‘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.