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Thomas’s voice. He held the lamp aloft so that Jem was drawn into its circle of light.
He forced a dutiful smile. ‘Too bloody tired.’
Thomas’s laugh came from the shadows. ‘Tell me about it. I thought you’d be used to it, coming from a big hotel. We’ve not had to work so hard for years—got used to having it easy.’ The light retreated as he turned back towards the door. ‘Any road, you’d better come in before Mr Goddard locks up. You’ll be stopping out there, otherwise.’
Jem hesitated, lifting his eyes to the stars again. From through the archway across the yard he could just catch the faint, familiar scent of hay and horses and, in that moment, in spite of his bone-deep exhaustion, he would have willingly traded a bed inside the walls of Coldwell Hall for a coat thrown down on the straw in its stables.
He’d slept in far worse places, after all.
Reluctantly he got to his feet. ‘Coming,’ he said.
It wasn’t chance that brought me to Coldwell that day.
I went to find out what happened to my brother, who had disappeared during a shooting party there in 1902, while he was in the employment of Viscount Frensham. I was working abroad when he went missing and didn’t know for a year that he hadn’t returned to Ward Abbey after the visit. No one could give me any answers and it took all that time to discover that Coldwell was the last place he had been seen.
From then on, I made it my business to learn all I could about Randolph Hyde. He had returned to India by then, but was well-known in London. I dug out scraps of gossip about his drinking, gambling, and discovered which gentlemen’s clubs he belonged to, which brothels he favoured. Everything I found out confirmed my suspicion that he had something to do with Jack’s disappearance. I just didn’t know what.
I had never set eyes on him, but I hated him.
On the day I came to Coldwell, hatred had been my companion for a long time. Like the bombardment, I didn’t notice that it was getting bigger and louder and filling all the spaces between. With the guns, the noise becomes everything. You can’t think beyond it. You can’t remember what quiet was like. Even when it stops you still hear it, because by then it’s too late. It’s inside your head and nothing will ever be peaceful again.
Does that sound like I’m making excuses for what I did?
Maybe I am.
Chapter 4
Sarah Dunn stood outside the housekeeper’s room, her head tipped to one side as she listened.
It was Sunday morning; early, but the maids were already at work and she had asked the kitchen girl—the nervy one with the pale eyelashes and the litany of superstitions—for hot water to take up to Miss Addison’s room. She was sure the housekeeper would be up, but was it too early to knock?
She didn’t really have any choice.
Mrs Furniss’s voice came faintly from within. Entering, Miss Dunn found her at her desk, head bent over her ledger, dark hair escaping from a loose plait down her back. She was wearing a mauve silk housecoat, which Miss Dunn (who had been employed in the ladies’ lingerie department of Rackhams in Birmingham before taking up the position of lady’s maid) recognised as being of surprisingly superior quality. Mrs Furniss didn’t look round immediately, but when she did, the early light showed shadows beneath her eyes and a deep line between her brows. She started slightly.
‘Oh—Miss Dunn! I’m sorry—I was expecting one of the girls—’
‘It’s I who should apologise, Mrs Furniss, for disturbing you so early.’
‘Is everything all right? Is there something you need?’
‘I’m afraid so. Unfortunate timing, and rather unexpected…’ Miss Dunn lowered her gaze and trailed off unhappily, hoping the other woman wouldn’t press her to elaborate. It wasn’t the workings of the female body that made her uncomfortable but the unshakeable sense that such matters were between her and her mistress, and she was betraying a trust in disclosing such intimate information to a stranger.
Thankfully the housekeeper needed no further explanation. ‘I see.’ She got to her feet, reaching for the silver chatelaine that lay beside her on the desk in a tangle of chains. ‘I’ll get rags. Do you need clean sheets? A fresh nightdress?’
Miss Dunn shook her head. ‘Just water, for washing. I’ve asked the girl in the kitchen.’
While Mrs Furniss unlocked the linen cupboard (which appeared to be almost a small room in itself, accessed through a door in the panelling) Miss Dunn looked around her parlour. It had two windows, looking out onto the kitchen courtyard, but the sun had not yet reached them, and the low ceiling and oak-panelled walls made the room seem dark. It was furnished comfortably enough, with a little button-back armchair upholstered in pale blue velvet and a small table beside it, a threadbare rug beneath. On the mantelpiece there was a clock and two brass candlesticks, and a single china dog (a spaniel, not unlike Mr Hyde’s, though its russet was patched with white) which looked like it had once been one of a pair and had been relegated from one of the upstairs rooms when its mate had got broken.
There were no photographs, she noticed. In fact, there was nothing that gave any clue as to the housekeeper’s life beyond these walls, her history before she had come here, or where on earth Miss Dunn might have encountered her before.
Upon arrival at Coldwell, she had been struck by the sense that she had seen Mrs Furniss before. It had been a fleeting certainty that had faded into doubt when she tried to find a place or a time on which to fix it. Now, as Mrs Furniss returned with a thick wad of flannelette squares, their eyes met and recognition fluttered in Miss Dunn’s mind once more.
‘I hope that’ll be enough,’ Mrs Furniss said as she handed them over. There was a moment’s pause. ‘Was there anything else you needed?’
‘Oh, no. No, thank you.’
Miss Dunn was aware that she was staring and forced herself to look away. ‘I do apologise for disturbing you.’