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.’