‘You seem to be taking the news rather well,’ I say cautiously.
‘You should have seen me this morning, I was so angry I was kicking holes in the walls.’
Evelyn’s running her hand along the edge of the dressing table, opening Millicent’s jewellery box, touching the pearl-handled brush. I’d describe her actions as covetous, if there didn’t appear to be an equal amount of reverence.
‘Who wants you dead, Evelyn?’ I ask, unnerved by this curious display.
‘I don’t know,’ she says. ‘There was a letter pushed under my door when I woke up. The instructions were quite specific.’
‘But you don’t know who sent it?’
‘Constable Rashton has a theory, but he’s kept it rather close to his chest.’
‘Rashton?’
‘Your friend? He told me you were helping him investigate.’ Doubt and distaste seep out of every word, but I’m too intrigued to take it personally. Could this Rashton be another host? Maybe even the same man who asked Cunningham to deliver that ‘all of them’ message, and gather some people together. Either way, he seems to have swept me up into his plan. Whether I can trust it is another matter.
‘Where did Rashton approach you?’ I ask.
‘Mr Derby,’ she says firmly. ‘I’d love nothing more than to sit down and answer all your questions, but we don’t really have time. I’m expected at the reflecting pool in ten minutes and I can’t be late. In fact, that’s why I’m here, I need the silver pistol you took from the doctor.’
‘You can’t mean to go through with this,’ I say, jumping up from my seat in alarm.
‘As I understand it, your friends are close to unmasking my would-be killer. They simply need a little more time. If I don’t go, the killer will know something is wrong, and I can’t risk that.’
I’m beside her in two steps, my pulse racing.
‘Are you saying they know who’s behind all of this?’ I say excitedly. ‘Did they give you any indication who it might be?’
Evelyn’s holding one of Millicent Derby’s cameos up to the light, an ivory face on blue lace. Her hand is shaking. It’s the first sign of fear I’ve seen from her.
‘They didn’t, but I hope they find out soon. I’m trusting your friends to save me before I’m forced to do something... final.’
‘Final?’ I say.
‘The note was specific, either I take my life out by the reflecting pool at 11 p.m. or somebody I care about very deeply dies in my stead.’
‘Felicity?’ I ask. ‘I know you collected a note from her at the well, and that you asked her for her assistance with your mother. Michael said she was an old friend. Is she in danger? Is somebody holding her against her will?’
That would explain why I haven’t been able to find her.
The jewellery box clatters shut. Evelyn turns to face me, hands now pressed flat against the dressing table.
‘I don’t mean to sound impatient, but don’t you have somewhere to be?’ she says. ‘I was asked to remind you about a rock that needs watching. Does that make any sense to you?’
I nod, remembering the favour Anna asked of me earlier this afternoon. I’m to be standing by it when Evelyn kills herself. I wasn’t to move. Not an inch, she’d said.
‘In that case my work here is done and I should go,’ says Evelyn. ‘Where’s the silver pistol?’
Even in her small fingers, it seems an inconsequential thing, more decoration than weapon, an embarrassing way to end a life. I wonder if that’s the point, if there’s not some quiet rebuke in the instrument of death, as there is in the method. Evelyn isn’t merely being murdered, she’s being embarrassed, dominated.
Every choice has been taken from her.
‘What a pretty way to die,’ says Evelyn, staring at the pistol. ‘Please don’t be late, Mr Derby, I suspect my life depends upon it.’
After a final glance towards the jewellery box, she’s gone.
31
Hugging myself against the cold, I stand over Anna’s carefully placed rock, terrified of taking even a small step to my left, where at least I’d be warmed by one of the braziers. I don’t know why I’m here, but if it’s part of a plan to save Evelyn, I’ll stand in this spot until my blood turns to ice.
Glancing towards the trees I catch sight of the Plague Doctor in his usual location, half hidden by gloom. He’s not looking at the reflecting pool as I thought when I witnessed this moment through Ravencourt’s eyes, but away to his right. The angle of his head suggests he’s talking to somebody, though I’m too far away to see who. Either way, it’s an encouraging sign. Evelyn suggested she’d found allies among my hosts, and surely, in those bushes, somebody is waiting to come to her aid?
Evelyn arrives at eleven exactly, the silver pistol hanging limp in her hand. Drifting from shadow to flame, she follows the braziers, her blue ball gown trailing in the grass. I long to tear the pistol from her grasp, but somewhere beyond my sight an invisible hand is working, pulling levers I can’t possibly understand. Any minute now somebody will call out, I’m certain of it. One of my future hosts will come sprinting into the darkness, telling Evelyn it’s over and the murderer is captured. She’ll drop the gun and sob her thanks, while Daniel presents his plan for both Anna and me to escape.
For the first time since all this began, I feel myself part of something bigger.
Encouraged by this, I root my feet, hovering over my rock.
Evelyn’s come to a stop at the edge of the water, looking around at the trees. For a second, I think she’ll spot the Plague Doctor, but she pulls her gaze back before reaching him. She’s unsteady, swaying slightly as though moved by some music only she can hear. The flames from the brazier are reflected in the diamonds of her necklace, liquid fire pouring down her throat. She’s trembling, desperation mounting on her face.
Something’s wrong.
I glance back towards the ballroom to find Ravencourt at the window, looking longingly towards his friend. Words are forming on his lips, but they’re too late to do any good.
‘God help me,’ Evelyn whispers to the night.
Tears streaming down her cheeks, she turns the gun towards her stomach and pulls the trigger.
The shot is so loud it cracks the world, drowning out my anguished scream.
In the ballroom, the party holds its breath.
Surprised faces turn towards the reflecting pool, their eyes seeking out Evelyn. She’s clutching her stomach, blood seeping out from between her fingers. She looks confused, as though she’s been handed something she shouldn’t have been, but before she can make sense of it, she buckles, falling forwards into the water.
Fireworks explode in the night sky, as guests stream through the French doors, pointing and gasping. Somebody’s running towards me, their footsteps pounding the dirt. I turn in time to take their full weight in my chest, sending me sprawling to the ground.
Trying to scramble to their feet, they only succeed in scraping my face with their fingers, a knee jabbing into my stomach. Derby’s temper, already clawing to be let out, takes hold of me. With a scream of rage, I begin pounding at this shape in the darkness, clutching their clothing even as they try to wrestle their way free.
Howling in frustration, I’m pulled off the ground, my opponent similarly lofted away, both of us held fast by servants. Lantern light spills across us, revealing a furious Michael Hardcastle desperately trying to break free of Cunningham’s strong arms, which are keeping him from Evelyn’s stricken form.
I stare at him in astonishment.
It’s changed.
The revelation knocks the fight out of me, my body going limp in the servant’s arms as I stare at the reflecting pool.
When I saw this event as Ravencourt, Michael clung to his sister, unable to move her. Now a tall fellow in a trench coat is pulling her out of the water, covering her blood-soaked body with Dickie’s jacket.
The servant lets me go and I drop to my knees in time to see a sobbing Michael Ha
rdcastle led away by Cunningham. Determined to soak up as much of this miracle as possible, my gaze darts this way and that. Up by the reflecting pool, Doctor Dickie’s kneeling by Evelyn’s body, discussing something with the other man, who appears to be in charge. Ravencourt’s retreated to a couch in the ballroom, and is sitting slumped over his cane, lost in thought. The band is being harangued by drunken guests who, oblivious to the horror outside, want them to carry on playing, while servants stand idle, crossing themselves when they draw closer to the body under the jacket.
Heaven knows how long I sit there in the darkness, watching all this unfold. Long enough for everybody else to be ushered into the house by the fellow in the trench coat. Long enough for Evelyn’s limp body to be carried away. Long enough to grow cold, to grow stiff.
Long enough for the footman to find me.
He appears around the far corner of the house, a small sack tied to his waist, blood dripping off his hands. Taking out his knife, he begins drawing the blade back and forth across the rim of a brazier. I can’t tell whether he’s sharpening it, or simply warming it, but I suspect it’s irrelevant. He wants me to see it, to hear that unsettling scrape of metal against metal.
He’s watching me, waiting for my reaction, and, looking at him now, I wonder how anybody ever mistook him for a servant. Though he’s dressed in a footman’s red and white livery, he possesses none of the traditional subservience. He’s tall and thin, languid in his movements, with dirty blond hair and a teardrop face, dark eyes above a smirk that would be charming if it weren’t so empty. And then there’s that broken nose.
It’s purple and swollen, distorting his features. By the light of the fire, he looks like a creature dressing up as human, the mask slipping.
The footman holds up the knife to better inspect his work. Satisfied, he uses it to cut the sack from his waist, tossing it at my feet.
It hits the ground with a thud, the material soaked through with blood and tied shut with a drawstring. He wants me to open it, but I have no intention of indulging him.
Getting to my feet, I peel off my jacket and work loose the kinks in my neck.
In the back of my mind, I can hear Anna screaming at me, demanding I run. She’s right, I should be afraid, and in any other host, I would be. This is clearly a trap, but I’m tired of fearing this man.
It’s time to fight, if only to convince myself I can.
For a moment, we watch each other, the rain falling and the wind swirling. Unsurprisingly, it’s the footman who forces the issue, turning on his heel and sprinting into the darkness of the forest.
Bellowing like a lunatic, I charge after him.
As I cross into the forest, the trees huddle around me, branches scratch my face, the foliage thickening.
My legs are tiring, but I keep running until I realise I can’t hear him any more.
Skidding to a halt, I spin on the spot, panting.
He’s on me in seconds, covering my mouth to stifle my scream as the blade enters my side and tears up into my ribcage, blood burbling into my throat. My knees buckle, but I’m prevented from falling by his strong arms around me. He’s breathing shallowly, eagerly. This isn’t the sound of tiredness, it’s excitement and anticipation.
A match flares, a tiny point of light held in front of my face.
He’s kneeling down directly opposite, his pitiless black eyes boring into me.
‘Brave rabbit,’ he says, slitting my throat.
32
Day Six
‘Wake up! Wake up, Aiden!’
Somebody’s banging on my door.
‘You have to wake up, Aiden. Aiden!’
Swallowing my tiredness, I blink at my surroundings. I’m in a chair, clammy with sweat, my clothes twisted tight around me. It’s night time, a candle guttering on a nearby table. There’s a tartan blanket over my lap, old man’s hands laid across a dog-eared book. Veins bulge in wrinkled flesh, criss-crossing dry ink stains and liver spots. I flex my fingers, stiff with age.
‘Aiden, please!’ says the voice in the corridor.
Rising from my chair, I move to the door, old aches stirring throughout my body like swarms of disturbed hornets. The hinges are loose, the bottom corner of the door scraping against the floor, revealing the lanky figure of Gregory Gold on the other side, slumped against the doorframe. He looks much as he will when he attacks the butler, though his dinner jacket’s torn and caked with mud, his breathing ragged.
He’s clutching the chess piece Anna gave me, and that, together with his use of my real name, is enough to convince me that he’s another of my hosts. Normally, I’d welcome such a meeting, but he’s in a frightful state, agitated and dishevelled, a man dragged to hell and back.
Upon seeing me, he grips my shoulders. His dark eyes are bloodshot, flicking this way and that.
‘Don’t get out of the carriage,’ he says, spittle hanging off his lips. ‘Whatever you do, don’t get out of the carriage.’
His fear is a disease, the infection spreading through me.
‘What happened to you?’ I ask, a tremor in my voice.
‘He... he never stops...’
‘Never stops what?’ I ask.
Gold’s shaking his head, pounding his temples. Tears stream down his cheeks, but I don’t know how to begin comforting him.
‘Never stops what, Gold?’ I ask again.
‘Cutting,’ he says, drawing up his sleeve to reveal the slices beneath. They look exactly like the knife wounds Bell woke up with that first morning.
‘You won’t want to, you won’t, but you’ll give her up, you’ll tell, you’ll tell them everything, you won’t want to, but you’ll tell,’ he babbles. ‘There’s two of them. Two. They look the same, but there’s two.’
His mind’s broken, I can see that now. There isn’t an ounce of sanity left to the man. I reach out a hand, hoping to draw him into the room, but he takes fright, backing away until he bumps into the far wall, only his voice remaining.
‘Don’t get out of the carriage,’ he hisses at me, wheeling away down the corridor.
I take a step out after him, but it’s too dark to see anything and by the time I return with a candle, the corridor’s empty.
33
Day Two (continued)
The butler’s body, the butler’s pain, heavy with sedative. It’s like coming home.
I’m barely awake, and already slipping back towards sleep.
It’s getting dark. A man’s pacing back and forth across the tiny room, a shotgun in his arms.
It’s not the Plague Doctor. It’s not Gold.
He hears me stir, and turns around. He’s in shade, I can’t make him out.
I open my mouth, but no words come out of it.
I close my eyes, and slip away again.
34
Day Six (continued)
‘Father.’
I’m startled to find the freckled face of a young man with red hair and blue eyes inches from my own. I’m old again, sitting in my chair with the tartan blanket across my lap. The boy is bent at ninety degrees, hands clasped behind his back as though he doesn’t trust them in company.
My scowl shoves him a step backwards.
‘You asked me to wake you at nine-fifteen,’ he says apologetically.
He smells of Scotch, tobacco and fear. It wells up within him, staining the whites of his eyes yellow. They’re wary and hunted, like an animal waiting for the shot.
It’s light beyond the window, my candle long gone out and the fire down to ash. My vague memory of being the butler proves I dozed off after Gold’s visit, but I don’t remember doing so. The horror of what Gold endured – what I must soon endure – kept me pacing into the early hours.
Don’t get out of the carriage.
It was a warning and a plea. He wants me to change the day, and while that’s exhilarating, it’s also disturbing. I know it can be done, I’ve seen it, but if I’m clever enough to change things, the footman is as well. For all I know, we’r
e running in circles undoing each other’s work. This is no longer simply about finding the right answer, it’s about holding onto it long enough to deliver it to the Plague Doctor.
I have to speak with the artist at the first opportunity.
I shift in my seat, tugging aside the tartan blanket, bringing the slightest flinch from the boy. He stiffens, looking at me sideways to see if I’ve noticed. Poor child; he’s had all the bravery beaten out of him and now he’s kicked for being a coward. My sympathy fares ill with my host, whose distaste for his son is absolute. He considers this boy’s meekness infuriating, his silence an affront. He’s a failure, an unforgivable failure.
My only one.
I shake my head, trying to free myself of this man’s regrets. The memories of Bell, Ravencourt and Derby were objects in a fog, but the clutter of this current life is scattered around me. I cannot help but trip over it.
Despite the suggestion of infirmity given by the blanket, I rise with only a little stiffness, stretching to a respectable height. My son’s retreated to the corner of the room, draping himself in shadows. Though the distance is not great, it’s too far for my host, whose eyes falter at half the span. I search for spectacles, knowing it’s pointless. This man considers age a weakness, the result of a faltering will. There’ll be no spectacles, no walking stick, no aid of any sort. Whatever burdens are heaped upon me, they’re mine to endure. Alone.
I can feel my son weighing my mood, watching my face as one watches the clouds for an approaching storm.
‘Spit it out,’ I say gruffly, agitated by his reticence.
‘I was hoping I might be excused this afternoon’s hunt,’ he says.
The words are laid at my feet, two dead rabbits for a hungry wolf.
Even this simple request grates upon me. What young man doesn’t want to hunt? What young man creeps and crawls, tiptoeing around the edges of the world rather than trampling across the top of it? My urge is to refuse, to make him suffer for the temerity of being who he is, but I bite the desire back. We’ll both be happier beyond each other’s company.
The Seven Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle Page 21
