The Seven Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle

by Stuart Turton

  ‘Maybe,’ I say, unable to keep my doubt from surfacing. ‘Why were your fingerprints all over her planner? What were you looking for?’

  ‘When I pressed her for more information, she asked me to look up what time she was meeting the stablemaster. She said she’d be able to tell me more after that, and I should come by the stables. I waited, but she never arrived. I’ve been looking for her all day, but nobody’s seen her. Maybe she’s gone to the village.’

  I ignore that.

  ‘Tell me about the stable hand who went missing,’ I say. ‘You asked the stablemaster about him.’

  ‘Nothing to tell really. A few years back I got drunk with the inspector who investigated Thomas’s murder. He never believed my father – Carver, I mean – did it, mainly because this other boy, Keith Parker, had gone missing a week earlier while my father was in London with Lord Hardcastle, and he didn’t like the coincidence. The inspector asked around after the boy, but nothing came of it. By all accounts, Parker upped and left without a word to anybody, and never came back. They never found a body, so couldn’t disprove the rumour that he’d run away.’

  ‘Did you know him?’

  ‘Vaguely, he used to play with us sometimes, but even the servants’ children had jobs to do around the house. He worked in the stables most of the time. We rarely saw him.’

  Catching my mood, he looks at me inquisitively.

  ‘Do you really think my mother’s a murderer?’ he says.

  ‘That’s what I need your help to find out,’ I say. ‘Your mother entrusted Mrs Drudge to raise you, yes? Does that mean they were close?’

  ‘Very close, Mrs Drudge was the only other person who knew about my real father before Stanwin found out.’

  ‘Good, I’m going to need a favour.’

  ‘What sort of favour?’

  ‘Two favours actually,’ I say. ‘I need Mrs Drudge to... Oh!’

  I’ve just caught up to my past. The answer to a question I was about to ask has already been delivered to me. Now I need to make sure it happens again.

  Cunningham waves a hand in front of my face. ‘You quite all right, Rasher? You seem to have come over a bit queer.’

  ‘Sorry, old chap, I got distracted,’ I say, batting away his confusion. ‘As I was saying, I need Mrs Drudge to clear something up for me, and then I need you to gather a few people together. When you’re done, find Jonathan Derby and tell him everything you’ve discovered.’

  ‘Derby? What’s that scoundrel got to do with this?’

  The door opens, Grace poking her head inside the room.

  ‘For heaven’s sake, what’s taking so long?’ she asks. ‘If we wait any longer, we’re going to have to run Bell a bath and pretend we’re servants.’

  ‘One more minute,’ I say, laying my hand on Cunningham’s arm. ‘We’re going to put this right, I promise you. Now listen closely, this is important.’

  49

  The cotton sack clinks as we walk, its weight conspiring with the uneven ground to continually trip me up, Grace wincing in sympathy at each stumble.

  Cunningham’s run off to do my favour, Grace meeting his sudden departure with puzzled silence. I feel the urge to explain, but Rashton knows this woman well enough to know it’s not expected. Ten minutes after Donald Davies introduced his grateful family to the man who’d saved his life during the war, it was clear to anybody with eyes and a heart that Jim Rashton and Grace Davies would one day be married. Undaunted by their different backgrounds, they spent that first dinner building a bridge out of affectionate barbs and probing questions, love blossoming across a table littered with cutlery Rashton couldn’t identify. What was born that day has only grown since, the two of them coming to inhabit a world of their own making. Grace knows I’ll tell the story when it’s finished, when it’s shored up with facts strong enough to support the telling. In the meantime, we walk together in a companionable silence, happy just to be in each other’s company.

  I’m wearing my brass knuckles, having vaguely mentioned a threat from Bell and Doctor Dickie’s confederates. It’s a weak lie, but it’s enough to keep Grace on her toes, the young woman glaring suspiciously at every dripping leaf. So it is that we come upon the well, Grace pushing aside a tree branch that I might emerge into the clearing without becoming snagged. I immediately drop the sack into the well, where it hits the bottom with a tremendous crash.

  Waggling my arms, I try to shake the ache from my muscles, while Grace peers into the well’s darkness.

  ‘Any wishes?’ she asks.

  ‘That I don’t have to carry the sack back,’ I say.

  ‘Oh, my heavens, it really works,’ she says. ‘Do you think I can wish for more wishes?’

  ‘Sounds like cheating to me.’

  ‘Well, nobody’s used it for years, there’s probably a few going spare.’

  ‘May I ask you a question?’ I reply.

  ‘Never known you to be shy about them,’ she says, leaning so far into the well her feet are in the air.

  ‘The morning of Thomas’s murder, when you went on the scavenger hunt, who was with you?’

  ‘Come on, Jim, it was nineteen years ago,’ she says, her voice muffled by the stone.

  ‘Was Charles there?’

  ‘Charles?’ She removes her head from the well. ‘Yes, probably.’

  ‘Probably, or actually? It’s important, Grace.’

  ‘I can see that,’ she says, pulling herself clear and wiping her hands. ‘Has he done something wrong?’

  ‘I really hope not.’

  ‘So do I,’ she says, mirroring my concern. ‘Let me think? Wait a tick, yes, he was there! He stole an entire fruitcake from the kitchen, I remember him giving me and Donald some. Must have driven Mrs Drudge wild.’

  ‘What about Michael Hardcastle, was he there?’

  ‘Michael? Why, I don’t know...’

  A hand goes to a curl of hair, twisting it around her finger while she thinks. It’s a familiar gesture, one that fills Rashton with such an overpowering love it’s almost enough to push me aside completely.

  ‘He was in bed, I think,’ she says eventually. ‘Sick with something or other, one of those childish things.’

  She takes my hand in both of her own, holding me fast in those beautiful blue eyes.

  ‘Are you doing something dangerous, Jim?’ she asks.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you doing it for Charles?’

  ‘Partly.’

  ‘Will you ever tell me about it?’

  ‘Yes, when I know what needs to be said.’

  Standing on her tiptoes, she kisses me on the nose.

  ‘Then you’d better get going,’ she says, rubbing her lipstick off my skin. ‘I know what you’re like when you’ve got a bone to dig up, and you won’t be happy until you have it.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Say it with the story, and say it soon.’

  ‘I will,’ I say.

  It’s Rashton who kisses her now. When I do wrestle this body back from him, I’m flushed and embarrassed, Grace grinning at me with a wicked glint in her eye. It’s all I can do to leave her there, but for the first time since this began, I have my hands around the truth and unless I dig my fingers in, I’m worried it’ll slip free. I need to talk to Anna.

  I make my way along the cobbled path around the rear of the gatehouse, shaking the rain from my trench coat before hanging it on the rack in the kitchen. Footsteps echo through the floor, heartbeats in the wood. A commotion’s coming from the sitting room on my right, the place where Dance and his cronies met Peter Hardcastle this morning. My first assumption is that one of them has returned, but, opening the door, I find Anna standing over Peter Hardcastle, who’s slumped in the same chair I found him in earlier.

  He’s dead.

  ‘Anna,’ I say quietly.

  She turns to greet me, shock on her face.

  ‘I heard a noise and came down...’ she says, gesturing at the body. Unlike myself, she’s n
ot spent the day wading through blood, and finding a body has hit her hard.

  ‘Why don’t you go splash some water on your face?’ I say, touching her lightly on the arm. ‘I’ll have a nose around.’

  She nods at me gratefully, offering the body one last lingering look before hurrying out of the room. I can’t say I blame her. His once handsome features are frightfully twisted, his right eye barely open, his left eye fully exposed. His hands are gripping the arms of the chair, his back arched in pain. Whatever happened here took his dignity and his life at the same time.

  My first thought would be heart attack, but Rashton’s instincts make me cautious.

  I reach out to close his eyes, but can’t bring myself to touch him. With so few hosts left, I’d rather not tempt death’s gaze back towards me.

  There’s a folded letter sticking out of his top pocket and, plucking it free, I read the message inside.

  I couldn’t marry Ravencourt and I couldn’t forgive my family for making me do so. They brought this on themselves.

  Evelyn Hardcastle

  A draught is blowing in through an open window. Mud smears the frame, suggesting somebody made their escape through it. About the only note of disturbance I can see is a drawer that’s been left hanging open. It’s the one I rifled through as Dance, and sure enough, Peter’s organiser is missing. First somebody tore a page out of Helena’s planner and now they’ve taken Peter’s. Something Helena did today is worth killing to cover up. That’s useful information. Horrific, but useful.

  Putting the letter in my pocket, I poke my head out of the window, looking for some evidence of the murderer’s identity. There’s not much to see, aside from a few footsteps in the dirt, already washing away in the rain. From their shape and size, whoever fled the gatehouse was a woman in pointed boots, which might give the note some credence except that I know Evelyn is with Bell.

  She couldn’t have done this.

  I take a seat opposite Peter Hardcastle, as Dance did this morning. Despite the late hour, the memory of that gathering is still about the room. The glasses we drank from haven’t been removed from the table and the cigar smoke still hangs in the air. Hardcastle’s wearing the same clothes I last saw him in, meaning he never got changed for the hunt, so it’s likely he’s been dead for a couple of hours. One by one I dab my finger into the dregs of the drinks, tasting each of them with the tip of my tongue. They’re all fine, except for Lord Hardcastle’s. Behind the charred whisky lies a subtle bitter taste.

  Rashton recognises it immediately.

  ‘Strychnine,’ I say, staring into the victim’s twisted, smiling face. He looks delighted by the news, as though he’s sat here all this time waiting for somebody to tell him how he died. He’d probably also want to know who killed him. I have an idea about that, but for the moment an idea’s all it is.

  ‘Is he telling you anything?’ asks Anna, passing me a towel.

  She’s still a little pale, but her voice is stronger, suggesting she’s recovered from her initial shock. Even so, she keeps her distance from the body, arms wrapped tight around herself.

  ‘Somebody poisoned him with strychnine,’ I say. ‘Bell supplied it.’

  ‘Bell? Your first host? You think he’s tied up in all of this?’

  ‘Not willingly,’ I say, drying my hair. ‘He’s too much of a coward to tangle himself up in murder. Strychnine is often sold in small quantities as rat poison. If the killer was part of the household, they could have requested a significant amount under the guise of getting Blackheath up and running. Bell would have no reason to be suspicious until the bodies started appearing. That probably explains why somebody tried to kill him.’

  ‘How do you know all of this?’ says Anna, astonished.

  ‘Rashton knows it,’ I say, tapping my forehead. ‘He worked on a strychnine case a few years back. Nasty business. Matter of inheritance.’

  ‘And you can just... remember it?’

  I nod, still thinking through the implications of the poisoning.

  ‘Somebody lured Bell out to the forest last night, intending to silence him,’ I say to myself. ‘But the good doctor managed to escape with only the injuries to his arms, losing his pursuer in the darkness. Lucky fellow.’

  Anna’s looking at me strangely.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ I say, frowning.

  ‘It’s the way you were speaking’ – she falters – ‘it wasn’t... I didn’t recognise you. Aiden, how much of you is still in there?’

  ‘Enough,’ I say impatiently, handing her the letter I found in Hardcastle’s pocket. ‘You should see this. Somebody wants us to believe this is Evelyn’s doing. The murderer’s trying to wrap it all up in a nice little bow.’

  She drags her gaze away from me, and reads the letter.

  ‘What if we’ve been looking at this all wrong?’ she says, after she’s finished. ‘What if somebody means to knock off the entire Hardcastle family, and Evelyn is just the first?’

  ‘You think Helena’s hiding?’

  ‘If she’s got any sense, that’s exactly what she’s doing.’

  I let my mind bat the idea around for a while, trying to see it from every angle. Or at least, I try. It’s too heavy. Too ponderous. I can’t see what could be on the other side.

  ‘What do we next?’ she asks.

  ‘I need you to tell Evelyn that the butler’s awake and that he needs to speak with her, privately,’ I say, getting to my feet.

  ‘But the butler isn’t awake, and he doesn’t want to speak with her.’

  ‘No, but I do, and I’d rather stay out of the footman’s crosshairs if I can.’

  ‘Of course I’ll go, but you need to watch the butler and Gold in my place,’ she says.

  ‘I will.’

  ‘And what are you going to say to Evelyn when she gets here?’

  ‘I’m going to tell her how she dies.’

  50

  It’s 5:42 p.m. and Anna hasn’t returned.

  It’s been over three hours since she left. Three hours of fidgeting and worrying, the shotgun laid across my lap, leaping into my hands at the slightest noise, making it a near-constant presence in my arms. I don’t know how Anna did it.

  This place is never at rest. The wind claws its way through the cracks in the windows, howling up and down the corridor. Timbers creak, floorboards stretch, shifting under their own weight as though the gatehouse were an old man trying to rise out of his chair. Time and again I heard steps approaching, only to open the door and find I’d been tricked by the banging of a loose shutter or a tree branch rapping on the window.

  But these noises have stopped provoking any reaction in me, because I no longer believe my friend is coming back. An hour into my vigil, I reassured myself she was simply struggling to locate Evelyn following her walk with Bell. After two hours, I reasoned she might be running errands – a theory I tried to confirm by piecing together her day from our previous encounters. By her own account, she met Gold first, Derby in the forest, and then Dance, before collecting me from the attic. After that she talked with the butler for the first time in the carriage on the way here, left the note for Bell in the stablemaster’s cottage and then sought out Ravencourt in his parlour. There was another conversation with the butler after that, but it wasn’t until the footman attacked Dance in the evening that I saw her again.

  For six days she’s been disappearing every afternoon, and I haven’t noticed.

  Now, passing my third hour in this room, darkness pressing against the glass, I’m certain she’s in trouble and that the footman’s lurking somewhere behind it. Having seen her with our enemy, I know she’s alive, though that’s cold comfort. Whatever the footman did to Gold broke his mind and I cannot bear the thought of Anna undergoing similar torment.

  Shotgun in hand, I pace the room, trying to stay one step ahead of my dread long enough to come up with a plan. The easiest thing would be to wait here, knowing the footman will come for the butler eventually, but in doing so I’d wa
ste the hours I need to solve Evelyn’s murder. And what use is saving Anna if I can’t free her from this house? As desperate as I feel, I must first attend to Evelyn and trust Anna to take care of herself while I do so.

  The butler whimpers, his eyes fluttering open.

  For a moment, we simply stare at each other, trading guilt and confusion.

  By leaving him and Gold unguarded, I’m condemning them to madness and death, but I can see no other way.

  As he falls asleep, I lay the shotgun on the bed by his side. I’ve seen him die, but I don’t have to accept it. My conscience demands I give him a fighting chance, at the very least.

  Snatching my coat off the chair, I depart for Blackheath without a backward glance. Evelyn’s messy bedroom is exactly as I left it, the fire burned so low there’s barely any light to see by. Adding a few logs, I begin my search.

  My hand is shaking, though this time it’s not Derby’s lust at work, it’s my own excitement. If I find what I’m looking for, I’ll know who’s responsible for Evelyn’s death. Freedom will be within touching distance.

  Derby may have searched this room earlier, but he had neither Rashton’s training nor his experience. The constable’s hands immediately seek out hiding spots behind cabinets and around the bedframe, my feet tapping the floorboards in hopes of locating a loose panel. Even so, after a thorough search, I come up empty.

  There’s nothing.

  Turning on the spot, my eyes sweep the furnishings, searching for something I’ve missed. I can’t be wrong about the suicide, no other explanation makes sense. That’s when my gaze alights on the tapestry concealing the communicating door into Helena’s bedroom. Taking an oil lamp, I pass through, repeating my search.

  I’ve almost given up hope when I lift the mattress off the bed and find a cotton bag tied to one of the bars. Unpicking the drawstring, I find two guns inside. One is a harmless starting pistol, the stalwart of village fêtes everywhere. The other is the black revolver Evelyn took from her mother’s room, the one she had in the forest this morning and will carry into the graveyard this evening. It’s loaded. A single bullet missing from the chamber. There’s also a vial of blood and a small syringe filled with a clear liquid.