But remove the head and another one just sprang up. Did that leave Edward Ravenswick, the new heir, in a vulnerable position, or had he been the one who had done the removing? At least now Charlotte had the chance to finally meet some of the other pieces on the board. She needed to look the part, if she could remember what that was.

  Back in her room, it was clear someone had been in and gone through her things. The contents of the suitcase were moved around and the coverlet on the bed had been left with an impression where someone had sat as they’d riffled through her belongings. It was very clear that privacy was not a luxury afforded to people this side of the house either.

  Charlotte brushed her hair and quickly changed into the drop-waisted tweed dress that had been altered many times. It was worth it though. Charlotte had bought it in Liberties almost a decade ago, when money didn’t matter quite as much. She held it close and ran her hands over the fabric just as she remembered Archie had.

  It was good quality and hadn’t worn, unlike some of the clothes she flippantly bought without thinking they’d still need to be serviceable in a different life. Right up to the end, Archie had been earning well at the Foreign Office and was promoted even though it must have been obvious that he’d never make it to retirement. Perhaps that was the idea, to shuffle him through the ranks quickly. He didn’t really talk about it. But it wasn’t quick enough to provide a very substantial pension. There were none of her own savings left now either.

  Escape money, she’d always called it before she was married, and had been saving for years, creaming a little off any dress allowance or socialising money she was given for outings or shopping trips. Purse strings were always immaculately controlled at Bladesworth to maintain a constant state of dependence. Who could bolt on the money for two good cocktails and a hat?

  But she didn’t need to bolt. So few men returned from the war, that it was de rigueur to invite officers to pad out the numbers. A room full of husband-hungry debs was an uncomfortable look even if it was the truth. Her parents had been forced to extend the guest list like everyone else to afford the parties, luncheons and shoots a more palatable veneer. But what the old guard and, most especially, her mother and father didn’t foresee was that the officers were easier to fall for than the stale remains of society.

  Colonel Blood’s name alone had caught Charlotte’s attention at Lady Trethwick’s shooting weekend. But he also had the intelligent look of suffering the smart men brought back from France. An alert, anxious melancholy all dressed up in a damaged hero’s uniform was very compelling to a young girl who’d been offered nothing but old men or whey-faced boys hunched under the weight of their families and titles.

  Colonel Blood, or Archie as he insisted, was utterly riveting. He talked about books and plays, artists he knew and poets. He even drew her the rough sketch of a bumblebee – the first of many. It was a new world.

  Charlotte stood in the stark servant’s bedroom now, holding the dress tight. She breathed in the smell of that night in Bloomsbury when he’d carried her into their small, Bohemian life. As they lay as close as two pages in a book, he whispered again that he’d always keep her safe. There was a simplicity to the way he spoke, to the way he moved and looked at her. Those were the naïve, early days before Charlotte discovered there was very little else that was simple about her husband.

  But she’d escaped far from the stultifying air of Bladesworth and, in those moments, she was free.

  Now, standing here, isolated and alone in the cold of Ravenswick, she was stranded back in that foreign field once again.

  She powdered her face, slowly put on her lipstick, and climbed into the dress like she was stepping back into that world. A little smile curled across her mouth as if Archie had just held her face the way he always did. “My clever Charlotte,” he’d say. He believed that. Now all she had to do was prove it.

  Mr Heskins walked at a steady, funereal pace through the servants’ hall. Various members of staff nodded to him and he pursed his lips in response. It was a careful labyrinth of loyalties and order, adhered to instinctively.

  Charlotte, following behind, was left unacknowledged, in the same way that some embarrassing item he had been called upon to remove might be studiously ignored as he dragged it along.

  Finally, they reached the green baize door that led out into another world – the world she remembered being part of. She avoided the word “belonged.”

  It had been a two-stage process of escape – her marriage, then her job, but as Heskins led them out into the hall, Charlotte could not escape the fact that this side of the door still felt more familiar, more ingrained. Even though she hadn’t been part of this world for many years, there was no real leaving it, however hard she tried. Archie always teased her about her airs and graces. He was well-respected, bright and no stranger to the Bohemian society of academics, writers and gentry. But Charlotte’s mother had been Lady Rothesville, from a long line of Rothesvilles, before she was married off to the financier Sir Richard. There was no breaking that ancient bloodline.

  As Charlotte followed Heskins out, the great hall at Ravenswick Abbey echoed with their slow footsteps. Canvases stretched along the walls, setting out the Ravenswick’s family tree in a grandiose vision of a room entirely populated by the faces of the family through the centuries. A suit of armour and long tapestries depicting battles hinted at past conflict and honours.

  But this was a house shrouded in dishonour now. The Lord’s heir had been murdered and no one had been punished. That would have been an unthinkable state of affairs for all these previous holders of the title arrayed throughout the hall, resplendent in armour, mounted and ready to defend the family name and honour.

  The crest hung over the top of the stairs, a vast raven rearing into aggressive flight with wings that had not been clipped. Unlike those it now looked down upon.

  A long and proud history had led to this point. The fabrics were frayed and moth-riddled, the dust was gathering and the fountain had run dry. The scent of decline wandered the hallways freely and passed through the walls like a ghost.

  Ravenswick Abbey had become a poor relation, wearing handed-down clothes. Like so many old houses Charlotte knew of these days, pride and poverty sat uneasily side by side.

  Heskins paused at a door flanked by two large spears that crossed above it as if to forbid any entrance.

  The butler remained grave and knocked with a decisive pattern that sounded almost like a code.

  “Come in.” The voice was clear and certain.

  It was not a hesitant woman who greeted them. There was a steadfast assuredness to Lady Ravenswick. An unsinkable look as she sat morbidly still in a chair by the side of a large picture window.

  This woman was all contradictions. Rigid and pale, she had a bird-like, porcelain delicacy to her. Grave shadows blurred under her eyes. Line upon line of troubles were written across her parchment skin, each detailing her descent through the years. She seemed worn away as though if she were held up to the window it might be possible to see through her like a leaf. There was a certain dignified, condemned look about her.

  Yet the water-blue eyes were far from weak. They had a hardened, ice-like quality to them as they followed Charlotte’s entrance into the room.

  “Your Ladyship.” Heskins bowed in a way that wasn’t just adhering to convention. This was real admiration, devotion even. “Miss Blood.”

  “Thank you, Heskins. You may leave us.”

  He bowed again before making his solemn retreat. Every movement, every look was performed with deep veneration.

  Lady Ravenswick’s gaze didn’t falter. She had a cordial aloofness to her.

  “Please, take a seat, Miss Blood.” The emphasis on her title immediately hinted at more knowledge than Charlotte was comfortable with.

  Charlotte drew closer and perched awkwardly on the edge of the green silk sofa opposite Her Ladyship. It was an opulent room. Small tables littered with trinkets and boxes were dotted around. Displays of china and other ornaments sat in cases along the walls and in every corner. In spite of the size of the room, it still looked cluttered. The paintings were of country scenes and places the eyes easily skimmed over.

  “Heskins is a wonder,” she mused. “It’s still hard to find servants these days, ever since the conflict.”

  Charlotte had heard so many euphemisms for the war now. The world was full of ways to avoid saying death.

  “We’re very lucky to have held onto the staff we have though. So many houses didn’t. But you know, Miss Blood –” she leaned closer and let her voice fall just above a whisper “– it does mean they’re very, very loyal to the family. Discretion is a wonderful thing, wouldn’t you say? We like to maintain the old order here. We respect their world, and they respect ours. No crossing the streams as it were, Miss Blood. It works. Always has.” She sat back into the chair and the pale light fell on her face leaving a strangely cold, ephemeral impression. “Tell me, you wear a wedding ring I see, and yet you are a Miss. Is this another concession to the modern age we must now accept?”

  Charlotte looked taken aback. “My husband is dead.” She didn’t offer any more.

  “Surely you would still be Mrs in that event? Please, excuse me, the titles of the lower classes are as mysterious to me as ours must seem to you.”

  “There’s no mystery for me, Your Ladyship. I am aware of the system.”

  Lady Ravenswick’s thin eyebrows meshed and formed an intricate web of lines spreading out across her face. “I see, Miss Blood. You are a woman of many layers.” She knitted her fingers together. “Journalism being the most recent.” Those faded, alkaline-blue eyes still watched Charlotte closely.

  “As a journalist, I prefer to be referred to as Miss. It’s easier than being a widow.”

  The silence was important to them both.

  Lady Ravenswick was the first to break it. “We are very familiar with journalists in this house.” She waited for the words to take effect. “So, tell me about this publication.” She searched for the name. “The Ornithologists’ Monthly. It sounds riveting.”

  Charlotte frowned. “I thought the Ravenswick family were very keen on their birds.”

  “Well then you thought incorrectly, Miss Blood. My husband and some of my children do indeed adore the ravens. I think they are foul, savage birds that feed on death. My surname was also changed by marriage, Miss Blood. I am not a Ravenswick by birth. My eldest son was to have them shot when he became Lord. Sadly, that will not now come to pass.”

  The conversation had not gone how Charlotte had envisaged. If she was to tap into this family’s secrets, here was the place to start, right at the heart. Lady Ravenswick had the look of a spider in the centre of its web, ready and alert to any movements. Charlotte couldn’t let this opportunity slip. This was her chance. She pictured Fulman behind his desk, all bloated with disappointment.

  Charlotte’s mind stumbled through the possibilities. She tried to summon up the memories of all those afternoons of tea and cards, rigid backs and sharp conversations designed to probe and judge. Charlotte had always been masterful in her manipulation of the older grand dames and their demands for the utmost respect. She could charm the most acerbic of old establishment women. But Lady Ravenswick was different. She was utterly opaque.

  Charlotte looked around the lavish room for inspiration. On the far wall was a large glass case filled with stuffed birds, all of them ravens in various poses, some even flying, others pecking at an animal’s remains on the floor. It was a faintly disturbing little tableau and she could see why Lady Ravenswick might not wholeheartedly embrace the creatures. She had to steer the conversation away from birds, which wasn’t going to be easy for an ornithologist.

  Alongside the taxidermy bird case, there was a large bookcase filled with neat rows of leather-bound volumes that looked as if their purpose was simply decorative.

  “The books –” she stumbled.

  “Miss Blood,” Lady Ravenswick batted the words away efficiently, “it’s probably important for you to meet the rest of my family. We’d like you to dine with us tonight. You’ll find Cook has an unvaried repertoire, but the wine is good.”

  This took Charlotte by surprise. She was consigned to the servants’ quarters and yet they were inviting her as a guest to dine with them. She was again crossing a border that shouldn’t be broached. They were keeping her as distant from the family as possible but then luring her in. There was only one possible reason for that, and it was to observe her whilst keeping her contained. She accepted the invitation immediately.

  “That sounds too delightful! Thank you.”

  Charlotte was a firm believer that observation worked both ways. It had served her well so far, but the Ravenswick’s were an old breed and all the assured faces looking down from the walls had been defending this way of life for centuries. It would take someone who knew it implicitly to breach those walls. Charlotte felt sure she was the woman for the job.

  Lady Ravenswick made a few more glib enquiries about Charlotte’s intentions with regard to the ravens article. It wasn’t taxing and Lady Ravenswick seemed disinterested. Charlotte was dismissed in the same manner as Heskins had been and she left knowing very little about this guarded woman. It was going to take a lot more skill to find out about the goings on in this house. But, although frustrating in its closed nature, this initial meeting had whetted Charlotte’s appetite. The secrecy was intriguing and, rather than averting suspicion, Lady Ravenswick’s icy restraint only served to sharpen Charlotte’s resolve.

  Outside the room, there was an unsettling stillness. Hardly anyone moved around these vast halls, unlike the tiny, cramped warren below. A strange aroma clung to the cold, stone air. There was an old familiarity to it, something she recalled from every Sunday morning. It was heavy with church-like incense, that sweet, cloying smell conjuring up notions of death and decay.

  A sudden, cold draught of air flittered round her ankles and, at the edge of her vision, over on the opposite side of the room, a movement caught her eye. It came out of the wall as if it had just emerged from one of the long portraits and slowly travelled across the stones.

  Charlotte caught her breath. The shadow moved gently. It was a slender shape, curved over in penance as if bowing. Or perhaps praying.

  She blinked once to clear her eyes. It had disappeared before she could fully capture the outline. Charlotte quickly searched the shadows. There was nothing but her own imagination. Her face gathered and she gave a little irritated tut. She had to keep a clear head here. There was no room for silly nonsense about ghosts. She still felt foolish for running from the figure in the mist earlier. She wasn’t about to let anyone else scare her. Charlotte started walking across the hall with a quick, new purpose, pushing aside any ideas of fear.

  But just as she reached the centre of the room, she saw a flicker of cream material over by the stairs. That was definitely real. Someone was there, half hidden in the shadows. They didn’t make an effort to move or announce themselves, so Charlotte did it for them.

  “Hello? Can I help you?” Her annoyance was barely contained. “You can come out any time you like.” She folded her arms and waited, her eyes sharp with anger.

  There was a pause. Then movement. The figure took one bold step out into the hallway. Standing beneath the dark banister was a man so tall he had been forced to stoop a little to fit in that space underneath the stairs. It was not a natural place to have wedged himself, and looked very much as though it had been chosen in a hurry.

  He was imposing, with noticeably wide shoulders suggesting a powerful man beneath that curious, white tunic. He had a disguised look. Most of his face was hidden by a thick, black beard immaculately shaped around his jaw. There was a precision to him.

  “I am Nicodemus Bligh, Lady Ravenswick’s spiritual guide.” He needn’t have told her that. He was exactly the same as the photograph in the papers.

  He held up his face defiantly. This man was used to being inspected and challenged. He was defensive before there was any need to be.

  “How do you do? I’m Charlotte Blood. I’m here –”

  “I know why you’re here, Miss Blood.” He gave a cynical smile. “We all do.”

  He used the “we” in an aggressive, closed way. They were a clan, a group he was part of, and, most importantly, she was not.

  “I’ve been visiting the beautiful ravens only this morning. What a magnificent aviary.”

  “I’m very glad to hear it, Miss Blood.” He leaned closer. “I must talk to you more about our little black souls.”

  She only recoiled slightly, but he saw it. Bligh seemed to enjoy that. He stepped nearer and held his hands together as though in prayer.

  “It is their great responsibility here to escort the newly deceased from Earth to the afterlife.” He had adopted a faint, spectral voice. “They are psychopomps.”

  “I see.” She nodded slowly.

  He waited for her to ask.

  She sighed as if this was already becoming tedious. That seemed to spur him. In her experience, the biggest fear of all men like Bligh was to be thought of as boring. Charlotte knew just how to tease more information out of performers like him. Artists, writers and actors, they were all the same. Make it seem like she didn’t care and the floodgates would open. They couldn’t stop revealing increasingly salacious, private and inappropriate stories until she was worn down by the weight of their secrets. Nosferatu could have filled ten columns. And when their exploits were finally exposed, it was with a grim thrill that those people ran out into the open to repeatedly deny their exploits whilst ensuring that they were standing in the full glare of all that attention. They’d got what they wanted and so had Charlotte. The game worked both ways. Nicodemus Bligh was very clearly someone who played it well.

  “I’m sure you know all about their special place here, being an expert on ravens, of course.” There was a subtle sneer on the edge of his voice. He deepened the look of beguiling intensity, with every slight movement perfecting his image. If the word contrived didn’t already exist, he would have invented it.

 

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