Page 47 of The Midnight Carousel

Who on earth is riding the carousel at this time of night?

With a sense of trepidation, Maisie replaces the letter in the drawer, throws on a coat and boots, and runs outside.

The moon is a stitch in the sky and barely illuminates her way.

Hurrying as fast as the icy ground will allow, she moves across the park and past the closed-up concession stands.

The colours of the carousel are spinning with abandon, pirouetting like a ballerina.

As it circles again, Maisie gets the fright of her life.

She sees blankets strewn on the platform.

Then she registers the absence of music, the same problem Arnold flagged up months ago.

Has someone been tampering with the mechanics again?

Out of breath now, she pushes on. The carousel is slowing by the time she gets there, and Maisie leaps on, striding across the platform.

There’s no sign of anyone or anything out of place except– and it takes Maisie a moment to notice in the dark– an object on the platform.

A small cry escapes from her mouth as she recognizes Sir Malcolm’s trilby lying beside the hooves of the caramel-coloured horse.

Its unsettling eyes watch Maisie scour the vicinity for the man himself.

But he’s nowhere to be seen. Has Sir Malcolm vanished like all the others?

Calm down, she tells herself, calm down.

He could still be in the house. Hastening back, she soon discovers that there’s no sign of him there either.

Not in his bedroom or any of the downstairs rooms. Driven by desperation, she returns to the carousel, clinging to the hope that her worst fears are unfounded. Sir Malcolm must be around somewhere.

Huddled in the blankets usually wrapped around the wooden animal, she sits on the platform and prays, just as hard as she used to when Tommy was by her side all those years ago.

Her breath is like mist as she murmurs, Dear Lord of the Water, please let Sir Malcolm appear.

She hears waves lapping in answer, the screech of a fox, the breeze rushing off the lake, followed by the swings squeaking as though the ghosts of children are playing.

A silver streamer from her wedding dances past. For hours she waits, shivering, hoping that Sir Malcolm will suddenly turn up with the simple explanation of having taken a midnight walk to clear his head and lost all track of time.

The sensation that she isn’t alone makes Maisie want to run away, but she stays, compelled by an overwhelming need to see him.

It’s only when dawn is a purple line on the horizon that hope turns to panic.

She wants to scream, shout for help. But she suppresses the urge long enough to think through her situation.

Maisie was the chief suspect until Beau Armitage came to the attention of the Bureau.

Then he found an alibi, and by all accounts he’s currently in Los Angeles– while right now, Maisie is here.

It doesn’t look good for her. She imagines a quick arrest, a trial and probable conviction.

Incarceration. Possibly the same fate as Victor Cloutier.

There’s no Laurent to shield her from the American authorities, no master of Fairweather House to wield his influence. No father figure to protect her.

It won’t be long until the servants arrive at the big house for the day, and the next fifteen minutes pass in a frenzy.

First, it needs to look like no one was at the carousel tonight.

She swaddles the wooden horse in blankets, then she locates the matchbox-sized music box jutting out of a recess under the control lever and presses it back into place with the chisel, as she saw Lucky Nate do all those months ago.

Maisie runs inside. Sir Malcolm’s bedroom is dark, but she doesn’t dare switch on the light. Grabbing a handful of his clothes, she proceeds to the shore and leaves them, along with the trilby, in a pile near a rock.

Back indoors again, Maisie hurries to the study and removes the typewriter from its case, pausing while she decides on the exact wording to use.

Clack, clack, clack. Thinking back to the cheques Sir Malcolm signed for Silver Kingdom, Maisie attempts a similar scrawl as she signs the letters in his name.

She leaves three– one for Hugo, one for Eric and one for herself– on the desk in brown envelopes.

Creeping quietly, she is back in bed on the dot of sunrise.

James stirs but stays asleep. Pulling the covers up to her chin, Maisie shivers, stunned. Only now can she allow herself fully to absorb the terrible fate of Sir Malcolm.

Minutes pass slowly. There’s a clatter downstairs.

Thumping and swishing as furniture is moved back to its normal place after yesterday’s party, curtains drawn open.

Still James snores on. Her breath held, she hears Eric’s voice, urgent, shouting.

He must have discovered Sir Malcolm’s suicide notes.