The Seven Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle

by Stuart Turton

  Slipping the pistol into my jacket pocket, I take one last mouthful of whisky and step out into the corridor, following the other guests down the staircase to dinner. Unlike their manners, their taste is impeccable. Evening gowns expose naked backs and pale skin adorned with glittering jewellery. The listlessness of earlier is gone, their charm extravagant. At last, as evening calls, they’ve come alive.

  As always, I keep an eye out for some hint of the footman among these passing faces. He’s long overdue a visit, and the longer the day goes on, the more certain I become that something dreadful is coming. At least it’ll be a fair fight. Derby has very few laudable qualities, but his anger makes him a handful. I’ve barely been able to keep hold of him, so I can’t imagine what it would be like to see him flying at you, dripping hate.

  Michael Hardcastle’s standing in the entrance hall with a painted-on smile, greeting those coming down the stairs, as though genuinely glad to see every last wretched one of them. I had intended on questioning him about the mysterious Felicity Maddox, and the note at the well, but it will have to wait until later. There’s an impregnable wall of taffeta and bow ties between us.

  Piano music drags me through the crowds into the long gallery, where guests are mingling with drinks as servants prepare the dining hall on the other side of the doors. Taking a whisky from one of the passing trays, I keep an eye out for Millicent. I’d hoped to give Derby his goodbyes, but she’s nowhere to be seen. In fact, the only person I recognise is Sebastian Bell, who’s drifting through the entrance hall on his way to his room.

  Stopping a maid, I ask after Helena Hardcastle, hoping the lady of the house might be near at hand, but she hasn’t arrived. That means she’s been missing all day. Absence has officially become disappearance. It can’t be coincidence that Lady Hardcastle is nowhere to be found on the day of her daughter’s death, though whether she’s a suspect or a victim I can’t be sure. One way or another, I’m going to find out.

  My glass is empty, my head becoming foggy. I’m surrounded by laughter and conversation, friends and lovers. The good cheer is stirring Derby’s bitterness. I can feel his disgust, his loathing. He hates these people, this world. He hates himself.

  Servants slip past me with silver platters, Evelyn’s last meal arriving in a procession.

  Why isn’t she afraid?

  I can hear her laughter from here. She’s mingling with the guests as though all her days lie ahead, yet when Ravencourt brought up the danger this morning, it was clear she knew something was amiss.

  Discarding my glass, I make my way through the entrance hall and into the corridor towards Evelyn’s bedroom. If there are answers, perhaps that’s where I’ll find them.

  The lamps have been lowered to dim flames. It’s quiet and oppressive, a forgotten edge of the world. I’m halfway up the passage when I notice a splash of red emerging from the shadows.

  A footman’s livery.

  He’s blocking the passage.

  I freeze. Glancing behind me, I try to work out whether I can reach the entrance hall before he’s on me. The odds are slim. I’m not even sure my legs will listen when I tell them to move.

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ says a chirpy voice, the footman taking a step closer and revealing himself to be a short, wiry boy, no more than thirteen, with pimples and a nervous smile. ‘Excuse me,’ he adds after a moment, and I realise I’m in his way. Mumbling an apology, I let him pass and blow out an explosive breath.

  The footman’s made me so afraid, the mere suggestion of his presence is enough to cripple even Derby, a man who’d throw a punch at the sun because it burnt him. Was that his intention? The reason he taunted Bell and Ravencourt, rather than killing them? If this continues, he’ll be able to pick off my hosts without a shred of resistance.

  I’m earning the ‘rabbit’ nickname he’s given me.

  Proceeding cautiously, I continue to Evelyn’s bedroom, finding it locked. Knocking brings no answer and, unwilling to leave without something to show for my efforts, I take a step backwards, intending to put my shoulder through it. That’s when I notice the door to Helena’s bedroom is in exactly the same place as the door into Ravencourt’s parlour. Poking my head into both rooms, I find the dimensions are identical. That suggests Evelyn’s bedroom was once a parlour. If that’s the case, there will be a connecting door from Helena’s room, which is useful, because the lock is still broken from this morning.

  My guess is proven correct: the connecting door is hidden behind an ornate tapestry hanging on the wall. Thankfully, it’s unlocked and I’m able to slip through into Evelyn’s room.

  Given her fractured relationship with her parents, I’d half expected to find her sleeping in a broom closet, but the bedroom is comfortable enough, if modest. There’s a four-poster bed at the centre, a bathtub and bowl behind a curtain on a rail. Evidently the maid hasn’t been allowed in for some time because the bath is full of cold, dirty water, towels discarded in soggy heaps on the floor, a necklace tossed carelessly on the dressing table beside a pile of scrunched-up tissues, all stained with make-up. The curtains are drawn, Evelyn’s fire piled high with logs. Four oil lamps stand in the corners of the room, pinching the gloom between their flickering light and that of the fireplace.

  I’m shaking with pleasure, Derby’s excitement at this intrusion a warm blush rising through my body. I can feel my spirit trying to recoil from my host, and it’s all I can do to hold onto myself as I sift through Evelyn’s possessions, searching for anything that might drive her towards the reflecting pool later tonight. She’s a messy sort, discarded clothes stuffed wherever they happen to fit, costume jewellery heaped in the drawers, tangled up with old scarves and shawls. There’s no system, no order, no hint that she allows a maid anywhere near her things. Whatever her secrets, she’s hiding them from more than me.

  I catch myself stroking a silk blouse, frowning at my own hand before realising it’s not me that wants this, it’s him.

  It’s Derby.

  With a cry I pull my hand back, slamming the wardrobe shut.

  I can feel his yearning. He’d have me on my knees, pawing through her belongings, inhaling her scent. He’s a beast and for a second he had control.

  Wiping the beads of desire from my forehead, I take a deep breath to collect myself before pushing on with the search.

  I narrow my concentration to a point, keeping hold of my thoughts, allowing no gap for him to creep through. Even so, the investigation is fruitless. About the only item of interest is an old scrapbook containing curios from Evelyn’s life: old correspondence between herself and Michael, pictures from her childhood, scraps of poetry and musings from her adolescence, all combining to present a portrait of a very lonely woman who loved her brother desperately and now misses him terribly.

  Closing the book, I push it back under the bed where I found it, departing the room as quietly as I came, dragging a thrashing Derby within me.

  30

  I’m sitting in an armchair in a dim corner of the entrance hall, the seat arranged to give me a clear view to Evelyn’s bedroom door. Dinner’s under way, but Evelyn will be dead in three hours and I plan to dog her every step to the reflecting pool.

  Such patience would normally be beyond my host, but I’ve discovered that he enjoys smoking, which is handy because it makes me light-headed, dulling the cancer of Derby in my thoughts. It’s a pleasant, if unexpected, benefit of this inherited habit.

  ‘They’ll be ready when you need them,’ says Cunningham, appearing through the fog and crouching by my chair. There’s a pleased grin on his face I can make neither head nor tail of.

  ‘Who’ll be ready?’ I say, looking at him.

  This grin disappears, embarrassment taking its place as he lurches to his feet.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Derby, I thought you were somebody else,’ he says hastily.

  ‘I am somebody else, Cunningham, it’s me, Aiden. I still don’t have the foggiest idea what you’re talking about, though.’

&
nbsp; ‘You asked me to get some people together,’ he says.

  ‘No, I didn’t.’

  Our confusions must mirror each other, because Cunningham’s face has twisted into the same knot as my brain.

  ‘I’m sorry, he said you’d understand,’ says Cunningham.

  ‘Who said?’

  A sound draws my attention to the entrance hall, and, turning in my seat, I see Evelyn fleeing across the marble, weeping into her hands.

  ‘Take this, I have to go,’ says Cunningham, thrusting a piece of paper into my hand with the phrase ‘all of them’ written on it.

  ‘Wait! I don’t know what this means,’ I call after him, but it’s too late, he’s already gone.

  I’d follow him, but Michael is chasing Evelyn into the entrance hall, and this is why I’m here. These are the missing moments that transform Evelyn from the brave, kind woman I met as Bell into the suicidal heiress who’ll take her life by the reflecting pool.

  ‘Evie, Evie, don’t go, tell me what I can do,’ says Michael, catching her arm at the elbow.

  She shakes her head, tears sparkling in the candlelight, mirroring the diamonds flashing in her hair.

  ‘I just...’ Her voice chokes. ‘I need to...’

  Shaking her head, she shrugs him off, flying past me towards her bedroom. Fumbling the key into the lock, she slips inside, slamming the door shut behind her. Michael watches her go despondently, grabbing a glass of port from the tray Madeline’s carrying to the dining hall.

  It disappears in one gulp, his cheeks flushing.

  Lifting the tray out of her hands, he waves the maid towards Evelyn’s bedroom.

  ‘Don’t worry about this, see to your mistress,’ he orders.

  It’s a grand gesture, somewhat undone by the confusion that follows as he tries to work out what to do with the thirty glasses of sherry, port and brandy he’s inherited.

  From my seat, I watch Madeline rap on Evelyn’s door, the poor maid becoming increasingly upset with every ignored entreaty. Finally, she returns to the entrance hall, where Michael is still casting around for somewhere to put the tray.

  ‘I’m afraid Mademoiselle is...’ Madeline makes a despairing gesture.

  ‘It’s fine, Madeline,’ Michael says wearily. ‘It’s been a difficult day. Why don’t you leave her be for now. I’m sure she’ll call when she needs you.’

  Madeline lingers uncertainly, looking back towards Evelyn’s bedroom, but after a brief hesitation she does as he asks, disappearing down the servant’s staircase towards the kitchen.

  Casting left and right for somewhere to dispense with the tray, Michael spots me watching him.

  ‘I must look a damned fool,’ he says, blushing.

  ‘More like an inept waiter,’ I say bluntly. ‘I assume the dinner didn’t go as planned?’

  ‘It’s this business with Ravencourt,’ he says, balancing the tray rather precariously across the padded arms of a nearby chair. ‘Do you have one of those cigarettes spare?’

  I emerge from the fog to hand him one, lighting it in his fingers. ‘Does she really have to marry him?’ I ask.

  ‘We’re almost broke, old chum,’ he sighs, taking a long drag. ‘Father’s buying up every empty mine and blighted plantation in the empire. I give it a year or two before our coffers are completely dry.’

  ‘But I thought Evelyn and your parents didn’t get on? Why would she agree to go through with it?’

  ‘For me,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘My parents threatened to cut me off if she doesn’t obey them. I’d be flattered if I didn’t feel so damn guilty about it all.’

  ‘There must be another way.’

  ‘Father’s wrung every penny he can out of those few banks still impressed by his title. If we don’t get this money, well... truth be told, I don’t know what will happen, but we’ll end up poor and I’m fairly certain we’ll be dreadful at it.’

  ‘Most people are,’ I say.

  ‘Well, at least they’ve had practice,’ he says, tapping ash onto the marble floor. ‘Why is there a bandage on your head?’

  I touch it self-consciously, having quite forgotten it was there.

  ‘I got on the wrong side of Stanwin,’ I say. ‘I heard him arguing with Evelyn about somebody called Felicity Maddox, and tried to intervene.’

  ‘Felicity?’ he says, recognition showing on his face.

  ‘You know the name?’

  He pauses, taking a deep puff of his cigarette, before exhaling slowly.

  ‘Old friend of my sister,’ he says. ‘Can’t imagine why they’d be arguing about her. Evelyn hasn’t seen her in years.’

  ‘She’s here in Blackheath,’ I say. ‘She left a note for Evelyn at the well.’

  ‘Are you certain?’ he asks sceptically. ‘She wasn’t on the guest list and Evelyn didn’t say anything to me.’

  We’re interrupted by a noise at the doorway, Doctor Dickie hurrying towards me. He places a hand on my shoulder and leans close to my ear.

  ‘It’s your mother,’ he whispers. ‘You need to come with me.’

  Whatever’s happened, it’s dreadful enough for him to have buried his antipathy towards me.

  Apologising to Michael, I run after the doctor, my dread growing with every step, until finally he ushers me into her bedroom.

  The window’s open, a cold gust snatching at the candle flames lighting the room. It takes my eyes a few seconds to adjust to the dimness, but finally I find her. Millicent’s lying on her side in bed, eyes closed and chest still, as though she crawled under the covers for a quick nap. She’d begun dressing for dinner and has combed her usually wild grey hair straight, tying it up away from her face.

  ‘I’m sorry, Jonathan, I know how close you were,’ he says.

  Grief squeezes me. No matter how much I tell myself that this woman isn’t my mother, I can’t make it let go.

  My tears arrive suddenly and silently. Trembling, I sit down in the wooden chair beside her bed, taking her still-warm hand in mine.

  ‘It was a heart attack,’ says Doctor Dickie in a pained voice. ‘It would have happened very suddenly.’

  He’s standing on the other side of the bed, the emotion as raw on his face as my own. Wiping away a tear, he pulls the window shut, cutting off the cold breeze. The candles stand to attention, the light in the room solidifying into a warm, golden glow.

  ‘Can I warn her?’ I say, thinking of the things I can put right tomorrow.

  He looks puzzled for a second, but clearly ascribes the question to grief, and answers me in a kind voice.

  ‘No,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘You couldn’t have warned her.’

  ‘What if—’

  ‘It was just her time, Jonathan,’ he says softly.

  I nod, it’s all I can manage. He stays a little longer, wrapping me in words I neither hear, nor feel. My grief is a bottomless well. All I can do is fall and hope to hit the bottom. Yet the deeper I go, the more I realise I’m not weeping solely for Millicent Derby. There’s something else down here, something deeper than my host’s grief, something that belongs to Aiden Bishop. It’s raw and desperate, sad and angry, beating at the core of me. Derby’s grief has revealed it, but hard as I try I can’t quite pull it up, out of the dark.

  Leave it buried.

  ‘What is it?’

  A piece of you, now leave it alone.

  A knock at the door distracts me, and looking at the clock I realise over an hour’s passed. There’s no sign of the doctor. He must have left without me noticing.

  Evelyn pokes her head into the room. Her face is pale, cheeks red with cold. She’s still dressed in the blue ball gown, though it’s picked up a few creases since I last saw her. The tiara is poking from the pocket of her long beige coat, Wellington boots leaving a trail of mud and leaves on the floor. She must have only just returned from the graveyard with Bell.

  ‘Evelyn...’

  I intend to say more, but I choke on my sorrow.

  Evelyn gathers the shar
ds of the moment together, then tuts and enters the room, heading straight for a bottle of whisky on the sideboard. The glass has barely touched my lips when she tips it upwards, forcing me to drink it down in one swallow.

  Gagging, I push the glass away, whisky running down my chin.

  ‘Why would you—’

  ‘Well, you can hardly help me in your current state,’ she says.

  ‘Help you?’

  She’s studying me, turning me over in her mind.

  She hands me a handkerchief.

  ‘Wipe your chin, you look atrocious,’ she says. ‘I’m afraid sorrow doesn’t suit that arrogant face at all well.’

  ‘How—’

  ‘It’s a very long story,’ she says. ‘And I’m afraid we’re somewhat pressed for time.’

  I sit dumbly, struggling to take everything in, wishing for the clarity of Ravencourt’s mind. So much has happened, so much I can’t quite piece together. I already felt as if I was staring at the clues through a foggy magnifying glass, and now Evelyn’s here, tugging a bedsheet over Millicent’s face, calm as a summer day. Try as I might, I can’t keep up.

  Quite clearly, that little tantrum at dinner regarding her engagement was an act, because there’s no trace of that crippling sadness about her now. Her eyes are clear, her tone contemplative.

  ‘So I’m not the only one dying tonight,’ she says, stroking the old lady’s hair. ‘What a miserable thing.’

  The glass falls from my hand in shock.

  ‘You know about—’

  ‘The reflecting pool, yes. Curious affair, isn’t it?’

  She has a dreamy tone, as though describing something she once heard and now only half remembers. I’d suspect her mind of having buckled in some way, if it weren’t for the hard edge to her words.