The Seven Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle

by Stuart Turton

  It’s like I’ve been asked to dig a hole with a shovel made of sparrows.

  Shifting in his seat, the Plague Doctor leans closer to me. His clothes are musty, that old attic smell of something long forgotten and badly aired.

  ‘Our last conversation was rather abrupt,’ he says. ‘So I thought you might report on your progress. Have you discovered—’

  ‘Why did it have to be this body?’ I interrupt, wincing as a hot streak of pain shoots up through my side. ‘Why trap me in any of these bodies? Ravencourt couldn’t walk two steps without tiring, the butler’s incapacitated and Derby’s a monster. If you really want me to escape Blackheath, why stack the deck against me? There must be better alternatives.’

  ‘More able perhaps, but these men all have some connection to Evelyn’s murder,’ he says. ‘Making them best placed to help you solve it.’

  ‘They’re suspects?’

  ‘Witnesses would be a more apt description.’

  A yawn shakes me, my energy already evaporating. Doctor Dickie must have given me another sedative. I feel as though I’m being squeezed out of this body through the feet.

  ‘And who decides the order?’ I say. ‘Why did I wake up as Bell first and Derby today? Is there any way for me to predict who I’ll be next?’

  Leaning back, he steeples his fingers and cocks his head. It’s a lengthy silence, revaluating and readjusting. Whether he’s pleased by what he finds, or annoyed, I can’t tell.

  ‘Why are you asking these questions?’ he says eventually.

  ‘Curiosity,’ I say, and when he doesn’t respond to that, ‘and I’m hoping there’s some advantage to be found in the answers,’ I add.

  He makes a small grunt of approval.

  ‘Good to see you’re finally taking this seriously,’ he says. ‘Very well. Under normal circumstances, you’d arrive in your hosts in the order they woke throughout the day. Fortunately for you, I’ve been tampering.’

  ‘Tampering?’

  ‘We’ve done this dance many times before, you and I, more than even I can recall. Loop after loop, I’ve set you the task of solving Evelyn Hardcastle’s murder, and it’s always ended in failure. At first, I thought the blame for this rested solely on your shoulders, but I’ve come to realise that the sequence of hosts plays a part. For example, Donald Davies wakes up at 3:19 a.m., which should make him your first host. That doesn’t work because his life is so appealing. He has good friends in the house, family. Things you spend the loop trying to return to, rather than seeking to escape. It’s for that reason I changed your first host to the more rootless Sebastian Bell,’ he says, hoisting his trouser leg to scratch his ankle. ‘In contrast, Lord Ravencourt doesn’t stir until 10:30 a.m., which meant you shouldn’t have visited him until much deeper in the loop, a period when haste, rather than intellect, is of the essence.’

  I can hear the pride in his voice, the sense of a watchmaker standing back and admiring the mechanism he’s built. ‘Each new loop I experimented, making these sorts of decisions for each of your hosts, arriving at the order you’re experiencing now,’ he says, spreading his hands magnanimously. ‘In my opinion, this is the sequence that gives you the best chance of solving the mystery.’

  ‘So why haven’t I returned to Donald Davies, the way I keep returning to the butler?’

  ‘Because you walked him down that endless road to the village for almost eight hours and he’s exhausted,’ says the Plague Doctor, a hint of rebuke in his tone. ‘He’s currently sleeping deeply and will be until’ – he checks his watch – ‘9:38 p.m. Until then, you’ll continue to be tugged between the butler and your other hosts.’

  Wood creaks in the corridor. I consider calling for Anna, a thought which must show on my face, because the Plague Doctor tuts at me.

  ‘Come now, how clumsy do you think I am?’ he says. ‘Anna left a little while ago to meet with Lord Ravencourt. Believe me, I know the routines of this house as a director knows those of the actors in his play. If I had any doubt that we might be interrupted, I wouldn’t be here.’

  I have the sense of being a nuisance to him, an errant child in the headmaster’s office again. Barely worth a scolding.

  A yawn rattles me, long and loud. My brain is clouding over.

  ‘We have a few more minutes to talk before you fall asleep again,’ says the Plague Doctor, clasping his gloved hands together, the leather squeaking. ‘If you’ve any more questions for me, now would be the time.’

  ‘Why is Anna in Blackheath?’ I say quickly. ‘You said I chose to come here, and my rivals didn’t. That means she was brought here against her will. Why are you doing this to her?’

  ‘Any questions aside from that one,’ he says. ‘Walking into Blackheath voluntarily brings certain advantages. There are also disadvantages, things your rivals instinctively understand, which you do not. I’m here to fill in those blanks, nothing more. Now, how goes the investigation into Evelyn Hardcastle’s murder?’

  ‘She’s one girl,’ I say wearily, struggling to keep my eyes open. The drugs are tugging at me with their warm hands. ‘What makes her death worth all of this?’

  ‘I could ask you the same question,’ he says. ‘You’re going out of your way to save Miss Hardcastle, despite all the evidence suggesting it’s impossible. Why is that?’

  ‘I can’t watch her die and do nothing to prevent it,’ I say.

  ‘That’s very noble of you,’ he says, cocking his head. ‘Then let me respond in kind. Miss Hardcastle’s murder was never solved, and I don’t believe such a thing should be allowed to stand. Does that satisfy you?’

  ‘People are murdered every day,’ I say. ‘Righting one wrong can’t be the only reason for all of this.’

  ‘An excellent point,’ he says, clapping his hands together in appreciation. ‘But who’s to say there aren’t hundreds of others like yourself seeking justice for those souls?’

  ‘Are there?’

  ‘Doubtful, but it’s a lovely thought, isn’t it?’

  I’m conscious of the effort of listening, the weight of my eyelids, the way the room is melting around me.

  ‘We don’t have much time I’m afraid,’ says the Plague Doctor. ‘I should—’

  ‘Wait... I need to... why did...’ My words are sludge, thick in my mouth. ‘You asked me... you asked... my memory...’

  There’s a great rustling of material as the Plague Doctor gets to his feet. Picking up a glass of water from the sideboard, he hurls the contents in my face. The water’s freezing cold, my body convulses like a cracked whip, dragging me back to myself.

  ‘Apologies, that was most irregular,’ he says, staring at the empty glass, clearly surprised at his actions. ‘Normally I let you fall asleep at this point, but... well, I’m intrigued.’ He puts the glass down slowly. ‘What did you want to ask me? Please choose your words carefully, they’re of some import.’

  Water stings my eyes and drips off my lips, the wetness spreading through my cotton nightshirt.

  ‘When we first met, you asked me what I remembered when I woke up as Bell,’ I say. ‘Why would that matter?’

  ‘Each time you fail, we strip your memories and start the loop again, but you always find a way to hold onto something important, a clue if you will,’ he says, dabbing the water from my forehead with a handkerchief. ‘This time it was Anna’s name.’

  ‘You told me it was a pity,’ I say.

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Along with the sequence of your hosts, the thing you choose to remember usually has a significant impact on how the loop plays out,’ he says. ‘If you had remembered the footman, you’d have set off chasing him. At least that would have been useful. Instead, you’ve bound yourself to Anna, one of your rivals.’

  ‘She’s my friend,’ I say.

  ‘Nobody has friends in Blackheath, Mr Bishop, and if you haven’t learned that yet, I’m afraid there may be no hope for you.’

  ‘Can...’ The sedative is dragging
at me once again. ‘Can we both escape?’

  ‘No,’ he says, folding his damp handkerchief and replacing it in his pocket. ‘An answer for an exit, that’s how this works. At 11 p.m., one of you will come to the lake and give me the murderer’s name, and that person will be allowed to leave. You’re going to have to choose who that is.’

  He lifts his gold watch from his breast pocket to check the time.

  ‘Time runs away and I have a schedule to keep,’ he says, retrieving his cane from its spot by the door. ‘Normally, I remain impartial in these matters, but there’s something you should know before you trip over your nobility. Anna remembers more from the last loop than she’s telling you.’

  His gloved hand lifts my chin, his face so close to mine I can hear his breathing through the mask. He has blue eyes. Old, sad, blue eyes.

  ‘She’s going to betray you.’

  I open my mouth to protest, but my tongue’s too heavy to move, and the last thing I see is the Plague Doctor disappearing through the door, a great stooped shadow dragging the world behind him.

  28

  Day Five (continued)

  Life pounds on my eyelids.

  I blink, once, twice, but it hurts to keep them open. My head’s a shattered egg. A noise escapes my throat. It’s somewhere between a groan and a whimper, the low animal gurgle of a creature caught in a trap. I try to heave myself up, but the pain’s an ocean, lapping around my skull. I don’t have the strength to lift it.

  Time passes; I can’t say how much. It isn’t that sort of time. I watch my stomach rise and fall, and when I’m confident it can do so without my help, I drag myself into a sitting position, resting against the crumbling wall. Much to my dismay I’m back in Jonathan Derby, lying on the floor in the nursery. Pieces of a broken vase are everywhere, including my scalp. Somebody must have hit me from behind when I left Stanwin’s bedroom, and then dragged me here out of sight.

  The letter, you fool.

  My hand leaps to my pocket, searching for Felicity’s letter and the ledger I stole from Stanwin, but they’re gone, along with the key to Bell’s trunk. All that remains are the two headache pills given to me by Anna, which are still wrapped in the blue handkerchief.

  She’s going to betray you.

  Could this be her doing? The Plague Doctor’s warning couldn’t have been any clearer, and yet surely an enemy wouldn’t provoke such feelings of warmth, or kinship? Perhaps Anna does remember more from our last loop than she admits, but if that information was destined to make us enemies, why would I drag her name from one life into the next, knowing I would chase it like a dog after a burning stick? No, if there’s betrayal afoot, it’s a result of the empty promises I’ve made, and that’s rectifiable. I need to find the right way of telling Anna the truth.

  Swallowing the tablets dry, I claw my way up the wall, staggering back into Stanwin’s room.

  The bodyguard’s still unconscious on the bed, the light fading beyond the window. I check my watch to find it’s 6p.m., which means the hunters, including Stanwin, are probably already on their way home. For all I know, they’re crossing the lawn or ascending the stairs even now.

  I need to leave before the blackmailer comes back.

  Even with the tablets, I’m woozy, the world slipping beneath me as I crash through the east wing before pushing aside the curtain to arrive on the landing above the entrance hall. Each step is a battle until I fall through Doctor Dickie’s door, nearly vomiting on his floor. His bedroom’s identical to all the others on this corridor, with a four-poster bed against one wall and a bath and sink behind a screen opposite. Unlike Bell, Dickie’s made himself at home. Pictures of his grandchildren are dotted about the place, a crucifix hanging from one of the walls. He’s even laid a small rug down, presumably to keep his feet off the cold wood in the mornings.

  This familiarity with oneself is a miracle to me, and I find myself gaping at Dickie’s possessions, my wounds momentarily forgotten. Picking up the picture of his grandchildren, I wonder for the first time if I too have a family waiting beyond Blackheath: parents or children, friends who miss me?

  Startled by footsteps passing in the corridor, I drop the family picture on the bedside table, accidentally cracking the glass. The steps pass without incident, but awakened to the peril I move more quickly.

  Dickie’s medical bag is nestled beneath his bed and I upend it over his mattress, spilling bottles, scissors, syringes and bandages onto the covers. The last thing out is a King James Bible, which bounces onto the floor, the pages falling open. Just like the one in Sebastian Bell’s bedroom, certain words and paragraphs are underlined in red ink.

  It’s a code.

  A wolf’s smile spreads across Derby’s face, recognition of another crook. If I had to guess, I’d say Dickie’s a silent partner in Bell’s drug-peddling business. No wonder he was so concerned for the good doctor’s welfare. He was worried about what he’d say.

  I snort. It’s another secret in a house full of them, and it’s not the one I’m after today.

  Gathering the bandages and iodine from the pile on the bed, I take them over to the sink and begin my surgery.

  It’s not a delicate operation.

  Every time I pluck one piece loose, blood wells up between my fingers, running down my face and dripping off my chin into the sink. Tears of pain cloud my vision, the world a stinging blur for nearly thirty minutes while I pick apart my porcelain crown. My only consolation is that this must be hurting Jonathan Derby almost as much as it’s hurting me.

  When I’m certain every shard has been removed, I set to work wrapping my head in bandages, securing them with a safety pin and inspecting my work in the mirror.

  The bandages look fine. I look terrible.

  My face is pale, my eyes hollow. Blood has stained my shirt, forcing me to strip down to my vest. I’m a man undone, coming apart at the seams. I can feel myself unravelling.

  ‘What the devil!’ cries Doctor Dickie from the door.

  He’s fresh from the hunt, dripping wet and shivering, grey as the ashes in the grate. Even his moustache is sagging.

  I follow his disbelieving gaze around the room, seeing the devastation through his eyes. The picture of his grandchildren is cracked and smeared with blood, his Bible discarded, his medical bag tossed on the floor, its contents scattered across the bed. Bloody water fills the sink, my shirt in his bathtub. His surgery can’t look much worse after an amputation.

  Catching sight of me in my vest, the bandage trailing loose from my forehead, the shock on his face turns to anger.

  ‘What have you done, Jonathan?’ he demands, his voice swelling with rage.

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t know where else to go,’ I say, panicked. ‘After you left, I searched Stanwin’s room for something to help Mother and I found a ledger.’

  ‘A ledger?’ he says in a strangled voice. ‘You took something from him? You must put it back. Now, Jonathan!’ he yells, sensing my hesitation.

  ‘I can’t, I was attacked. Somebody smashed a vase across my head and stole it. I was bleeding and the bodyguard was going to wake up, so I came here.’

  A dreadful silence swallows the end of the story as Doctor Dickie stands the picture of his grandchildren upright and slowly gathers everything back into his medical bag, sliding it back under the bed.

  He moves as though manacled, dragging my secrets behind him.

  ‘It’s my fault,’ he mutters. ‘I knew you weren’t to be trusted, but my affection for your mother...’

  He shakes his head, pushing by me to collect my shirt from the bathtub. There’s a resignation to his actions that frightens me.

  ‘I didn’t mean to—’ I begin.

  ‘You used me to steal from Ted Stanwin,’ he says quietly, gripping the edges of the counter. ‘A man who can ruin me with a snap of his fingers.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say.

  He turns suddenly, his anger thick.

  ‘You’ve made that word cheap, Jonathan!
You said it after we covered up that business in Enderleigh House, and again at Little Hampton. Remember? Now you’d have me swallow this hollow apology as well.’

  He presses my shirt against my chest, his cheeks flushed red. Tears stand in his eyes. ‘How many women have you forced yourself upon? Do you even remember? How many times have you wept at your mother’s breast, begging her to fix it, promising never to do it again and knowing full well that you would? And now here you are again, doing the same to me, bloody, stupid Doctor Dickie. Well, I’m done, I can’t stomach it any more. You’ve been a blight on this world ever since I brought you into it.’

  I take an imploring step towards him, but he pulls a silver pistol from his pocket, letting it dangle by his side. He’s not even looking at me.

  ‘Get out, Jonathan, or by God, I’ll shoot you myself.’

  Keeping one eye on the pistol, I back out of the room, closing the door as I step into the corridor.

  My heart’s thumping.

  Doctor Dickie’s gun is the very same one Evelyn will use to take her life tonight. He’s holding the murder weapon.

  29

  Quite how long I stare at Jonathan Derby in my bedroom mirror, it’s impossible to say. I’m looking for the man within, some hint of my real face.

  I want Derby to see his executioner.

  Whisky warms my throat, the bottle plundered from the drawing room and already half empty. I need it to stop my hands from shaking as I try to knot my bow tie. Doctor Dickie’s testimony confirmed what I already knew. Derby’s a monster, his crimes washed away by his mother’s money. There’s no justice waiting for this man, no trial or punishment. If he’s to pay for what he’s done, I’ll have to march him to the gallows myself, and that’s what I intend to do.

  First though, we’re going to save Evelyn Hardcastle’s life.

  My gaze is drawn towards Doctor Dickie’s silver pistol, lying harmless on an armchair like a fly swatted out of the air. Stealing it was a simple matter, as easy as sending a servant with an invented emergency to lure the doctor out of his room while I slipped in afterwards and took it from his nightstand. For too long I’ve allowed this day to dictate terms to me, but no longer. If somebody wishes to murder Evelyn with this pistol, they’ll have to come through me first. The Plague Doctor’s riddle be damned! I don’t trust him and I won’t stand idly by while horrors play out in front of me. It’s time Jonathan Derby finally did some good on this earth.