The Seven Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle

by Stuart Turton

  ‘That’s your concern?’ yells Herrington, wheeling on him. ‘Coleridge murdered a man in front of us!’

  ‘A man we all hated,’ Sutcliffe shoots back. ‘Don’t pretend you weren’t thinking the same thing. Don’t any of you pretend! Stanwin bled us dry in life and he’s going to destroy us in death.’

  ‘No, he won’t,’ says Daniel, resting the shotgun across his shoulder.

  He’s the only one who’s calm, the only one who isn’t acting like an entirely different person. None of this means anything to him.

  ‘Everything he has on us—’ says Pettigrew.

  ‘Is written in a book that I now own,’ interrupts Daniel, retrieving a cigarette from his silver case.

  His hand’s not even shaking. My hand. What the hell does Blackheath make me?

  ‘I commissioned somebody to steal it for me,’ he continues casually, lighting his cigarette. ‘Your secrets are my secrets and they’ll never see the light of day. Now, I believe each of you owes me a promise. It’s this: you won’t mention this to anybody for the rest of the day. Is that understood? If anybody asks, Stanwin stayed behind when we left. He didn’t say why, and that was the last you saw of him.’

  Blank faces find each other, everybody too stunned to speak. I can’t tell whether they’re aghast at what they’ve witnessed or simply overcome by their good fortune.

  For my part, the shock is fading, the horror of Daniel’s actions finally sinking in. Half an hour ago, I was praising him for showing a modicum of kindness to Michael. Now I’m covered in another man’s blood, realising how deeply I’ve underestimated his desperation.

  My desperation. This is my future I’m seeing, and it makes me feel sick.

  ‘I need to hear the words, gentleman,’ says Daniel, blowing smoke from the corner of his mouth. ‘Tell me you understand what happened here.’

  Assurances arrive in a jumble, muted but sincere. Only Michael seems upset.

  Meeting his gaze, Daniel speaks coldly.

  ‘And don’t forget, I have all of your secrets in my hands.’ He lets that settle. ‘Now, I think you should head back before anybody comes looking for us.’

  The suggestion is met with a murmur of agreement, everybody disappearing back into the forest. Signalling for me to remain behind, Daniel waits until they’re out of earshot before speaking.

  ‘Help me go through his pockets,’ he says, rolling up his sleeves. ‘The other hunters will be coming back this way soon, and I don’t want them to see us with the body.’

  ‘What have you done, Daniel?’ I hiss.

  ‘He’ll be alive tomorrow,’ he says, waving his hand dismissively. ‘I’ve knocked over a scarecrow.’

  ‘We’re supposed to be solving a murder, not committing one.’

  ‘Give a little boy an electric train set and he’ll immediately try to derail it,’ he says. ‘The act does not speak to his character, nor do we judge him for it.’

  ‘You think this is a game?’ I snap, pointing at Stanwin’s body.

  ‘A puzzle, with disposable pieces. Solve it and we get to go home.’ He frowns at me, as if I’m a stranger who’s asked directions to a place that doesn’t exist. ‘I don’t understand your concern.’

  ‘If we solve Evelyn’s murder in the manner you’re suggesting, we don’t deserve to go home! Can’t you see, these masks we wear betray us. They reveal us.’

  ‘You’re babbling,’ he says, searching Stanwin’s pockets.

  ‘We are never more ourselves than when we think people aren’t watching, don’t you realise that? It doesn’t matter if Stanwin’s alive tomorrow, you murdered him today. You murdered a man in cold blood, and that will blot your soul for the rest of your life. I don’t know why we’re here, Daniel, or why this is happening to us, but we should be proving that it’s an injustice, not making ourselves worthy of it.’

  ‘You’re misguided,’ he says, contempt creeping into his voice. ‘We can no more mistreat these people than we could their shadow cast upon the wall. I don’t understand what you’re asking of me.’

  ‘That we hold ourselves to a higher standard,’ I say, my voice rising. ‘That we be better men than our hosts! Murdering Stanwin was Daniel Coleridge’s solution, but it shouldn’t be yours. You’re a good man, you can’t lose sight of that.’

  ‘A good man,’ he scoffs. ‘Avoiding unpleasant acts doesn’t make a man good. Look at where we are, what’s been done to us. Escaping this place requires that we do what is necessary, even if our nature compels us otherwise. I know this makes you squeamish, that you don’t have the stomach for it. I was the same, but I no longer have the time to tiptoe around my ethics. I can end this tonight and I mean to, so don’t measure me by how tightly I cling to my goodness, measure me by what I’m willing to sacrifice that you might cling to yours. If I fail, you can always try another way.’

  ‘And how will you live with yourself when you’re done?’ I demand.

  ‘I’ll look at the faces of my family, and know that what I lost in this place was not nearly as important as my reward for leaving it.’

  ‘You can’t believe that,’ I say.

  ‘I do, and so will you after a few more days in this place,’ he says. ‘Now, please, help me search him before the hunters find us here. I have no intention of wasting my evening answering a policeman’s questions.’

  It’s no use arguing with him, shutters have come down behind his eyes.

  I sigh, taking myself over to the body.

  ‘What am I looking for?’ I ask.

  ‘Answers, same as always,’ he says, unbuttoning the blackmailer’s bloody jacket. ‘Stanwin collected every lie in Blackheath, including the last piece of our puzzle, the reason for Evelyn’s murder. Every scrap of knowledge he holds is contained in a book written in code, with a separate book of ciphers required to read it. I have the first, Stanwin keeps the latter on him at all times.’

  That was the book Derby stole from Stanwin’s bedroom.

  ‘Did you take it from Derby?’ I ask. ‘I was coshed on the head almost as soon as I got my hands on it.’

  ‘Of course not,’ he says. ‘Coleridge had already commissioned somebody to retrieve the book before I took control of him. I didn’t even know he was interested in Stanwin’s blackmail business until the book was delivered to me. If it’s any consolation, I did consider warning you.’

  ‘So, why didn’t you?’

  He shrugs. ‘Derby’s a rabid dog, it seemed better for everybody to let him sleep for a few hours. Now come along, we’re short of time.’

  Shuddering, I kneel beside the body. This is no way for a man to die, even one such as Stanwin. His chest is mincemeat and blood has soaked through his clothing. It oozes around my fingers when I delve inside his trouser pockets.

  I work slowly, barely able to look.

  Daniel has no such qualms, patting down Stanwin’s shirt and jacket, seemingly impervious to the tattered flesh showing through. By the time we’re finished, we’ve uncovered a cigarette case, pocket knife and lighter, but no codebook.

  We glance at each other.

  ‘We have to roll him over,’ says Daniel, voicing my thoughts.

  Stanwin was a large man, and it takes a great deal of effort to push him onto his front. It’s worth it. I’m much more comfortable searching a body that isn’t looking up at me.

  As Daniel runs his hands along Stanwin’s trouser legs, I lift his jacket, spotting a bulge in the lining surrounded by haphazard stitching.

  A ripple of excitement shames me. The last thing I want is to justify Daniel’s methods, but now we’re on the verge of a discovery, I’m growing more elated.

  Using the dead man’s pocket knife, I slice the stitches, letting the codebook slide into my palm. No sooner has it come free, than I notice there’s something else in there. Reaching inside, I pull out a small silver locket, its chain removed. There’s a painting inside, and though it’s old and cracked it’s obviously of a little girl, around seven or eight with red h
air.

  I hold it out to Daniel, but’s he too busy flipping through the codebook to pay attention.

  ‘This is it,’ he says excitedly. ‘This is our way out.’

  ‘I certainly hope so,’ I say. ‘We paid a high price for it.’

  He looks up from the book a different man to the one who started reading it. This is neither Bell’s Daniel, nor Ravencourt’s. It’s not even the man of a few minutes ago, arguing the necessity of his actions. This is a man victorious, one foot already out of the door.

  ‘I’m not proud of what I did,’ he says. ‘But we couldn’t have done this any other way, you must believe that.’

  He may not be proud, but he’s not ashamed either. That much is evident, and I’m reminded of the Plague Doctor’s warning.

  The Aiden Bishop who first entered Blackheath... the things he wanted and his way of getting them were unyielding. That man could never have escaped Blackheath.

  In his desperation, Daniel’s making the same mistakes I always have, exactly as the Plague Doctor warned me I would.

  Whatever happens, I can’t let myself become this.

  ‘Are you ready to go?’ says Daniel.

  ‘Do you know the way home?’ I say, searching the forest and realising I have no idea how we arrived here.

  ‘It’s east,’ he says.

  ‘And which way is that?’

  Thrusting a hand into his pocket, he brings out Bell’s compass.

  ‘I borrowed it from him this morning,’ he says, laying it flat in his palm. ‘Funny how things repeat, isn’t it?’

  41

  We come upon the house rather unexpectedly, the trees giving way to the muddy lawn, its windows burning bright with candlelight. I must admit I’m glad to see it. Despite the shotgun, I’ve spent the entire journey glancing over my shoulder for the footman. If the codebook is as valuable as Daniel believes, I must assume our enemy is also in pursuit of it.

  He’ll be coming for us soon.

  Silhouettes are passing back and forth in the upper windows, hunters trudging up the steps into the golden glow of the entrance hall where caps and jackets are wrenched loose and discarded, filthy water pooling on the marble. A maid moves among us with a tray of sherry, from which Daniel plucks two glasses, handing me one.

  Clinking my glass, he throws his drink down his throat as Michael arrives at our side. As with the rest of us, he looks to have crawled off the ark, his dark hair plastered to his pale face by the rain. Glancing at his watch, I discover it’s 6:07 p.m.

  ‘I’ve sent a couple of trustworthy servants to collect Stanwin,’ he whispers, taking a sherry from the tray. ‘I told them I stumbled on his body coming back from the hunt, and instructed them to inter him in one of the old potting sheds. Nobody will find him, and I won’t summon the police until early tomorrow morning. I’m sorry, but I won’t leave him to rot in the forest any longer than I have to.’

  He clutches a half-empty glass of sherry, and though the drink has put a little colour in his cheeks, it’s not nearly enough.

  The crowd in the hall is thinning out now. A couple of maids have already appeared with buckets of sudsy water and are waiting in the wings with their mops and their frowns, trying to shame us into leaving so they can get to work.

  Rubbing his eyes, Michael looks at us directly for the first time.

  ‘I’m going to honour my father’s promise,’ he says. ‘But I don’t like it.’

  ‘Michael—’ says Daniel, reaching out a hand, but Michael steps away.

  ‘No, please,’ he says, his sense of betrayal palpable. ‘We’ll speak another day, but not now, not tonight.’

  He turns his back on us, heading up the stairs towards his bedroom.

  ‘Never mind him,’ says Daniel. ‘He thinks I acted from greed. He doesn’t understand how important this is. The answers are in the ledger, I know it!’

  He’s excited, like a boy with a new catapult.

  ‘We’re almost there, Dance,’ he says. ‘We’re almost free.’

  ‘And then what happens,’ I say. ‘Do you walk out of here? Do I? We can’t both escape, we’re the same man.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he says. ‘Presumably Aiden Bishop wakes up again, his memories intact. Hopefully he won’t remember either of us. We’re bad dreams, best forgotten.’ He checks his watch. ‘Let’s not think about that now. Anna has arranged to meet Bell in the graveyard this evening. If she’s right, the footman’s heard about it and is sure to show. She’ll need us to help capture him. That gives us about four hours to dig what we need out of this book. Why don’t you get changed, and come up to my room? We’ll do it together.’

  ‘I’ll be right along,’ I say.

  His giddiness is a rare fillip. Tonight we’ll deal with the footman and deliver the Plague Doctor’s answer. Somewhere in the house, my other hosts are surely refining their plans to save Evelyn’s life, which means I simply need to work out how to save Anna as well. I cannot believe she’s been lying to me this whole time, and I cannot imagine leaving this place without her by my side, not after everything she’s done to help me.

  Floorboards echo as I return to my room, the house grumbling under the weight of the returned. Everybody will be getting ready for dinner.

  I envy them their evening, for a darker purpose lies ahead of me.

  Much darker, the footman will not go quietly.

  ‘There you are,’ I say, glancing around to make sure nobody’s listening. ‘Is it true you’re what’s left of the original Aiden Bishop?’

  Silence greets my question, and somewhere within I can feel Dance sneering at me. I can only imagine what the stiff old solicitor would say about a man talking to himself in this fashion.

  Aside from the dim light of the fire, my bedroom is shrouded, the servants having forgotten to light the candles ahead of my arrival. Suspicion pricks me. I raise the shotgun to my shoulder. A gamekeeper tried to collect it when we came inside, but I brushed him off, insisting it was part of my personal collection.

  Sparking the lantern beside the door, I see Anna standing in the corner of the room, arms by her sides, expression blank.

  ‘Anna,’ I say, surprised, lowering the shotgun. ‘What’s the—’

  Wood creaks behind me, pain flares in my side. A rough hand yanks me backwards, covering my mouth. I’m spun around, bringing me face to face with the footman. There’s a smirk on his lips, his eyes scratching at my face, as though digging for something buried beneath.

  Those eyes.

  I try to scream, but he clamps my jaw shut.

  He holds his knife up. Very slowly he runs the point down my chest, before ramming it into my stomach, the pain of each blow eclipsing the one before until pain is all there is.

  I’ve never been so cold, never felt so quiet.

  My legs buckle, his arms taking my weight, lowering me carefully to the floor. He keeps his eyes on mine, soaking up the life slipping out of them.

  I open my mouth to scream, but no sound comes out.

  ‘Run, rabbit,’ he says, his face close to mine. ‘Run.’

  42

  Day Two (continued)

  I scream, lurching up from the butler’s bed only to be pressed back down by the footman.

  ‘This him?’ he says, looking over his shoulder at Anna, who’s standing by the window.

  ‘Yes,’ she says, a tremor in her voice.

  The footman leans close, his voice hoarse, ale-thick breath warm on my cheek.

  ‘Didn’t leap far enough, rabbit,’ he says.

  The blade slips into my side, my blood spilling onto the sheets, taking my life with it.

  43

  Day Seven

  I scream into suffocating darkness, my back against a wall, my knees tucked under my chin. Instinctively I grab the spot where the butler was stabbed, cursing my stupidity. The Plague Doctor was telling the truth. Anna betrayed me.

  I feel sick, my mind scrambling for a reasonable explanation, but I saw her myself. She’s be
en lying to me this whole time.

  She isn’t the only one guilty of that.

  ‘Shut up,’ I say angrily.

  My heart is racing, my breathing shallow. I need to calm down, or I’ll be no use to anybody. Taking a minute, I try to think of anything but Anna, but it’s surprisingly difficult. I hadn’t realised how often my mind has reached for her in the quiet.

  She was safety, and comfort.

  She was my friend.

  Shifting position, I try to work out where I’ve woken up and whether I’m in any immediate danger. At first blush, it doesn’t appear so. My shoulders are touching the walls either side of me, a sliver of light piercing a crack near my right ear, dusting cardboard boxes on my left and bottles down by my feet.

  I move my wristwatch to the light, discovering that it’s 10:13 a.m. Bell hasn’t even reached the house yet.

  ‘It’s still morning,’ I say to myself, relieved. ‘I still have time.’

  My lips are dry, my tongue cracked, the air so thick with mildew it feels like a dirty rag’s been stuffed down my throat. A drink would be nice, something cold, anything with ice. It seems a long time since I’ve woken up beneath cotton sheets, the day’s torments queuing patiently on the other side of a warm bath.

  I didn’t know when I was well off.

  My host must have slept in this position all night because it’s agony to move. Thankfully, the panel to the right of me is loose and pushes open without too much effort, my eyes watering as they’re exposed to the harsh brightness of the room beyond.

  I’m in a long gallery stretching the length of the house, cobwebs dangling from the ceiling. The walls are dark wood, the floor littered with dozens of pieces of old furniture that are thick with dust and almost hollowed out by woodworm. Brushing myself off, I get to my feet, shaking some life into my iron limbs. Turns out my host spent the night in a storage cupboard beneath a small flight of stairs leading up to a stage. Yellowed sheet music sits open in front of a dusty cello, and looking at it, I feel like I’ve slept through some great calamity, judgement having come and gone while I was stuffed in that cupboard.