‘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