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.’