The Seven Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle

by Stuart Turton

  ‘Anna,’ I exclaim, remembering the woman in the carriage with the butler. ‘I thought she was an acquaintance of Bell’s?’

  He takes a long drag on his cigarette, considering me through narrowed eyes. I can see him sifting through the future, working out how much to tell me.

  ‘She’s trapped here like us,’ he says eventually. ‘She’s a friend, as much as somebody can be in our situation. You should find her quickly, before the footman does. He’s hunting us both.’

  ‘He left a dead rabbit in my room – Bell’s room, I mean – last night.’

  ‘That’s only the beginning,’ he says. ‘He means to kill us, though not before he’s had his fun.’

  My blood runs cold, my stomach nauseous. I’d suspected as much, but to hear the fact laid out so baldly is something else entirely. Closing my eyes, I let a long breath out through my nose, releasing my fear with it. It’s a habit of Ravencourt’s, a way of clearing the mind, though I couldn’t say how I know that.

  When I open my eyes again, I’m calm.

  ‘Who is he?’ I ask, impressed by the strength in my voice.

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ he says, blowing smoke into the wind. ‘I’d call him the devil if I thought this place anything so mundane as hell. He’s picking us off one by one, making sure there’s no competition when he delivers his answer to the Plague Doctor tonight.’

  ‘Does he have other bodies, other hosts, like us?’

  ‘That’s the curious thing,’ he says. ‘I don’t believe he does, but he doesn’t seem to need them. He knows the faces of every one of our hosts, and he strikes when we’re at our weakest. Every mistake I’ve made, he’s been waiting.’

  ‘How do we stop a man who knows our every step before we do?’

  ‘If I knew that, there’d be no need of this conversation,’ he says irritably. ‘Be careful. He haunts this house like a bloody ghost, and if he catches you alone... well, don’t let him catch you alone.’

  Daniel’s tone is dark, his expression brooding. Whoever this footman is, he has taken hold of my future self in a way that’s more unsettling than all the warnings I’ve heard. It’s not hard to understand why. The Plague Doctor gave me eight days to solve Evelyn’s murder and eight hosts to do it. Because Sebastian Bell slept past midnight, he’s now lost to me.

  That leaves seven days and seven hosts.

  My second and third hosts were the butler and Donald Davies. The woman in the carriage didn’t mention Davies, which seems a curious omission, but I’m assuming the same rules apply to him as the butler. They both have plenty of hours left until midnight, but one of them is severely injured and the other asleep on a road, miles from Blackheath. They’re practically useless. So much for days two and three.

  I’m already on my fourth day, and Ravencourt is proving a burden rather than a boon. I don’t know what to expect from my remaining four hosts – though Daniel seems capable enough – but it feels as though the Plague Doctor is stacking the deck against me. If the footman truly knows my every weakness, then God help me because there are plenty to exploit. ‘Tell me everything you’ve already learned about Evelyn’s death,’ I say. ‘If we work together we can solve it before the footman has a chance to harm us.’

  ‘The only thing I can tell you is that she dies promptly at 11 p.m. every single night.’

  ‘Surely, you must know more than that?’

  ‘A great deal more, but I can’t risk sharing the information,’ he says, glancing at me. ‘All my plans are built around things you’re going to do. If I tell you something that stops you doing those things, I can’t be certain they’ll play out the same way. You might blunder into the middle of an event settled in my favour, or be elsewhere when you should have been distracting the fellow whose room I’m sneaking into. One wrong word could leave all my plans in ruins. This day must proceed as it always does, for your sake as much as mine.’ He rubs his forehead, all of his weariness seeming to pour out of the gesture. ‘I’m sorry, Ravencourt, the safest course is for you to go about your investigation without interference from me or any of the others.’

  ‘Very well,’ I say, hoping to keep my disappointment from him. It’s a foolish notion, of course. He’s me. He remembers this disappointment for himself. ‘But the fact you’re counselling me to solve this murder suggests you trust the Plague Doctor,’ I say. ‘Have you uncovered his identity?’

  ‘Not yet,’ he says. ‘And trust is too strong a word. He has his own purpose in this house, I’m certain of it, but for the moment, I can’t see any other course beyond doing as he demands.’

  ‘And has he told you why this is happening to us?’ I ask.

  We’re interrupted by a commotion at the door, our heads turning towards Ravencourt’s valet, who’s halfway out of his coat and trying to extricate himself from the clutches of a long purple scarf. He’s wind-tussled and slightly out of breath, his cheeks swollen with cold.

  ‘I received a message that you required me urgently, my lord,’ he says, still tugging at the scarf.

  ‘My doing, old love,’ says Daniel, deftly slipping back into character. ‘You’ve a busy day ahead and I thought Cunningham here could be of use. Speaking of busy days, I must be going myself. I’ve got a midday appointment with Sebastian Bell.’

  ‘I won’t leave Evelyn to her fate, Daniel,’ I say.

  ‘Neither did I,’ he says, flicking his cigarette into the verge and shutting the window. ‘But fate found her anyway. You should prepare yourself for that.’

  He’s gone in a few long strides, the library filling with the burble of voices and the loud clatter of cutlery as he tugs open the door into the study, and passes through on his way to the drawing room. The guests are gathering for lunch, which means Stanwin will soon threaten the maid, Lucy Harper, while Sebastian Bell watches from the window, feeling himself a fraction of a man. A hunt will depart, Evelyn will collect a note from the well, and blood will be spilt in a graveyard while two friends wait for a woman who’ll never arrive. If Daniel’s right, there’s little I can do to disrupt the day’s course, though I’ll be damned if I’m going to lie down before it. The Plague Doctor’s puzzle may be my way out of this house, but I’ll not step over Evelyn’s body to escape. I mean to save her, no matter the cost.

  ‘How can I be of service, my lord?’

  ‘Pass me paper, a pen and some ink, would you? I need to write something down.’

  ‘Of course,’ he says, retrieving the items from his attaché case.

  My hands are too clumsy for flowing penmanship, but amidst the smeared ink and ugly blots, the message reads clearly enough.

  I check the clock. It’s 11:56 a.m. Almost time.

  After airing the paper to dry the ink, I fold it neatly and press the creases down, handing it to Cunningham.

  ‘Take this,’ I say, noticing the traces of greasy black dirt on his hands as he reaches for the letter. His skin’s pink with scrubbing, but the dirt’s etched into the whorls of his fingertips. Aware of my attention, he takes the letter and clasps his hands behind his back.

  ‘I need you to go directly to the drawing room where they’re serving lunch,’ I say. ‘Stay there and observe events as they unfold, then read this letter and return to me.’

  Confusion paints his face. ‘My lord?’

  ‘We’re about to have a very strange day, Cunningham, and I’m going to need your absolute trust.’

  I wave away his protests, gesturing for him to help me out of the seat.

  ‘Do as I ask,’ I say, getting to my feet with a grunt. ‘Then return here and wait for me.’

  As Cunningham heads for the drawing room, I retrieve my cane and make my way to the Sun Room in the hopes of finding Evelyn. Being early, it’s only half full, ladies pouring themselves drinks from the bar, wilting over chairs and chaise longues. Everything seems to be a very great effort for them, as though the pale flush of youth were a burden, their energy exhausting. They’re muttering about Evelyn, a ripple of ugly laughter direc
ted towards the chess table in the corner, where a game is laid out before her. She has no opponent, her concentration fixed on outwitting herself. Whatever discomfort they’re hoping to heap upon her, she seems oblivious to it.

  ‘Evie, can we speak?’ I say, hobbling over.

  She lifts her head slowly, taking a moment to register me. As yesterday, her blonde hair is tied up into a ponytail, tugging her features into a gaunt, rather severe expression. Unlike yesterday, it doesn’t soften.

  ‘No, I don’t think so, Lord Ravencourt,’ she says, returning her attention to the board. ‘I’ve quite enough unpleasant things to do today without adding to the list.’

  Hushed laughter turns my blood to dust. I crumble from the inside out.

  ‘Please, Evie, it’s—’

  ‘It’s Miss Hardcastle, Lord Ravencourt,’ she says pointedly. ‘Manners maketh man, not his bank account.’

  A pit of humiliation opens in my stomach. This is Ravencourt’s worst nightmare. Standing in this room, a dozen pairs of eyes upon me, I feel like a Christian waiting for the first rocks to be thrown.

  Evelyn ponders me, sweating and shaking. Her eyes narrow, glittering.

  ‘Tell you what, play me for it,’ she says, tapping the chessboard. ‘You win and we’ll have a conversation; I win and you leave me be for the rest of the day. How would that suit?’

  Knowing it’s a trap, but in no position to argue, I wipe the sweat from my brow and wedge myself into the small chair opposite her, much to the delight of the assembled ladies. She could have forced me into a guillotine and I would have been more comfortable. I spill over the sides of the seat, the low back offering so little support that I tremble with the effort of keeping myself upright.

  Unmoved by my suffering, Evelyn crosses her arms on the table and pushes a pawn across the board. I follow it with a rook, the pattern of the middle game weaving itself in my mind. Although we’re evenly matched, discomfort is digging holes in my concentration, my tactics proving too ramshackle to overpower Evelyn. The best I can do is prolong the match, and after half an hour of counters and feints, my patience is exhausted.

  ‘Your life is in danger,’ I blurt out.

  Evelyn’s fingers pause on her pawn, a little tremor of her hand sounding loud as a bell. Her eyes skirt my face, then those of the ladies behind us, searching for anybody who might have heard. They’re frantic, working hard to scrub the moment from history.

  She already knows.

  ‘I thought we had a deal, Lord Ravencourt,’ she interrupts, her expression hardening once more.

  ‘But—’

  ‘Would you prefer I leave?’ she says, her glare strangling any further attempts at conversation.

  Move after move follows, but I’m so perplexed by her response, I pay little heed to strategy. Whatever’s going to happen tonight, Evelyn seems to be aware of it and yet her greater fear seems to be that somebody else will find out. For the life of me I can’t imagine why that would be and it’s clear she’s not going to open her heart to Ravencourt. Her disdain for this man is absolute, which means if I’m to save her life, I must either put on a face she likes or press forward without her help. It’s an infuriating turn of events and I’m desperately trying to find a way of reframing my argument when Sebastian Bell arrives at the door, provoking the queerest of sensations. By any measure this man is me, but watching him creep into the room like a mouse along a skirting board, I struggle to believe it. His back is stooped, his head low, arms stiff by his sides. Furtive glances scout every step, his world seemingly filled with sharp edges.

  ‘My grandmother, Heather Hardcastle,’ says Evelyn, watching him examine the portrait on the wall. ‘It’s not a flattering picture, but then she wasn’t a flattering woman by all accounts.’

  ‘My apologies,’ says Bell. ‘I was—’

  Their conversation proceeds exactly as it did yesterday, her interest in this frail creature prompting a pang of jealousy, though that’s not my principal concern. Bell’s repeating my day exactly and yet he believes himself to be making his choices freely, as I did. Likely then I’m blindly following a course plotted by Daniel, which makes me, what... an echo, a memory or just a piece of driftwood caught in the current?

  Flip over the chessboard, change this moment. Prove yourself unique.

  My hand reaches out, but the thought of Evelyn’s reaction, her disdain, the laughter of the assembled ladies, is too much. Shame cripples me, and I jerk my hand back. There’ll be further opportunities, I need to keep watch for them.

  Thoroughly demoralised and with defeat unavoidable, I dash the last few moves, putting my king to the sword with unseemly haste before staggering from the room, Sebastian Bell’s voice fading behind me.

  15

  As ordered, Cunningham’s waiting for me in the library. He’s sitting on the edge of a chair, the letter I gave him unfolded and trembling slightly in his hand. He stands as I enter, but in my desire to put the Sun Room behind me I’ve moved too quickly. I can hear myself breathing, wheezy desperate bursts from my overburdened lungs.

  He doesn’t venture to help.

  ‘How did you know what was going to happen in the drawing room?’ he asks.

  I try to answer, but there isn’t room for both words and air in my throat. I choose the latter, guzzling it with the same appetite as everything else in Ravencourt’s life, while staring into the study. I’d hoped to catch the Plague Doctor while he chatted with Bell, but my futile attempt to warn Evelyn dragged on longer than I expected.

  Perhaps I shouldn’t be surprised.

  As I saw on the road to the village, the Plague Doctor seems to know where I’ll be and when, no doubt timing his appearances so I can’t ambush him.

  ‘It happened exactly as you described it,’ continues Cunningham, staring at the paper in disbelief. ‘Ted Stanwin insulted the maid and Daniel Coleridge stepped in. They even spoke the words you wrote down. They spoke them exactly.’

  I could explain, but he hasn’t got to the section troubling him yet. Instead, I hobble over to the chair, lowering myself onto the cushion with a great deal of effort. My legs throb in pitiful gratitude.

  ‘Was it a trick?’ he asks.

  ‘No trick,’ I say.

  ‘And this... the final line, where you say...’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘... that you’re not Lord Ravencourt.’

  ‘I’m not Ravencourt,’ I say.

  ‘You’re not?’

  ‘I’m not. Get a drink, you’re looking a little pale.’

  He does as I say, obedience seemingly being the only part of him that hasn’t thrown its hands up in defeat. He returns with a glass of something and sits down, sipping it, his eyes never leaving mine, legs pressed together, shoulders bowed.

  I tell him everything, from the murder in the forest and my first day as Bell, right through to the never-ending road and my recent conversation with Daniel. Doubt flickers on his face, but every time it seems to have a foothold, he glances at the letter. I almost feel sorry for him.

  ‘Do you need another drink?’ I ask, nodding towards his half-empty glass.

  ‘If you’re not Lord Ravencourt, where is he?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Is he alive?’

  He can barely make eye contact.

  ‘Would you rather he wasn’t?’ I ask.

  ‘Lord Ravencourt’s been good to me,’ he says, anger flashing across his face.

  That doesn’t answer the question.

  I look at Cunningham again. Downcast eyes and dirty hands, a smeared tattoo from a troubled past. In a flash of intuition, I realise he’s afraid, but not of what I’ve told him. He’s afraid of what somebody who’s already seen this day unfold might know. He’s hiding something, I’m certain of it.

  ‘I need your help, Cunningham,’ I say. ‘There’s lots to do and while I’m shackled to Ravencourt, I don’t have the legs to do any of it.’

  Draining his glass, he gets to his feet. The drink�
�s painted two spots of colour on his cheeks and when he speaks his voice drips with the bottle’s courage.

  ‘I’m going to take my leave now and resume service tomorrow when Lord Ravencourt has...’ – he pauses, considering the right word – ‘returned.’

  He bows stiffly, before heading for the door.

  ‘Do you think he’ll take you back when he knows your secret?’ I say abruptly, an idea dropping into my head like a stone into a pond. If I’m right and Cunningham is hiding something, it may be shameful enough to use as leverage.

  He stops dead beside my chair, hands clenched tight.

  ‘What do you mean?’ he says, staring straight ahead.

  ‘Look beneath the cushion of your seat,’ I say, trying to keep the tension from my voice. The logic of what I’m attempting is sound, but that doesn’t mean it will actually work.

  He glances at the chair, then back towards me. Without a word he does as I say, discovering a small white envelope. Triumph twists a smile from my lips as he tears it open, his shoulders sagging.

  ‘How did you know?’ he asks, his voice cracked.

  ‘I don’t know a thing, but when I wake up in my next host, I’m going to dedicate myself to the task of uncovering your secret. I’m then going to return to this room and place the information in that envelope for you to find. Should this conversation not go the way I want, I’ll place the envelope where the other guests can find it.’

  He snorts at me, his contempt a slap in the face.

  ‘You may not be Ravencourt, but you sound exactly like him.’

  The idea is so startling it momentarily silences me. Until now I’d assumed my personality – whatever that might be – was carried into each new host, filling them as pennies fill a pocket, but what if I was wrong?

  None of my previous hosts would have thought to blackmail Cunningham, let alone had the stomach to act on the threat. In fact, looking back at Sebastian Bell, Roger Collins, Donald Davies and now Ravencourt, I can see little in their behaviour to suggest a common hand at work. Could it be that I’m bending to their will, rather than the other way around? If so, I must be wary. It’s one thing to be caged in these people, quite another to abandon oneself entirely to their desires.