“Aiden Bishop,” I say, wrapping my tongue around the vowels. “Aiden…Bishop. Aiden, Aiden, Aiden.”
I’ve been trying different combinations, intonations, and deliveries of my name for the last half hour, hoping to lure some memories from my recalcitrant mind. Thus far, all I’ve managed to do is give myself a dry mouth. It’s a frustrating way to pass the time, but I’ve few alternatives. One thirty has come and gone, with no word from Helena Hardcastle to explain her absence. I summoned a maid to fetch her, but was informed that nobody’s seen the lady of the house since this morning. The damn woman has disappeared.
To make matters worse, neither Cunningham nor Madeline Aubert has visited me, and while I’d hardly expected Evelyn’s maid to answer my summons, Cunningham’s been gone for hours. I can’t imagine what’s keeping him, but I’m growing impatient. We’ve so much to do, and little time left to do it.
“’Allo, Cecil,” says a rasping voice. “Is Helena still here? I heard you were meeting with her.”
Standing at the door is an elderly lady buried beneath a huge red coat, hat, and mud-spattered Wellington boots that almost reach her knees. Her cheeks are raw with cold, a scowl frozen on her face.
“I haven’t seen her, I’m afraid,” I say. “I’m still waiting for her.”
“You too, eh? Bloody woman was supposed to meet me in the garden this morning, left me shivering on a bench for an hour instead,” she says, stomping over to the fire. She’s wearing so many layers a spark will send her up like a Viking funeral.
“Wonder where she’s got to?” she says, tugging off her gloves and tossing them on the seat next to mine. “It’s not like there’s a lot to do in Blackheath. Fancy a drink?”
“Still working on this one,” I say, waving my glass in her direction.
“You’ve got the right idea. I got it into my head to go for a stroll, but when I came back, I couldn’t get anybody to open the front door. I’ve been banging on windows for the last half hour, but there’s not a servant to be seen. The whole thing’s positively American.”
Decanters scrape free of their fittings, glasses thumping down on the wood. Ice tinkles against glass, crackling as alcohol is poured on top. There’s a fizz and a satisfying plop, followed by a gulp and a long sigh of pleasure from the old lady.
“That’s the stuff,” she says, a fresh round of clinking glass suggesting the first was a warm-up. “I told Helena this party was a terrible idea, but she wouldn’t hear of it and now look: Peter’s hiding in the gatehouse, Michael’s holding the party together with his fingernails, and Evelyn’s playing dress-up. The entire thing will be a disaster, mark my words.”
Drink in hand, the elderly lady resumes her position in front of the fire. She’s shrunken magnificently after discarding a few layers, revealing pink cheeks and small pink hands, a crop of gray hair running wild on her head.
“What’s this then,” she says, lifting a white card off the mantel. “Were you going to write to me, Cecil?”
“Sorry?”
She hands me the card, a simple message written on the front.
Meet Millicent Derby
A.
Anna’s work, no doubt.
First burning socks and now introductions. As strange as it is having somebody scattering breadcrumbs throughout my day, it’s nice to know I have a friend in this place, even if it does put paid to my theory about Mrs. Derby being one of my rivals, or even another host. This old lady’s much too herself to be anybody else underneath.
Then why was she sniffing around the kitchen, asking questions about the maids?
“I asked Cunningham to invite you for drinks,” I say smoothly, taking a sip of my whiskey. “He must have got distracted while writing the message down.”
“That’s what happens when you trust the lower classes with important tasks,” sniffs Millicent, dropping into a nearby chair. “Mark my words, Cecil, one day you’ll find he’s emptied your accounts and done a bunk with one of your maids. Look at that damnable Ted Stanwin. Used to waft about this place like a soft breeze when he was a groundskeeper, now you’d think he owns the place. The nerve of it.”
“Stanwin’s an objectionable fellow, I agree, but I’ve a soft spot for the household staff,” I say. “They’ve treated me with a great deal of kindness. Besides, word has it you were down in the kitchen earlier, so you can’t find them all bad.”
She waves her glass at me, splashing whiskey over my objection.
“Oh, that. Yes…” She trails off, sipping her drink to buy herself time. “I think one of the maids stole something from my room, that’s all. It’s like I say, you never know what’s going on underneath. Remember my husband?”
“Vaguely,” I say, admiring the elegance with which she’s switched topic. Whatever she was doing in the kitchen, I doubt it had anything to do with theft.
“Same thing,” she sniffs. “Dreadful lower-class upbringing, yet built himself forty-odd cotton mills without ever being anything less than an absolute ass. In fifty years of marriage, I didn’t smile till the day I buried him and haven’t stopped since.”
She’s interrupted by a creaking sound from the corridor, followed by the squeak of hinges.
“Maybe that’s Helena,” says Millicent, pushing herself out of the chair. “Her room is next door.”
“I thought the Hardcastles were staying in the gatehouse?”
“Peter’s staying in the gatehouse,” she says, raising an eyebrow. “Helena’s staying here, insisted on it, by all accounts. Was never much of a marriage, but it’s disintegrating quickly. I tell you, Cecil, it was worth coming for the scandal alone.”
The old lady heads into the corridor, calling out Helena’s name, only to fall suddenly silent. “What on earth…” she mutters, before poking her head into my parlor again. “Get up, Cecil,” she says nervously. “Something odd is going on.”
Concern drags me to my feet and into the hall, where Helena’s bedroom door creaks back and forth in a breeze. The lock has been shattered, splinters of wood crunching underfoot.
“Somebody broke in,” hisses Millicent, staying behind me.
Using my cane, I slowly push the door open, allowing us to peer inside.
The room’s empty, and has been for some time by the looks of things. The curtains are still drawn, light delivered secondhand from the lamps lining the corridor. A four-poster bed is neatly made, a vanity table overflowing with face creams, powders, and cosmetics of every sort.
Satisfied that it’s safe, Millicent appears from behind me, offering me a level glance best described as a belligerent apology, before making her way around the bed to wrestle the heavy curtains open, banishing the gloom.
The only thing that’s been disturbed is a chestnut bureau with a roll-down top, its drawers hanging open. Among the ink bottles, envelopes, and ribbons scattered on it, there’s a large lacquered case with two revolver-shaped hollows in the cushion. The revolvers themselves are nowhere to be seen, though I suspect Evelyn brought one of them to the graveyard. She did say it was her mother’s.
“Well, at least we know what they wanted,” says Millicent, tapping the case. “Doesn’t make any damn sense, though. If somebody wanted a gun, they could just as easily steal one from the stables. There’s dozens of them. Nobody would bat an eyelid.”
Pushing aside the case, Millicent unearths a moleskin day planner and begins leafing through the pages, running her finger across the meetings and events, reminders and notes crammed inside. The contents would suggest a busy, if rather dull life, if it weren’t for the torn-out last page.
“That’s curious. Today’s appointments are missing,” she says, her irritation giving way to suspicion. “Now, why would Helena rip those out?”
“You believe she did it herself?” I say.
“What use would anybody else have for them?” says Millicent. “Mark my words: Helena has something foolish in mind, and she doesn’t want anybody finding out about it. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Cecil, I’m going to have to find her and talk her out of it. As usual.”
Tossing the planner on the bed, she stalks out of the bedroom and up the corridor. I barely notice her leave. I’m more concerned with the black smudged fingerprints on the pages.
My valet’s been here, and it appears he’s looking for Helena Hardcastle as well.