The Seven Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle

by Stuart Turton

  My heart is racing.

  ‘I was right,’ I mutter.

  It’s the stirring of the curtains that saves my life.

  The breeze from the opened door touches my neck an instant before a step sounds behind me. Throwing myself to the floor, I hear a knife slashing through the air. Rolling onto my back, I bring the revolver up in time to see the footman fleeing into the corridor.

  Letting my head drop onto the floorboards, I rest the gun on my stomach and thank my lucky stars. If I’d noticed the curtains a second later, this would all be over.

  I give myself a chance to recover my breath, then get to my feet, replacing the two weapons and the syringe in the bag, but taking the vial of blood. Cautiously departing the bedroom, I ask around for Evelyn until somebody points me towards the ballroom, which is echoing with loud banging, a stage being finished by builders. The French doors have been thrown open in hopes of evacuating the paint fumes and dust, maids scrubbing their youth away on the floor.

  I spot Evelyn by the stage, speaking with the bandleader. She’s still in the green dress she wears during the day, but Madeline Aubert is standing behind her with a mouthful of pins, hurriedly jabbing them into escaping locks of hair, trying to fashion the style she’ll wear tonight.

  ‘Miss Hardcastle,’ I call out, crossing the room.

  Dismissing the bandleader with a friendly smile and a squeeze of the arm, she turns towards me.

  ‘Evelyn, please,’ she says, holding out her hand. ‘And you are?’

  ‘Jim Rashton.’

  ‘Ah, yes, the policeman,’ she says, her smile vanishing. ‘Is everything well? You look a little flushed.’

  ‘I’m not used to the hustle and bustle of polite society,’ I say.

  I shake her hand lightly, surprised by how cold it is.

  ‘How can I help you, Mr Rashton?’ she asks.

  Her voice is distant, almost annoyed. I feel like a squashed insect she’s discovered on the bottom of her shoe.

  As with Ravencourt, I’m struck by the disdain with which Evelyn armours herself. Of all Blackheath’s tricks, being exposed to every unpleasant side of a person you once considered a friend is surely the cruellest.

  The thought brings me pause.

  Evelyn was kind to Bell, and the memory of that kindness has driven me ever since, but the Plague Doctor said he’d experimented with different combinations of hosts over many different loops. If Ravencourt had been my first host, as he surely was at some point, I’d have known nothing of Evelyn beyond her contempt. Derby drew only anger, and I doubt she’d have spared any kindness for servants like the butler, or Gold. That means there were loops where I watched this woman die and felt almost nothing about it, my only concern being to solve her murder, rather than desperately trying to prevent it.

  I almost envy them.

  ‘May I speak with you’ – I glance at Madeline – ‘privately?’

  ‘I really am awfully busy,’ she says. ‘What’s this about?’

  ‘I’d prefer to speak privately.’

  ‘And I’d prefer to finish getting this ballroom ready before fifty people arrive and find there’s nowhere for them to dance,’ she says, sharply. ‘You can imagine which preference I’m giving greater weight to.’

  Madeline smirks, and pins another lock of Evelyn’s loose hair into place.

  ‘Very well,’ I say, producing the vial of blood I found in the cotton sack. ‘Let’s talk about this.’

  I might as well have slapped her, but the shock slides off her face so quickly, I have trouble believing it was ever there.

  ‘We’ll finish this later, Maddie,’ says Evelyn, fixing me with a cool, level stare. ‘Go down to the kitchen and get yourself some food.’

  Madeline’s gaze is equally mistrusting, but she drops the pins into her apron pocket before curtsying and leaving the room.

  Taking me by the arm, Evelyn leads me towards the corner of the ballroom, far from the ears of the servants.

  ‘Is it your habit to root through people’s personal possessions, Mr Rashton?’ she asks, taking a cigarette from her case.

  ‘Lately, yes,’ I say.

  ‘Maybe you need a hobby.’

  ‘I have a hobby, I’m trying to save your life.’

  ‘My life doesn’t need saving,’ she says coolly. ‘Perhaps you should try gardening instead.’

  ‘Or perhaps I should fake a suicide so I don’t have to marry Lord Ravencourt?’ I say, pausing to enjoy the collapse of her supercilious expression. ‘That seems to be keeping you busy lately. It’s very clever; unfortunately, somebody’s going to use that fake suicide to murder you, which is a great deal cleverer.’

  Her mouth hangs open, her blue eyes sick with surprise.

  Averting her glance, she tries to light the cigarette held between her fingers, but her hand is trembling. I take the match from her and light it myself, the flame singeing my fingertips.

  ‘Who put you up to this?’ she hisses.

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘My plan,’ she says, snatching the vial of blood from my hand. ‘Who told you about it?’

  ‘Why, who else is involved?’ I ask. ‘I know you invited somebody called Felicity to the house, but I don’t know who that is yet.’

  ‘She’s...’ She shakes her head. ‘Nothing, I shouldn’t even be talking to you.’

  She turns for the door, but I catch her by the wrist, pulling her back rather more forcefully than I’d intended. Anger flashes on her face and I immediately release her, raising my hands.

  ‘Ted Stanwin told me everything,’ I say desperately, trying to keep her from storming out of the room.

  I need a plausible explanation for the things I know, and Derby overheard Stanwin and Evelyn arguing this morning. If I’m very lucky, the blackmailer has a hand in all of this. It’s not much of a stretch. He has a hand in everything else that’s happening today.

  Evelyn’s still, watchful, like a deer in the woods that’s just heard a branch snap.

  ‘He said you were planning to kill yourself by the reflecting pool this evening, but that made no sense,’ I press on, trusting to Stanwin’s formidable reputation to sell the story. ‘Forgive me for being blunt, Miss Hardcastle, but if you were serious about ending your life, you’d already be dead, not playing the dutiful hostess to people you despise. My second idea was that you wanted everybody to see it happen, but then why not do it in the ballroom, during the party? I couldn’t make sense of it until I stood on the edge of the reflecting pool and realised how dark it was, how easily it could conceal something dropped into it.’

  Scorn glitters in her eyes.

  ‘And what is it you want, Mr Rashton? Money?’

  ‘I’m trying to help you,’ I insist. ‘I know you intend to go to the reflecting pool at 11 p.m., press a black revolver to your stomach and collapse into the pool. I know you won’t actually pull the trigger of the black revolver and a starter’s pistol will make the sound of the gunshot everybody hears, just as I know you plan to drop the starter’s pistol into the water when you’re done. The vial of blood will be hung from a long cord around your neck and will crack open when you hit it with the revolver, providing the gore.

  ‘I’m guessing the syringe I found in the sack is filled with some combination of muscle relaxant and sedative to help you play dead, making it easy for Doctor Dickie – who I assume is being paid handsomely for his trouble – to make it official on the death certificate, forgoing the need for an unpleasant inquest. One would imagine that a week or so after your death, you’ll be back in France enjoying a nice glass of white wine.’

  A couple of maids are carrying slopping buckets of dirty water towards the doors, their gossip coming to an abrupt halt as they notice us. They pass by with uncertain dips, Evelyn steering me further into the corner.

  For the first time, I see fear on her face.

  ‘I admit I didn’t want to marry Ravencourt and I knew I couldn’t keep my family from forcing me i
nto it unless I disappeared, but why would anybody want to kill me?’ she asks, the cigarette still trembling in her hand.

  I study her face for a lie, but I might as well be turning a microscope on a patch of fog. This woman has been lying to everybody for days. I wouldn’t recognise the truth even if it did manage to escape her lips.

  ‘I have certain suspicions but I need proof,’ I say. ‘That’s why I need you to go through with your plan.’

  ‘Go through with it, are you mad?’ she exclaims, lowering her voice as all eyes turn towards us. ‘Why would I go through with it after what you’ve just told me?’

  ‘Because you won’t be safe until we draw the conspirators out and for that they need to believe their plan has succeeded.’

  ‘I’ll be safe when I’m a hundred miles from here.’

  ‘And how will you get there?’ I ask. ‘What happens if the carriage driver is part of the plot, or a servant? Whispers carry in this house and when the murderers get word you’re trying to leave, they’ll push forward with their plan and kill you. Believe me, running will only delay the inevitable. I can put a stop to it here and now, but only if you go along with it all. Point a gun at your stomach and play dead for half an hour. Who knows, you may even get to stay dead and escape Ravencourt as you planned.’

  She has her hand pressed to her forehead, eyes squeezed shut in concentration. When she speaks again, it’s in a quieter voice, somehow emptier.

  ‘I’m caught between the devil and the deep-blue sea, aren’t I?’ she says. ‘Very well, I’ll go through with it, but there’s something I need to know first. Why are you helping me, Mr Rashton?’

  ‘I’m a policeman.’

  ‘Yes, but you’re not a saint and only a saint would put themselves in the middle of all this.’

  ‘Then consider it a favour to Sebastian Bell,’ I say.

  Surprise softens her expression. ‘Bell? What on earth has the dear doctor got to do with this?’

  ‘I don’t know yet, but he was attacked last night and I doubt it’s a coincidence.’

  ‘Perhaps, but why is that your concern?’

  ‘He wants to be a better person,’ I say. ‘That’s a rare thing in this house. I admire it.’

  ‘As do I,’ she says, pausing to weigh up the man in front of her. ‘Very well, tell me your plan, but first I want your word that I’ll be safe. I’m putting my life in your hands, and that’s not something I submit to without guarantee.’

  ‘How do you know my word is worth anything?’

  ‘I’ve been around dishonourable men my entire life,’ she says simply. ‘You’re not one of them. Now, give me your word.’

  ‘You have it.’

  ‘And a drink,’ she continues. ‘I’m going to need a little courage to see this through.’

  ‘More than a little,’ I say. ‘I want you to befriend Jonathan Derby. He has a silver pistol we’ll be needing.’

  51

  Dinner’s being served, the guests taking their seats at the table, as I crouch in the bushes near the reflecting pool. It’s early, but my plan depends on being the first person to reach Evelyn when she emerges from the house. I can’t risk the past tripping me up.

  Rain drips from the leaves, icy cold on my skin.

  The wind stirs, my legs cramping.

  Shifting my weight, I realise I haven’t eaten or taken a drink all day, which isn’t ideal preparation for the evening ahead. I’m light-headed and without anything to distract me I can feel every one of my hosts pressed up against the inside of my skull. Their memories crowd the edges of my mind, the weight of them almost too much to bear. I want everything they want. I feel their aches and am made timid by their fears. I’m no longer a man, I’m a chorus.

  Oblivious to my presence, two servants spill out of the house, their arms laden with wood for the braziers, oil lamps hanging from their belts. One by one they ignite the braziers, drawing a line of fire into the pitch-black evening. The last one is next to the greenhouse, the flames reflecting on the glass panels so that the entire thing seems to be ablaze.

  As the wind howls and the trees drip, Blackheath flickers and changes, following the guests as they make their way from the dining hall to their bedrooms and finally into the ballroom, where the band have taken to the stage, and the evening guests await. Servants open the French doors, music exploding outwards, tumbling across the ground and into the forest.

  ‘Now you see them as I do,’ says the Plague Doctor, in a low voice. ‘Actors in a play, doing the same thing night after night.’

  He’s standing behind me, mostly obscured by trees and bushes. In the uncertain light of the brazier, his mask appears to float in the gloom like a soul trying to tug free of its body.

  ‘Did you tell the footman about Anna?’ I hiss.

  It’s taking every ounce of self-control I have not to leap up and throttle him.

  ‘I have no interest in either of them,’ he says flatly.

  ‘I saw you outside the gatehouse with Daniel, then again near the lake, and now Anna’s missing,’ I say. ‘Did you tell him where to find her?’

  For the first time, the Plague Doctor sounds uncertain.

  ‘I assure you, I wasn’t at either of those locations, Mr Bishop.’

  ‘I saw you,’ I growl. ‘You spoke with him.’

  ‘It wasn’t...’ He trails off, and when he speaks again, it’s with a spark of understanding. ‘So that’s how he’s been doing it. I wondered how he knew so much.’

  ‘Daniel lied to me from the start, and you kept his secret.’

  ‘It isn’t my place to interfere. I knew you’d see through him eventually.’

  ‘So why warn him about Anna?’

  ‘Because I worried that you wouldn’t.’

  The music stops sharply, and, checking my watch, I discover it’s a few minutes before eleven. Michael Hardcastle has silenced the orchestra to ask if anybody’s seen his sister. There’s movement by the side of the house, darkness stirred by darkness as Derby takes his position by the rock, following Anna’s instructions.

  ‘I wasn’t in that clearing, Mr Bishop, I promise you,’ says the Plague Doctor. ‘I’ll explain everything soon, but for the moment, I have my own investigation to undertake.’

  He departs quickly, leaving only questions in his wake. If this were any other host, I’d run after him, but Rashton’s a subtler creature, slow to startle, quick to think. For the moment, Evelyn’s my only concern. I put the Plague Doctor out of my thoughts and creep closer to the reflecting pool. Thankfully, the leaves and twigs are so demoralised by the earlier rain they don’t have the heart to cry out beneath my feet.

  Evelyn’s approaching, sobbing, looking for me in the trees. Whatever her involvement in all this, she’s clearly afraid, her entire body shaking. She must have already taken the muscle relaxant because she’s swaying slightly, as though moved by some music only she can hear.

  I rustle a nearby bush to let her know I’m here, but the drug’s doing its work, she can barely see, let alone find me in the darkness. Even so, she keeps on walking, the silver pistol glinting in her right hand, and the starting pistol in her left. It’s pressed against her leg, out of sight.

  She has courage, I’ll give her that.

  Reaching the edge of the reflecting pool, Evelyn hesitates, and, knowing what comes next, I wonder if perhaps the silver pistol is too heavy for her now, the weight of the plan too much.

  ‘God help us,’ she says quietly, turning the gun towards her stomach and pulling the trigger of the starting pistol by her leg.

  The shot is so loud it cracks the world, the starting pistol slipping from Evelyn’s hand into the inky blackness of the reflecting pool as the silver pistol hits the grass.

  Blood spreads across her dress.

  She watches it, bemused, then topples forward into the pool.

  Anguish paralyses me, some combination of the gunshot and Evelyn’s expression before she fell nudging an old memory loose.

  Y
ou don’t have time for this.

  It’s so close. I can almost see another face, hear another plea. Another woman I failed to save, who I came to Blackheath to... what?

  ‘Why did I come here?’ I gasp out loud, struggling to pull the memory up from the darkness.

  Save Evelyn, she’s drowning!

  Blinking, I look at the reflecting pool, where Evelyn’s floating face down. Panic washes away the pain, and I scramble to my feet, leaping through the bushes and into the icy water. Her dress has spread across the surface, as heavy as a sodden sack, and the base of the reflecting pool is covered in slippery moss.

  I can’t get any purchase on her.

  There’s a commotion by the ballroom. Derby is fighting with Michael Hardcastle, drawing almost as much attention as the dying woman in the pool.

  Fireworks explode overhead, staining everything in red and purple, yellow and orange light.

  I hook my arms around Evelyn’s midriff, wrestling her out of the water and onto the grass.

  Slumped in the mud, I catch my breath, checking to make sure Cunningham’s taken firm hold of Michael as I asked him to.

  He has.

  The plan’s working. No thanks to me. The old memory the gunshot stirred almost paralysed me. Another woman, and another death. It was the fear on Evelyn’s face. That’s what did it. I recognised that fear. It’s what brought me to Blackheath, I’m certain of it.

  Doctor Dickie runs up to me. He’s flushed, panting, a fortune going up in flames behind his eyes. Evelyn told me he’d been paid to fake the death certificate. The jovial old soldier’s got quite the criminal empire up and running.

  ‘What happened?’ he says.

  ‘She shot herself,’ I respond, watching the hope blossom on his face. ‘I saw the entire thing, but I couldn’t do anything.’

  ‘You mustn’t blame yourself.’ He clasps me by the shoulder. ‘Listen here, why don’t you go and get a brandy while I look her over. Leave it to me, eh?’