picking up the edges of my dressing gown, I hurry after
them, following a trail of leaves and muddy rainwater. The
maid is calling my name. I’m halfway up when she bolts past
me, planting herself in the way with both hands pressed
against my chest.
‘You can’t go up there, Mr Collins,’ she says. ‘There’ll be
merry hell to pay if Lady Helena catches you running around
in your smalls.’
I try to go around her, but she steps sideways, blocking me
again.
‘Let me pass, girl!’ I demand, immediately regretting it.
This isn’t how I speak, blunt and demanding.
‘You’re having one of your turns, Mr Collins, that’s all,’ she
says. ‘Come down to the kitchen, I’ll make us a pot of tea.’
Her eyes are blue, earnest. They flick over my shoulder self-
consciously, and I look behind me to find other servants
gathered at the bottom of the stairs. They’re watching us, their
arms still laden with flowers.
‘One of my turns?’ I ask, doubt opening its mouth and
swallowing me.


‘On account of your burns, Mr Collins,’ she says quietly.
‘Sometimes you say things, or see things that ain’t right. A cup
of tea’s all it takes, a few minutes and you’re right as rain.’
Her kindness is crushing, warm and heavy. I’m reminded of
Daniel’s pleas yesterday, his delicate way of speaking, as
though I might fracture if pressed too hard. He thought I was
mad, as this maid does now. Given what’s happening to me,
what I think is happening to me, I can’t be certain they’re
wrong.
I offer her a helpless look and she takes my arm, guiding me
back down the steps, the crowd parting to let us through.
‘Cup of tea, Mr Collins,’ she says reassuringly. ‘That’s all
you need.’
She leads me like a lost child, the soft grip of her calloused
hand as calming as her tone. Together we leave the entrance
hall, heading back down the servants’ staircase and along the
gloomy corridor into the kitchen.
Sweat stands up on my brow, heat rushing out of ovens and
stoves, pots bubbling over open flames. I smell gravy, roasted
meats and baking cakes, sugar and sweat. Too many guests
and too few working ovens, that’s the problem. They’ve had to
start preparing dinner now to make sure everything goes out
on time later.
The knowledge bewilders me.
It’s true, I’m certain of it, but how could I know that unless I
really am the butler?
Maids are rushing out carrying breakfast, scrambled eggs
and kippers heaped on silver platters. A wide-hipped, ruddy-
faced elderly woman is standing by the oven bellowing
instructions, her pinafore covered in flour. No general ever
wore a chestful of medals with such conviction. Somehow she
spots us through the commotion, her iron glare striking the
maid first, then myself.
Wiping her hands on her apron, she strides over to us.
‘I’m sure you’ve somewhere to be, haven’t you, Lucy,’ she
says with a stern look.


The maid hesitates, considering the wisdom of objecting.
‘Yes, Mrs Drudge.’
Her hand releases me, leaving a patch of emptiness on my
arm. A sympathetic smile and she’s gone, lost among the din.
‘Sit yourself down, Roger,’ says Mrs Drudge, her tone
aspiring to gentleness. She has a split lip, bruising beginning
to show around her mouth. Somebody must have struck her,
and she winces when she speaks.
There’s a wooden table at the centre of the kitchen, its
surface covered in platters of tongue, roasted chickens and
hams piled high. There are soups and stews, trays of glistening
vegetables, with more being added all the time by the harassed
kitchen staff, most of whom look to have spent an hour in the
ovens themselves.
Pulling out a chair, I sit down.
Mrs Drudge slides a tray of scones from the oven, putting
one on a plate with a small curl of butter. She brings it over,
placing the plate in front of me and touching my hand. Her
skin’s hard as old leather.
Her gaze lingers, kindness wrapped in thistle, before she
turns away, bellowing her way back through the crowd.
The scone is delicious, the melting butter dripping off the
sides. I’m only a bite into it when I see Lucy again, finally
remembering why she’s familiar. This is the maid who will be
in the drawing room at lunchtime – the one who will be
abused by Ted Stanwin and rescued by Daniel Coleridge.
She’s even prettier than I recall, with freckles and large blue
eyes, red hair straying from beneath her cap. She’s trying to
open a jam jar, her face screwed up with effort.
She had jam stains all over her apron.
It happens in slow motion, the jar slipping from her hands
and hitting the floor, glass spraying across the kitchen, her
apron splattered with dripping jam.
‘Oh, bloody hell, Lucy Harper,’ somebody cries, dismayed.


My chair clatters to the floor as I dart from the kitchen,
racing down the corridor and back upstairs. I’m in such a rush
that as I turn the corner onto the guest corridor, I collide with a
wiry chap, curly black hair spilling down his brow, charcoal
staining his white shirt. Apologising, I look up into the face of
Gregory Gold. Fury wears him like a suit, his eyes empty of
all reason. He’s livid, trembling with rage, and only too late do
I remember what comes next, how the butler looked after this
monster did his work.
I attempt to back away, but he takes hold of my dressing
gown with his long fingers.
‘You don’t need—’
My vision blurs, the world reduced to a smudge of colour
and a flash of pain as I crash into a wall, then drop to the floor,
blood trickling from my head. He’s looming over me, an iron
poker in his hand.
‘Please,’ I say, trying to slide backwards, away from him.
‘I’m not—’
He kicks me in the side, emptying my lungs.
I reach out a hand, trying to speak, beg, but that only seems
to infuriate him further. He’s kicking me faster and faster until
there’s nothing I can do but curl up in a ball as he pours his
wrath upon me.
I can barely breathe, barely see. I’m sobbing, buried beneath
my pain.
Mercifully, I pass out.


10
Day Three
It’s dark, the net on the window fluttering in the breath of a
moonless night. The sheets are soft, the bed comfortable and
canopied.
Clutching the eiderdown, I smile.
It was a nightmare, that’s all.
Slowly, beat by beat, my heart quietens, the taste of blood
fading with the dream. It takes me a few seconds to remember
where I am, another to pick out the dim shape of a large man
standing in the corner of the room.
My breath catches in my throat.
Sliding my hand through the covers towards the bedside
table, I reach for the matches, but they seem to slither away
from my searching fingers.
‘Who are you?’ I ask the darkness, unable to keep the
tremor from my voice.
‘A friend.’
It’s a man’s voice, muffled and deep.
‘Friends don’t lurk in the gloom,’ I say.
‘I didn’t say I was your friend, Mr Davies.’
My blind fumbling almost knocks the oil lamp off the
bedside table. Attempting to steady it, my fingers find the
matches cowering at its base.
‘Don’t worry about the light,’ says the darkness. ‘It will
little profit you.’
I strike the match with a trembling hand, touching it to the
lamp. Flame explodes behind the glass, driving the shadows
deep into the corners and illuminating my visitor. It’s the man
in the plague doctor costume I met earlier, the light revealing
details I’d missed in the gloom of the study. His greatcoat is
scuffed and tattered at the edges, a top hat and porcelain beak


mask covering all of his face except for the eyes. Gloved
hands rest on a black cane, an inscription inlaid in sparkling
silver down the side, though the writing’s much too small to
read at this distance.
‘Observant, good,’ remarks the Plague Doctor. Footsteps
sound from somewhere in the house, and I wonder if my
imagination is sufficient to conjure the mundane details of
such an extraordinary dream.
‘What the hell are you doing in my room?’ I demand,
surprising myself with this outburst.
The beak mask ceases its exploration of the room, fixing on
me once again.
‘We have work to do,’ he says. ‘I have a puzzle which
requires a solution.’
‘I think you’ve mistaken me for somebody else,’ I say
angrily. ‘I’m a doctor.’
‘You were a doctor,’ he says. ‘Then a butler, today a
playboy, tomorrow a banker. None of them is your real face, or
your real personality. Those were stripped from you when you
entered Blackheath and they won’t be returned until you
leave.’
Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a small mirror and
tosses it onto the bed.
‘See for yourself.’
The glass shakes in my hand, reflecting a young man with
striking blue eyes and precious little wisdom behind them. The
face in the glass isn’t that of Sebastian Bell, or the burnt butler.
‘His name’s Donald Davies,’ says the Plague Doctor. ‘He
has a sister called Grace and a best friend called Jim, and he
doesn’t like peanuts. Davies will be your host for today, and
when you wake up tomorrow, you’ll have another. That’s how
this works.’
It wasn’t a dream after all, it really happened. I lived the
same day twice in the bodies of two different people. I talked


to myself, berated myself and examined myself through
somebody else’s eyes.
‘I’m going mad, aren’t I?’ I say, looking at him over the top
of the mirror.
I can hear the cracks in my voice.
‘Of course not,’ says the Plague Doctor. ‘Madness would be
an escape and there’s only one way to escape Blackheath.
That’s why I’m here, I have a proposition for you.’
‘Why have you done this to me?’ I demand.
‘That’s a flattering notion, but I’m not responsible for your
predicament, or Blackheath’s for that matter.’
‘Then who is?’
‘Nobody you’d care to meet or need to,’ he says, dismissing
the notion with a wave of his hand. ‘Which brings me back to
my proposition—’
‘I must speak with them,’ I say.
‘Speak with whom?’
‘The person who brought me here, whoever can free me,’ I
say through gritted teeth, struggling to keep hold of my
temper.
‘Well, the former is long gone, and the latter is before you,’
he says, tapping his chest with both hands. Perhaps it’s the
costume, but the movement seems somehow theatrical, almost
rehearsed. I suddenly have the sense of taking part in a play in
which everybody knows their lines but me.
‘Only I know how you can escape Blackheath,’ he says.
‘Your proposition?’ I say suspiciously.
‘Precisely, though riddle might be closer to the truth of it,’
he says, lifting out a pocket watch and checking the time.
‘Somebody’s going to be murdered at the ball tonight. It won’t
appear to be a murder and so the murderer won’t be caught.
Rectify that injustice and I’ll show you the way out.’
I stiffen, gripping the sheets.


‘If freeing me is within your power, why not just do it,
damn you!’ I say. ‘Why play these games?’
‘Because eternity is dull,’ he says. ‘Or maybe because
playing is the important part. I’ll leave you to speculate. Just
don’t procrastinate for too long, Mr Davies. This day will be
repeated eight times, and you’ll see it through the eyes of eight
different hosts. Bell was your first, the butler your second and
Mr Davies the third. That means you only have five hosts left
to discover. If I were you, I would move quickly. When you
have an answer, bring it to the lake, along with proof, at 11
p.m. I’ll be waiting for you.’
‘I will not play these games for your amusement,’ I snarl,
leaning towards him.
‘Then fail out of spite, but know this: if you don’t solve this
problem by midnight in your final host, we’ll strip your
memories and return you to the body of Doctor Bell and this
will all begin again.’
He checks his watch, dropping it into his pocket with an
irritated tut. ‘Time runs away from us. Cooperate and I’ll
answer more of your questions next time we meet.’
A breeze slips through the window, extinguishing the light
and draping us in darkness. By the time I find the matches and
relight it, the Plague Doctor is gone.
Confused and afraid, I jump out of bed as though stung,
throwing open the bedroom door and stepping into the cold.
The corridor’s black. He could be standing five paces away
and I’d never see him.
Closing the door, I fly towards the wardrobe, dressing
myself in whatever comes to hand first. Whoever I’m wearing,
he’s skinny and short with a penchant for the garish, and when
I’m finished I’m splashed in purple trousers, an orange shirt
and a yellow waistcoat. There’s a coat and scarf at the back of
the cupboard and I pull them on, before heading out. Murder
in the morning and costumes at night, cryptic notes and burnt
butlers; whatever’s happening here, I will not be yanked
around like some puppet on a string.


I must escape this house.
The grandfather clock at the top of the stairs points its
weary arms at 3:17 a.m., tutting at my haste. Though I’m
loathe to wake the stablemaster at such a frightful hour, I can
see no other choice if I’m to escape this madness, so I take the
staircase two steps at a time, nearly tripping over this
peacock’s ridiculously tiny feet.
It wasn’t like this with Bell or the butler. I feel myself
pressed up against the walls of this body, straining at its seams.
I’m clumsy, almost drunk.
Leaves scatter inside as I open the front door. It’s blowing a
gale outside, rain swirling in the air, the forest cracking and
swaying. It’s a filthy night, the colour of tossed soot. I’ll need
more light if I’m to find my way without falling and breaking
my neck.
Retreating inside, I head down the servants’ staircase at the
rear of the entrance hall. The wood of the banister is rough to
the touch, the steps rickety. Thankfully, the lamps are still
leaking their rancid light, though the flames burn low and
quiet, their flicker indignant. The corridor is longer than I
remember, the whitewashed walls sweating with condensation,
the smell of earth spilling through the plaster. Everything’s
damp, rotten. I’ve seen most of Blackheath’s dirty edges, but
none so purposefully neglected. I’m surprised the place has
any staff at all, given how little regard they appear to be held
in by their masters.
In the kitchen I bounce between the stacked shelves until I
find a hurricane lamp and matches. Two strikes to light it and
I’m bounding back up the stairs and through the front door
into the storm.
The lamp claws at the darkness, the rain stinging my eyes.
I follow the driveway to the cobbled road leading up to the
stables, the forest heaving around me. Slipping over the
uneven stones, I strain my eyes for the stablemaster’s cottage,
but the lamp’s too bright, concealing much of what it should
reveal. I’m beneath the arch before I see it, sliding on horse
manure. As before, the yard is a crush of carriages, each


covered in a rippling canvas sheet. Unlike earlier, the horses
are in the stables, snorting in their sleep.
Shaking the manure from my feet, I throw myself on the
mercy of the cottage, banging the knocker. The light comes on
after a few minutes, the door opening a crack to reveal the
sleepy face of an old man in his long johns.
‘I need to leave,’ I say.
‘At this hour, sir?’ he asks dubiously, rubbing his eyes and
glancing at the pitch-black sky. ‘You’ll catch your death.’
‘It’s urgent.’
He sighs, taking in the scene, then gestures me inside,
opening the door fully. Putting on a pair of trousers, he tugs
the braces over his shoulders, moving in that sluggish daze
that marks someone roused unaccountably from their sleep.
Taking his jacket from the peg, he drags himself outside,
motioning for me to stay where I am.
I must confess I do so happily. The cottage bulges with
warmth and homeliness, the smell of leather and soap a solid,
comforting presence. I’m tempted to check the rota by the
door to see if Anna’s message is already written there, but no
sooner have I reached out my hand than I hear a god-awful
commotion, lights blinding me through the window. Stepping
into the rain, I find the old stablemaster sitting in a green
automobile, the entire thing coughing and shuddering as if
afflicted by some terrible disease.
‘Here you go, sir,’ he says, getting out. ‘I got her started for
you.’
‘But…’
I’m at a loss for words, aghast at the contraption before me.
‘Are there no carriages?’ I ask.
‘There are, but the horses are skittish around thunder, sir,’
he says, reaching under his shirt to scratch an armpit. ‘With
respect, you couldn’t keep hold of them.’
‘I can’t keep hold of this,’ I say, staring at the dreadful
mechanical monster, horror strangling my voice. Rain is


pinging off the metal and making a pond of the windscreen.
‘Easy as breathing it is,’ he says. ‘Grip the wheel and point
it where you want to go, then press the pedal to the floor.
You’ll make sense of it in no time.’
His confidence pushes me inside as firmly as any hand, the
door closing with a soft click.
‘Follow this cobbled road until the end, and then turn left
onto the dirt track,’ he says, pointing into the darkness. ‘That
will lead you to the village. It’s long and straight, a bit uneven,
mind. Takes anywhere between forty minutes and an hour,
depending on how carefully you drive, but you can’t miss it,
sir. If you wouldn’t mind, leave the automobile somewhere
obvious and I’ll have one of my boys collect it first thing in
the morning.’
With that, he’s gone, disappearing back into his cottage, the
door slamming shut behind him.
Gripping the wheel, I stare at the levers and dials, trying to
find some semblance of logic in the controls. I tentatively
press the pedal, the dreaded contraption lurches forward, and,
applying a little more pressure, I urge the automobile beneath
the arch and along the bumpy cobbled road, until we reach the
left turn the stablemaster mentioned.
Rain blankets the glass, forcing me to lean out of the
window to see where I’m going. The headlamps shine on a dirt
track littered with leaves and fallen branches, water cascading
across its surface. Despite the danger, I keep the accelerator
pedal pinned to the floor, elation replacing my unease. After
everything that’s happened, I’m finally escaping Blackheath,
each mile of this bumpy track taking me further from its
madness.
Morning arrives in a smudge, a grey half-light that taints
rather than illuminates, though it at least brings an end to the
rain. As promised the road continues straight, the forest
unending. Somewhere among those trees, a girl is being
murdered and Bell is coming awake to see it. A killer will
spare his life with a silver compass that points to a place that
doesn’t make sense and like a fool he’ll think himself saved.


But how can I be in that forest and in this car – and a butler in
between? My hands tighten around the wheel. If I was able to
talk to the butler when I was Sebastian Bell, then presumably,
whoever I’ll be tomorrow is already walking around
Blackheath. I might even have met him. And not just
tomorrow, but the man I’ll be the day after that and the day
after that. If that’s the case, what does that make me? Or them?
Are we shards of the same soul, responsible for each other’s
sins, or entirely different people, pale copies of some long
forgotten original?
The fuel gauge nudges red as fog comes rolling out of the
trees, thick upon the ground. My earlier sense of triumph has
waned. I should have arrived at the village long ago, but
there’s no chimney smoke in the distance and no end to the
forest.
Finally, the car shudders and stills, its dying breath a
screech of grinding parts as it comes to a stop mere feet from
the Plague Doctor, whose black greatcoat is in stark contrast to
the white fog he’s emerging from. My legs are stiff and my
back sore, but anger propels me out of the car.
‘Have you got this foolishness out of your system yet?’ asks
the Plague Doctor, both hands resting on his cane. ‘You could
have done so much with this host; instead you waste him on
this road, accomplishing nothing. Blackheath won’t let you go,
and while you’re tugging on your lead, your rivals are pressing
ahead with their investigations.’
‘And now I have rivals,’ I say contemptuously. ‘It’s one
trick after another with you, isn’t it? First you tell me I’m
trapped here, and now it’s a competition to escape.’
I’m marching towards him, fully intending to beat an exit
out of him.
‘Don’t you understand, yet?’ I say. ‘I don’t care about your
rules, because I’m not going to play. Either you let me leave,
or I’ll make you sorry I stayed.’
I’m two steps away when he points his cane at me. Though
it hovers an inch from my chest, no cannon was ever so
threatening. The silver lettering along the side is pulsing, a


faint shimmer rising from the wood, burning away the fog. I
can feel the heat of it through my clothes. If he desired, I’m
certain this benign-looking stick could rip a hole straight
through me.
‘Donald Davies is always the most childish of your hosts,’
he tuts, watching me take a nervous step backwards. ‘But, you
don’t have time to indulge him. There are two other people
trapped in this house, wearing the bodies of guests and
servants, just like you. Only one of you can leave, and it will
be whoever brings me the answer first. Now, do you see?
Escape isn’t to be found at the end of this dirt road, it’s
through me. So run if you must. Run until you can’t stand, and
when you wake up in Blackheath again and again, do so in the
knowledge that nothing here is arbitrary, nothing overlooked.
You’ll stay here until I decide otherwise.’
Lowering the cane, he tugs loose his pocket watch.
‘We’ll speak again soon, when you’ve calmed down a
little,’ he says, putting the watch away again. ‘Try to use your
hosts more wisely from now on. Your rivals are more cunning
than you can imagine, and I guarantee they won’t be so
frivolous with their time.’
I want to charge him, fists flying, but now the red mist has
passed, I can see it’s a preposterous idea. Even taking away the
bulk of his costume, he’s a large man, more than capable of
weathering my assault. Instead, I veer around him, the Plague
Doctor heading back to Blackheath, as I press into the fog
ahead. There may be no end to this road, no village to be
found, but I can’t give up until I know for sure.
I won’t return willingly to a madman’s game.


11
Day Four
I awake wheezing, crushed beneath the tremendous monument
of my new host’s stomach. The last thing I remember is
collapsing exhausted on the road after walking for hours,
howling in desperation at a village I couldn’t reach. The
Plague Doctor was telling the truth. There’s no escape from
Blackheath.
A carriage clock by the bed tells me it’s 10:30 a.m., and I’m
about to rise when a tall man enters through a connecting room
carrying a silver tray, which he lays on the sideboard. He’s in
his mid-thirties, I’d guess, dark-haired and clean-shaven,
blandly attractive without being memorable in any way. A pair
of glasses have slipped down his small nose, his eyes fixed on
the curtains he’s walking towards. Without saying a word, he
draws them and pushes open the windows, revealing views of
the garden and forest.
I watch him in fascination.
There’s something oddly precise about this man. His actions
are small and quick, without any wasted effort. It’s as though
he’s saving his energy for some great labour ahead.
For a minute or so, he stands at the window with his back to
me, letting the room breathe cold air. I feel as though
something is expected of me; that this pause has been
manufactured for my benefit, but for the life of me I can’t
guess what I should be doing. No doubt sensing my
indecision, he abandons his vigil, slipping his hands under my
armpits and tugging me into a sitting position.
I pay for his assistance in shame.
My silk pyjamas are soaked through with sweat and the
odour rising from my body is so pungent it brings tears to my
eyes. Oblivious to my embarrassment, my companion retrieves
the silver tray from the sideboard and places it on my lap,
lifting the dome cover. The platter beneath is piled high with
eggs and bacon, a side helping of pork chops, a pot of tea and


a jug of milk. Such a meal should be daunting, but I’m
ravenous and tear into it like an animal, while the tall man –
who I can only assume is my valet – disappears behind an
Oriental screen, the sound of pouring water issuing forth.
Pausing for breath, I take this opportunity to examine my
surroundings. In contrast to the frugal comforts of Bell’s
bedroom, this place is awash in wealth. Red velvet drapes flow
down the windows, piling up on a thick blue carpet. Art spots
the walls, the lacquered mahogany furniture polished to a
shine. Whoever I am, he’s held in high esteem by the
Hardcastle family.
The valet returns to find me mopping grease from my lips
with a napkin, panting with the effort of eating. He must be
disgusted. I am disgusted. I feel like a pig in a trough. Even so,
no flicker of emotion shows on his face as he removes the tray
and slides my arm across his shoulders to better help me out of
bed. God only knows how many times he’s been through this
ritual, or what he’s paid to do it, but once is enough for me.
Like a wounded soldier, he half-walks, half-drags me behind
the screen where a steaming hot bath has been prepared.
That’s when he begins to undress me.
I have no doubt this is all part of the routine, but the
shame’s too much to bear. Though this isn’t my body, I’m
humiliated by it, appalled by the waves of flesh lapping
against my hips, the way my legs rub together as I walk.
I shoo my companion away, but it’s pointless.
‘My lord, you can’t…’ He pauses, collecting his words
together carefully, ‘you’re not going to be able to get in and
out of the bath alone.’
I want to tell him to go hang, to leave me in peace, but he is,
of course, correct.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I nod my submission.
In practised motions he unbuttons my pyjama top and pulls
down the bottoms, lifting my feet one at a time so I don’t
become tangled in them. In a few seconds I’m naked, my
companion standing at a respectful distance.


Opening my eyes, I find myself reflected in a full-length
mirror on the wall. I resemble some grotesque caricature of the
human body, my skin jaundiced and swollen, a flaccid penis
peeking out of an unkempt crop of pubic hair.
Overcome by disgust and humiliation, I let out a sob.
Surprise lights up the valet’s face and then, just for a
moment, delight. It’s a patch of raw emotion, gone as quickly
as it appeared.
Hurrying over, he helps me into the bathtub.
I remember the euphoria I felt climbing into the hot water as
Bell, but there’s none of that now. My immense weight means
the joy of getting into a warm bath is eclipsed by the certain
humiliation of getting out of it again.
‘Will you require the reports this morning, Lord
Ravencourt?’ asks my companion.
Sitting stiff in the bath, I shake my head, hoping he’ll leave
the room.
‘The house has prepared a few activities for the day:
hunting, a forest walk, they asked –’
I shake my head again, staring at the water. How much more
must I endure?
‘Very well, then it’s just the appointments.’
‘Cancel them,’ I say quietly. ‘Cancel them all.’
‘Even with Lady Hardcastle, my lord?’
I find his green eyes for the first time. The Plague Doctor
claimed I must solve a murder to depart this house, and who
better than the lady of the house to help me sift through its
secrets.
‘No, not that one,’ I say. ‘Remind me where we’re meeting
again?’
‘In your parlour, my lord. Unless you wanted me to change
it?’
‘No, that will suffice.’


‘Very well, my lord.’
The last of our business concluded, he departs with a nod,
leaving me to wallow in peace, alone with my misery.
Closing my eyes, I rest my head on the edge of the bath,
trying to make sense of my situation. Finding their soul cut
loose from their body would suggest death to some, but deep
down I know this isn’t the afterlife. Hell would have fewer
servants and better furnishings, and stripping a man of his sins
seems a poor way to sit in judgement on him.
No, I’m alive, though not in any state I recognise. This is
something next to death, something more devious, and I’m not
alone. The Plague Doctor claimed there are three of us
competing to escape Blackheath. Could the footman who left
me the dead rabbit be trapped as I am? That would explain
why he’s trying to scare me. After all, a race is hard to win if
you’re afraid of reaching the finishing line. Perhaps this is
what the Plague Doctor considers entertainment, setting us
against each other, like half-starved dogs in a pit.
Maybe you should trust him.
‘So much for trauma,’ I mutter at the voice. ‘I thought I’d
left you in Bell.’
I know it’s a lie even as I say it. I’m connected to this voice
in the same way I’m connected to the Plague Doctor and the
footman. I can feel the weight of our history, even if I can’t
remember it. They’re part of everything that’s happening to
me, pieces of this puzzle I’m scrambling to solve. Whether
they’re friends or enemies I can’t be certain, but whatever the
voice’s true nature, it hasn’t led me astray so far.
Even so, trusting my captor strikes me as naivety at best.
The idea that all of this will end should I solve a murder seems
preposterous. Whatever the Plague Doctor’s intent, he came
concealed by mask and midnight. He’s wary of being seen,
which means there’s leverage to be found in ripping that mask
free.
I glance at the clock, weighing my options.


I know he’ll be in the study talking with Sebastian Bell – a
previous me, I still can’t quite wrap my head around it! – after
the hunt departs, which would seem an ideal time to intercept
him. If he wishes me to solve a murder, I’ll do so but it won’t
be my only task today. If I’m to ensure my freedom, I must
know the identity of the man who has taken it from me, and
for that I’m going to need some help.
By the Plague Doctor’s count, I’ve already wasted three of
my eight days in this house, those belonging to Sebastian Bell,
the butler and Donald Davies. Including myself, that means I
have five remaining hosts, and if Bell’s encounter with the
butler is any guide, they’re walking around Blackheath, as I
am.
That’s an army in waiting.
I just need to work out who they’re wearing.


12
The water’s long cold, leaving me blue and shivering.
Vainglorious though it may be, I can’t bear the thought of
Ravencourt’s valet lifting me out of this bath like a sodden
sack of potatoes.
A polite knock on the bedroom door relieves me of the
decision.
‘Lord Ravencourt, is all well?’ he calls, entering the room.
‘Quite well,’ I insist, my hands numb.
His head appears around the edge of the screen, his eyes
taking hold of the scene. After a moment’s scrutiny, he
approaches without my beckoning, rolling up his sleeves to
pull me out of the water with a strength that belies his thin
frame.
This time I do not protest. I have too little pride left to
salvage.
As he helps me out of the bathtub, I spot the edge of a tattoo
poking from beneath his shirt. It’s smeared green, the details
lost. Noticing my attention, he hurriedly pulls his sleeve down.
‘Folly of youth, my lord,’ he says.
For ten minutes I stand there, quietly humiliated, as he
towels me dry, mothering me into my suit; one leg then the
next, one arm then the other. The clothes are silk, beautifully
tailored but tugging and pinching like a roomful of elderly
aunts. They’re a size too small, fitting Ravencourt’s vanity
rather than his body. When all is done, the valet combs my
hair, rubbing coconut oil into my fleshy face before handing
me a mirror that I might better inspect the results. The
reflection is nearing sixty, with suspiciously black hair and
brown eyes the colour of weak tea. I search them for some
sign of myself, the hidden man working Ravencourt’s strings,
but I’m obscured. For the first time I wonder who I was before
coming here, and the chain of events that led me into this trap.
Such speculation would be intriguing if it weren’t so
frustrating.


As with Bell, my skin prickles when I see Ravencourt in the
mirror. Some part of me remembers my real face and is
perplexed by this stranger staring back.
I hand the mirror to the valet.
‘We need to go to the library,’ I say.
‘I know where it is, my lord,’ he says. ‘Shall I fetch you a
book?’
‘I’m coming with you.’
The valet pauses, frowning. He speaks hesitatingly, his
words testing the ground they’re tiptoeing across.
‘It’s a fair walk, my lord. I fear you may find it… tiring.’
‘I’ll manage, besides I need the exercise.’
Arguments queue behind his teeth, but he fetches my cane
and an attaché case and leads me into a dark corridor, oil
lamps spilling their warm light across the walls.
We walk slowly, the valet tossing news at my feet, but my
mind is fixed on the ponderousness of this body I’m dragging
forward. It’s as though some fiend has remade the house
overnight, stretching the rooms and thickening the air. Wading
into the sudden brightness of the entrance hall, I’m surprised
to discover how steep the staircase now appears. The steps I
sprinted down as Donald Davies would require climbing
equipment to surmount this morning. Little wonder Lord and
Lady Hardcastle lodged Ravencourt on the ground floor. It
would take a pulley, two strong men and a day’s pay to hoist
me into Bell’s room.
Requiring frequent rests at least allows me to observe my
fellow guests as they make their way around the house, and
it’s immediately evident that this is not a happy gathering.
Whispered arguments spill out of nooks and crannies, raised
voices moving hurriedly up the stairs only to be cut off by
slamming doors. Husbands and wives goad each other, drinks
gripped too tightly, faces flushed red with barely controlled
rage. There’s a needle in every exchange, the air prickly and
dangerous. Perhaps it’s nerves, or the hollow wisdom of
foresight, but Blackheath seems fertile ground for tragedy.


My legs are trembling by the time we arrive at the library,
my back aching with the effort of holding myself erect.
Unfortunately, the room offers scant reward for such suffering.
Dusty, overburdened bookshelves line the walls, a mouldy red
carpet smothering the floor. The bones of an old fire lie in the
grate, opposite a small reading table with an uncomfortable
wooden chair placed beside it.
My companion sums up his feelings in a single tut.
‘One moment, my lord, I’ll fetch you a more comfortable
chair from the drawing room,’ he says.
I’ll need it. My left palm is blistered where it’s rubbed
against the top of the cane and my legs are wobbling beneath
me. Sweat has soaked through my shirt, leaving my entire
body itchy. Crossing the house has left me a wreck, and if I’m
to reach the lake tonight before my rivals, I’m going to need a
new host, preferably one capable of conquering a staircase.
Ravencourt’s valet returns with a wingback chair, placing it
on the floor in front of me. Taking my arm, he lowers me into
the green cushions.
‘May I ask our purpose here, my lord?’
‘If we’re very lucky, we’re meeting friends,’ I reply,
mopping my face with a handkerchief. ‘Do you have a piece
of paper to hand?’
‘Of course.’
He retrieves some foolscap and a fountain pen from his
attaché case, standing ready to take dictation. I open my mouth
to dismiss him, but one look at my sweaty, blistered hand
dissuades me. In this instance, pride is a poor cousin to
legibility.
After taking a minute to arrange the words in my head, I
begin speaking aloud.
‘It’s logical to believe that many of you have been here
longer than I and possess knowledge of this house, our
purpose here and our captor, the Plague Doctor, that I do not.’
I pause, listening to the scratching of the pen.


‘You have not sought me out, and I must assume there’s a
good reason for that, but I ask you now to meet me in the
library at lunchtime and help me apprehend our captor. If you
cannot, I ask you to share what you’ve learned by writing it on
this paper. Whatever you know, no matter how trivial, may be
of use in helping speed our escape. They say two heads are
better than one, but I believe in this case our combined head
may be sufficient.’
I wait for the scribbling to end, then look up at my
companion’s face. It’s mystified, though also a touch amused.
He’s a curious fellow this one, not at all the straight edge he
first appears.
‘Should I post this, my lord?’ he asks.
‘No need,’ I say, pointing towards the bookshelf. ‘Slide it
within the pages of the first volume of the Encyclopaedia
Britannica, they’ll know where to find it.’
He eyes me, then the note, before doing as I ask, the page
slipping neatly inside. It seems a fitting home.
‘And when should we expect a response, my lord?’
‘Minutes, hours, I can’t be certain. We’ll have to keep
checking back.’
‘And until then?’ he asks, wiping the dust from his hands
with a pocket square.
‘Talk to the servants, I need to know if any of the guests has
a medieval plague doctor costume in their wardrobe.’
‘My lord?’
‘Porcelain mask, black greatcoat, that sort of thing,’ I say.
‘In the meantime I’m going to have a nap.’
‘Here, my lord?’
‘Indeed.’
He watches me with a frown, trying to stitch together the
scraps of information scattered before him.
‘Should I light a fire?’ he asks.


‘No need, I’ll be quite comfortable,’ I say.
‘Very well,’ he says, hovering.
I’m not sure what he’s waiting for but it never arrives and
with a final look he leaves the room, his confusion creeping
out quietly behind him.
Placing my hands on my stomach, I close my eyes. Every
time I’ve slept I’ve woken up in a different body, and while
it’s risky sacrificing a host this way, I can’t see what more I
can accomplish in Ravencourt. With any luck, when I awaken
my other selves will have made contact through the
encyclopaedia and I’ll be among them.


13
Day Two (continued)
Agony.
I scream, tasting blood.
‘I know, I know, I’m sorry,’ says a woman’s voice.
A pinch, a needle enters my neck. Warmth melts the pain.
It’s hard to breathe, impossible to move. I can’t open my
eyes. I hear rolling wheels, hooves on cobbles, a presence by
my side.
‘I—’ I start coughing.
‘Shush, don’t try and talk. You’re back in the butler,’ says
the woman in an urgent whisper, laying a hand on my arm.
‘It’s been fifteen minutes since Gold attacked you, and you’re
being taken by carriage to the gatehouse to rest.’
‘Who are—?’ I croak.
‘A friend, it doesn’t matter, yet. Now, listen, I know you’re
confused, tired, but this is important. There are rules to all of
this. There’s no use trying to abandon your hosts the way you
did. You get a full day in each of them, whether you want it or
not. That’s from whenever they wake up until midnight.
Understand?’
I’m dozing, struggling to stay awake.
‘That’s why you’re back here,’ she continues. ‘If one of
your hosts falls asleep before midnight, you’ll jump back into
the butler and carry on living this day. When the butler falls
asleep, you’ll be returned. If the host slept past midnight, or if
they died, you’ll jump into somebody new.’
I hear another voice. Rougher. From the front of the
carriage.
‘Gatehouse coming up.’
Her hand touches my forehead.
‘Good luck to you.’


Too tired to hold on, I slip back into the dark.


14
Day Four (continued)
A hand rocks my shoulder.
Blinking my eyes open, I find myself back in the library,
back in Ravencourt. Relief washes over me. I’d thought
nothing could be worse than this bulk, but I was wrong. The
butler’s body felt like a bag of broken glass, and I’d live a
lifetime as Ravencourt before I’d go back to that torment,
though it doesn’t appear I have a choice. If the woman in the
carriage is telling the truth, I’m destined to be pulled back
there again.
Daniel Coleridge is looking down at me through a cloud of
yellow smoke. A cigarette dangles from his lip, a drink in his
hand. He’s wearing the same scuffed hunting clothes as when
he talked with Sebastian Bell in the study. My eyes flick to the
clock; it’s twenty minutes before lunchtime. He must be on his
way to that meeting now.
He hands me the drink and sits down on the edge of the
table opposite, the encyclopaedia now lying open beside him.
‘I believe you were looking for me,’ says Daniel, blowing
smoke from the corner of his mouth.
He sounds different through Ravencourt’s ears, the softness
shed like an old skin. Before I can answer him, he begins
reading from the encyclopaedia.
‘It’s logical to believe that many of you have been here
longer than I and possess knowledge of this house, our
purpose here and our captor, the Plague Doctor, that I do not.’
He closes the book. ‘You called and I answered.’
I search the shrewd eyes fixed upon me.
‘You’re like me,’ I say.
‘I am you, just four days ahead,’ he says, pausing to let my
mind ram itself against the idea. ‘Daniel Coleridge is your
final host. Our soul, his body, if you can make any sense of
that. Unfortunately, it’s his mind, too’ – he taps his forehead


with his forefinger – ‘which means you and I think
differently.’
He holds up the encyclopaedia.
‘Take this, for example,’ he says, letting it drop on the table.
‘Coleridge would never have thought to write to our other
hosts asking for help. It was a clever idea, very logical, very
Ravencourt.’
His cigarette flares in the gloom, illuminating the hollow
smile beneath. This is not the Daniel of yesterday. There’s
something colder, harder in his gaze, something trying to pry
me open so it might peer inside. I don’t know how I didn’t see
it when I was Bell. Ted Stanwin did, when he backed down in
the drawing room. The thug’s cleverer than I gave him credit
for.
‘So you’ve already been me… this me, Ravencourt, I
mean?’ I say.
‘And those who follow him,’ he says. ‘They’re a difficult
bunch, you should enjoy Ravencourt while you can.’
‘Is that why you’re here, to warn me about my other hosts?’
The notion seems to amuse him, a smile touching his lips
before drifting away with the cigarette smoke.
‘No, I’ve come because I remember sitting where you are
and being told what I’m about to tell you.’
‘Which is?’
There’s an ashtray on the far side of the table and he reaches
across, drawing it towards him.
‘The Plague Doctor has asked you to solve a murder, but he
didn’t mention the victim. It’s Evelyn Hardcastle, that’s who’s
going to die at the ball tonight,’ he says, tapping ash into the
ashtray.
‘Evelyn?’ I say, struggling to sit upright, splashing a little of
my forgotten drink across my leg. Panic has hold of me, a
terror of my friend being hurt, a woman who went out of her
way to be kind to me even as her own parents filled the house
with cruelty.


‘We must warn her!’ I demand.
‘To what end?’ asks Daniel, dousing my alarm with his
calm. ‘We cannot solve the murder of somebody who isn’t
dead and without that answer we cannot escape.’
‘You would let her die?’ I say, shocked by his callousness.
‘I’ve lived this day eight times over and she’s died every
evening regardless of my actions,’ he says, running his finger
along the edge of the table. ‘Whatever happened yesterday, it
will happen tomorrow and the day after. I promise you,
however you may consider interfering, you’ve already tried
and it’s already failed.’
‘She’s my friend, Daniel,’ I say, surprised at the depth of my
feeling.
‘And mine,’ he says, leaning closer. ‘But every time I’ve
tried to change today’s events, I’ve ended up becoming the
architect of whatever misery I was trying to prevent. Believe
me, trying to save Evelyn is a waste of time. Circumstances
beyond my control brought me here and very soon, sooner
than you can imagine, you’ll find yourself sitting where I am,
explaining it as I have and wishing you still had the luxury of
Ravencourt’s hope. The future isn’t a warning my friend, it’s a
promise, and it won’t be broken by us. That’s the nature of the
trap we’re caught in.’
Rising from the table, he wrestles with a window’s rusty
handle and pushes it open. His eyes are fixed on some distant
point, a task four days beyond my comprehension. He has no
interest in me, my fears or hopes. I’m just part of some old
story he’s tired of telling.
‘It makes no sense,’ I say, hoping to remind him of Evelyn’s
qualities, the reasons she’s worth saving. ‘Evelyn’s kind and
gentle, and she’s been away for nineteen years, who’d want to
harm her now?’
Even as I say it, a suspicion begins to dawn on me. In the
forest yesterday, Evelyn mentioned that her parents had never
forgiven her for letting Thomas wander off alone. She blamed
herself for his murder at Carver’s hands, and, worst of all, so


did they. Their ire was so great, she believed they were
plotting some terrible surprise at the ball. Could this be it?
Could they really hate their own daughter enough to murder
her? If so, my meeting with Helena Hardcastle could prove
fortuitous indeed.
‘I don’t know,’ says Daniel, a note of irritation in his voice.
‘There are so many secrets in this house, it can be difficult to
pick the right one from the pile. If you heed my advice though,
you’ll start looking for Anna immediately. Eight hosts may
sound a great deal, but this task needs double that number.
You’re going to need all the help you can get.’
‘Anna,’ I exclaim, remembering the woman in the carriage
with the butler. ‘I thought she was an acquaintance of Bell’s?’
He takes a long drag on his cigarette, considering me
through narrowed eyes. I can see him sifting through the
future, working out how much to tell me.
‘She’s trapped here like us,’ he says eventually. ‘She’s a
friend, as much as somebody can be in our situation. You
should find her quickly, before the footman does. He’s hunting
us both.’
‘He left a dead rabbit in my room – Bell’s room, I mean –
last night.’
‘That’s only the beginning,’ he says. ‘He means to kill us,
though not before he’s had his fun.’
My blood runs cold, my stomach nauseous. I’d suspected as
much, but to hear the fact laid out so baldly is something else
entirely. Closing my eyes, I let a long breath out through my
nose, releasing my fear with it. It’s a habit of Ravencourt’s, a
way of clearing the mind, though I couldn’t say how I know
that.
When I open my eyes again, I’m calm.
‘Who is he?’ I ask, impressed by the strength in my voice.
‘I’ve no idea,’ he says, blowing smoke into the wind. ‘I’d
call him the devil if I thought this place anything so mundane
as hell. He’s picking us off one by one, making sure there’s no


competition when he delivers his answer to the Plague Doctor
tonight.’
‘Does he have other bodies, other hosts, like us?’
‘That’s the curious thing,’ he says. ‘I don’t believe he does,
but he doesn’t seem to need them. He knows the faces of every
one of our hosts, and he strikes when we’re at our weakest.
Every mistake I’ve made, he’s been waiting.’
‘How do we stop a man who knows our every step before
we do?’
‘If I knew that, there’d be no need of this conversation,’ he
says irritably. ‘Be careful. He haunts this house like a bloody
ghost, and if he catches you alone… well, don’t let him catch
you alone.’
Daniel’s tone is dark, his expression brooding. Whoever this
footman is, he has taken hold of my future self in a way that’s
more unsettling than all the warnings I’ve heard. It’s not hard
to understand why. The Plague Doctor gave me eight days to
solve Evelyn’s murder and eight hosts to do it. Because
Sebastian Bell slept past midnight, he’s now lost to me.
That leaves seven days and seven hosts.
My second and third hosts were the butler and Donald
Davies. The woman in the carriage didn’t mention Davies,
which seems a curious omission, but I’m assuming the same
rules apply to him as the butler. They both have plenty of
hours left until midnight, but one of them is severely injured
and the other asleep on a road, miles from Blackheath. They’re
practically useless. So much for days two and three.
I’m already on my fourth day, and Ravencourt is proving a
burden rather than a boon. I don’t know what to expect from
my remaining four hosts – though Daniel seems capable
enough – but it feels as though the Plague Doctor is stacking
the deck against me. If the footman truly knows my every
weakness, then God help me because there are plenty to
exploit. ‘Tell me everything you’ve already learned about
Evelyn’s death,’ I say. ‘If we work together we can solve it
before the footman has a chance to harm us.’


‘The only thing I can tell you is that she dies promptly at 11
p.m. every single night.’
‘Surely, you must know more than that?’
‘A great deal more, but I can’t risk sharing the information,’
he says, glancing at me. ‘All my plans are built around things
you’re going to do. If I tell you something that stops you doing
those things, I can’t be certain they’ll play out the same way.
You might blunder into the middle of an event settled in my
favour, or be elsewhere when you should have been distracting
the fellow whose room I’m sneaking into. One wrong word
could leave all my plans in ruins. This day must proceed as it
always does, for your sake as much as mine.’ He rubs his
forehead, all of his weariness seeming to pour out of the
gesture. ‘I’m sorry, Ravencourt, the safest course is for you to
go about your investigation without interference from me or
any of the others.’
‘Very well,’ I say, hoping to keep my disappointment from
him. It’s a foolish notion, of course. He’s me. He remembers
this disappointment for himself. ‘But the fact you’re
counselling me to solve this murder suggests you trust the
Plague Doctor,’ I say. ‘Have you uncovered his identity?’
‘Not yet,’ he says. ‘And trust is too strong a word. He has
his own purpose in this house, I’m certain of it, but for the
moment, I can’t see any other course beyond doing as he
demands.’
‘And has he told you why this is happening to us?’ I ask.
We’re interrupted by a commotion at the door, our heads
turning towards Ravencourt’s valet, who’s halfway out of his
coat and trying to extricate himself from the clutches of a long
purple scarf. He’s wind-tussled and slightly out of breath, his
cheeks swollen with cold.
‘I received a message that you required me urgently, my
lord,’ he says, still tugging at the scarf.
‘My doing, old love,’ says Daniel, deftly slipping back into
character. ‘You’ve a busy day ahead and I thought
Cunningham here could be of use. Speaking of busy days, I


must be going myself. I’ve got a midday appointment with
Sebastian Bell.’
‘I won’t leave Evelyn to her fate, Daniel,’ I say.
‘Neither did I,’ he says, flicking his cigarette into the verge
and shutting the window. ‘But fate found her anyway. You
should prepare yourself for that.’
He’s gone in a few long strides, the library filling with the
burble of voices and the loud clatter of cutlery as he tugs open
the door into the study, and passes through on his way to the
drawing room. The guests are gathering for lunch, which
means Stanwin will soon threaten the maid, Lucy Harper,
while Sebastian Bell watches from the window, feeling
himself a fraction of a man. A hunt will depart, Evelyn will
collect a note from the well, and blood will be spilt in a
graveyard while two friends wait for a woman who’ll never
arrive. If Daniel’s right, there’s little I can do to disrupt the
day’s course, though I’ll be damned if I’m going to lie down
before it. The Plague Doctor’s puzzle may be my way out of
this house, but I’ll not step over Evelyn’s body to escape. I
mean to save her, no matter the cost.
‘How can I be of service, my lord?’
‘Pass me paper, a pen and some ink, would you? I need to
write something down.’
‘Of course,’ he says, retrieving the items from his attaché
case.
My hands are too clumsy for flowing penmanship, but
amidst the smeared ink and ugly blots, the message reads
clearly enough.
I check the clock. It’s 11:56 a.m. Almost time.
After airing the paper to dry the ink, I fold it neatly and
press the creases down, handing it to Cunningham.
‘Take this,’ I say, noticing the traces of greasy black dirt on
his hands as he reaches for the letter. His skin’s pink with
scrubbing, but the dirt’s etched into the whorls of his
fingertips. Aware of my attention, he takes the letter and clasps
his hands behind his back.


‘I need you to go directly to the drawing room where
they’re serving lunch,’ I say. ‘Stay there and observe events as
they unfold, then read this letter and return to me.’
Confusion paints his face. ‘My lord?’
‘We’re about to have a very strange day, Cunningham, and
I’m going to need your absolute trust.’
I wave away his protests, gesturing for him to help me out
of the seat.
‘Do as I ask,’ I say, getting to my feet with a grunt. ‘Then
return here and wait for me.’
As Cunningham heads for the drawing room, I retrieve my
cane and make my way to the Sun Room in the hopes of
finding Evelyn. Being early, it’s only half full, ladies pouring
themselves drinks from the bar, wilting over chairs and chaise
longues. Everything seems to be a very great effort for them,
as though the pale flush of youth were a burden, their energy
exhausting. They’re muttering about Evelyn, a ripple of ugly
laughter directed towards the chess table in the corner, where a
game is laid out before her. She has no opponent, her
concentration 
fixed 
on 
outwitting 
herself. 
Whatever
discomfort they’re hoping to heap upon her, she seems
oblivious to it.
‘Evie, can we speak?’ I say, hobbling over.
She lifts her head slowly, taking a moment to register me.
As yesterday, her blonde hair is tied up into a ponytail, tugging
her features into a gaunt, rather severe expression. Unlike
yesterday, it doesn’t soften.
‘No, I don’t think so, Lord Ravencourt,’ she says, returning
her attention to the board. ‘I’ve quite enough unpleasant things
to do today without adding to the list.’
Hushed laughter turns my blood to dust. I crumble from the
inside out.
‘Please, Evie, it’s—’
‘It’s Miss Hardcastle, Lord Ravencourt,’ she says pointedly.
‘Manners maketh man, not his bank account.’


A pit of humiliation opens in my stomach. This is
Ravencourt’s worst nightmare. Standing in this room, a dozen
pairs of eyes upon me, I feel like a Christian waiting for the
first rocks to be thrown.
Evelyn ponders me, sweating and shaking. Her eyes narrow,
glittering.
‘Tell you what, play me for it,’ she says, tapping the
chessboard. ‘You win and we’ll have a conversation; I win and
you leave me be for the rest of the day. How would that suit?’
Knowing it’s a trap, but in no position to argue, I wipe the
sweat from my brow and wedge myself into the small chair
opposite her, much to the delight of the assembled ladies. She
could have forced me into a guillotine and I would have been
more comfortable. I spill over the sides of the seat, the low
back offering so little support that I tremble with the effort of
keeping myself upright.
Unmoved by my suffering, Evelyn crosses her arms on the
table and pushes a pawn across the board. I follow it with a
rook, the pattern of the middle game weaving itself in my
mind. Although we’re evenly matched, discomfort is digging
holes in my concentration, my tactics proving too ramshackle
to overpower Evelyn. The best I can do is prolong the match,
and after half an hour of counters and feints, my patience is
exhausted.
‘Your life is in danger,’ I blurt out.
Evelyn’s fingers pause on her pawn, a little tremor of her
hand sounding loud as a bell. Her eyes skirt my face, then
those of the ladies behind us, searching for anybody who
might have heard. They’re frantic, working hard to scrub the
moment from history.
She already knows.
‘I thought we had a deal, Lord Ravencourt,’ she interrupts,
her expression hardening once more.
‘But—’
‘Would you prefer I leave?’ she says, her glare strangling
any further attempts at conversation.


Move after move follows, but I’m so perplexed by her
response, I pay little heed to strategy. Whatever’s going to
happen tonight, Evelyn seems to be aware of it and yet her
greater fear seems to be that somebody else will find out. For
the life of me I can’t imagine why that would be and it’s clear
she’s not going to open her heart to Ravencourt. Her disdain
for this man is absolute, which means if I’m to save her life, I
must either put on a face she likes or press forward without her
help. It’s an infuriating turn of events and I’m desperately
trying to find a way of reframing my argument when Sebastian
Bell arrives at the door, provoking the queerest of sensations.
By any measure this man is me, but watching him creep into
the room like a mouse along a skirting board, I struggle to
believe it. His back is stooped, his head low, arms stiff by his
sides. Furtive glances scout every step, his world seemingly
filled with sharp edges.
‘My grandmother, Heather Hardcastle,’ says Evelyn,
watching him examine the portrait on the wall. ‘It’s not a
flattering picture, but then she wasn’t a flattering woman by all
accounts.’
‘My apologies,’ says Bell. ‘I was—’
Their conversation proceeds exactly as it did yesterday, her
interest in this frail creature prompting a pang of jealousy,
though that’s not my principal concern. Bell’s repeating my
day exactly and yet he believes himself to be making his
choices freely, as I did. Likely then I’m blindly following a
course plotted by Daniel, which makes me, what… an echo, a
memory or just a piece of driftwood caught in the current?
Flip over the chessboard, change this moment. Prove
yourself unique.
My hand reaches out, but the thought of Evelyn’s reaction,
her disdain, the laughter of the assembled ladies, is too much.
Shame cripples me, and I jerk my hand back. There’ll be
further opportunities, I need to keep watch for them.
Thoroughly demoralised and with defeat unavoidable, I
dash the last few moves, putting my king to the sword with


unseemly haste before staggering from the room, Sebastian
Bell’s voice fading behind me.


15
As ordered, Cunningham’s waiting for me in the library. He’s
sitting on the edge of a chair, the letter I gave him unfolded
and trembling slightly in his hand. He stands as I enter, but in
my desire to put the Sun Room behind me I’ve moved too
quickly. I can hear myself breathing, wheezy desperate bursts
from my overburdened lungs.
He doesn’t venture to help.
‘How did you know what was going to happen in the
drawing room?’ he asks.
I try to answer, but there isn’t room for both words and air
in my throat. I choose the latter, guzzling it with the same
appetite as everything else in Ravencourt’s life, while staring
into the study. I’d hoped to catch the Plague Doctor while he
chatted with Bell, but my futile attempt to warn Evelyn
dragged on longer than I expected.
Perhaps I shouldn’t be surprised.
As I saw on the road to the village, the Plague Doctor seems
to know where I’ll be and when, no doubt timing his
appearances so I can’t ambush him.
‘It happened exactly as you described it,’ continues
Cunningham, staring at the paper in disbelief. ‘Ted Stanwin
insulted the maid and Daniel Coleridge stepped in. They even
spoke the words you wrote down. They spoke them exactly.’
I could explain, but he hasn’t got to the section troubling
him yet. Instead, I hobble over to the chair, lowering myself
onto the cushion with a great deal of effort. My legs throb in
pitiful gratitude.
‘Was it a trick?’ he asks.
‘No trick,’ I say.
‘And this… the final line, where you say…’
‘Yes.’
‘… that you’re not Lord Ravencourt.’


‘I’m not Ravencourt,’ I say.
‘You’re not?’
‘I’m not. Get a drink, you’re looking a little pale.’
He does as I say, obedience seemingly being the only part of
him that hasn’t thrown its hands up in defeat. He returns with a
glass of something and sits down, sipping it, his eyes never
leaving mine, legs pressed together, shoulders bowed.
I tell him everything, from the murder in the forest and my
first day as Bell, right through to the never-ending road and
my recent conversation with Daniel. Doubt flickers on his
face, but every time it seems to have a foothold, he glances at
the letter. I almost feel sorry for him.
‘Do you need another drink?’ I ask, nodding towards his
half-empty glass.
‘If you’re not Lord Ravencourt, where is he?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Is he alive?’
He can barely make eye contact.
‘Would you rather he wasn’t?’ I ask.
‘Lord Ravencourt’s been good to me,’ he says, anger
flashing across his face.
That doesn’t answer the question.
I look at Cunningham again. Downcast eyes and dirty
hands, a smeared tattoo from a troubled past. In a flash of
intuition, I realise he’s afraid, but not of what I’ve told him.
He’s afraid of what somebody who’s already seen this day
unfold might know. He’s hiding something, I’m certain of it.
‘I need your help, Cunningham,’ I say. ‘There’s lots to do
and while I’m shackled to Ravencourt, I don’t have the legs to
do any of it.’
Draining his glass, he gets to his feet. The drink’s painted
two spots of colour on his cheeks and when he speaks his
voice drips with the bottle’s courage.


‘I’m going to take my leave now and resume service
tomorrow when Lord Ravencourt has…’ – he pauses,
considering the right word – ‘returned.’
He bows stiffly, before heading for the door.
‘Do you think he’ll take you back when he knows your
secret?’ I say abruptly, an idea dropping into my head like a
stone into a pond. If I’m right and Cunningham is hiding
something, it may be shameful enough to use as leverage.
He stops dead beside my chair, hands clenched tight.
‘What do you mean?’ he says, staring straight ahead.
‘Look beneath the cushion of your seat,’ I say, trying to
keep the tension from my voice. The logic of what I’m
attempting is sound, but that doesn’t mean it will actually
work.
He glances at the chair, then back towards me. Without a
word he does as I say, discovering a small white envelope.
Triumph twists a smile from my lips as he tears it open, his
shoulders sagging.
‘How did you know?’ he asks, his voice cracked.
‘I don’t know a thing, but when I wake up in my next host,
I’m going to dedicate myself to the task of uncovering your
secret. I’m then going to return to this room and place the
information in that envelope for you to find. Should this
conversation not go the way I want, I’ll place the envelope
where the other guests can find it.’
He snorts at me, his contempt a slap in the face.
‘You may not be Ravencourt, but you sound exactly like
him.’
The idea is so startling it momentarily silences me. Until
now I’d assumed my personality – whatever that might be –
was carried into each new host, filling them as pennies fill a
pocket, but what if I was wrong?
None of my previous hosts would have thought to blackmail
Cunningham, let alone had the stomach to act on the threat. In
fact, looking back at Sebastian Bell, Roger Collins, Donald


Davies and now Ravencourt, I can see little in their behaviour
to suggest a common hand at work. Could it be that I’m
bending to their will, rather than the other way around? If so, I
must be wary. It’s one thing to be caged in these people, quite
another to abandon oneself entirely to their desires.
My thoughts are interrupted by Cunningham, who’s setting
fire to a corner of the letter with a lighter from his pocket.
‘What is it you want from me?’ he says in a hard, flat voice,
dropping the burning paper into the grate.
‘Four things, initially,’ I say, counting them off on my thick
fingers. ‘First, I need you to find an old well off the road into
the village. There’ll be a note tucked into a crack in the stone.
Read it, put it back and return to me with the message. Do it
soon, the note will be gone within the hour. Secondly, you
need to find that plague doctor costume I asked about earlier.
Thirdly, I want you scattering the name Anna around
Blackheath like confetti. Let it be known Lord Ravencourt is
looking for her. Finally, I need you to introduce yourself to
Sebastian Bell.’
‘Sebastian Bell, the doctor?’
‘That’s the chap.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I remember being Sebastian Bell, but I don’t
remember meeting you,’ I say. ‘If we change that, it means I
prove to myself that something else can be changed today.’
‘Evelyn Hardcastle’s death?’
‘Precisely.’
Letting out a long breath, Cunningham turns to face me. He
seems diminished, as though our conversation were a desert
he’s spent a week crossing.
‘If I do these things, can I expect the contents of this letter
to stay between us?’ he says, his expression conveying more
hope than expectation.
‘It will, you have my word.’


I extend a sweaty hand.
‘Then it seems I have no choice,’ he says, shaking it firmly,
only the slightest flicker of disgust showing on his face.
He departs in a hurry, probably wary of being burdened with
more tasks should he linger. In his absence, the damp air
seems to settle upon me, sinking through my clothes and into
my bones. Judging the library too cheerless to stay in any
longer, I struggle out of my seat, using my cane to hoist myself
onto my feet.
I pass through the study on my way to Ravencourt’s parlour,
where I’ll settle myself ahead of my meeting with Helena
Hardcastle. If she’s plotting to murder Evelyn this evening,
then, by Lord, I mean to have it out of her.
The house is still, the men out hunting and the women
drinking in the Sun Room. Even the servants have
disappeared, scattering back below stairs to prepare for the
ball. In their wake a great hush has fallen, my only company
the rain tapping at the windows, demanding to be let inside.
Bell missed the noise, but as somebody finely tuned to the
malice of others, Ravencourt finds this silence refreshing. It’s
like airing a musty room.
Heavy steps disturb my reverie, each one deliberate and
slow, as if determined to draw my attention. I’ve reached as far
as the dining hall, where a long oak table is overlooked by the
mounted heads of long-slaughtered beasts, their fur faded and
thick with dust. The room is empty, and yet the steps seem to
be all around, mimicking my hobbling gait.
I stiffen, coming to a halt, sweat beading my brow.
The steps stop in turn.
Dabbing my forehead, I look around nervously, wishing
Bell’s paperknife were to hand. Buried in Ravencourt’s
sluggish flesh, I feel like a man dragging an anchor. I can
neither run nor fight, and even if I could, I’d be swinging at
air. I’m quite alone.
After a brief hesitation, I begin walking again, those ghostly
steps trailing me. I stop suddenly, and they stop with me, a


sinister giggle drifting out of the walls. My heart’s pounding,
hair standing up on my arms as fright sends me lurching
towards the safety of the entrance hall visible through the
drawing-room door. By now the steps aren’t bothering
mimicking me, they’re dancing, that giggle seeming to come
from every direction.
I’m panting by the time I reach the doorway, blinded by
sweat and moving so fast I’m in danger of tripping over my
own cane. As I pass into the entrance hall, the laughter stops
abruptly, a whisper chasing me out.
‘We’ll meet soon, little rabbit.’


16
Ten minutes later, the whisper’s long faded, but the terror it
provoked echoes still. It wasn’t the words themselves, so much
as the glee they carried. That warning was a down payment on
the blood and pain to come, and only a fool wouldn’t see the
footman behind it.
Holding my hand up, I check to see how badly it’s
trembling, and, deciding that I’m at least moderately
recovered, I continue onwards to my room. I’ve only taken a
step or two when sobbing draws my attention to a dark
doorway at the back of the entrance hall. For a full minute I
hover on the periphery, peering into the dimness, fearing a
trap. Surely the footman wouldn’t try something so soon, or be
able to summon up these pitiable gulps of sadness I’m hearing
now?
Sympathy compels me to take a tentative step forward, and I
find myself in a narrow gallery adorned with Hardcastle
family portraits. Generations wither on the walls, the current
incumbents of Blackheath hanging nearest the door. Lady
Helena Hardcastle is sitting regally beside her standing
husband, both of them dark-haired and dark-eyed, beautifully
supercilious. Next to them are the portraits of the children,
Evelyn at a window, fingering the edge of the curtain as she
watches for somebody’s arrival, while Michael has one leg
flung over the arm of the chair he’s sitting in, a book discarded
on the floor. He looks bored, shimmering with a restless
energy. In the corner of each portrait is a splashed signature;
that of Gregory Gold if I’m not very much mistaken. The
memory of the butler’s beating at the artist’s hands is still fresh
and I find myself gripping my cane, tasting the blood in my
mouth once again. Evelyn told me Gold had been brought to
Blackheath to touch up the portraits and I can see why. The
man may be insane, but he’s talented.
Another sob issues from the corner of the room.
There are no windows in the gallery, only burning oil lamps,
and it’s so dim I have to squint to locate the maid slumped in
the shadows, weeping into a soggy handkerchief. Tact would


advise that I approach quietly, but Ravencourt’s ill designed
for stealth. My cane raps the floor, the sound of my breathing
running on ahead, announcing my presence. Catching sight of
me, the maid leaps to her feet, her cap coming loose, curly red
hair springing free.
I recognise her immediately. This is Lucy Harper, the maid
Ted Stanwin abused at lunch, and the woman who helped me
down to the kitchen when I awoke as the butler. The memory
of that kindness echoes within me, a warm rush of pity
shaping the words in my mouth.
‘I’m sorry, Lucy, I didn’t mean to startle you,’ I say.
‘No, sir, it’s not… I shouldn’t…’ She casts around for some
escape, miring herself further in etiquette.
‘I heard you crying,’ I say, attempting to push a sympathetic
smile onto my face. It’s a difficult thing to achieve with
somebody else’s mouth, especially when there’s so much flesh
to move around.
‘Oh, sir, you shouldn’t… it was my fault. I made a mistake
at lunch,’ she says, dabbing the last of her tears away.
‘Ted Stanwin treated you atrociously,’ I say, surprised by
the alarm rising on her face.
‘No, sir, you mustn’t say that,’ she says, her voice hurdling
an entire octave. ‘Ted, Mr Stanwin, I mean, he’s been good to
us servants. Always treated us right, he has. He’s just… now
he’s a gentleman, he can’t be seen…’
She’s on the verge of tears again.
‘I understand,’ I say hastily. ‘He doesn’t want the other
guests treating him like a servant.’
A smile swallows her face.
‘That’s it, sir, that’s just it. They’d never have caught
Charlie Carver if it weren’t for Ted, but the other gentlemen
still look at him like he’s one of us. Not Lord Hardcastle
though, he calls him Mr Stanwin and everything.’
‘Well, as long as you’re quite all right,’ I say, taken aback
by the pride in her voice.


‘I am, sir, really I am,’ she says earnestly, emboldened
enough to scoop her cap from the floor. ‘I should be getting
back, they’ll be wondering where I’ve got to.’
She takes a step towards the door, but is too slow to prevent
me throwing a question in her path.
‘Lucy, do you know anybody called Anna?’ I ask. ‘I was
thinking she could be a servant.’
‘Anna?’ She pauses, tossing the full weight of her thought at
the problem. ‘No, sir, can’t say as I do.’
‘Any of the maids acting strangely?’
‘Now, sir, would you believe, you’re the third person to ask
that question today,’ she says, twisting a lock of her curly hair
around her finger.
‘Third?’
‘Yes, sir, Mrs Derby was down in the kitchen only an hour
ago wondering the same thing. Gave us a right fright she did.
High-born lady like that wandering around downstairs, ain’t
ever heard of such a thing.’
My hand grips my cane. Whoever this Mrs Derby is, she’s
acting oddly and asking the same questions I am. Perhaps I’ve
found another of my rivals.
Or another host.
The suggestion makes me blush, Ravencourt’s familiarity
with women extending only so far as acknowledging their
existence in the world. The thought of becoming one is as
unintelligible to him as a day spent breathing water.
‘What can you tell me about Mrs Derby?’ I ask.
‘Nothing much, sir,’ says Lucy. ‘Older lady, sharp tongue. I
liked her. Not sure if it means anything, but there was a
footman as well. Came in a few minutes after Mrs Derby
asking the same question: any of the servants acting funny?’
My hand squeezes the knob of my cane even tighter, and I
have to bite my tongue to keep from cursing.
‘A footman?’ I say. ‘What did he look like?’


‘Blond hair, tall, but…’ she drifts off, looking troubled, ‘I
don’t know, pleased with himself. Probably works for a
gentleman, sir, they get like that, pick up airs and graces they
do. Had a broken nose, all black and purple, like it only
recently happened. I reckon somebody took exception to him.’
‘What did you tell him?’
‘Wasn’t me, sir, was Mrs Drudge, the cook. Said the same
thing she said to Mrs Derby, that the servants were fine, it was
the guests gone –’ she blushes – ‘oh, begging your pardon, sir,
I didn’t mean—’
‘Don’t worry, Lucy, I find most of the people in this house
as peculiar as you do. What have they been doing?’
She grins, her eyes darting towards the doors guiltily. When
she speaks again, her voice is almost low enough to be
drowned out by the creaking of the floorboards.
‘Well, this morning Miss Hardcastle was out in the forest
with her lady’s maid, French she is, you should hear her,
quelle this and quelle that. Somebody attacked them out by
Charlie Carver’s old cottage. One of the guests apparently, but
they wouldn’t say which one.’
‘Attacked, you’re certain?’ I say, recalling my morning as
Bell, and the woman I saw fleeing through the forest. I
assumed it was Anna, but what if I was wrong? It wouldn’t be
the first assumption to trip me up in Blackheath.
‘That’s what they said, sir,’ she says, falling shy in the face
of my eagerness.
‘I think I need to have a chat with this French maid, what’s
her name?’
‘Madeline Aubert, sir, only I’d prefer it if you didn’t let on
who told you. They’re keeping quiet about it.’
Madeline Aubert. That’s the maid who gave Bell the note at
dinner last night. In the confusion of recent events, I’d quite
forgotten about his slashed arm.
‘My lips are sealed, Lucy, thank you,’ I say, miming the
action. ‘Even so, I must speak with her. Could you let her


know I’m looking for her? You don’t have to tell her why, but
there’s a reward in it for both of you if she comes to my
parlour.’
She looks doubtful, but agrees readily enough, bolting
before I have time to slip any more promises around her neck.
If Ravencourt were able, I’d have a bounce in my step as I
depart the gallery. Whatever apathy Evelyn may feel towards
Ravencourt, she’s still my friend and my will is still bent on
saving her. If somebody threatened her in the forest this
morning, it’s not a stretch to assume the same person will play
some part in her murder this evening. I must do everything in
my power to intercept them, and hopefully this Madeline
Aubert will be able to help. Who knows, by this point
tomorrow I might have the murderer’s name in hand. If the
Plague Doctor honours his offer, I could escape this house
with hosts to spare.
This jubilation persists only as far as the corridor, my
whistling faltering with each step further away from the
brightness of the entrance hall. The footman’s presence has
transformed Blackheath, its leaping shadows and blind corners
populating my imagination with a hundred horrible deaths at
his hands. Every little noise is enough to set my already
overburdened heart racing. By the time I reach my parlour, I’m
soaked with sweat, a knot in my chest.
Closing the door behind me, I let out a long shuddering
breath. At this rate, the footman won’t need to kill me, my
health will give out first.
The parlour’s a beautiful room, a chaise longue and an
armchair beneath a chandelier reflecting the flames of a
roaring fire. A sideboard is laid with spirits and mixers, sliced
fruit, bitters and a bucket of half-melted ice. Beside that sits a
teetering pile of roast beef sandwiches, mustard running down
the severed edges. My stomach would drag me towards the
food, but my body’s collapsing beneath me.
I need to rest.
The armchair takes my weight with ill temper, the legs
bowing under the strain. Rain’s thumping the windows, the


sky bruised black and purple. Are these the same drops that
fell yesterday, the same clouds? Do rabbits dig the same
warrens, disturbing the same insects? Do the same birds fly the
same patterns, crashing into the same windows? If this is a
trap, what kind of prey is worthy of it?
‘I could do with a drink,’ I mutter, rubbing my throbbing
temples.
‘Here you go,’ says a woman from directly behind me, the
drink arriving over my shoulder in a small hand, the fingers
bony and calloused.
I attempt to turn, but there’s too much of Ravencourt and
too little of the seat.
The woman shakes the glass impatiently, rattling the ice
inside.
‘You should drink this before the ice melts,’ she says.
‘You’ll forgive me if I’m suspicious of taking a drink from a
woman I don’t know,’ I say.
She lowers her lips to my ear, her breath warm on my neck.
‘But you do know me,’ she whispers. ‘I was in the carriage
with the butler. My name’s Anna.’
‘Anna!’ I say, trying to raise myself from the seat.
Her hand is an anvil on my shoulder, pushing me back down
onto the cushions.
‘Don’t bother, by the time you get up I’ll be gone,’ she says.
‘We’ll meet soon, but I need you to stop looking for me.’
‘Stop looking, why?’
‘Because you’re not the only one searching,’ she says,
withdrawing a little. ‘The footman’s hunting me as well, and
he knows we’re working together. If you keep looking, you’re
going to lead him straight to me. We’re both safe while I’m
hidden, so call off the dogs.’
I feel her presence recede, steps moving towards the far
door.


‘Wait,’ I cry. ‘Do you know who I am, or why we’re here?
Please, there must be something you can tell me.’
She pauses, considering it.
‘The only memory I woke up with was a name,’ she says. ‘I
think it’s yours.’
My hands clutch the armrests.
‘What was it?’ I ask.
‘Aiden Bishop,’ she says. ‘Now, I’ve done as you asked, so
do as I ask. Stop looking for me.’


17
‘Aiden Bishop,’ I say, wrapping my tongue around the vowels.
‘Aiden… Bishop. Aiden, Aiden, Aiden.’
I’ve been trying different combinations, intonations and
deliveries of my name for the last half hour, hoping to lure
some memories from my recalcitrant mind. Thus far, all I’ve
managed to do is give myself a dry mouth. It’s a frustrating
way to pass the time, but I’ve few alternatives. One-thirty has
come and gone, with no word from Helena Hardcastle to
explain her absence. I summoned a maid to fetch her, but was
informed that nobody’s seen the lady of the house since this
morning. The damn woman has disappeared.
To make matters worse, neither Cunningham nor Madeline
Aubert has visited me, and while I’d hardly expected Evelyn’s
maid to answer my summons, Cunningham’s been gone for
hours. I can’t imagine what’s keeping him but I’m growing
impatient. We’ve so much to do, and little time left to do it.
‘ ’Allo, Cecil,’ says a rasping voice. ‘Is Helena still here? I
heard you were meeting her.’
Standing at the door is an elderly lady buried beneath a huge
red coat, hat and mud-spattered wellington boots that almost
reach her knees. Her cheeks are raw with cold, a scowl frozen
on her face.
‘I haven’t seen her, I’m afraid,’ I say. ‘I’m still waiting for
her.’
‘You too, eh? Bloody woman was supposed to meet me in
the garden this morning, left me shivering on a bench for an
hour instead,’ she says, stomping over to the fire. She’s
wearing so many layers a spark will send her up like a Viking
funeral.
‘Wonder where she’s got to?’ she says, tugging off her
gloves and tossing them on the seat next to mine. ‘It’s not like
there’s a lot to do in Blackheath. Fancy a drink?’
‘Still working on this one,’ I say, waving my glass in her
direction.


‘You’ve got the right idea. I got it into my head to go for a
stroll, but when I came back I couldn’t get anybody to open
the front door. I’ve been banging on windows for the last half
hour, but there’s not a servant to be seen. The whole thing’s
positively American.’
Decanters scrape free of their fittings, glasses thumping
down on the wood. Ice tinkles against glass, crackling as
alcohol is poured on top. There’s a fizz and a satisfying plop,
followed by a gulp and a long sigh of pleasure from the old
lady.
‘That’s the stuff,’ she says, a fresh round of clinking glass
suggesting the first was a warm-up. ‘I told Helena this party
was a terrible idea, but she wouldn’t hear of it and now look:
Peter’s hiding in the gatehouse, Michael’s holding the party
together with his fingernails and Evelyn’s playing dress up.
The entire thing will be a disaster, mark my words.’
Drink in hand, the elderly lady resumes her position in front
of the fire. She’s shrunken magnificently after discarding a
few layers, revealing pink cheeks and small pink hands, a crop
of grey hair running wild on her head.
‘What’s this then,’ she says, lifting a white card off the
mantel. ‘Were you going to write to me, Cecil?’
‘Sorry?’
She hands me the card, a simple message written on the
front.
Meet Millicent Derby
A.
Anna’s work no doubt.
First burning gloves and now introductions. As strange as it
is having somebody scattering breadcrumbs throughout my
day, it’s nice to know I have a friend in this place, even if it
does put paid to my theory about Mrs Derby being one of my
rivals, or even another host. This old lady’s much too herself
to be anybody else underneath.
Then why was she sniffing around the kitchen asking
questions about the maids?


‘I asked Cunningham to invite you for drinks,’ I say
smoothly, taking a sip of my whisky. ‘He must have got
distracted while writing the message down.’
‘That’s what happens when you trust the lower classes with
important tasks,’ sniffs Millicent, dropping into a nearby chair.
‘Mark my words, Cecil, one day you’ll find he’s emptied your
accounts and done a bunk with one of your maids. Look at that
damnable Ted Stanwin. Used to waft about this place like a
soft breeze when he was a groundskeeper, now you’d think he
owns the place. The nerve of it.’
‘Stanwin’s an objectionable fellow I agree, but I’ve a soft
spot for the household staff,’ I say. ‘They’ve treated me with a
great deal of kindness. Besides, word has it you were down in
the kitchen earlier, so you can’t find them all bad.’
She waves her glass at me, splashing whisky over my
objection.
‘Oh, that, yes…’ she trails off, sipping her drink to buy
herself time. ‘I think one of the maids stole something from
my room, that’s all. It’s like I say, you never know what’s
going on underneath. Remember my husband?’
‘Vaguely,’ I say, admiring the elegance with which she’s
switched topic. Whatever she was doing in the kitchen, I doubt
it had anything to do with theft.
‘Same thing,’ she sniffs. ‘Dreadful lower-class upbringing,
yet built himself forty-odd cotton mills without ever being
anything less than an absolute ass. In fifty years of marriage I
didn’t smile till the day I buried him and haven’t stopped
since.’
She’s interrupted by a creaking sound from the corridor,
followed by the squeak of hinges.
‘Maybe that’s Helena,’ says Millicent, pushing herself out
of the chair. ‘Her room is next door.’
‘I thought the Hardcastles were staying in the gatehouse?’
‘Peter’s staying in the gatehouse,’ she says, raising an
eyebrow. ‘Helena’s staying here, insisted on it, by all accounts.


Was never much of a marriage, but it’s disintegrating quickly. I
tell you, Cecil, it was worth coming for the scandal alone.’
The old lady heads into the corridor, calling out Helena’s
name, only to fall suddenly silent. ‘What on earth…’ she
mutters, before poking her head into my parlour again. ‘Get
up, Cecil,’ she says nervously. ‘Something odd is going on.’
Concern drags me to my feet and into the hall, where
Helena’s bedroom door creaks back and forth in a breeze. The
lock has been shattered, splinters of wood crunching
underfoot.
‘Somebody broke in,’ hisses Millicent, staying behind me.
Using my cane, I slowly push the door open, allowing us to
peer inside.
The room’s empty, and has been for some time by the looks
of things. The curtains are still drawn, light delivered second-
hand from the lamps lining the corridor. A four-poster bed is
neatly made, a vanity table is overflowing with face creams,
powders and cosmetics of every sort.
Satisfied that it’s safe, Millicent appears from behind me,
offering me a level glance best described as a belligerent
apology, before making her way around the bed to wrestle the
heavy curtains open, banishing the gloom.
The only thing that’s been disturbed is a chestnut bureau
with a roll-down top, its drawers hanging open. Among the ink
bottles, envelopes and ribbons scattered on it, there’s a large
lacquered case with two revolver-shaped hollows in the
cushion. The revolvers themselves are nowhere to be seen,
though I suspect Evelyn brought one of them to the graveyard.
She did say it was her mother’s.
‘Well, at least we know what they wanted,’ says Millicent,
tapping the case. ‘Doesn’t make any damn sense though. If
somebody wanted a gun, they could just as easily steal one
from the stables. There’s dozens of them. Nobody would bat
an eyelid.’
Pushing aside the case, Millicent unearths a moleskin day-
planner and begins leafing through the pages, running her


finger across the meetings and events, reminders and notes
crammed inside. The contents would suggest a busy, if rather
dull life, if it weren’t for the torn-out last page.
‘That’s curious, today’s appointments are missing,’ she
says, her irritation giving way to suspicion. ‘Now why would
Helena rip those out?’
‘You believe she did it herself?’ I say.
‘What use would anybody else have for them?’ says
Millicent. ‘Mark my words, Helena has something foolish in
mind and she doesn’t want anybody finding out about it. Now,
if you’ll excuse me, Cecil, I’m going to have to find her and
talk her out of it. As usual.’
Tossing the planner on the bed, she stalks out of the
bedroom and up the corridor. I barely notice her leave. I’m
more concerned with the black smudged fingerprints on the
pages. My valet’s been here, and it appears he’s looking for
Helena Hardcastle as well.


18
The world’s shrivelling beyond the windows, darkening at the
edges and blackening at the centre. The hunters are beginning
to emerge from the forest, waddling across the lawn like
overgrown birds. Having grown impatient in my parlour
waiting for Cunningham’s return, I’m heading to the library to
inspect the encyclopaedia.
It’s already a decision I regret.
A day of walking has sapped all my strength, this ponderous
body growing heavier by the second. To make matters worse,
the house is alive with activity, maids plumping cushions and
arranging flowers, darting this way and that like schools of
startled fish. I’m embarrassed by their vigour, cowed by their
grace.
By the time I enter the entrance hall, it’s filled with hunters
shaking the rain from their caps, puddles forming at their feet.
They’re soaking wet and grey with cold, the life washed right
out of them. They’ve clearly endured a miserable afternoon.
I pass through nervously, my eyes downcast, wondering if
any of these scowling faces belongs to the footman. Lucy
Harper told me he had a broken nose when he visited the
kitchen, which gives me some hope that my hosts are fighting
back, not to mention an easy way of picking him out.
Seeing no injuries, I continue more confidently, the hunters
standing aside, allowing me to shuffle through on my way to
the library, where the heavy curtains have been drawn and a
fire set in the grate, the air touched with a faint perfume. Fat
candles sit on plates, plumes of warm light pockmarking the
shadows, illuminating three women curled up on chairs,
engrossed in the books open on their laps.
Heading to the bookshelf where the encyclopaedia should
be, I grope about in the darkness, finding only an empty space.
Taking a candle from a nearby table, I pass the flame across
the shelf hoping it has been moved, but it’s definitely gone. I
let out a long breath, deflating like the bellows of some awful
contraption. Until now, I hadn’t realised how much hope I’d


invested in the encyclopaedia, or in the idea of meeting my
future hosts face to face. It wasn’t only their knowledge I
craved, but the chance to study them, as one might one’s own
twisted reflections in a hall of mirrors. Surely in such
observation, I’d find some repeated quality, a fragment of my
true self carried through into each man, unsullied by the
personalities of their hosts? Without that opportunity, I’m not
certain how to identify the edges of myself, the dividing lines
between my personality and that of my host. For all I know,
the only difference between myself and the footman is the
mind I’m sharing.
The day’s leaning on my shoulders, forcing me into a chair
opposite the fire. Stacked logs pop and crackle, heat
shimmering and sagging in the air.
My breath catches in my throat.
Among the flames lies the encyclopaedia, burnt to ash but
holding its shape, a breath away from crumbling.
The footman’s work no doubt.
I feel like I’ve been struck, which was no doubt the
intention. Everywhere I go, he seems to be a step ahead of me.
And yet, simply winning isn’t enough. He needs me to know
it. He needs me to be afraid. For some reason, he needs me to
suffer.
Still reeling from this blatant act of contempt, I lose myself
in the flames, piling all my misgivings onto the bonfire until
Cunningham calls me from the doorway.
‘Lord Ravencourt?’
‘Where the devil have you been?’ I snap, my temper
slipping away from me completely.
He strolls around my chair, taking a spot near the fire to
warm his hands. He looks to have been caught in the storm,
and though he’s changed his clothes, his damp hair is still wild
from the towel.
‘It’s good to see Ravencourt’s temper is still intact,’ he says
placidly. ‘I’d feel positively adrift without my daily dressing
down.’


‘Don’t play the victim with me,’ I say, wagging my finger at
him. ‘You’ve been gone hours.’
‘Good work takes time,’ he says, tossing an object onto my
lap.
Holding it up to the light, I stare into the empty eyes of a
porcelain beak mask, my anger evaporating immediately.
Cunningham lowers his voice, glancing at the woman, who are
watching us with open curiosity.
‘It belongs to a chap called Philip Sutcliffe,’ says
Cunningham. ‘One of the servants spotted it in his wardrobe,
so I crept into his room when he left for the hunt. Sure enough
the top hat and greatcoat were in there as well, along with a
note promising to meet Lord Hardcastle at the ball. I thought
we could intercept him.’
Slapping my hand against my knee, I grin at him like a
maniac. ‘Good work, Cunningham, good work indeed.’
‘I thought you’d be happy,’ he says. ‘Unfortunately, that’s
where my good news ends. The note waiting for Miss
Hardcastle at the well, it was… odd, to say the least.’
‘Odd, how so?’ I say, holding the beak mask over my face.
The porcelain’s cold, clammy against my skin, but aside from
that it’s a good fit.
‘The rain had smeared it, but best I could tell it said, ‘‘Stay
away from Millicent Derby’’, with a simple drawing of a
castle beneath it. There was nothing else.’
‘That’s a peculiar sort of warning,’ I say.
‘Warning? I took it as a threat,’ says Cunningham.
‘You think Millicent Derby’s going to take after Evelyn
with her knitting needles?’ I say, raising an eyebrow.
‘Don’t dismiss her because she’s old,’ he says, prodding
some life into the dwindling fire with a poker. ‘At one time,
half the people in this house were under Millicent Derby’s
thumb. There wasn’t a dirty secret she couldn’t ferret out, or a
dirty trick she wouldn’t use. Ted Stanwin was an amateur in
comparison.’


‘You’ve had dealings with her?’
‘Ravencourt has and he doesn’t trust her,’ he says. ‘The
man’s a bastard, but he’s no fool.’
‘That’s good to know,’ I say. ‘Did you meet with Sebastian
Bell?’
‘Not yet, I’ll catch him this evening. I wasn’t able to turn
over anything about the mysterious Anna either.’
‘Oh, no need, she found me earlier today,’ I say, picking at a
loose piece of leather on the arm of the chair.
‘Really, what did she want?’
‘She didn’t say.’
‘Well, how does she know you?’
‘We didn’t get around to it.’
‘Is she a friend?’
‘Possibly.’
‘Profitable meeting then?’ he says slyly, replacing the poker
on its stand. ‘Speaking of which, we should get you into a
bath. Dinner’s at 8 p.m. and you’re beginning to smell a bit
ripe. Let’s not give people any more reason to dislike you than
they already do.’
He moves to help me up, but I wave him back.
‘No, I need you to shadow Evelyn for the rest of the
evening,’ I say, struggling to raise myself from the chair.
Gravity, it seems, is opposed to the idea.
‘To what end?’ he asks, frowning at me.
‘Somebody’s planning to murder her,’ I say.
‘Yes, and that somebody could be me for all you know,’ he
says blandly, as though suggesting nothing more important
than a fondness for music halls.
The idea strikes me with such force, I drop back into the
seat I’ve half-escaped, the wood cracking beneath me.
Ravencourt trusts Cunningham completely, a trait I’ve adopted


without question despite knowing he has a terrible secret. He’s
as much a suspect as anybody.
Cunningham taps his nose.
‘Now you’re thinking,’ he says, sliding my arm over his
shoulders. ‘I’ll find Bell when I’ve got you into the bath, but
to my mind, you’re better off shadowing Evelyn yourself
when you’re next able. In the meantime, I’ll stick by your side
so you can rule me out as a suspect. My life’s complicated
enough without having eight of you chasing me around the
house accusing me of murder.’
‘You seem well versed in this sort of thing,’ I say, trying to
scrutinise his reaction from the corner of my eye.
‘Well, I wasn’t always a valet,’ he says.
‘And what were you?’
‘I don’t believe that information was part of our little
arrangement,’ he says, a grimace on his face as he tries to lift
me.
‘Then why don’t you tell me what you were doing in Helena
Hardcastle’s bedroom?’ I suggest. ‘You smeared the ink while
you were rifling through her day-planner. I noticed it on your
hands this morning.’
He lets out a whistle of astonishment.
‘You have been busy.’ His voice hardens. ‘Strange you
haven’t heard about my scandalous relationship to the
Hardcastles, then. Oh, I wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise for
you. Ask around, it’s not exactly a secret and I’m sure
somebody will get a thrill from telling you.’
‘Did you break in, Cunningham?’ I demand. ‘Two revolvers
were taken, and a page torn from her day-planner.’
‘I didn’t have to break in, I was invited,’ he says. ‘Couldn’t
tell you about those revolvers, but the day-planner was whole
when I left. Saw it myself. I suppose I could explain what I
was doing there, and why I’m not your man, but, if you’ve got
any sense, you wouldn’t believe a word of it, so you might as


well find out for yourself. That way you can be certain it’s the
truth.’
We rise in a damp cloud of sweat, Cunningham dabbing the
perspiration from my forehead before handing me my cane.
‘Tell me, Cunningham,’ I say. ‘Why does a man like you
settle for a job like this?’
That brings him up short, his normally implacable face
darkening.
‘Life doesn’t always leave you a choice in how you live it,’
he says grimly. ‘Now come on, we’ve a murder to attend.’


19
The evening meal is lit by candelabra and beneath their
flickering glow lies a graveyard of chicken bones, fish spines,
lobster shells and pork fat. The curtains remain undrawn
despite the darkness beyond, granting a view towards the
forest being whipped by the storm.
I can hear myself eating, the crush and the crack, the
squelch and the gulp. Gravy runs down my chins, grease
smearing my lips with a ghastly shimmering shine. Such is the
ferocity of my appetite that I leave myself panting between
mouthfuls, my napkin resembling a battlefield. The other
diners are watching this hideous performance from the corner
of their eyes, trying to maintain their conversations even as the
decorum of the evening crunches between my teeth. How can
a man know such hunger? What hollowness must he be trying
to fill?
Michael Hardcastle’s sitting to the left of me, though we’ve
barely spoken two words since I arrived. He’s spent most of
his time in hushed conversation with Evelyn, heads bowed
close, their affection impenetrable. For a woman who knows
herself to be in danger, she seems remarkably unperturbed.
Perhaps she believes herself protected.
‘Have you ever travelled to the Orient, my Lord
Ravencourt?’
If only the seat to my right was similarly oblivious to my
presence. It’s filled by Commander Clifford Herrington, a
balding former naval officer in a uniform glittering with
valour. After an hour spent in his company, I’m struggling to
reconcile the man with the deeds. Perhaps it’s the weak chin
and averted gaze, the sense of imminent apology. More likely
it’s the Scotch sloshing around behind his eyes.
Herrington’s spent the evening tossing around tedious
stories without bothering to indulge in the courtesy of
exaggeration, and now it appears our conversation is washing
up on the shores of Asia. I sip my wine to cover my agitation,


discovering the taste to be peculiarly piquant. My grimace
causes Herrington to lean over conspiratorially.
‘I had the same reaction,’ he says, hitting me full in the face
with his warm, alcohol-soaked breath. ‘I quizzed a servant on
the vintage. Might as well have asked the glass I was drinking
it out of.’
The candelabra gives his face a ghoulish yellow cast and
there’s a drunken sheen to his eyes that’s repellent. Putting my
wine down, I cast about for some distraction. There must be
fifteen people around the table, words of French, Spanish and
German seasoning otherwise dull conversational fare.
Expensive jewellery clinks against glass, cutlery rattles as
waiters remove plates. The mood in the room is sombre, the
scattered conversations hushed and urgent, spoken across a
dozen empty seats. It’s an eerie sight, mournful even, and
though the absences are notable, everybody seems to be going
out of their way to avoid noting them. I can’t tell whether it’s a
matter of good breeding, or there’s some explanation I’ve
missed.
I search for familiar faces to ask, but Cunningham’s gone to
meet Bell and there’s no sign of Millicent Derby, Doctor
Dickie or even the repulsive Ted Stanwin. Aside from Evelyn
and Michael, the only other person I recognise is Daniel
Coleridge, who’s sitting near a thin fellow at the far end of the
table, the two of them eyeing the other guests from behind
their half-filled wine glasses. Somebody’s taken exception to
that handsome face of Daniel’s, adorning it with a split lip and
a swollen eye that will be frightful tomorrow, assuming
tomorrow ever actually arrives. The injury doesn’t appear to
be bothering him unduly, though it unsettles me. Until this
moment, I’d considered Daniel immune to the machinations of
this place, assuming his knowledge of the future allowed him
to simply sidestep misfortune. Seeing him brought so low is
like seeing the cards spilling out of a magician’s sleeve.
His dining companion thumps the table in delight at one of
Daniel’s jokes, drawing my attention. I feel as though I know
this fellow, but I can’t place him.
A future host perhaps.


I certainly hope not. He’s a smear of a man with oiled hair
and a pale, pinched face, his manner that of somebody who
finds everything in the room beneath him. I sense cunning in
him, cruelty too, though I can’t understand from where I’m
gathering these impressions.
‘They have such outlandish remedies,’ says Clifford
Herrington, raising his voice slightly to reclaim my attention.
I blink at him in confusion.
‘The Orientals, Lord Ravencourt,’ he says, smiling amiably.
‘Of course,’ I say. ‘No, I’m afraid I’ve never visited.’
‘Incredible place, incredible. They have these hospitals…’
I raise my hand to attract a servant. If I can’t be spared the
conversation, I can at least be spared the wine. One mercy may
yet yield another.
‘I was speaking with Doctor Bell last night about some of
their opiates,’ he continues.
Make it end…
‘Is the food to your satisfaction, Lord Ravencourt?’ says
Michael Hardcastle, neatly sidling into the conversation.
I turn my eyes to meet him, gratitude flooding forth.
A glass of red wine is half raised to his lips, mischief
sparkling in those green eyes. It’s a stark contrast to Evelyn,
whose gaze could tear strips from my skin. She’s dressed in a
blue evening gown and tiara, her blonde hair pinned up in
curls, exposing the lavish diamond necklace draped around her
neck. It’s the same outfit, minus an overcoat and wellington
boots, that she’ll be wearing when she accompanies Sebastian
Bell into the graveyard later this evening.
Dabbing my lips, I bow my head.
‘It’s excellent, I’m just sorry there aren’t more people to
enjoy it,’ I say, gesturing towards the empty seats scattered
around the table. ‘I was particularly looking forward to
meeting Mr Sutcliffe.’
And his plague doctor costume, I think to myself.


‘Well, you’re in luck,’ interrupts Clifford Herrington. ‘Old
Sutcliffe’s a good friend of mine, perhaps I can introduce you
at the ball.’
‘Assuming he makes it,’ says Michael. ‘He and my father
will have reached the back of the liquor cabinet by now.
Doubtless Mother’s trying to rouse them as we speak.’
‘Is Lady Hardcastle coming tonight?’ I ask. ‘I hear she
hasn’t been seen much today.’
‘Returning to Blackheath has been hard on her,’ says
Michael, lowering his voice as though sharing a confidence.
‘No doubt she’s spent the day exorcising a few ghosts before
the party. Rest assured, she’ll be here.’
We’re interrupted by one of the waiters leaning down to
whisper in Michael’s ear. The young man’s expression
immediately darkens, and as the waiter retreats, he passes the
message to his sister, the gloom washing over her face as well.
They look at each other a moment, squeezing hands, before
Michael raps on his wine glass with a fork, and gets to his feet.
He seems to unfurl as he stands so that he now appears
unfeasibly tall, reaching well beyond the dim light of the
candelabra, forcing him to speak from the shadows.
The room is silent, all eyes upon him.
‘I’d rather hoped my parents might make an appearance and
save me from making a toast,’ he says. ‘Clearly they’re
planning some grand entrance at the ball, which knowing my
parents will be very grand indeed.’
Muted laughter is met with a shy smile.
My gaze skips across the guests, running straight into
Daniel’s amused stare. Dabbing his lips with a napkin, he
flicks his eyes towards Michael, instructing me to pay
attention.
He knows what’s coming.
‘My father wanted to thank you for attending tonight and
I’m sure he’ll do so in great detail later,’ says Michael.


There’s a quiver in his voice, the slightest hint of
discomfort. ‘In his stead, I’d like to extend my personal thanks
to each of you for coming and to welcome my sister, Evelyn,
back home after her time in Paris.’
She reflects his adoration, the two of them sharing a smile
that has nothing to do with this room, or these people. Even so,
glasses are raised, reciprocal thanks washing back along the
table.
Michael waits for the commotion to die down, then
continues. ‘She’ll soon be embarking on a brand-new
adventure, and…’ he pauses, eyes on the table, ‘Well, she’s
going to be married to Lord Cecil Ravencourt.’
Silence engulfs us, all eyes turning in my direction. Shock
becomes confusion, then disgust; their faces a perfect
reflection of my own feelings. There must be thirty years and a
thousand meals between Ravencourt and Evelyn, whose
hostility this morning is now explained. If Lord and Lady
Hardcastle really do blame their daughter for Thomas’s death,
their punishment is exquisite. They plan to steal all the years
from her that were stolen from Thomas.
I look over at Evelyn, but she’s fidgeting with a napkin and
biting her lip, her former humour having fled. A bead of sweat
is rolling down Michael’s forehead, the wine shaking in his
glass. He can’t even look at his sister, and she can’t look
anywhere else. Never has a man found a tablecloth so
engrossing as I do now.
‘Lord Ravencourt’s an old friend of the family,’ says
Michael mechanically, soldiering on into the silence. ‘I can’t
think of anybody who’d take better care of my sister.’
Finally, he looks at Evelyn, meeting her glistening eyes.
‘Evie, I think you wanted to say something.’
She nods, the napkin strangled in her hands.
All eyes are fixed on her, nobody moving. Even the servants
are staring, standing by the walls, holding dirty plates and
fresh bottles of wine. Finally, Evelyn looks up from her lap,
meeting the expectant faces arranged before her. Her eyes are


wild, like an animal caught in a trap. Whatever words she
prepared, they desert her immediately, replaced with a
wretched sob that drives her from the room, Michael chasing
after her.
Among the rustle of bodies turning in my direction, I seek
out Daniel. The amusement of earlier has passed, his gaze now
fixed on the window. I wonder how many times he’s watched
the slow blush rise up my cheeks; if he even remembers how
this shame felt. Is that why he can’t look at me now? Will I do
any better, when my time comes?
Abandoned at the end of the table, my instinct is to flee with
Michael and Evelyn, but I might as well wish for the moon to
reach down and pluck me from this chair. Silence swirls until
Clifford Herrington gets to his feet, candlelight glinting off his
naval medals as he raises his glass.
‘To many happy years,’ he says, seemingly without irony.
One by one, every glass is raised and the toast repeated in a
hollow chant.
At the end of the table, Daniel winks at me.


20
The dining hall has long emptied of guests, the servants having
finally cleared away the last of the platters when Cunningham
comes to collect me. He’s been standing outside for over an
hour, but every time he’s tried to enter, I’ve waved him back.
After the humiliation of dinner, having anybody see my valet
help me from my seat would be an indignity too far. When he
does stroll in, there’s a smirk on his face. No doubt word of
my shaming has run laps around the house: fat old Ravencourt
and his runaway bride.
‘Why didn’t you tell me about Ravencourt’s marriage to
Evelyn?’ I demand, stopping him in his tracks.
‘To humiliate you,’ he says.
I stiffen, my cheeks reddening, as he meets my gaze.
His eyes are green, the pupils uneven, like splashed ink. I
see conviction enough to raise armies and burn churches. God
help Ravencourt should this boy ever decide to stop being his
footstool.
‘Ravencourt is a vain man, easy to embarrass,’ continues
Cunningham in a level voice. ‘I noticed you’d inherited this
quality and I made sport of it.’
‘Why?’ I ask, stunned by his honesty.
‘You blackmailed me,’ he says, shrugging. ‘You didn’t think
I’d take that lying down, did you?’
I blink at him for a few seconds before laughter erupts out
of me. It’s a belly laugh, the rolls of my flesh shaking in
appreciation at his audacity. I humiliated him and he handed
back an equal weight of that misery, using nothing more than
patience. What man wouldn’t be charmed by such a feat?
Cunningham frowns at me, his eyebrows knitting together.
‘You’re not angry?’ he asks.
‘I suspect my anger is of little concern to you,’ I say, wiping
a tear from my eye. ‘Regardless, I threw the first stone. I can’t
complain if a boulder comes back at me.’


My mirth prompts an echoing smile in my companion.
‘It appears there are some differences between yourself and
Lord Ravencourt, after all,’ he says, measuring each word.
‘Not least a name,’ I say, holding out my hand. ‘Mine is
Aiden Bishop.’
He shakes it firmly, his smile deepening.
‘Very good to make your acquaintance, Aiden, I’m Charles.’
‘Well, I have no intention of telling anybody your secret,
Charles, and I apologise for threatening it. I wish only to save
Evelyn Hardcastle’s life and escape Blackheath, and I don’t
have a lot of time to do either. I’ll need a friend.’
‘Probably more than one,’ he says, cleaning his glasses on
his sleeve. ‘In all honesty, this tale’s so peculiar I’m not sure I
could walk away now, even if I wished to.’
‘Shall we go then,’ I say. ‘By Daniel’s reckoning, Evelyn
will be murdered at the party at 11 p.m. If we’re to save her,
that’s where we have to be.’
The ballroom is on the other side of the entrance hall,
Cunningham supporting me at the elbow as we walk there.
Carriages are arriving from the village, queuing up on the
gravel outside. Horses nicker, footmen opening the doors for
costumed guests, who flutter like canaries released from their
cages.
‘Why is Evelyn being compelled to marry Ravencourt?’ I
whisper to Cunningham.
‘Money,’ he says. ‘Lord Hardcastle’s got an eye for a bad
investment, and not nearly enough intelligence to learn from
his mistakes. Rumour suggests he’s driving the family towards
bankruptcy. In return for Evelyn’s hand, Lord and Lady
Hardcastle will receive a rather generous dowry and
Ravencourt’s promise to buy Blackheath in a couple of years
for a tidy sum.’
‘So that’s it,’ I say. ‘The Hardcastles are hard up and they’re
pawning their daughter off like old jewellery.’


My thoughts flock back to this morning’s chess game, the
smile on Evelyn’s face as I winced out of the Sun Room.
Ravencourt isn’t buying a bride, he’s buying a bottomless well
of spite. I wonder if the old fool understands what he’s getting
into.
‘And what of Sebastian Bell?’ I say, remembering the task I
set him. ‘Did you speak with him?’
‘Afraid not, the poor fellow was passed out on the floor of
his room when I arrived,’ he says, genuine pity in his voice. ‘I
saw the dead rabbit; seems your footman has a twisted sense
of humour. I called for the doctor and left them to it. Your
experiment will have to wait another day.’
My disappointment is drowned out by the music beating at
the ballroom’s closed doors, the sound tumbling into the hall
when a servant sweeps them open for us. There must be at
least fifty people inside, whirling through a soft puddle of light
cast by a chandelier wreathed in candles. An orchestra is
playing with bravado on a stage pressed against the far wall,
but the majority of the room has been given over to the dance
floor where Harlequins in full livery court Egyptian queens
and grinning devils. Jesters leap and mock, dislodging
powdered wigs and gold masks held up on long sticks.
Dresses, capes and cowls swoop and swish across the floor,
the crush of bodies disorientating. The only space to be found
surrounds Michael Hardcastle in his dazzling sun mask, its
pointed rays extending such a distance from his face that it’s
unsafe to venture anywhere near him.
We’re viewing all this from a mezzanine, a small staircase
leading down to the dance floor. My fingers are rapping the
banister, keeping time with the music. Some part of me, the
part that’s still Ravencourt, knows this song and is enjoying it.
He yearns to pick up an instrument and play.
‘Ravencourt’s a musician?’ I ask Cunningham.
‘In his youth,’ he says. ‘Talented violinist, by all accounts.
Broke his arm riding, and could never play as well again. He
still misses it, I think.’
‘He does,’ I say, surprised by the depth of his longing.


Putting it aside, I return my attention to the matter at hand,
but I have no idea how we’re going to spot Sutcliffe among
the crowd.
Or the footman.
My heart sinks. I hadn’t considered that. Amid the noise and
the crush of bodies, a blade could do its work and vanish
without anybody ever being the wiser.
Such thoughts would have caused Bell to flee back to his
room, but Ravencourt is made of sterner stuff. If this is where
the attempt will be made on Evelyn’s life, this is where I must
be, come what may, and so with Charles supporting my arm,
we descend the stairs, keeping to the shadowy edges of the
ballroom.
Clowns slap me on the back and women swirl in front of
me, butterfly masks in hand. I ignore much of it, pushing my
way to the couches near the French doors, where I can better
rest my weary legs.
Until now, I’d only witnessed my fellow guests in their
handfuls, their spite spread thin across the house. To be
ensnared among them all, as I am now, is something else
entirely, and the further I descend into the uproar, the thicker
their malice seems to become. Most of the men look to have
spent the afternoon soaking in their cups and are staggering
instead of dancing, snarling and staring, their conduct savage.
Young women throw their heads back and laugh, their make-
up running and hair coming loose as they’re passed from body
to body, goading a small group of wives who’ve grouped
together for safety, wary of these panting, wild-eyed creatures.
Nothing like a mask to reveal somebody’s true nature.
Beside me Charles has grown increasingly tense, his fingers
digging deeper into my forearm with every step. All of this is
wrong. The celebration is too desperate. This is the last party
before Gomorrah fell.
We reach a couch, Charles lowering me onto the cushions.
Waitresses are moving through the crowd with trays of drinks,
but it’s proving impossible to signal them from our position on


the fringe of the party. It’s too loud to talk, but he points
towards the champagne table guests are stumbling away from
arm in arm. I nod, dabbing the sweat from my forehead.
Perhaps a drink will serve to settle my nerves. As he leaves to
fetch a bottle, I feel a breeze on my skin and notice that
somebody has opened the French doors, presumably to let a
little air circulate. It’s pitch-black outside, but braziers have
been lit, the flickering flames winding all the way up to a
reflecting pool surrounded by trees.
The darkness swirls, taking shape, solidifying as it sweeps
inside, candlelight dripping onto a pale face.
Not a face, a mask.
A white porcelain beak mask.
I look around for Charles, hoping he’s near enough to lay
hands on the fellow, but the crowd has carried him away.
Looking back towards the French doors, I see the Plague
Doctor slipping through the revellers shoulder first.
Gripping my cane, I heave myself to my feet. Wrecks have
been raised from the ocean bed with less effort, but I hobble
towards the cascade of costumes shrouding my quarry. I
follow glimpses – the glint of a mask, the swirl of a cloak –
but he’s fog in a forest, impossible to snatch hold of.
I lose him somewhere in the far corner.
Turning on the spot, I try to catch sight of him, but
somebody comes clattering into me. I bellow in fury, finding
myself looking into a pair of brown eyes peering out from
behind a porcelain beak mask. My heart leaps and so do I
evidently, for the mask is swiftly removed to reveal the
pinched boyish face behind.
‘Gosh, I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I didn’t—’
‘Rochester, Rochester, over here!’ somebody yells to him.
We turn at the same time, another fellow in a plague doctor
costume approaching us. There’s another behind him, three
more in the crowd. My quarry has multiplied, yet none of them
can be my interlocutor. They’re too stout and short, too tall
and thin; too many imperfect copies of the real thing. They try


to drag their friend away, but I catch hold of the nearest arm –
any arm, they’re all the same.
‘Where did you get these costumes?’ I ask.
The fellow scowls at me, his grey eyes bloodshot. They’re
lightless, expressionless. Empty doorways without a coherent
thought behind them. Shaking himself loose of my grip, he
prods me in the chest.
‘Ask me nicely,’ he slurs drunkenly. He’s itching for a fight
and, lashing out with my cane, I give it to him. The heavy
wood catches him on the leg, a curse detonating on his lips as
he drops to one knee. Attempting to steady himself, he places
his palm flat on the dance floor, the point of my cane landing
on top of his hand, pinning him to the ground.
‘The costumes,’ I shout. ‘Where did you find them?’
‘The attic,’ he says, his face now as pale as the discarded
mask. ‘There’s dozens of them hanging on a rack.’
He strains to free himself, but only a fraction of my weight
is resting on the cane. I add a little more, pain unsettling his
features.
‘How did you know about them?’ I ask, taking a little
pressure off his hand.
‘A servant found us last night,’ he says, tears forming in his
eyes. ‘He was already wearing one, mask and hat, the entire
get-up. We didn’t have costumes, so he took us up to the attic
to find some. He was helping everybody, must have been two
dozen people up there, I swear.’
Seems the Plague Doctor doesn’t want to be found.
I watch him squirm for a second or two, balancing the
veracity of his story against the pain on his face. Content that
the two are of equal weight, I lift my cane, allowing him to
stumble away, clutching his aching hand. He’s barely out of
my sight before Michael emerges from the crowd, spotting me
at a distance and driving straight towards me. He’s flustered,
two red spots on his cheeks. His mouth is moving frantically,
but his words are lost in the music and laughter.


I signal that I cannot understand, and he comes closer.
‘Have you seen my sister?’ he yells.
I shake my head, suddenly fearful. I can see in his eyes that
something is wrong, but before I can quiz him further, he’s
pushing back through the whirling dancers. Hot and giddy,
oppressed by a sense of foreboding, I fight my way to my seat,
removing my bow tie and loosening my collar. Masked figures
drift by, naked arms glittering with perspiration.
I feel nauseous, unable to take pleasure in anything I see.
I’m contemplating joining the search for Evelyn when
Cunningham returns with a bottle of champagne in a silver
bucket crammed with ice, and two long-stemmed glasses
tucked under his arm. The metal’s sweating, as is
Cunningham. It’s been so long I’d quite forgotten what he’d
left to do, and I yell into his ear.
‘Where have you been?’
‘Thought… saw Sutcliffe,’ he yells back, about half the
words carrying through the music, ‘… costume.’
Evidently Cunningham’s had much the same experience I
had.
Nodding my understanding, we sit and drink silently,
keeping our eyes open for Evelyn, my frustration mounting. I
need to be on my feet, searching the house, questioning guests,
but Ravencourt’s incapable of such feats. This room is too
crowded, his body too weary. He’s a man of calculation and
observation, not action, and if I’m to help Evelyn, these are the
skills I must embrace. Tomorrow I’ll dash, but today I must
watch. I need to see everything that’s happening in this
ballroom, cataloguing every detail, in order to get ahead of this
evening’s events.
The champagne calms me, but I put my glass down, wary of
dulling my faculties. That’s when I spot Michael, climbing the
few steps that lead to the mezzanine overlooking the ballroom.
The orchestra is silenced, the laughter and chatter slowly
dying down as all heads turn towards their host.


‘I’m sorry to interrupt,’ says Michael, gripping the banister,
‘I feel foolish for asking, but does anybody know where my
sister is?’
A ripple of conversation washes over the crowd as heads
turn to look at one another. It takes only a minute to determine
she’s not in the ballroom.
It’s Cunningham who spots her first.
Touching my arm, he points towards Evelyn, who’s
weaving drunkenly as she follows the braziers towards the
reflecting pool. She’s some distance away already, drifting in
and out of the light. A small silver pistol’s glinting in her hand.
‘Fetch Michael,’ I cry.
As Cunningham pushes through the crowd, I drag myself to
my feet, lurching towards the window. Nobody else has seen
her and the commotion’s building again, the temporary fuss of
the announcement already fading. The violin player tests a
note; the clock shows 11 p.m.
I’ve reached the French doors when Evelyn arrives at the
pool.
She’s swaying, trembling.
Standing in the trees, only feet away, the Plague Doctor
watches passively, the flames of the brazier reflected on his
mask.
The silver pistol flashes as Evelyn raises it to her stomach,
the gunshot slicing through conversation and music.
And yet, for a moment, all seems well.
Evelyn’s still standing on the edge of the water, as though
admiring her reflection. Then her legs buckle, the gun
dropping from her hand as she topples face first into the pool,
the Plague Doctor bowing his head and disappearing into the
blackness of the trees.
I’m only dimly aware of the screams, or the crowd at my
back, surging past me onto the grass as the promised fireworks
explode in the air, drenching the pool in colourful light. I’m
watching Michael, sprinting into the darkness towards a sister


he’s too late to save. He’s screaming her name, his voice
drowned out by the fireworks as he wades into the inky water
to scoop up her body. Slipping and stumbling, he tries to drag
her from the pool, before eventually collapsing, Evelyn still
cradled in his arms. Kissing her face, he begs her to open her
eyes, but it’s a fool’s hope. Death’s rolled his dice and
Evelyn’s paid her debt. All that was of value has been taken.
Burying his face in her wet hair, Michael sobs.
He’s oblivious as the crowd gather, as strong arms pry him
from his sister’s limp body, hoisting her onto the grass so
Doctor Dickie can kneel down and make his examination. Not
that his skills are required, the hole in her stomach and the
silver pistol on the grass tell the story eloquently enough.
Despite that, he lingers over her, pressing his fingers to her
neck to check for a pulse, before tenderly wiping the dirty
water from her face.
Still kneeling, he gestures for Michael to come closer, and,
taking the weeping man’s hand, he bows his head and begins
muttering what looks to be a prayer under his breath.
I’m grateful for his reverence.
A few women are crying into accommodating shoulders, but
there’s something hollow about their performance. It’s as
though the ball hasn’t really ended. They’re all still dancing,
they’ve just changed the steps. Evelyn deserves better than to
be entertainment for people she despised. The doctor seems to
understand this, his every action, no matter how small,
restoring some small part of her dignity.
The prayer only takes a minute, and when it’s done, he
drapes his jacket across Evelyn’s face, as though her
unblinking stare is of greater offence than the blood staining
her dress.
There’s a tear on his cheek as he gets to his feet, and placing
an arm around Michael, he leads Evelyn’s sobbing brother
away. To my eyes, they depart older men, slower and more
bent, carrying a great weight of sadness across their shoulders.


No sooner are they inside the house, than rumours bounce
through the crowd. The police are coming, a suicide note’s
been found, Charlie Carver’s spirit has claimed another
Hardcastle child. The stories are spun from one mouth to
another and by the time they reach me, they’re rich with
details and patterns, strong enough to be carried out of here
and into society.
I look for Cunningham, but he’s nowhere to be seen. I can’t
imagine what he could be doing, but he’s got a quick eye and
willing hands so no doubt he’s found a purpose – unlike
myself. The shot has shattered my nerves.
Taking myself back to the now empty ballroom, I drop onto
the couch from earlier, where I sit and tremble, my mind
racing.
I know my friend will be alive again tomorrow, but it
doesn’t change what happened, or the devastation I feel at
having witnessed it.
Evelyn took her own life, and I’m responsible. Her marriage
to Ravencourt was a punishment, a humiliation designed to
push her over the edge, and, however unwittingly, I was part
of it. It was my face she hated, my presence that drove her to
the water’s edge with a pistol in her hand.
And what of the Plague Doctor? He offered me freedom in
return for solving a murder that wouldn’t look like a murder,
but I watched Evelyn shoot herself after fleeing a dinner in
despair. There can be no doubt about her actions or
motivation, which makes me wonder at my captor’s. Was his
offer just another torment, a slither of hope to go mad chasing?
What about the graveyard? The gun?
If Evelyn were truly so despondent, why did she seem in
such good cheer when she accompanied Bell into the
graveyard, less than two hours after the dinner? And what
about the gun she was carrying? It was a large black revolver,
almost too big for her clutch bag. The gun she used to take her
life was a silver pistol. Why would she change weapons?


I don’t know how long I sit there thinking about it, amid the
delighted mourners, but the police never come.
The crowds thin and the candles gutter, the party flickers
and goes out.
The last thing I see before falling asleep in my chair is the
image of Michael Hardcastle, kneeling on the grass cradling
the dripping-wet body of his dead sister.


21
Day Two (continued)
Pain stirs me, every breath painful. Blinking away the tatters
of sleep, I see a white wall, white sheets and a blossom of
crusted blood on the pillow. My cheek is resting on my hand,
saliva sticking my top lip to my knuckles.
I know this moment, I saw it through Bell’s eyes.
I’m in the butler again, after he was moved to the gatehouse.
Somebody’s pacing beside my bed, a maid judging by the
black dress and white apron. There’s a large book held open in
her arms, which she’s flipping through furiously. My head’s
too heavy to see anything above her waist, so I groan to call
her over.
‘Oh, good, you’re awake,’ she says, halting her pacing.
‘When’s Ravencourt going to be alone? You didn’t write it
down, but the bloody idiot has his valet nosing around the
kitchen—’
‘Who are—’ My throat is clogged with blood and phlegm.
There’s a jug of water on the sideboard and the maid hurries
over to pour me some, placing her book on the counter, while
she tips a glass to my lips. I move my head a fraction, trying to
look up at her face, but the world immediately starts to spin.
‘You shouldn’t talk,’ she says, using her apron to wipe a
stray drop of water from my chin.
She pauses.
‘I mean you can talk, but only when you’re ready.’
She pauses again.
‘Actually, I really need you to answer my question about
Ravencourt, before he gets me killed.’
‘Who are you?’ I croak.
‘How hard did that ape… wait—’ She lowers her face to my
own, her brown eyes searching for something. She’s puffy-


cheeked and pale with strands of tangled blonde hair straying
free from her cap. With a start, I realise this is the maid Bell
and Evelyn met, the one who was keeping watch on the butler.
‘How may hosts have you had?’ she asks.
‘I don’t—’
‘How many hosts?’ she insists, sitting on the edge of the
bed. ‘How many bodies have you been in?’
‘You’re Anna,’ I say, twisting my neck to get a better look
at her, the pain setting fire to my bones. Very gently she
presses me back down onto the mattress.
‘Yes, I’m Anna,’ she says patiently. ‘How many hosts?’
Tears of joy prod my eyes, affection washing through me
like warm water. Even though I can’t remember this woman, I
can feel the years of friendship between us, a trust that borders
on instinct. More than that, I’m overcome by the simple joy of
this reunion. As strange as it is to say about somebody I can’t
remember, I now realise I’ve missed her.
Seeing the emotion on my face, answering tears form in
Anna’s eyes, and leaning down, she hugs me gently.
‘I’ve missed you too,’ she says, voicing my feeling.
We stay like that for a while, before she clears her throat
and wipes the tears away.
‘Well, that’s enough of that,’ she sniffs. ‘Crying on each
other isn’t going to help. I need you to tell me about your hosts
or crying’s all we’ll do.’
‘I… I…’ I’m struggling to speak through the lump in my
throat. ‘I woke up as Bell, then the butler, then Donald Davies,
the butler again, Ravencourt and now—’
‘The butler again,’ she says thoughtfully. ‘Third time’s a
charm, ain’t it?’
Stroking a lock of disturbed hair from my forehead, she
leans closer.
‘I take it we haven’t been introduced yet, or at least you
haven’t been introduced to me,’ she says. ‘My name’s Anna


and you’re Aiden Bishop, or have we done that part already?
You keep arriving in the wrong order, I never know where
we’re up to.’
‘You’ve met my other selves?’
‘They pop in and out,’ she says, glancing at the door as
voices sound somewhere in the house. ‘Usually with a favour
to ask.’
‘What about your hosts, are they—’
‘I don’t have other hosts, it’s just me,’ she says. ‘No visits
from a Plague Doctor, no other days neither. I won’t remember
any of this tomorrow, which seems a bit of luck given how
today’s going so far.’
‘But you know what’s happening, you know about Evelyn’s
suicide?’
‘It’s murder, and I woke up knowing,’ she says,
straightening my sheets. ‘Couldn’t remember my own name,
but I knew yours and I knew there was no escaping until we
took the killer’s name, and proof of their guilt, to the lake at 11
p.m. They’re like rules, I think. Words scraped onto my brain
so I don’t forget.’
‘I didn’t remember anything when I woke up,’ I respond,
trying to understand why our torments would be different.
‘Aside from your name, the Plague Doctor had to tell me
everything.’
‘Course he did, you’re his special project,’ she says,
adjusting my pillow. ‘Doesn’t give a rat’s fart about what I’m
doing. Haven’t heard a peep out of him all day. Won’t leave
you alone though. Surprised he’s not waiting under that bed.’
‘He told me only one of us can escape,’ I say.
‘Yeah, and it’s pretty bloody obvious he wants it to be you,’
she says, the anger draining from her voice as quickly as it
came. She shakes her head. ‘Sorry, I shouldn’t be taking any of
this out on you, but I can’t shift the feeling he’s up to
something, and I don’t like it.’


‘I know what you mean,’ I say. ‘But if only one of us can
escape—’
‘Why are we helping each other?’ she interrupts. ‘Because
you’ve got a plan to get us both out.’
‘I have?’
‘Well, you said you did.’
For the first time, her confidence falters, a worried frown
appearing on her face, but before I can press the issue, wood
creaks in the corridor, steps thumping up the stairs. It feels like
the entire house is shaking with their ascent.
‘Just a tick,’ she says, collecting the book from the counter.
Only now do I realise it’s actually an artist’s sketchbook, the
brown leather covers filled with sheets of loose-leaf paper,
untidily bound by string. Hiding the book under the bed, she
comes up instead with a shotgun. Pressing the butt against her
shoulder, she stalks over to the door, opening it a crack to
better hear the commotion outside.
‘Oh, hell,’ says Anna, kicking the door closed with her foot.
‘It’s the doctor with your sedative. Quick, when’s Ravencourt
going to be alone? I need to tell him to stop searching for me.’
‘Why, who’s—’
‘We don’t have time, Aiden,’ she says, sliding the shotgun
back under the bed out of sight. ‘I’ll be here next time you
wake up and we can have a proper talk then I promise, but for
now tell me about Ravencourt, every detail you can
remember.’
She’s leaning over me, clutching my hand, her eyes
pleading.
‘He’ll be in his parlour at 1:15 p.m.,’ I say. ‘You hand him a
whisky, have a chat, and then Millicent Derby arrives. You
leave him a card introducing her.’
She squeezes her eyes shut, mouthing the time and name
over and over again, carving them into her memory. Only now,
her features smoothed by concentration, do I realise how


young she is; no more than nineteen I’d guess, though hard
labour’s added a few years to the pile.
‘One more thing,’ she hisses, cupping my cheek, her face so
close to mine I can see the amber flecks in her brown eyes. ‘If
you see me out there, pretend you don’t know me. Don’t even
come near me if you can help it. There’s this footman… I’ll
tell you about him later, or earlier. Point is, it’s dangerous for
us to be seen together. Any talking needs doing, we’ll do it in
here.’
She kisses me on the forehead quickly, offering the room a
last glance to make sure everything’s in order.
The steps have reached the hall, two sets of voices jumbled
up and rolling on ahead. I recognise Dickie, but not the second
one. It’s deep, urgent, though I can’t quite make out what’s
being said.
‘Who’s with Dickie?’ I ask.
‘Lord Hardcastle most like,’ she says. ‘He’s been popping in
and out all morning to check on you.’
That makes sense. Evelyn told me the butler was Lord
Hardcastle’s batman during the war. Their closeness is the
reason Gregory Gold is strung up in the room opposite.
‘Are things always like this?’ I ask. ‘The explanations
arriving before the questions?’
‘I wouldn’t know,’ she says, standing up and smoothing her
apron. ‘Two hours, I’ve been at this, and all I’ve had are
orders.’
Doctor Dickie opens the door, his moustache just as
preposterous as the first time I saw it. His gaze passes from
Anna to myself and back again as he tries to stitch together the
torn edges of our hastily severed conversation. No answers
forthcoming, he places his black medical bag on the sideboard
and comes to stand over me.
‘Awake I see,’ he says, rocking back and forth on his heels,
fingers thrust into the watch pockets of his waistcoat.


‘Leave us, girl,’ he says to Anna, who curtsies before
exiting the room, casting me a quick glance on her way out.
‘So, how are you feeling?’ he asks. ‘No worse for wear
from the carriage journey, I hope.’
‘Not bad—’ I begin to say, but he lifts the covers, raising
my arm to take my pulse. Even this gentle action is enough to
cause spasms of pain, the rest of my response mangled by a
wince.
‘Little sore, hmmm,’ he says, lowering my arm once more.
‘Hardly surprising given the beating you took. Any notion
what this fellow Gregory Gold wanted from you?’
‘I don’t. Must have mistook me for somebody else, sir.’
The ‘sir’ isn’t my doing, it’s an old habit of the butler’s, and
I’m surprised by how easily it arrived on my tongue.
The doctor’s shrewd gaze holds my explanation up to the
light, poking a dozen different holes in it. The tight smile he
flashes me is one of complicity, both reassuring and a touch
threatening. Whatever happened in that hallway, the seemingly
benign Doctor Dickie knows more about it than he’s letting on.
There’s a click as he opens his bag, withdrawing a brown
bottle and a hypodermic syringe. Keeping his eyes on me, he
pokes the needle through the bottle’s wax seal, filling the
hypodermic with a clear liquid.
My hand clutches the sheets.
‘I’m fine, Doctor, honestly,’ I say.
‘Yes, that’s rather my concern,’ he says, jabbing the needle
into my neck before I have a chance to argue.
A warm liquid floods my veins, drowning my thoughts. The
doctor melts, colours blossoming and fading into darkness.
‘Sleep, Roger,’ he says. ‘I’ll deal with Mr Gold.’


22
Day Five
Coughing up a lungful of cigar smoke, I open a new pair of
eyes to find myself almost fully clothed on wooden
floorboards, one hand lying victorious on an untouched bed.
My trousers are around my ankles, a bottle of brandy clutched
to my stomach. Clearly an attempt was made at undressing last
night, but such a course appears to have been beyond my new
host, whose breath stinks like an old beer mat.
Groaning, I claw my way up the side of the bed, dislodging
a throbbing headache that nearly knocks me to the floor again.
I’m in a similar bedroom to the one Bell was given, the
embers of last night’s fire winking at me from the grate. The
curtains are open, the sky sagging with early morning light.
Evelyn’s in the forest, you need to find her.
Hoisting my trousers up to my waist, I stumble over to the
mirror to better inspect this fool I now inhabit.
I nearly run straight into it.
After being shackled to Ravencourt for so long, this new
chap feels weightless, a leaf being blown about by a breeze.
It’s not too surprising when I see him in the glass. He’s short
and slight, somewhere in his late twenties, with longish brown
hair and bloodshot blue eyes above a neatly trimmed beard. I
try out his smile, discovering a row of slightly awkward white
teeth.
It’s the face of a rascal.
My possessions are sitting in a pile on the bedside table, an
invitation addressed to Jonathan Derby on top. At least I know
who to curse for this hangover. I sift through the items with a
fingertip, uncovering a pocketknife, a weathered hip flask, a
wristwatch showing 8:43 a.m. and three brown vials with cork
stoppers and no labels. Yanking a cork loose, I sniff the liquid
within, my stomach twisting at the sickly sweet scent that
drifts out.


This must be the laudanum Bell was selling.
I can see why it’s so popular. Simply sniffing the stuff has
filled my mind with bright lights.
There’s a jug of cold water beside a small sink in the corner
and, stripping naked, I wash off last night’s sweat and grime,
digging out the person beneath. What’s left of the water I tip to
my mouth, drinking until my belly sloshes. Unfortunately, my
attempts to drown the hangover only dilute it, aches seeping
into every bone and muscle.
It’s a foul morning, so I dress in the thickest clothes I can
find: hunting tweeds and a heavy black coat that trails along
the floor as I leave the bedroom.
Despite the early hour, a drunken couple is squabbling at the
top of the stairs. They’re in last night’s evening wear, drinks
still clutched in their hands, accusations passed back and forth
in escalating voices, and I give their flailing arms a wide berth
as I walk by. Their bickering chases me into the entrance hall,
which has been upended by the previous evening’s escapades.
Bow ties are dangling from the chandelier, leaves and shards
of a smashed decanter littering the marble floor. Two maids
are cleaning it up, leaving me to wonder what it must have
looked like before they started.
I try asking them where Charlie Carver’s cottage is located,
but they’re mute as sheep, lowering their eyes and shaking
their heads in response to my questions.
Their silence is maddening.
If Lucy Harper’s gossip isn’t too far from the mark,
Evelyn’s going to be somewhere near the cottage with her
lady’s maid when she’s attacked. If I can discover who’s
threatening her, perhaps I can save her life and escape this
house all at the same time – though I have no clue as to how
I’m going to help free Anna as well. She’s put aside her own
schemes to aid me, believing I have some plan that will free us
both. For the moment, I can’t see how that’s anything other
than a hollow promise, and judging by her worried frown
when we talked in the gatehouse, she’s beginning to suspect as
much.


My only hope is that my future hosts are a great deal
cleverer than my previous ones.
Further questioning of the maids drives them deeper into
their silence, forcing me to look around for help. The rooms
either side of the entrance hall are deathly quiet, the house still
knee-deep in last night, and, seeing no other option, I pick my
way through the broken glass and head below stairs towards
the kitchen.
The passage to the kitchen is grimier than I remember, the
clatter of dishes and smell of roasting meat making me sick.
Servants eye me as they pass, turning their heads away
whenever I open my mouth to ask a question. It’s clear they
think I shouldn’t be here and just as clear they don’t know how
to get rid of me. This is their place, a river of unguarded
conversations and giggling gossip flowing beneath the house. I
sully it with my presence.
Agitation rubs me up and down, blood thumping in my ears.
I feel tired and raw, the air made of sandpaper.
‘Can I help you?’ says a voice behind me.
The words are rolled up and flung at my back.
I turn to find the cook, Mrs Drudge, staring up at me, ample
hands on ample hips. Through these eyes she looks like
something a child might make out of clay, a small head on a
misshapen body, her features pressed into her face by clumsy
thumbs. She’s stern, no trace of the woman who’s going to
give the butler a warm scone in a couple of hours’ time.
‘I’m looking for Evelyn Hardcastle,’ I say, meeting her
fierce gaze. ‘She went for a walk in the forest with Madeline
Aubert, her lady’s maid.’
‘And what’s that to you?’
Her tone is so abrupt I almost recoil. Clenching my hands, I
try to keep hold of my rising temper. The servants crane their
necks as they scurry by, desperate for theatre, but terrified of
the star.
‘Somebody means her harm,’ I say through gritted teeth. ‘If
you’ll point me towards Charlie Carver’s old cottage, I’ll be


able to warn her.’
‘Is that what you were doing with Madeline last night?
Warning her? Is that how her blouse got torn, is that why she
was crying?’
A vein pulses in her forehead, indignation bubbling beneath
every word. She takes a step forwards, jabbing a finger into
my chest as she speaks.
‘I know what—’ she says.
White-hot anger explodes out of me. Without thinking, I
slap her across the face and shove her backwards, advancing
on her with the devil’s own wrath.
‘Tell me where she’s gone!’ I scream, spittle flying out of
my mouth.
Squeezing her bloody lips together, Mrs Drudge glowers at
me.
My hands ball into fists.
Walk away.
Walk away now.
Summoning my will, I turn my back on Mrs Drudge,
stalking up the suddenly silent passage. Servants leap aside as
I pass, but my rage can’t make sense of anything but itself.
Turning a corner, I slump against a wall and let out a long
breath. My hands are trembling, the fog in my mind clearing.
For those few terrifying seconds, Derby was utterly beyond
my control. That was his poison spilling out of my mouth, his
bile coursing through my veins. I can feel it still. Oil on my
skin, needles in my bones, a yearning to do something
dreadful. Whatever happens today, I need to keep tight hold of
my temper or this creature is going to slip loose again and
goodness knows what he’ll do.
And that’s the truly scary part.
My hosts can fight back.


23
Mud sucks at my boots as I hurry into the gloom of the trees,
desperation tugging me along by a leash. After my failure to
glean any information in the kitchen, I’m striking out into the
forest in hopes of stumbling upon Evelyn along one of the
marked trails. I’m counting on endeavour succeeding where
calculation has failed. Even if it doesn’t, I need to put some
distance between Derby and the temptations of Blackheath.
I’ve not gone far when the red flags bring me to a stream,
water surging around a large rock. A smashed wine bottle is
half-encased in sludge, beside a thick black overcoat, Bell’s
silver compass having fallen out of the pocket. Plucking it
from the mud, I turn it over in my palm just as I did that first
morning, my fingers tracing the initials SB engraved on the
underside of the lid. Sebastian Bell’s initials. What a fool I felt
when Daniel pointed that out to me. Half a dozen cigarette
butts lie discarded on the ground, suggesting Bell stood here
for a little while, probably waiting for somebody. This must
have been where he came after receiving the note at the dinner
table, though what could have driven him into the rain and
cold at such an hour I cannot fathom. Searching his discarded
coat offers no clues, his pockets turning up nothing but a
lonely silver key, probably to his trunk.
Wary of losing more time to my former host, I drop the key
and compass into my pocket and set out in search of the next
red flag, keeping my eyes open for any hint of the footman at
my heels. This would be the perfect place for him to strike.
God only knows how long I walk before I finally stumble
upon the ruins of what must be Charlie Carver’s old cottage.
Fire has hollowed it out, consuming most of the roof, leaving
only the four blackened walls. Debris crunches underfoot as I
step inside, startling some rabbits who flee into the woods,
their fur stained with wet ash. The skeletal remnants of an old
bed are slumped in the corner, a solitary table leg on the floor,
the detritus of a life interrupted. Evelyn told me the cottage
burst into flames the day the police hanged Carver.


More likely Lord and Lady Hardcastle threw their memories
onto the pyre and lit it themselves.
Who could blame them? Carver stole their son’s life by a
lake. It seems only fitting they should rid themselves of him
with fire.
A rotten fence marks out the garden around the back of the
cottage, most of the slats having collapsed after years of
neglect. Great piles of purple and yellow flowers run wild in
every direction, red berries dangling from stems winding up
the fence posts.
A maid emerges from the trees as I kneel to tie my shoelace.
Such terror I hope never to see again.
Colour drains from her face, her basket dropping on the
floor, spilling mushrooms in every direction.
‘Are you Madeline?’ I begin, but she’s already backing
away, looking around for help. ‘I’m not here to hurt you, I’m
trying to—’
She’s gone before I can utter another word, bolting into the
forest. Snared by weeds I stagger after her, half falling over
the fence.
Picking myself up, I catch sight of her through the trees,
glimpses of a black dress moving far more quickly than I
would have reckoned. I call out, but if anything my voice is
the whip at her back, driving her forward. Even so, I’m faster
and stronger and though I don’t wish to frighten the girl, I
cannot lose sight of her for fear of what will happen to Evelyn.
‘Anna!’ Bell calls out from somewhere nearby.
‘Help me!’ Madeline screams back, panicked and sobbing.
She’s so close now. I reach out, hoping to tug her back, but
my fingers can only brush the material of her dress, and off-
balance I lose ground.
She ducks to avoid a branch, stumbling ever so slightly. I
catch hold of her dress, causing her to scream again, before a
shot whistles by my face, cracking into a tree behind me.


Surprise loosens my grip on Madeline, who stumbles
towards Evelyn as she emerges from the forest. The black
revolver she will take to the graveyard is in her hands, but it’s
not nearly as terrifying as the fury on her face. One wrong step
and she’ll shoot me dead, I’m certain of it.
‘It’s not what… I can explain,’ I pant, hands on my knees.
‘Men like you always can,’ says Evelyn, sweeping the
terrified girl behind her with one arm.
Madeline’s sobbing, her entire body shaking violently. God
help me, but Derby enjoys this. He’s aroused by the fear. He’s
done this before.
‘All this… please… it’s a misunderstanding,’ I gasp, taking
an imploring step forwards.
‘Stay back, Jonathan,’ says Evelyn fiercely, gripping the
revolver with both hands. ‘Stay away from this girl, stay away
from all of them.’
‘I didn’t mean to—’
‘Your mother’s a friend of the family, that’s the only reason
I’m letting you walk away,’ interrupts Evelyn. ‘But if I see you
near another woman, if I even hear about it, I swear I’ll put a
bullet in you.’
Taking care to keep the gun trained on me, she removes her
coat and wraps it around Madeline’s heaving shoulders.
‘You’re going to stay by my side today,’ she whispers to the
terrified maid. ‘I’ll see no harm comes to you.’
They stumble off through the trees, leaving me alone in the
forest. Tipping my head to the sky, I suck in cold air, hoping
the rain on my face will cool my frustration. I came here to
prevent somebody attacking Evelyn, believing I’d unearth a
murderer in the process. Instead, I caused the very thing I was
trying to stop. I’m chasing my own tail, terrifying an innocent
woman in the process. Maybe Daniel was right, maybe the
future isn’t a promise we can break.
‘You’re dawdling again,’ says the Plague Doctor from
behind me.


He’s standing on the far side of the clearing, little more than
a shadow. As always, he seems to have picked the perfect
position. Far enough away that I can’t possibly reach him, but
close enough that we can talk with relative ease.
‘I thought I was helping,’ I say bitterly, still stung by what
happened.
‘You still can,’ he says. ‘Sebastian Bell is lost in the woods.’
Of course. I’m not here for Evelyn, I’m here for Bell. I’m
here to make sure the loop begins again. Fate’s leading me
around by the nose.
Removing the compass from my pocket, I hold it in the
palm of my hand, remembering the uncertainty I felt as I
followed its quivering needle that first morning. Without this,
Bell will almost certainly remain lost.
I toss it into the mud at the Plague Doctor’s feet.
‘This is how I change things,’ I say, walking away. ‘Fetch
him yourself.’
‘You misunderstand my purpose here,’ he says, the
sharpness of his tone bringing me up short. ‘If you leave
Sebastian Bell to wander that forest alone, he’ll never meet
Evelyn Hardcastle, he’ll never form the friendship you prize
so highly. Abandon him and you won’t care about saving her.’
‘Are you saying I’ll forget her?’ I ask, alarmed.
‘I’m saying you should be careful which knots you unpick,’
he says. ‘If you abandon Bell, you’ll also be abandoning
Evelyn. It will be cruelty without purpose, and nothing I’ve
seen of you so far suggests you’re a cruel man.’
Perhaps I imagine it, but for the first time there’s a touch of
warmth in his tone. It’s enough to unbalance me, and I turn to
face him once more.
‘I need to see this day changed,’ I say, hearing the
desperation in my voice. ‘I need to see that it can be done.’
‘Your frustration is understandable, but what use is
rearranging the furniture if you burn the house down doing it?’


Bending over, he retrieves the compass from the ground,
wiping the mud from its surface with his fingers. The way he
groans, and the heaviness of his limbs as he rises, suggests an
older man beneath the costume. Satisfied with his work, he
tosses the compass to me, the damn thing nearly slipping from
my hands, so wet is its surface.
‘Take this, and solve Evelyn’s murder.’
‘She committed suicide, I watched her with my own eyes.’
‘If you think it’s that simple, you’re much further behind
than I thought.’
‘And you’re much crueller than I thought,’ I growl. ‘If you
know what’s happening here, why not stop it? Why play these
games? Hang the murderer before he harms her.’
‘An interesting idea, except I don’t know who the murderer
is.’
‘How is that possible?’ I say, incredulously. ‘You know
every step I’m going to take before I think to take it. How
could you be blind to the most important fact in this house?’
‘Because it’s not my place to know. I watch you, and you
watch Evelyn Hardcastle. We both have our roles to play.’
‘Then I could blame anybody for the crime,’ I cry, throwing
my hands in the air. ‘Helena Hardcastle did it. There, you see!
Free me!’
‘You forget that I need proof. Not merely your good word.’
‘And what if I save her, what then?’
‘I don’t think it’s possible, and I think you’ll hamper your
investigation trying, but my offer stands regardless. Evelyn
was murdered last night and every night prior. Even if you
could save her tonight, it doesn’t change that. Bring me the
name of the person who kills, or is planning to kill, Evelyn
Hardcastle, and I’ll free you.’
For the second time since arriving in Blackheath, I find
myself holding a compass and contemplating the instructions
of somebody I can’t trust. To do as the Plague Doctor asks is
to give myself to a day determined to kill Evelyn, but there


seems no way to change things without making them worse.
Assuming he’s telling the truth, I either save my first host, or I
abandon Evelyn.
‘You doubt my intentions?’ he says, prickling at my
hesitation.
‘Of course I doubt your intentions,’ I say. ‘You wear a mask
and you talk in riddles, and I don’t for a minute believe you
brought me here just to solve a mystery. You’re hiding
something.’
‘And you think stripping me of my disguise will reveal it?’
he scoffs. ‘A face is a mask of another sort, you know that
better than most; though you’re right, I am hiding something.
If it makes you feel better, I’m not hiding it from you. Should
you somehow succeed and tear this mask free, I’d simply be
replaced, and your task would remain. I’ll let you decide if
that’s worth the trouble. As for your presence in Blackheath,
perhaps it would assuage your doubts to know the name of the
man who brought you here.’
‘And what’s that?’
‘Aiden Bishop,’ he says. ‘Unlike your rivals, you came to
Blackheath voluntarily. Everything that’s happening today,
you brought upon yourself.’
His voice suggests regret, but the expressionless white mask
makes the statement sinister, a parody of sadness.
‘That can’t be true,’ I say stubbornly. ‘Why would I come
here of my own free will? Why would anybody do this to
himself?’
‘Your life before Blackheath is none of my concern, Mr
Bishop. Solve the murder of Evelyn Hardcastle and you’ll
have all the answers you require,’ he says. ‘In the meantime,
Bell needs your help.’ He points behind me. ‘He’s that way.’
Without another word he withdraws into the forest, the
dimness swallowing him completely. My mind is clogged up
by a hundred small questions, but none of them is going to do
me any good in this forest, so I push them to one side and go
in search of Bell, finding him bent double and trembling with


exertion. He freezes as I approach, catching the sound of twigs
cracking beneath my feet.
His timidity revolts me.
Mistaken as she was, at least Madeline had the good sense
to flee.
I circle around behind my former self, keeping my face
from view. I could try to explain what’s happening here, but
frightened rabbits make poor allies, especially those already
convinced you’re a murderer.
All I need from Bell is his survival.
Two more steps and I’m behind him, leaning close enough
to whisper into his ear. Sweat pours off his body, the smell like
a filthy rag pushed to my face. It’s all I can do to speak
without gagging.
‘East,’ I say, dropping the compass into his pocket.
Backing away, I head into the trees, towards Carver’s burnt-
out cottage. Bell’s going to be lost for another hour or so,
giving me plenty of time to follow the flags back to the house
without stumbling into him.
Despite my best efforts, everything’s happening exactly as I
remember it.


24
The looming shape of Blackheath appears through the gaps in
the trees. I’ve come out around the back of the house, which is
in an even worse state of repair than the front. Several
windows are cracked, the brickwork crumbling. A stone
balustrade has tumbled from the roof to lodge itself in the
grass, thick moss covering it. Clearly, the Hardcastles only
repaired the sections of the house their guests would see –
little wonder considering the paucity of their finances.
Just as I lingered on the edge of the forest that first morning,
I now find myself crossing the garden with similar foreboding.
If I came here voluntarily, I must have had a reason, but no
matter how hard I strain for the memory, it’s beyond reach.
I’d like to believe I’m a good man who came to help, but if
that’s the case I’m making a damn mess of things. Tonight, as
every night, Evelyn’s going to kill herself and if this morning’s
actions are any guide, my attempts to paddle away from the
disaster may only hurry us towards it. For all I know, my
fumbling attempts to save Evelyn are actually the reason she
ends up at that reflecting pool with a silver pistol in her hand.
I’m so lost in these thoughts I don’t notice Millicent until
I’m almost on top of her. The old lady is shivering on an iron
bench that looks out across the garden, her arms folded against
the wind. Three shapeless coats encase her completely, her
eyes peering out over a scarf pulled up above her mouth. She’s
blue with cold, a hat pulled down over her ears. Hearing my
steps, she turns to meet me, surprise showing on her wrinkled
face.
‘By Jove, you look dreadful,’ she says, pulling the scarf
down from her mouth.
‘Good morning to you too, Millicent,’ I say, taken aback by
the sudden surge of warmth her presence stokes within me.
‘Millicent?’ she says, pursing her lips. ‘That’s rather
modern of you, dear. I prefer ‘‘Mother’’ if it’s all the same to
you. I wouldn’t want people thinking I picked you up off the


street. Though sometimes I wonder if I mightn’t have been
better off.’
My mouth hangs open. I hadn’t previously made the
connection between Jonathan Derby and Millicent Derby,
probably because it’s easier to imagine him being delivered
onto this earth by a biblical plague.
‘Sorry, Mother,’ I say, stuffing my hands into my pockets
and sitting down beside her.
She cocks an eyebrow at me, those clever grey eyes alight
with amusement.
‘An apology and an appearance before midday, are you
feeling quite all right?’ she asks.
‘It must be the country air,’ I say. ‘What about you, why are
you out on this dreadful morning?’
She grunts, hugging herself even tighter. ‘I’m supposed to
be meeting Helena for a stroll, but I’ve seen neither hide nor
hair of the woman. No doubt she’s got her times wrong as
usual. I know she’s meeting Cecil Ravenscourt this afternoon,
she’s probably gone there instead.’
‘Ravenscourt’s still asleep.’ I say.
Millicent peers at me inquisitively.
‘Cunningham told me, Ravencourt’s valet,’ I lie.
‘You know him?’
‘Vaguely.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t get too friendly,’ she tuts. ‘I understand
how much you enjoy dubious society, but from what Cecil’s
told me, this one’s most unsuitable, even by your low
standards.’
That piques my interest. I’m fond of the valet, but he only
agreed to help me after I threatened to blackmail him with a
secret he’s keeping. Until I know what he’s hiding, I can’t
depend on him, and Millicent might be the key to unearthing
it.
‘How so?’ I ask casually.


‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she says, waving an airy hand at me.
‘You know Cecil, secrets tucked between every fold of skin. If
you believe the rumours, he only hired Cunningham because
Helena asked him to. Now, he’s uncovered something
unsavoury about the boy and is thinking of letting him go.’
‘Unsavoury?’ I say.
‘Well, that’s what Cecil said, not that I could get the rest out
of him. Blasted fellow has a bear trap for a mouth, but you
know how he hates scandal. Given Cunningham’s parentage, it
must be desperately salacious if he’s worried. Wish I knew
what it was.’
‘Cunningham’s parentage?’ I ask. ‘I think I’ve missed a
step.’
‘The boy was raised at Blackheath,’ she says. ‘Cook’s son,
or that’s the story at least.’
‘It’s not true?’
The old lady cackles, looking at me slyly.
‘Word has it the Honourable Lord Peter Hardcastle used to
enjoy himself in London from time to time. Well, on one
occasion his enjoyment followed him back to Blackheath with
a baby in her arms, which she claimed was his. Peter was
ready to send the child to the church, but Helena stepped in
and demanded they keep it.’
‘Why would she do that?’
‘Knowing Helena, she probably meant it as an insult,’ sniffs
Millicent, turning her face away from the bitter wind. ‘She
was never very fond of her husband and inviting his shame
into the house would have tickled her. Poor Peter has probably
cried himself to sleep every night for the last thirty-three years.
Either way, they gave the baby to Mrs Drudge, the cook, to
raise, and Helena made sure everybody knew whose child he
was.’
‘Does Cunningham know any of this?’
‘Can’t see how he wouldn’t, it’s one of those secrets people
shout at each other,’ says the old lady, plucking a handkerchief


from her sleeve to wipe her running nose. ‘Anyway, you can
ask him yourself seeing as you’re so chummy. Shall we walk?
I see little point in us freezing on this bench waiting for a
woman who isn’t coming.’
She stands before I have a chance to respond, stamping her
boots and blowing warm air into her gloved hands. It really is
a dreadful day, the grey sky spitting rain, lathering itself into
the fury of a storm.
‘Why are you even out here?’ I ask, our feet crunching
along the gravel path that circles the house. ‘Couldn’t you
have met Lady Hardcastle inside?’
‘Too many people I’d rather not bump into,’ she says.
Why was she in the kitchen this morning?
‘Speaking of bumping into people, I hear you were in the
kitchen this morning,’ I say.
‘Who told you that?’ she bridles.
‘Well—’
‘I haven’t been anywhere near the kitchen,’ she continues,
not waiting for a response. ‘Filthy places. The smell doesn’t
come out for weeks.’
She seems genuinely irritated by the suggestion, which
means she probably hasn’t done it yet. A moment later she
nudges me good-naturedly, her voice suddenly gleeful. ‘Did
you hear about Donald Davies? Apparently he took an
automobile last night and ran off back to London. The
stablemaster saw him, said he turned up in the pouring rain,
dressed in every colour under the sun.’
That brings me pause. Surely, I should have returned to
Donald Davies by now, as I have done with the butler. He was
my third host, and Anna told me I’m obliged to live one full
day in each of them, whether I want to or not. It can’t have
been much past mid-morning when I left him asleep on the
road, so why haven’t I seen him again?
You left him defenceless and alone.


I felt a ripple of guilt. For all I know, the footman has
already found him.
‘Were you listening to me?’ says Millicent, annoyed. ‘I said
Donald Davies took off in an automobile. They’re cracked that
family, every one of them, and that’s an official medical
opinion.’
‘You’ve been talking to Dickie,’ I say absently, still thinking
about Davies.
‘Been talked at more like,’ she scoffs. ‘Thirty minutes I
spent trying to keep my eyes off that moustache. I’m surprised
sound can penetrate it.’
That makes me laugh.
‘Do you actually like anybody at Blackheath, Mother?’
‘Not that I recall, but it’s envy I suspect. Society’s a dance,
darling, and I’m too old to take part. Speaking of dancing, here
comes the organ grinder himself.’
I follow her gaze to see Daniel approaching us from the
opposite direction. Despite the cold, he’s dressed in a cricket
sweater and linen trousers, the same outfit he’ll be wearing
when he encounters Bell in the entrance hall for the first time.
I check my watch, that meeting can’t be far off.
‘Mr Coleridge,’ calls out Millicent with forced bonhomie.
‘Mrs Derby,’ he says, drawing alongside us. ‘Broken any
hearts this morning?’
‘They don’t even quiver these days, Mr Coleridge, more’s
the pity.’ There’s something cautious in her tone, as if she’s
crossing a bridge she feels certain will break. ‘What
disreputable business brings you out on such a terrible
morning?’
‘I’ve a favour to ask your son, and I assure you, it’s entirely
above board.’
‘Well, that’s disappointing.’
‘For you and me both.’ He looks at me for the first time. ‘A
minute, Derby?’


We step aside, Millicent doing her best to appear
uninterested, while shooting us speculative glances from
above her scarf.
‘What’s wrong?’ I ask.
‘I’m going after the footman,’ he says, that handsome face
of his caught somewhere between fear and excitement.
‘How?’ I say, immediately taken with the idea.
‘We know he’s going to be in the dining hall tormenting
Ravencourt around one,’ he says. ‘I propose catching hold of
the dog there.’
Recalling those ghostly steps and that evil laughter is
enough to raise goose bumps on my neck, and the thought of
finally laying hands on the devil sets fire to my veins. The
ferocity of the feeling isn’t far off what Derby felt in the
forest, when we were chasing the maid, and it immediately
puts me on my guard. I can’t give this host an inch.
‘What’s your scheme?’ I say, tempering my enthusiasm. ‘I
was in that room alone, I couldn’t even guess at where he was
hiding.’
‘Nor could I, until I got talking to an old friend of the
Hardcastles at dinner last night,’ he says, drawing me a little
further away from Millicent, who’s managed to sidle near the
edge of our conversation. ‘Turns out there’s a warren of priest
tunnels beneath the floorboards. That’s where the footman was
hiding, and that’s where we’ll put an end to him.’
‘How?’
‘My new friend tells me there are entrances in the library,
drawing room and gallery. I suggest we each watch an
entrance and grab him when he comes out.’
‘Sounds ideal,’ I say, struggling to contain Derby’s rising
excitement. ‘I’ll take the library, you take the drawing room.
Who’s in the gallery?’
‘Ask Anna,’ he says, ‘but none of us is strong enough to
tackle the footman alone. Why don’t you two guard the library,


and I’ll round up some of our other hosts to help me with the
drawing room and gallery?’
‘Magnificent,’ I say, beaming.
If I didn’t have a hand on Derby’s lead, he’d already be
running towards the tunnels with a lantern and a kitchen knife.
‘Good,’ he says, lavishing a smile of such affection upon
me it’s impossible to imagine how we could ever fail. ‘Take
your position a few minutes before one. With any luck, this
will all be over by dinner.’
He turns to depart, but I catch his arm.
‘Did you tell Anna you’d find a way for both of us to escape
if she helped us?’ I ask.
He gazes at me steadily, and I quickly withdraw my hand.
‘Yes,’ he says.
‘It’s a lie, isn’t it?’ I say. ‘Only one of us can escape
Blackheath.’
‘Let’s call it a potential lie, shall we? I’ve not given up hope
of fulfilling our end of the bargain.’
‘You’re my last host, how much hope do you have?’
‘Not a great deal,’ he says, his expression softening. ‘I know
you’re fond of her. Believe me, I haven’t forgotten how that
felt, but we need her on our side. We won’t escape this house
if we have to spend the day looking over our shoulder for both
the footman and Anna.’
‘I have to tell her the truth,’ I say, aghast at his callous
disregard of my friend.
He stiffens.
‘Do that and you make an enemy of her,’ he hisses, looking
around to make sure we’re not being overheard. ‘At which
point, any hope of genuinely helping her goes up in smoke.’
Puffing out his cheeks, he ruffles his hair and smiles at me,
agitation leaking out of him like air from a punctured balloon.


‘Do what you think is right,’ he says. ‘But at least wait until
we’ve caught the footman.’ He checks his watch. ‘Three more
hours, that’s all I’m asking.’
Our eyes meet, mine doubtful and his appealing. I can’t help
but submit.
‘Very well,’ I say.
‘You won’t regret it,’ he says.
Squeezing my shoulder, he waves cheerily at Millicent,
before striding back towards Blackheath, a man possessed by
purpose.
I turn to find Millicent contemplating me through pursed
lips.
‘You have some rotten friends,’ she says.
‘I’m a rotten sort of chap,’ I respond, holding her gaze, until
finally she shakes her head and carries on walking, slowing
enough for me to fall in step beside her. We come upon a long
greenhouse. Most of the windowpanes are cracked, the plants
inside so overgrown they’re bulging against the glass.
Millicent peers inside, but the foliage is much too dense. She
gestures for me to follow, and we head to the far end, finding
the doors locked with a new chain and padlock.
‘Pity,’ she says, rattling it futilely. ‘I used to love coming
here when I was younger.’
‘You’ve visited Blackheath before?’
‘I summered here when I was girl, we all did: Cecil
Ravencourt, the Curtis twins, Peter Hardcastle and Helena –
that’s how they met. When I married, I brought your brother
and sister down. They practically grew up with Evelyn,
Michael and Thomas.’
She links my arm, continuing our walk.
‘Oh, I used to love those summers,’ she says. ‘Helena was
always frightfully jealous of your sister, because Evelyn was
so plain. Michael wasn’t much better mind, with that squashed
face of his. Thomas was the only one with a dash of beauty
and he ended up in that lake, which strikes me as fate kicking


the poor woman twice, but there it is. Wasn’t a one of them
could measure up to you, my handsome lad,’ she says, cupping
my cheek.
‘Evelyn turned out all right,’ I protest. ‘She’s quite striking
actually.’
‘Really?’ says Millicent disbelievingly. ‘Must have
blossomed in Paris, not that I’d know. The girl’s been avoiding
me all morning. Like mother, like daughter, I suppose.
Explains why Cecil’s circling, though. Vainest man I’ve ever
met, which is saying something after fifty years of living with
your father.’
‘The Hardcastles hate her, you know. Evelyn, I mean.’
‘Who’s filled your head with that rot?’ says Millicent,
gripping my arm while she shakes her foot, trying to dislodge
some mud from her boot. ‘Michael adores her. He’s over in
Paris almost every month, and from what I understand they’ve
been thick as thieves since she got back. And Peter doesn’t
hate her, he’s indifferent. It’s only Helena, and she’s never
been quite right since Thomas died. Still comes up here, you
know. Every year on the anniversary of his death, she takes a
walk around the lake, even talks to him sometimes. Heard her
myself.’
The path has brought us to the reflecting pool. This is where
Evelyn will take her life tonight, and as with everything at
Blackheath, its beauty is dependent on distance. Viewed from
the ballroom the reflecting pool’s a magnificent sight, a long
mirror conveying all the drama of the house. Here and now
though, it’s just a filthy pond, the stone cracked, moss growing
thick as carpet on the surface.
Why take her life here? Why not in her bedroom, or the
entrance hall?
‘Are you okay, dear?’ asks Millicent. ‘You look a little
pale.’
‘I was thinking it’s a shame they’ve let the place go,’ I say,
hoisting a smile onto my face.


‘Oh, I know, but what could they do?’ she says, adjusting
her scarf. ‘After the murder they couldn’t live here, and
nobody wants these big piles any more, especially not when
they have Blackheath’s history. Should have left it to the
forest, if you ask me.’
It’s a maudlin thought, but nothing lingers in Jonathan
Derby’s mind for too long and I’m soon distracted by the
preparations for tonight’s party, which I can see through the
ballroom windows beside us. Servants and workmen are
scrubbing the floors and painting the walls, while maids
balance on teetering stepladders with long feather dusters. At
the far end of the hall, bored-looking musicians are scraping
semiquavers off the surface of their polished instruments as
Evelyn Hardcastle points and gesticulates, arranging things
from the centre of the room. She’s flitting from group to
group, touching arms and spreading kindness, making me ache
for that afternoon we spent together.
I search for Madeline Aubert, finding her laughing with
Lucy Harper – the maid abused by Stanwin and befriended by
Ravencourt – the two of them arranging a chaise longue by the
stage. That these two mistreated women have found each other
brings me a small measure of comfort, though it by no means
alleviates my guilt over this morning’s events.
‘I told you last time I wouldn’t clean up another of your
indiscretions,’ says Millicent sharply, her entire body stiff.
She’s watching me watching the maids. Loathing and love
swirl within her eyes, the shape of Derby’s secrets visible in
the fog. What I’d only vaguely understood before, now stands
in stark relief. Derby’s a rapist, more than once over. They’re
all there, held in Millicent’s gaze, every woman he’s attacked,
every life he’s destroyed. She carries them all. Whatever
darkness lurks inside Jonathan Derby, Millicent tucked it in at
night.
‘It’s always the weak ones with you, isn’t it?’ she says.
‘Always the—’
She falls silent, her mouth hanging open as though the next
words simply evaporated on her lips.


‘I have to go,’ she says suddenly, squeezing my hand. ‘I’ve
had a very strange thought. I’ll see you at dinner, darling.’
Without another word Millicent turns back the way we
came, disappearing around the corner of the house. Perplexed,
I look back into the ballroom, trying to see what she saw, but
everybody’s moved around except for the band. That’s when I
notice the chess piece on the window ledge. If I’m not
mistaken, it’s the same hand-carved piece I found in Bell’s
trunk, speckled with white paint and looking at me through
clumsily whittled eyes. There’s a message etched into the dirt
on the glass above it.
Behind you.
Sure enough Anna’s waving at me from the edge of the
forest, her tiny body shrouded by a grey coat. Pocketing the
chess piece, I glance left and right to make sure we’re alone,
and then follow her deeper into the trees, beyond Blackheath’s
sight. She looks to have been waiting for some time and is
dancing from foot to foot to keep warm. Judging by her blue
cheeks, it’s not doing the blindest bit of good. Little wonder
given her attire. She’s draped in shades of grey, her coat
threadbare, her knitted hat thin as gossamer. These are clothes
passed down and down and down, patched so many times the
original material is long gone.
‘Don’t suppose you’ve got an apple or something,’ she says
without preamble. ‘I’m bloody starving.’
‘I’ve got a hip flask,’ I say, holding it out to her.
‘Have to do I suppose,’ she says, taking it from me and
unscrewing the cap.
‘I thought it was too dangerous for us to meet outside of the
gatehouse.’
‘Who told you that?’ she asks, wincing as she tastes the
flask’s contents.
‘You did,’ I say.
‘Will.’
‘What?’


‘I will tell you it isn’t safe for us to meet, but I haven’t yet,’
she says. ‘I couldn’t have, I’ve only been awake a few hours,
and I’ve spent most of that time keeping the footman from
making pincushions out of your future hosts. Missed breakfast
doing it, too.’
I blink at her, struggling to stitch together a day being
delivered in the wrong order. Not for the first time, I find
myself wishing for the speed of Ravencourt’s mind. Working
within the confines of Jonathan Derby’s intellect is like stirring
croutons into a thick soup.
Seeing my confusion, she frowns.
‘Do you know about the footman yet? I never know where
we’re up to.’
I very quickly tell her about Bell’s dead rabbit and the
ghostly steps that dogged Ravencourt in the dining hall, her
expression darkening with each fresh detail.
‘That bastard,’ she splutters, when I’m finished. She’s
prowling back and forth, her hands clenched and shoulders
rolled forwards. ‘Wait until I get my hands on him,’ she says,
shooting the house a murderous glance.
‘You won’t have to wait long,’ I say. ‘Daniel thinks he’s
hiding in some tunnels. There’s a few entrances, but we’re
going to guard the library. He wants us in there before one.’
‘Or we could slit our own throats and save the footman the
bother of killing us,’ she says, her tone frank and unimpressed.
She’s looking at me as if I’ve lost my mind.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘The footman’s not an idiot,’ she says. ‘If we know where
he is, it’s because we’re supposed to know. He’s been one step
ahead of us since this started. Wouldn’t surprise me one bit if
he’s lying in wait, hoping to trip us up on our own cleverness.’
‘We have to do something!’ I protest.
‘We will, but what’s the point of doing something stupid
when we can do something smart,’ she says patiently. ‘Listen
to me, Aiden, I know you’re desperate, but we’ve got a deal,


you and me. I keep you alive so you can find Evelyn’s killer,
and then we both get out of here. This is me, doing my job.
Now promise me, you won’t go after the footman.’
Her argument makes sense, but it’s weightless against my
fear. If there’s a chance to put an end to this madman before he
finds me, I’m going to take it, no matter the risk. I’d rather die
on my feet than cowering in a corner.
‘I promise,’ I say, adding another lie to the pile.
Thankfully, Anna’s too cold to notice the catch in my voice.
Despite having drunk from the hip flask, she’s shivering so
hard all the colour has abandoned her face. In an attempt to
shelter from the wind, she presses against me. I can smell the
soap on her skin, forcing me to avert my gaze. I don’t want her
to see Derby’s lust squirming within me.
Sensing my discomfort, she tilts her head to meet my
downcast face.
‘Your other hosts are better, I promise,’ she says. ‘You have
to keep hold of yourself. Don’t give in to him.’
‘How do I do that when I don’t know where they start and I
begin?’
‘If you weren’t here, Derby would have his hands all over
me,’ she says. ‘That’s how you know who you are. You don’t
just remember it, you do it, and you keep doing it.’
Even so, she takes a step back into the wind, freeing me
from my discomfort.
‘You shouldn’t be out in this weather,’ I say, removing my
scarf and wrapping it around her neck. ‘You’ll catch your
death.’
‘And if you keep this up, people might begin mistaking
Jonathan Derby for a human being,’ she says, tucking the
loose ends of the scarf into her coat.
‘Tell Evelyn Hardcastle that,’ I say. ‘She nearly shot me this
morning.’
‘You should have shot her back,’ says Anna matter-of-
factly. ‘We could have solved her murder then and there.’


‘I can’t tell if you’re joking or not,’ I say.
‘Of course I am,’ she says, blowing into her chapped hands.
‘If it were that simple, we’d have been out of here ages ago.
Mind you, I’m not sure trying to save her life is a much better
plan.’
‘You think I should let her die?’
‘I think we’re spending a lot of time not doing the thing
we’ve been asked to do.’
‘We can’t protect Evelyn without knowing who wants her
dead,’ I say. ‘One thing will give us the other.’
‘I hope you’re right,’ she says dubiously.
I search for some encouraging platitude, but her doubts have
crawled under my skin, and they’re beginning to itch. I told
her that saving Evelyn’s life would deliver us the murderer,
but that was an evasion. There’s no plan here. I don’t even
know if I can save Evelyn any more. I’m working at the behest
of blind sentiment, and losing ground to the footman as I’m
doing it. Anna deserves better, but I have no idea how to give
it to her without abandoning Evelyn – and for some reason the
thought of doing that is unbearable to me.
There’s a commotion on the path, voices carried through the
trees by the wind. Taking my arm, Anna pulls me further into
the forest.
‘As fun as this has been, I came to ask for a favour.’
‘Always, what can I do?’
‘What’s the time?’ she says, pulling the artist’s sketchbook
from her pocket. It’s the same one I saw her holding in the
gatehouse, crumpled sheets and a cover riddled with holes.
She’s holding it up so I can’t see inside, but, judging by the
way she’s flicking through the pages, it says something
important.
I check my watch. ‘It’s 10:08 a.m.,’ I say, itching with
curiosity. ‘What’s in the book?’
‘Notes, information; everything I’ve managed to learn about
your eight hosts and what they’re doing,’ she says absently,


running her finger down one of the pages. ‘And don’t ask to
see it because you can’t. We can’t risk you pulling the day
down around our ears with what you know.’
‘I wasn’t going to,’ I protest, hastily averting my eyes.
‘Right, 10:08 a.m. Perfect. In a minute, I’m going to put a
rock on the grass. I need you standing by it when Evelyn kills
herself. You can’t move, Aiden, not an inch, understand?’
‘What’s the meaning of all this, Anna?’
‘Call it Plan B.’ She pecks me on the cheek, cold lips
meeting numb flesh, as she slides the book back in her pocket.
She’s only taken a step when she clicks her fingers and turns
back to me, holding out two white tablets in her palm.
‘Take these for later,’ she says. ‘I filched them from Doctor
Dickie’s bag when he came to see the butler.’
‘What are they?’
‘Headache pills, I’ll trade them for my chess piece.’
‘This ugly old thing?’ I say, handing her the hand-carved
bishop. ‘Why would you want it?’
She smiles at me, watching as I wrap the tablets in a blue
pocket handkerchief.
‘Because you gave it to me,’ she says, clutching it
protectively in her hand. ‘It was the first promise you made
me. This ugly old thing is the reason I stopped being scared of
this place. It’s the reason I stopped being scared of you.’
‘Me? Why would you be afraid of me?’ I say, genuinely
hurt by the idea of anything coming between us.
‘Oh, Aiden,’ she says, shaking her head. ‘If we do this right,
everybody in this house is going to be afraid of you.’
She’s carried away on those words, blown through the trees
and out onto the grass surrounding the reflecting pool. Perhaps
it’s her youth, or her personality, or some curious alchemy of
all the miserable ingredients surrounding us, but I can’t see an
ounce of doubt within her. Whatever her plan, she seems
extraordinarily confident in it. Maybe dangerously so.


From my position in the treeline, I watch her pick up a large
white rock from the flower bed and pace out six steps before
dropping it on the grass. Holding an arm straight out from her
body, she measures a line to the ballroom’s French doors, and
then, seemingly satisfied with her work, she wipes the mud
from her hands, shoves them in her pockets and strolls away.
For some reason, this little display makes me uneasy.
I came here voluntarily, and Anna did not. The Plague
Doctor brought her to Blackheath for a reason, and I have no
idea what that could be.
Whoever Anna really is, I’m following her blindly.


25
The bedroom door’s locked, no noise coming from inside. I’d
hoped to catch Helena Hardcastle before she set about her day,
but it appears the lady of the house is not one to idle. I rattle
the handle again, pressing my ear to the wood. Aside from a
few curious glances from passing guests, my efforts are in
vain. She’s not here.
I’m walking away, when the thought hits me: the room
hasn’t been broken into yet. Ravencourt will find the door
shattered early this afternoon, so it’s going to happen in the
next few hours.
I’m curious to see who’s responsible, and why they’re so
desperate to get inside. I’d originally suspected Evelyn
because she had one of the two revolvers stolen from Helena’s
bureau, but she nearly killed me with it in the forest this
morning. If it’s already in her possession, she has no need to
break in.
Unless there’s something else she wants.
The only other thing that was obviously missing was the
appointments page in Helena’s day-planner. Millicent believed
Helena tore it out herself to conceal some suspicious deed, but
Cunningham’s fingerprints were all over the remaining pages.
He refused to explain himself, and denied being responsible
for the break-in, but if I could catch him with his shoulder to
the door, he’d have no choice but to come clean.
My mind made up, I stride into the shadows at the far end of
the corridor and begin my vigil.
Five minutes later, Derby is already impossibly bored.
I’m fidgeting, stalking back and forth. I can’t calm him.
At a loss, I follow the smell of breakfast towards the
drawing room, planning to carry a plate of food and a chair
back to the corridor. Hopefully, they’ll placate my host for half
an hour, after which time I’ll have to come up with some new
amusement.


I find the room smothered in sleepy conversation. Most of
the guests are only halfway out of their beds and they reek of
the prior evening, sweat and cigar smoke baked into their skin,
spirits curled around every breath. They’re talking quietly and
moving slowly, porcelain people riddled with cracks.
Taking a plate from the sideboard, I scoop piles of eggs and
kidneys onto a large plate, pausing to eat a sausage from the
platter and wipe the grease from my lips with my sleeve. I’m
so preoccupied, it takes a little while to realise everybody’s
gone silent.
A burly fellow is standing at the door, his gaze passing from
face to face, relief coursing through those he slips over. This
nervousness is not unwarranted. He’s a brutish-looking chap
with a ginger beard and sagging cheeks, his nose so mangled it
resembles an egg cracked in a frying pan. An old frayed suit
strains to contain his width, raindrops sparkling on shoulders
you could serve a buffet on.
His gaze lands on me like a boulder in the lap.
‘Mr Stanwin wants to see you,’ he says.
His voice is coarse, filled with jagged consonants.
‘What for?’ I ask.
‘I expect he’ll tell you.’
‘Well, offer my regrets to Mr Stanwin, but I’m afraid I’m
very busy at present.’
‘Either you walk or I carry you,’ he says in a low rumble.
Derby’s temper is bubbling nicely, but there’s no use
making a scene. I can’t beat this man; the best I can hope for is
to quickly meet Stanwin and return to my task. Besides, I’m
curious why he’d want to see me.
Placing my plate of food on the sideboard, I rise to follow
Stanwin’s thug from the room. Inviting me to walk ahead of
him, the burly fellow guides me up the staircase, telling me to
turn right at the top, into the closed-off east wing. Brushing
aside the curtain, a damp breeze touches my face, a long
corridor stretching out before me. Doors are hanging off their


hinges, revealing state rooms covered in dust and four-poster
beds collapsed in on themselves. The air scratches my throat
as I breathe it.
‘Why don’t you wait in that room over there like a good
gentleman and I’ll tell Mr Stanwin you’ve arrived,’ says my
escort, jerking his chin towards a room on my left.
Doing as he bids, I enter a nursery, the cheerful yellow
wallpaper now hanging limp from the walls. Games and
wooden toys litter the floor, a weathered rocking horse put out
to pasture by the door. There’s a game in progress on a child’s
chessboard, the white pieces decimated by the black.
No sooner have I set foot inside than I hear Evelyn
shrieking in the room beside me. For the first time Derby and I
move in concert, sprinting around the corner to find the door
blocked by the red-headed thug.
‘Mr Stanwin’s still busy, chum,’ he says, rocking back and
forth to keep warm.
‘I’m looking for Evelyn Hardcastle, I heard her scream,’ I
say breathlessly.
‘Mayhap you did, but doesn’t seem like there’s much you
can do about it, does there?’
I peer over his shoulder into the room behind, hoping to
catch sight of Evelyn. It looks to be some sort of reception
area, but it’s empty. The furniture lies under yellowed sheets,
black mould growing up from the hems. The windows are
covered in old newspaper, the walls little more than rotting
boards. There’s another door on the far wall, but it’s closed.
They must be in there.
I return my gaze to the man, who smiles at me, exposing a
row of crooked yellow teeth.
‘Anything else?’ he says.
‘I need to make sure she’s all right.’
I try to barge past him, but it’s a foolish notion. He’s three
times my weight and half again my height. More to the point,
he knows how to use his strength. Planting a flat hand on my


stomach, he shoves me backwards, barely a flicker of emotion
on his face.
‘Don’t bother,’ he says. ‘I’m paid to stand here and make
sure nice gentlemen like you don’t do themselves a misfortune
by wandering places they ain’t supposed to go.’
They’re just words, coals in the furnace. My blood’s
boiling. I try to dart around him and like a fool I think I’ve
succeeded until I’m hoisted backwards, and tossed bodily back
down the corridor.
I scramble to my feet, snarling.
He hasn’t moved. He isn’t out of breath. He doesn’t care.
‘Your parents gave you everything but sense, didn’t they?’
he says, the blandness of the sentiment hitting me like a
bucketful of cold water. ‘Mr Stanwin’s not hurting her if that’s
your concern. Wait a few minutes and you can ask her all
about it when she comes out.’
We eye each other for a moment, before I retreat along the
corridor into the nursery. He’s right, I’m not getting by him,
but I can’t wait for Evelyn to come out. She won’t tell
Jonathan Derby anything after this morning, and whatever is
happening behind that door could be the reason she takes her
life tonight.
Hurrying over to the wall, I press my ear to the boards. If I
haven’t missed my mark, Evelyn’s talking to Stanwin in the
room next door, only a few pieces of rotten wood between us.
I soon catch the hum of their voices, much too faint to make
anything out. Using my pocket knife, I tear the wallpaper from
the wall, digging the blade between the loose wooden slats to
pry them free. They’re so damp they come away without
objection, the wood disintegrating in my hands.
‘… tell her she best not play any games with me, or it’ll be
the end of both of you,’ says Stanwin, his voice poking
through the insulating wall.
‘Tell her yourself, I’m not your errand girl,’ says Evelyn
coldly.


‘You’ll be anything I damn well please, so long as I’m
footing the bill.’
‘I don’t like your tone, Mr Stanwin,’ says Evelyn.
‘And I don’t like being made a fool of, Miss Hardcastle,’ he
says, practically spitting her name. ‘You forget I worked here
for nearly fifteen years. I know every corner of this place, and
everybody in it. Don’t mistake me for one of these blinkered
bastards you’ve surrounded yourself with.’
His hatred is viscous, it has texture. I could wring it out of
the air and bottle it.
‘What about the letter?’ says Evelyn quietly, her outrage
overwhelmed.
‘I’ll keep hold of that, so you understand our arrangement.’
‘You’re a vile creature, are you aware of that?’
Stanwin swats the insult from the air with a belly laugh.
‘At least I’m an honest one,’ he says. ‘How many other
people in this house can claim the same thing? You can go
now. Don’t forget to pass along my message.’
I hear the door to Stanwin’s room open, Evelyn storming
past the nursery a few moments later. I’m tempted to follow
her, but there’d be little value in another confrontation.
Besides, Evelyn mentioned something about a letter that’s now
in Stanwin’s possession. She seemed keen to retrieve it, which
means I need to see it. Who knows, perhaps Stanwin and
Derby are friends.
‘Jonathan Derby’s waiting for you in the nursery,’ I hear the
burly fellow tell Stanwin.
‘Good,’ says Stanwin, drawers scraping open. ‘Let me get
changed for this hunt and we’ll go and have a word with the
greasy little bugger.’
Or perhaps not.


26
I sit with my feet on the table, the chessboard beside them.
Cupping my chin in my hand, I stare at the game trying to
decipher some strategy from the arrangement of the pieces. It’s
proving an impossible task. Derby’s too flighty for study. His
attention is forever straying towards the window, towards the
dust in the air and the noises in the corridor. He’s never at
peace.
Daniel warned me that each of our hosts thinks differently,
but only now do I comprehend the full extent of his meaning.
Bell was a coward and Ravencourt ruthless, but both
possessed focused minds. That’s not the case with Derby.
Thoughts come buzzing through his head like bluebottles,
lingering long enough to be distracting but never settling.
A sound draws my attention to the door, Ted Stanwin
shaking out a match as he surveys me from above his pipe.
He’s larger than I recall, a slab of a man spreading sideways
like a wedge of melting butter.
‘Never took you for a chess man, Jonathan,’ he says,
pushing the old rocking horse back and forth so that it thumps
on the floor.
‘I’m teaching myself,’ I say.
‘Good for you, men should seek to better themselves.’
His eyes linger on me before being tugged to the windows.
Though Stanwin hasn’t done or said anything threatening,
Derby’s afraid of him. My pulse is tapping that out in Morse
code.
I glance at the door, ready to bolt, but the burly fellow is
leaning against the wall in the corridor with his arms crossed.
He offers me a little nod, friendly as two men in a cell.
‘Your mother’s running a little late on her payments,’ says
Stanwin, his forehead pressed against the window. ‘I hope all’s
well?’
‘Quite well,’ I say.


‘I’d hate for that to change.’
I shift in my seat to catch his eye.
‘Are you threatening me, Mr Stanwin?’
He turns from the window, smiling at the fellow in the
corridor, then myself.
‘Of course not, Jonathan, I’m threatening your mother. You
don’t think I’d come all this way for a worthless little sod like
yourself, do you?’
Taking a puff on his pipe, he picks up a doll and casually
tosses it at the chessboard, sending the pieces scattering across
the room. Rage snatches me up by the strings, flinging me at
him, but he catches my fist in the air, spinning me around as
one of his huge arms crushes my throat.
His breath is on my neck, rotten as old meat.
‘Talk to your mother, Jonathan,’ he sneers, squeezing my
windpipe hard enough for black spots to swim in the corners
of my eyes. ‘Otherwise, I might have to pay her a visit.’
He lets the words settle, then releases me.
I drop to my knees, clutching my throat and gasping for air.
‘You’ll come a cropper with that temper,’ he says, jabbing
his pipe in my direction. ‘I’d get it under control if I were you.
Don’t worry, my friend here is good at helping people learn
new things.’
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.
Keeping an ear out for Stanwin’s return, I quickly open the
cupboard, sifting through the pockets of his jackets and
trousers, finding only lint and mothballs. His trunk is equally
bereft of personal objects, the man seemingly immune to
sentiment of any kind.
Frustrated, I check my watch.
I’ve already been here longer than is safe, but Derby’s not
easily deterred. My host knows deceit. He knows men like
Stanwin and the secrets they keep. The blackmailer could have
had the most luxurious room in the house if he’d wanted, but
he chose to sequester himself in a ruin. He’s paranoid and
clever. Whatever his secrets, he wouldn’t carry them with him,
not when he’s surrounded by enemies.
They’re here. Hidden and under guard.
My gaze falls on the fireplace and its anaemic flames. Odd,
considering how cold the bedroom is. Kneeling down, I stick
my hand up the flume, feeling around and finding a small
shelf, my groping fingers closing on a book. Withdrawing it, I
see that it’s a small black journal, its cover bearing the scars of
a lifetime’s abuse. Stanwin was keeping the fire low to avoid
scorching his prize.
Flicking through the tattered pages, I discover it’s a ledger
of sorts containing a list of dates going back nineteen years
alongside entries written in strange symbols.
It must be some sort of code.
Evelyn’s letter is stuffed between the last two pages.
Dearest Evelyn,
Mr Stanwin has informed me of your plight, and I can quite understand
your concern. Your mother’s behaviour is certainly alarming, and you’re
quite right to be on guard against whatever scheme she’s cooking up. I


stand ready to help, but I’m afraid Mr Stanwin’s word will not be enough. I
require some proof of your agency in these matters. In the society pages,
I’ve often seen you wearing a signet ring, a small castle engraved on its
surface. Send me this, and I’ll know of your serious intent.
Warmest regards,
Felicity Maddox
Looks like clever old Evelyn didn’t accept her fate as easily
as I first believed. She brought in somebody called Felicity
Maddox to help, and the description of the small castle recalls
the one drawn on the note at the well. It may be serving as a
signature, which suggests the message to ‘stay away from
Millicent Derby’ was from Felicity.
The bodyguard snores.
Unable to wring any further information from the letter, I
replace it in the ledger and slip both in my pocket.
‘Thank heavens for devious minds,’ I mutter, stepping
through the door.
‘You said it,’ says somebody behind me.
Pain explodes in my head as I slam into the floor.


27
Day Two (continued)
I’m coughing blood, red drops spattering my pillow. I’m back
in the butler, my aching body screaming as my head jerks
upwards. The Plague Doctor’s sitting in Anna’s chair, one leg
thrown across the other, his top hat in his lap. He’s drumming
it with his fingers, coming to a stop when he notices me
stirring.
‘Welcome back, Mr Bishop,’ he says, his voice muffled by
the mask.
I stare at him absently, my coughing subsiding as I begin to
piece together the pattern of this day. The first time I found
myself in this body, it was morning. I answered the door to
Bell and was attacked by Gold after running up the stairs for
answers. The second time wasn’t more than fifteen minutes
later. I was transported to the gatehouse in the carriage with
Anna. Must have been midday when I woke up and we were
properly introduced, but, judging by the light outside the
window, it’s now early afternoon. It makes sense. Anna told
me we get a full day in each of our hosts, but it never occurred
to me that I’d experience one in so many fragments.
It feels like a perverse joke.
I was promised eight hosts to solve this mystery, and I’ve
been given them, except that Bell was a coward, the butler was
beaten half to death, Donald Davies fled, Ravencourt could
barely move, and Derby can’t hold a thought.
It’s like I’ve been asked to dig a hole with a shovel made of
sparrows.
Shifting in his seat, the Plague Doctor leans closer to me.
His clothes are musty, that old attic smell of something long
forgotten and badly aired.
‘Our last conversation was rather abrupt,’ he says. ‘So I
thought you might report on your progress. Have you
discovered—’


‘Why did it have to be this body?’ I interrupt, wincing as a
hot streak of pain shoots up through my side. ‘Why trap me in
any of these bodies? Ravencourt couldn’t walk two steps
without tiring, the butler’s incapacitated and Derby’s a
monster. If you really want me to escape Blackheath, why
stack the deck against me? There must be better alternatives.’
‘More able perhaps, but these men all have some connection
to Evelyn’s murder,’ he says. ‘Making them best placed to
help you solve it.’
‘They’re suspects?’
‘Witnesses would be a more apt description.’
A yawn shakes me, my energy already evaporating. Doctor
Dickie must have given me another sedative. I feel as though
I’m being squeezed out of this body through the feet.
‘And who decides the order?’ I say. ‘Why did I wake up as
Bell first and Derby today? Is there any way for me to predict
who I’ll be next?’
Leaning back, he steeples his fingers and cocks his head.
It’s a lengthy silence, revaluating and readjusting. Whether
he’s pleased by what he finds, or annoyed, I can’t tell.
‘Why are you asking these questions?’ he says eventually.
‘Curiosity,’ I say, and when he doesn’t respond to that, ‘and
I’m hoping there’s some advantage to be found in the
answers,’ I add.
He makes a small grunt of approval.
‘Good to see you’re finally taking this seriously,’ he says.
‘Very well. Under normal circumstances, you’d arrive in your
hosts in the order they woke throughout the day. Fortunately
for you, I’ve been tampering.’
‘Tampering?’
‘We’ve done this dance many times before, you and I, more
than even I can recall. Loop after loop, I’ve set you the task of
solving Evelyn Hardcastle’s murder, and it’s always ended in
failure. At first, I thought the blame for this rested solely on
your shoulders, but I’ve come to realise that the sequence of


hosts plays a part. For example, Donald Davies wakes up at
3:19 a.m., which should make him your first host. That doesn’t
work because his life is so appealing. He has good friends in
the house, family. Things you spend the loop trying to return
to, rather than seeking to escape. It’s for that reason I changed
your first host to the more rootless Sebastian Bell,’ he says,
hoisting his trouser leg to scratch his ankle. ‘In contrast, Lord
Ravencourt doesn’t stir until 10:30 a.m., which meant you
shouldn’t have visited him until much deeper in the loop, a
period when haste, rather than intellect, is of the essence.’
I can hear the pride in his voice, the sense of a watchmaker
standing back and admiring the mechanism he’s built. ‘Each
new loop I experimented, making these sorts of decisions for
each of your hosts, arriving at the order you’re experiencing
now,’ he says, spreading his hands magnanimously. ‘In my
opinion, this is the sequence that gives you the best chance of
solving the mystery.’
‘So why haven’t I returned to Donald Davies, the way I
keep returning to the butler?’
‘Because you walked him down that endless road to the
village for almost eight hours and he’s exhausted,’ says the
Plague Doctor, a hint of rebuke in his tone. ‘He’s currently
sleeping deeply and will be until’ – he checks his watch –
‘9:38 p.m. Until then, you’ll continue to be tugged between the
butler and your other hosts.’
Wood creaks in the corridor. I consider calling for Anna, a
thought which must show on my face, because the Plague
Doctor tuts at me.
‘Come now, how clumsy do you think I am?’ he says.
‘Anna left a little while ago to meet with Lord Ravencourt.
Believe me, I know the routines of this house as a director
knows those of the actors in his play. If I had any doubt that
we might be interrupted, I wouldn’t be here.’
I have the sense of being a nuisance to him, an errant child
in the headmaster’s office again. Barely worth a scolding.
A yawn rattles me, long and loud. My brain is clouding
over.


‘We have a few more minutes to talk before you fall asleep
again,’ says the Plague Doctor, clasping his gloved hands
together, the leather squeaking. ‘If you’ve any more questions
for me, now would be the time.’
‘Why is Anna in Blackheath?’ I say quickly. ‘You said I
chose to come here, and my rivals didn’t. That means she was
brought here against her will. Why are you doing this to her?’
‘Any questions aside from that one,’ he says. ‘Walking into
Blackheath voluntarily brings certain advantages. There are
also disadvantages, things your rivals instinctively understand,
which you do not. I’m here to fill in those blanks, nothing
more. Now, how goes the investigation into Evelyn
Hardcastle’s murder?’
‘She’s one girl,’ I say wearily, struggling to keep my eyes
open. The drugs are tugging at me with their warm hands.
‘What makes her death worth all of this?’
‘I could ask you the same question,’ he says. ‘You’re going
out of your way to save Miss Hardcastle, despite all the
evidence suggesting it’s impossible. Why is that?’
‘I can’t watch her die and do nothing to prevent it,’ I say.
‘That’s very noble of you,’ he says, cocking his head. ‘Then
let me respond in kind. Miss Hardcastle’s murder was never
solved, and I don’t believe such a thing should be allowed to
stand. Does that satisfy you?’
‘People are murdered every day,’ I say. ‘Righting one wrong
can’t be the only reason for all of this.’
‘An excellent point,’ he says, clapping his hands together in
appreciation. ‘But who’s to say there aren’t hundreds of others
like yourself seeking justice for those souls?’
‘Are there?’
‘Doubtful, but it’s a lovely thought, isn’t it?’
I’m conscious of the effort of listening, the weight of my
eyelids, the way the room is melting around me.
‘We don’t have much time I’m afraid,’ says the Plague
Doctor. ‘I should—’


‘Wait… I need to… why did…’ My words are sludge, thick
in my mouth. ‘You asked me… you asked… my memory…’
There’s a great rustling of material as the Plague Doctor
gets to his feet. Picking up a glass of water from the sideboard,
he hurls the contents in my face. The water’s freezing cold, my
body convulses like a cracked whip, dragging me back to
myself.
‘Apologies, that was most irregular,’ he says, staring at the
empty glass, clearly surprised at his actions. ‘Normally I let
you fall asleep at this point, but… well, I’m intrigued.’ He
puts the glass down slowly. ‘What did you want to ask me?
Please choose your words carefully, they’re of some import.’
Water stings my eyes and drips off my lips, the wetness
spreading through my cotton nightshirt.
‘When we first met, you asked me what I remembered when
I woke up as Bell,’ I say. ‘Why would that matter?’
‘Each time you fail, we strip your memories and start the
loop again, but you always find a way to hold onto something
important, a clue if you will,’ he says, dabbing the water from
my forehead with a handkerchief. ‘This time it was Anna’s
name.’
‘You told me it was a pity,’ I say.
‘It is.’
‘Why?’
‘Along with the sequence of your hosts, the thing you
choose to remember usually has a significant impact on how
the loop plays out,’ he says. ‘If you had remembered the
footman, you’d have set off chasing him. At least that would
have been useful. Instead, you’ve bound yourself to Anna, one
of your rivals.’
‘She’s my friend,’ I say.
‘Nobody has friends in Blackheath, Mr Bishop, and if you
haven’t learned that yet, I’m afraid there may be no hope for
you.’


‘Can…’ The sedative is dragging at me once again. ‘Can we
both escape?’
‘No,’ he says, folding his damp handkerchief and replacing
it in his pocket. ‘An answer for an exit, that’s how this works.
At 11 p.m., one of you will come to the lake and give me the
murderer’s name, and that person will be allowed to leave.
You’re going to have to choose who that is.’
He lifts his gold watch from his breast pocket to check the
time.
‘Time runs away and I have a schedule to keep,’ he says,
retrieving his cane from its spot by the door. ‘Normally, I
remain impartial in these matters, but there’s something you
should know before you trip over your nobility. Anna
remembers more from the last loop than she’s telling you.’
His gloved hand lifts my chin, his face so close to mine I
can hear his breathing through the mask. He has blue eyes.
Old, sad, blue eyes.
‘She’s going to betray you.’
I open my mouth to protest, but my tongue’s too heavy to
move, and the last thing I see is the Plague Doctor
disappearing through the door, a great stooped shadow
dragging the world behind him.


28
Day Five (continued)
Life pounds on my eyelids.
I blink, once, twice, but it hurts to keep them open. My
head’s a shattered egg. A noise escapes my throat. It’s
somewhere between a groan and a whimper, the low animal
gurgle of a creature caught in a trap. I try to heave myself up,
but the pain’s an ocean, lapping around my skull. I don’t have
the strength to lift it.
Time passes; I can’t say how much. It isn’t that sort of time.
I watch my stomach rise and fall, and when I’m confident it
can do so without my help, I drag myself into a sitting
position, resting against the crumbling wall. Much to my
dismay I’m back in Jonathan Derby, lying on the floor in the
nursery. Pieces of a broken vase are everywhere, including my
scalp. Somebody must have hit me from behind when I left
Stanwin’s bedroom, and then dragged me here out of sight.
The letter, you fool.
My hand leaps to my pocket, searching for Felicity’s letter
and the ledger I stole from Stanwin, but they’re gone, along
with the key to Bell’s trunk. All that remains are the two
headache pills given to me by Anna, which are still wrapped in
the blue handkerchief.
She’s going to betray you.
Could this be her doing? The Plague Doctor’s warning
couldn’t have been any clearer, and yet surely an enemy
wouldn’t provoke such feelings of warmth, or kinship?
Perhaps Anna does remember more from our last loop than
she admits, but if that information was destined to make us
enemies, why would I drag her name from one life into the
next, knowing I would chase it like a dog after a burning stick?
No, if there’s betrayal afoot, it’s a result of the empty promises
I’ve made, and that’s rectifiable. I need to find the right way of
telling Anna the truth.


Swallowing the tablets dry, I claw my way up the wall,
staggering back into Stanwin’s room.
The bodyguard’s still unconscious on the bed, the light
fading beyond the window. I check my watch to find it’s
6p.m., which means the hunters, including Stanwin, are
probably already on their way home. For all I know, they’re
crossing the lawn or ascending the stairs even now.
I need to leave before the blackmailer comes back.
Even with the tablets, I’m woozy, the world slipping
beneath me as I crash through the east wing before pushing
aside the curtain to arrive on the landing above the entrance
hall. Each step is a battle until I fall through Doctor Dickie’s
door, nearly vomiting on his floor. His bedroom’s identical to
all the others on this corridor, with a four-poster bed against
one wall and a bath and sink behind a screen opposite. Unlike
Bell, Dickie’s made himself at home. Pictures of his
grandchildren are dotted about the place, a crucifix hanging
from one of the walls. He’s even laid a small rug down,
presumably to keep his feet off the cold wood in the mornings.
This familiarity with oneself is a miracle to me, and I find
myself 
gaping 
at 
Dickie’s 
possessions, 
my 
wounds
momentarily forgotten. Picking up the picture of his
grandchildren, I wonder for the first time if I too have a family
waiting beyond Blackheath: parents or children, friends who
miss me?
Startled by footsteps passing in the corridor, I drop the
family picture on the bedside table, accidentally cracking the
glass. The steps pass without incident, but awakened to the
peril I move more quickly.
Dickie’s medical bag is nestled beneath his bed and I upend
it over his mattress, spilling bottles, scissors, syringes and
bandages onto the covers. The last thing out is a King James
Bible, which bounces onto the floor, the pages falling open.
Just like the one in Sebastian Bell’s bedroom, certain words
and paragraphs are underlined in red ink.
It’s a code.


A wolf’s smile spreads across Derby’s face, recognition of
another crook. If I had to guess, I’d say Dickie’s a silent
partner in Bell’s drug-peddling business. No wonder he was so
concerned for the good doctor’s welfare. He was worried
about what he’d say.
I snort. It’s another secret in a house full of them, and it’s
not the one I’m after today.
Gathering the bandages and iodine from the pile on the bed,
I take them over to the sink and begin my surgery.
It’s not a delicate operation.
Every time I pluck one piece loose, blood wells up between
my fingers, running down my face and dripping off my chin
into the sink. Tears of pain cloud my vision, the world a
stinging blur for nearly thirty minutes while I pick apart my
porcelain crown. My only consolation is that this must be
hurting Jonathan Derby almost as much as it’s hurting me.
When I’m certain every shard has been removed, I set to
work wrapping my head in bandages, securing them with a
safety pin and inspecting my work in the mirror.
The bandages look fine. I look terrible.
My face is pale, my eyes hollow. Blood has stained my
shirt, forcing me to strip down to my vest. I’m a man undone,
coming apart at the seams. I can feel myself unravelling.
‘What the devil!’ cries Doctor Dickie from the door.
He’s fresh from the hunt, dripping wet and shivering, grey
as the ashes in the grate. Even his moustache is sagging.
I follow his disbelieving gaze around the room, seeing the
devastation through his eyes. The picture of his grandchildren
is cracked and smeared with blood, his Bible discarded, his
medical bag tossed on the floor, its contents scattered across
the bed. Bloody water fills the sink, my shirt in his bathtub.
His surgery can’t look much worse after an amputation.
Catching sight of me in my vest, the bandage trailing loose
from my forehead, the shock on his face turns to anger.


‘What have you done, Jonathan?’ he demands, his voice
swelling with rage.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t know where else to go,’ I say, panicked.
‘After you left, I searched Stanwin’s room for something to
help Mother and I found a ledger.’
‘A ledger?’ he says in a strangled voice. ‘You took
something from him? You must put it back. Now, Jonathan!’
he yells, sensing my hesitation.
‘I can’t, I was attacked. Somebody smashed a vase across
my head and stole it. I was bleeding and the bodyguard was
going to wake up, so I came here.’
A dreadful silence swallows the end of the story as Doctor
Dickie stands the picture of his grandchildren upright and
slowly gathers everything back into his medical bag, sliding it
back under the bed.
He moves as though manacled, dragging my secrets behind
him.
‘It’s my fault,’ he mutters. ‘I knew you weren’t to be
trusted, but my affection for your mother…’
He shakes his head, pushing by me to collect my shirt from
the bathtub. There’s a resignation to his actions that frightens
me.
‘I didn’t mean to—’ I begin.
‘You used me to steal from Ted Stanwin,’ he says quietly,
gripping the edges of the counter. ‘A man who can ruin me
with a snap of his fingers.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say.
He turns suddenly, his anger thick.
‘You’ve made that word cheap, Jonathan! You said it after
we covered up that business in Enderleigh House, and again at
Little Hampton. Remember? Now you’d have me swallow this
hollow apology as well.’
He presses my shirt against my chest, his cheeks flushed
red. Tears stand in his eyes. ‘How many women have you


forced yourself upon? Do you even remember? How many
times have you wept at your mother’s breast, begging her to
fix it, promising never to do it again and knowing full well that
you would? And now here you are again, doing the same to
me, bloody, stupid Doctor Dickie. Well, I’m done, I can’t
stomach it any more. You’ve been a blight on this world ever
since I brought you into it.’
I take an imploring step towards him, but he pulls a silver
pistol from his pocket, letting it dangle by his side. He’s not
even looking at me.
‘Get out, Jonathan, or by God, I’ll shoot you myself.’
Keeping one eye on the pistol, I back out of the room,
closing the door as I step into the corridor.
My heart’s thumping.
Doctor Dickie’s gun is the very same one Evelyn will use to
take her life tonight. He’s holding the murder weapon.


29
Quite how long I stare at Jonathan Derby in my bedroom
mirror, it’s impossible to say. I’m looking for the man within,
some hint of my real face.
I want Derby to see his executioner.
Whisky warms my throat, the bottle plundered from the
drawing room and already half empty. I need it to stop my
hands from shaking as I try to knot my bow tie. Doctor
Dickie’s testimony confirmed what I already knew. Derby’s a
monster, his crimes washed away by his mother’s money.
There’s no justice waiting for this man, no trial or punishment.
If he’s to pay for what he’s done, I’ll have to march him to the
gallows myself, and that’s what I intend to do.
First though, we’re going to save Evelyn Hardcastle’s life.
My gaze is drawn towards Doctor Dickie’s silver pistol,
lying harmless on an armchair like a fly swatted out of the air.
Stealing it was a simple matter, as easy as sending a servant
with an invented emergency to lure the doctor out of his room
while I slipped in afterwards and took it from his nightstand.
For too long I’ve allowed this day to dictate terms to me, but
no longer. If somebody wishes to murder Evelyn with this
pistol, they’ll have to come through me first. The Plague
Doctor’s riddle be damned! I don’t trust him and I won’t stand
idly by while horrors play out in front of me. It’s time
Jonathan Derby finally did some good on this earth.
Slipping the pistol into my jacket pocket, I take one last
mouthful of whisky and step out into the corridor, following
the other guests down the staircase to dinner. Unlike their
manners, their taste is impeccable. Evening gowns expose
naked backs and pale skin adorned with glittering jewellery.
The listlessness of earlier is gone, their charm extravagant. At
last, as evening calls, they’ve come alive.
As always, I keep an eye out for some hint of the footman
among these passing faces. He’s long overdue a visit, and the
longer the day goes on, the more certain I become that
something dreadful is coming. At least it’ll be a fair fight.


Derby has very few laudable qualities, but his anger makes
him a handful. I’ve barely been able to keep hold of him, so I
can’t imagine what it would be like to see him flying at you,
dripping hate.
Michael Hardcastle’s standing in the entrance hall with a
painted-on smile, greeting those coming down the stairs, as
though genuinely glad to see every last wretched one of them.
I had intended on questioning him about the mysterious
Felicity Maddox, and the note at the well, but it will have to
wait until later. There’s an impregnable wall of taffeta and bow
ties between us.
Piano music drags me through the crowds into the long
gallery, where guests are mingling with drinks as servants
prepare the dining hall on the other side of the doors. Taking a
whisky from one of the passing trays, I keep an eye out for
Millicent. I’d hoped to give Derby his goodbyes, but she’s
nowhere to be seen. In fact, the only person I recognise is
Sebastian Bell, who’s drifting through the entrance hall on his
way to his room.
Stopping a maid, I ask after Helena Hardcastle, hoping the
lady of the house might be near at hand, but she hasn’t arrived.
That means she’s been missing all day. Absence has officially
become disappearance. It can’t be coincidence that Lady
Hardcastle is nowhere to be found on the day of her daughter’s
death, though whether she’s a suspect or a victim I can’t be
sure. One way or another, I’m going to find out.
My glass is empty, my head becoming foggy. I’m
surrounded by laughter and conversation, friends and lovers.
The good cheer is stirring Derby’s bitterness. I can feel his
disgust, his loathing. He hates these people, this world. He
hates himself.
Servants slip past me with silver platters, Evelyn’s last meal
arriving in a procession.
Why isn’t she afraid?
I can hear her laughter from here. She’s mingling with the
guests as though all her days lie ahead, yet when Ravencourt


brought up the danger this morning, it was clear she knew
something was amiss.
Discarding my glass, I make my way through the entrance
hall and into the corridor towards Evelyn’s bedroom. If there
are answers, perhaps that’s where I’ll find them.
The lamps have been lowered to dim flames. It’s quiet and
oppressive, a forgotten edge of the world. I’m halfway up the
passage when I notice a splash of red emerging from the
shadows.
A footman’s livery.
He’s blocking the passage.
I freeze. Glancing behind me, I try to work out whether I
can reach the entrance hall before he’s on me. The odds are
slim. I’m not even sure my legs will listen when I tell them to
move.
‘Sorry, sir,’ says a chirpy voice, the footman taking a step
closer and revealing himself to be a short, wiry boy, no more
than thirteen, with pimples and a nervous smile. ‘Excuse me,’
he adds after a moment, and I realise I’m in his way.
Mumbling an apology, I let him pass and blow out an
explosive breath.
The footman’s made me so afraid, the mere suggestion of
his presence is enough to cripple even Derby, a man who’d
throw a punch at the sun because it burnt him. Was that his
intention? The reason he taunted Bell and Ravencourt, rather
than killing them? If this continues, he’ll be able to pick off
my hosts without a shred of resistance.
I’m earning the ‘rabbit’ nickname he’s given me.
Proceeding cautiously, I continue to Evelyn’s bedroom,
finding it locked. Knocking brings no answer and, unwilling to
leave without something to show for my efforts, I take a step
backwards, intending to put my shoulder through it. That’s
when I notice the door to Helena’s bedroom is in exactly the
same place as the door into Ravencourt’s parlour. Poking my
head into both rooms, I find the dimensions are identical. That
suggests Evelyn’s bedroom was once a parlour. If that’s the


case, there will be a connecting door from Helena’s room,
which is useful, because the lock is still broken from this
morning.
My guess is proven correct: the connecting door is hidden
behind an ornate tapestry hanging on the wall. Thankfully, it’s
unlocked and I’m able to slip through into Evelyn’s room.
Given her fractured relationship with her parents, I’d half
expected to find her sleeping in a broom closet, but the
bedroom is comfortable enough, if modest. There’s a four-
poster bed at the centre, a bathtub and bowl behind a curtain
on a rail. Evidently the maid hasn’t been allowed in for some
time because the bath is full of cold, dirty water, towels
discarded in soggy heaps on the floor, a necklace tossed
carelessly on the dressing table beside a pile of scrunched-up
tissues, all stained with make-up. The curtains are drawn,
Evelyn’s fire piled high with logs. Four oil lamps stand in the
corners of the room, pinching the gloom between their
flickering light and that of the fireplace.
I’m shaking with pleasure, Derby’s excitement at this
intrusion a warm blush rising through my body. I can feel my
spirit trying to recoil from my host, and it’s all I can do to hold
onto myself as I sift through Evelyn’s possessions, searching
for anything that might drive her towards the reflecting pool
later tonight. She’s a messy sort, discarded clothes stuffed
wherever they happen to fit, costume jewellery heaped in the
drawers, tangled up with old scarves and shawls. There’s no
system, no order, no hint that she allows a maid anywhere near
her things. Whatever her secrets, she’s hiding them from more
than me.
I catch myself stroking a silk blouse, frowning at my own
hand before realising it’s not me that wants this, it’s him.
It’s Derby.
With a cry I pull my hand back, slamming the wardrobe
shut.
I can feel his yearning. He’d have me on my knees, pawing
through her belongings, inhaling her scent. He’s a beast and
for a second he had control.


Wiping the beads of desire from my forehead, I take a deep
breath to collect myself before pushing on with the search.
I narrow my concentration to a point, keeping hold of my
thoughts, allowing no gap for him to creep through. Even so,
the investigation is fruitless. About the only item of interest is
an old scrapbook containing curios from Evelyn’s life: old
correspondence between herself and Michael, pictures from
her childhood, scraps of poetry and musings from her
adolescence, all combining to present a portrait of a very
lonely woman who loved her brother desperately and now
misses him terribly.
Closing the book, I push it back under the bed where I
found it, departing the room as quietly as I came, dragging a
thrashing Derby within me.


30
I’m sitting in an armchair in a dim corner of the entrance hall,
the seat arranged to give me a clear view to Evelyn’s bedroom
door. Dinner’s under way, but Evelyn will be dead in three
hours and I plan to dog her every step to the reflecting pool.
Such patience would normally be beyond my host, but I’ve
discovered that he enjoys smoking, which is handy because it
makes me light-headed, dulling the cancer of Derby in my
thoughts. It’s a pleasant, if unexpected, benefit of this inherited
habit.
‘They’ll be ready when you need them,’ says Cunningham,
appearing through the fog and crouching by my chair. There’s
a pleased grin on his face I can make neither head nor tail of.
‘Who’ll be ready?’ I say, looking at him.
This grin disappears, embarrassment taking its place as he
lurches to his feet.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Derby, I thought you were somebody else,’
he says hastily.
‘I am somebody else, Cunningham, it’s me, Aiden. I still
don’t have the foggiest idea what you’re talking about,
though.’
‘You asked me to get some people together,’ he says.
‘No, I didn’t.’
Our 
confusions 
must 
mirror 
each 
other, 
because
Cunningham’s face has twisted into the same knot as my brain.
‘I’m sorry, he said you’d understand,’ says Cunningham.
‘Who said?’
A sound draws my attention to the entrance hall, and,
turning in my seat, I see Evelyn fleeing across the marble,
weeping into her hands.
‘Take this, I have to go,’ says Cunningham, thrusting a
piece of paper into my hand with the phrase ‘all of them’
written on it.


‘Wait! I don’t know what this means,’ I call after him, but
it’s too late, he’s already gone.
I’d follow him, but Michael is chasing Evelyn into the
entrance hall, and this is why I’m here. These are the missing
moments that transform Evelyn from the brave, kind woman I
met as Bell into the suicidal heiress who’ll take her life by the
reflecting pool.
‘Evie, Evie, don’t go, tell me what I can do,’ says Michael,
catching her arm at the elbow.
She shakes her head, tears sparkling in the candlelight,
mirroring the diamonds flashing in her hair.
‘I just…’ Her voice chokes. ‘I need to…’
Shaking her head, she shrugs him off, flying past me
towards her bedroom. Fumbling the key into the lock, she slips
inside, slamming the door shut behind her. Michael watches
her go despondently, grabbing a glass of port from the tray
Madeline’s carrying to the dining hall.
It disappears in one gulp, his cheeks flushing.
Lifting the tray out of her hands, he waves the maid towards
Evelyn’s bedroom.
‘Don’t worry about this, see to your mistress,’ he orders.
It’s a grand gesture, somewhat undone by the confusion that
follows as he tries to work out what to do with the thirty
glasses of sherry, port and brandy he’s inherited.
From my seat, I watch Madeline rap on Evelyn’s door, the
poor maid becoming increasingly upset with every ignored
entreaty. Finally, she returns to the entrance hall, where
Michael is still casting around for somewhere to put the tray.
‘I’m afraid Mademoiselle is…’ Madeline makes a
despairing gesture.
‘It’s fine, Madeline,’ Michael says wearily. ‘It’s been a
difficult day. Why don’t you leave her be for now. I’m sure
she’ll call when she needs you.’


Madeline lingers uncertainly, looking back towards
Evelyn’s bedroom, but after a brief hesitation she does as he
asks, disappearing down the servant’s staircase towards the
kitchen.
Casting left and right for somewhere to dispense with the
tray, Michael spots me watching him.
‘I must look a damned fool,’ he says, blushing.
‘More like an inept waiter,’ I say bluntly. ‘I assume the
dinner didn’t go as planned?’
‘It’s this business with Ravencourt,’ he says, balancing the
tray rather precariously across the padded arms of a nearby
chair. ‘Do you have one of those cigarettes spare?’
I emerge from the fog to hand him one, lighting it in his
fingers. ‘Does she really have to marry him?’ I ask.
‘We’re almost broke, old chum,’ he sighs, taking a long
drag. ‘Father’s buying up every empty mine and blighted
plantation in the empire. I give it a year or two before our
coffers are completely dry.’
‘But I thought Evelyn and your parents didn’t get on? Why
would she agree to go through with it?’
‘For me,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘My parents threatened
to cut me off if she doesn’t obey them. I’d be flattered if I
didn’t feel so damn guilty about it all.’
‘There must be another way.’
‘Father’s wrung every penny he can out of those few banks
still impressed by his title. If we don’t get this money, well…
truth be told, I don’t know what will happen, but we’ll end up
poor and I’m fairly certain we’ll be dreadful at it.’
‘Most people are,’ I say.
‘Well, at least they’ve had practice,’ he says, tapping ash
onto the marble floor. ‘Why is there a bandage on your head?’
I touch it self-consciously, having quite forgotten it was
there.


‘I got on the wrong side of Stanwin,’ I say. ‘I heard him
arguing with Evelyn about somebody called Felicity Maddox,
and tried to intervene.’
‘Felicity?’ he says, recognition showing on his face.
‘You know the name?’
He pauses, taking a deep puff of his cigarette, before
exhaling slowly.
‘Old friend of my sister,’ he says. ‘Can’t imagine why
they’d be arguing about her. Evelyn hasn’t seen her in years.’
‘She’s here in Blackheath,’ I say. ‘She left a note for Evelyn
at the well.’
‘Are you certain?’ he asks sceptically. ‘She wasn’t on the
guest list and Evelyn didn’t say anything to me.’
We’re interrupted by a noise at the doorway, Doctor Dickie
hurrying towards me. He places a hand on my shoulder and
leans close to my ear.
‘It’s your mother,’ he whispers. ‘You need to come with
me.’
Whatever’s happened, it’s dreadful enough for him to have
buried his antipathy towards me.
Apologising to Michael, I run after the doctor, my dread
growing with every step, until finally he ushers me into her
bedroom.
The window’s open, a cold gust snatching at the candle
flames lighting the room. It takes my eyes a few seconds to
adjust to the dimness, but finally I find her. Millicent’s lying
on her side in bed, eyes closed and chest still, as though she
crawled under the covers for a quick nap. She’d begun
dressing for dinner and has combed her usually wild grey hair
straight, tying it up away from her face.
‘I’m sorry, Jonathan, I know how close you were,’ he says.
Grief squeezes me. No matter how much I tell myself that
this woman isn’t my mother, I can’t make it let go.


My tears arrive suddenly and silently. Trembling, I sit down
in the wooden chair beside her bed, taking her still-warm hand
in mine.
‘It was a heart attack,’ says Doctor Dickie in a pained voice.
‘It would have happened very suddenly.’
He’s standing on the other side of the bed, the emotion as
raw on his face as my own. Wiping away a tear, he pulls the
window shut, cutting off the cold breeze. The candles stand to
attention, the light in the room solidifying into a warm, golden
glow.
‘Can I warn her?’ I say, thinking of the things I can put right
tomorrow.
He looks puzzled for a second, but clearly ascribes the
question to grief, and answers me in a kind voice.
‘No,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘You couldn’t have warned
her.’
‘What if—’
‘It was just her time, Jonathan,’ he says softly.
I nod, it’s all I can manage. He stays a little longer,
wrapping me in words I neither hear, nor feel. My grief is a
bottomless well. All I can do is fall and hope to hit the bottom.
Yet the deeper I go, the more I realise I’m not weeping solely
for Millicent Derby. There’s something else down here,
something deeper than my host’s grief, something that belongs
to Aiden Bishop. It’s raw and desperate, sad and angry, beating
at the core of me. Derby’s grief has revealed it, but hard as I
try I can’t quite pull it up, out of the dark.
Leave it buried.
‘What is it?’
A piece of you, now leave it alone.
A knock at the door distracts me, and looking at the clock I
realise over an hour’s passed. There’s no sign of the doctor. He
must have left without me noticing.


Evelyn pokes her head into the room. Her face is pale,
cheeks red with cold. She’s still dressed in the blue ball gown,
though it’s picked up a few creases since I last saw her. The
tiara is poking from the pocket of her long beige coat,
Wellington boots leaving a trail of mud and leaves on the floor.
She must have only just returned from the graveyard with Bell.
‘Evelyn…’
I intend to say more, but I choke on my sorrow.
Evelyn gathers the shards of the moment together, then tuts
and enters the room, heading straight for a bottle of whisky on
the sideboard. The glass has barely touched my lips when she
tips it upwards, forcing me to drink it down in one swallow.
Gagging, I push the glass away, whisky running down my
chin.
‘Why would you—’
‘Well, you can hardly help me in your current state,’ she
says.
‘Help you?’
She’s studying me, turning me over in her mind.
She hands me a handkerchief.
‘Wipe your chin, you look atrocious,’ she says. ‘I’m afraid
sorrow doesn’t suit that arrogant face at all well.’
‘How—’
‘It’s a very long story,’ she says. ‘And I’m afraid we’re
somewhat pressed for time.’
I sit dumbly, struggling to take everything in, wishing for
the clarity of Ravencourt’s mind. So much has happened, so
much I can’t quite piece together. I already felt as if I was
staring at the clues through a foggy magnifying glass, and now
Evelyn’s here, tugging a bedsheet over Millicent’s face, calm
as a summer day. Try as I might, I can’t keep up.
Quite clearly, that little tantrum at dinner regarding her
engagement was an act, because there’s no trace of that


crippling sadness about her now. Her eyes are clear, her tone
contemplative.
‘So I’m not the only one dying tonight,’ she says, stroking
the old lady’s hair. ‘What a miserable thing.’
The glass falls from my hand in shock.
‘You know about—’
‘The reflecting pool, yes. Curious affair, isn’t it?’
She has a dreamy tone, as though describing something she
once heard and now only half remembers. I’d suspect her mind
of having buckled in some way, if it weren’t for the hard edge
to her words.
‘You seem to be taking the news rather well,’ I say
cautiously.
‘You should have seen me this morning, I was so angry I
was kicking holes in the walls.’
Evelyn’s running her hand along the edge of the dressing
table, opening Millicent’s jewellery box, touching the pearl-
handled brush. I’d describe her actions as covetous, if there
didn’t appear to be an equal amount of reverence.
‘Who wants you dead, Evelyn?’ I ask, unnerved by this
curious display.
‘I don’t know,’ she says. ‘There was a letter pushed under
my door when I woke up. The instructions were quite
specific.’
‘But you don’t know who sent it?’
‘Constable Rashton has a theory, but he’s kept it rather close
to his chest.’
‘Rashton?’
‘Your friend? He told me you were helping him investigate.’
Doubt and distaste seep out of every word, but I’m too
intrigued to take it personally. Could this Rashton be another
host? Maybe even the same man who asked Cunningham to
deliver that ‘all of them’ message, and gather some people


together. Either way, he seems to have swept me up into his
plan. Whether I can trust it is another matter.
‘Where did Rashton approach you?’ I ask.
‘Mr Derby,’ she says firmly. ‘I’d love nothing more than to
sit down and answer all your questions, but we don’t really
have time. I’m expected at the reflecting pool in ten minutes
and I can’t be late. In fact, that’s why I’m here, I need the
silver pistol you took from the doctor.’
‘You can’t mean to go through with this,’ I say, jumping up
from my seat in alarm.
‘As I understand it, your friends are close to unmasking my
would-be killer. They simply need a little more time. If I don’t
go, the killer will know something is wrong, and I can’t risk
that.’
I’m beside her in two steps, my pulse racing.
‘Are you saying they know who’s behind all of this?’ I say
excitedly. ‘Did they give you any indication who it might be?’
Evelyn’s holding one of Millicent Derby’s cameos up to the
light, an ivory face on blue lace. Her hand is shaking. It’s the
first sign of fear I’ve seen from her.
‘They didn’t, but I hope they find out soon. I’m trusting
your friends to save me before I’m forced to do something…
final.’
‘Final?’ I say.
‘The note was specific, either I take my life out by the
reflecting pool at 11 p.m. or somebody I care about very
deeply dies in my stead.’
‘Felicity?’ I ask. ‘I know you collected a note from her at
the well, and that you asked her for her assistance with your
mother. Michael said she was an old friend. Is she in danger?
Is somebody holding her against her will?’
That would explain why I haven’t been able to find her.
The jewellery box clatters shut. Evelyn turns to face me,
hands now pressed flat against the dressing table.


‘I don’t mean to sound impatient, but don’t you have
somewhere to be?’ she says. ‘I was asked to remind you about
a rock that needs watching. Does that make any sense to you?’
I nod, remembering the favour Anna asked of me earlier this
afternoon. I’m to be standing by it when Evelyn kills herself. I
wasn’t to move. Not an inch, she’d said.
‘In that case my work here is done and I should go,’ says
Evelyn. ‘Where’s the silver pistol?’
Even in her small fingers, it seems an inconsequential thing,
more decoration than weapon, an embarrassing way to end a
life. I wonder if that’s the point, if there’s not some quiet
rebuke in the instrument of death, as there is in the method.
Evelyn isn’t merely being murdered, she’s being embarrassed,
dominated.
Every choice has been taken from her.
‘What a pretty way to die,’ says Evelyn, staring at the pistol.
‘Please don’t be late, Mr Derby, I suspect my life depends
upon it.’
After a final glance towards the jewellery box, she’s gone.


31
Hugging myself against the cold, I stand over Anna’s carefully
placed rock, terrified of taking even a small step to my left,
where at least I’d be warmed by one of the braziers. I don’t
know why I’m here, but if it’s part of a plan to save Evelyn,
I’ll stand in this spot until my blood turns to ice.
Glancing towards the trees I catch sight of the Plague
Doctor in his usual location, half hidden by gloom. He’s not
looking at the reflecting pool as I thought when I witnessed
this moment through Ravencourt’s eyes, but away to his right.
The angle of his head suggests he’s talking to somebody,
though I’m too far away to see who. Either way, it’s an
encouraging sign. Evelyn suggested she’d found allies among
my hosts, and surely, in those bushes, somebody is waiting to
come to her aid?
Evelyn arrives at eleven exactly, the silver pistol hanging
limp in her hand. Drifting from shadow to flame, she follows
the braziers, her blue ball gown trailing in the grass. I long to
tear the pistol from her grasp, but somewhere beyond my sight
an invisible hand is working, pulling levers I can’t possibly
understand. Any minute now somebody will call out, I’m
certain of it. One of my future hosts will come sprinting into
the darkness, telling Evelyn it’s over and the murderer is
captured. She’ll drop the gun and sob her thanks, while Daniel
presents his plan for both Anna and me to escape.
For the first time since all this began, I feel myself part of
something bigger.
Encouraged by this, I root my feet, hovering over my rock.
Evelyn’s come to a stop at the edge of the water, looking
around at the trees. For a second, I think she’ll spot the Plague
Doctor, but she pulls her gaze back before reaching him. She’s
unsteady, swaying slightly as though moved by some music
only she can hear. The flames from the brazier are reflected in
the diamonds of her necklace, liquid fire pouring down her
throat. She’s trembling, desperation mounting on her face.
Something’s wrong.


I glance back towards the ballroom to find Ravencourt at
the window, looking longingly towards his friend. Words are
forming on his lips, but they’re too late to do any good.
‘God help me,’ Evelyn whispers to the night.
Tears streaming down her cheeks, she turns the gun towards
her stomach and pulls the trigger.
The shot is so loud it cracks the world, drowning out my
anguished scream.
In the ballroom, the party holds its breath.
Surprised faces turn towards the reflecting pool, their eyes
seeking out Evelyn. She’s clutching her stomach, blood
seeping out from between her fingers. She looks confused, as
though she’s been handed something she shouldn’t have been,
but before she can make sense of it, she buckles, falling
forwards into the water.
Fireworks explode in the night sky, as guests stream through
the French doors, pointing and gasping. Somebody’s running
towards me, their footsteps pounding the dirt. I turn in time to
take their full weight in my chest, sending me sprawling to the
ground.
Trying to scramble to their feet, they only succeed in
scraping my face with their fingers, a knee jabbing into my
stomach. Derby’s temper, already clawing to be let out, takes
hold of me. With a scream of rage, I begin pounding at this
shape in the darkness, clutching their clothing even as they try
to wrestle their way free.
Howling in frustration, I’m pulled off the ground, my
opponent similarly lofted away, both of us held fast by
servants. Lantern light spills across us, revealing a furious
Michael Hardcastle desperately trying to break free of
Cunningham’s strong arms, which are keeping him from
Evelyn’s stricken form.
I stare at him in astonishment.
It’s changed.


The revelation knocks the fight out of me, my body going
limp in the servant’s arms as I stare at the reflecting pool.
When I saw this event as Ravencourt, Michael clung to his
sister, unable to move her. Now a tall fellow in a trench coat is
pulling her out of the water, covering her blood-soaked body
with Dickie’s jacket.
The servant lets me go and I drop to my knees in time to see
a sobbing Michael Hardcastle led away by Cunningham.
Determined to soak up as much of this miracle as possible, my
gaze darts this way and that. Up by the reflecting pool, Doctor
Dickie’s kneeling by Evelyn’s body, discussing something
with the other man, who appears to be in charge. Ravencourt’s
retreated to a couch in the ballroom, and is sitting slumped
over his cane, lost in thought. The band is being harangued by
drunken guests who, oblivious to the horror outside, want
them to carry on playing, while servants stand idle, crossing
themselves when they draw closer to the body under the
jacket.
Heaven knows how long I sit there in the darkness,
watching all this unfold. Long enough for everybody else to be
ushered into the house by the fellow in the trench coat. Long
enough for Evelyn’s limp body to be carried away. Long
enough to grow cold, to grow stiff.
Long enough for the footman to find me.
He appears around the far corner of the house, a small sack
tied to his waist, blood dripping off his hands. Taking out his
knife, he begins drawing the blade back and forth across the
rim of a brazier. I can’t tell whether he’s sharpening it, or
simply warming it, but I suspect it’s irrelevant. He wants me to
see it, to hear that unsettling scrape of metal against metal.
He’s watching me, waiting for my reaction, and, looking at
him now, I wonder how anybody ever mistook him for a
servant. Though he’s dressed in a footman’s red and white
livery, he possesses none of the traditional subservience. He’s
tall and thin, languid in his movements, with dirty blond hair
and a teardrop face, dark eyes above a smirk that would be


charming if it weren’t so empty. And then there’s that broken
nose.
It’s purple and swollen, distorting his features. By the light
of the fire, he looks like a creature dressing up as human, the
mask slipping.
The footman holds up the knife to better inspect his work.
Satisfied, he uses it to cut the sack from his waist, tossing it at
my feet.
It hits the ground with a thud, the material soaked through
with blood and tied shut with a drawstring. He wants me to
open it, but I have no intention of indulging him.
Getting to my feet, I peel off my jacket and work loose the
kinks in my neck.
In the back of my mind, I can hear Anna screaming at me,
demanding I run. She’s right, I should be afraid, and in any
other host, I would be. This is clearly a trap, but I’m tired of
fearing this man.
It’s time to fight, if only to convince myself I can.
For a moment, we watch each other, the rain falling and the
wind swirling. Unsurprisingly, it’s the footman who forces the
issue, turning on his heel and sprinting into the darkness of the
forest.
Bellowing like a lunatic, I charge after him.
As I cross into the forest, the trees huddle around me,
branches scratch my face, the foliage thickening.
My legs are tiring, but I keep running until I realise I can’t
hear him any more.
Skidding to a halt, I spin on the spot, panting.
He’s on me in seconds, covering my mouth to stifle my
scream as the blade enters my side and tears up into my
ribcage, blood burbling into my throat. My knees buckle, but
I’m prevented from falling by his strong arms around me. He’s
breathing shallowly, eagerly. This isn’t the sound of tiredness,
it’s excitement and anticipation.


A match flares, a tiny point of light held in front of my face.
He’s kneeling down directly opposite, his pitiless black eyes
boring into me.
‘Brave rabbit,’ he says, slitting my throat.


32
Day Six
‘Wake up! Wake up, Aiden!’
Somebody’s banging on my door.
‘You have to wake up, Aiden. Aiden!’
Swallowing my tiredness, I blink at my surroundings. I’m in
a chair, clammy with sweat, my clothes twisted tight around
me. It’s night time, a candle guttering on a nearby table.
There’s a tartan blanket over my lap, old man’s hands laid
across a dog-eared book. Veins bulge in wrinkled flesh, criss-
crossing dry ink stains and liver spots. I flex my fingers, stiff
with age.
‘Aiden, please!’ says the voice in the corridor.
Rising from my chair, I move to the door, old aches stirring
throughout my body like swarms of disturbed hornets. The
hinges are loose, the bottom corner of the door scraping
against the floor, revealing the lanky figure of Gregory Gold
on the other side, slumped against the doorframe. He looks
much as he will when he attacks the butler, though his dinner
jacket’s torn and caked with mud, his breathing ragged.
He’s clutching the chess piece Anna gave me, and that,
together with his use of my real name, is enough to convince
me that he’s another of my hosts. Normally, I’d welcome such
a meeting, but he’s in a frightful state, agitated and
dishevelled, a man dragged to hell and back.
Upon seeing me, he grips my shoulders. His dark eyes are
bloodshot, flicking this way and that.
‘Don’t get out of the carriage,’ he says, spittle hanging off
his lips. ‘Whatever you do, don’t get out of the carriage.’
His fear is a disease, the infection spreading through me.
‘What happened to you?’ I ask, a tremor in my voice.
‘He… he never stops…’


‘Never stops what?’ I ask.
Gold’s shaking his head, pounding his temples. Tears stream
down his cheeks, but I don’t know how to begin comforting
him.
‘Never stops what, Gold?’ I ask again.
‘Cutting,’ he says, drawing up his sleeve to reveal the slices
beneath. They look exactly like the knife wounds Bell woke
up with that first morning.
‘You won’t want to, you won’t, but you’ll give her up,
you’ll tell, you’ll tell them everything, you won’t want to, but
you’ll tell,’ he babbles. ‘There’s two of them. Two. They look
the same, but there’s two.’
His mind’s broken, I can see that now. There isn’t an ounce
of sanity left to the man. I reach out a hand, hoping to draw
him into the room, but he takes fright, backing away until he
bumps into the far wall, only his voice remaining.
‘Don’t get out of the carriage,’ he hisses at me, wheeling
away down the corridor.
I take a step out after him, but it’s too dark to see anything
and by the time I return with a candle, the corridor’s empty.


33
Day Two (continued)
The butler’s body, the butler’s pain, heavy with sedative. It’s
like coming home.
I’m barely awake, and already slipping back towards sleep.
It’s getting dark. A man’s pacing back and forth across the
tiny room, a shotgun in his arms.
It’s not the Plague Doctor. It’s not Gold.
He hears me stir, and turns around. He’s in shade, I can’t
make him out.
I open my mouth, but no words come out of it.
I close my eyes, and slip away again.


34
Day Six (continued)
‘Father.’
I’m startled to find the freckled face of a young man with
red hair and blue eyes inches from my own. I’m old again,
sitting in my chair with the tartan blanket across my lap. The
boy is bent at ninety degrees, hands clasped behind his back as
though he doesn’t trust them in company.
My scowl shoves him a step backwards.
‘You asked me to wake you at nine-fifteen,’ he says
apologetically.
He smells of Scotch, tobacco and fear. It wells up within
him, staining the whites of his eyes yellow. They’re wary and
hunted, like an animal waiting for the shot.
It’s light beyond the window, my candle long gone out and
the fire down to ash. My vague memory of being the butler
proves I dozed off after Gold’s visit, but I don’t remember
doing so. The horror of what Gold endured – what I must soon
endure – kept me pacing into the early hours.
Don’t get out of the carriage.
It was a warning and a plea. He wants me to change the day,
and while that’s exhilarating, it’s also disturbing. I know it can
be done, I’ve seen it, but if I’m clever enough to change
things, the footman is as well. For all I know, we’re running in
circles undoing each other’s work. This is no longer simply
about finding the right answer, it’s about holding onto it long
enough to deliver it to the Plague Doctor.
I have to speak with the artist at the first opportunity.
I shift in my seat, tugging aside the tartan blanket, bringing
the slightest flinch from the boy. He stiffens, looking at me
sideways to see if I’ve noticed. Poor child; he’s had all the
bravery beaten out of him and now he’s kicked for being a
coward. My sympathy fares ill with my host, whose distaste
for his son is absolute. He considers this boy’s meekness


infuriating, his silence an affront. He’s a failure, an
unforgivable failure.
My only one.
I shake my head, trying to free myself of this man’s regrets.
The memories of Bell, Ravencourt and Derby were objects in
a fog, but the clutter of this current life is scattered around me.
I cannot help but trip over it.
Despite the suggestion of infirmity given by the blanket, I
rise with only a little stiffness, stretching to a respectable
height. My son’s retreated to the corner of the room, draping
himself in shadows. Though the distance is not great, it’s too
far for my host, whose eyes falter at half the span. I search for
spectacles, knowing it’s pointless. This man considers age a
weakness, the result of a faltering will. There’ll be no
spectacles, no walking stick, no aid of any sort. Whatever
burdens are heaped upon me, they’re mine to endure. Alone.
I can feel my son weighing my mood, watching my face as
one watches the clouds for an approaching storm.
‘Spit it out,’ I say gruffly, agitated by his reticence.
‘I was hoping I might be excused this afternoon’s hunt,’ he
says.
The words are laid at my feet, two dead rabbits for a hungry
wolf.
Even this simple request grates upon me. What young man
doesn’t want to hunt? What young man creeps and crawls,
tiptoeing around the edges of the world rather than trampling
across the top of it? My urge is to refuse, to make him suffer
for the temerity of being who he is, but I bite the desire back.
We’ll both be happier beyond each other’s company.
‘Very well,’ I say, waving him away.
‘Thank you, Father,’ he says, escaping the room before I
can change my mind. In his absence my breathing eases, my
hands unclench. Anger takes its arms from around my chest,
leaving me free to investigate the room for some reflection of
its owner.


Books lie three thick on the bedside table, all dealing in the
murky details of law. My invitation to the ball is being used as
a bookmark and is addressed to Edward and Rebecca Dance.
That name alone is enough to make me crumble. I remember
Rebecca’s face, her smell. The feeling of being near her. My
fingers find the locket around my neck, her portrait cradled
inside. Dance’s grief is a quiet ache, a single tear once a day.
It’s the only luxury he allows himself.
Pushing aside the grief, I drum the invite with my finger.
‘Dance,’ I murmur.
A peculiar name for such a joyless man.
Knocking perforates the silence, the handle turning and the
door opening seconds later. The fellow who enters is large and
shambling, scratching a head full of white hair, dislodging
dandruff in every direction. He’s wearing a rumpled blue suit
below white whiskers and bloodshot red eyes, and would look
quite frightful if it weren’t for the comfort with which he
carries his dishevelment.
He pauses mid-scratch, blinking at me in bewilderment.
‘This your room is it, Edward?’ asks the stranger.
‘Well, I woke up here,’ I say warily.
‘Blast, I can’t remember where they put me.’
‘Where did you sleep last night?’
‘Sun Room,’ he says, scratching an armpit. ‘Herrington bet
me I couldn’t finish a bottle of port in under fifteen minutes,
and that’s the last thing I remember until that scoundrel Gold
woke me up this morning, ranting and raving like a lunatic.’
The mention of Gold takes me back to his rambling warning
last night, and the scars on his arm. Don’t get out of the
carriage, he’d said. Does that suggest I’ll be leaving at some
point? Or taking a journey? I already know I can’t reach the
village, so it seems unlikely.
‘Did Gold say anything?’ I ask. ‘Do you know where he
was going, or what his plans were?’


‘I didn’t stop and sup with the man, Dance,’ he says
dismissively. ‘I took his measure, and let him know in no
uncertain terms I had my eye on him.’ He glances around.
‘Did I leave a bottle in here? Need something to quieten this
damnable headache.’
I’ve barely opened my mouth to respond when he starts
rooting through my drawers, leaving them standing open as he
turns his assault upon the wardrobe. After patting down the
pockets of my suits, he spins, surveying the room as though
he’s just heard a lion in the bushes.
Another knock, another face. This one belongs to
Commander Clifford Herrington, the boring naval chap who
was sitting next to Ravencourt at dinner.
‘Come along, you two,’ he says, checking his watch. ‘Old
Hardcastle’s waiting for us.’
Freed from the blight of strong alcohol, he’s straight-backed
and authoritative.
‘Any idea what he wants from us?’ I ask.
‘None whatsoever, but I expect he’ll tell us when we get
there,’ he responds, briskly.
‘I need my walking Scotch,’ says my companion.
‘There’s sure to be some over at the gatehouse, Sutcliffe,’
says Herrington, not bothering to hide his impatience.
‘Besides, you know Hardcastle, he’s damned serious these
days, probably best if we don’t turn up half-cut.’
Such is the strength of my connection to Dance that the
mere mention of Lord Hardcastle causes me to puff out my
cheeks in annoyance. My host’s presence in Blackheath is a
matter of obligation, a fleeting visit lasting only so long as it
takes to conclude his business with the family. In contrast, I’m
desperate to question the master of the house about his missing
wife, and my enthusiasm for our meeting is rubbing up against
Dance’s agitation like sandpaper on skin.
Somehow, I’m annoying myself.


Badgered once again by the impatient naval officer, the
shambling Sutcliffe holds up a hand, begging an extra minute,
before turning his desperate fingers loose among my shelves.
Sniffing the air, he lurches towards the bed, lifting the mattress
to reveal a pilfered bottle of Scotch on the springs.
‘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.’
‘Of course,’ says Hardcastle, whose red cheeks suggest
anything but understanding. ‘It’s just… Helena’s acting damn
queer, and now all this. It’s been quite trying.’
He goes back to pouring drinks, an uneasy silence gagging
everything but the rain thumping on the windows.
Personally I’m glad of the quiet, and the chair.
My companions walked quickly and keeping up was a
chore. I need to catch my breath and pride dictates that nobody
notice me doing it. In lieu of conversation, I look around the
room, but there’s little worthy of scrutiny. It’s long and narrow,
with furniture piled up against the walls like wreckage on a
riverbank. The carpet is worn through, the flowery wallpaper
gaudy. Age is thick in the air, as though the last owners sat
here until they crumbled into dust. It’s nowhere near as
uncomfortable as the east wing, where Stanwin has
sequestered himself, but it’s still an odd place to find the lord
of the house.
I’ve not had cause to ask what Lord Hardcastle’s role in his
daughter’s murder might be, but his choice of lodging suggests
he’s looking to stay out of sight. The question is, what is he
doing with that anonymity?
Drinks are deposited before us, Hardcastle resuming his
former seat. He’s rolling his glass between his palms,
gathering his thoughts. There’s an endearing awkwardness to
his manner that immediately reminds me of Michael.
To my left, Sutcliffe – who’s already halfway through his
Scotch and soda – digs a document from his jacket and hands
it to me, indicating that I should pass it along to Hardcastle.
It’s a marriage contract drafted by the firm Dance, Pettigrew &
Sutcliffe. Evidently, myself, the lugubrious Philip Sutcliffe and


the oily Christopher Pettigrew are business partners. Even so,
I’m certain Hardcastle hasn’t brought us here to talk about
Evelyn’s nuptials. He’s too distracted for that, too fidgety.
Besides, why request Herrington’s presence if you only needed
your solicitors.
Confirming my suspicion, Hardcastle takes the contract
from me, offering it the faintest of glances before dropping it
on the table.
‘Dance and I worked on it ourselves,’ says Sutcliffe, rising
to fetch another drink. ‘Have Ravencourt and Evelyn put their
signatures on the bottom and you’re a rich man again.
Ravencourt will pay a lump sum upon signing, with the
outstanding amount held in trust until after the ceremony. In a
couple of years he’ll take Blackheath off your hands as well.
Not a bad piece of work if I do say so myself.’
‘Where is old Ravencourt?’ asks Pettigrew, glancing at the
door. ‘Shouldn’t he be here for this?’
‘Helena’s looking after him,’ says Hardcastle, taking a
wooden case from the lintel above the fireplace and opening it
to reveal rows of fat cigars that draw childish coos from the
party. Declining one, I watch Hardcastle as he offers them
around. His smile hides a dreadful eagerness, his pleasure in
this display a foundation for other matters.
He wants something.
‘How is Helena?’ I ask, tasting my drink. It’s water. Dance
doesn’t even allow himself the pleasure of alcohol. ‘All of this
must be hard on her.’
‘ I should hope so, it was her damn idea to come back,’
snorts Hardcastle, taking a cigar for himself and closing the
box. ‘You know, a chap wants to do his best, be supportive,
but dash it all, I’ve barely seen her since we got here. Can’t get
two words out of the woman. If I were a spiritual sort of
fellow, I’d think her possessed.’
Matches are passing from hand to hand, each man indulging
his own cigar-lighting ritual. Forgoing Pettigrew’s back and
forth motion, Herrington’s gentle touches and Sutcliffe’s


circular theatrics, Hardcastle simply lights it, shooting me an
exasperated glance.
A flicker of affection stirs within me, the remnants of some
stronger emotion reduced to embers.
Blowing out a long trail of yellow smoke, Hardcastle settles
back in his chair.
‘Gentleman, I invited you here today, because we all have
something in common.’ His delivery is stiff, rehearsed. ‘We
are all being blackmailed by Ted Stanwin, but I have a way to
free us, if you’ll hear me out.’
He’s watching each of us for a reaction.
Pettigrew and Herrington remain quiet, but the lumpen
Sutcliffe splutters, taking a hasty gulp of his drink.
‘Go on, Peter,’ says Pettigrew.
‘I have something on Stanwin we can exchange for our
freedom.’
The room is still. Pettigrew is on the edge of his seat, the
cigar quite forgotten in his hands.
‘And why haven’t you used it already?’ he asks.
‘Because we’re in this together,’ says Hardcastle.
‘Because it’s damn risky more like,’ interjects a red-faced
Sutcliffe. ‘You know what happens if one of us moves against
Stanwin, he releases what he has on each of us, dropping us all
in the pot. Exactly like Myerson’s lot.’
‘He’s bleeding us dry,’ says Hardcastle heatedly.
‘He’s bleeding you dry, Peter,’ says Sutcliffe, jabbing the
table with a thick finger. ‘You’re about to make a pile out of
Ravencourt and you don’t want Stanwin getting his hands on
it.’
‘That devil’s had his hand in my pocket for nearly twenty
years,’ exclaims Hardcastle, flushing a little. ‘How much
longer can I be expected to let it go on?’
He turns his gaze on Pettigrew.


‘Come now, Christopher, surely you’re ready to listen to
me. Stanwin’s the reason…’ – storm clouds of embarrassment
drift across his grey face – ‘well, perhaps Elspeth wouldn’t
have left if…’
Pettigrew sips at his drink, offering neither rebuke nor
encouragement. Only I can see the heat rising up his neck, or
how his fingers are squeezing the glass so tightly the skin
behind his nails has turned white.
Hardcastle hurriedly turns his attention towards me.
‘We can rip Stanwin’s hand from our throat, but we need to
confront him together,’ he says, striking a balled fist into his
palm. ‘Only by showing that we’re all ready to act against him
will he listen.’
Sutcliffe puffs up. ‘That’s—’
‘Quiet, Philip,’ interrupts Herrington, the naval officer’s
eyes never leaving Hardcastle’s. ‘What have you got on
Stanwin?’
Hardcastle flicks a suspicious glance at the door, before
lowering his voice.
‘He has a child squirrelled away somewhere,’ he says. ‘He’s
kept her hidden for fear she may be used against him, but
Daniel Coleridge claims to have uncovered her name.’
‘The gambler?’ says Pettigrew. ‘How’s he mixed up in all of
this?’
‘Didn’t seem prudent to ask, old chap,’ says Hardcastle,
swirling his drink. ‘Some men walk in dark places the rest of
us shouldn’t tread.’
‘Word has it he pays half the servants in London for
information on their masters,’ says Herrington, pulling his lip.
‘I wouldn’t be surprised if the same was true of Blackheath,
and Stanwin certainly worked here long enough to have let a
secret slip. There could be something in this, you know.’
Hearing them discuss Daniel gives me an odd tingle of
excitement. I’ve known for some time he’s my final host, but
he’s been operating so far in my future, I’ve never truly felt


connected to him. To see our investigations converging this
way is like catching sight of something long sought on the
horizon. Finally, there’s a road between us.
Hardcastle’s on his feet, warming his hands by the heat of
the fire. Lit by the flames, it’s clear the years have taken more
from him than they’ve given. Uncertainty is a crack through
the centre of him, undermining any suggestion of solidity or
strength. This man’s been broken in two and put back together
crooked, and if I had to guess, I’d say there was a child-shaped
hole right in the middle.
‘What does Coleridge want from us?’ I ask.
Hardcastle looks at me with flat, unseeing eyes.
‘I’m sorry?’ he says.
‘You said Daniel Coleridge has something on Stanwin,
which means he wants something from us in exchange for it. I
assume that’s why you’ve called us all together.’
‘Just so,’ says Hardcastle, fingering a loose button on his
jacket. ‘He wants a favour.’
‘Only one?’ asks Pettigrew.
‘From each of us, with the promise that we’ll honour it
whenever he calls upon us, no matter what it might be.’
Glances are exchanged, doubt handed from face to face. I
feel like a spy in the enemy camp. I’m not certain what
Daniel’s up to, but I’m obviously meant to help sway this
argument in his favour. In my favour. Whatever this favour
turns out to be, hopefully it will help free us and Anna from
this dreadful place.
‘I’m for it,’ I say grandly. ‘Stanwin’s come-uppance is long
overdue.’
‘I concur,’ says Pettigrew, waving cigar smoke from his
face. ‘His hand has been around my neck for far too long
already. What about you, Clifford?’
‘I agree,’ says the old sailor.


All heads turn to Sutcliffe, whose eyes are running circuits
of the room.
‘We’re trading devils,’ says the shaggy lawyer eventually.
‘Perhaps,’ says Hardcastle, ‘but I’ve read my Dante, Philip.
Not all hells are created equal. Now, what do you say?’
He nods grudgingly, eyes lowered to his glass.
‘Good,’ says Hardcastle. ‘I’ll meet with Coleridge and we’ll
confront Stanwin before dinner. All being well, this will be
over by the time we announce the wedding.’
‘And just like that we climb out of one pocket and into
another,’ says Pettigrew, finishing off his drink. ‘How splendid
it is to be a gentleman.’


35
Our business settled, Sutcliffe, Pettigrew and Herrington trail
out of the sitting room in a long curl of cigar smoke, as Peter
Hardcastle walks over to the gramophone on the sideboard.
Wiping the dust from a record with a cotton handkerchief, he
lowers the needle and flicks a switch, Brahms blowing out
through the flared bronze tube.
Motioning to the others to go on without me, I close the
door to the hallway. Peter’s taken a seat by the fire, a window
opened on his thoughts. He’s yet to notice I’ve stayed behind
and it feels as though some great chasm divides us, though in
truth he’s only a step or two away.
Dance’s reticence in this matter is paralysing. As a man who
despises interruption, he is equally wary of disturbing others,
and the personal nature of the questions I must ask is only
compounding the problem. I’m mired in my host’s manners.
Two days ago, this wouldn’t have been an obstacle, but every
host is stronger than the last, and fighting Dance is like trying
to walk into a gale.
Decorum allows a polite cough, Hardcastle turning in his
seat to find me by the door.
‘Ah, Dance old man,’ he says. ‘Did you forget something?’
‘I was hoping we could talk privately.’
‘Is there some problem with the contract?’ he says warily. ‘I
must admit, I was worried Sutcliffe’s drinking might—’
‘It’s not Sutcliffe, it’s Evelyn,’ I say.
‘Evelyn,’ he says, wariness replaced by weariness. ‘Yes, of
course. Come, sit by the fire, this damned house is draughty
enough without inviting its chill.’
Giving me time to settle myself, he hitches his trouser leg,
dancing a foot before the flames. Whatever his faults, his
manners are meticulous.
‘So,’ he says after a moment, judging the rigours of
etiquette to have been adequately obeyed. ‘What’s this about


Evelyn? I assume she doesn’t want to go through with the
wedding?’
Finding no easy way of framing the matter, I decide to
simply toss it into his lap.
‘I’m afraid it’s more serious than that,’ I say. ‘Somebody’s
set their mind to murdering your daughter.’
‘Murder?’
He frowns, smiling a little, waiting for the rest of the joke to
present itself. Undone by my sincerity, he leans forward,
confusion wrinkling his face.
‘You’re serious?’ he says, hands clasped.
‘I am.’
‘Do you know who, or why?’
‘Only how. She’s being compelled to commit suicide,
otherwise somebody she loves will be murdered. The
information was relayed in a letter.’
‘A letter?’ he scoffs. ‘Sounds damn iffy to me. Probably just
a game. You know how these girls can be.’
‘It’s not a game, Peter,’ I say sternly, knocking the doubt
from his face.
‘May I ask how you came by this information?’
‘The same way I come by all my information, I listen.’
He sighs, pinching his nose, weighing the facts and the man
bringing them to him.
‘Do you believe somebody’s trying to sabotage our deal
with Ravencourt?’ he asks.
‘I hadn’t considered it,’ I say, startled by his response. I’d
expected him to be concerned for his daughter’s well-being,
perhaps spurred into making plans to ensure her safety. But
Evelyn’s incidental. The only loss he fears is that of his
fortune.
‘Can you think of anybody whose interests would be served
by Evelyn’s death?’ I say, struggling to contain my sudden


distaste for this man.
‘One makes enemies, old families who’d happily see us
ruined, but none of them would resort to this. Whispers are
more their thing, gossip at parties, spiteful comments in The
Times, you know how it is.’
He raps the arm of the chair in frustration.
‘Dash it all, Dance, are you sure about this? It seems so
outlandish.’
‘I’m certain, and truth be told, my suspicions lie a little
closer to home,’ I say.
‘One of the servants?’ he asks, lowering his voice, his gaze
leaping to the door.
‘Helena,’ I say.
His wife’s name strikes him like a blow.
‘Helena, you must be… I mean… my dear man…’
His face is turning red, his words boiling over and spilling
out of his mouth. I can feel a similar heat in my own cheeks.
This line of questioning is poison to Dance.
‘Evelyn suggested the relationship was fractured,’ I say
quickly, laying the words down like stones across a boggy
field.
Hardcastle’s gone to the window, where he’s standing with
his back to me. Civility clearly does not allow for
confrontation, though I can see his body trembling, his hands
clenched behind him.
‘I won’t deny Helena has no great fondness for Evelyn, but
without her we’ll be bankrupt in a couple of years,’ he says,
measuring every word as he struggles to keep his anger in
check. ‘She wouldn’t put our future in jeopardy.’
He didn’t say she’s not capable of it.
‘But—’
‘Damn it, Dance, what’s your interest in this slander?’ he
shouts, yelling at my reflection in the glass so he doesn’t have


to yell at me.
This is it. Dance knows Peter Hardcastle well enough to
know he’s at the end of his patience. My next answer will
decide whether he opens up, or points me towards the door. I
need to choose my words carefully, which means pressing the
thing he most cares about. Either I tell him I’m trying to save
his daughter’s life or…
‘I’m sorry, Peter,’ I say, my voice conciliatory. ‘If
somebody’s trying to sabotage this deal with Ravencourt, I
must put a stop to it, both as your friend and your legal
counsel.’
He sags.
‘Of course, you must,’ he says, looking at me over his
shoulder. ‘I’m sorry, old friend, it’s just… all this talk of
murder… well, it’s stirring some old memories… you
understand. Naturally, if you think Evelyn’s in danger, I’ll do
everything I can to help, but you’re mistaken if you believe
Helena would ever harm Evelyn. The relationship is strained,
but they do love one another. I’m certain of it.’
I allow myself a small sigh of relief. Battling Dance has
been exhausting, but finally I’m on the verge of some answers.
‘Your daughter contacted somebody called Felicity
Maddox, claiming she was worried by Helena’s behaviour,’ I
continue, obliging my host’s need to place the facts in their
proper order. ‘She’s not on the guest list, but I believe Felicity
came to the house to help, and there’s a possibility she’s now
being held as collateral should Evelyn fail to go through with
the suicide. Michael told me she was a childhood friend of
your daughter’s, but couldn’t recall anything more about her.
Do you remember this girl? Have you seen her around the
house perhaps? I have reason to believe she was at liberty this
morning.’
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.’
All through the story I’ve watched his face for some
emotion, but it’s been a bland recital of the facts. Once again
I’m struck by the callowness of this man. An hour ago, I’d
assumed Thomas’s death had reduced his feelings to ash, but
now I wonder if that soil wasn’t always infertile. Nothing
grows in this man but greed.
‘How did you discover the truth?’ I ask.
‘Sheer chance,’ he says, laying his hands against the wall
either side of the window. ‘I went for a walk and stumbled
upon Carver and Helena arguing over the boy’s future. She
admitted everything.’
‘So why not divorce her?’ I ask.
‘And have everybody know my shame?’ he says, aghast.
‘Bastard children are common currency these days, but
imagine the tattle if people discovered Lord Peter Hardcastle
had been cuckolded by a common gardener. No, Dance, that
wouldn’t do.’
‘What happened after you found out?’
‘I let Carver go, gave him a day to get off the estate.’
‘Was that the same day he killed Thomas?’
‘Exactly so, our confrontation sent him into a rage and he…
he…’
His eyes are blurry, red with drink. He’s been emptying and
refilling that glass all morning.
‘Stanwin came to Helena a few months later with his hand
out. You see, Dance, I’m not being blackmailed directly. It’s
Helena, and my reputation with her. I simply pay for it.’
‘And what of Michael, Evelyn and Cunningham?’ I ask.
‘Do they know any of this?’


‘Not to my knowledge. A secret’s hard enough to keep
without putting it in the mouths of children.’
‘So how did Stanwin come by it?’
‘I’ve been asking myself that question for nineteen years
and I’m no closer to an answer. Perhaps he was friends with
Carver, servants talk after all. Otherwise I’m at a loss. All I
know is that should word get out, I’ll be ruined. Ravencourt’s
sensitive to scandal and he won’t marry into a family on the
front pages.’
His voice lowers, drunk and mean, his finger pointed
directly at me.
‘Keep Evelyn alive and I’ll give you anything you ask, you
hear me? I won’t let that bitch cost me my fortune, Dance. I
won’t allow it.’


36
Peter Hardcastle has fallen into a drunken sulk, gripping his
glass as though worried somebody will take it from him.
Judging his usefulness at an end, I grab an apple from the fruit
bowl and slip out of the room on the end of a hollow apology,
closing the sitting-room door that I might ascend the stairs
without his noticing. I need to speak with Gold and I’d rather
not wade through a cloud of questions to do so.
A draught greets me at the top of the staircase, twisting and
curling in the air, sneaking through the cracked windows and
beneath the doors to stir the leaves littering the floor. I’m
reminded of walking these corridors as Sebastian Bell,
searching for the butler with Evelyn at my side. It’s odd to
think of them here, odder still to remember that Bell and I are
the same man. His cowardice makes me cringe, but there’s
enough distance between us now that it sits apart from me. He
feels like an embarrassing story I once overheard at a party.
Somebody else’s shame.
Dance despises men such as Bell, but I can’t be so
judgemental. I have no idea who I am beyond Blackheath, or
how I think when I’m not wedged inside somebody else’s
mind. For all I know, I’m exactly like Bell… and would that
truly be so bad? I envy him his compassion, as I envy
Ravencourt’s intelligence, and Dance’s ability to see through
the shroud to the heart of things. If I carry any of these
qualities out of Blackheath, I’ll be proud to have them.
Making certain I’m alone in the corridor, I enter the room
where Gregory Gold is hanging from the ceiling by his bound
wrists. He’s murmuring, jerking in pain, trying to outrun some
untiring nightmare. Compassion compels me to cut him down,
but Anna wouldn’t have left him strung up like this without a
very good reason.
Even so, I still need to speak with him, so I shake him
gently, then more firmly.
Nothing.


I slap his face, then splash him with water from the nearby
jug, but he doesn’t stir. This is horrendous. Doctor Dickie’s
sedative is unyielding and no matter how hard Gold writhes he
can’t free himself of it. My stomach turns, a chill settling on
my bones. Until now, the horrors in my future had always been
vague, insubstantial things, dark shapes lurking in a fog. But
this is me, my fate. Reaching up on my tiptoes, I pull his
sleeves down to reveal the slashes on his arms he showed me
last night.
‘Don’t get out of the carriage,’ I murmur, recalling his
warning.
‘Step away from him,’ says Anna from behind me. ‘And
turn around nice and slow. I won’t ask twice.’
I do as she bids.
She is standing in the doorway with a shotgun pointed at
me. Blonde hair spills from her cap, her expression fierce. Her
aim is steady, her finger pressing against the trigger. One
wrong move and I have no doubt she’d kill me to protect Gold.
No matter the odds arrayed against me, knowing somebody
cares this deeply is enough to make even Dance’s cold heart
swell.
‘It’s me, Anna,’ I say. ‘It’s Aiden.’
‘Aiden?’
The shotgun lowers a little as she steps close, her face
breathing distance from my own as she inspects my newly
acquired crags and lines.
‘The book mentioned you’d get old,’ she says, holding the
gun in one hand. ‘Didn’t mention you’d end up with a face
like a headstone, though.’
She nods at Gold.
‘Admiring the slashes, are you?’ she says. ‘Doctor reckons
he did that to himself. Poor man cut his own arms to ribbons.’
‘Why?’ I ask horrified, trying to imagine any circumstance
in which I’d turn a knife on myself.


‘You’d know better than me,’ she sniffs. ‘Let’s talk where
it’s warm.’
I follow her into the room across the corridor, where the
butler’s sleeping peacefully beneath white cotton sheets. Light
is pouring through a high window, and a small fire is crackling
in the grate. Dried blood mars the pillow, but otherwise it’s a
serene scene, affectionate and intimate.
‘Has he woken up yet?’ I say, nodding to the butler.
‘Briefly, in the carriage. We haven’t long arrived. Poor sod
could barely breathe. What about Dance? What’s he like?’
asks Anna, hiding the shotgun under the bed.
‘Humourless, hates his son, otherwise he’s fine. Anything’s
better than Jonathan Derby,’ I say, pouring myself a glass of
water from the jug on the table.
‘I met him this morning,’ she says distantly. ‘Can’t imagine
it’s pleasant being trapped in that head.’
It wasn’t.
I say, tossing her the apple I took from the sitting room,
‘You told him you were hungry, so I brought you this. I wasn’t
sure if you’d had a chance to eat yet.’
‘I haven’t,’ she says, polishing it on her apron. ‘Ta.’
I walk over to the window, clearing a spot of grime away
with my sleeve. It looks out over the road, where I’m surprised
to see the Plague Doctor pointing at the gatehouse. Daniel’s
standing beside him, the two of them conferring.
The scene unsettles me. Thus far my interlocutor has taken
great care to keep a barrier between us. This closeness I see
now feels like collaboration, as though I’ve bowed to
Blackheath in some way, accepting Evelyn’s death and the
Plague Doctor’s assertion that only one of us can leave.
Nothing could be further from the truth. Knowing I can change
this day has given me the belief to keep fighting… so, what on
earth are they talking about down there?
‘What can you see?’ says Anna.
‘The Plague Doctor talking with Daniel,’ I say.


‘I haven’t met him,’ she says, taking a bite out of her apple.
‘And what the bloody hell is a Plague Doctor?’
I blink at her. ‘Meeting you in the wrong order’s becoming
problematic.’
‘At least there’s only one of me,’ she says. ‘Tell me about
this doctor of yours.’
I quickly fill her in on my history with the Plague Doctor,
starting with our meeting in the study when I was Sebastian
Bell, and recounting how he stopped my car when I tried to
escape and, more recently, upbraided me for chasing Madeline
Aubert in the forest as Jonathan Derby. It already seems a
lifetime ago.
‘Sounds like you’ve made a friend,’ she says, chewing
noisily.
‘He’s using me,’ I say. ‘I just don’t know what for.’
‘Daniel might, they seem chummy enough,’ she says,
joining me at the window. ‘Any idea what they’re talking
about? Have you solved Evelyn’s murder and forgotten to tell
me?’
‘If we do this right, there won’t be a murder to solve,’ I say,
my attention fixed on the scene below.
‘So you’re still trying to save her, even after the Plague
Doctor said it was almost impossible?’
‘As a rule, I ignore half of everything he tells me,’ I say
distantly. ‘Call it a healthy scepticism of any wisdom that
comes delivered through a mask. Besides, I know this day can
be changed, I’ve seen it.’
‘Christ’s sake, Aiden,’ she says angrily.
‘What’s wrong?’ I ask, startled.
‘This, all of this!’ she says, spreading her arms
exasperatedly. ‘We had a deal, you and me. I’d sit in this little
room and keep these two safe, and you’d use your eight lives
to solve this murder.’
‘That’s what I’m doing,’ I say, confused by her anger.


‘No, it’s not,’ she says. ‘You’re running around trying to
save the person whose death is our best chance of escape.’
‘She’s my friend, Anna.’
‘She’s Bell’s friend,’ Anna counters. ‘She humiliated
Ravencourt and she nearly killed Derby. Far as I’ve seen,
there’s more warmth in a long winter than in that woman.’
‘She had her reasons.’
It’s a weak response, intended to bat away the question
rather than answer it. Anna’s right, Evelyn hasn’t been my
friend for a long time now, and though the memory of her
kindness still lingers, it’s not my driving impulse. That’s
something else, something deeper, something squirming. The
idea of leaving her to be slain sickens me. Not Dance, not any
of my other hosts. It sickens me, Aiden Bishop.
Unfortunately, Anna’s building up a head of steam and
doesn’t give me a chance to dwell on the revelation.
‘I don’t care about her reasons, I care about yours,’ she says,
pointing at me. ‘Maybe you don’t feel it, but deep down, I
know how long I’ve been in this place. It’s decades, Aiden,
I’m sure of it. I need to leave, I have to, and this is my best
chance, with you. You’ve got eight lives, you’ll get out of here
eventually. I do all this once, and then forget. Without you I’m
stuck, and what happens if next time you wake up as Bell, you
don’t remember me?’
‘I won’t leave you here, Anna,’ I insist, shaken by the
desperation in her voice.
‘Then solve the damn murder like the Plague Doctor asked
you to, and believe him when he says that Evelyn can’t be
saved!’
‘I can’t trust him,’ I say, losing my temper and turning my
back on her.
‘Why not, everything he’s said has happened. He’s—’
‘He said you’d betray me,’ I shout.
‘What?’


‘He told me you’d betray me,’ I repeat, shaken by the
admission. Until now I’d never actually voiced the accusation,
preferring to dismiss it in the quiet of my thoughts. Now I’ve
said it out loud it’s a real possibility, and it worries me. Anna’s
right, everything else the Plague Doctor’s said has come true,
and as strong as my connection to this woman is, I can’t be
completely certain she won’t turn on me.
She reels backwards as if struck, shaking her head.
‘I’d never… Aiden, I’d never do that, I swear.’
‘He said you remembered more about our last loop than you
were admitting,’ I say. ‘Is that true? Is there something you’re
not telling me?’
She hesitates.
‘Is it true, Anna?’ I demand.
‘No,’ she says forcefully. ‘He’s trying to get between us,
Aiden. I don’t know why, but you can’t listen to him.’
‘That’s my point,’ I shoot back. ‘If the Plague Doctor’s
telling the truth about Evelyn, he’s telling the truth about you.
I don’t believe he is. I think he wants something, something
we don’t know about, and I think he’s using us to get it.’
‘Even if that’s the case, I don’t understand why you’re so
insistent on saving Evelyn,’ says Anna, still struggling with
what I had told her.
‘Because somebody’s going to kill her,’ I say haltingly.
‘And they’re not doing it themselves, they’re twisting her in
knots so she’ll do it herself, and they’re making sure
everybody sees. It’s cruel and they’re enjoying it, and I can’t…
It doesn’t matter whether we like her, or whether the Plague
Doctor is right, you don’t get to kill somebody and put them
on display. She’s innocent, and we can stop it. And we
should.’
I falter, breathless, teetering on the edge of a memory
sprung loose by Anna’s questions. It’s as though a curtain’s
been pulled back, the man I used to be almost visible through
the gap. Guilt and grief, they’re the keys, I’m certain of it.
They’re what brought me to Blackheath in the first place.


They’ve been driving me to save Evelyn, but that wasn’t my
purpose here, not really.
‘There was somebody else,’ I say slowly, clutching at the
edges of the memory. ‘A woman, I think. She’s the reason I
came here, but I couldn’t save her.’
‘What was her name?’ says Anna, taking my wrinkled old
hands and looking up into my face.
‘I can’t remember,’ I say, my head throbbing in
concentration.
‘Was it me?’
‘I don’t know,’ I say.
The memory’s slipping away. There are tears on my cheeks,
an ache in my chest. I feel like I’ve lost somebody, but I have
no idea who. I look into Anna’s wide brown eyes.
‘It’s gone,’ I say weakly.
‘I’m sorry, Aiden.’
‘Don’t be,’ I say, feeling my strength return. ‘We’re going to
get out of Blackheath, I promise, but I have to do it my way.
I’ll make it work, you just have to trust me, Anna.’
I’m expecting an objection, but she confounds me with a
smile.
‘Then where do we start?’ she says.
‘I’m going to find Helena Hardcastle,’ I say, wiping my face
with a handkerchief. ‘Do you have any leads on the footman?
He killed Derby last night, and I doubt Dance is far behind.’
‘Actually, I’ve been thinking up a plan.’
She peers under the bed, bringing out the artist’s
sketchbook, which she opens and drops on my lap. This is the
book that’s been guiding her all day, but the intricate
spiderweb of cause and effect I’d anticipated is nowhere to be
seen.
Its contents are gibberish, as far as I can tell.


‘I thought I wasn’t allowed to see this?’ I say, craning my
head to read her awkward upside-down writing. ‘I’m
honoured.’
‘Don’t be, I’m only letting you see the bit you need,’ she
says.
Circled warnings and sketches of the day’s events have been
scrawled in an erratic hand, snatches of conversation dashed
onto the page, without any context to explain them. I recognise
a few of the moments, including a hasty drawing of the
butler’s beating at the hands of Gold, but most of them are
meaningless.
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.’
‘We three find ourselves in the same boat then,’ says
Cunningham. ‘I was also hoping to catch her. Perhaps we can
go along together. My business shouldn’t take very long, but
I’ll be happy to stand in line, as it were.’
‘And what is your business?’ I ask, as we begin walking
back towards the stables. ‘It was my understanding you met
with Lady Hardcastle before breakfast.’


The directness of my question momentarily unsettles his
good cheer, a flash of annoyance passing across his face.
‘A few matters for Lord Hardcastle,’ he says. ‘You know
how these things are. One mess soon leads to another.’
‘But you have seen the lady of the house today?’ I say.
‘Indeed, first thing.’
‘How did she seem?’
He shrugs, frowning at me. ‘I couldn’t say. Our talk was
very brief. May I ask where these questions are leading, Mr
Dance? I rather feel like I’m facing you in court.’
‘Nobody else has seen Lady Hardcastle today. That strikes
me as strange.’
‘Perhaps she’s wary of being pestered with questions,’ he
says, flaring.
We arrive at the stablemaster’s cottage in an irritated mood,
Mr Miller writhing in discomfort as he invites us inside. It’s as
neat and orderly as the last time I was here, although much too
small for three men and their secrets.
I take the chair by the table, while Cunningham inspects the
bookcase, and the stablemaster frets, doing his best to tidy an
already tidy cottage.
We wait for ten minutes, but Lady Hardcastle never arrives.
It’s Cunningham who breaks the silence.
‘Well, it seems the lady has other plans,’ he says, checking
his watch. ‘I’d better get off, I’m expected in the library. Good
morning to you, Mr Dance, Mr Miller,’ he says, inclining his
head before opening the door and departing.
Miller looks up at me nervously.
‘What about you, Mr Dance?’ he says. ‘Will you be waiting
longer?’
I ignore this, and join him by the fireplace.
‘What were you speaking with Cunningham about?’ I ask.


He stares at the window, as though his answers are coming
by messenger. I snap my fingers in front of his face, drawing
his watery eyes towards me.
‘At this moment, I’m simply curious, Mr Miller,’ I say in a
low voice dripping with unpleasant possibilities. ‘In a minute
or so, I’ll be annoyed. Tell me what you were speaking about.’
‘He wanted somebody to show him around,’ he says, jutting
out his lower lip, revealing the pink flesh within. ‘Wanted to
see the lake, he did.’
Whatever Miller’s skills in this world, lying is not one of
them. His elderly face is a mass of wrinkles and overhanging
flesh, more than enough material for his emotions to build a
stage from. Every frown is a tragedy, every smile a farce. A
lie, sitting as it does somewhere between both, is enough to
collapse the entire performance.
Placing my hand on his shoulder, I lower my face to his,
watching as his eyes flee mine.
‘Charles Cunningham grew up on this estate, Mr Miller, as
well you know. He has no need of a tour guide. Now, what
were you discussing?’
He shakes his head. ‘I promised—’
‘I can make promises too, Miller, but you won’t enjoy
mine.’
My fingers press into his collarbone, tight enough to make
him wince.
‘He was asking about the murdered boy,’ he says
reluctantly.
‘Thomas Hardcastle?’
‘No, sir, the other one.’
‘What other one?’
‘Keith Parker, the stable boy.’
‘What stable boy? What are you talking about, man?’


‘Nobody remembers him, sir, not important enough,’ he
says, gritting his teeth. ‘One of mine, he was. Lovely boy,
about fourteen. Went missing a week or so before Master
Thomas died. Couple of peelers came up to take a look in the
forest, but they couldn’t find his body, so they said he ran
away. I tell you, sir, he never did. Loved his mam, loved his
job. He wouldn’t have done it. I said as much at the time, but
nobody listened.’
‘Did they ever find him?’
‘No, sir, never did.’
‘And that’s what you told Cunningham?’
‘Aye, sir.’
‘Is that all you told him?’
His eyes shift left and right.
‘There’s more, isn’t there?’ I say.
‘No, sir.’
‘Don’t lie to me, Miller,’ I say coldly, my hackles rising.
Dance hates people who try to deceive him, considering it a
suggestion of gullibility, of stupidity. To even attempt it, liars
must believe themselves to be cleverer than the person they’re
lying to, an assumption he finds grotesquely insulting.
‘I’m not lying, sir,’ protests the poor stablemaster, a vein
bulging on his forehead.
‘You are! Tell me what you know!’ I demand.
‘I can’t.’
‘You will, or I’ll ruin you, Mr Miller,’ I say, giving my host
free rein. ‘I’ll take everything you have, every stitch of
clothing and every penny you’ve squirrelled away.’
Dance’s words pour out of my mouth, each one dripping
with poison. This is how he runs his law practice, bludgeoning
his opponents with threats and intimidation. In his own way,
Dance may be just as vile as Derby.
‘I’ll dig up every—’


‘The story’s a lie,’ Miller blurts out.
His face is ashen, his eyes haunted.
‘What does that mean? Out with it!’ I say.
‘They say Charlie Carver killed Master Thomas, sir.’
‘What of it?’
‘Well, he couldn’t have, sir. Charlie and me were friendly
like. Charlie had an argument with Lord Hardcastle that
morning, been fired he had, so he decided to take severance.’
‘Severance?’
‘A few bottles of brandy, sir, right out of Lord Hardcastle’s
study. Just walked in and took them.’
‘So he stole a few bottles of brandy,’ I say. ‘How does that
prove his innocence?’
‘He came to fetch me after I sent Miss Evelyn out riding on
her pony. Wanted a last drink with a friend, he said. Couldn’t
say no, could I? We drank those bottles between us, me and
Charlie, but around half an hour before the murder, he said I
had to leave.’
‘Leave, why?’
‘He said somebody was coming to see him.’
‘Who?’
‘I don’t know, sir, he never said. He just—’
He falters, feeling along the edge of the answer for the crack
he’s certain he’s about to fall through.
‘What?’ I demand.
The poor fool’s wringing his hands together, rucking up the
rug with the ball of his left foot.
‘He said everything was arranged, sir, said they were going
to help him get a good position somewhere else. I thought
maybe…’
‘Yes.’
‘The way he was talking, sir… I thought…’


‘Spit it out for God’s sake, Miller.’
‘Lady Hardcastle, sir,’ he says, meeting my gaze for the first
time. ‘I thought maybe he was meeting Lady Helena
Hardcastle. They’d always been friendly like.’
My hand drops from his shoulder.
‘But you didn’t see her arrive?’
‘I…’
‘You didn’t leave, did you?’ I say, catching the guilt on his
face. ‘You wanted to see who was coming, so you hid
somewhere nearby.’
‘For a minute, sir, just to see, to make sure he was all right.’
‘Why didn’t you tell anybody this?’ I say, frowning at him.
‘I was told not to, sir.’
‘By whom?’
He looks up at me, chewing the silence into a desperate
plea.
‘By whom, dammit?’ I persist.
‘Well, Lady Hardcastle, sir. That’s what made me… well,
she wouldn’t have let Charlie kill her son, would she? And if
he had, she wouldn’t have told me to keep it quiet. Doesn’t
make no sense, does it? He has to be innocent.’
‘And you kept this secret all these years?’
‘I was afraid, sir. Terrible afraid, sir.’
‘Of Helena Hardcastle?’
‘Of the knife, sir. The one used to kill Thomas. They found
it in Carver’s cabin, hidden under the floorboards. That’s what
did for him in the end, sir.’
‘Why would you be afraid of the knife, Miller?’
‘Because it was mine, sir. Horseshoe knife, it was. Went
missing from my cottage a couple of days before the murder.
That and a nice blanket right off my bed. I thought they might,
well, blame me, sir. Like I was in on it with Carver, sir.’


The next few minutes pass in a blur, my thoughts far afield.
I’m vaguely aware of promising to keep Miller’s secrets, just
as I’m vaguely aware of leaving the cottage, the rain soaking
me as I head back towards the house.
Michael Hardcastle told me somebody had been with
Charlie Carver the morning of Thomas’s death, somebody
Stanwin had clipped with a shotgun before they escaped.
Could that person have been Lady Hardcastle? If so, her
injuries would have needed tending quietly.
Doctor Dickie?
The Hardcastles were hosting a party the weekend Thomas
was murdered, and by Evelyn’s account the same guests were
invited back for this ball. Dickie’s in the house today, so it’s
likely he was here nineteen years ago.
He won’t talk, he’s loyal as a dog.
‘He’s in the drug-peddling business with Bell,’ I say,
remembering the marked-up Bible I found in his room when I
was Derby. ‘That will be enough leverage to force the truth
from him.’
My excitement’s building. If Dickie confirms that Lady
Hardcastle was shot in the shoulder, she’d have to be a suspect
in Thomas’s death. But why on earth would she take her own
son’s life, or allow Carver – a man Lord Hardcastle claimed
she loved – to take the blame on her behalf?
This is the closest Dance gets to glee, the old lawyer having
spent his life following the facts like a hunting dog with the
scent of blood in its nose, and it’s not until Blackheath lifts
itself off the horizon that I finally awake to my surroundings.
At this distance, with these weak eyes, the house is smudged,
the cracks obscured, and one sees Blackheath as it must
formerly have been, back when a young Millicent Derby
summered here with Ravencourt and the Hardcastles, when
children played in the forest without fear, their parents
enjoying parties and music, laughter and singing.
How glorious it must have been.


One could understand why Helena Hardcastle might yearn
for those days again, and might even attempt to restore them
by throwing another party. One could understand, but only a
fool would accept that as the reason any of this is happening.
Blackheath cannot be restored. The murder of Thomas
Hardcastle hollowed it out forever, making it fit only for ruin,
and yet, despite that, she’s invited the same guests to the same
party, nineteen years later to the day. The past has been dug up
and dressed up, but to what purpose?
If Miller’s right and Charlie Carver didn’t kill Thomas
Hardcastle, chances are it was Helena Hardcastle, the spinner
of this dreadful web we’re all tangled in, and the woman I’m
increasingly convinced is at the centre of it.
Chances are she’s planning to kill Evelyn tonight, and I still
don’t have any idea how to find her, let alone stop her.


38
A few gentlemen are smoking outside Blackheath, sharing
stories of last night’s debauchery. Their cheerful greetings
follow me up the steps, but I pass by without comment. My
legs are aching, my lower back demanding a soak in the
bathtub, but I don’t have time. The hunt begins in half an hour
and I can’t miss it. I have too many questions and most of the
answers will be carrying shotguns.
Taking a decanter of Scotch from the drawing room, I retire
to my room, knocking back a couple of stiff drinks to smother
the pain. I can feel Dance’s objection, his distaste not only at
my acknowledgement of the discomfort, but my need to dim
it. My host despises what’s happening to him, seeing age as a
malignancy, a consumption and an erosion.
Stripping out of my muddy clothes, I take myself over to the
mirror, realising I still have no idea what Dance looks like.
Putting on a new body every day has already become
commonplace, and it’s only the hope of catching some glimpse
of the real Aiden Bishop that compels me to keep looking.
Dance is in his late seventies, as withered and grey on the
outside as the inside. Almost bald, his face is a river of
wrinkles running off his skull, pinned in place only by a large
roman nose. Either side of that are a small grey moustache and
dark, lifeless eyes suggesting nothing of the man within,
except, perhaps, that there may not be a man within.
Anonymity seems to be a compulsion with Dance, whose
clothes – though good quality – come in shades of grey, with
only the handkerchiefs and bow ties offering anything in the
way of colour. Even then, the choice is either dark red or dark
blue, giving the impression of a man camouflaged within his
own life.
His hunting tweeds are a little tight around the middle, but
they’ll suffice, and with another glass of Scotch warming my
throat, I cross the corridor to Doctor Dickie’s bedroom,
rapping on the door.
Steps approach from the other side, Dickie opening it wide.
He’s dressed for the hunt.


‘I don’t work this much at my surgery,’ he grumbles. ‘I
should warn you, I’ve already tended knife wounds, memory
loss and a severe beating this morning, so whatever your
ailment, it needs to be interesting. And above the waist,
preferably.’
‘You peddle drugs through Sebastian Bell,’ I say bluntly,
watching the smile vanish from his face. ‘He sells them, you
supply them.’
White as a sheet, he’s forced to steady himself against the
doorframe.
Seeing weakness, I press my advantage. ‘Ted Stanwin
would pay handsomely for this information, but I don’t need
Stanwin. I need to know if you treated Helena Hardcastle, or
anybody else, for a gunshot wound the day Thomas Hardcastle
was murdered?’
‘The police asked me the same question at the time and I
answered honestly,’ he rasps, loosening his collar. ‘No, I did
not.’
Scowling, I turn away from him. ‘I’m going to Stanwin,’ I
say.
‘Dammit man, I’m telling the truth,’ he says, catching my
arm.
We look each other in the eyes. His are old and dim and lit
by fear. Whatever he finds in mine causes him to release me
immediately.
‘Helena Hardcastle loves her children more than life itself,
and she loved Thomas the most,’ he insists. ‘She couldn’t have
harmed him, she wouldn’t have been able. I swear to you, on
my honour as a gentleman, nobody came to me that day with
an injury, and I don’t have the first clue who Stanwin shot.’
I hold his pleading gaze for a second, searching for some
flicker of deceit, but he’s telling the truth, I’m certain of it.
Deflated, I let the doctor go and return to the entrance hall
where the rest of the gentlemen are gathering, smoking and
chatting, impatient for the hunt to begin. I was certain Dickie


would confirm Helena’s involvement, and in so doing, give me
a starting point for Evelyn’s death.
I need to get a better picture of what happened to Thomas,
and I know precisely the man to ask.
Searching for Ted Stanwin, I step into the drawing room,
where I find Philip Sutcliffe in green hunting tweeds, attacking
the keys of the pianoforte with a great deal of gusto and very
little skill, the almost-music transporting me back to my first
morning in the house – a memory currently being lived by
Sebastian Bell, who’s standing alone and uncomfortable in the
far corner, nursing a drink he doesn’t even know the name of.
My pity for him is balanced by Dance’s irritation, the old
lawyer having little patience for ignorance of any sort. Given
the chance, he’d tell Bell everything, consequences be
damned, and I must admit the idea is tempting.
Why shouldn’t Bell know that he saw a maid called
Madeline Aubert in the forest this morning and not Anna? And
that neither of them died, so his guilt is unnecessary? I could
explain the loop, and how Evelyn’s murder is the key to
escape, preventing him from wasting his day as Donald Davies
by trying to flee. Cunningham is Charlie Carver’s son, I’d say,
and it looks like he’s trying to prove Carver didn’t kill Thomas
Hardcastle. When the time comes, this is the information
you’ll blackmail Cunningham with, because Ravencourt
abhors scandal and would almost certainly get rid of his valet
if he found out. I’d tell him to find the mysterious Felicity
Maddox and, most importantly, Helena Hardcastle, because
every road leads back to the missing lady of the house.
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.
The other hunters are already entering the forest, the group
having fractured into smaller knots by the time I finally catch
up. I need to talk to Stanwin about Helena, but he’s moving
quickly, holding himself apart from us. I can barely keep sight
of him, let alone talk with him, and eventually I give up,
deciding to corner him when we stop to rest.
Wary of encountering the footman, I join Sutcliffe and
Pettigrew, who are still pondering the implications of Daniel’s


deal with Lord Hardcastle. Their good cheer doesn’t last. The
forest is oppressive, bludgeoning every utterance down to a
whisper after an hour, and crushing all conversation twenty
minutes after that. Even the dogs have gone quiet, sniffing at
the ground as they tug us deeper into the murk. The shotgun is
a comforting weight in my arms and I cling to it fiercely, tiring
quickly, but never letting myself fall too far behind the group.
‘Enjoy yourself, old man,’ Daniel Coleridge calls out from
behind me.
‘I’m sorry?’ I stir sluggishly from my thoughts.
‘Dance is one of the better hosts,’ says Daniel, drawing
closer. ‘Good mind, calm manner, able-enough body.’
‘This able-enough body feels like it’s walked a thousand
miles, not ten,’ I say, hearing the weariness in my voice.
‘Michael’s arranged for the hunting party to split,’ he says.
‘The older gents will take a breather, while the younger lot
carry on. Don’t worry, you’ll have a chance to rest your legs
soon.’
Thick bushes have sprung up between us, forcing us to carry
on our conversation blind, like two lovers in a maze.
‘It’s a damn nuisance being tired all of the time,’ I say,
seeing glimpses of him through the leaves. ‘I’m looking
forward to Coleridge’s youth.’
‘Don’t let this handsome face of his fool you,’ he muses.
‘Coleridge’s soul is black as pitch. Keeping hold of him is
exhausting. Mark my words, when you’re wearing this body,
you’ll look back on Dance with a great deal of fondness, so
enjoy him while you can.’
The bushes recede, allowing Daniel to fall into step beside
me. He has a black eye and is walking with a slight limp,
every step accompanied by a wince of pain. I remember seeing
these injuries at dinner, but the gentle candlelight made them
look far less severe. Shock must show on my face, because he
smiles weakly.
‘It’s not as bad as it looks,’ he says.


‘What happened?’
‘I chased the footman through the passages,’ he says.
‘You went without me?’ I say, surprised by his recklessness.
When we made the plan to corner the footman beneath the
house, it was evident that it required six people to be
successful, a pair to watch each of the three exits. Once Anna
refused to help and Derby was knocked unconscious, I
assumed Daniel would drop it. Evidently, Derby isn’t the last
of my bull-headed hosts.
‘No choice, old chap,’ he says. ‘Thought I had him. Turns
out I was mistaken. Luckily, I managed to fight him off before
he loosed his knife.’
Anger sizzles deep in every word. I can only imagine how it
must feel to be so preoccupied by the future that you’re
blindsided by the present.
‘Have you found a way to free Anna yet?’ I ask.
With a painful groan, Daniel hitches his shotgun up his arm.
Even limping at my slow pace, he’s barely able to stand up
straight.
‘I haven’t, and I don’t think I’m going to,’ he says. ‘I’m
sorry, hard as it is to hear, only one of us can leave, and the
closer we get to 11 p.m., the more likely it is Anna will betray
us. We can only trust each other from here on.’
She’ll betray you.
Is this the moment behind the Plague Doctor’s warning?
Friendship is a simple matter when everybody stands to
benefit, but now… how will she react knowing Daniel’s giving
up on her?
How will you react?
Sensing my hesitation, Daniel lays a comforting hand on my
shoulder. With a start I realise that Dance admires this man.
He finds his sense of purpose exhilarating, his single-
mindedness resonating with a quality my host values in
himself. Perhaps that’s why Daniel approached me with this


information rather than any of our other hosts. These two are
reflections of each other.
‘You didn’t tell her, did you?’ he says anxiously. ‘About our
offer being hollow?’
‘I was distracted.’
‘I know it’s difficult, but you must keep all of this to
yourself,’ says Daniel, sweeping me into his confidence as one
would a child entrusted with a secret. ‘If we’re to outfox the
footman, we’ll need Anna’s help. We won’t get that if she
knows we can’t hold up our end of the bargain.’
Heavy steps sound behind us, and, looking over my
shoulder, I see Michael advancing on us, his customary grin
replaced by a scowl.
‘Heavens,’ says Daniel. ‘You look like somebody kicked
your dog. What on earth’s wrong?’
‘It’s this damnable search,’ he says irritably. ‘Belly saw a
girl murdered out here, and yet I can’t get a single person to
take it seriously. I’m not asking much, just that they look
around as they walk. Maybe knock over a pile of leaves, that
sort of thing.’
Daniel coughs, shooting Michael an embarrassed glance.
‘Oh, dear,’ says Michael, frowning at him. ‘This is bad
news, isn’t it?’
‘Good news, really,’ says Daniel hastily. ‘There’s no dead
girl. It was a misunderstanding.’
‘A misunderstanding,’ says Michael slowly. ‘How on earth
could it be a misunderstanding?’
‘Derby was out here,’ says Daniel. ‘He frightened a maid,
things got heated and your sister took a shot at him. Bell
mistook it for a murder.’
‘Blast Derby!’ Michael turns abruptly for the house. ‘I’ll not
have it. He can go to the devil under somebody else’s roof.’
‘It wasn’t his fault,’ interrupts Daniel. ‘Not this time at
least. Hard as it is to believe, Derby was trying to help. He


simply got the wrong end of the stick.’
Michael stops, eyeing Daniel suspiciously.
‘Are you certain?’ he asks.
‘I am,’ says Daniel, putting an arm around his friend’s tense
shoulders. ‘It was a dreadful misunderstanding. Nobody’s
fault.’
‘That’s a first for Derby.’
Michael lets out a rueful sigh, the fury evaporating from his
face. He’s a man of fleeting emotions this one, quick to anger,
easily amused and just as easily bored, I shouldn’t wonder. I
briefly imagine what it would be like to inhabit that mind.
Dance’s coldness has its drawbacks, but it’s undoubtedly
preferable to Michael’s mood hopscotch.
‘All morning I’ve been telling the chaps there’s a dead body
out here, and they should be ashamed of being so jolly,’ says
Michael, abashed. ‘As if this weekend wasn’t already
miserable enough for them.’
‘You were helping a friend.’ Daniel offers him a fatherly
smile. ‘You have nothing to be ashamed of.’
I’m taken aback by Daniel’s kindness, and more than a little
pleased. While I admire his commitment to escaping
Blackheath, I’m alarmed by his ruthless pursuit of it.
Suspicion is already my first emotion, and fear binds me
tighter every minute. It would be easy to mistake everybody
for enemies, and treat them accordingly, and I’m heartened to
see Daniel is still capable of rising above such thoughts.
As Daniel and Michael walk close together, I take my
opportunity to question the young man. ‘I couldn’t help but
notice your revolver,’ I say, pointing to his holster. ‘It’s your
mother’s, isn’t it?’
‘Is it?’ He seems genuinely surprised. ‘I didn’t even know
Mother kept a gun. Evelyn gave it to me this morning.’
‘Why would she give you a revolver?’ I ask.
Michael flushes with embarrassment.


‘Because I don’t like hunting very much,’ he says, kicking
at some leaves in his path. ‘All that blood and thrashing, it
makes me feel damn queer. I wasn’t even supposed to be out
here, but between the search and Father’s absence, I didn’t
have a great deal of choice. I was in a dreadful state about it,
but Evelyn’s a clever old stick. She gave me this’ – he taps the
gun – ‘said it was impossible to hit anything, but I’d look very
dashing trying.’
Daniel’s trying to suppress laughter, drawing a good-natured
smile from Michael.
‘Where are your parents, Michael?’ I say, ignoring the
teasing. ‘I thought this was their party, but the burden of it
seems to have fallen solely on your shoulders.’
He scratches the back of his neck, looking gloomy.
‘Father’s locked himself in the gatehouse, Uncle Edward.
He’s brooding as usual.’
Uncle?
Snatches of Dance’s memory surface, fleeting glimpses of a
lifelong friendship with Peter Hardcastle that made me an
honorary part of the family. Whatever we had has long since
faded, but I’m surprised by the affection I still feel for this boy.
I’ve known him his entire life. I’m proud of him. Prouder than
of my own son.
‘As for Mother,’ continues Michael, oblivious to my
momentary confusion. ‘To tell you the truth, she’s been acting
strangely since we got here. Actually, I was hoping you’d
speak with her privately. I think she’s avoiding me.’
‘And me,’ I counter. ‘I haven’t managed to catch hold of her
all day.’
He pauses, making his mind up on something. Lowering his
voice, he continues confidentially, ‘I’m worried she’s gone off
the deep end.’
‘Deep end?’
‘It’s like she’s somebody else entirely,’ he says, worried.
‘Happy one minute, angry the next. It’s impossible to keep


track, and the way she looks at us now, it’s as if she doesn’t
recognise us.’
Another rival?
The Plague Doctor said there were three of us: the footman,
Anna and myself. I can’t see what purpose would be served by
lying. I steal a glance at Daniel, trying to gauge whether he
knows anything more about this, but his attention is riveted on
Michael.
‘When did this behaviour start?’ I ask casually.
‘I couldn’t tell you, feels like forever.’
‘But when was the first time you noticed it?’
He chews his lip, cycling back in his memories.
‘The clothes!’ he says suddenly. ‘That would be it. Did I tell
you about the clothes?’ He’s looking at Daniel, who shakes his
head blankly. ‘Come now, I must have? Happened about a year
ago?’
Daniel shakes his head again.
‘Mother had come up to Blackheath for her annual morbid
pilgrimage, but when she got back to London, she burst into
my place in Mayfair and started ranting about finding the
clothes,’ says Michael, telling the story as though expecting
Daniel to leap in at any moment. ‘That’s all she’d say, that
she’d found the clothes, and did I know anything about them.’
‘Whose clothes were they?’ I say, humouring him.
I’d been excited to hear about Helena’s altered personality,
but if she changed a year ago, it’s unlikely she’s another rival.
And while there’s certainly something strange about her, I
don’t see how laundry can help me decipher what it is.
‘Damned if I know,’ he says, throwing his hands up. ‘I
couldn’t get a sensible thing out of her. In the end, I managed
to calm her down, but she wouldn’t keep quiet about the
clothes. Kept saying everybody would know.’
‘Know what?’ I say.


‘She never did say, and she left shortly after, but she was
adamant.’
Our group is thinning out as the dogs draw the hunters in a
different direction, Herrington, Sutcliffe and Pettigrew waiting
for us a little further ahead. They’re obviously hanging back
for further directions, and after saying his goodbyes, Michael
jogs ahead to point the way.
‘What did you make of that?’ I ask Daniel.
‘I haven’t yet,’ he says vaguely.
He’s preoccupied, his gaze dragging behind Michael. We
continue in silence until we reach an abandoned village at the
bottom of a cliff. Eight stone cottages are arranged around a
dirt junction, the thatched roofs rotted away, the logs that once
supported them collapsed. Echoes of old lives linger still; a
bucket among the rubble, an anvil tipped over by the side of
the road. Some might find them charming, but I see only relics
of former hardships, happily deserted.
‘Nearly time,’ Daniel mutters, staring at the village.
There’s a look on his face I can’t quite place, married to a
tone that’s impatient, excited and a little afraid. It makes my
skin prickle. Something of note is about to happen here, but
for the life of me I can’t see what it could be. Michael’s
showing Sutcliffe and Pettigrew one of the old stone houses,
while Stanwin leans against a tree, his thoughts far afield.
‘Be ready,’ Daniel says enigmatically, disappearing into the
trees before I have the chance to question him further. Any
other host would follow him, but I’m exhausted. I need to sit
down somewhere.
Settling myself on a crumbling wall, I rest while the others
talk, my eyelids drooping. Age is coiling around me, its fangs
in my neck, drawing my strength when I need it most. It’s an
unpleasant sensation, perhaps even worse than the burden of
Ravencourt’s bulk. At least the initial shock of being
Ravencourt waned, allowing me to become accustomed to his
physical limitations. Not so with Dance, who still thinks of
himself as a vigorous young man, waking up to his age only


when he catches sight of his wrinkled hands. Even now, I can
feel him frowning at my decision to sit down, to give in to my
tiredness.
I pinch my arm, struggling to stay awake, irritated at my
vanishing energy.
It makes me wonder how old I am outside of Blackheath.
It’s not something I’ve allowed myself to dwell on before,
time being short enough without indulging in pointless
musing, but here and now I pray for youth, for strength, good
health and a sound mind. To escape all this only to find myself
permanently trapped in—


39
Day Two (continued)
I wake abruptly, stirring the Plague Doctor who’s staring at a
gold pocket watch, his mask painted a sickly yellow colour by
the candle in his hand. I’m back in the butler, swaddled in
cotton sheets.
‘Right on time,’ says the Plague Doctor, snapping the watch
shut.
It looks to be dusk, the room mired in a gloom only partially
beaten back by our small flame. Anna’s shotgun is lying on the
bed beside me.
‘What happened?’ I say, my voice hoarse.
‘Dance is dozing on his wall.’ The Plague Doctor chuckles,
placing his candle on the floor and dropping into the small
chair by the bed. It’s far too small for him, his greatcoat
swallowing the wood completely.
‘No, I meant, the shotgun. Why do I have it?’
‘One of your hosts left it for you. Don’t bother calling for
Anna,’ he says, noticing that I’m eyeing the door. ‘She’s not in
the gatehouse. I came to warn you that your rival has almost
solved the murder. I’m expecting him to find me at the lake
tonight. You must work quickly from this point onwards.’
I try to straighten out, but the pain in my ribs immediately
puts an end to my efforts.
‘Why are you so interested in me?’ I ask, letting the agony
settle into its familiar spots.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Why do you keep coming here for these talks? I know you
don’t bother with Anna, and I’d wager you don’t see much of
the footman either.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Why does—’


‘Answer the question,’ he says, rapping the floor with his
cane.
‘Edward Da… no, Derby. I…’ I flounder for a moment.
‘Aiden… something.’
‘You’re losing yourself to them, Mr Bishop,’ he says,
crossing his arms and leaning back in his chair. ‘It’s been
happening for a while now. That’s why we only allow you
eight hosts. Any more than that and your personality wouldn’t
be able to rise above theirs.’
He’s right. My hosts are getting stronger and I’m getting
weaker. It’s been happening incrementally, insidiously. It’s as
though I fell asleep on a beach, and now find myself cast out
to sea.
‘What do I do?’ I say, feeling a surge of panic.
‘Hold on,’ he says with a shrug. ‘It’s all you can do. There’s
a voice in your mind, you must have heard it by now. Dry,
slightly distant? It’s calm when you’re panicked, fearless when
you’re afraid.’
‘I’ve heard it.’
‘That’s what’s left of the original Aiden Bishop, the man
who first entered Blackheath. It’s not much more than a
fragment any more, a little piece of his personality clinging on
between loops, but if you begin to lose yourself, heed that
voice. It’s your lighthouse. Everything that remains of the man
you once were.’
With a great rustling of clothing, he gets to his feet, the
candle flame snapping in the breeze. Stooping down, he lifts
the candle from the floor and heads to the door.
‘Wait,’ I say.
He pauses, his back to me. The candlelight forms a warm
halo around his body.
‘How many times have we done all of this?’ I ask.
‘Thousands, I suspect. More than I could possibly count.’
‘So why do I keep failing?’


He sighs, looking over his shoulder at me. There’s a sense
of weariness in his bearing, as though every loop is sediment,
pressing down on him.
‘It’s a question I’ve pondered myself from time to time,’ he
says, melting wax running down the side to stain his glove.
‘Chance has played its part, stumbling when being sure footed
would have saved you. Mostly though, I think it’s your
nature.’
‘My nature?’ I ask. ‘You think I’m destined to fail?’
‘Destined? No. That would be an excuse, and Blackheath is
intolerant of excuses,’ he says. ‘Nothing that’s happening here
is inevitable, much as it may appear otherwise. Events keep
happening the same way day after day, because your fellow
guests keep making the same decisions day after day. They
decide to go hunting, they decide to betray each other; one of
them drinks too much and skips breakfast, missing a meeting
that would change his life forever. They cannot see another
way, so they never change. You are different, Mr Bishop. Loop
after loop, I’ve watched you react to moments of kindness and
cruelty, random acts of chance. You make different decisions,
and yet repeat the same mistakes at crucial junctures. It’s as
though some part of you is perpetually pulled towards the pit.’
‘Are you saying I have to become somebody else to
escape?’
‘I’m saying every man is in a cage of his own making,’ he
says. ‘The Aiden Bishop who first entered Blackheath’ – he
sighs, as if the memory troubles him – ‘the things he wanted
and his way of getting them were… unyielding. That man
could never have escaped Blackheath. This Aiden Bishop
before me is different. I think you’re closer than you’ve ever
been, but I’ve thought that before and been fooled. The truth is
you’ve yet to be tested, but that’s coming, and if you’ve
changed, truly changed, then who knows, there may be hope
for you.’
Ducking under the doorframe, he moves into the corridor
with the candle.


‘You have four hosts after Edward Dance, including what’s
left of the days of the butler and Donald Davies. Be cautious,
Mr Bishop, the footman isn’t going to rest until they’re all
dead, and I’m not sure you can afford to lose a single one of
them.’
With that he closes the door.


40
Day Six (continued)
Dance’s years fall on me like a thousand small weights.
Michael and Stanwin are speaking behind me, Sutcliffe and
Pettigrew laughing uproariously with drinks in their hands.
Rebecca hovers over me with a silver tray, one last glass of
brandy for the taking.
‘Rebecca,’ I say fondly, almost reaching out a hand to touch
my wife’s cheek.
‘No, sir, it’s Lucy, sir, Lucy Harper,’ says the maid,
concerned. ‘Sorry to wake you, I was worried you were going
to fall off the wall.’
I blink away the memory of Dance’s dead wife, cursing
myself for a fool. What a ridiculous mistake to make.
Thankfully, the remembrance of Lucy’s kindness towards the
butler tempers my irritation at being caught in a moment of
such sentiment.
‘Would you like a drink, sir?’ she asks. ‘Something to warm
you up?’
I look past her to see Evelyn’s lady’s maid, Madeline
Aubert, packing dirty glasses and half-empty brandy bottles
into a hamper. The two of them must have carried it over from
Blackheath, arriving while I slept. I seem to have dozed for
longer than I suspected, as they’re already readying
themselves to leave.
‘I think I’m unsteady enough,’ I say.
Her gaze flickers over my shoulder towards Ted Stanwin,
whose hand is gripping Michael Hardcastle’s shoulder.
Uncertainty writes itself in large letters across her face, which
is little wonder considering his treatment of her at lunchtime.
‘Don’t worry, Lucy, I’ll take it over to him,’ I say, rising and
removing the glass of brandy from the tray. ‘I need to speak
with him anyway.’


‘Thank you, sir,’ she says with a wide smile, departing
before I can change my mind.
Stanwin and Michael are quiet when I come upon them, but
I can hear the things not being said and the unease that stands
in its place.
‘Michael, may I have a private word with Mr Stanwin?’ I
ask.
‘Of course,’ says Michael, inclining his head and
withdrawing.
I hand Stanwin the drink, ignoring the suspicion with which
he glances at the glass.
‘Rare that you’d lower yourself to come and talk with me,
Dance,’ says Stanwin, sizing me up the way a boxer might an
opponent in the ring.
‘I thought we could help each other,’ I say.
‘I’m always interested in making new friends.’
‘I need to know what you saw on the morning of Thomas
Hardcastle’s murder.’
‘It’s an old story,’ he says, tracing the edge of his glass with
a fingertip.
‘But worth hearing from the horse’s mouth, surely,’ I say.
He’s looking over my shoulder, watching Madeline and
Lucy depart with their hamper. I have the sense he’s searching
for a distraction. Something about Dance puts him on edge.
‘No harm in it, I suppose,’ he says with a grunt, returning
his attention to me. ‘I was Blackheath’s gamekeeper back then.
I was on my rounds around the lake, same as every morning,
when I saw Carver and another devil with his back to me
stabbing the little boy. I took a shot at him, but he escaped into
the woods while I was wrestling with Carver.’
‘And for that Lord and Lady Hardcastle gave you a
plantation?’ I say.
‘They did, not that I asked,’ he sniffs.


‘Alf Miller, the stablemaster, says Helena Hardcastle was
with Carver that morning, a few minutes before the attack.
What do you say to that?’
‘That he’s a drunk and a damned liar,’ says Stanwin
smoothly.
I search for some tremor, some hint of unease, but he’s an
accomplished deceiver this one, his fidgeting put away now he
knows what I want. I can feel the scales tipping in his
direction, his confidence growing.
I’ve misjudged this.
I believed I could bully him as I did the stablemaster and
Dickie, but Stanwin’s nervousness wasn’t a symptom of fear, it
was the unease of a man finding a lone question in his pile of
answers.
‘Tell me, Mr Dance,’ he says, leaning close enough to
whisper into my ear. ‘Who’s the mother of your son? I know it
wasn’t your dearly departed Rebecca. Don’t get me wrong,
I’ve got a few ideas, but it would save me the cost of
confirming them if you’d tell me up front. I might even
discount your monthly payment afterwards, for services
rendered.’
My blood freezes. This secret sits at the core of Dance’s
being. It’s his greatest shame, his only weakness, and
Stanwin’s just closed his fist around it.
I couldn’t respond even if I wanted to.
Stepping away from me, Stanwin tosses the untouched
brandy into the bushes with a flick of his wrist.
‘Next time you come to trade, make sure you have
something—’
A shotgun explodes behind me.
Something splashes my face, Stanwin’s body jolting
backwards before hitting the ground in a mangled heap. My
ears are ringing and, touching my cheek, I find blood on my
fingertips.
Stanwin’s blood.


Someone shrieks, others gasp and cry out.
Nobody moves, then everybody does.
Michael and Clifford Herrington race towards the body,
hollering for somebody to fetch Doctor Dickie, but it’s
obvious the blackmailer’s dead. His chest is broken open, the
malice that drove him flown the coop. One good eye is pointed
in my direction, an accusation held within. I want to tell him
this wasn’t my fault, that I didn’t do this. Suddenly, that seems
like the most important thing in the world.
It’s shock.
Bushes rustle, Daniel stepping out, smoke rising from the
barrel of his shotgun. He’s looking down at the body with so
little emotion I could almost believe him innocent of the
crime.
‘What did you do, Coleridge?’ cries Michael, checking
Stanwin for a pulse.
‘Exactly what I promised your father I would do,’ he says
flatly. ‘I’ve made sure Ted Stanwin will never blackmail any
of you again.’
‘You murdered him!’
‘Yes,’ says Daniel, meeting his shocked gaze. ‘I did.’
Reaching into his pocket, Daniel hands me a silk
handkerchief.
‘Clean yourself up, old man,’ he says.
I take it unthinkingly, even thanking him. I’m dazed,
bewildered. Nothing about this feels real. Wiping Stanwin’s
blood off my face, I stare at the crimson smear on the
handkerchief, as if it can somehow explain what’s happening. I
was speaking with Stanwin, and then he was dead, and I don’t
understand how that could be. Surely there should be more? A
chase, fear, a warning of some sort. We shouldn’t simply die.
It feels like a swindle. So much paid, too much asked.
‘We’re ruined,’ wails Sutcliffe, slumping against a tree.
‘Stanwin always said that if anything happened to him, our
secrets would be made common knowledge.’


‘That’s your concern?’ yells Herrington, wheeling on him.
‘Coleridge murdered a man in front of us!’
‘A man we all hated,’ Sutcliffe shoots back. ‘Don’t pretend
you weren’t thinking the same thing. Don’t any of you
pretend! Stanwin bled us dry in life and he’s going to destroy
us in death.’
‘No, he won’t,’ says Daniel, resting the shotgun across his
shoulder.
He’s the only one who’s calm, the only one who isn’t acting
like an entirely different person. None of this means anything
to him.
‘Everything he has on us—’ says Pettigrew.
‘Is written in a book that I now own,’ interrupts Daniel,
retrieving a cigarette from his silver case.
His hand’s not even shaking. My hand. What the hell does
Blackheath make me?
‘I commissioned somebody to steal it for me,’ he continues
casually, lighting his cigarette. ‘Your secrets are my secrets
and they’ll never see the light of day. Now, I believe each of
you owes me a promise. It’s this: you won’t mention this to
anybody for the rest of the day. Is that understood? If anybody
asks, Stanwin stayed behind when we left. He didn’t say why,
and that was the last you saw of him.’
Blank faces find each other, everybody too stunned to
speak. I can’t tell whether they’re aghast at what they’ve
witnessed or simply overcome by their good fortune.
For my part, the shock is fading, the horror of Daniel’s
actions finally sinking in. Half an hour ago, I was praising him
for showing a modicum of kindness to Michael. Now I’m
covered in another man’s blood, realising how deeply I’ve
underestimated his desperation.
My desperation. This is my future I’m seeing, and it makes
me feel sick.
‘I need to hear the words, gentleman,’ says Daniel, blowing
smoke from the corner of his mouth. ‘Tell me you understand


what happened here.’
Assurances arrive in a jumble, muted but sincere. Only
Michael seems upset.
Meeting his gaze, Daniel speaks coldly.
‘And don’t forget, I have all of your secrets in my hands.’
He lets that settle. ‘Now, I think you should head back before
anybody comes looking for us.’
The suggestion is met with a murmur of agreement,
everybody disappearing back into the forest. Signalling for me
to remain behind, Daniel waits until they’re out of earshot
before speaking.
‘Help me go through his pockets,’ he says, rolling up his
sleeves. ‘The other hunters will be coming back this way soon,
and I don’t want them to see us with the body.’
‘What have you done, Daniel?’ I hiss.
‘He’ll be alive tomorrow,’ he says, waving his hand
dismissively. ‘I’ve knocked over a scarecrow.’
‘We’re supposed to be solving a murder, not committing
one.’
‘Give a little boy an electric train set and he’ll immediately
try to derail it,’ he says. ‘The act does not speak to his
character, nor do we judge him for it.’
‘You think this is a game?’ I snap, pointing at Stanwin’s
body.
‘A puzzle, with disposable pieces. Solve it and we get to go
home.’ He frowns at me, as if I’m a stranger who’s asked
directions to a place that doesn’t exist. ‘I don’t understand
your concern.’
‘If we solve Evelyn’s murder in the manner you’re
suggesting, we don’t deserve to go home! Can’t you see, these
masks we wear betray us. They reveal us.’
‘You’re babbling,’ he says, searching Stanwin’s pockets.
‘We are never more ourselves than when we think people
aren’t watching, don’t you realise that? It doesn’t matter if


Stanwin’s alive tomorrow, you murdered him today. You
murdered a man in cold blood, and that will blot your soul for
the rest of your life. I don’t know why we’re here, Daniel, or
why this is happening to us, but we should be proving that it’s
an injustice, not making ourselves worthy of it.’
‘You’re misguided,’ he says, contempt creeping into his
voice. ‘We can no more mistreat these people than we could
their shadow cast upon the wall. I don’t understand what
you’re asking of me.’
‘That we hold ourselves to a higher standard,’ I say, my
voice rising. ‘That we be better men than our hosts! Murdering
Stanwin was Daniel Coleridge’s solution, but it shouldn’t be
yours. You’re a good man, you can’t lose sight of that.’
‘A good man,’ he scoffs. ‘Avoiding unpleasant acts doesn’t
make a man good. Look at where we are, what’s been done to
us. Escaping this place requires that we do what is necessary,
even if our nature compels us otherwise. I know this makes
you squeamish, that you don’t have the stomach for it. I was
the same, but I no longer have the time to tiptoe around my
ethics. I can end this tonight and I mean to, so don’t measure
me by how tightly I cling to my goodness, measure me by
what I’m willing to sacrifice that you might cling to yours. If I
fail, you can always try another way.’
‘And how will you live with yourself when you’re done?’ I
demand.
‘I’ll look at the faces of my family, and know that what I
lost in this place was not nearly as important as my reward for
leaving it.’
‘You can’t believe that,’ I say.
‘I do, and so will you after a few more days in this place,’
he says. ‘Now, please, help me search him before the hunters
find us here. I have no intention of wasting my evening
answering a policeman’s questions.’
It’s no use arguing with him, shutters have come down
behind his eyes.
I sigh, taking myself over to the body.


‘What am I looking for?’ I ask.
‘Answers, same as always,’ he says, unbuttoning the
blackmailer’s bloody jacket. ‘Stanwin collected every lie in
Blackheath, including the last piece of our puzzle, the reason
for Evelyn’s murder. Every scrap of knowledge he holds is
contained in a book written in code, with a separate book of
ciphers required to read it. I have the first, Stanwin keeps the
latter on him at all times.’
That was the book Derby stole from Stanwin’s bedroom.
‘Did you take it from Derby?’ I ask. ‘I was coshed on the
head almost as soon as I got my hands on it.’
‘Of course not,’ he says. ‘Coleridge had already
commissioned somebody to retrieve the book before I took
control of him. I didn’t even know he was interested in
Stanwin’s blackmail business until the book was delivered to
me. If it’s any consolation, I did consider warning you.’
‘So, why didn’t you?’
He shrugs. ‘Derby’s a rabid dog, it seemed better for
everybody to let him sleep for a few hours. Now come along,
we’re short of time.’
Shuddering, I kneel beside the body. This is no way for a
man to die, even one such as Stanwin. His chest is mincemeat
and blood has soaked through his clothing. It oozes around my
fingers when I delve inside his trouser pockets.
I work slowly, barely able to look.
Daniel has no such qualms, patting down Stanwin’s shirt
and jacket, seemingly impervious to the tattered flesh showing
through. By the time we’re finished, we’ve uncovered a
cigarette case, pocket knife and lighter, but no codebook.
We glance at each other.
‘We have to roll him over,’ says Daniel, voicing my
thoughts.
Stanwin was a large man, and it takes a great deal of effort
to push him onto his front. It’s worth it. I’m much more
comfortable searching a body that isn’t looking up at me.


As Daniel runs his hands along Stanwin’s trouser legs, I lift
his jacket, spotting a bulge in the lining surrounded by
haphazard stitching.
A ripple of excitement shames me. The last thing I want is
to justify Daniel’s methods, but now we’re on the verge of a
discovery, I’m growing more elated.
Using the dead man’s pocket knife, I slice the stitches,
letting the codebook slide into my palm. No sooner has it
come free, than I notice there’s something else in there.
Reaching inside, I pull out a small silver locket, its chain
removed. There’s a painting inside, and though it’s old and
cracked it’s obviously of a little girl, around seven or eight
with red hair.
I hold it out to Daniel, but’s he too busy flipping through the
codebook to pay attention.
‘This is it,’ he says excitedly. ‘This is our way out.’
‘I certainly hope so,’ I say. ‘We paid a high price for it.’
He looks up from the book a different man to the one who
started reading it. This is neither Bell’s Daniel, nor
Ravencourt’s. It’s not even the man of a few minutes ago,
arguing the necessity of his actions. This is a man victorious,
one foot already out of the door.
‘I’m not proud of what I did,’ he says. ‘But we couldn’t
have done this any other way, you must believe that.’
He may not be proud, but he’s not ashamed either. That
much is evident, and I’m reminded of the Plague Doctor’s
warning.
The Aiden Bishop who first entered Blackheath… the
things he wanted and his way of getting them were
unyielding. That man could never have escaped Blackheath.
In his desperation, Daniel’s making the same mistakes I
always have, exactly as the Plague Doctor warned me I would.
Whatever happens, I can’t let myself become this.
‘Are you ready to go?’ says Daniel.


‘Do you know the way home?’ I say, searching the forest
and realising I have no idea how we arrived here.
‘It’s east,’ he says.
‘And which way is that?’
Thrusting a hand into his pocket, he brings out Bell’s
compass.
‘I borrowed it from him this morning,’ he says, laying it flat
in his palm. ‘Funny how things repeat, isn’t it?’


41
We come upon the house rather unexpectedly, the trees giving
way to the muddy lawn, its windows burning bright with
candlelight. I must admit I’m glad to see it. Despite the
shotgun, I’ve spent the entire journey glancing over my
shoulder for the footman. If the codebook is as valuable as
Daniel believes, I must assume our enemy is also in pursuit of
it.
He’ll be coming for us soon.
Silhouettes are passing back and forth in the upper
windows, hunters trudging up the steps into the golden glow of
the entrance hall where caps and jackets are wrenched loose
and discarded, filthy water pooling on the marble. A maid
moves among us with a tray of sherry, from which Daniel
plucks two glasses, handing me one.
Clinking my glass, he throws his drink down his throat as
Michael arrives at our side. As with the rest of us, he looks to
have crawled off the ark, his dark hair plastered to his pale
face by the rain. Glancing at his watch, I discover it’s 6:07
p.m.
‘I’ve sent a couple of trustworthy servants to collect
Stanwin,’ he whispers, taking a sherry from the tray. ‘I told
them I stumbled on his body coming back from the hunt, and
instructed them to inter him in one of the old potting sheds.
Nobody will find him, and I won’t summon the police until
early tomorrow morning. I’m sorry, but I won’t leave him to
rot in the forest any longer than I have to.’
He clutches a half-empty glass of sherry, and though the
drink has put a little colour in his cheeks, it’s not nearly
enough.
The crowd in the hall is thinning out now. A couple of
maids have already appeared with buckets of sudsy water and
are waiting in the wings with their mops and their frowns,
trying to shame us into leaving so they can get to work.
Rubbing his eyes, Michael looks at us directly for the first
time.


‘I’m going to honour my father’s promise,’ he says. ‘But I
don’t like it.’
‘Michael—’ says Daniel, reaching out a hand, but Michael
steps away.
‘No, please,’ he says, his sense of betrayal palpable. ‘We’ll
speak another day, but not now, not tonight.’
He turns his back on us, heading up the stairs towards his
bedroom.
‘Never mind him,’ says Daniel. ‘He thinks I acted from
greed. He doesn’t understand how important this is. The
answers are in the ledger, I know it!’
He’s excited, like a boy with a new catapult.
‘We’re almost there, Dance,’ he says. ‘We’re almost free.’
‘And then what happens,’ I say. ‘Do you walk out of here?
Do I? We can’t both escape, we’re the same man.’
‘I don’t know,’ he says. ‘Presumably Aiden Bishop wakes
up again, his memories intact. Hopefully he won’t remember
either of us. We’re bad dreams, best forgotten.’ He checks his
watch. ‘Let’s not think about that now. Anna has arranged to
meet Bell in the graveyard this evening. If she’s right, the
footman’s heard about it and is sure to show. She’ll need us to
help capture him. That gives us about four hours to dig what
we need out of this book. Why don’t you get changed, and
come up to my room? We’ll do it together.’
‘I’ll be right along,’ I say.
His giddiness is a rare fillip. Tonight we’ll deal with the
footman and deliver the Plague Doctor’s answer. Somewhere
in the house, my other hosts are surely refining their plans to
save Evelyn’s life, which means I simply need to work out
how to save Anna as well. I cannot believe she’s been lying to
me this whole time, and I cannot imagine leaving this place
without her by my side, not after everything she’s done to help
me.
Floorboards echo as I return to my room, the house
grumbling under the weight of the returned. Everybody will be


getting ready for dinner.
I envy them their evening, for a darker purpose lies ahead of
me.
Much darker, the footman will not go quietly.
‘There you are,’ I say, glancing around to make sure
nobody’s listening. ‘Is it true you’re what’s left of the original
Aiden Bishop?’
Silence greets my question, and somewhere within I can
feel Dance sneering at me. I can only imagine what the stiff
old solicitor would say about a man talking to himself in this
fashion.
Aside from the dim light of the fire, my bedroom is
shrouded, the servants having forgotten to light the candles
ahead of my arrival. Suspicion pricks me. I raise the shotgun
to my shoulder. A gamekeeper tried to collect it when we
came inside, but I brushed him off, insisting it was part of my
personal collection.
Sparking the lantern beside the door, I see Anna standing in
the corner of the room, arms by her sides, expression blank.
‘Anna,’ I say, surprised, lowering the shotgun. ‘What’s the
—’
Wood creaks behind me, pain flares in my side. A rough
hand yanks me backwards, covering my mouth. I’m spun
around, bringing me face to face with the footman. There’s a
smirk on his lips, his eyes scratching at my face, as though
digging for something buried beneath.
Those eyes.
I try to scream, but he clamps my jaw shut.
He holds his knife up. Very slowly he runs the point down
my chest, before ramming it into my stomach, the pain of each
blow eclipsing the one before until pain is all there is.
I’ve never been so cold, never felt so quiet.
My legs buckle, his arms taking my weight, lowering me
carefully to the floor. He keeps his eyes on mine, soaking up


the life slipping out of them.
I open my mouth to scream, but no sound comes out.
‘Run, rabbit,’ he says, his face close to mine. ‘Run.’


42
Day Two (continued)
I scream, lurching up from the butler’s bed only to be pressed
back down by the footman.
‘This him?’ he says, looking over his shoulder at Anna,
who’s standing by the window.
‘Yes,’ she says, a tremor in her voice.
The footman leans close, his voice hoarse, ale-thick breath
warm on my cheek.
‘Didn’t leap far enough, rabbit,’ he says.
The blade slips into my side, my blood spilling onto the
sheets, taking my life with it.


43
Day Seven
I scream into suffocating darkness, my back against a wall, my
knees tucked under my chin. Instinctively I grab the spot
where the butler was stabbed, cursing my stupidity. The
Plague Doctor was telling the truth. Anna betrayed me.
I feel sick, my mind scrambling for a reasonable
explanation, but I saw her myself. She’s been lying to me this
whole time.
She isn’t the only one guilty of that.
‘Shut up,’ I say angrily.
My heart is racing, my breathing shallow. I need to calm
down, or I’ll be no use to anybody. Taking a minute, I try to
think of anything but Anna, but it’s surprisingly difficult. I
hadn’t realised how often my mind has reached for her in the
quiet.
She was safety, and comfort.
She was my friend.
Shifting position, I try to work out where I’ve woken up and
whether I’m in any immediate danger. At first blush, it doesn’t
appear so. My shoulders are touching the walls either side of
me, a sliver of light piercing a crack near my right ear, dusting
cardboard boxes on my left and bottles down by my feet.
I move my wristwatch to the light, discovering that it’s
10:13 a.m. Bell hasn’t even reached the house yet.
‘It’s still morning,’ I say to myself, relieved. ‘I still have
time.’
My lips are dry, my tongue cracked, the air so thick with
mildew it feels like a dirty rag’s been stuffed down my throat.
A drink would be nice, something cold, anything with ice. It
seems a long time since I’ve woken up beneath cotton sheets,
the day’s torments queuing patiently on the other side of a
warm bath.


I didn’t know when I was well off.
My host must have slept in this position all night because
it’s agony to move. Thankfully, the panel to the right of me is
loose and pushes open without too much effort, my eyes
watering as they’re exposed to the harsh brightness of the
room beyond.
I’m in a long gallery stretching the length of the house,
cobwebs dangling from the ceiling. The walls are dark wood,
the floor littered with dozens of pieces of old furniture that are
thick with dust and almost hollowed out by woodworm.
Brushing myself off, I get to my feet, shaking some life into
my iron limbs. Turns out my host spent the night in a storage
cupboard beneath a small flight of stairs leading up to a stage.
Yellowed sheet music sits open in front of a dusty cello, and
looking at it, I feel like I’ve slept through some great calamity,
judgement having come and gone while I was stuffed in that
cupboard.
What the hell was I doing under there?
Aching, I stagger over to one of the windows lining the
gallery. It’s shrouded with grime, but wiping a spot clear with
my sleeve reveals Blackheath’s gardens below. I’m on the top
floor of the house.
Out of habit, I begin searching my pockets for some clue as
to my identity, but realise I don’t need it. I’m Jim Rashton. I’m
twenty-seven, a constable in the police force, and my parents
Margaret and Henry beam with pride whenever they tell
anybody. I have a sister, I have a dog and I’m in love with a
woman called Grace Davies, who’s the reason I’m at this
party.
Whatever barrier used to exist between myself and my hosts
is almost completely knocked through. I can barely tell
Rashton’s life from my own. Unfortunately, my recollection of
how I came to end up in the cupboard is clouded by the bottle
of Scotch that Rashton was drinking last night. I remember
telling old stories, laughing and dancing, barrelling recklessly
through an evening that had no other purpose than pleasure.
Was the footman there? Did he do this?


I strain for the memory, but last night’s a drunken smear.
Agitation instinctively sends my hand to the leather cigarette
case Rashton keeps in his pocket, but there’s only one cigarette
left inside. I’m tempted to light it to calm my nerves, but given
the circumstances a frayed temper might serve me better,
especially if I have to fight my way out of here. The footman
tracked me from Dance into the butler, so it’s doubtful I’ll find
safe harbour in Rashton.
Caution will be my truest friend now.
Casting around for a weapon, I find a bronze statue of Atlas.
I creep forwards with it held above my head, picking my way
through walls of armoires and giant webs of interlocking
chairs until I arrive at a faded black curtain stretching the
length of the room. Cardboard trees are propped against the
walls, near clothes racks stuffed with costumes. Among them
are six or seven plague doctor outfits, the hats and masks piled
in a box on the floor. It appears the family used to put on plays
up here.
A floorboard creaks, the curtain twitching. Somebody’s
shuffling around back there.
I tense. Raising Atlas above my head, I—
Anna bursts through, her cheeks red.
‘Oh, thank God,’ she says, catching sight of me.
She’s out of breath, dark circles surrounding bloodshot
brown eyes. Her blonde hair is loose and tangled, her cap
scrunched up in her hand. The artist’s sketchbook chronicling
each of my hosts bulges in her apron.
‘You’re Rashton, right? Come on, we only have half an hour
to save the others,’ she says, lunging forward to take hold of
my hand.
I step back, the statue still raised, but the breathlessness of
the introduction has knocked me off balance, as has the lack of
guilt in her voice.
‘I’m not going anywhere with you,’ I say, gripping Atlas a
little tighter.


Confusion paints her face, followed by a dawning
realisation.
‘Is this because of what happened to Dance and the butler?’
she asks. ‘I don’t know anything about that, about anything
really. I’ve haven’t been up long. I just know you’re in eight
different people and a footman’s killing them, and we need to
go and save the ones that are left.’
‘You expect me to trust you?’ I say, stunned. ‘You distracted
Dance while the footman murdered him. You were standing in
the room when he killed the butler. You’ve been helping him,
I’ve seen you!’
She shakes her head.
‘Don’t be an idiot,’ she cries. ‘I haven’t done any of that
yet, and even when I do, it won’t be because I’m betraying
you. If I wanted you dead, I’d pick off your hosts before they
ever woke up. You wouldn’t see me, and I certainly wouldn’t
work with a man guaranteed to turn on me once we’d
finished.’
‘Then what were you doing there?’ I demand.
‘I don’t know, I haven’t lived that part yet,’ she snaps back.
‘You – another you, I mean – were waiting for me when I
woke up. He gave me a book that told me to find Derby in the
forest, then come here and save you. That’s my day. That’s
everything I know.’
‘It’s not enough,’ I say, bluntly. ‘I haven’t done any of that,
so I don’t know if you’re telling the truth.’
Putting the statue down, I walk past her, heading for the
black curtain she emerged through.
‘I can’t trust you, Anna,’ I say.
‘Why not?’ she says, catching my trailing hand. ‘I’m
trusting you.’
‘That’s not—’
‘Do you remember anything from our previous loops?’


‘Only your name,’ I say, looking down at her fingers
intertwined with mine, my resistance already crumbling. I
want to believe her so badly.
‘But you don’t remember how any of them ended?’
‘No,’ I say impatiently. ‘Why are you asking me this?’
‘Because I do,’ she says. ‘The reason I know your name is
because I remember calling for you in the gatehouse. We’d
arranged to meet there. You were late, and I was worried. I
was so happy to see you, and then I saw the look on your
face.’
Her eyes find mine, the pupils wide and dark and daring.
They’re guileless. Surely, she couldn’t have…
Everybody in this house is wearing a mask.
‘You murdered me right where I stood,’ she says, touching
my cheek, studying the face I still haven’t seen. ‘When you
found me this morning, I was so scared I almost ran away, but
you were so broken… so scared. All your lives had crashed
down on top of you. You couldn’t tell one from another, you
didn’t even know who you were. You pushed this book into
my hands and said you were sorry. You kept repeating it. You
told me you weren’t that man any more and that we couldn’t
get out of this by making the same mistakes all over again. It
was the last thing you said.’
Memories are stirring slowly and so far away that I feel like
a man reaching across a river to trap a butterfly between his
fingers.
She presses the chess piece into my palm, curling my
fingers around it.
‘This might help,’ she says. ‘We used these pieces in the last
loop to identify ourselves. A bishop for you, Aiden Bishop,
and a knight for me. The protector, like now.’
I remember the guilt, the sorrow. I remember the regret.
There aren’t images, there isn’t even a memory. It doesn’t
matter. I can feel the truth of what she’s saying, as I felt the
strength of our friendship the first time we met, and the agony


of the grief that brought me to Blackheath. She’s right, I
murdered her.
‘Do you remember now?’ she says.
I nod, ashamed and sick to my stomach. I didn’t want to
hurt her, I know that. We’d been working together like today,
but something changed… I became desperate. I saw my
escape slipping away, and I panicked. I promised myself I’d
find a way to get her out after I’d left. I couched my betrayal
in noble intentions, and I did something awful.
I shudder, waves of revulsion washing over me.
‘I don’t know which loop the memory is from,’ says Anna.
‘But I think I held on to it as a warning to myself. A warning
not to trust you again.’
‘I’m sorry, Anna,’ I say. ‘I… I let myself forget what I did. I
held on to your name instead. It was a promise to myself, and
to you, that I’d do better next time.’
‘And you’re keeping that promise,’ she says soothingly.
I wish that were true, but I know it’s not. I’ve seen my
future. I’ve spoken with him, helped him in his schemes.
Daniel is making the same mistakes I made in my last loop.
Desperation has made him ruthless and unless I stop him, he’s
going to sacrifice Anna again.
‘Why didn’t you tell me the truth when we first met?’ I say,
still ashamed.
‘Because you already knew,’ she says, wrinkling her
forehead. ‘From my perspective, we met two hours ago, and
you knew everything about me.’
‘The first time I met you, I was Cecil Ravencourt,’ I
respond.
‘Then we’re meeting in the middle, because I don’t know
who that is yet,’ she says. ‘It doesn’t matter though. I won’t
tell him, or any of the others, because it doesn’t matter. It
wasn’t us in those loops. Whoever they were, they made
different choices, different mistakes. I’m choosing to trust you,
Aiden, and I need you to trust me, because this place is… you


know how it works. Whatever you think I was doing when the
footman killed you, it wasn’t everything. It wasn’t the truth.’
She’d seem confident if it weren’t for the nervous throb in
her throat, the way her foot worries at the floor. I can feel her
hand trembling against my cheek, the strain in her voice.
Beneath all the bravado, she’s still afraid of me, of the man I
was, of the man who may still be lurking within.
I can’t imagine the courage it took to bring her here.
‘I don’t know how to get us both out of here, Anna.’
‘I know.’
‘But I will, I won’t leave without you, I promise.’
‘I know that too.’
And that’s when she slaps me.
‘That’s for murdering me,’ she says, standing on her tiptoes
to plant a kiss on the sting. ‘Now, let’s go and make sure the
footman doesn’t murder any more of you.’


44
Wood creaks, the narrow, twisting staircase darkening the
further down we get, until finally we sink beneath the gloom.
‘Do you know why I was in that cupboard?’ I ask Anna,
who’s ahead of me and moving fast enough to outrun a falling
sky.
‘No idea, but it saved your life,’ she says, glancing back at
me over her shoulder. ‘The book said the footman would be
coming for Rashton around this time. If he’d slept in his
bedroom last night, the footman would have found him.’
‘Maybe we should let him find me,’ I say, feeling a rush of
excitement. ‘Come on, I’ve got an idea.’
I push past Anna, and begin leaping down the steps two at a
time.
If the footman’s coming for Rashton this morning, there’s
every chance he’ll still be lurking around the corridors. He’ll
be expecting a man asleep in his bed, which means I’ve got the
upper hand for once. With a little luck, I can put an end to this
here and now.
The steps end abruptly at a whitewashed wall, Anna still
halfway up and calling for me to slow down. A police officer
of considerable skill – as he’d freely admit himself –
Rashton’s no stranger to hidden things. My fingers expertly
locate a disguised catch allowing me to tumble into the dark
hallway outside. Candles flicker behind sconces, the Sun
Room standing empty on my left. I’ve emerged on the ground
floor, the door I came through already blending into the wall.
The footman is less than twenty yards away. He’s on his
knees, jimmying the lock to what I instinctively know is my
bedroom.
‘Looking for me, you bastard,’ I spit, hurling myself at him
before he has a chance to grab his knife.
He’s on his feet quicker than I could have imagined, leaping
backwards and kicking out to catch me in the chest, knocking
the wind from me. I land awkwardly, clutching my ribs, but he


doesn’t move. He’s standing there waiting, wiping saliva from
the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand.
‘Brave rabbit,’ he says, grinning. ‘I’m going to gut you
slow.’
Rising and dusting myself off, I raise my fists in a boxer’s
stance, suddenly aware of how heavy my arms feel. That night
in the cupboard’s done me no favours, and my confidence is
ebbing away by the second. This time I approach him slowly,
feinting left and right, working an opening that never comes.
A jab catches my chin, rocking my head back. I don’t even see
the second punch that smashes into my stomach, or the third
that puts me on the floor.
I’m disorientated, dizzy, struggling for breath as the
footman looms over me, dragging me up by my hair and
stretching for his knife.
‘Hey!’ shouts Anna.
It’s the slightest of distractions, but it’s enough. Slipping
free of the footman’s hold, I kick his knee, then launch my
shoulder up into his face, breaking his nose, blood splattering
my shirt. Reeling backwards down the corridor, he grabs hold
of a bust and hurls it at me one-handed, forcing me to leap
aside as he flees around the corner.
I want to go after him, but I don’t have the strength. I slide
down the wall until I’m sitting on the floor, clutching my
aching ribs. I’m shaken and unnerved. He was too fast, too
strong. If that fight had gone on any longer, I’d be dead, I’m
certain of it.
‘You bloody idiot!’ yells Anna, glowering at me. ‘You
almost got yourself killed.’
‘Did he catch sight of you?’ I say, spitting out the blood in
my mouth.
‘I don’t think so,’ she says, reaching out a hand to help me
up. ‘I kept to the shadows, and I doubt he was seeing much
after you broke his nose.’
‘I’m sorry, Anna,’ I say. ‘I honestly thought we could catch
hold of him.’


‘You damn well should be,’ she says, surprising me with a
fierce hug, her body trembling. ‘You have to be careful, Aiden.
Thanks to that bastard, you’ve only got a few hosts left. If you
make a mistake, we’re going to be stuck here.’
Realisation hits me like a rock.
‘I only have three hosts left,’ I repeat, stunned.
Sebastian Bell fainted after seeing the dead rabbit in the
box. The butler, Dance and Derby were slain, and Ravencourt
fell asleep in the ballroom after watching Evelyn commit
suicide. That leaves Rashton, Davies and Gregory Gold.
Between the split days and leaping back and forth, I lost count.
I should have seen it immediately.
Daniel claimed he was the last of my hosts, but that can’t be
true.
A warm blanket of shame pulls itself over my body. I can’t
believe I was so easily deceived. So willingly deceived.
It wasn’t entirely your fault.
The Plague Doctor warned me Anna would betray me. Why
would he do that when it was Daniel who was lying to me?
And why would he tell me there were only three people trying
to escape this house, when there are four? He’s gone out of his
way to conceal Daniel’s duplicity.
‘I’ve been so blind,’ I say, hollowly.
‘What’s wrong?’ says Anna, pulling away and looking at
me with concern.
I falter, my mind clicking into gear as embarrassment gives
way to cold calculation. Daniel’s lies were elaborate, but their
purpose remains obscure. I could understand him trying to
earn my trust if he wanted to profit from my investigation, but
that’s not the case. He’s barely asked about it. Quite the
contrary; he gave me a head start by telling me it was Evelyn
who would be murdered at the ball, and he warned me about
the footman.
I can no longer call him a friend, but I can’t be certain he’s
an enemy either. I need to know where he stands, and the best


way of doing that is to maintain the illusion of ignorance until
he reveals his true intentions.
I have to begin with Anna.
God help us if she let anything slip to Derby, or Dance.
Their first reaction to a problem is to run at it, even if it’s
wrapped in thorns.
Anna’s watching me, waiting for an answer.
‘I know something,’ I say, meeting her eyes. ‘Something
that matters to both of us, but I can’t tell you what it is.’
‘You’re worried about changing the day,’ she says, as if it’s
the most obvious thing in the world. ‘Don’t worry, this book’s
full of things I’m not allowed to tell you.’ She smiles, her
concern washing away. ‘I trust you, Aiden. I wouldn’t be here,
if I didn’t.’
Holding out a hand, she helps me off the floor.
‘We can’t stay in this corridor,’ she says. ‘I’m only alive
because he doesn’t know who I am. If he sees us together, I
won’t live long enough to help you.’ She smooths her apron
and straightens her cap, dropping her chin enough to appear
diffident. ‘I’ll go ahead. Meet me outside Bell’s bedroom in
ten minutes and keep your eyes open. Once the footman’s
healed up, he’ll be looking for you.’
I agree, but I have no intention of waiting in this draughty
corridor. Everything that’s happening today has Helena
Hardcastle’s fingerprints on it. I need to speak with her and
this might be my last chance.
Still nursing my injured pride and ribs, I look for her in the
drawing room, finding only a few early risers gossiping about
how Derby was hauled off by Stanwin’s thug. Sure enough,
his plate of eggs and kidneys is sitting on the table, where he
discarded it. It’s still warm, he can’t have long departed.
Nodding to them, I make my way to Helena’s bedroom, but
knocking on her door brings only silence. Running short of
time, I kick it open, shattering the lock.
That’s the mystery of who broke in solved.


The curtains are drawn, the tangled sheets on the four-poster
bed trailing off the mattress onto the floor. The room has the
soiled atmosphere of a troubled sleep, the sweat of nightmares
as yet unwashed by fresh air. The wardrobe is open, a vanity
table covered in spilled powder from a large tin, cosmetics
torn open and pushed aside, suggesting Lady Hardcastle
attended her toilet in something of a hurry. Laying my hand on
the bed, I find it cold. She’s already been gone some time.
Just as when I visited this room with Millicent Derby, the
roll-down bureau stands open, today’s page torn from Helena’s
day-planner and the lacquered gun case emptied of the two
revolvers it should contain. Evelyn must have taken them very
early this morning, probably after receiving the note
compelling her to commit suicide. She would have had no
trouble slipping through the connecting door from her
bedroom after her mother left.
But if she intends on shooting herself with the revolver, why
does she end up using the silver pistol Derby stole from
Doctor Dickie instead? And why would she take both
revolvers from the case? I know she gives one to Michael to
use on the hunt, but I can’t imagine that was foremost in her
mind after discovering her own life, and that of her friend, was
being threatened.
My eyes drift towards the day-planner and its torn-out page.
Is this also Evelyn’s work, or is somebody else responsible?
Millicent suspected Helena Hardcastle.
Running my fingertip along the torn edge, I let myself
worry.
I’ve seen Helena’s appointments in Lord Hardcastle’s
planner, so I know the missing page refers to her meetings
with Cunningham, Evelyn, Millicent Derby, the stablemaster
and Ravencourt. The only one of those I can be certain Helena
Hardcastle kept is with Cunningham. He admitted it to Dance,
and his ink-smudged fingerprints are all over the pages.
I slam the book closed in agitation. There’s still so much I
don’t understand and I’m running short of time.


Ideas gnaw at me as I head upstairs to Anna who’s pacing
back and forth outside Bell’s bedroom, examining the
sketchbook in her hands. I can hear muffled voices on the
other side of the door. Daniel must be talking to Bell in there,
which means the butler is down in the kitchen with Mrs
Drudge. He’ll be along shortly.
‘Have you seen Gold? He should already be here,’ says
Anna, staring into the shadows, perhaps hoping to carve him
out of the gloom with the sharpness of her glare.
‘I haven’t,’ I say, looking around nervously. ‘Why are we
here?’
‘The footman will kill the butler and Gold this morning,
unless we get them somewhere safe, where I can protect
them,’ she says.
‘Like the gatehouse.’
‘Exactly. Only it can’t look like that’s what we’re doing. If
it does, the footman will know who I am and kill me, as well.
If he thinks I’m just a nursemaid, and they’re too injured to be
a threat, he’ll leave us be for a little while, and that’s what we
want. The book reckons they’ve still got a role to play in all
this, assuming we can keep them alive.’
‘So what do you need me for?’
‘Damned if I know. I’m not exactly sure what I’m supposed
to be doing. The book says to bring you here at this time, but’
– she sighs, shaking her head – ‘that was the only clear
instruction, everything else is gibberish. It’s like I said, you
weren’t exactly lucid when you gave it to me. I’ve spent most
of the last hour trying to decipher the pages, knowing if I read
them wrong, or arrive too late, you’ll die.’
I shiver, unnerved by this brief glimpse at my future.
The book must have been given to Anna by Gregory Gold,
my final host. I can still remember him raving at Dance’s door
about the carriage. I remember thinking how pitiable he was,
how frightening. Those dark eyes wild and lost.
I’m not looking forward to tomorrow.


Folding my arms, I lean against the wall next to her, our
shoulders touching. Knowing you’ve killed somebody in a
previous life tends to narrow possible avenues of affection.
‘You’ve done a better job than I did,’ I say. ‘The first time
somebody handed me the future, I ended up chasing a maid
called Madeline Aubert halfway across the forest thinking I
was saving her life. I nearly frightened the poor girl to death.’
‘This day should come with instructions,’ she says glumly.
‘Do whatever comes naturally.’
‘I’m not sure running and hiding would help us,’ she says,
her frustration punctured by the sound of hurried steps on the
staircase.
Without a word we scatter out of sight, Anna disappearing
around the corner, while I duck into an open bedroom.
Curiosity compels me to keep the door open a crack, allowing
me to see the butler limping down the corridor towards us, his
burnt body even more wretched in motion. He looks balled up
and tossed away, a collection of sharp angles under a ratty
brown dressing gown and pyjamas.
Having relived so many of these moments since that first
morning, I would have thought I’d become numb, but I can
feel the butler’s frustration and fear as he races to confront
Bell about this new body he’s trapped within.
Gregory Gold is stepping out of a bedroom, the butler too
preoccupied to notice. At this distance, with his back to me,
the artist seems oddly shapeless, less a man, more a long
shadow thrown up the wall. There’s a poker in his hand and,
without any warning, he begins striking the butler with it.
I remember this attack, this pain.
Pity takes me, a sickening sense of helplessness as blood is
sent flying by the poker, freckling the walls.
I’m with the butler as he shrivels up on the floor, begging
for mercy and reaching for help that isn’t coming.
And that’s when reason washes its hands of me.


Snatching a vase from the sideboard, I burst out into the
corridor, advancing on Gold with hell’s own wrath, and
smashing it over his head, shards of porcelain falling around
him as he collapses to the floor.
Silence congeals in the air as I clutch the broken rim of the
vase while staring at the two unconscious men at my feet.
Anna appears behind me.
‘What happened?’ she says, feigning surprise.
‘I—’
There’s a crowd gathering at the end of the corridor, half-
dressed men and startled women, roused from their beds by
the commotion. Their eyes travel from the blood on the walls
to the bodies on the floor, latching onto me with an
unbecoming curiosity. If the footman’s among them, he’s
ducked out of sight.
It’s probably for the best.
I’m angry enough to try something reckless again.
Doctor Dickie is rushing up the stairs and unlike the other
guests, he’s already dressed, that huge moustache expertly
oiled, his balding head gleaming with some lotion.
‘What the devil happened here?’ he exclaims.
‘Gold went mad,’ I say, bringing a tremor of emotion to my
voice. ‘He started attacking the butler with the poker, so I—’
I wave the rim of the vase at him.
‘Fetch my medical bag, girl,’ says Dickie to Anna, who’s
positioned herself in his eyeline. ‘It’s near my bed.’
Doing as she’s bid, Anna begins deftly sliding pieces of the
future into place without ever appearing to take control. The
doctor requires somewhere warm and quiet to tend the butler,
so Anna recommends the gatehouse while volunteering to
administer his medications. By simple expedient of having
nowhere else to lock him up, it’s decided Gold should be taken
over to the gatehouse as well, with sedatives to be


administered regularly until a servant can bring a policeman
back from the village – a servant Anna volunteers to find.
They descend the staircase with the butler on a makeshift
stretcher, Anna offering me a relieved smile as she goes. I
meet it with a perplexed frown. All this effort, and I’m still not
certain what we’ve accomplished. The butler will be
consigned to bed, making him easy pickings for the footman
this evening. Gregory Gold is going to be sedated and strung
up. He’ll live, but his mind is broken.
That’s hardly a reassuring thought considering it’s his
instructions we’re following. Gold gave Anna that book, and
while he’s the last of my hosts, I have no idea what he’s trying
to accomplish. I can’t even be certain he knows. Not after
everything he’s suffered.
I dig through my memories, searching for the pieces of the
future I’ve glimpsed, but not yet lived. I still need to know
what the ‘all of them’ message Cunningham delivers to Derby
means, and why he tells him he’s gathered some people
together. I don’t know why Evelyn takes the silver pistol from
Derby when she already has the black revolver from her
mother’s room, or why he ends up guarding a rock while she
takes her own life.
It’s frustrating. I can see the breadcrumbs laid out ahead of
me, but, for all I know, they’re leading me towards a cliff
edge.
Unfortunately, there’s no other path to follow.


45
Freed of Edward Dance’s advanced years, I’d also hoped to
shed his niggling pains, but my night in the cupboard has
wrapped my bones in brambles. Every stretch, every bend and
twist brings a jolt of pain and a wince, piling some new
complaint atop the mound. The journey to my bedroom has
proven unexpectedly taxing. Evidently, Rashton made quite an
impression last night, because my passage through the house is
punctuated by hearty handshakes and backslaps. Greetings lie
scattered in my wake like tossed rocks, their goodwill bringing
me out in bruises.
Upon reaching my bedroom, I throw off my forced smile.
There’s a white envelope on the floor, something bulky sealed
inside. Somebody must have slipped it under my door. Tearing
it open, I look up and down the corridor for any sign of the
person who left it.
You left it
begins the note inside, which is wrapped around a chess piece
that’s almost identical to the one Anna carries around with her.
Take amyl nitrite pearls, sodium nitrite and sodium thiosulfate.
KEEP HOLD OF THEM.
GG
‘Gregory Gold,’ I sigh, reading the initials.
He must have left it before attacking the butler.
Now I know how Anna feels. The instructions are barely
legible, and incomprehensible even once I’m able to untangle
his terrible handwriting.
Throwing the note and chess piece on the sideboard, I lock
my door and bar it with a chair. Normally, I’d go immediately
to Rashton’s possessions or a mirror to inspect this new face,
but I already know what’s in his drawers and how he looks. I
need only stretch my thought towards a question to find its
answer, which is why I know there’s a set of brass knuckles
hidden in the sock drawer. He confiscated them from a brawler
a few years back, and they’ve come in handy more than once.
I slip them on, thinking only of the footman and how he


lowered his face to mine, breathing in my last breath and
sighing with pleasure as he added me to some private tally.
My hands are shaking but Rashton isn’t Bell. Fear
motivates, rather than cripples. He wants to seek the footman
out and put an end to him, to take back whatever dignity was
lost in our previous confrontation. Looking back at our fight
this morning, I’m certain it was Rashton who sent me down
the stairs and into the corridor. That was his anger, his pride.
He had control, and I didn’t even notice.
It can’t happen again.
Rashton’s recklessness will get us killed, and I can’t waste
the host. If I’m to get myself and Anna out of this mess, I need
to get ahead of the footman, rather than constantly trailing
behind him, and I think I know somebody who can help,
though they won’t be easy to convince.
Taking off the brass knuckles, I fill the sink and begin
washing in front of the mirror.
Rashton’s a young man – though not quite as young as he
pictures himself – tall, strong and remarkably handsome.
Freckles are splashed across his nose, honey-coloured eyes
and short blond hair suggesting a face spun out of sunlight.
About the only note of imperfection is an old bullet scar on his
shoulder, the ragged line long faded. The memory would give
itself to me if I asked, but I’ve enough pain without inviting
another man’s misery into my mind.
I’m wiping my chest, when the door handle rattles, causing
me to snatch up the brass knuckles.
‘Jim, are you in there? Somebody’s locked the door.’
It’s a woman’s voice, husky and dry.
Putting on a fresh shirt, I pull away the chair and unlock the
door to find a confused-looking young woman on the other
side, her fist raised for another knock. Blue eyes peer at me
from beneath long eyelashes, a dash of red lipstick the only
colour on a glacial face. She’s in her early twenties with thick
black hair tumbling over a crisp white shirt tucked into


jodhpurs, her presence immediately setting Rashton’s blood
racing.
‘Grace…’ My host shoves the name onto my tongue, and
plenty more besides. I’m boiling in a stew of adoration,
elation, arousal and inadequacy.
‘Have you heard what that damn fool brother of mine has
done?’ she says, barging past me.
‘I suspect I’m about to.’
‘He borrowed one of the cars last night,’ she says, flinging
herself onto the bed. ‘Woke the stablemaster at two in the
morning dressed like a rainbow and took off for the village.’
She’s got it all wrong, but I have no way of salvaging her
brother’s good name. It was my decision to take the car, to flee
the house and make for the village. At this moment, poor
Donald Davies is asleep on a dirt road where I abandoned him,
and my host is trying to drag me out of the door after him.
His loyalty is almost overpowering, and searching for a
reason I’m immediately beset by horrors. Rashton’s affection
for Donald Davies was moulded amid the mud and blood of
the trenches. They went to war as fools and came back
brothers, each of them broken in places only the other could
see.
I can feel his anger at my treatment of his friend.
Or perhaps I’m just angry at myself.
We’re so jumbled together, I can no longer tell.
‘It’s my fault,’ says Grace, crestfallen. ‘He was going to buy
more of that poison from Bell, so I threatened to tell Daddy. I
knew he was angry with me, but I didn’t think he’d run off.’
She sighs helplessly. ‘You don’t think he’s done something
foolish, do you?’
‘He’s fine,’ I say reassuringly, sitting down next to her.
‘He’s got the wind up, that’s all.’
‘I wish we’d never met that damn doctor,’ she says,
smoothing the creases from my shirt with the flat of her hand.
‘Donald hasn’t been the same since Bell turned up with his


trunk of tricks. It’s that damnable laudanum, it’s got hold of
him. I can barely talk to him any more. I wish there was
something we could…’
Her words run smack bang into an idea. I can see her
standing back from it wide-eyed, following it from start to
finish like a horse she’s backed in the Derby.
‘I need to go and see Charles about something,’ she says
abruptly, kissing me on the lips before darting into the
corridor.
She’s gone before I can respond, the door hanging open in
her wake.
I stand up to close it, hot, bothered and not a little confused.
On the whole, things were simpler when I was in that
cupboard.


46
Step by slow step, I proceed down the corridor, poking my
head into every bedroom before allowing myself to walk past
it. I’m wearing the brass knuckles, and jumping at every noise
and shadow, wary of the assault I’m certain is coming;
knowing I can’t beat the footman should he catch me
unawares.
Pushing aside the velvet curtain blocking the corridor, I pass
into Blackheath’s abandoned east wing, a sharp wind stirring
drapes that slap the wall like slabs of meat hitting a butcher’s
counter.
I don’t stop until I reach the nursery.
Derby’s unconscious body isn’t immediately obvious, as it’s
been dragged into the corner of the room, out of sight of the
door and behind the rocking horse. His head is a mess of
congealed blood and broken pottery, but he’s alive and well
hidden. Considering he was attacked coming out of Stanwin’s
bedroom, whoever was responsible obviously had enough of a
conscience to keep the blackmailer from finding and killing
him, but not enough time to take him anywhere safer.
I quickly rifle through his pockets, but everything he took
from Stanwin has been stolen. I didn’t expect otherwise, but as
he is the architect of so many of the house’s mysteries, it was
worth a try.
Leaving him sleeping, I continue on to Stanwin’s rooms at
the end of the passage. Surely only fear could have pushed
him into this misbegotten corner of the house, so far from the
meagre comforts afforded by the rest of Blackheath. By that
criterion though, he’s chosen well. The floorboards are his
spies, screaming my approach with every step, and the long
corridor offers only one way in and out. The blackmailer
clearly believes himself surrounded by enemies, a fact which I
may be able to exploit.
Passing through the reception room, I knock on Stanwin’s
bedroom door. A strange silence greets me, the din of
somebody trying to be quiet.


‘It’s Constable Jim Rashton,’ I call through the wood,
putting the brass knuckles away. ‘I need to speak with you.’
The declaration is met with a flurry of sounds. Steps go
lightly across the room, a drawer scrapes, something is lifted
and moved, before finally a voice creeps around the
doorframe.
‘Come in,’ says Ted Stanwin.
He’s sitting on a chair, a hand stuck inside his left boot,
which he’s brushing with a soldier’s vigour. I shiver a little,
rocked by a powerful sense of the uncanny. The last time I saw
this man, he was dead on a forest floor and I was going
through his pockets. Blackheath’s picked him up and dusted
him off, winding his key so he can do it all again. If this isn’t
hell, the devil is surely taking notes.
I look past him. His bodyguard is sleeping deeply on the
bed, breathing noisily through his bandaged nose. I’m
surprised Stanwin hasn’t moved him, and more surprised to
see how the blackmailer’s angled his chair to face the bed,
much as Anna has done with the butler. Clearly, Stanwin feels
some affection for this chap.
I wonder how he’d react knowing Derby’s been next door
this whole time.
‘Ah, the man at the centre of it all,’ says Stanwin, the brush
pausing while he regards me.
‘I’m afraid you have me at a loss,’ I say, confused.
‘I wouldn’t be a very good blackmailer if I didn’t,’ he says,
gesturing towards a rickety wooden chair by the fire.
Accepting his invitation, I drag the chair closer to the bed,
making sure to avoid the dirty newspaper and boot polish
strewn on the floor.
Stanwin’s wearing a rich man’s approximation of a stable
hand’s livery, which is to say the white cotton shirt is pressed
and the black trousers are spotless. Looking at him now,
dressed plainly, scrubbing his own boots and squatting in a
crumbling corner of a once-grand house, I fail to see what
nineteen years of blackmail have bought him. Burst blood


vessels riddle his cheeks and nose, while sunken eyes, red raw
and hungry for sleep, keep watch for the monsters at his door.
Monsters he invited there.
Behind all his bluster is a soul turned to ash, the fire that
once drove him long extinguished. These are the ragged edges
of a man defeated, his secrets the only warmth left to him. At
this point, he’s as much afraid of his victims as they are of
him.
Pity pricks me. Something about Stanwin’s situation feels
terribly familiar, and deep down, beneath my hosts, where the
real Aiden Bishop resides, I can feel a memory stirring. I came
here because of a woman. I wanted to save her, and I couldn’t.
Blackheath was my chance to… what… try again?
What did I come here to do?
Leave it alone.
‘Let’s state facts plainly,’ says Stanwin, looking at me
steadily. ‘You’re in league with Cecil Ravencourt, Charles
Cunningham, Daniel Coleridge and a few others; the lot of you
fishing around a murder that happened nineteen years ago.’
My prior thoughts scatter.
‘Oh, don’t look so shocked,’ he says, inspecting a dull spot
on his boot. ‘Cunningham came asking questions early this
morning on behalf of that fat master of his, and Daniel
Coleridge was sniffing around a few minutes after that. Both
of them wanted to know about the man I shot when I chased
Master Hardcastle’s murderer off. Now here you are. Ain’t
hard to see what you’re up to, not if you’ve two eyes and a
brain behind them.’
He glances at me, the façade of nonchalance slipping to
reveal the calculation at its foundation. Aware of his eyes upon
me, I dig for the right words, anything to repudiate his
suspicion, but the silence stretches, growing taut.
‘Wondered how you’d take it,’ grunts Stanwin, putting his
boot down on the newspaper and wiping his hands clean with
a rag.


When he speaks again it’s low and soft, the voice of
somebody telling stories. ‘Seems to me this sudden lust for
justice probably has one of two causes,’ he says, digging at the
dirt beneath his fingernails with a penknife. ‘Either
Ravencourt’s caught the whiff of scandal and he’s paying you
to look into it for him, or you think there’s a big case waiting
to be solved that will put you in the papers and make your
name.’
He sneers at my silence.
‘Look, Rashton, you don’t know me or my business, but it
knows men like you. You’re a working-class plod walking out
with a rich woman you can’t afford. Nothing wrong with
climbing, done it myself, but you’re going to need money to
get on the ladder and I can help. Information is valuable,
which means we can help each other.’
He’s holding my gaze, but not comfortably. A pulse throbs
violently in his neck, sweat gathering on his forehead. There’s
danger in this approach, and he knows it. Even so, I can feel
the lure of his offer. Rashton would love nothing more than to
pay his way with Grace. He’d like to buy finer clothes, and
pay for dinner more than once a month.
Thing is, he loves being a copper more.
‘How many people know that Lucy Harper is your
daughter?’ I say blandly.
Now it’s my turn to watch his face fall.
My suspicions were raised when I watched him bully Lucy
at the lunch table, all because she had the temerity to use his
first name when asking him to move out of the way. I didn’t
think much of it when I saw it through Bell’s eyes. Stanwin is
a brute and a blackmailer, so it seemed only natural. It was
only when I witnessed it again as Dance that I caught the
affection in Lucy’s voice, and the fear on his face. A roomful
of men who’d happily stick a knife in his ribs and there she is,
all but telling them that she cares about him. She might as well
have painted a target on her back. No wonder he lashed out.
He needed her out of that room as quickly as possible.


‘Lucy who?’ he says, the rag twisting tight in his hands.
‘Don’t insult me by denying it, Stanwin,’ I interrupt. ‘She
has your red hair and you keep a locket with her picture in
your jacket, along with a codebook detailing your
blackmailing business. Odd things to keep together, except
they’re the only things you care about. You should have heard
how she defended you to Ravencourt.’
Each fact out of my mouth is a hammer blow.
‘It isn’t hard to figure out,’ I say. ‘Not for a man with two
eyes and a brain behind them.’
‘What do you want?’ he asks quietly.
‘I need to know what really happened the morning Thomas
Hardcastle was murdered.’
His tongue roams his lips as his mind gets to work, cogs and
gears lubricated by lies.
‘Charlie Carver and another man took Thomas out to the
lake, then stabbed him to death,’ he says, picking up the boot
once again. ‘I stopped Carver, but the other one got away. Any
other old stories you want to hear?’
‘If I was interested in lies, I’d have asked Helena
Hardcastle,’ I say, leaning forward with my hands clasped
between my knees. ‘She was there, wasn’t she? Like Alf
Miller said. Everybody believes the family gave you a
plantation for trying to save the little boy, but I know that’s not
what happened. You’ve been blackmailing Helena Hardcastle
for nineteen years, ever since the boy died. You saw something
that morning, something you’ve held over her all this time.
She told her husband the money was to keep Cunningham’s
real parentage secret, but that’s not it, is it? It’s something
bigger.’
‘And if I don’t tell you what I saw, what then?’ he snarls,
throwing the boot aside. ‘You spread word that Lucy Harper’s
old man is the infamous Ted Stanwin and wait to see who kills
her first?’
I open my mouth to respond, only to be confounded when
no words come out. Of course that was my plan, but sitting


here, I’m reminded of that moment on the staircase when Lucy
led a confused butler back into the kitchen, so he wouldn’t get
into trouble. Unlike her father she’s got a good heart, knotted
with tenderness and doubt – perfect for men like me to step on.
No wonder Stanwin stayed out of sight, letting her mother
raise her. He probably funnelled his family a little money over
the years, intending to make them comfortable until he could
put them permanently beyond the reach of his powerful
enemies.
‘No,’ I say, as much to myself as Stanwin, ‘Lucy was kind
to me when I needed kindness, I won’t put her in danger, even
for this.’
He surprises me with a smile, and the regret lurking behind
it.
‘You won’t get far in this house with sentiment,’ he says.
‘Then what about common sense?’ I ask. ‘Evelyn
Hardcastle is going to be murdered tonight and I think it’s
because of something that happened nineteen years ago.
Seems to me it’s in your interest to keep Evelyn alive so she
can marry Ravencourt, and you can keep getting paid.’
He whistles. ‘If that’s true, there’s better coin to be made in
knowing who was responsible, but you’re coming at this
crooked,’ he says emphatically. ‘I don’t need to keep getting
paid. This is it for me. I’ve got a big payout coming, then I’m
selling the business and getting out. That’s why I came to
Blackheath in the first place, to pick up Lucy and finish the
deal. She’s coming with me.’
‘Who are you selling it to?’
‘Daniel Coleridge.’
‘Coleridge is planning to murder you during the hunt in a
few hours. How much information is that worth?’
Stanwin is looking at me with a bright suspicion.
‘Murder me?’ he says. ‘We’ve got a square deal, him and
me. We’re going to finish our business out in the forest.’


‘The business is in two books, isn’t it?’ I say. ‘All the
names, crimes and payments in one, written in code, of course.
And the cypher to decrypt it in another. You keep them
separate and think that keeps you safe but it doesn’t and,
square deal or not, you’ll be dead in’ – I pull up my sleeve to
check my watch – ‘four hours, at which point Coleridge will
have both of the books without parting with a shilling.’
For the first time, Stanwin looks uncertain.
Reaching over to the drawer in his bedside table, he
removes a pipe and a small pouch of tobacco, which he packs
into the pipe’s bowl. Scraping away the excess, he circles the
burning match across the leaves, taking a few puffs to draw the
flame. By the time his attention returns to me, the tobacco is
burning, smoke forming a halo above his ill-deserving head.
‘How’s he going to do it?’ asks Stanwin, out of the corner of
his mouth, his pipe gripped between his yellow teeth.
‘What did you see the morning of Thomas Hardcastle’s
death?’ I ask.
‘That’s it, is it? A murder for a murder?’
‘Square deal,’ I say.
He spits on his hand.
‘Shake then,’ he says.
I do as he asks, then light my last cigarette. The need for
tobacco has come upon me slowly, the way the tide nudges up
a riverbank, and I let the smoke fill my throat, my eyes
watering in pleasure.
Scratching his stubble, Stanwin begins speaking, his voice
thoughtful.
‘It was a funny day that, strange from the off,’ he says,
adjusting the pipe in his mouth. ‘The guests had arrived for the
party, but there was already a bad atmosphere around the
place. Arguments in the kitchen, fights in the stables, even the
guests were at it; couldn’t walk past a closed door without
hearing raised voices behind it.’


There’s a wariness to him now, the sense of a man
unpacking a trunk filled with sharp objects.
‘It weren’t much of a surprise when Charlie got fired,’ he
says. ‘He’d been carrying on with Lady Hardcastle long as
anybody could remember. Secret at first. Obvious later, too
obvious if you ask me. They wanted to be caught, I reckon.
Don’t know what got ’em in the end, but news went around
the kitchen like a pox when Charlie was dismissed by Lord
Hardcastle. We thought he’d come downstairs, say goodbye,
but we didn’t hear a peep, then a couple of hours later, one of
the maids fetches me, tells me she’s just seen Charlie drunk as
a lord, wandering around the children’s bedrooms.’
‘The children’s bedrooms, you’re sure?’
‘That’s what she said. Poking his head in the doors one after
another, like he was looking for something.’
‘Any idea what?’
‘She thought he was trying to say goodbye, but they were
all out playing. Either way, he left with a big leather bag over
his shoulder.’
‘And she didn’t know what was in it?’
‘Not a clue. Whatever it was, nobody begrudged him. He
was popular, Charlie, we all liked him.’
Stanwin sighs, tipping his face to the ceiling.
‘What happened next?’ I prod, sensing his reluctance to
continue.
‘Charlie was my friend,’ he says heavily. ‘So I went looking
for him, to say goodbye more than anything else. Last
anybody saw he was heading to the lake so that’s where I
went, only he wasn’t there. Nobody was, at least that’s what it
looked like at first. I would have left except I saw the blood in
the dirt.’
‘You followed the blood?’ I say.
‘Aye, to the edge of the lake… that’s when I saw the boy.’


He gulps, drawing his hand across his face. The memory’s
lurked in the darkness of his mind for so long I’m not
surprised he’s having trouble dragging it into the light.
Everything he’s become has grown out of this poisonous seed.
‘What did you see, Stanwin?’ I ask.
Dropping his hand from his face, he looks at me as though
I’m a priest demanding confession.
‘At first, just Lady Hardcastle,’ he says. ‘She was kneeling
in the mud, sobbing her heart out. There was blood
everywhere. I didn’t see the boy, she was cradling him so
tight… but she turned when she heard me. She’d stabbed him
through the throat, almost taken his head off, she had.’
‘She confessed?’ I say.
I can hear the excitement in my voice. Looking down, I
notice that my hands are clenched, my body tense. I’m on the
edge of my seat, my breath held in my throat.
I’m immediately ashamed of myself.
‘More or less,’ says Stanwin. ‘Just kept saying it was an
accident. That was it, over and over again. It was an accident.’
‘So where does Carver come into this?’ I ask.
‘He arrived later.’
‘How much later?’
‘I don’t know…’
‘Five minutes, twenty minutes?’ I ask. ‘It’s important,
Stanwin.’
‘Not twenty, ten maybe, can’t have been too long.’
‘Did he have the bag?’
‘The bag?’
‘The brown leather bag the maid saw him take from the
house? Did he have it with him?’
‘No, no bag.’ He points the pipe at me. ‘You know
something, don’t you?’


‘I think so, yes. Finish your story, please.’
‘Carver came, took me to one side. He was sober, dead
sober, the way a man is when he’s had a shock. He asked me
to forget everything I’d seen, to tell everybody he’d done it. I
said I wouldn’t, not for her, not for the Hardcastles, but he said
he loved her, that it’d been an accident and it was the only
thing he could do for her, the only thing he could give her. He
reckoned he had no future anyway, not after being dismissed
from Blackheath and having to move away from Helena. He
made me swear to keep her secret.’
‘Which you did, except you made her pay for it,’ I say.
‘And you’d have done different, would you, copper?’ he
says, furiously. ‘Clapped her in irons then and there, betraying
a promise to your friend. Or would you have let her get away
with it, scot-free?’
I shake my head. I don’t have an answer for him, but I’m
not interested in his pitying self-justification. There’s only two
victims in this story: Thomas Hardcastle and Charlie Carver, a
murdered child and a man who walked to the gallows to
protect the woman he loved. It’s too late for me to help either
of them, but I’m not going to let the truth stay buried any
longer.
It’s done enough damage already.


47
Bushes rustle, twigs cracking underfoot. Daniel’s moving
through the forest quickly, making no attempt at stealth. He
has no need. My other hosts are all occupied, and nearly
everybody else is either on the hunt, or in the Sun Room.
My heart is racing. He slipped out of the house after
speaking with Bell and Michael in the study, and I’ve been
following him for the last fifteen minutes, picking my way
silently through the trees. I remember him missing the start of
the hunt and having to catch up with Dance, and I’m curious
what kept him. Hopefully, this errand will shed more light on
his plans.
The trees break suddenly, giving way to an ugly clearing.
We’re not far from the lake, and I can just about see the water
away to my right. The footman’s pacing in circles like a caged
animal, and I have to duck behind a bush to keep from being
seen.
‘Make it quick,’ says Daniel, approaching him.
The footman punches him on the chin.
Staggering backwards, Daniel straightens, inviting a second
blow with a nod of his head. This one crunches into his
stomach, and is followed by a cross that knocks him to the
ground.
‘More?’ asks the footman, looming over him.
‘That’s enough,’ says Daniel, dabbing his split lip. ‘Dance
needs to believe we fought, not that you nearly killed me.’
They’re working together.
‘Can you catch them?’ says the footman, helping Daniel off
the ground. ‘The hunters have a good head start.’
‘Lot of old legs. They won’t have gone far. Any luck
snatching Anna?’
‘Not yet, I’ve been busy.’
‘Well hurry up, our friend’s getting impatient.’


So that’s what this was all about. They want Anna.
That’s why Daniel told me to find her when I was
Ravencourt, and why he asked Derby to bring her to the
library, when he laid out his plan to trap the footman. I was
supposed to deliver her. A lamb to slaughter.
My head spinning, I watch them exchange a few final
words, before the footman makes for the house. Daniel’s
wiping the blood from his face, but he doesn’t move, and a
second later I see why. The Plague Doctor’s entering the
clearing. This must be the ‘friend’ Daniel mentioned.
It’s as I feared. They’re working together. Daniel’s formed a
partnership with the footman, and they’re hunting Anna on the
Plague Doctor’s behalf. I can’t imagine what’s fuelling this
enmity, but it explains why the Plague Doctor’s spent the day
trying to turn me against her.
Placing a hand on Daniel’s shoulder, he leads him into the
trees, beyond my sight. The intimacy of this gesture throws
me. I can’t recall a single time when the Plague Doctor has
touched me, or even come close enough for that to happen.
Keeping low, I hurry after them, stopping at the treeline to
listen for their voices, but I can’t hear anything. Cursing, I
press deeper into the forest, stopping periodically, hoping to
catch some sign of them. It’s no use. They’re gone.
Feeling like a man in a dream, I return the way I came.
Everything I saw that day, how much of it was real? Was
anybody who they claimed to be? I believed Daniel and
Evelyn were my friends, the Plague Doctor was a madman,
and that I was a doctor called Sebastian Bell, whose biggest
problem was memory loss. How could I know those were
merely starting positions in a race nobody had told me I was
running?
It’s the finishing line you should be concerned with.
‘The graveyard,’ I say out loud.
Daniel believes he’ll capture Anna there, and I have no
doubt he’ll have the footman with him when he tries. That’s
where this will end, and I need to be ready.


I’ve arrived at the wishing well, where Evelyn received the
note from Felicity that first morning. I’m eager to put my plan
into action, but instead of heading for the house, I instead turn
left, towards the lake. This is Rashton’s doing. It’s instinct. A
copper’s instinct. He wants to see the scene of the crime while
Stanwin’s testimony is still fresh in my mind.
The trail is overgrown, trees leaning in on either side, their
roots writhing up through the ground. Brambles snag my
trench coat, rain spilling off leaves, until finally I emerge on
the lake’s muddy banks.
I’ve only ever seen it at a distance, but it’s much bigger up
close, with water the colour of mossy stone, and a couple of
skeletal rowing boats tethered to a boathouse that’s crumbling
to firewood on the far-right bank. A bandstand sits on an
island at the centre, the peeling turquoise roof and wooden
frame battered by the wind and rain.
No wonder the Hardcastles chose to leave Blackheath.
Something evil happened here and it haunts the lake still. Such
is my unease I almost turn on my heel, but a greater part of me
needs to make sense of what happened here nineteen years
ago, and so I walk the length of the lake, circling it twice,
much as a coroner might circle a body on his slab.
An hour passes. My eyes are busy, but they stick to nothing.
Stanwin’s story seems cut and dried, but it doesn’t explain
why the past is reaching up to claim another Hardcastle child.
It doesn’t explain who’s behind it, or what they hope to gain. I
thought coming here would bring some clarity, but whatever
the lake remembers, it has little interest in sharing. Unlike
Stanwin it cannot be bartered with and unlike the stablemaster
it cannot be bullied.
Cold and wet, I might be tempted to give up, but Rashton is
already tugging me towards the reflecting pool. The
policeman’s eyes aren’t soft like my other hosts. They seek the
edges, the absences. My memories of this place aren’t enough
for him; he needs to see it all afresh. And so, hands deep in my
pockets, I arrange myself at the edge of the water, which is
high enough to touch the bottom of my shoes. A light rain is


rippling the surface, plinking against thick patches of floating
moss.
At least the rain is constant. It’s tapping Bell’s face as he
walks with Evelyn, and the windows of the gatehouse where
the butler sleeps and Gold is strung up. Ravencourt’s listening
to it in his parlour, wondering where Cunningham has got to,
and Derby… well, Derby’s still unconscious, which is the best
thing for him. Davies is collapsed on the road, or maybe
walking back. Either way, he’s getting wet. As is Dance, who’s
traipsing through the forest, a shotgun slung over his arm,
wishing he was anywhere else.
As for me, I’m standing exactly where Evelyn will stand
tonight, where she’ll press a silver pistol to her stomach and
pull the trigger.
I’m seeing what she’ll see.
Trying to understand.
The murderer found a way to force Evelyn to commit
suicide, but why not have her shoot herself in her bedroom out
of sight? Why bring her out here during the middle of the
party?
So everybody would see.
‘Then why not the middle of the dance floor, or the stage?’ I
mutter.
All this, it’s too theatrical.
Rashton’s worked on dozens of murders. They aren’t stage-
managed, they’re immediate, impulsive acts. Men crawl into
their cups after a hard day’s work, stirring the bitterness settled
at the bottom. Fights break out, wives grow tired of their black
eyes and pick up the nearest kitchen knife. Death happens in
alleys and quiet rooms with doilies on the tables. Trees fall,
people are crushed, tools slip. People die the way they’ve
always died, quickly, impatiently or unluckily; not here, not in
front of a hundred people in ball gowns and dinner jackets.
What kind of mind makes theatre of murder?


Turning back towards the house, I try to recall Evelyn’s
route to the reflecting pool, remembering how she drifted from
flame to darkness, wobbling as if drunk. I remember the silver
pistol glinting in her hand, the shot, the silence and then the
fireworks as she tumbled into the water.
Why take two guns when one will do?
A murder that doesn’t look like a murder.
That’s how the Plague Doctor described it… but what if…
my mind gropes at the edges of a thought, teasing it forward
out of the dimness. An idea emerges, the queerest of ideas.
The only one that makes sense.
I’m startled by a tap on my shoulder, almost sending me
stumbling into the reflecting pool. Thankfully, Grace catches
hold of me, pulling me back into her arms. It’s not, I must
admit, an unpleasant predicament, especially when I turn
around to meet those blue eyes, looking up at me with a
mixture of love and bemusement.
‘What on earth are you doing out here?’ she asks. ‘I’ve been
searching for you all over. You missed lunch.’
There’s concern in her voice. She holds my gaze, searching
my eyes, though I have no idea what she’s looking for.
‘I came for a walk,’ I say, trying to slip free of her worry.
‘And I started imagining what this place must have been like
in its pomp.’
Doubt flickers on her face, but it vanishes in a blink of her
glorious eyes as she slips an arm through mine, the heat of her
body warming me up.
‘It’s difficult to remember now,’ she says. ‘Every memory I
have of this place, even the happy ones, are stained by what
happened to Thomas.’
‘Were you here when it happened?’
‘Have I never told you this?’ she says, resting her head on
my shoulder. ‘I suppose I wouldn’t have, I was only young.
Yes, I was here, nearly everybody here today was.’


‘Did you see it?’
‘Thank heavens, no,’ she says, aghast. ‘Evelyn had arranged
a treasure hunt for the children. I can’t have been more than
seven, same for Thomas. Evelyn was ten. She was all grown
up, so we were her responsibility for the day.’
She grows distant, distracted by a memory taking flight.
‘Of course, now I know she just wanted to go riding and not
have to look after us, but at the time we thought her terribly
kind. We were having a jolly time chasing each other through
the forest looking for clues, when all of a sudden Thomas
bolted off. We never saw him again.’
‘Bolted? Did he say why he was leaving, or where he was
going?’
‘You sound like the policeman who questioned me,’ she
says, hugging me closer. ‘No, he didn’t hang around for
questions. He asked after the time and left.’
‘He asked the time?’
‘Yes, it was like he had somewhere to be.’
‘And he didn’t tell you where he was going?’
‘No.’
‘Was he acting strangely, did he say anything odd?’
‘Actually, we could barely get a word out of him,’ she says.
‘He’d been in a strange mood all week come to think of it,
withdrawn, sulky, not like him at all.’
‘What was he normally like?’
She shrugs. ‘A pest most of the time. He was at that age. He
liked to tug our ponytails, and scare us. He’d follow us
through the woods, then jump out when we least expected it.’
‘But he’d been acting strangely for a week?’ I say. ‘Are you
certain that’s how long it had been?’
‘Well, that’s how long we were at Blackheath before the
party, so yes.’ She’s shivering now, peering up at me. ‘What’s
that mind of yours got hold of, Mr Rashton?’ she asks.


‘Got hold of?’
‘I can see the little crease’ – she taps the spot between my
eyebrows – ‘you get when something’s bothering you.’
‘I’m not sure yet.’
‘Well, try not to do it when you meet grandmother.’
‘Crease my forehead?’
‘Think, silly.’
‘Why the heavens not?’
‘She doesn’t take kindly to young men who think too much.
She believes it’s a sign of idleness.’
The temperature is dropping quickly. What little colour was
left to the day is fleeing the dark storm clouds bullying the sky.
‘Shall we go back to the house?’ says Grace, stamping her
feet to warm up. ‘I dislike Blackheath as much as the next girl,
but not so much that I’m willing to freeze to death to avoid
going back inside it.’
I glance at the reflecting pool a little forlornly, but I can’t
press my idea without speaking to Evelyn first, and she’s out
walking with Bell. Whatever my mind’s got hold of – to use
Grace’s phrase – it’ll have to keep until she returns in a couple
of hours. Besides, the idea of spending time with somebody
who isn’t mired in today’s many tragedies is appealing.
Our shoulders pressed together, we make our way back to
the house, arriving in the entrance hall in time to see Charles
Cunningham trotting down the steps. He’s frowning, lost in
thought.
‘Are you quite all right, Charles?’ says Grace, drawing his
attention. ‘Honestly, what is it with the men in this house,
today? You’re all on a cloud.’
A grin cracks his face, his joy at seeing us quite at odds with
the seriousness with which he normally greets me.
‘Ah, my two favourite people,’ he says grandly, leaping
from the third step to clap us both on the shoulder. ‘I’m sorry, I
was miles away.’


Affection draws a huge smile on my face.
Until now the valet was simply somebody who flitted in and
out of my day, occasionally helpful, but always pursuing some
purpose of his own, making him impossible to trust. Seeing
him through Rashton’s eyes is like watching a charcoal outline
get coloured in.
Grace and Donald Davies summered at Blackheath,
growing up side by side with Michael, Evelyn, Thomas and
Cunningham. Despite being raised by the cook, Mrs Drudge,
everybody believed he was Peter Hardcastle’s son by birth,
and this elevated him beyond the kitchen. Encouraging this
perception, Helena Hardcastle instructed the governess to
educate Cunningham with the Hardcastle children. He may
have become a servant, but neither Grace nor Donald would
ever see him as such, no matter what their parents might say.
The three of them are practically family, which is why
Cunningham was one of the first people Donald Davies
introduced Rashton to when they returned from the war. The
three of them are as close as brothers.
‘Is Ravencourt being a nuisance?’ asks Grace. ‘You didn’t
forget his second helping of eggs again, did you? You know
how disagreeable that makes him.’
‘No, no, it’s not that.’ Cunningham shakes his head
thoughtfully. ‘You know how sometimes your day starts as one
thing, and then, just like that, it’s something else? Ravencourt
told me something rather startling, and, to tell you the truth, I
still haven’t wrapped my head around it.’
‘What did he say?’ asks Grace, cocking her head.
‘That he’s not…’ he trails off, pinching his nose. Thinking
better of it, he sighs, dismissing the entire line of conversation.
‘Best I tell you this evening over a brandy, when everything’s
shaken out. Not sure I have the words just yet.’
‘It’s always the same with you, Charles,’ she says, stamping
her foot. ‘You enjoy starting juicy stories but you never finish
them.’
‘Well, maybe this will improve your mood.’


From his pocket he produces a silver key, a cardboard tag
identifying it as Sebastian Bell’s. The last time I saw that key
it was in the vile Derby’s pocket, shortly before somebody
coshed him over the head outside Stanwin’s bedroom and stole
it.
I can feel myself being slotted into place, a cog in a massive
ticking clock, propelling a mechanism I’m too small to
understand.
‘You found it for me?’ says Grace, clapping her hands
together.
He beams at me. ‘Grace asked me snatch a spare key to
Bell’s bedroom from the kitchen so we could steal his drugs,’
he says, dangling the key from his finger. ‘I went one better,
and found the key to his trunk.’
‘It’s childish, but I want Bell to suffer the way Donald is
suffering,’ she says, her eyes glittering viciously.
‘And how did you come by the key?’ I ask Cunningham.
‘In the course of my duties,’ he says a little uneasily. ‘I’ve
got his bedroom key in my pocket. All those little vials
dropped in the lake, can you imagine?’
‘Not the lake,’ says Grace, making a face. ‘It’s bad enough
coming back to Blackheath, but I won’t go anywhere near that
awful place.’
‘There’s the well,’ I say, ‘out by the gatehouse. It’s old and
deep. If we drop the drugs down there, nobody will ever find
them.’
‘Perfect,’ says Cunningham, rubbing his hands together
gleefully. ‘Well, the good doctor has gone for a walk with
Miss Hardcastle, so I should say this is as good a time as any.
Who’s up for a little daylight robbery?’


48
Grace keeps watch by the door as Cunningham and I slip into
Bell’s bedroom, nostalgia painting everything in cheerful
colours. After wrestling with the domineering natures of my
other hosts, my attitude towards Bell has softened
considerably. Unlike Derby, Ravencourt or Rashton, Sebastian
Bell was a blank canvas, a man in retreat, even from himself. I
poured into him, filling the empty spaces so completely I
didn’t even realise he was the wrong shape.
In an odd way, he feels like an old friend.
‘Where do you think he keeps the stuff?’ Cunningham asks,
closing the door behind us.
Though I know perfectly well where Bell’s trunk is, I feign
ignorance, giving myself the opportunity to wade about in his
absence for a little while, enjoying the sensation of walking
back into a life I once inhabited.
Cunningham uncovers the trunk soon enough though,
engaging my help to drag it out of the wardrobe, making a
terrible racket as he scrapes it on the wooden floorboards. It’s
as well everybody’s hunting as the noise could wake the dead.
The key fits perfectly, the latch springing open on well-oiled
hinges to reveal an interior stuffed to bursting with brown
vials and bottles arranged in neat rows.
Cunningham has brought a cotton sack and, kneeling either
side of the trunk, we begin filling it with Bell’s stash. There
are tinctures and concoctions of every sort and not merely
those designed to put a foolish smile on the face. Among the
dubious pleasures is a half-empty flask of strychnine, the
white grains looking for all the world like large chunks of salt.
Now what’s he doing with that?
‘Bell will sell anything to anyone, won’t he?’ says
Cunningham with a tut, plucking the flask from my hand and
dropping it into the sack. ‘Not for much longer, though.’
Plucking the bottles from the trunk, I remember the note
Gold pushed under my door, and the three things it demanded


I pilfer.
Thankfully, Cunningham’s so enraptured by his task he
doesn’t notice me slipping the bottles into my pocket, or the
chess piece I drop into the trunk. Amid all the plots, it seems
an inconsequential thing to bother with, but I can still
remember how much comfort it brought me, how much
strength. It was a kindness when I needed one most, and it
cheers me to be the one delivering it.
‘Charles, I need you to tell me the truth about something,’ I
begin.
‘I’ve told you, I’m not getting between you and Grace,’ he
says distantly, carefully filling his sack. ‘Whatever you’re
arguing about this week, admit you’re wrong and be grateful
when she accepts your apology.’
He flashes me a grin, but it evaporates when he sees my
grim expression.
‘What’s wrong?’ he asks.
‘Where did you get the key to the trunk?’ I reply.
‘If you must know, one of the servants gave it to me,’ he
says, avoiding my gaze as he continues to pack.
‘No, they didn’t,’ I say, scratching my neck. ‘You took it off
Jonathan Derby’s body after you coshed him over the head.
Daniel Coleridge hired you to steal Stanwin’s blackmail
ledger, didn’t he?’
‘Th… That’s nonsense,’ he says.
‘Please, Charles,’ I say, my voice rough with emotion. ‘I’ve
already spoken with Stanwin.’
Rashton has counted on Cunningham’s friendship and
counsel many times over the years, and watching him squirm
under the spotlight of my questioning is unbearable.
‘I… I didn’t mean to hit him,’ says Cunningham,
shamefaced. ‘I’d just put Ravencourt into his bath and was
going for my breakfast when I heard a commotion on the
stairs. I saw Derby hare into the study with Stanwin on his tail.
I thought I could slip into Stanwin’s room while everybody


was distracted and grab the ledger, but the bodyguard was in
there, so I hid in one of the rooms opposite, waiting to see
what would happen.’
‘You saw Dickie give the bodyguard a sedative, and then
Derby find the ledger,’ I say. ‘You couldn’t let him walk out of
there with it. It was too valuable.’
Cunningham nods eagerly.
‘Stanwin knows what happened that morning, he knows
who really killed Thomas,’ he says. ‘He’s been lying all this
time. It’s in that ledger of his. Coleridge is going to decipher it
for me and then everybody will know my father, my real
father, is innocent.’
Fear swells in his eyes.
‘Does Stanwin know about the bargain I struck with
Coleridge?’ he asks suddenly. ‘Is that why you met with him?’
‘He doesn’t know anything,’ I say gently. ‘I went to ask
about Thomas Hardcastle’s murder.’
‘And he told you?’
‘He owed me for saving his life.’
Cunningham is still on his knees, his hands gripping my
shoulders. ‘You’re a miracle worker, Rasher,’ he says. ‘Don’t
leave me in suspense.’
‘He saw Lady Hardcastle covered in blood and cradling
Thomas’s body,’ I say, watching him closely. ‘Stanwin drew
the obvious conclusion, but Carver arrived some minutes later
and insisted Stanwin place the blame on him.’
Cunningham stares through me as he tries to pick holes in
an answer long sought. When he speaks again, there’s
bitterness in his voice.
‘Of course,’ he says, sagging to the floor. ‘I’ve spent years
trying to prove my father was innocent, so naturally I find out
that my mother’s the murderer instead.’
‘How long have you known who your real parents are?’ I
say, doing my best to sound consoling.


‘Mother told me when I turned twenty-one,’ he says. ‘She
said my father wasn’t the monster he was accused of being,
but would never explain why. I’ve spent every day since then
trying to work out what she meant.’
‘You saw her this morning, didn’t you?’
‘I took her tea,’ he says gently. ‘She drank it in bed while
we spoke. I used to do the same thing when I was a child.
She’d ask after my happiness, my education. She was kind to
me. It was my favourite time of the day.’
‘And this morning? I assume she didn’t mention anything
suspicious?’
‘About murdering Thomas? No, it didn’t come up,’ he says
sarcastically.
‘I meant anything out of character, unusual.’
‘Out of character,’ he snorts. ‘She’s barely been in character
for a year, or more. Can’t keep up with her. One minute she’s
giddy, the next she’s in tears.’
‘A year,’ I say thoughtfully. ‘Ever since she visited
Blackheath on the anniversary of Thomas’s death?’
It was after that visit she turned up on Michael’s doorstep
raving about clothes.
‘Yes… maybe,’ he says, tugging an earlobe. ‘I say, you
don’t think it all got on top of her, do you? The guilt I mean.
That would explain why she’s been acting so queer. Maybe
she’s been building up her courage to finally confess. It would
certainly make sense of her mood this morning.’
‘Why, what did you speak about?’
‘She was calm, actually. A touch distant. She talked about
putting things right, and how she was sorry I’d had to grow up
ashamed of my father’s name.’ His face falls. ‘That’s it, isn’t
it? She means to confess at the party tonight. That’s why she’s
gone to all this trouble to reopen Blackheath and invite the
same guests back.’
‘Maybe,’ I say, unable to keep my doubt from surfacing.
‘Why were your fingerprints all over her planner? What were


you looking for?’
‘When I pressed her for more information, she asked me to
look up what time she was meeting the stablemaster. She said
she’d be able to tell me more after that, and I should come by
the stables. I waited, but she never arrived. I’ve been looking
for her all day, but nobody’s seen her. Maybe she’s gone to the
village.’
I ignore that.
‘Tell me about the stable hand who went missing,’ I say.
‘You asked the stablemaster about him.’
‘Nothing to tell really. A few years back I got drunk with
the inspector who investigated Thomas’s murder. He never
believed my father – Carver, I mean – did it, mainly because
this other boy, Keith Parker, had gone missing a week earlier
while my father was in London with Lord Hardcastle, and he
didn’t like the coincidence. The inspector asked around after
the boy, but nothing came of it. By all accounts, Parker upped
and left without a word to anybody, and never came back.
They never found a body, so couldn’t disprove the rumour that
he’d run away.’
‘Did you know him?’
‘Vaguely, he used to play with us sometimes, but even the
servants’ children had jobs to do around the house. He worked
in the stables most of the time. We rarely saw him.’
Catching my mood, he looks at me inquisitively.
‘Do you really think my mother’s a murderer?’ he says.
‘That’s what I need your help to find out,’ I say. ‘Your
mother entrusted Mrs Drudge to raise you, yes? Does that
mean they were close?’
‘Very close, Mrs Drudge was the only other person who
knew about my real father before Stanwin found out.’
‘Good, I’m going to need a favour.’
‘What sort of favour?’
‘Two favours actually,’ I say. ‘I need Mrs Drudge to… Oh!’


I’ve just caught up to my past. The answer to a question I
was about to ask has already been delivered to me. Now I need
to make sure it happens again.
Cunningham waves a hand in front of my face. ‘You quite
all right, Rasher? You seem to have come over a bit queer.’
‘Sorry, old chap, I got distracted,’ I say, batting away his
confusion. ‘As I was saying, I need Mrs Drudge to clear
something up for me, and then I need you to gather a few
people together. When you’re done, find Jonathan Derby and
tell him everything you’ve discovered.’
‘Derby? What’s that scoundrel got to do with this?’
The door opens, Grace poking her head inside the room.
‘For heaven’s sake, what’s taking so long?’ she asks. ‘If we
wait any longer, we’re going to have to run Bell a bath and
pretend we’re servants.’
‘One more minute,’ I say, laying my hand on Cunningham’s
arm. ‘We’re going to put this right, I promise you. Now listen
closely, this is important.’


49
The cotton sack clinks as we walk, its weight conspiring with
the uneven ground to continually trip me up, Grace wincing in
sympathy at each stumble.
Cunningham’s run off to do my favour, Grace meeting his
sudden departure with puzzled silence. I feel the urge to
explain, but Rashton knows this woman well enough to know
it’s not expected. Ten minutes after Donald Davies introduced
his grateful family to the man who’d saved his life during the
war, it was clear to anybody with eyes and a heart that Jim
Rashton and Grace Davies would one day be married.
Undaunted by their different backgrounds, they spent that first
dinner building a bridge out of affectionate barbs and probing
questions, love blossoming across a table littered with cutlery
Rashton couldn’t identify. What was born that day has only
grown since, the two of them coming to inhabit a world of
their own making. Grace knows I’ll tell the story when it’s
finished, when it’s shored up with facts strong enough to
support the telling. In the meantime, we walk together in a
companionable silence, happy just to be in each other’s
company.
I’m wearing my brass knuckles, having vaguely mentioned
a threat from Bell and Doctor Dickie’s confederates. It’s a
weak lie, but it’s enough to keep Grace on her toes, the young
woman glaring suspiciously at every dripping leaf. So it is that
we come upon the well, Grace pushing aside a tree branch that
I might emerge into the clearing without becoming snagged. I
immediately drop the sack into the well, where it hits the
bottom with a tremendous crash.
Waggling my arms, I try to shake the ache from my
muscles, while Grace peers into the well’s darkness.
‘Any wishes?’ she asks.
‘That I don’t have to carry the sack back,’ I say.
‘Oh, my heavens, it really works,’ she says. ‘Do you think I
can wish for more wishes?’
‘Sounds like cheating to me.’


‘Well, nobody’s used it for years, there’s probably a few
going spare.’
‘May I ask you a question?’ I reply.
‘Never known you to be shy about them,’ she says, leaning
so far into the well her feet are in the air.
‘The morning of Thomas’s murder, when you went on the
scavenger hunt, who was with you?’
‘Come on, Jim, it was nineteen years ago,’ she says, her
voice muffled by the stone.
‘Was Charles there?’
‘Charles?’ She removes her head from the well. ‘Yes,
probably.’
‘Probably, or actually? It’s important, Grace.’
‘I can see that,’ she says, pulling herself clear and wiping
her hands. ‘Has he done something wrong?’
‘I really hope not.’
‘So do I,’ she says, mirroring my concern. ‘Let me think?
Wait a tick, yes, he was there! He stole an entire fruitcake from
the kitchen, I remember him giving me and Donald some.
Must have driven Mrs Drudge wild.’
‘What about Michael Hardcastle, was he there?’
‘Michael? Why, I don’t know…’
A hand goes to a curl of hair, twisting it around her finger
while she thinks. It’s a familiar gesture, one that fills Rashton
with such an overpowering love it’s almost enough to push me
aside completely.
‘He was in bed, I think,’ she says eventually. ‘Sick with
something or other, one of those childish things.’
She takes my hand in both of her own, holding me fast in
those beautiful blue eyes.
‘Are you doing something dangerous, Jim?’ she asks.
‘Yes.’


‘Are you doing it for Charles?’
‘Partly.’
‘Will you ever tell me about it?’
‘Yes, when I know what needs to be said.’
Standing on her tiptoes, she kisses me on the nose.
‘Then you’d better get going,’ she says, rubbing her lipstick
off my skin. ‘I know what you’re like when you’ve got a bone
to dig up, and you won’t be happy until you have it.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Say it with the story, and say it soon.’
‘I will,’ I say.
It’s Rashton who kisses her now. When I do wrestle this
body back from him, I’m flushed and embarrassed, Grace
grinning at me with a wicked glint in her eye. It’s all I can do
to leave her there, but for the first time since this began, I have
my hands around the truth and unless I dig my fingers in, I’m
worried it’ll slip free. I need to talk to Anna.
I make my way along the cobbled path around the rear of
the gatehouse, shaking the rain from my trench coat before
hanging it on the rack in the kitchen. Footsteps echo through
the floor, heartbeats in the wood. A commotion’s coming from
the sitting room on my right, the place where Dance and his
cronies met Peter Hardcastle this morning. My first
assumption is that one of them has returned, but, opening the
door, I find Anna standing over Peter Hardcastle, who’s
slumped in the same chair I found him in earlier.
He’s dead.
‘Anna,’ I say quietly.
She turns to greet me, shock on her face.
‘I heard a noise and came down…’ she says, gesturing at
the body. Unlike myself, she’s not spent the day wading
through blood, and finding a body has hit her hard.


‘Why don’t you go splash some water on your face?’ I say,
touching her lightly on the arm. ‘I’ll have a nose around.’
She nods at me gratefully, offering the body one last
lingering look before hurrying out of the room. I can’t say I
blame her. His once handsome features are frightfully twisted,
his right eye barely open, his left eye fully exposed. His hands
are gripping the arms of the chair, his back arched in pain.
Whatever happened here took his dignity and his life at the
same time.
My first thought would be heart attack, but Rashton’s
instincts make me cautious.
I reach out to close his eyes, but can’t bring myself to touch
him. With so few hosts left, I’d rather not tempt death’s gaze
back towards me.
There’s a folded letter sticking out of his top pocket and,
plucking it free, I read the message inside.
I couldn’t marry Ravencourt and I couldn’t forgive my family for making
me do so. They brought this on themselves.
Evelyn Hardcastle
A draught is blowing in through an open window. Mud smears
the frame, suggesting somebody made their escape through it.
About the only note of disturbance I can see is a drawer that’s
been left hanging open. It’s the one I rifled through as Dance,
and sure enough, Peter’s organiser is missing. First somebody
tore a page out of Helena’s planner and now they’ve taken
Peter’s. Something Helena did today is worth killing to cover
up. That’s useful information. Horrific, but useful.
Putting the letter in my pocket, I poke my head out of the
window, looking for some evidence of the murderer’s identity.
There’s not much to see, aside from a few footsteps in the dirt,
already washing away in the rain. From their shape and size,
whoever fled the gatehouse was a woman in pointed boots,
which might give the note some credence except that I know
Evelyn is with Bell.
She couldn’t have done this.


I take a seat opposite Peter Hardcastle, as Dance did this
morning. Despite the late hour, the memory of that gathering is
still about the room. The glasses we drank from haven’t been
removed from the table and the cigar smoke still hangs in the
air. Hardcastle’s wearing the same clothes I last saw him in,
meaning he never got changed for the hunt, so it’s likely he’s
been dead for a couple of hours. One by one I dab my finger
into the dregs of the drinks, tasting each of them with the tip of
my tongue. They’re all fine, except for Lord Hardcastle’s.
Behind the charred whisky lies a subtle bitter taste.
Rashton recognises it immediately.
‘Strychnine,’ I say, staring into the victim’s twisted, smiling
face. He looks delighted by the news, as though he’s sat here
all this time waiting for somebody to tell him how he died.
He’d probably also want to know who killed him. I have an
idea about that, but for the moment an idea’s all it is.
‘Is he telling you anything?’ asks Anna, passing me a towel.
She’s still a little pale, but her voice is stronger, suggesting
she’s recovered from her initial shock. Even so, she keeps her
distance from the body, arms wrapped tight around herself.
‘Somebody poisoned him with strychnine,’ I say. ‘Bell
supplied it.’
‘Bell? Your first host? You think he’s tied up in all of this?’
‘Not willingly,’ I say, drying my hair. ‘He’s too much of a
coward to tangle himself up in murder. Strychnine is often sold
in small quantities as rat poison. If the killer was part of the
household, they could have requested a significant amount
under the guise of getting Blackheath up and running. Bell
would have no reason to be suspicious until the bodies started
appearing. That probably explains why somebody tried to kill
him.’
‘How do you know all of this?’ says Anna, astonished.
‘Rashton knows it,’ I say, tapping my forehead. ‘He worked
on a strychnine case a few years back. Nasty business. Matter
of inheritance.’
‘And you can just… remember it?’


I nod, still thinking through the implications of the
poisoning.
‘Somebody lured Bell out to the forest last night, intending
to silence him,’ I say to myself. ‘But the good doctor managed
to escape with only the injuries to his arms, losing his pursuer
in the darkness. Lucky fellow.’
Anna’s looking at me strangely.
‘What’s wrong?’ I say, frowning.
‘It’s the way you were speaking’ – she falters – ‘it wasn’t…
I didn’t recognise you. Aiden, how much of you is still in
there?’
‘Enough,’ I say impatiently, handing her the letter I found in
Hardcastle’s pocket. ‘You should see this. Somebody wants us
to believe this is Evelyn’s doing. The murderer’s trying to
wrap it all up in a nice little bow.’
She drags her gaze away from me, and reads the letter.
‘What if we’ve been looking at this all wrong?’ she says,
after she’s finished. ‘What if somebody means to knock off the
entire Hardcastle family, and Evelyn is just the first?’
‘You think Helena’s hiding?’
‘If she’s got any sense, that’s exactly what she’s doing.’
I let my mind bat the idea around for a while, trying to see it
from every angle. Or at least, I try. It’s too heavy. Too
ponderous. I can’t see what could be on the other side.
‘What do we next?’ she asks.
‘I need you to tell Evelyn that the butler’s awake and that he
needs to speak with her, privately,’ I say, getting to my feet.
‘But the butler isn’t awake, and he doesn’t want to speak
with her.’
‘No, but I do, and I’d rather stay out of the footman’s
crosshairs if I can.’
‘Of course I’ll go, but you need to watch the butler and
Gold in my place,’ she says.


‘I will.’
‘And what are you going to say to Evelyn when she gets
here?’
‘I’m going to tell her how she dies.’


50
It’s 5:42 p.m. and Anna hasn’t returned.
It’s been over three hours since she left. Three hours of
fidgeting and worrying, the shotgun laid across my lap,
leaping into my hands at the slightest noise, making it a near-
constant presence in my arms. I don’t know how Anna did it.
This place is never at rest. The wind claws its way through
the cracks in the windows, howling up and down the corridor.
Timbers creak, floorboards stretch, shifting under their own
weight as though the gatehouse were an old man trying to rise
out of his chair. Time and again I heard steps approaching,
only to open the door and find I’d been tricked by the banging
of a loose shutter or a tree branch rapping on the window.
But these noises have stopped provoking any reaction in
me, because I no longer believe my friend is coming back. An
hour into my vigil, I reassured myself she was simply
struggling to locate Evelyn following her walk with Bell. After
two hours, I reasoned she might be running errands – a theory
I tried to confirm by piecing together her day from our
previous encounters. By her own account, she met Gold first,
Derby in the forest, and then Dance, before collecting me from
the attic. After that she talked with the butler for the first time
in the carriage on the way here, left the note for Bell in the
stablemaster’s cottage and then sought out Ravencourt in his
parlour. There was another conversation with the butler after
that, but it wasn’t until the footman attacked Dance in the
evening that I saw her again.
For six days she’s been disappearing every afternoon, and I
haven’t noticed.
Now, passing my third hour in this room, darkness pressing
against the glass, I’m certain she’s in trouble and that the
footman’s lurking somewhere behind it. Having seen her with
our enemy, I know she’s alive, though that’s cold comfort.
Whatever the footman did to Gold broke his mind and I cannot
bear the thought of Anna undergoing similar torment.


Shotgun in hand, I pace the room, trying to stay one step
ahead of my dread long enough to come up with a plan. The
easiest thing would be to wait here, knowing the footman will
come for the butler eventually, but in doing so I’d waste the
hours I need to solve Evelyn’s murder. And what use is saving
Anna if I can’t free her from this house? As desperate as I feel,
I must first attend to Evelyn and trust Anna to take care of
herself while I do so.
The butler whimpers, his eyes fluttering open.
For a moment, we simply stare at each other, trading guilt
and confusion.
By leaving him and Gold unguarded, I’m condemning them
to madness and death, but I can see no other way.
As he falls asleep, I lay the shotgun on the bed by his side.
I’ve seen him die, but I don’t have to accept it. My conscience
demands I give him a fighting chance, at the very least.
Snatching my coat off the chair, I depart for Blackheath
without a backward glance. Evelyn’s messy bedroom is
exactly as I left it, the fire burned so low there’s barely any
light to see by. Adding a few logs, I begin my search.
My hand is shaking, though this time it’s not Derby’s lust at
work, it’s my own excitement. If I find what I’m looking for,
I’ll know who’s responsible for Evelyn’s death. Freedom will
be within touching distance.
Derby may have searched this room earlier, but he had
neither Rashton’s training nor his experience. The constable’s
hands immediately seek out hiding spots behind cabinets and
around the bedframe, my feet tapping the floorboards in hopes
of locating a loose panel. Even so, after a thorough search, I
come up empty.
There’s nothing.
Turning on the spot, my eyes sweep the furnishings,
searching for something I’ve missed. I can’t be wrong about
the suicide, no other explanation makes sense. That’s when my
gaze alights on the tapestry concealing the communicating


door into Helena’s bedroom. Taking an oil lamp, I pass
through, repeating my search.
I’ve almost given up hope when I lift the mattress off the
bed and find a cotton bag tied to one of the bars. Unpicking
the drawstring, I find two guns inside. One is a harmless
starting pistol, the stalwart of village fêtes everywhere. The
other is the black revolver Evelyn took from her mother’s
room, the one she had in the forest this morning and will carry
into the graveyard this evening. It’s loaded. A single bullet
missing from the chamber. There’s also a vial of blood and a
small syringe filled with a clear liquid.
My heart is racing.
‘I was right,’ I mutter.
It’s the stirring of the curtains that saves my life.
The breeze from the opened door touches my neck an
instant before a step sounds behind me. Throwing myself to
the floor, I hear a knife slashing through the air. Rolling onto
my back, I bring the revolver up in time to see the footman
fleeing into the corridor.
Letting my head drop onto the floorboards, I rest the gun on
my stomach and thank my lucky stars. If I’d noticed the
curtains a second later, this would all be over.
I give myself a chance to recover my breath, then get to my
feet, replacing the two weapons and the syringe in the bag, but
taking the vial of blood. Cautiously departing the bedroom, I
ask around for Evelyn until somebody points me towards the
ballroom, which is echoing with loud banging, a stage being
finished by builders. The French doors have been thrown open
in hopes of evacuating the paint fumes and dust, maids
scrubbing their youth away on the floor.
I spot Evelyn by the stage, speaking with the bandleader.
She’s still in the green dress she wears during the day, but
Madeline Aubert is standing behind her with a mouthful of
pins, hurriedly jabbing them into escaping locks of hair, trying
to fashion the style she’ll wear tonight.
‘Miss Hardcastle,’ I call out, crossing the room.


Dismissing the bandleader with a friendly smile and a
squeeze of the arm, she turns towards me.
‘Evelyn, please,’ she says, holding out her hand. ‘And you
are?’
‘Jim Rashton.’
‘Ah, yes, the policeman,’ she says, her smile vanishing. ‘Is
everything well? You look a little flushed.’
‘I’m not used to the hustle and bustle of polite society,’ I
say.
I shake her hand lightly, surprised by how cold it is.
‘How can I help you, Mr Rashton?’ she asks.
Her voice is distant, almost annoyed. I feel like a squashed
insect she’s discovered on the bottom of her shoe.
As with Ravencourt, I’m struck by the disdain with which
Evelyn armours herself. Of all Blackheath’s tricks, being
exposed to every unpleasant side of a person you once
considered a friend is surely the cruellest.
The thought brings me pause.
Evelyn was kind to Bell, and the memory of that kindness
has driven me ever since, but the Plague Doctor said he’d
experimented with different combinations of hosts over many
different loops. If Ravencourt had been my first host, as he
surely was at some point, I’d have known nothing of Evelyn
beyond her contempt. Derby drew only anger, and I doubt
she’d have spared any kindness for servants like the butler, or
Gold. That means there were loops where I watched this
woman die and felt almost nothing about it, my only concern
being to solve her murder, rather than desperately trying to
prevent it.
I almost envy them.
‘May I speak with you’ – I glance at Madeline – ‘privately?’
‘I really am awfully busy,’ she says. ‘What’s this about?’
‘I’d prefer to speak privately.’


‘And I’d prefer to finish getting this ballroom ready before
fifty people arrive and find there’s nowhere for them to dance,’
she says, sharply. ‘You can imagine which preference I’m
giving greater weight to.’
Madeline smirks, and pins another lock of Evelyn’s loose
hair into place.
‘Very well,’ I say, producing the vial of blood I found in the
cotton sack. ‘Let’s talk about this.’
I might as well have slapped her, but the shock slides off her
face so quickly, I have trouble believing it was ever there.
‘We’ll finish this later, Maddie,’ says Evelyn, fixing me
with a cool, level stare. ‘Go down to the kitchen and get
yourself some food.’
Madeline’s gaze is equally mistrusting, but she drops the
pins into her apron pocket before curtsying and leaving the
room.
Taking me by the arm, Evelyn leads me towards the corner
of the ballroom, far from the ears of the servants.
‘Is it your habit to root through people’s personal
possessions, Mr Rashton?’ she asks, taking a cigarette from
her case.
‘Lately, yes,’ I say.
‘Maybe you need a hobby.’
‘I have a hobby, I’m trying to save your life.’
‘My life doesn’t need saving,’ she says coolly. ‘Perhaps you
should try gardening instead.’
‘Or perhaps I should fake a suicide so I don’t have to marry
Lord Ravencourt?’ I say, pausing to enjoy the collapse of her
supercilious expression. ‘That seems to be keeping you busy
lately. It’s very clever; unfortunately, somebody’s going to use
that fake suicide to murder you, which is a great deal cleverer.’
Her mouth hangs open, her blue eyes sick with surprise.
Averting her glance, she tries to light the cigarette held
between her fingers, but her hand is trembling. I take the


match from her and light it myself, the flame singeing my
fingertips.
‘Who put you up to this?’ she hisses.
‘What are you talking about?’
‘My plan,’ she says, snatching the vial of blood from my
hand. ‘Who told you about it?’
‘Why, who else is involved?’ I ask. ‘I know you invited
somebody called Felicity to the house, but I don’t know who
that is yet.’
‘She’s…’ She shakes her head. ‘Nothing, I shouldn’t even
be talking to you.’
She turns for the door, but I catch her by the wrist, pulling
her back rather more forcefully than I’d intended. Anger
flashes on her face and I immediately release her, raising my
hands.
‘Ted Stanwin told me everything,’ I say desperately, trying
to keep her from storming out of the room.
I need a plausible explanation for the things I know, and
Derby overheard Stanwin and Evelyn arguing this morning. If
I’m very lucky, the blackmailer has a hand in all of this. It’s
not much of a stretch. He has a hand in everything else that’s
happening today.
Evelyn’s still, watchful, like a deer in the woods that’s just
heard a branch snap.
‘He said you were planning to kill yourself by the reflecting
pool this evening, but that made no sense,’ I press on, trusting
to Stanwin’s formidable reputation to sell the story. ‘Forgive
me for being blunt, Miss Hardcastle, but if you were serious
about ending your life, you’d already be dead, not playing the
dutiful hostess to people you despise. My second idea was that
you wanted everybody to see it happen, but then why not do it
in the ballroom, during the party? I couldn’t make sense of it
until I stood on the edge of the reflecting pool and realised
how dark it was, how easily it could conceal something
dropped into it.’


Scorn glitters in her eyes.
‘And what is it you want, Mr Rashton? Money?’
‘I’m trying to help you,’ I insist. ‘I know you intend to go to
the reflecting pool at 11 p.m., press a black revolver to your
stomach and collapse into the pool. I know you won’t actually
pull the trigger of the black revolver and a starter’s pistol will
make the sound of the gunshot everybody hears, just as I know
you plan to drop the starter’s pistol into the water when you’re
done. The vial of blood will be hung from a long cord around
your neck and will crack open when you hit it with the
revolver, providing the gore.
‘I’m guessing the syringe I found in the sack is filled with
some combination of muscle relaxant and sedative to help you
play dead, making it easy for Doctor Dickie – who I assume is
being paid handsomely for his trouble – to make it official on
the death certificate, forgoing the need for an unpleasant
inquest. One would imagine that a week or so after your death,
you’ll be back in France enjoying a nice glass of white wine.’
A couple of maids are carrying slopping buckets of dirty
water towards the doors, their gossip coming to an abrupt halt
as they notice us. They pass by with uncertain dips, Evelyn
steering me further into the corner.
For the first time, I see fear on her face.
‘I admit I didn’t want to marry Ravencourt and I knew I
couldn’t keep my family from forcing me into it unless I
disappeared, but why would anybody want to kill me?’ she
asks, the cigarette still trembling in her hand.
I study her face for a lie, but I might as well be turning a
microscope on a patch of fog. This woman has been lying to
everybody for days. I wouldn’t recognise the truth even if it
did manage to escape her lips.
‘I have certain suspicions but I need proof,’ I say. ‘That’s
why I need you to go through with your plan.’
‘Go through with it, are you mad?’ she exclaims, lowering
her voice as all eyes turn towards us. ‘Why would I go through
with it after what you’ve just told me?’


‘Because you won’t be safe until we draw the conspirators
out and for that they need to believe their plan has succeeded.’
‘I’ll be safe when I’m a hundred miles from here.’
‘And how will you get there?’ I ask. ‘What happens if the
carriage driver is part of the plot, or a servant? Whispers carry
in this house and when the murderers get word you’re trying to
leave, they’ll push forward with their plan and kill you.
Believe me, running will only delay the inevitable. I can put a
stop to it here and now, but only if you go along with it all.
Point a gun at your stomach and play dead for half an hour.
Who knows, you may even get to stay dead and escape
Ravencourt as you planned.’
She has her hand pressed to her forehead, eyes squeezed
shut in concentration. When she speaks again, it’s in a quieter
voice, somehow emptier.
‘I’m caught between the devil and the deep-blue sea, aren’t
I?’ she says. ‘Very well, I’ll go through with it, but there’s
something I need to know first. Why are you helping me, Mr
Rashton?’
‘I’m a policeman.’
‘Yes, but you’re not a saint and only a saint would put
themselves in the middle of all this.’
‘Then consider it a favour to Sebastian Bell,’ I say.
Surprise softens her expression. ‘Bell? What on earth has
the dear doctor got to do with this?’
‘I don’t know yet, but he was attacked last night and I doubt
it’s a coincidence.’
‘Perhaps, but why is that your concern?’
‘He wants to be a better person,’ I say. ‘That’s a rare thing
in this house. I admire it.’
‘As do I,’ she says, pausing to weigh up the man in front of
her. ‘Very well, tell me your plan, but first I want your word
that I’ll be safe. I’m putting my life in your hands, and that’s
not something I submit to without guarantee.’


‘How do you know my word is worth anything?’
‘I’ve been around dishonourable men my entire life,’ she
says simply. ‘You’re not one of them. Now, give me your
word.’
‘You have it.’
‘And a drink,’ she continues. ‘I’m going to need a little
courage to see this through.’
‘More than a little,’ I say. ‘I want you to befriend Jonathan
Derby. He has a silver pistol we’ll be needing.’


51
Dinner’s being served, the guests taking their seats at the table,
as I crouch in the bushes near the reflecting pool. It’s early, but
my plan depends on being the first person to reach Evelyn
when she emerges from the house. I can’t risk the past tripping
me up.
Rain drips from the leaves, icy cold on my skin.
The wind stirs, my legs cramping.
Shifting my weight, I realise I haven’t eaten or taken a drink
all day, which isn’t ideal preparation for the evening ahead.
I’m light-headed and without anything to distract me I can feel
every one of my hosts pressed up against the inside of my
skull. Their memories crowd the edges of my mind, the weight
of them almost too much to bear. I want everything they want.
I feel their aches and am made timid by their fears. I’m no
longer a man, I’m a chorus.
Oblivious to my presence, two servants spill out of the
house, their arms laden with wood for the braziers, oil lamps
hanging from their belts. One by one they ignite the braziers,
drawing a line of fire into the pitch-black evening. The last
one is next to the greenhouse, the flames reflecting on the
glass panels so that the entire thing seems to be ablaze.
As the wind howls and the trees drip, Blackheath flickers
and changes, following the guests as they make their way from
the dining hall to their bedrooms and finally into the ballroom,
where the band have taken to the stage, and the evening guests
await. Servants open the French doors, music exploding
outwards, tumbling across the ground and into the forest.
‘Now you see them as I do,’ says the Plague Doctor, in a
low voice. ‘Actors in a play, doing the same thing night after
night.’
He’s standing behind me, mostly obscured by trees and
bushes. In the uncertain light of the brazier, his mask appears
to float in the gloom like a soul trying to tug free of its body.
‘Did you tell the footman about Anna?’ I hiss.


It’s taking every ounce of self-control I have not to leap up
and throttle him.
‘I have no interest in either of them,’ he says flatly.
‘I saw you outside the gatehouse with Daniel, then again
near the lake, and now Anna’s missing,’ I say. ‘Did you tell
him where to find her?’
For the first time, the Plague Doctor sounds uncertain.
‘I assure you, I wasn’t at either of those locations, Mr
Bishop.’
‘I saw you,’ I growl. ‘You spoke with him.’
‘It wasn’t…’ He trails off, and when he speaks again, it’s
with a spark of understanding. ‘So that’s how he’s been doing
it. I wondered how he knew so much.’
‘Daniel lied to me from the start, and you kept his secret.’
‘It isn’t my place to interfere. I knew you’d see through him
eventually.’
‘So why warn him about Anna?’
‘Because I worried that you wouldn’t.’
The music stops sharply, and, checking my watch, I
discover it’s a few minutes before eleven. Michael Hardcastle
has silenced the orchestra to ask if anybody’s seen his sister.
There’s movement by the side of the house, darkness stirred by
darkness as Derby takes his position by the rock, following
Anna’s instructions.
‘I wasn’t in that clearing, Mr Bishop, I promise you,’ says
the Plague Doctor. ‘I’ll explain everything soon, but for the
moment, I have my own investigation to undertake.’
He departs quickly, leaving only questions in his wake. If
this were any other host, I’d run after him, but Rashton’s a
subtler creature, slow to startle, quick to think. For the
moment, Evelyn’s my only concern. I put the Plague Doctor
out of my thoughts and creep closer to the reflecting pool.
Thankfully, the leaves and twigs are so demoralised by the


earlier rain they don’t have the heart to cry out beneath my
feet.
Evelyn’s approaching, sobbing, looking for me in the trees.
Whatever her involvement in all this, she’s clearly afraid, her
entire body shaking. She must have already taken the muscle
relaxant because she’s swaying slightly, as though moved by
some music only she can hear.
I rustle a nearby bush to let her know I’m here, but the
drug’s doing its work, she can barely see, let alone find me in
the darkness. Even so, she keeps on walking, the silver pistol
glinting in her right hand, and the starting pistol in her left. It’s
pressed against her leg, out of sight.
She has courage, I’ll give her that.
Reaching the edge of the reflecting pool, Evelyn hesitates,
and, knowing what comes next, I wonder if perhaps the silver
pistol is too heavy for her now, the weight of the plan too
much.
‘God help us,’ she says quietly, turning the gun towards her
stomach and pulling the trigger of the starting pistol by her
leg.
The shot is so loud it cracks the world, the starting pistol
slipping from Evelyn’s hand into the inky blackness of the
reflecting pool as the silver pistol hits the grass.
Blood spreads across her dress.
She watches it, bemused, then topples forward into the pool.
Anguish paralyses me, some combination of the gunshot
and Evelyn’s expression before she fell nudging an old
memory loose.
You don’t have time for this.
It’s so close. I can almost see another face, hear another
plea. Another woman I failed to save, who I came to
Blackheath to… what?
‘Why did I come here?’ I gasp out loud, struggling to pull
the memory up from the darkness.


Save Evelyn, she’s drowning!
Blinking, I look at the reflecting pool, where Evelyn’s
floating face down. Panic washes away the pain, and I
scramble to my feet, leaping through the bushes and into the
icy water. Her dress has spread across the surface, as heavy as
a sodden sack, and the base of the reflecting pool is covered in
slippery moss.
I can’t get any purchase on her.
There’s a commotion by the ballroom. Derby is fighting
with Michael Hardcastle, drawing almost as much attention as
the dying woman in the pool.
Fireworks explode overhead, staining everything in red and
purple, yellow and orange light.
I hook my arms around Evelyn’s midriff, wrestling her out
of the water and onto the grass.
Slumped in the mud, I catch my breath, checking to make
sure Cunningham’s taken firm hold of Michael as I asked him
to.
He has.
The plan’s working. No thanks to me. The old memory the
gunshot stirred almost paralysed me. Another woman, and
another death. It was the fear on Evelyn’s face. That’s what did
it. I recognised that fear. It’s what brought me to Blackheath,
I’m certain of it.
Doctor Dickie runs up to me. He’s flushed, panting, a
fortune going up in flames behind his eyes. Evelyn told me
he’d been paid to fake the death certificate. The jovial old
soldier’s got quite the criminal empire up and running.
‘What happened?’ he says.
‘She shot herself,’ I respond, watching the hope blossom on
his face. ‘I saw the entire thing, but I couldn’t do anything.’
‘You mustn’t blame yourself.’ He clasps me by the shoulder.
‘Listen here, why don’t you go and get a brandy while I look
her over. Leave it to me, eh?’


As he kneels beside the body, I scoop the silver pistol off
the ground and make my way to Michael, who’s still being
held fast by Cunningham. Looking at the two of them, I
wouldn’t have thought it possible. Michael’s short and stocky,
a bull ensnared by Cunningham’s rope-like arms. Even so,
Michael’s writhing is only tightening Cunningham’s grip. A
pry bar and a chisel couldn’t free him at this point.
‘I’m terribly sorry, Mr Hardcastle,’ I say, placing a
sympathetic hand on the struggling man’s arm. ‘Your sister
took her own life.’
The fight goes out of him immediately, tears building in his
eyes as his anguished gaze goes out towards the pool.
‘You can’t know that,’ he says, straining to see past me.
‘She might still be—’
‘The doctor has confirmed it, I’m so sorry,’ I say, taking the
silver pistol from my pocket and pressing it into his palm. ‘She
used this gun, do you recognise it?’
‘No.’
‘Well, you should keep hold of it for the moment,’ I suggest.
‘I’ve asked a couple of footmen to carry her body into the Sun
Room, away from’ – I gesture towards the gathered crowds –
‘well, everybody. If you’d like a few minutes alone with your
sister, I can arrange it.’
He’s staring at the pistol dumbly, as though he’s been
delivered some object from the far future.
‘Mr Hardcastle?’
Shaking his head, his empty eyes find me.
‘What… yes, of course,’ he says, his fingers closing around
the gun. ‘Thank you, Inspector.’
‘Just a constable, sir,’ I say, waving Cunningham over.
‘Charles, would you mind escorting Mr Hardcastle to the Sun
Room? Keep him away from the crowds, would you?’
Cunningham meets my request with a curt nod, placing a
hand on Michael’s lower back and gently guiding him towards
the house. Not for the first time I’m glad the valet is on my


side. Watching him depart, I feel a pang of sadness that this
will probably be the last time we meet. For all the mistrust and
lies, I’ve grown fond of him this last week.
Dickie’s finished his examination, the old man getting
slowly to his feet. Under his watchful eye, the footmen drag
Evelyn’s body onto a stretcher. He wears his sadness like a
second-hand suit. I don’t know how I didn’t see it before. This
is murder as pantomime and everywhere I look the curtain is
rustling.
As Evelyn is lifted off the ground, I race through the rain
towards the Sun Room, on the far side of the house, slipping
inside through the French doors I unlocked earlier, and
concealing myself behind an Oriental screen. Evelyn’s
grandmother watches me from the painting above the
fireplace. In the flickering candlelight, I could swear she’s
smiling. Perhaps she knows what I know. Maybe she’s always
known and has been forced to watch day after day as the rest
of us blundered through here oblivious to the truth.
No wonder she was scowling before.
Rain raps the windows as the footmen arrive with their
stretcher. They move slowly, trying not to jostle the body,
which is now draped in Dickie’s jacket. In no time at all
they’re inside, transferring the body onto the sideboard,
pressing their flat caps to their chests in respect before
departing, closing the French doors behind them.
I watch them go, catching sight of myself in the glass, my
hands stuffed into my pockets, Rashton’s quietly competent
face suggesting nothing but certainty.
Even my reflection is lying to me.
Certainty was the first thing Blackheath took from me.
The door swings open, the draught from the corridor
swiping at the candle flames. In the gaps between the screen’s
panels, I can see Michael, pale and shaking, gripping the
doorframe for support, tears in his eyes. Cunningham’s behind
him, and after flashing a covert glance towards the screen
where I’m hiding, he closes the door on us.


The instant he’s alone, Michael springs out of his grief, his
shoulders straightening and eyes hardening, his sorrow
transformed into something altogether more feral. Hurrying
over to Evelyn’s body, he searches her bloodied stomach for a
bullet hole, murmuring to himself when he doesn’t find one.
Frowning, he removes the magazine from the gun I gave
him outside, finding it loaded. Evelyn was supposed to take a
black revolver to the pool, not this silver pistol. He must be
wondering what caused her to change the plan, and whether
she’s actually carried through on the plot.
Satisfied she’s still alive, he backs away, fingers drumming
his lips as he weighs the pistol. He appears to be in
communion with it, frowning and biting his lip as though
navigating a series of tricky questions. I lose sight of him
momentarily when he strides off into the corner of the room,
forcing me to lean out a little from my hiding place to get a
better look. He’s picked up an embroidered pillow from one of
the chairs and he brings it to Evelyn, pressing it against her
stomach, presumably to muffle the sound of the pistol jammed
up against it.
There isn’t even a pause, any sort of goodbye. Turning his
face away, he pulls the trigger.
The pistol clicks impotently. He tries again and again, until I
step out from behind the screen, putting an end to this charade.
‘It won’t work,’ I say. ‘I filed down the firing pin.’
He doesn’t turn around. He doesn’t even let go of the pistol.
‘I’ll make you a rich man if you let me kill her, Inspector,’
he says, a quiver in his voice.
‘I can’t do that, and as I told you outside, I’m a constable.’
‘Oh, not for very much longer with a mind like yours, I’m
sure.’
He’s trembling, the pistol still held firm against Evelyn’s
body. Sweat is trickling down my spine, the tension in the
room thick enough to scoop up in handfuls.


‘Drop the weapon and turn around, Mr Hardcastle. Slowly,
if you please.’
‘You don’t need to fear me, Inspector,’ he says, dropping the
pistol into a plant pot and turning around with his hands in the
air. ‘I have no desire to hurt anybody.’
‘No desire?’ I say, surprised by the sorrow on his face. ‘You
tried to put five bullets into your own sister.’
‘And every one of them would have been a kindness, I
assure you.’
Hands still raised, he angles a long finger towards an
armchair near the chessboard where I first met Evelyn.
‘Mind if I sit down?’ he asks. ‘I’m feeling a little light-
headed.’
‘Be my guest,’ I say, watching him closely as he drops into
the chair. Part of me worries he’s going to make a dash for the
door, but truth be told he looks like a man who’s had all the
fight wrung out of him. He’s pale and twitchy, arms hanging
limp by his sides, legs splayed out before him. If I had to
guess, I’d say it took all his strength to decide to pull the
trigger.
Murder didn’t come easy to this man.
I let him settle, then drag a wingback chair over from the
window to sit opposite him.
‘How did you know what I was planning to do?’ he asks.
‘It was the revolvers,’ I say, sinking a little deeper into the
cushion.
‘The revolvers?’
‘Two matching black revolvers were taken from your
mother’s room, early this morning. Evelyn had one, and you
the other. I couldn’t understand why.’
‘I’m not following.’
‘The only obvious reasons Evelyn had to steal a gun were
because she thought herself in danger – a rather redundant
explanation for somebody about to commit suicide – or


because she planned to use it in the suicide. The latter being
more likely, what reason could she possibly have for taking
both of the revolvers? Surely one was up to the task.’
‘And where did these thoughts lead you?’
‘Nowhere, until Dance noticed you carrying the second
revolver on the hunt. What had been odd, was now damn
peculiar. A woman contemplating suicide, at her lowest ebb,
has enough forethought to remember her brother’s aversion to
hunting and steal the second weapon for him?’
‘My sister loves me a great deal, Inspector.’
‘Perhaps, but you told Dance that you didn’t know you were
going hunting until midday, and the revolvers disappeared
from your mother’s room early in the morning, well before
that decision was made. Evelyn couldn’t possibly have taken
the second gun for the reason you suggested. Once I heard
about your sister’s fake suicide scheme I realised you were
lying, and from there everything became clear. Evelyn didn’t
take the revolvers from your mother’s room. You did. You
kept one, and gave Evelyn the other to use as a prop.’
‘Evelyn told you about the fake suicide?’ he asks, his tone
dubious.
‘Partially,’ I say. ‘She explained how you’d agreed to help
her by running up to the reflecting pool and dragging her onto
the grass, as a grieving brother naturally would. That’s when I
saw how you could commit the perfect crime, and why you
needed two matching revolvers. Before pulling her out of the
pool, all you had to do was shoot her in the stomach using the
fireworks as cover for the second shot. The murder weapon
would disappear into the murky water, and the bullet would
match the identical gun she’d just dropped on the grass.
Murder by suicide. It was quite brilliant, really.’
‘Which is why you made her use the silver pistol instead,’
he says, understanding coming into his voice. ‘You needed me
to change my plan.’
‘I had to bait the trap.’
‘Very clever,’ he says, miming applause.


‘Not clever enough,’ I say, surprised by his calmness. ‘I still
don’t understand how you could go through with it. Time and
again today I’ve been told how close you and Evelyn are. How
much you care for her. Was that all a lie?’
Anger brings him upright in his chair.
‘I love my sister more than anything in this world,’ he says,
glaring at me. ‘I would do anything for her. Why else do you
think she came to me for help? Why else would I have said
yes?’
His passion has thrown me. I set this plan in motion
believing I knew the story Michael would be telling, but this
isn’t it. I expected to hear how his mother had put him on this
path while she orchestrated events elsewhere. Not for the first
time, I have the unmistakable feeling of having misread the
map.
‘If you love your sister, why betray her?’ I ask, confused.
‘Because her plan wasn’t going to work!’ he says, slapping
his palm down on the arm of the chair. ‘We couldn’t pay the
amount Dickie wanted for the fake death certificate. He agreed
to assist us anyway, but yesterday Coleridge found out that
Dickie was planning to sell our secret to Father later this
evening. Do you see? After all this, Evelyn would have woken
up in Blackheath trapped in the same life she was so desperate
to escape.’
‘Did you tell her this?’
‘How could I?’ he asks miserably. ‘This plan was her one
chance to be free, to be happy. How could I take that away
from her?’
‘You could have killed Dickie.’
‘Coleridge said the same thing, but when? I needed him to
confirm Evelyn’s death, and he intended on meeting my father
directly afterwards.’ He shakes his head. ‘I made the only
decision I could.’
There are two glasses of Scotch beside his chair, one
halfway full and smeared with lipstick, the other unmarked, a


little alcohol left at the bottom. He reaches towards the
lipstick-smeared one slowly, keeping his eyes on me.
‘Mind if I have a drink?’ he asks. ‘It’s Evelyn’s. We had a
toast in here before the ball began. Best of luck and all that.’
There’s a catch in his throat. Any other host might think him
repentant, but Rashton can spot fear a mile away.
‘Of course.’
He picks it up gratefully, and takes a stiff slug. If nothing
else, it serves to steady his trembling hands.
‘I know my sister, Inspector,’ he says, his voice hoarse.
‘She’s always hated being forced into things, even when we
were children. She couldn’t bear the humiliation of a life with
Ravencourt, knowing people were laughing behind her back.
Look at what she was willing to do to avoid it. Slowly but
surely that marriage would have destroyed her. I wanted to
spare her that suffering.’
His cheeks are flushed, his green eyes glazed. They’re filled
with such a sweet, sincere sorrow that I almost believe him.
‘And I suppose the money had nothing to do with it?’ I say
flatly.
A scowl mars his sadness.
‘Evelyn told me that your parents threatened to cut you
from the will if she didn’t do as they asked,’ I say. ‘You were
leverage, and it worked. That threat was the reason she obeyed
their summons in the first place, but who knows if she’d have
done the same thing again knowing her escape plan was gone?
With Evelyn dead, that uncertainty is laid to rest.’
‘Look around you, Inspector,’ he says, gesturing around the
room with his glass. ‘Do you really think any of this is worth
killing for?’
‘Now your father can’t squander the family fortune, I
imagine your prospects have improved immeasurably.’
‘Squandering the fortune is all my father’s good for,’ he
snorts, finishing his drink.


‘Is that why you killed him?’
His scowl deepens. He’s tight-lipped, pale.
‘I found his body, Michael. I know you poisoned him,
probably when you went to fetch him for the hunt. You left a
note blaming Evelyn. The boot print outside the window was
particularly devious.’ His expression flickers uncertainly. ‘Or
was that somebody else?’ I say slowly. ‘Felicity, perhaps? I’ll
admit, I still haven’t untangled that knot. Or was it your
mother’s? Where is she, Michael? Or did you kill her, as
well?’
His eyes widen as his face crumples in shock, his glass
slipping from his hand onto the floor.
‘You deny it?’ I ask, suddenly uncertain.
‘No… I… I…’
‘Where’s your mother, Michael? Did she put you up to
this?’
‘She… I…’
At first I mistake his floundering for remorse, his gasping
for the shallow breaths of a man searching for the right words.
It’s only when his fingers grip the arm of the chair, white foam
running down his lips, that I realise he’s been poisoned.
I spring to my feet in alarm, but I have no idea what to do.
‘Somebody help us,’ I yell.
His back arches, his muscles tense, his eyes turning red as
the blood vessels pop. Gurgling, he falls forward onto the
floor. From behind me I hear rattling. Swinging around, I find
Evelyn convulsing on the sideboard, the same white foam
bubbling up between her lips.
The door bursts open, Cunningham taking in the scene with
an open mouth.
‘What’s happening?’ he asks.
‘They’ve been poisoned,’ I say, looking from one to the
other. ‘Fetch Dickie.’


He’s gone before the words have fallen from my lips. Hand
to my forehead, I stare helplessly at them. Evelyn is writhing
on the sideboard as if possessed, while Michael’s clenched
teeth crack in his mouth.
The drugs, you fool.
My hand dives into my pocket, retrieving the three vials I
was instructed to steal from Bell’s trunk when Cunningham
and I ransacked it this afternoon. Unwrapping the note, I
search for instructions I know aren’t on it. Presumably, I mix
everything together, but I don’t know how much to give them.
I don’t even know if I have enough for two doses.
‘I don’t know who to save,’ I cry, looking from Michael to
Evelyn.
Michael knows more than he’s told us.
‘But I gave Evelyn my word I’d protect her,’ I say.
Evelyn spasms on the table so violently she falls to the
floor, as Michael continues to thrash, his eyes now rolled so
far back in his head only the whites can be seen.
‘Damn it,’ I say, running over to the bar.
Emptying the three vials into a Scotch glass, I add water
from a jug and stir it all together until it foams. Evelyn’s back
is arched, her fingers biting into the thick weave of a rug.
Tilting her head back, I pour the entire filthy creation down
her throat, even as Michael chokes behind me.
Evelyn’s seizures end as abruptly as they started. Blood
weeping from her eyes, she sucks in deep, hoarse breaths.
Letting out a sigh of relief, I touch my fingers to her neck,
checking for a pulse. It’s frantic, but it’s strong. She’s going to
live. Unlike Michael.
I cast a guilty glance at the body of the young man. He
looks exactly as his father did in the sitting room. They’ve
clearly been poisoned by the same hand, using the strychnine
Sebastian Bell smuggled into the house. It must have been in
the Scotch he drank. Evelyn’s Scotch. Her glass was half full.
Judging by how long it took to affect her, she can only have
taken a sip or two. Michael, by contrast, finished the lot in


under a minute. Did he know it was poisoned? The alarm I
saw on his face suggests not.
This was somebody else’s work.
There’s another killer in Blackheath.
‘But who?’ I demand, angry with myself for allowing this to
happen. ‘Felicity? Helena Hardcastle? Who was Michael
working with? Or was it somebody he knew nothing about?’
Evelyn’s stirring, the colour already returning to her cheeks.
Whatever was in that concoction, it’s working fast, though
she’s still weak. Her fingers paw at my sleeve, her lips forming
empty sounds.
I lower my ear to her mouth.
‘I’m not…’ – she swallows – ‘Millicent was… murder.’
Very weakly she tugs at her throat, pulling out the chain
which was concealed by her dress. There’s a signet ring on the
end of it, bearing the Hardcastle family seal if I’m not very
much mistaken.
I blink at her, not understanding.
‘I hope you got everything you needed,’ says a voice from
the French doors. ‘It’s not going to do you much good though.’
Looking over my shoulder, I see the footman emerging out
of the darkness, his knife glinting in the candlelight as he taps
the point against his thigh. He’s wearing his red and white
livery, the jacket dotted with grease spots and dirt, as though
the essence of him is somehow leaking through. A clean,
empty hunting sack is tied to his waist, and with mounting
horror I remember how he tossed a full sack at Derby’s feet,
the material so blood soaked it hit the ground with a wet slap.
I check the clock. Derby will be out there now, sitting in the
warmth of a brazier, watching the party dissolve around him.
Whatever the footman’s going to put in the bag, he plans to
carve off Rashton.
The footman smiles at me, his eyes glittering in anticipation.


‘You’d think I’d get bored of killing you, wouldn’t you?’ he
asks.
The silver pistol’s still in the plant pot where Michael
discarded it. It won’t fire, but the footman doesn’t know that.
If I could reach it, I might be able to bluff him into fleeing. It
will be a close-run thing, but there’s a table in his way. I
should be able to get there before him.
‘I’m going to do it slow,’ he says, touching his broken nose.
‘I owe you for this.’
Fear doesn’t come easily to Rashton, but he’s afraid now,
and so am I. I have two hosts left after today, but Gregory
Gold is going to spend most of his day strung up in the
gatehouse and Donald Davies is stranded on a dirt road, miles
from here. If I die now, there’s no telling how many more
chances I’ll get to escape Blackheath.
‘Don’t worry about the gun,’ says the footman. ‘You won’t
need it.’
Mistaking his meaning, hope flares in my chest, fizzling
again when I see his smirk.
‘Oh, no, my handsome lad, I’m going to kill you,’ he says,
wagging the knife at me. ‘I just mean you ain’t going to fight
me,’ he adds, coming closer. ‘See, I’ve got Anna, and if you
don’t want her to die messy, you’re going to give yourself to
me, and then you’re going to bring whoever’s left to the
graveyard tonight.’
Opening his palm, he reveals Anna’s chess piece, spotted
with blood. With a flick of his wrist, he tosses it into the fire,
the flames consuming it immediately.
Another step closer.
‘What’s it to be?’ he asks.
My hands are clenched by my sides, my mouth dry. For as
long as he can remember, Rashton expected to die young. In a
dark alley, or on a battlefield, a place beyond light and
comfort, beyond friendship, his situation hopeless. He knew
how sharp the edges of his life had become, and he’d made
peace with it, because he knew he’d die fighting. Futile as it


may have been, weak as it may have been, he expected to
wade into the darkness with his fists in the air.
And now the footman has taken even that away. I’m to die
without a struggle, and I feel ashamed.
‘What’s the answer?’ says the footman, his impatience
growing.
I can’t bring myself to say the words, to admit how
thoroughly defeated I am. Another hour in this body and I’d
have solved it, and that knowledge makes me want to scream.
‘Your answer!’ he demands.
I manage to nod as he looms over me, his stench wrapping
itself around me when he sinks the blade into the familiar spot
beneath my ribs, blood filling my throat and mouth.
Gripping my chin, he lifts my face, looking me in the eyes.
‘Two to go,’ he says, and with that he twists the blade.


52
Day Three (continued)
Rain thumps the roof, horses clip-clopping along the cobbles. I
am in a carriage, two women in evening wear wedged onto the
seat opposite me. They’re talking under their breath, their
shoulders bumping together as the carriage sways from side to
side.
Don’t get out of the carriage.
Fear prickles my spine. This is the moment Gold warned me
about. The moment which drove him mad. Out there in the
dark, the footman’s waiting with his knife.
‘He’s awake, Audrey,’ says one of them, noticing me
stirring.
Perhaps believing my hearing to be defective, the second
lady leans close.
‘We found you asleep near the road,’ she says loudly, laying
one hand on my knee. ‘Your automobile was a few miles
further up, the driver tried to get it running but it was beyond
him.’
‘I’m Donald Davies,’ I say, feeling a surge of relief.
The last time I was this man I drove a car through the night
until morning dawned, abandoning it when the fuel ran out. I
walked for hours along that never-ending road towards the
village, collapsing in exhaustion no nearer my destination. He
must have slept the entire day away, saving him from the
footman’s wrath.
The Plague Doctor told me I’d be returned to Davies when
he woke up again. I never could have imagined he’d have been
rescued and returned to Blackheath when it happened.
Finally, some good luck.
‘You sweet beautiful woman,’ I say, cupping my saviour’s
cheeks and kissing her soundly on the lips. ‘You don’t know
what you’ve done.’


Before she can respond, I poke my head out of the window.
It’s 
evening, 
the 
carriage’s 
swaying 
lanterns 
gently
illuminating the darkness rather than banishing it. We’re in one
of three carriages rolling towards the house from the village,
twelve or so others parked either side of the road, their drivers
snoring or chatting in small groups, passing a solitary cigarette
amongst themselves. I can hear music from the direction of the
house, shrill laughter climbing high enough to puncture the
distance between us. The party is in full swing.
Hope surges through me.
Evelyn hasn’t made her way to the reflecting pool, which
means there may still be time for me to question Michael, and
discover if he was working with anybody. Even if I’m too late
for that, I can still ambush the footman when he comes for
Rashton and find out where he’s keeping Anna.
Don’t get out of the carriage.
‘Blackheath in a few minutes, m’lady,’ the driver shouts
down from somewhere above us.
I glance out of the window again. The house is directly in
front of us, and the stables down the road on our right. That’s
where they keep the shotguns, and I’d have to be a fool to
tackle the footman without one.
Unlocking the door, I leap from the carriage, landing in a
painful heap on the wet cobbles. The ladies are shrieking, the
coach driver yelling after me as I pick myself up and stagger
towards the distant lights. The Plague Doctor told me the
pattern of this day was dictated by the character of those living
it. I can only hope that’s true and fate is in a charitable mood,
because if it’s not I’ve damned both myself and Anna.
Within the glow of the braziers, stable boys are undoing the
harnesses connecting the horses and carriages, leading the
whinnying beasts to shelter. They’re working quickly, but they
look done in, barely able to speak. I approach the nearest chap,
who, despite the rain, is wearing only a cotton shirt with the
sleeves rolled up.
‘Where do you keep the shotguns?’ I ask.


He’s tightening a harness, gritting his teeth as he pulls the
taut strap towards the last buckle. He peers at me suspiciously,
his eyes narrowed beneath his flat cap.
‘Bit late for hunting, ain’t it?’ he says.
‘And far too early for impertinence,’ I snap, overwhelmed
by my host’s upper-class disdain. ‘Where are the damn
shotguns, or do I need to bring Lord Hardcastle down here to
ask you himself?’
After looking me up and down, he gestures over his
shoulder towards a small redbrick building, a dim light
seeping through the window. The shotguns are arranged on a
wooden rack, boxes of shells stored in a nearby drawer. I take
one down and load it carefully, dropping a handful of spare
shells into my pocket.
The gun is heavy, a cold slab of courage that propels me
across the yard and up the road towards Blackheath. The stable
hands exchange looks as I approach, standing aside to let me
pass. Doubtless they think me some rich lunatic with a score to
settle, a piece of gossip to add to the pile tomorrow morning.
Certainly not somebody worth risking bodily harm for. I’m
glad of that. If they were to creep closer, they might notice
how crowded my eyes are, how all my previous hosts are
jostling for a better view. In some way or another, the
footman’s harmed every one of them and they’ve all turned up
for his execution. I can barely think through their clamour.
Halfway along the road I notice a light bobbing towards me,
and my grip tightens around the shotgun’s trigger.
‘It’s me,’ yells Daniel over the din of the storm.
There’s a storm lantern in his hand, the waxy light running
down his face and upper body. He looks like a genie spilled
out of a bottle.
‘We have to hurry, the footman’s in the graveyard,’ says
Daniel. ‘He has Anna with him.’
He still thinks we’re fooled by his act.
My finger strokes the shotgun as I stare back towards
Blackheath, trying to decide the best course of action. Michael


could be in the Sun Room as we speak, but I’m certain Daniel
knows where Anna’s being kept, and I won’t have a better
opportunity to get the information from him. Two roads and
two ends, and somehow I know one of them leads to failure.
‘This is our chance,’ yells Daniel, wiping the rain from his
eyes. ‘This is what we’ve been waiting for. He’s in there, right
now, lying in wait. He doesn’t know we’ve found each other.
We can spring his trap, we can finish this together.’
For so long I fought to change my future, to alter the day.
Now I have, I’m undone, racked with the futility of my
choices. I saved Evelyn and thwarted Michael, two things
which only matter if Anna and I live long enough to tell the
Plague Doctor at 11 p.m. Past this point, I’m making every
decision blind, and with only one host left after today, every
decision matters.
‘What if we fail?’ I shout back, my words barely making it
to his ears. The clatter of rain on stone is almost deafening, the
wind ripping and tearing at the forest, screaming through the
trees like some feral creature slipped loose of its cage.
‘What choice do we have?’ Daniel yells, clutching the back
of my neck. ‘We have a plan, which means for the first time
we have the advantage over him. We must pursue it.’
I remember the first time I met this man, how calm he
seemed, how patient and reasonable. None of that is in him
now. It’s all been washed away in Blackheath’s endless storms.
He has the eyes of a fanatic, eager and imploring, wild and
desperate. He has as much riding on the outcome of this
moment as I do.
He’s right. We need to put an end to this.
‘What time is it?’ I ask.
He frowns. ‘Why does that matter?’
‘I never know until afterwards,’ I say. ‘The time? Please.’
He checks his watch, impatiently. ‘It’s 9:46,’ he says. ‘Can
we go now?’
Nodding, I follow him across the lawn.


The stars are cowards, closing their eyes as we creep closer
to the graveyard, and by the time Daniel pushes open the gate,
our only light’s the flickering glow of his storm lantern. We’re
shielded by the trees back here, muting the storm which makes
its way through to us in sharp gusts, daggers of wind slipping
through the cracks in the armour of the forest.
‘We should hide out of sight,’ whispers Daniel, hanging the
lantern on the angel’s arm. ‘We’ll call to Anna when she
arrives.’
Lifting the shotgun to my shoulder, I press both barrels to
the back of his head.
‘You can drop the act, Daniel, I know we’re not the same
man,’ I say, my eyes flicking across the woods, searching for
some sign of the footman. Unfortunately, the lantern’s so
bright it obscures much of what it should reveal.
‘Hands in the air, turn around,’ I say.
He does as I ask, staring at me, pulling me apart, looking for
something broken. I don’t know whether he finds it or not, but
after a long silence a charming smile breaks out on his
handsome face.
‘Couldn’t last forever, I suppose,’ he says, gesturing to his
breast pocket. I motion for him to continue and he slowly
withdraws a cigarette case, tapping one out against his palm.
I followed this man into the graveyard, knowing that if I
didn’t confront him, I’d always be looking over my shoulder,
waiting for him to strike again, but now I’m here, faced with
his calmness, my certainty is wavering.
‘Where is she, Daniel? Where’s Anna?’ I say.
‘Why, that was to be my question to you,’ he says, placing
the cigarette between his lips. ‘That was it exactly, where is
Anna? I’ve been trying to get you to tell me all day, even
thought I’d succeeded when Derby agreed to help me flush the
footman out from under the house. You should have seen your
face, so eager to please.’
Shielding his cigarette from the wind, he lights it at the third
try, illuminating a face that’s as hollow-eyed as those of the


statues beside him. I have a gun pointed at him and somehow
he still has the upper hand.
‘Where’s the footman?’ I say, the shotgun growing heavy in
my arms. ‘I know you’re partners.’
‘Oh, it’s nothing like that. I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong
end of the stick entirely,’ he says, dismissing the fellow with a
wave of his hand. ‘He’s not like you, me or Anna. He’s one of
Coleridge’s associates. There’s actually a few of them in the
house. Unsavoury chaps the lot of them, but then Coleridge is
in an unsavoury business. The footman, as you call him, was
the brightest of them, so I explained what was happening in
Blackheath. I don’t think he believed me, but killing’s rather
his speciality, so he didn’t bat an eyelid when I pointed him at
your hosts. Probably enjoyed it, truth be told. Helps
enormously that I’ve made him a very rich man, of course.’
Blowing smoke out through his nostrils, he grins as though
we’ve shared some private joke. He’s moving with assurance,
the confidence of a man living in a world of premonitions. A
dispiriting contrast to my shaking hands and thudding heart.
He’s got something planned and until I know what it is, I can’t
do anything but wait.
‘You’re like Anna, aren’t you?’ I say. ‘One day, and then
you forget everything and start again.’
‘Hardly seems fair, does it? Not when you have eight lives
and eight days. All the gifts were given to you. Now why was
that?’
‘I see the Plague Doctor didn’t tell you everything about
me.’
He grins, again. It’s like ice rolling down my spine.
‘Why are you doing this, Daniel?’ I ask, surprised by my
misery. ‘We could have helped each other.’
‘But my dear fellow, you have helped me,’ he says. ‘I have
both of Stanwin’s blackmail books in my possession. Without
Derby poking around his bedroom, I might only have found
the one, and I’d be no nearer an answer than I was this
morning. In two hours, I’ll take what I’ve learned to the lake


and be free of this place, and it’s your doing. Surely you can
take some comfort in that.’
Wet steps sound. A shotgun is cocked, cold metal presses
into my back. A thug brushes past me, taking a spot in the
light beside Daniel. Unlike his friend behind me, he isn’t
armed, though he doesn’t need to be by the looks of things. He
has the face of bar-room brawler, his nose broken, his cheek
decorated by an ugly scar. He’s rubbing his knuckles, his
tongue roaming his lips in anticipation. Neither action makes
me feel terribly confident about what’s coming.
‘Be a dear and drop the weapon,’ says Daniel.
Sighing, I let the shotgun fall on the floor, raising my hands
in the air. Foolish as it may be, my overriding thought is to
wish they weren’t trembling so.
‘You can come out now,’ says Daniel in a louder voice.
There’s a rustling in the bushes to my left, the Plague
Doctor stepping into the pool of light cast by the lantern. I’m
about to hurl some insult at him, when I notice a single silver
tear painted on the left side of his mask. It’s glittering in the
light, and now I take stock, I realise there are other differences.
This coat is finer, darker, the edges not so frayed. Embroidered
roses twist up the gloves and now I see this person is shorter,
more erect in their posture.
This isn’t the Plague Doctor at all.
‘You were the one talking to Daniel by the lake,’ I say.
Daniel whistles, flicking a glance at his companion.
‘How on earth did he see that?’ he asks Silver Tear. ‘Didn’t
you pick that spot so nobody would find us together?’
‘I saw you outside the gatehouse as well,’ I say.
‘Curiouser and curiouser,’ says Daniel, enjoying himself
immensely at his confederate’s expense. ‘I thought you knew
every second of his day?’ He adopts a pompous tone. ‘Nothing
happens here that is beyond my sight, Mr Coleridge,’ he huffs.
‘If that were true, I wouldn’t need your help capturing
Annabelle,’ says Silver Tear. Her voice is stately, a far cry


from the put-upon Plague Doctor. ‘Mr Bishop’s actions have
disrupted the usual course of events. He’s changed Evelyn
Hardcastle’s fate and contributed to the death of her brother,
unpicking the threads that hold this day together in the
process. He’s maintained his alliance with Annabelle far
longer than he ever has before, which means things are
happening out of order, running long or short, if they happen
at all. Nothing’s quite where it should be.’
The mask turns towards me.
‘You should be commended, Mr Bishop,’ she says. ‘I
haven’t seen Blackheath in this much disarray for decades.’
‘Who are you?’ I say.
‘I could ask the same of you,’ she says, waving my question
away. ‘I won’t because you don’t know yourself, and there are
more pressing questions. Suffice to say, I’ve been sent by my
superiors to rectify my colleague’s mistake. Now, please tell
Mr Coleridge where he might find Annabelle.’
‘Annabelle?’
‘He calls her Anna,’ says Daniel.
‘What do you want with Anna?’ I ask.
‘That’s not your concern,’ says Silver Tear.
‘It’s getting to be,’ I say. ‘You must want her very badly if
you’re willing to make a deal with somebody like Daniel to
bring her to you.’
‘I’m redressing the balance,’ she says. ‘Do you think it’s a
coincidence that you inhabit the hosts you do, the men closest
to Evelyn’s murder? Are you not curious why you woke up in
Donald Davies precisely when you needed him most? My
colleague has been playing favourites from the beginning and
that is forbidden. He was supposed to watch without
interfering, to appear at the lake and wait for an answer.
Nothing more. Worse, he’s opened the door to a creature who
must never be allowed to leave this house. I cannot let this
continue.’


‘So that’s why you’re here,’ says the Plague Doctor,
emerging from the shadows, rainwater running in rivulets
down his mask.
Daniel tenses, watching the interloper warily.
‘Apologies for not announcing myself earlier, Josephine,’
continues the Plague Doctor, his attention fixed on Silver Tear.
‘I wasn’t certain you’d tell me the truth if I asked directly,
given how hard you’ve worked to stay hidden. I would never
have known you were in Blackheath if Mr Rashton hadn’t
spotted you.’
‘Josephine?’ interrupts Daniel. ‘You two are acquainted?’
Silver Tear ignores him.
‘I hoped it wouldn’t come to this,’ she says, addressing the
Plague Doctor. Her tone has softened, warmed. It ripples with
regret. ‘My intention was to complete my task and depart
without you knowing.’
‘I fail to see why you’re here, at all. Blackheath is my
watch, and everything is well in hand.’
‘You can’t believe that!’ she says, becoming exasperated.
‘Look at how close Aiden and Annabelle have become, how
near they are to escape. He’s willing to sacrifice himself for
her. Do you see that? If we let this continue, before long she’ll
be standing before you with an answer, and then what will you
do?’
‘I’m confident it won’t come to that.’
‘I’m confident it will,’ she snorts. ‘Tell me truthfully, will
you let her leave?’
The question knocks him silent a moment, a slight tilt of his
head conveying his indecision. My eyes slip towards Daniel,
who’s watching them, his face rapt. I imagine he feels as I do,
like a child watching his parents argue, understanding only
half of the things being said.
When the Plague Doctor speaks again, his voice is firm,
though rehearsed, his conviction born of repetition rather than
faith.


‘The rules of Blackheath are very clear and I’m beholden to
them, as are you,’ he says. ‘If she brings me the name of
Evelyn Hardcastle’s murderer, I can’t refuse to hear her case.’
‘Rules or not, you know what our superiors will do to you if
Annabelle escapes Blackheath.’
‘Have they sent you to replace me?’
‘Of course they haven’t.’ She sighs, sounding hurt. ‘Do you
think their reaction would be so temperate? I came as your
friend, to clean up this mess before they ever find out how
close you came to blundering. I’m quietly going to remove
Annabelle, ensuring you won’t have to make a choice you’ll
regret.’
She signals to Daniel. ‘Mr Coleridge, could you please
persuade Mr Bishop to reveal Annabelle’s location. I trust you
understand what’s at stake.’
Crushing his cigarette underfoot, Daniel nods at the brawler,
who takes hold of my arms, pinning me in place. I try to
struggle, but he’s much too strong.
‘This is forbidden, Josephine,’ says the Plague Doctor,
shocked. ‘We do not take direct action. We do not give orders.
We certainly don’t feed them information they aren’t supposed
to know. You’re breaking every rule we’ve promised to
uphold.’
‘You dare lecture me?’ says Silver Tear, scornfully. ‘All
you’ve done is interfere.’
The Plague Doctor shakes his head vehemently.
‘I explained Mr Bishop’s purpose here, and encouraged him
when he faltered. Unlike Daniel and Anna, he didn’t wake up
with the rules burned into him. He was free to doubt, to veer
from his purpose. I never gave him knowledge he hadn’t
earned, as you have done with Daniel. I sought to bring
balance, not offer advantage. I’m begging you, don’t do this.
Let events follow their natural course. He’s so close to solving
it.’
‘And because of that, so is Annabelle,’ she says, her voice
hardening. ‘I’m sorry, I must choose between Aiden Bishop’s


well-being and your own. Proceed, Mr Coleridge.’
‘No!’ yells the Plague Doctor, holding out a placating hand.
The thug with the shotgun points it at him. He’s nervous, his
finger gripping the trigger a little too tightly. I don’t know if
the Plague Doctor can be hurt by these weapons, but I can’t let
him risk it. I need him alive.
‘Just leave,’ I say to him. ‘There’s nothing else you can do
here.’
‘This is wrong,’ he protests.
‘Then make it right. My other hosts need you.’ I pause,
meaningfully. ‘I don’t.’
I don’t know if it’s my intonation, or whether he’s simply
watched this moment play out before, but, finally, grudgingly,
he relents, staring at Josephine, before disappearing out of the
graveyard.
‘Selfless, as always,’ says Daniel, walking towards me. ‘I
want you to know that I’ve admired that quality, Aiden. The
way you’ve fought to save the woman whose death would set
you free. Your fondness for Anna, who would have
undoubtedly betrayed you if I hadn’t done so first. In the end
though, I’m afraid it’s all been for nothing. Only one of us can
leave this house, and I have no interest in it being you.’
Crows are gathering in the branches above me. They arrive
as if by invitation, gliding in on silent wings, their feathers
slick with recent rain. There are dozens of them, pressed
together like mourners at a funeral, watching me with a
curiosity that makes my skin crawl.
‘Up until an hour ago, we had Anna in our custody.
Somehow she’s managed to escape,’ continues Daniel. ‘Where
would she go, Aiden? Tell me where she’s hiding and I’ll
instruct my men to make your death quick. There’s only you
and Gold left now. Two gunshots and you’ll wake up in Bell,
knock on Blackheath’s door and start everything again without
my getting in your way. You’re a clever fellow, I’m certain
you’ll solve Evelyn’s murder in no time.’
His face is ghoulish in the lantern light, twisted by need.


‘How frightened are you, Daniel?’ I say slowly. ‘You’ve
killed my future hosts, so I’m not a threat, but you have no
idea where Anna is. It’s been eating away at you all day, hasn’t
it? The fear that she’s going to solve this before you.’
It’s my smile that scares him, the faintest sense that I might
not be quite so trapped as he first believed.
‘If you don’t give me what I want, I’ll start cutting,’ says
Daniel, drawing a line across my cheek with his fingertip. ‘I’ll
take you apart an inch at a time.’
‘I know, I’ve met myself after you’re done,’ I say, staring at
him. ‘You break my mind so badly, I carry my madness into
Gregory Gold. He slashes his own arms and babbles warnings
at Edward Dance. It’s horrific. And my answer is still no.’
‘Tell me where she is,’ he says, raising his voice. ‘Coleridge
has half the servants in this house on his payroll, and I have a
pocketbook thick enough to buy the other half if necessary. I
can surround the lake twice over. Don’t you see? I’ve already
won. What’s the use of being stubborn now?’
‘Practice,’ I snarl. ‘I’m not going to tell you anything,
Daniel. Every minute I frustrate you is another minute Anna
has to reach the Plague Doctor with the answer. You’d need a
hundred men to guard that lake on a pitch-black night like this,
and I doubt even Silver Tear can help with that.’
‘You’ll suffer,’ he hisses.
‘One hour until 11 p.m.,’ I say. ‘Which one of us do you
think can hold out the longer?’
Daniel hits me hard enough to rip the air from my lungs and
knock me to my knees. When I look up, he’s looming over me,
rubbing his grazed knuckles. Anger flickers at the edges of his
face like a storm creeping across a cloudless sky. Gone is the
suave gambler of earlier, replaced by a scrappy conman, his
body twisted by red-hot anger.
‘I’m going to kill you slowly,’ he growls.
‘I’m not the one who dies here, Daniel,’ I say, letting loose a
shrill whistle. Birds scatter from the trees, the underbrush
rustling with movement. In the inky blackness of the forest, a


lantern flares into life. It’s followed by another a few feet
away, and then another.
Daniel spins on the spot, following the lanterns. He hasn’t
noticed Silver Tear, who’s backing into the forest, looking
unsure of herself.
‘You’ve hurt a lot of people,’ I say, as the lights come
closer. ‘And now you get to face them.’
‘How?’ he stammers, confounded by the reversal in his
fortunes. ‘I killed all your future hosts.’
‘You didn’t kill their friends,’ I say. ‘When Anna told me
her plan to lure the footman here, I decided we’d need more
bodies and I asked Cunningham to help. Once I realised you
and the footman were in league together, I expanded my
recruiting drive. It wasn’t hard to find enemies of yours.’
Grace Davies appears first, shotgun raised. Rashton nearly
bit his tongue off to prevent me from asking for her help, but I
was short of options. The rest of my hosts are busy, or dead,
and Cunningham is at the ball with Ravencourt. The second
light belongs to Lucy Harper, who was easily swayed to my
cause by the revelation that Daniel murdered her father, and
finally comes Stanwin’s bodyguard, his head completely
bandaged, aside from those cold, hard eyes. Though they’re all
armed, none of them looks very confident and I wouldn’t trust
a single one to hit anything they’re aiming at. It doesn’t matter.
At this stage, it’s the numbers that count and they’re enough to
rattle Daniel and Silver Tear, whose mask is sweeping back
and forth, searching for an escape.
‘It’s over, Daniel,’ I say, my voice steely. ‘Surrender, and
I’ll let you go back to Blackheath unharmed.’
He glares at me desperately, then at my friends.
‘I know what this place can do to us,’ I continue. ‘But you
were kind to Bell that first morning, and I saw your affection
for Michael on the hunt. Be a good man one more time, and
call off the footman. Let me and Anna go with your blessing.’
His expression wavers, torment showing on his face, but it’s
not enough. Blackheath has poisoned him completely.


‘Kill them,’ he says savagely.
A shotgun explodes behind me, and I instinctively throw
myself to the ground. My allies scatter as Daniel’s man
advances on them, firing shot after shot into the darkness. The
unarmed man is cutting left, keeping low as he tries to take
them by surprise.
I can’t tell whether it’s my anger, or my host’s, which drives
me to lash out at Daniel. Donald Davies is raging, although his
fury is one of class rather than crime. He’s aggrieved that
anybody should presume to treat him so shabbily.
My anger is altogether more personal.
Daniel has blocked my way ever since that first morning.
He sought to escape Blackheath by climbing out over me,
undoing my plans in service of his own. He came to me as a
friend, smiling as he lied, laughing as he betrayed me, and it’s
this that causes me to hurl myself like a spear at his midriff.
He slips aside, catching me in the stomach with an uppercut.
Doubled over, I punch him in the groin and then grab his neck,
dragging him to the ground.
I see the compass too late.
He smashes it into my cheek, the glass splintering, blood
dripping off my chin. My eyes are watering, sodden leaves
squelching beneath my palms. Daniel advances, but a shot
whistles past him, catching Silver Tear who screams, clutching
her shoulder and falling in a heap.
Glancing at the trembling gun in Lucy Harper’s hand,
Daniel sprints off towards Blackheath. Picking myself up, I
give chase.
We run like a hound and fox across the lawn in front of the
house, and down the driveway towards the village, flying past
the gatehouse. I’m almost convinced he’s fleeing to the
village, when finally he turns left, following the trail to the
well, and beyond that the lake.
It’s pitch-black, the moon prowling the clouds like a dog
behind an old wooden fence, and I soon lose sight of my
quarry. Fearing an ambush, I slow my pursuit, listening


intently. Owls hoot, rain drips through the leaves of the trees.
Branches snatch at me as I duck and weave, emerging upon
Daniel, doubled over by the edge of the water with his hands
on his knees, panting for breath, a storm lantern at his feet.
There’s nowhere left for him to run.
My hands are shaking, fear squirming in my chest. Anger
gave me courage but it’s also made a fool of me. Donald
Davies is short and slight, softer than the beds he lies in.
Daniel is taller, stronger. He preys on these people. Whatever
numerical advantage I had in the graveyard I’ve left far
behind, which means that for the first time since I arrived in
Blackheath, neither of us knows what’s coming next.
Spotting my approach, Daniel waves me back, gesturing for
a minute to catch his breath. I give it to him, using the time to
select a heavy rock I can use as a weapon. After the compass,
we’re beyond fighting fair.
‘Whatever you do, they’re not going to let your friend
leave,’ he says, forcing out the words between breaths. ‘Silver
Tear told me everything about you in exchange for a promise
that I’d find and kill Anna. She told me about your hosts,
where they woke up, and when. Don’t you understand? None
of this matters, Aiden. I’m the only one who can escape.’
‘You could have told me this earlier,’ I say. ‘It didn’t have to
end like this.’
‘I have a wife and a son,’ he says. ‘That’s the memory I
brought with me. Can you imagine how that feels? Knowing
they’re out there, waiting for me. Or, they were.’
I take a step towards him, the rock by my side.
‘How will you face them, knowing what you did to escape
this place?’ I ask.
‘I’m only what Blackheath has made me,’ he pants, spitting
phlegm into the mud.
‘No, Blackheath’s what we made it,’ I say, advancing a little
more. He’s still buckled, still tired. A couple more steps and
this will all be over. ‘Our decisions led us here, Daniel. If this
is hell, then it’s one of our making.’


‘And what would you have us do?’ he says, looking up at
me. ‘Sit here and repent until somebody sees fit to open the
doors?’
‘Help me save Evelyn and we can take what we know to the
Plague Doctor together,’ I say passionately. ‘All three of us,
you, me and Anna. We have a chance to walk out of this place
better men than we arrived.’
‘I can’t risk it,’ he says in a flat, dead voice. ‘I won’t let this
opportunity to escape pass me by. Not for guilt, and not to help
people long past helping.’
Without warning, he kicks the storm lantern over.
Night floods my eyes.
I hear the splash of his steps before his shoulder drives into
my stomach, knocking the wind from me.
We hit the ground with a thud, the rock dropping from my
hands.
It’s all I can do to throw my arms up to protect myself, but
they’re thin and frail, and his punches easily break through.
Blood fills my mouth. I’m numb, inside and out, but the blows
keep coming until his knuckles slip off my bloody cheeks.
His weight recedes as he lifts himself free of me.
He’s panting, his sweat dripping onto me.
‘I tried to avoid this,’ he says.
Strong fingers grip my ankle, dragging me through the mud
towards the water. I reach for him, but his assault has driven
the strength from me and I collapse back.
He pauses, wiping the sweat from his brow. Moonlight
hammers through the clouds, bleaching his features. His hair is
silver, his skin white as fresh snow. He’s looking down at me
with the same pity he showed Bell the first morning I arrived.
‘We don’t…’ I say, coughing up blood.
‘You should have stayed out of my way,’ he says, yanking
me forward once again. ‘That’s all I ever asked of you.’


He splashes into the lake, pulling me with him, the cold
water rushing up my legs, soaking my chest and head. The
shock of it stirs some fight within me, and I try to claw my
way back up the bank, but Daniel grabs my hair, pushing my
face into the freezing water.
I scratch at his hand, kicking my legs, but he’s too strong.
My body convulses, desperate for a breath.
Still, he holds me down.
I see Thomas Hardcastle, dead these last nineteen years,
swimming towards me out of the murk. He’s blond-haired and
wide-eyed, lost down here, but he takes my hand and squeezes
my fingers, urging me to be brave.
Unable to hold my breath any longer, my mouth springs
open, gulping in cold, muddy water.
My body spasms.
Thomas pulls my spirit clear of this dying flesh and we float
side by side in the water, watching Donald Davies drown.
It’s peaceful and still. Surprisingly quiet.
Then something crashes into the water.
Hands plunge through the surface, gripping the body of
Donald Davies, tearing him upwards, and a second later I
follow him.
The dead boy’s fingers are still entwined in mine, but I can’t
pull him clear of the lake. He died here and so he’s trapped
here, watching sorrowfully as I’m dragged to safety.
I’m lying in the mud coughing water, my body made of
lead.
Daniel is floating face down in the lake.
Somebody slaps me.
Then again harder.
Anna’s hovering above me, but everything’s blurry. The
lake’s holding its hands over my ears, tugging me back.
Darkness is calling me.


She leans closer, a smudge of a person.
‘… find me,’ screams Anna, the words faint, ‘7:12 a.m. in
the entrance hall…’
Beneath the lake, Thomas beckons me back and, closing my
eyes, I join the drowned boy.


53
Day Eight
My cheek is resting against the curve of a woman’s back.
We’re naked, tangled in sweat-soaked sheets on a dirty
mattress, rain wriggling through the rotten window frames to
run down the wall and collect on the bare floorboards.
She stirs as I do, Madeline Aubert rolling over to meet me.
The maid’s green eyes shine with a sickly need, her dark hair
stuck to her damp cheeks. She looks much as Thomas
Hardcastle did in my dream, drowned and desperate, clinging
to whatever’s at hand.
Finding me lying beside her, she drops her head on the
pillow with a disappointed sigh. Such obvious disdain should
make me uncomfortable, but any ruffled feathers are smoothed
by the remembrance of our first meeting; the shame of our
mutual need and the eagerness with which she came into my
arms when I pulled one of Bell’s laudanum vials from my
pocket.
My eyes lazily search the cottage for more drugs. My work
for the Hardcastles is complete, their new portraits hang in the
long gallery. I’m not invited to the party, and I’m not expected
at the house, leaving me a free morning on this mattress, the
world circling me like paint down a plughole.
My gaze snags on Madeline’s cap and apron, which are
hanging off a chair.
As if slapped, I immediately return to myself, the uniform
summoning Anna’s face, her voice and touch, the peril of our
situation.
Clinging to this memory, I manage to elbow Gold’s
personality to one side.
I’m so filled with his hopes and fears, lusts and passions,
that Aiden Bishop had felt like a dream in the morning light.
I believed I was no more than this.


Edging off the mattress, I knock over a pile of empty
laudanum vials, which roll away across the floor like fleeing
mice. Kicking them aside, I go to the fire where a single flame
licks the embers, swelling as I add more tinder and wood from
the pile. Chess pieces line the mantelpiece, each of them hand-
crafted, a few painted, though splashed in colour might
describe them better. They’re only half finished, and lying
beside them is the small knife Gold is using to carve them.
These are the chess pieces Anna will spend the day carrying
around, and the blade is a perfect match for the slashes I saw
on Gold’s arms yesterday.
Fate is lighting signal fires again.
Madeline’s retrieving her clothes, which are scattered across
the floor. Such haste speaks of an unruly passion, though
there’s only shame at work within her now. She dresses with
her back to me, eyes on the wall opposite. Gold’s gaze is not
so chaste, gorging on the sight of her pale white flesh, her hair
spilling down her back.
‘Do you have a mirror?’ she asks, doing up her dress, the
lightest touch of a French accent in her words.
‘I don’t believe so,’ I say, enjoying the warmth of the fire on
my bare skin.
‘I must look terrible,’ she says absently.
A gentleman would disagree out of respect, but Gold is no
gentleman and Madeline is no Grace Davies. I’ve never seen
her without powder and make-up, and I’m surprised by how
sickly looking she appears. Her face is desperately thin, with
yellow, pockmarked skin and tired eyes rubbed raw.
Skirting along the far wall in order to stay as far away from
me as possible, she opens the door to leave, cold air stealing
the warmth from the room. It’s early, still hours until dawn,
and there’s fog on the ground. Blackheath is framed by trees,
night still draped around its shoulders. Given the angle I’m
seeing it from, this cottage must be somewhere out by the
family graveyard.


I watch Madeline hurrying along the path towards the
house, a shawl pulled tight across her shoulders. If events had
followed their original course, it would be me stumbling into
the night. Driven mad by the footman’s torture, I’d have taken
the carving knife to my own flesh before climbing
Blackheath’s stairs to bang on Dance’s door, screaming my
warning. 
By 
seeing 
through 
Daniel’s 
betrayal, 
and
overwhelming him in the graveyard, I’ve avoided that fate.
I’ve rewritten the day.
Now I have to make sure it has a happy ending.
Closing the door behind Madeline, I light an oil lamp,
pondering my next move as the darkness slinks into the
corners. Ideas claw at the inside of my skull, one last half-
formed monster still waiting to be dragged into the brightness.
To think, when I woke up that first morning as Bell, I fretted
about possessing too few memories. Now I must contend with
an over-abundance. My mind is a stuffed trunk that needs
unpacking, but for Gold the world only makes sense on
canvas, and it’s there I must find my answer. If Rashton and
Ravencourt have taught me anything, it’s to value my hosts’
talents, rather than lament their limitations.
Picking up the lamp, I head towards the studio at the back of
the cottage to search for some paint. Canvases are stacked
against the walls, the paintings half-finished or slashed in a
fury. Bottles of wine have been kicked over, spilling across the
floor onto hundreds of pencil sketches, scrunched up and
tossed aside. Turpentine drips down the wall, blurring a
landscape Gold seems to have begun in a flurry and
abandoned in a rage.
Stacked at the centre of the squalor like a pyre awaiting the
torch are dozens of old family portraits, their woodworm-
riddled frames ripped off and tossed aside. Most of the
portraits have been destroyed by turpentine, though a few pale
limbs have managed to survive the purge. Evelyn told me
Gold had been commissioned to touch up the art around
Blackheath. Seems he wasn’t terribly impressed with what he
found.
Staring at the pile, an idea begins to form.


Rummaging through the shelves, I snatch up a charcoal
stick and return to the front room, placing the lamp on the
floor. There’s no canvas to hand so I dash my thoughts across
the wall instead, working within the small pool of dancing
light cast by the lantern. They arrive in a frenzy, a lurch of
knowledge that wears the stick down to a nub in minutes,
forcing me into the gloom to scavenge another.
Working downwards from a canopy of names clustered near
the ceiling, I feverishly sketch a trunk of everybody’s actions
over the course of the day, the roots stretching back nineteen
years, burrowing into a lake with a dead boy at the bottom. At
some point, I accidentally reopen an old cut on my hand,
smearing my tree red. Tearing the sleeve from my shirt, I
bandage the wound as best I can before returning to my labour.
The first rays of the new dawn creep over the horizon as I step
back, the charcoal stick dropping from my hand and shattering
on the bare floorboards. Exhausted, I sit down in front of it,
my arm trembling.
Too little information and you’re blind, too much and you’re
blinded.
I squint at the pattern. There are two knots in the tree
representing two swirling holes in the story. Two questions
that will make sense of everything: what did Millicent Derby
know and where is Helena Hardcastle?
The cottage door opens, bringing the smell of dew.
I’m too tired to look around. I’m melted candlewax,
formless and spent, waiting for somebody to scrape me off the
floor. All I want to do is sleep, to close my eyes and free
myself of all thought, but this is my last host. If I fail,
everything starts over again.
‘You’re here?’ says the Plague Doctor, startled. ‘You’re
never here. By this time, you’re usually raving. How did…
what is that?’ He sweeps by me, his greatcoat swishing. The
costume is utterly ridiculous by the light of a new day, the
nightmarish bird revealed as a theatrical tramp. Little wonder
he makes most of his house calls at night.


He stops inches from the wall, running his gloved hand
along the curve of the tree, smudging the names.
‘Remarkable,’ he says under his breath, looking it up and
down.
‘What happened to Silver Tear?’ I ask. ‘I saw her shot in the
graveyard.’
‘I trapped her in the loop,’ he says, sadly. ‘It was the only
way to save her life. She’ll wake up in a few hours thinking
she’s just arrived and repeat everything she did yesterday. My
superiors will notice her absence eventually, and come to free
her. I’m afraid I have some difficult questions ahead of me.’
As he stands in communion with my painted tree, I open the
front door, sunlight drawing across my face, warmth spreading
down my neck and bare arms. Squinting into the glare, I
breathe in its golden light. I’ve never been awake this early
before, never seen the sun rise over this place.
It’s miraculous.
‘Does this painting say what I think it says?’ asks the Plague
Doctor, his voice tight with expectation.
‘What do you believe it says?’
‘That Michael Hardcastle tried to murder his own sister.’
‘Then, yes, that’s what it says.’
Birds are singing, three rabbits hopping around the cottage’s
small garden, their fur made rust-coloured by the sunlight. If
I’d known paradise was on the far side of a sunrise, I’d never
have wasted a single night on sleep.
‘You’ve solved it, Mr Bishop, you’re the first one to solve
it,’ he says, his voice rising in excitement. ‘You’re free! After
all this time, you’re finally free!’ He removes a silver hip flask
from the folds of his robe, and presses it into my hand.
I can’t identify the liquid in the flask, but it sets fire to my
bones, jolting me awake.
‘Silver Tear was right to worry,’ I say, still watching the
rabbits. ‘I’m not leaving without Anna.’


‘That’s not your choice,’ he says, standing back to better see
the tree.
‘What are you going to do, drag me out to the lake?’ I ask.
‘I won’t need to,’ he says. ‘The lake was simply a meeting
place. The answer was all that ever mattered. You’ve solved
Evelyn’s murder and convinced me of the solution. Now that
I’ve accepted it, even Blackheath can’t keep hold of you. Next
time you sleep, you’ll be freed!’
I want to be angry, but I can’t rouse myself to it. Sleep is
tugging at me with soft hands and every time I close my eyes
it becomes that much harder to open them again. Returning to
the open door, I slide my back down the frame until I’m sitting
on the floor, half of my body in gloom, the other half in
sunshine. I can’t bring myself to abandon the warmth and
birdsong, the blessings of a world so long denied.
I take another sip from the flask, forcing myself awake.
I’ve still got so much to do.
So much you can’t be seen to be doing.
‘It wasn’t a fair competition,’ I say. ‘I had eight hosts
whereas Anna and Daniel only had one. I could remember the
week and they couldn’t.’
He pauses, considering me.
‘You had those things because you chose to come to
Blackheath,’ he says quietly, as if afraid of being overheard.
‘They did not, and that’s all I can say on the matter.’
‘If I chose to come here once, I can choose to come again,’ I
say. ‘I won’t leave Anna behind.’
He begins to pace, glancing between me and the painting.
‘You’re afraid,’ I say, surprised.
‘Yes, I’m afraid,’ he snaps. ‘My superiors, they’re not…
you shouldn’t defy them. I promise you, after you leave, I’ll
offer Anna all the assistance it’s in my power to grant.’
‘One day, one host. She’ll never escape Blackheath, you
know she won’t,’ I say. ‘I couldn’t have done this without


Ravencourt’s intelligence, and Dance’s cunning. It was only
because of Rashton that I started looking at the clues like
evidence. Hell, even Derby and Bell played their part. She’ll
need all of their skills, just as I did.’
‘Your hosts will still be in Blackheath.’
‘But I won’t be controlling them!’ I insist. ‘They won’t help
a maid. I’ll be abandoning her to this place.’
‘Forget about her! This has already gone on long enough,’
he says, swinging around to confront me, swiping his hand
through the air.
‘What’s gone on long enough?’
He’s looking at his gloved hand, startled by his own loss of
control.
‘Only you can make me this angry,’ he says in a quieter
voice. ‘It’s always been the same. Loop after loop, host after
host. I’ve seen you betray friends, make alliances and die on
principle. I’ve seen so many versions of Aiden Bishop, you’d
probably never recognise yourself in them, but the one thing
that’s never changed is your stubbornness. You pick a path,
and you walk down it until the end, no matter how many holes
you fall down along the way. It would be impressive if it
weren’t so intensely irritating.’
‘Irritating or not, I have to know why Silver Tear went to
such lengths to try to kill Anna.’
He offers me a long, appraising look, and then sighs.
‘Do you know how you can tell if a monster’s fit to walk the
world again, Mr Bishop?’ he says contemplatively. ‘If they’re
truly redeemed and not just telling you what you want to
hear?’ He takes another slug from the hip flask. ‘You give
them a day without consequences, and you watch to see what
they do with it.’
My skin prickles, my blood running cold.
‘This was all a test?’ I say slowly.
‘We prefer to call it rehabilitation.’


‘Rehabilitation…’ I repeat, understanding rising within me
like the sun over the house. ‘This is a prison?’
‘Yes, except instead of leaving our prisoners to rot in a cell,
we give them a chance to prove themselves worthy of release
every single day. Do you see the beauty of it?’ The murder of
Evelyn Hardcastle was never solved, and probably never
would have been. By locking prisoners inside the murder, we
give them a chance to atone for their own crimes by solving
somebody else’s. It’s as much a service, as a punishment.’
‘Are there other places like this?’ I say, trying to wrap my
head around it.
‘Thousands,’ he says. ‘I’ve seen a village that wakes up
each morning with three headless bodies in the square, and a
series of murders on an ocean liner. There must be fifteen
prisoners attempting to solve that one.’
‘Which makes you, what? A warden?’
‘An assessor. I decide if you’re worthy of release.’
‘But you said I chose to come to Blackheath. Why would I
choose to come to a prison?’
‘You came for Anna, but you got trapped, and loop after
loop Blackheath picked you apart until you forgot yourself, as
it was designed to.’ His voice is tight with anger, his gloved
hands clenched. ‘My superiors should never have let you
inside, it was wrong. For the longest time, I thought the
innocent man who’d entered here was lost, sacrificed in some
futile gesture, but you’ve found your way back. That’s why
I’ve been helping you. I gave you control of different hosts,
searching for those who were best equipped to solve her
murder, finally settling on the eight of today. I experimented
with their order to ensure you got the best out of them. I even
arranged to have Mr Rashton hidden in that cupboard to keep
him alive. I’m bending every rule possible so that you can
finally escape. Do you see now? You must leave while you’re
still the person you wish to be.’
‘And Anna…?’ I say haltingly, hating the question I’m
about to ask.


I’ve never allowed myself to believe that Anna belonged
here, preferring to think of this place as the equivalent of being
shipwrecked, or struck by lightning. By assuming her to be a
victim, I took away the niggling doubt of whether this was
deserved, but without that comfort, my fear is growing.
‘What did Anna do to deserve Blackheath?’ I ask.
He shakes his head, passing me the flask. ‘That’s not for me
to say. Just know that the weight of the punishment is equal to
the crime. The prisoners I told you about in the village and on
the boat received lighter sentences than either Anna or Daniel.
Those places are much less harrowing than here. Blackheath
was built to break devils, not petty thieves.’
‘You’re saying Anna’s a devil?’
‘I’m saying thousands of crimes are committed every day,
but only two people have been sent to this place.’ His voice is
rising, racked with emotion. ‘Anna’s one of them, and yet you
risked your life to help her escape. It’s madness.’
‘Any woman who can inspire that loyalty has to be worth
something.’
‘You’re not hearing me,’ he says, his fists balled.
‘I’m hearing you, but I won’t leave her here,’ I say. ‘Even if
you make me go today, I’ll find my way back in tomorrow. I
did it once, I’ll do it again.’
‘Stop being such a bloody fool!’ He thumps the doorframe
hard enough to bring dust down on our heads. ‘It wasn’t
loyalty that brought you to Blackheath, it was vengeance. You
didn’t come here to rescue Anna, you came for your pound of
flesh. She’s safe in Blackheath. Caged, but safe. You didn’t
want her to be caged, you wanted her to suffer – so many
people out there wanted her to suffer, but none of them was
willing to do what you were, because nobody hated this
woman as much as you did. You followed her into Blackheath
and for thirty years you dedicated yourself to torturing her, as
the footman tortures you today.’
Silence presses down on us.


I open my mouth to respond, but my stomach’s in my shoes,
my head spinning. The world has upended itself, and even
though I’m sitting on the floor, I can feel myself falling and
falling.
‘What did she do?’ I whisper.
‘My superiors—’
‘Opened Blackheath’s doors to an innocent man intent on
murder,’ I say. ‘They’re as guilty as anybody in here. Now tell
me what she did.’
‘I can’t,’ he says weakly, his resistance all but spent.
‘You’ve helped me this far.’
‘Yes, because what happened to you is wrong,’ he says,
taking a long swig from the flask, his Adam’s apple bouncing
up and down in his throat. ‘Nobody objected to my helping
you escape because you weren’t supposed to be here anyway,
but if I start telling you things you shouldn’t know, there’ll be
repercussions. For both of us.’
‘I can’t leave without knowing why I’m going, and I can’t
promise not to come back until I’m certain of why I came in
the first place,’ I say. ‘Please, this is how we end this.’
The beak mask turns towards me slowly, and for a full
minute, he stands there, deep in thought. I can feel myself
being measured, my qualities weighed and set aside, my flaws
held up to the light that they might be better judged.
It’s not you he’s measuring.
What does that mean?
He’s a good man. This is when he finds out how good.
Bowing his head, the Plague Doctor surprises me by taking
off his top hat, revealing the brown leather straps holding the
beak mask in place. One by one, he begins undoing them,
grunting with the effort as his thick fingers pry at the catches.
As the last clasp comes loose, he removes his mask and pulls
down his hood, revealing the bald head beneath. He’s older
than I would have imagined, closer to sixty than fifty certainly,
his face that of a decent, overworked man. His eyes are


bloodshot, his skin the colour of old paper. If my tiredness
could take a shape, it would look like this.
Oblivious to my concern, he tilts his face to catch the early
morning light seeping through the window.
‘Well, that’s done it,’ he says, tossing the mask onto Gold’s
bed. Freed from the porcelain, his voice is almost, but not
quite, the one I know.
‘I don’t imagine you were supposed to do that,’ I nod
towards the mask.
‘It’s getting to be quite a list,’ he replies, sitting down on a
step outside the door, positioning himself so that his entire
body is bathed in sunlight.
‘I come here every morning before I start work,’ he says,
taking a deep breath. ‘I love this time of the day. It lasts for
seventeen minutes, then the clouds gather and two footmen
resume a quarrel from the evening before, ending in a fistfight
at the stables.’ He’s peeling his gloves off, finger by finger.
‘It’s a shame this is the first time you’ve been able to enjoy it,
Mr Bishop.’
‘Aiden,’ I say, extending my hand.
‘Oliver,’ he says as he shakes it.
‘Oliver,’ I repeat, thoughtfully. ‘I never thought of you
having a name.’
‘Perhaps I should tell it to Donald Davies when I confront
him on the road,’ he says, a faint smile on his lips. ‘He’ll be
very angry. It might calm him.’
‘You’re still going out there? Why? You have your answer.’
‘Until you escape, it’s my duty to shepherd those that follow
you, to give them the same chance you had.’
‘But you know who killed Evelyn Hardcastle now,’ I say.
‘Won’t that change things?’
‘Are you suggesting I’ll find my task difficult because I
know more than them?’ He shakes his head. ‘I’ve always
known more than them. I knew more than you. Knowledge


was never my problem. Ignorance is the condition I struggle
with.’
His face hardens again, the levity slipping from his tone.
‘That’s why I’ve taken my mask off, Aiden. I need you to see
my face and hear my voice, and know that what I’m telling
you is the absolute truth. We can’t have doubts between us,
any more.’
‘I understand,’ I say. It’s all I can manage. I feel like a man
waiting for the fall.
‘The name Annabelle Caulker, the woman you know as
Anna, is a curse in every language in which it is spoken,’ he
says, pinning me in place with his gaze. ‘She was the leader of
a group which sowed destruction and death across half the
nations of the world and would surely still be doing so if she
hadn’t been caught, over thirty years ago. That’s who you’re
trying to free.’
I should be surprised. I should be shocked, or angry. I
should protest, but I don’t feel any of those things. This
doesn’t feel like a revelation, more the voicing of facts I’ve
long been familiar with. Anna’s fierce and fearless, even brutal
when she needs to be. I saw her expression in the gatehouse
when she came at Dance with the shotgun, not realising it was
me. She would have pulled the trigger without any regret at
all. She killed Daniel when I could not, and casually suggested
murdering Evelyn ourselves as a way of answering the Plague
Doctor’s question. She said it was a joke, but even now I’m
not certain.
And yet, Anna only killed those people to protect me,
buying time so that I could solve this mystery. She’s strong,
she’s kind and she stayed loyal, even when my desire to save
Evelyn threatened to undermine our investigation into her
murder.
Of all the people in the house, she’s the only one who never
hid who she truly was.
‘She’s not that person any more,’ I argue. ‘You said
Blackheath was meant to rehabilitate people, to break down
their old personalities and test the new ones. Well, I’ve seen


Anna up close this last week. She’s helped me, saved my life
more than once. She’s my friend.’
‘She murdered your sister,’ he says bluntly.
My world empties.
‘She tortured her, humiliated her and made the world
watch,’ he continues. ‘That’s who Anna is, and people like that
don’t change, Aiden.’
I drop to my knees, clutching my temples as old memories
erupt.
My sister was called Juliette. She had brown hair, and a
bright smile. She was charged with capturing Annabelle
Caulker, and I was so proud of her.
Every recollection feels like a shard of glass tearing through
my mind.
Juliette was driven and clever, and thought justice was
something that had to be defended and not simply expected.
She made me laugh. She thought that was worth doing.
Tears roll down my cheeks.
Annabelle Caulker’s men came in the night, and took
Juliette from her home. They executed her husband with a
single bullet to the head. He was lucky. Juliette’s bullet didn’t
come for seven days. They tortured her and let everybody
watch.
They called it justice for their persecution.
They said we should have expected this.
I don’t know anything more about myself, or the rest of my
family. I didn’t keep hold of my happy memories. Only those
that could help me, only hate and grief.
It was Juliette’s murder that brought me to Blackheath. It
was the weekly phone calls that stopped coming. The stories
we stopped sharing. It was the space where she should have
been and would never be again. It was the way Annabelle was
eventually caught.
Bloodlessly. Painlessly.


Entirely without incident.
And they sent her to Blackheath, where my sister’s
murderer would spend a lifetime solving the death of a
murdered sister. They called it justice. They patted themselves
on the back for their ingenuity, thinking I’d be as pleased as
they were. Thinking it was enough.
They were wrong.
The injustice tore into me at night, and stalked me during
the day. It whittled me down until she was the only thing I
could think about.
I followed her through the gates of hell. I pursued, terrified
and tortured Annabelle Caulker, until I forgot the reasons why.
Until I forgot Juliette. Until Annabelle became Anna, and all I
saw was a terrified girl at the mercy of monsters.
I became the thing I hated, and made Annabelle into the
thing I loved.
And I blamed Blackheath.
I look up at the Plague Doctor through eyes raw with tears.
He’s looking me full in the face, weighing my reaction. I
wonder what he sees, because I have no idea what to think. All
of this is happening to me because of the person I’m trying to
save.
This is Anna’s fault.
Annabelle.
‘What?’ I ask, surprised by how insistent the voice in my
head sounds.
It’s Annabelle Caulker’s fault, not Anna’s. That’s who we
hated.
‘Aiden?’ asks the Plague Doctor.
And Annabelle Caulker’s dead.
‘Annabelle Caulker’s dead,’ I repeat slowly, meeting the
Plague Doctor’s startled gaze.
He shakes his head. ‘You’re wrong.’


‘It took thirty years,’ I say. ‘And it wasn’t done with
violence and it wasn’t done with hatred. It was done with
forgiveness. Annabelle Caulker is dead.’
‘You’re mistaken.’
‘No, you are,’ I say, building in confidence. ‘You asked me
to listen to the voice in my head, and I am. You asked me to
believe Blackheath could rehabilitate people, and I have. Now
you need to do the same, because you’re so blinded by who
Anna used to be, you’re ignoring who she’s become, and if
you’re not willing to accept she’s changed, then what good is
any of this?’
Frustrated, he kicks at the dirt with the toe of his boot.
‘I should never have taken the mask off,’ he growls, getting
to his feet and striding into the garden, scattering the rabbits
that had been eating the grass. Hands on hips, he stares at
Blackheath in the distance, and for the first time, I realise it’s
as much his master as mine. While I was free to tinker and
change, he’s been forced to watch murder, rape and suicide,
wrapped in enough lies to bury the entire place. He’s had to
accept whatever the day brought him, no matter how horrific.
And unlike me, he wasn’t allowed to forget. A man could go
mad. Most men would, unless they had faith. Unless they
believed the ends justified the means.
As if privy to my thoughts, the Plague Doctor turns towards
me.
‘What is it you’re asking of me, Aiden?’
‘Come to the lake at eleven,’ I say firmly. ‘There’ll be a
monster there, and I guarantee it won’t be Anna. Watch her,
give her a chance to prove herself. You’ll see who she really
is, and you’ll see I’m right.’
He looks uncertain.
‘How can you know that?’ he asks.
‘Because I’ll be in danger.’
‘Even if you convince me she’s rehabilitated, you’ve
already solved the mystery of Evelyn’s death,’ he says. ‘The


rules are clear: the first prisoner to explain who killed Evelyn
Hardcastle will be released. That’s you. Not Anna. What’s
your solution to that?’
Getting to my feet, I stumble over to my sketch of the tree,
jabbing at the knots, the holes in my knowledge.
‘I haven’t solved everything,’ I say. ‘If Michael Hardcastle
planned to shoot his sister in the reflecting pool, why would he
also poison her? I don’t think he did. I don’t think he knew
there was poison in the drink that killed him. I think somebody
else put it there in case Michael failed.’
The Plague Doctor’s followed me inside.
‘That’s thin reasoning, Aiden.’
‘We still have too many questions for anything else,’ I say,
recalling Evelyn’s pale face after I saved her in the Sun Room,
and the message she worked so hard to deliver. ‘If this was
finished, why would Evelyn tell me Millicent Derby was
murdered? What does that achieve?’
‘Perhaps Michael killed her also?’
‘And what was his motive? No, we’re missing something.’
‘What sort of something?’ he asks, his conviction wavering.
‘I think Michael Hardcastle was working with somebody
else, somebody who’s kept out of sight all along,’ I say.
‘A second killer,’ he says, taking a second to consider it.
‘I’ve been here for thirty years, and I’ve never suspected…
nobody ever has. It can’t be, Aiden. It’s impossible.’
‘Everything about today is impossible,’ I say, thumping my
charcoal tree. ‘There’s a second killer, I know there is. I have
an idea who it may be and, if I’m right, they killed Millicent
Derby to cover their tracks. They’re as implicated in Evelyn’s
murder as Michael, and that means you need two answers. If
Anna delivers Michael’s partner, will that be enough to set her
free?’ I ask.
‘My superiors do not want to see Annabelle Caulker leave
Blackheath,’ he says. ‘And I’m not certain they can be


convinced she’s changed. Even if they can, they’ll be looking
for any excuse to keep her imprisoned, Aiden.’
‘You helped me because I don’t belong here,’ I say. ‘If I’m
right about Anna, the same is now true for her.’
Running his hand across his scalp, he paces back and forth,
casting anxious glances between myself and the sketch.
‘I can only promise I’ll be at the lake tonight with an open
mind,’ he says.
‘It’s enough,’ I say, clapping him on the shoulder. ‘Meet me
by the boathouse at eleven, and you’ll see I’m right.’
‘And may I ask what you’ll be doing in the meantime?’
‘I’m going to find out who murdered Millicent Derby.’


54
Keeping to the trees, I approach Blackheath unseen, my shirt
damp with fog, my shoes caked in mud. The Sun Room lies a
few paces away and crouching among the dripping bushes, I
look for any movement within. It’s still early, but I don’t know
when Daniel wakes up, or when he’s recruited by Silver Tear.
For safety’s sake, I must assume he and his spies are still a
threat, which means I must remain concealed until he’s lying
face down in the lake, all his plots drowned with him.
After the sun’s early foray, it’s abandoned us to the gloom,
the sky a muddle of greys. I search the flower beds for
splashes of red, hints of purple, pink or white. I search for the
brighter world behind this one, imagining Blackheath alight,
wearing a crown of flames and a cape of fire. I see the grey
sky burning, black ash falling like snow. I imagine the world
remade, if only for an instant.
I come to a halt, suddenly uncertain of my purpose. I look
around, not recognising anything, wondering why I left the
cottage without my brushes and easel. Surely I came to paint,
but I’m not a fan of the morning light here. It’s too dreary, too
quiet, a gauze across the landscape.
‘I don’t know why I’m here,’ I say to myself, looking down
at my charcoal-stained shirt.
Anna. You’re here for Anna.
Her name shakes me loose of Gold’s confusion, my
memories returning in a flood.
It’s getting worse.
Taking a deep breath of cold air, I clutch the chess piece
from the mantel in my hand, building a wall between myself
and Gold by using every memory I have of Anna. I make
bricks of her laughter, her touch, her kindness and warmth,
and only when I’m content my wall is high enough, do I
resume my study of the Sun Room, letting myself inside when
I’m satisfied the house sleeps.


Dance’s drunken friend, Philip Sutcliffe, is asleep on one of
the couches, his jacket drawn up over his face. He stirs briefly,
smacking his lips and peering at me blearily. He murmurs
something, shifts his weight, and then falls asleep again.
I wait, listening. Dripping. Breathing heavily.
Nothing else moves.
Evelyn’s grandmother watches me from the portrait above
the fireplace. Her lips are pursed, the artist capturing her
exactly at the moment of rebuke.
My neck prickles.
I find myself frowning at the painting, dismayed by how
gently she’s been rendered. My mind repaints it, the curves as
harsh as scars, the oil piled like mountains. It becomes a mood
smeared on canvas. A black one at that. I’m certain the old
battleaxe would have preferred its honesty.
A peal of shrill laughter sounds through the open door, a
dagger driven into somebody’s story. The guests must have
started drifting down to breakfast.
I’m running out of time.
Closing my eyes, I try to remember what Millicent spoke
with her son about, what drove her to hurry off so quickly and
come here, but everything’s a clutter. There are too many days,
too many conversations.
A gramophone springs into life down the corridor, slashing
at the quiet with random notes. There’s a crash, the music
screeching to a halt, hushed voices bickering and blaming.
We were standing outside the ballroom, that’s where it
started. Millicent was sad, wrapped in memory. We talked of
the past; how she’d visited Blackheath as a child and brought
her own children when they were old enough. She was
disappointed in them, then angry with me. She caught me
looking through the ballroom window at Evelyn and mistook
my concern for lust.
‘It’s always the weak ones with you, isn’t it?’ she said.
‘Always the…’


Something she saw caused her to lose her train of thought.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I try to recall what it was.
Who else was in there with Evelyn?
Half a second later, I’m sprinting into the corridor towards
the gallery.
A single oil lamp’s burning on the wall, its sickly flame
encouraging the shadows rather than diminishing them.
Snatching it off the hook, I hold it up to the family oil
paintings, inspecting them one by one.
Blackheath shrinks around me, shrivelling like a spider
touched to the flame.
In a few hours, Millicent will see something in the ballroom
that so startles her, she’ll leave her son standing on the path,
and rush to this gallery. Wrapped in scarves and armed with
her suspicions, she’ll spot Gold’s new paintings among the
older ones. Any other time she might have walked past.
Maybe she has during a hundred other loops, but not on this
occasion. This time the past will hold her hand and squeeze.
Memory will murder her.


55
It’s 7:12 a.m. and the entrance hall is a mess. Smashed
decanters litter the marble floor, portraits hang at odd angles,
lipstick kisses planted on the mouths of long-dead men. Bow
ties dangle from the chandelier like sleeping bats, and at the
centre of it all stands Anna, barefoot in her white cotton
nightgown, staring at her hands as though they’re a riddle she
can’t make sense of.
She hasn’t noticed me and for a few seconds I watch her,
trying to reconcile my Anna with the Plague Doctor’s stories
of Annabelle Caulker. I wonder if Anna’s hearing Caulker’s
voice right now, the way I heard Aiden Bishop’s that first
morning. Something dry and distant, a part of her, yet apart at
the same time, impossible to ignore.
To my shame, my faith in my friend wavers. After working
so hard to convince the Plague Doctor of Anna’s innocence,
now I’m the one looking at her askew, questioning whether
any part of the monster who murdered my sister has survived,
waiting to surface again.
Annabelle Caulker’s dead. Now, help her.
‘Anna,’ I say softly, suddenly wary of my own appearance.
Gold spent most of his evening in a laudanum-fuelled fug, my
only concession to hygiene being a splash of water on his face
before I came charging out of the cottage. Goodness knows
how I must appear to her, or smell.
She looks up at me, startled.
‘Do I know you?’ she asks.
‘You will,’ I say. ‘This might help.’
I toss her the chess piece I took from the cottage, which she
catches in one hand. Opening her palm, she stares down at it,
memory setting light to her face.
Without warning, she flings herself into my arms, wet tears
seeping through my shirt.


‘Aiden,’ she says, her mouth against my chest. She smells
of milky soap and bleach, her hair catching in my whiskers. ‘I
remember you, I remember…’
I feel her stiffen, her arms falling loose.
Disentangling herself, she pushes me away, grabbing a
piece of shattered glass from the floor to use as a weapon. It
trembles in her hand.
‘You murdered me,’ she snarls, gripping the glass tight
enough to draw blood.
‘Yes, I did,’ I say, the knowledge of what she did to my
sister hanging on my lips.
Annabelle Caulker’s dead.
‘And I’m sorry about that,’ I continue, stuffing my hands
into my pockets. ‘I promise it won’t happen again.’
For a second all she can do is blink at me.
‘I’m not the man you remember any more,’ I say. ‘It was a
different life, a different set of choices. A lot of mistakes I’ve
tried not to make again, and haven’t, because of you, I think.’
‘Don’t…’ she says, thrusting the glass shard at me when I
take a step towards her. ‘I can’t… I remember things, I know
things.’
‘There are rules,’ I say. ‘Evelyn Hardcastle is going to die
and we’re going to save her together. I have a way we can both
get out of here.’
‘We can’t both escape, it’s not allowed,’ she insists. ‘That’s
one of the rules, isn’t it?’
‘Allowed or not, we’re going to do it,’ I say. ‘You have to
trust me.’
‘I can’t,’ she says fiercely, wiping a stray tear from her
cheek with her thumb. ‘You killed me. I remember it. I can
still feel the shot. I was so excited to see you, Aiden. I thought
we were finally leaving. You and me together.’
‘We are.’


‘You killed me!’
‘It wasn’t the first time,’ I say, my voice cracked by regret.
‘We’ve both hurt each other, Anna, and we’ve both paid for it.
I’m never going to betray you again, I promise. You can trust
me. You already have trusted me, you just can’t remember it.’
Raising my hands as if surrendering, I move slowly towards
the staircase. Brushing away a broken pair of glasses and some
confetti, I sit down on the red carpet. Every host is pressing
down upon me, their memories of this room crowding the
edges of my mind, their weight almost too much to bear. Clear
as the morning it happened –
This is the morning it happened
– I recall Bell’s conversation with the butler at the door, and
how afraid they both were. My hand throbs from the pain of
Ravencourt’s cane as he struggled towards the library, shortly
before Jim Rashton heaved a sack of stolen drugs out through
the front door. I hear the light steps of Donald Davies on the
marble, as he fled the house after his first meeting with the
Plague Doctor, and the laughter of Edward Dance’s friends,
even as he stood silent.
So many memories and secrets, so many burdens. Every life
has such weight. I don’t know how anybody carries even one.
‘What’s wrong with you?’ asks Anna, creeping closer, the
glass shard held a little looser in her hand. ‘You don’t look
well.’
‘I’ve got eight different people rattling around in here,’ I
say, tapping my temple.
‘Eight?’
‘Eight versions of today as well,’ I say. ‘Every time I wake
up, I’m in a different guest. This is my last one. Either I solve
this today, or I start all over again tomorrow.’
‘That’s not… the rules won’t let you. We only get one day
to solve the murder, and you can’t be anybody else. That’s…
it’s not right.’
‘The rules don’t apply to me.’


‘Why?’
‘Because I chose to come here,’ I say, rubbing my tired
eyes. ‘I came here for you.’
‘You’re trying to rescue me?’ she says incredulously, the
glass shard dangling by her side, forgotten.
‘Something like that.’
‘But you murdered me.’
‘I never said I was very good at it.’
Perhaps it’s my tone, or the way I’m slouching on the step,
but Anna lets the glass shard drop to the floor, and sits beside
me. I can feel the warmth of her, the solidity. She’s the only
real thing in a world of echoes.
‘Are you still trying?’ she asks, peering up at me through
big brown eyes, her skin pale and puffy, streaked with tears.
‘To rescue me, I mean.’
‘I’m trying to rescue us both, but I can’t do it without your
help,’ I say. ‘You have to believe me, Anna, I’m not the man
who hurt you.’
‘I want to…’ she falters, shaking her head. ‘How can I trust
you?’
‘You just have to start,’ I say, shrugging. ‘We don’t have
time for anything else.’
She nods, taking that in. ‘And what would you need me to
do, if I could start to trust you?’
‘A lot of small favours and two big ones,’ I say.
‘What are the big ones?’
‘I need you to save my life. Twice. This will help.’
From my pocket I take out the artist’s sketchbook, a battered
old thing filled with crumpled pieces of loose-leaf paper, the
leather covers bound with string. I found it in Gold’s jacket
when I left the cottage. After tossing away Gold’s somewhat
anarchic sketches, I wrote down everything I could remember


about my hosts’ schedules, leaving notes and instructions
dotted throughout.
‘What is it?’ she asks, taking it from me.
‘It’s the book of me,’ I say. ‘And it’s the only advantage we
have.’


56
‘Have you seen Gold? He should already be here.’
I’m sitting in Sutcliffe’s empty bedroom, the door opened a
crack. Daniel is busy speaking with Bell in the room opposite
and Anna’s outside, pacing furiously.
It’s not my intention to make her fret, but after I finished
scattering letters across the house, including the one in the
library revealing Cunningham’s parentage, I retired here with a
decanter of whisky from the drawing room. I’ve been drinking
solidly for an hour, trying to wash away the shame of what’s
coming, and though I’m drunk, I’m not nearly drunk enough.
‘What’s our plan?’ I hear Rashton say to Anna.
‘We need to keep the footman from killing the butler and
Gold this morning,’ she says. ‘They’ve still got a role to play
in all this, assuming we can keep them alive long enough.’
I take another slug of the whisky, listening to them talk.
Gold doesn’t have a drop of violence in him, and it would
take a great deal of convincing to make him hurt an innocent
man. I don’t have time for that, so I’m hoping to numb him
instead.
I’ve not having any luck so far.
Gold beds other men’s wives, cheats at dice and generally
carries on as though the sky is going to fall any minute, but he
wouldn’t crush a wasp that stung him. He loves life too much
to bring pain to anybody else’s, which is unfortunate, because
pain is the only thing that will keep the butler alive long
enough to meet Anna in the gatehouse.
Hearing his dragging steps outside the door, I take a breath
and stride into the corridor, obstructing his path. Through
Gold’s strange eyes he’s a beautiful sight, his burnt face a joy,
so much more engaging than the bland symmetry of most
people.
He tries to back away from me with a hurried apology, but I
snatch his wrist. He looks up at me, mistaking my mood. He


sees anger when all I feel is anguish. I have no desire to hurt
this man, yet I must.
He tries to move around me, but I block his path.
I despise what I must do, wishing I could explain, but there
isn’t time. Even so, I can’t bring myself to raise the poker and
strike an innocent man. I keep seeing him lying in bed,
swaddled in white cotton sheets, beaten black and blue,
struggling to breathe.
If you don’t do this, Daniel wins.
Just his name is enough to stir my hate, my fists balling by
my sides. I think of his duplicity, fanning the flames of my
rage by remembering every lie he told me, drowning all over
again with the little boy in the lake. I remember the feeling of
the footman’s knife as it slipped between Derby’s ribs, and
slashed Dance’s throat. The surrender he forced on Rashton.
With a roar I vent my anger, striking the butler with the
poker I took from the fireplace, catching him across the back
of the shoulders, sending him crashing into the wall and down
onto the floor.
‘Please,’ he says, trying to slide away from me. ‘I’m not—’
He wheezes for help, holding out an imploring hand. It’s the
hand that pushes me over the edge. Daniel did something
similar by the lake, turning my own pity upon me. Now it’s
Daniel I see on the floor, and my anger catches fire, boiling in
my veins.
I kick him.
Once, then again and again and again. Reason deserts me,
rage pouring into the void. Every betrayal, every pain and
sorrow, every regret, every disappointment, every humiliation,
every anguish, every hurt… all of them, they’re filling me up.
I can barely breathe, barely see. I’m sobbing, as I kick him
over and over.
I pity this man.
I pity myself.


I hear Rashton an instant before he hits me with the vase.
The crash echoes inside my skull as I fall and fall, the ground
catching me in its hard arms.


57
Day Two (continued)
‘Aiden!’
The voice is distant, washing over my body like water
lapping a beach.
‘God, wake up. Please wake up.’
Wearily, ever so wearily, my eyes flicker open.
I’m staring at a cracked wall, my head resting on a white
pillowcase spattered with red blood. Tiredness reaches for me,
threatening to drag me back under.
Much to my surprise, I’m the butler again, lying in that bed
in the gatehouse.
Stay awake. Stay still. We’re in trouble.
I move my body a fraction, the pain in my side leaping as
far as my mouth before I bite it back, trapping a scream in my
throat. If nothing else, it’s enough to wake me up.
Blood has soaked the sheets where the footman stabbed me
earlier. The agony must have been enough to knock me
unconscious, but not enough to kill me. Surely that’s no
accident. The footman has ushered a lot of people into the
afterlife and I doubt he got lost this time. The idea chills me. I
thought nothing was more frightening than somebody trying to
kill me. Turns out, it’s more a matter of who’s doing the
killing, and when that’s the footman, being left alive is far
more terrifying.
‘Aiden, are you awake?’
I turn over painfully to see Anna in the corner of the room,
legs and hands tied by a length of rope, which is knotted
around an old radiator. Her cheek is swollen, a black eye
blossoming on her face like a flower in the snow.
Night shows through the window above her, but I don’t
have any clue what time it is. For all I know, it’s already
eleven and the Plague Doctor is waiting for us by the lake.


Seeing me awake, Anna lets out a sob of relief.
‘I thought he’d killed you,’ she says.
‘That makes two of us,’ I croak.
‘He grabbed me outside the house, told me he’d kill me if I
didn’t come with him,’ she says, struggling against her bonds.
‘I knew Donald Davies was safely asleep on that road, and that
he couldn’t reach him, so I did what he asked. I’m so sorry,
Aiden, but I couldn’t think of another way.’
She’ll betray you.
This is what the Plague Doctor warned me about, the
decision Rashton mistook for evidence of Anna’s duplicity.
That lack of trust nearly sabotaged everything we’ve been
working for throughout the day. I wonder if the Plague Doctor
knew the circumstances of Anna’s ‘betrayal’, hiding them for
his own ends, or whether he genuinely believed this woman
had turned against me.
‘It’s not your fault, Anna,’ I say.
‘I’m still sorry.’ She flicks a frightened glance at the door,
then lowers her voice. ‘Can you reach the shotgun? He put it
on the sideboard.’
I glance across towards it. It’s only a few feet away, but it
might as well be on the moon. I could barely roll over, let
alone stand up to get it.
‘Awake are you?’ interrupts the footman, who emerges
through the door, slicing chunks off an apple with his pocket
knife. ‘That’s a shame, I was looking forward to waking you
up again.’
There’s another man behind him. It’s the thug from the
graveyard, the one who held my arms while Daniel tried to
beat Anna’s location out of me.
The footman approaches the bed.
‘Last time we met, I let you live,’ he says. ‘Had to be done,
but still… it was unsatisfying.’ Clearing his throat, I feel a wet
splat of saliva hit my cheek. Disgust echoes through me, but I
haven’t the strength to lift my arm and wipe it away.


‘Won’t happen a second time,’ he says. ‘I don’t like people
waking up again. Feels like a job half done. I want Donald
Davies, and I want you to tell me where I can lay my hands on
him.’
My mind whirls, connecting the giant jigsaw pieces of my
life.
Daniel found me on the road after I jumped out of the
carriage and convinced me to follow him into the graveyard. I
never questioned how he knew where I’d be, but here is my
answer anyway. In a few minutes, I’m going to tell the
footman.
If I wasn’t so afraid, I’d smile at the irony.
Daniel believes I’m betraying Davies to his death, but
without their confrontation in the graveyard, I’ll never find out
Silver Tear is in Blackheath, or fight Daniel by the lake,
allowing Anna to finally finish him off.
It’s a trap all right. One built by Rashton, sprung by Davies
and baited by me. It’s as neat as you’d like, except that when I
tell the footman what he wants to know, he’ll butcher Anna
and me like cattle.
Placing his knife and the apple on the sideboard beside the
shotgun, the footman picks up the sleeping tablets, the jar
rattling as he shakes a pill into his hand. I can almost hear him
frowning at it, his thoughts thudding back and forth. His
companion is still at the door, arms folded and expressionless.
The jar rattles again. Once, twice, three times.
‘How many of these things does it take to kill a burnt
cripple like you, eh?’ he asks, gripping my chin with his hand
and forcing my face towards his own.
I try to turn away but his grip hardens, his eyes fastening on
mine. I can feel the heat of him; his malice a prickly, hot thing
crawling along my skin. I could have woken up behind that
gaze. I could have shared that rat’s warren of a brain, wading
through memories and impulses I’d never have been able to
shake off.
Maybe I did in a past loop.


Suddenly even the loathsome Derby seems like a blessing.
His iron fingers release me, my head lolling to one side,
beads of perspiration welling on my forehead.
I don’t know how much longer I have.
‘Judging by those burns, you’ve had a hard life,’ he says,
withdrawing a little. ‘Hard life deserves an easy death, I
reckon. That’s what I’m offering. Fall asleep with a belly full
of pills, or writhe around for a couple of hours, while I keep
missing the important bits with my knife.’
‘Leave him alone!’ Anna screams from the corner, the wood
creaking as she strains to break free.
‘Better yet,’ he says, waving his knife at her. ‘I could take
my blade to the girl here. I need her alive. Doesn’t mean she
can’t scream a bit first.’
He takes a step towards her.
‘Stables,’ I say quietly.
He stops dead, looking at me over his shoulder.
‘What did you say?’
He walks back over to me.
Close your eyes, don’t let him see your fear. That’s what he
craves. He won’t kill you until you open your eyes.
Squeezing them shut, I feel the bed sag as he sits down. A
few seconds later, the edge of his blade caresses my face.
Fear tells me to open my eyes, to see the harm coming.
Just breathe, wait for your moment.
‘Donald Davies will be at the stables?’ he hisses. ‘Is that
what you said?’
I nod, trying to ward off panic.
‘Leave him alone!’ Anna screams again from the corner,
pounding the floorboards with her heels, and pulling violently
against the ropes restraining her.


‘Shut up!’ the footman screams at her, before returning his
attention to me. ‘When?’
My mouth is so dry I’m not even sure I can still speak.
‘When?’ he insists, the blade biting my cheek, drawing
blood.
‘Twenty to ten,’ I say, remembering the time Daniel gave
me.
‘Go! That’s ten minutes from now,’ he tells the man at the
door, fading steps charting the thug’s departure down the
corridor.
The blade wanders along the edge of my lips, tracing the
contours of my nose until I feel the slightest pressure on my
closed eyelid.
‘Open your eyes,’ he hisses.
I wonder if he can hear my heart beating. How could he
not? It’s pounding like mortar fire, wearing down what little
bravery remains to me.
I begin to tremble, ever so slightly.
‘Open your eyes,’ he repeats, spittle hitting my cheeks.
‘Open your eyes, little rabbit, let me see inside.’
Wood snaps and Anna screams.
I can’t help but look.
She’s managed to rip the radiator from one of its brackets,
freeing her hands in the process, though not her legs. The knife
withdraws as the footman leaps to his feet, the bed-springs
squeaking as they’re relieved of his weight.
Now. Move now!
I throw myself at him. There’s no skill in it, no strength, just
desperation and momentum. A hundred other times I fail and
my body hits him like a blown rag, but there’s something
about the angle he’s standing at and the way he’s holding the
knife. I catch the handle perfectly, turning it and pushing the
blade into his stomach, blood welling up between my fingers
as we hit the floor in a tangled pile.


He’s gasping, stunned, hurt even, but not fatally so. Already
he’s gathering himself.
I look down at the knife, only the hilt now visible, and I
know it’s not going to be enough. He’s too strong and I’m too
weak.
‘Anna!’ I yell, ripping the knife free and skimming it across
the floor towards her, watching in despair as it comes to a halt
a few inches from her straining fingertips.
The footman claws at me, nails raking across my cheeks as
he scrabbles desperately for my throat. The weight of my body
pins his right hand, my shoulder crushing his face, blinding
him. He’s writhing, grunting, trying to shake me off.
‘I can’t hold him!’ I scream at Anna.
His hand finds my ear, and he wrenches at it, my eyes filled
with blinding white pain. I jerk away, banging into the
sideboard, knocking the shotgun to the floor.
The footman’s hand breaks free from underneath me. He
pushes me off him, and as I hit the floorboards, I see Anna
reaching for the shotgun, the freshly severed rope still trailing
from her wrist. Our eyes meet, fury gathered on her face.
The footman’s hands wrap themselves around my neck and
tighten. I strike at his broken nose, causing him to howl in
pain, but he doesn’t let go. He squeezes harder, choking.
The shotgun explodes, and so does the footman, his
headless body collapsing beside me, blood pouring from his
neck and spreading across the floor.
I stare at the shotgun trembling in Anna’s hands. If it hadn’t
fallen when it did… if the knife hadn’t reached her, or she’d
been a few seconds later freeing herself…
I shiver, horrified at the margins between life and death.
Anna’s talking to me, worrying about me, but I’m so
exhausted I only hear half of what’s she saying, and the last
thing I feel before the darkness takes me is her hand in mine,
and the soft touch of her lips as they kiss my forehead.


58
Day Eight (continued)
Fighting through the thick fog of sleep, I announce myself
with a cough, startling Anna who’s standing on her tiptoes, her
body pressed against mine as she tries to cut me loose with a
kitchen knife. I’m back in Gold, strung up from the ceiling by
my wrists.
‘I’ll have you down in a tick,’ says Anna.
She must have come straight from the room next door,
because her apron is covered in the footman’s blood. Brow
furrowed, she saws at the rope, her haste making her clumsy.
Swearing, she slows down, but after a few minutes my bonds
are slack enough for me to wriggle my hands free.
I drop like a stone, hitting the floor with a thud.
‘Easy,’ says Anna, kneeling beside me. ‘You’ve been tied
up all day, there’s no strength left in you.’
‘What…’ A hacking cough overtakes me, but there’s no
water in the jug to ease it. The Plague Doctor wasted it all
trying to keep me awake earlier. My shirt’s still wet from
where he splashed me.
I wait for the coughing to ease, then try speaking again.
‘What time…’ I force out, feeling as though I’m pushing
stones up through my throat.
‘It’s 9:45,’ says Anna.
If you’ve killed the footman, he can’t kill Rashton or Derby.
They’re alive. They can help.
‘Don’t need them,’ I rasp.
‘Need who?’ says Anna.
I shake my head, gesturing for her to help me up. ‘We have
to…’
Another painful cough, another look of sympathy from
Anna.


‘Sit a second for pity’s sake,’ she says, handing me a folded
piece of paper that’s fallen from my breast pocket.
If she looked inside she’d see the phrase ‘all of them’
written in Gold’s dreadful handwriting. Those words are the
key to everything that’s happening, and they’ve been
following me around since Cunningham delivered the message
to Derby three days ago.
Tucking the note back into my pocket, I gesture for Anna to
help me stand.
Somewhere in the darkness, the Plague Doctor is making
his way towards the lake, where he’ll be expecting Anna to
give him an answer she doesn’t yet have. After eight days of
asking questions, we now have a little over an hour to make
our case.
With my arm around Anna’s shoulders and hers around my
waist, we stumble through the door drunkenly, almost falling
down the stairs. I’m very weak, but the greater problem lies in
how numb my limbs are. I feel like a wooden puppet on the
end of twisted strings.
We depart the gatehouse without a backwards glance,
smacking straight into the cold night air. The quickest route to
the lake would take us past the wishing well, but there’s too
great a chance of bumping into Daniel and Donald Davies by
going that way. I have no desire to upset whatever delicate
balance we’ve arrived at by blundering into an event that’s
already been settled in my favour.
We’ll have to go the long way around.
Prickly with sweat, leaden-footed and gasping, I stagger up
the driveway towards Blackheath. My chorus comes with me,
Dance, Derby and Rashton out ahead, Bell, Collins and
Ravencourt struggling behind. I know they’re figments of my
fracturing mind, but I can see them as clearly as reflections,
their individual gaits, their eagerness and disdain for the task
before us.
Veering off the driveway, we follow the cobbled road to the
stables.


It’s quiet there now the party’s in full swing, a few stable
hands warming themselves around the braziers, waiting for the
last of the carriages to arrive. They look done in, but uncertain
of who’s in Daniel’s employ, I tug Anna away from the light
and towards the paddock, following the small trail leading up
to the lake. A dying flame flickers at the end of the path, its
warm glow breaking through the gaps in the trees. Creeping
closer, I see that it’s Daniel’s fallen lantern, burning its last
breaths in the dirt.
Squinting into the darkness, I spot its owner in the lake,
holding Donald Davies face down beneath the water, the
younger man thrashing his legs as he tries to escape.
Scooping a rock off the ground, Anna takes a step towards
them, but I catch her arm.
‘Tell him… 7:12 a.m.,’ I croak, hoping the intensity of my
gaze can carry a message my throat is unfit to elaborate on.
She bounds towards Daniel, raising the rock above her head
as she goes.
Turning my back, I pick up the fallen storm lantern, stoking
the sickly flame with a hoarse breath. I have no urge to watch
somebody else die, no matter how much they may deserve it.
The Plague Doctor claimed Blackheath was meant to
rehabilitate us, but bars can’t build better men and misery can
only break what goodness remains. This place pinches out the
hope in people and without that hope what use is love, or
compassion, or kindness? Whatever the intention behind its
creation, Blackheath speaks to the monster in us, and I have no
intention of indulging mine any longer. It’s had free rein long
enough.
Lifting the lantern into the air, I peel away towards the
boathouse. All day I’ve been looking for Helena Hardcastle,
believing her responsible for the events in the house. Strange
to think I was probably right, though not in the way I
imagined.
Whether she intended it or not, she’s the reason all of this is
happening.


The boathouse is little more than a shed overhanging the
water, the stilts along the right-hand side collapsed, twisting
the entire building out of shape. The doors are locked, but the
wood is so rotten it crumbles beneath my touch. They’ll open
with the slightest force, but still I hesitate. My hand is shaking,
the light bouncing. It’s not fear that gives me pause, Gold’s
heart is still as a stone. It’s expectation. Something long sought
is about to be found, and when that happens all this will be
over.
We’ll be free.
Taking a deep breath, I push the doors open, disturbing
some bats which flee the boathouse in a chorus of indignant
squeaks. A couple of skeletal rowing boats are tethered inside.
Only one of them is covered in a mouldy blanket, though.
Kneeling down, I pull it aside, revealing Helena
Hardcastle’s pale face. Her eyes are open, the pupils as
colourless as her skin. She seems surprised, as though death
arrived with flowers in its hand.
Why here?
‘Because history repeats,’ I mutter.
‘Aiden?’ Anna yells, a slight note of panic in her voice.
I try to shout back but my throat is still hoarse, forcing me
outside into the rain. I tip my mouth to the falling rain,
swallowing the freezing cold drops.
‘Over here,’ I call out. ‘In the boathouse.’
Stepping back inside, I run my lantern up and down
Helena’s body. Her long coat is unbuttoned, revealing a rust-
coloured woollen jacket and skirt, with a white cotton blouse
beneath. Her hat has been tossed into the boat beside her. She
was stabbed in the throat, long enough ago for the blood to
have coagulated.
If I’m right, she’s been dead since this morning.
Anna arrives behind me, gasping as she catches sight of the
body in the boat.
‘Is that…’


‘Helena Hardcastle,’ I say.
‘How did you know she’d be here?’ she asks.
‘This was the last appointment she kept,’ I explain.
The gash in her neck isn’t large, but it’s large enough,
exactly the size of a horseshoe knife I shouldn’t wonder. The
same weapon used to kill Thomas Hardcastle nineteen years
ago. Here, finally, is what this is all about. Every other death
was an echo of this one. A murder nobody heard.
My legs are aching with the strain of crouching, so I stand
up and stretch them out.
‘Did Michael do this?’ asks Anna, clutching my coat.
‘No, this wasn’t Michael,’ I say. ‘Michael Hardcastle was
afraid. He became a killer out of desperation. This murder was
something else; it took patience and pleasure. Helena was
lured here and stabbed at the door so she’d collapse inside, out
of sight. The killer picked a spot not twenty feet from where
Thomas Hardcastle was killed on the very anniversary of his
death. What does that tell you?’
As I speak, I imagine Lady Hardcastle falling, hearing the
crack of wood as she lands in the boat. A shadowy figure
looms in my thoughts, drawing the blanket across the body
before wading into the water.
‘The killer was covered in blood,’ I say, sweeping the
lantern across the room. ‘They washed themselves in the
water, knowing they were concealed by the walls of the
boathouse. They had fresh clothes waiting…’
Sure enough there’s an old carpet bag in the corner, and,
undoing the catch, I discover a mound of bloody women’s
clothes inside. The murderer’s clothes.
This was planned…
… A long time ago, for another victim.
‘Who did this, Aiden?’ asks Anna, fear rising in her voice.
I step out of the boathouse, searching the darkness until I
spot a storm lantern on the far side of the lake.


‘Expecting company?’ she asks, her gaze fixed on the
growing light.
‘It’s the murderer,’ I say, feeling oddly calm. ‘I had
Cunningham spread a rumour we were coming out here to…
well, use the boathouse, so to speak.’
‘Why?’ says Anna, terrified. ‘If you know who helped
Michael, tell the Plague Doctor!’
‘I can’t,’ I say. ‘You have to explain the rest of it.’
‘What?’ she hisses, offering me a sharp glance. ‘We had a
deal: I keep you alive; you find Evelyn’s murderer.’
‘The Plague Doctor has to hear it from you,’ I say. ‘He
won’t let you go otherwise. Trust me, you have all the pieces,
you just need to put them together. Here, take this.’
Reaching into my pocket, I hand her the piece of paper.
Unfolding it, she reads it aloud.
‘All of them,’ she says, wrinkling her forehead. ‘What does
that mean?’
‘It’s the answer to a question I had Cunningham ask Mrs
Drudge.’
‘What question?’
‘Were any of the other Hardcastle children Charlie Carver’s.
I wanted to know who he’d give his life for.’
‘But they’re all dead now.’
The mysterious lantern bobs in the air, coming closer and
closer. The person holding it is hurrying, making no attempt at
stealth. The time for subterfuge has passed.
‘Who is that?’ asks Anna, shielding her eyes and squinting
at the approaching light.
‘Yes, who am I?’ says Madeline Aubert, lowering the
lantern to reveal the gun pointed directly at us.
She’s discarded her maid’s uniform in favour of trousers and
a loose linen shirt, a beige cardigan thrown over her shoulders.
Her dark hair’s wet, her pockmarked skin thick with powder.


The mask of servitude removed, she has the look of her
mother, the same oval eyes and freckles swirling into a milky
white complexion. I can only hope Anna sees it.
Anna looks from me to Madeline and back again, confusion
giving way to panic on her face.
‘Aiden, help me,’ she pleads.
‘It has to be you,’ I say, searching out her cold hand in the
darkness. ‘All the pieces are in front of you. Who was in a
position to kill Thomas Hardcastle and Lady Hardcastle in
exactly the same way, nineteen years apart? Why did Evelyn
say “I’m not” and “Millicent murder” after I saved her? Why
did she have a signet ring she’d given to Felicity Maddox?
What did Millicent Derby know that got her killed? Why was
Gregory Gold hired to paint new portraits of the family when
the rest of the house was crumbling? Who would Helena
Hardcastle and Charlie Carver have lied to protect?’
Clarity arrives on Anna’s face like a sunrise, her eyes
widening as she looks from the note to Madeline’s expectant
expression.
‘Evelyn Hardcastle,’ she says quietly. Then louder, ‘You’re
Evelyn Hardcastle.’