It had the number28at the top, underlined several times. Then there were a string of women’s names, five in all, each with a number by it, and thenWilfred–47, Mary–30, followed byAlbert–49andCatherine–36. That was Wynn’s and Zeb’s fathers and their wives, along with, he very much suspected, their ages at their deaths. Hawley’s parents were there too, and so was Laura, her name written with care, along with her age at death,38.
So the first set of names were probably Walter’s five wives and their ages. Zeb glanced at the last name.Constance–26.
Twenty-six. The housemaid had been young when shemarried Walter, Zeb knew, but just nineteen? Had she lost her youth to that terrible room, scrawling on the walls?
Beneath that litany, Wynn had scribbled a lot more numbers. It looked like he’d added up all the ages, subtracted that total from 600, and divided what he got by 28 to reach a total of exactly 6. Under that he’d written,6=1???
Zeb had no idea what that was about. He turned the paper over and saw another list of names.Bram–38. Elise–30. Hawley–34. Zebedee–28.That last had an arrow pointing to it and an exclamation mark, and then Zeb’s birthday, which was in January.
Wynn had added up those ages too, subtracted the sum from 200, divided the result by 6, and got a result of eleven and two thirds, after which he had written61!!in heavy pen with angry underlining, and then added,Dash???
Maybe it made sense if you knew what he was on about. Zeb put down the paper and looked back at the Bible’s flyleaf. It bore a list of names and dates in various hands and inks, starting with Theophilus Wyckham, born 17th August 1698. Toward the bottom of the list was Walter Wyckham, 2nd December 1777 to 28th December 1855. It was the second of December today. Happy birthday, Walter.
Walter had written in his three sons with dates of birth. Laura’s name had been added in Wynn’s hand to one side, as had Georgina’s, her daughter. They were the only women’s names listed. No wives or daughters allowed, and Zeb, Bram, and Hawley weren’t in there either, as mere progeny of theyounger sons. This was a list of inheritors.
Wynn was duly there: born 12th June 1855.Six months to go, Zeb thought nastily, then remembered Wynn had probably been lying about his supposed death at fifty. Unless he really believed in the Wyckham curse.
The Wyckham curse.
Zeb stared at the flyleaf, with its spidery writing and its missing people, who didn’t matter because they were there only to feed the people who did matter, and at Walter’s dates of birth and death. He’d outlived the supposed curse by twenty-eight years.
Zeb picked up the stray paper again and looked at the side headed28, and the answer bloomed in his thoughts, understanding far outpacing words.
“Oh my God,” he said aloud.
He needed to find Gideon. Wynn might be recreating their grandfather’s literary atrocities, but that was just the method, not the goal. Zeb knew the goal now, and it changed everything.
He shut the Bible, slammed the drawer, and ran from the room.
Twenty-Two
Zeb stopped himself in the hall, mid-fumble for his coat, as he realised he didn’t actually know where Gideon would be hunting for ladders, and probably shouldn’t come crashing in on him anyway.
Fear was thrumming through him, making him jittery, and perhaps he was good in a crisis, but they’d been in a crisis so long now that he could feel the drag of exhaustion pulling him down.Think.
Getting things together: that had been his role. Map and compass, but he hadn’t found a map. Move on. Food: he’d take—steal—some food, and something to drink if he could find a bottle, and then as soon as he found Gideon, they could run like hell.
He wasn’t sure where the staff areas were, but he made his way through a couple of plausible corridors toward the back of the east wing, passing the bleak, empty anteroom where Elise’s body had rested, until he came to a plain door and a corridorthat had a kitchen sort of smell to it. There was a heavy door at the end, closed. Zeb headed towards it, keeping his ears pricked. He wanted to avoid people.
He eased the door open, just a fraction, and sound rushed through. It was Gideon’s voice, sounding raw and panicky. “Let me go!”
“You were warned,” said a deep, contemptuous voice. The chauffeur, Zeb thought through a wave of panic. “Chose the wrong side, didn’t you?”
“What blasted side?” Gideon snarled. “Why the blazes are you doing this? Get off me!” There was the sound of a scuffle, a blow, a cry.
“Hang on to him. Not going to do that,MisterGrey,” the chauffeur said with a sneer. “Wynn’s got a need for you and he doesn’t want Useless running away, so you’re going to sit tight for a while. If I put him in the stables—”
“Don’t be daft,” said a male voice. “Useless will be looking for him, and he’ll start outside. Let’s shut this one up and put him…uh…”
“Stick him in the cellar,” an unfamiliar woman said. “Keep him out of the way till the others are done with. Nobody will hear him down there. Well, except—”
“We’re not doing that.” It was a voice Zeb knew all too well. Rachel, the housemaid, except she didn’t sound distressed or respectful or any of those things any more. She sounded, in fact, highly authoritative. “Come, Anna, that’s not right. He hasn’t done anything.”
A man snorted. The first woman asked, sharply, “Then where do you suggest we put him?”
“The anteroom where they laid out Lady Macbeth,” Rachel said. “Nobody will hear anything from there, or if they do, they’ll think it’s ghosts.”
That got a general unkind laugh. Zeb felt his stomach plunge. He had passed the anteroom on his way here. They’d be coming out this way.
