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.