The Seven Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle

by Stuart Turton

  The footman smiles at me, his eyes glittering in anticipation.

  ‘You’d think I’d get bored of killing you, wouldn’t you?’ he asks.

  The silver pistol’s still in the plant pot where Michael discarded it. It won’t fire, but the footman doesn’t know that. If I could reach it, I might be able to bluff him into fleeing. It will be a close-run thing, but there’s a table in his way. I should be able to get there before him.

  ‘I’m going to do it slow,’ he says, touching his broken nose. ‘I owe you for this.’

  Fear doesn’t come easily to Rashton, but he’s afraid now, and so am I. I have two hosts left after today, but Gregory Gold is going to spend most of his day strung up in the gatehouse and Donald Davies is stranded on a dirt road, miles from here. If I die now, there’s no telling how many more chances I’ll get to escape Blackheath.

  ‘Don’t worry about the gun,’ says the footman. ‘You won’t need it.’

  Mistaking his meaning, hope flares in my chest, fizzling again when I see his smirk.

  ‘Oh, no, my handsome lad, I’m going to kill you,’ he says, wagging the knife at me. ‘I just mean you ain’t going to fight me,’ he adds, coming closer. ‘See, I’ve got Anna, and if you don’t want her to die messy, you’re going to give yourself to me, and then you’re going to bring whoever’s left to the graveyard tonight.’

  Opening his palm, he reveals Anna’s chess piece, spotted with blood. With a flick of his wrist, he tosses it into the fire, the flames consuming it immediately.

  Another step closer.

  ‘What’s it to be?’ he asks.

  My hands are clenched by my sides, my mouth dry. For as long as he can remember, Rashton expected to die young. In a dark alley, or on a battlefield, a place beyond light and comfort, beyond friendship, his situation hopeless. He knew how sharp the edges of his life had become, and he’d made peace with it, because he knew he’d die fighting. Futile as it may have been, weak as it may have been, he expected to wade into the darkness with his fists in the air.

  And now the footman has taken even that away. I’m to die without a struggle, and I feel ashamed.

  ‘What’s the answer?’ says the footman, his impatience growing.

  I can’t bring myself to say the words, to admit how thoroughly defeated I am. Another hour in this body and I’d have solved it, and that knowledge makes me want to scream.

  ‘Your answer!’ he demands.

  I manage to nod as he looms over me, his stench wrapping itself around me when he sinks the blade into the familiar spot beneath my ribs, blood filling my throat and mouth.

  Gripping my chin, he lifts my face, looking me in the eyes.

  ‘Two to go,’ he says, and with that he twists the blade.

  52

  Day Three (continued)

  Rain thumps the roof, horses clip-clopping along the cobbles. I am in a carriage, two women in evening wear wedged onto the seat opposite me. They’re talking under their breath, their shoulders bumping together as the carriage sways from side to side.

  Don’t get out of the carriage.

  Fear prickles my spine. This is the moment Gold warned me about. The moment which drove him mad. Out there in the dark, the footman’s waiting with his knife.

  ‘He’s awake, Audrey,’ says one of them, noticing me stirring.

  Perhaps believing my hearing to be defective, the second lady leans close.

  ‘We found you asleep near the road,’ she says loudly, laying one hand on my knee. ‘Your automobile was a few miles further up, the driver tried to get it running but it was beyond him.’

  ‘I’m Donald Davies,’ I say, feeling a surge of relief.

  The last time I was this man I drove a car through the night until morning dawned, abandoning it when the fuel ran out. I walked for hours along that never-ending road towards the village, collapsing in exhaustion no nearer my destination. He must have slept the entire day away, saving him from the footman’s wrath.

  The Plague Doctor told me I’d be returned to Davies when he woke up again. I never could have imagined he’d have been rescued and returned to Blackheath when it happened.

  Finally, some good luck.

  ‘You sweet beautiful woman,’ I say, cupping my saviour’s cheeks and kissing her soundly on the lips. ‘You don’t know what you’ve done.’

  Before she can respond, I poke my head out of the window. It’s evening, the carriage’s swaying lanterns gently illuminating the darkness rather than banishing it. We’re in one of three carriages rolling towards the house from the village, twelve or so others parked either side of the road, their drivers snoring or chatting in small groups, passing a solitary cigarette amongst themselves. I can hear music from the direction of the house, shrill laughter climbing high enough to puncture the distance between us. The party is in full swing.

  Hope surges through me.

  Evelyn hasn’t made her way to the reflecting pool, which means there may still be time for me to question Michael, and discover if he was working with anybody. Even if I’m too late for that, I can still ambush the footman when he comes for Rashton and find out where he’s keeping Anna.

  Don’t get out of the carriage.

  ‘Blackheath in a few minutes, m’lady,’ the driver shouts down from somewhere above us.

  I glance out of the window again. The house is directly in front of us, and the stables down the road on our right. That’s where they keep the shotguns, and I’d have to be a fool to tackle the footman without one.

  Unlocking the door, I leap from the carriage, landing in a painful heap on the wet cobbles. The ladies are shrieking, the coach driver yelling after me as I pick myself up and stagger towards the distant lights. The Plague Doctor told me the pattern of this day was dictated by the character of those living it. I can only hope that’s true and fate is in a charitable mood, because if it’s not I’ve damned both myself and Anna.

  Within the glow of the braziers, stable boys are undoing the harnesses connecting the horses and carriages, leading the whinnying beasts to shelter. They’re working quickly, but they look done in, barely able to speak. I approach the nearest chap, who, despite the rain, is wearing only a cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

  ‘Where do you keep the shotguns?’ I ask.

  He’s tightening a harness, gritting his teeth as he pulls the taut strap towards the last buckle. He peers at me suspiciously, his eyes narrowed beneath his flat cap.

  ‘Bit late for hunting, ain’t it?’ he says.

  ‘And far too early for impertinence,’ I snap, overwhelmed by my host’s upper-class disdain. ‘Where are the damn shotguns, or do I need to bring Lord Hardcastle down here to ask you himself?’

  After looking me up and down, he gestures over his shoulder towards a small redbrick building, a dim light seeping through the window. The shotguns are arranged on a wooden rack, boxes of shells stored in a nearby drawer. I take one down and load it carefully, dropping a handful of spare shells into my pocket.

  The gun is heavy, a cold slab of courage that propels me across the yard and up the road towards Blackheath. The stable hands exchange looks as I approach, standing aside to let me pass. Doubtless they think me some rich lunatic with a score to settle, a piece of gossip to add to the pile tomorrow morning. Certainly not somebody worth risking bodily harm for. I’m glad of that. If they were to creep closer, they might notice how crowded my eyes are, how all my previous hosts are jostling for a better view. In some way or another, the footman’s harmed every one of them and they’ve all turned up for his execution. I can barely think through their clamour.

  Halfway along the road I notice a light bobbing towards me, and my grip tightens around the shotgun’s trigger.

  ‘It’s me,’ yells Daniel over the din of the storm.

  There’s a storm lantern in his hand, the waxy light running down his face and upper body. He looks like a genie spilled out of a bottle.

  ‘We have to hurry, the footman’s in the g
raveyard,’ says Daniel. ‘He has Anna with him.’

  He still thinks we’re fooled by his act.

  My finger strokes the shotgun as I stare back towards Blackheath, trying to decide the best course of action. Michael could be in the Sun Room as we speak, but I’m certain Daniel knows where Anna’s being kept, and I won’t have a better opportunity to get the information from him. Two roads and two ends, and somehow I know one of them leads to failure.

  ‘This is our chance,’ yells Daniel, wiping the rain from his eyes. ‘This is what we’ve been waiting for. He’s in there, right now, lying in wait. He doesn’t know we’ve found each other. We can spring his trap, we can finish this together.’

  For so long I fought to change my future, to alter the day. Now I have, I’m undone, racked with the futility of my choices. I saved Evelyn and thwarted Michael, two things which only matter if Anna and I live long enough to tell the Plague Doctor at 11 p.m. Past this point, I’m making every decision blind, and with only one host left after today, every decision matters.

  ‘What if we fail?’ I shout back, my words barely making it to his ears. The clatter of rain on stone is almost deafening, the wind ripping and tearing at the forest, screaming through the trees like some feral creature slipped loose of its cage.

  ‘What choice do we have?’ Daniel yells, clutching the back of my neck. ‘We have a plan, which means for the first time we have the advantage over him. We must pursue it.’

  I remember the first time I met this man, how calm he seemed, how patient and reasonable. None of that is in him now. It’s all been washed away in Blackheath’s endless storms. He has the eyes of a fanatic, eager and imploring, wild and desperate. He has as much riding on the outcome of this moment as I do.

  He’s right. We need to put an end to this.

  ‘What time is it?’ I ask.

  He frowns. ‘Why does that matter?’

  ‘I never know until afterwards,’ I say. ‘The time? Please.’

  He checks his watch, impatiently. ‘It’s 9:46,’ he says. ‘Can we go now?’

  Nodding, I follow him across the lawn.

  The stars are cowards, closing their eyes as we creep closer to the graveyard, and by the time Daniel pushes open the gate, our only light’s the flickering glow of his storm lantern. We’re shielded by the trees back here, muting the storm which makes its way through to us in sharp gusts, daggers of wind slipping through the cracks in the armour of the forest.

  ‘We should hide out of sight,’ whispers Daniel, hanging the lantern on the angel’s arm. ‘We’ll call to Anna when she arrives.’

  Lifting the shotgun to my shoulder, I press both barrels to the back of his head.

  ‘You can drop the act, Daniel, I know we’re not the same man,’ I say, my eyes flicking across the woods, searching for some sign of the footman. Unfortunately, the lantern’s so bright it obscures much of what it should reveal.

  ‘Hands in the air, turn around,’ I say.

  He does as I ask, staring at me, pulling me apart, looking for something broken. I don’t know whether he finds it or not, but after a long silence a charming smile breaks out on his handsome face.

  ‘Couldn’t last forever, I suppose,’ he says, gesturing to his breast pocket. I motion for him to continue and he slowly withdraws a cigarette case, tapping one out against his palm.

  I followed this man into the graveyard, knowing that if I didn’t confront him, I’d always be looking over my shoulder, waiting for him to strike again, but now I’m here, faced with his calmness, my certainty is wavering.

  ‘Where is she, Daniel? Where’s Anna?’ I say.

  ‘Why, that was to be my question to you,’ he says, placing the cigarette between his lips. ‘That was it exactly, where is Anna? I’ve been trying to get you to tell me all day, even thought I’d succeeded when Derby agreed to help me flush the footman out from under the house. You should have seen your face, so eager to please.’

  Shielding his cigarette from the wind, he lights it at the third try, illuminating a face that’s as hollow-eyed as those of the statues beside him. I have a gun pointed at him and somehow he still has the upper hand.

  ‘Where’s the footman?’ I say, the shotgun growing heavy in my arms. ‘I know you’re partners.’

  ‘Oh, it’s nothing like that. I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong end of the stick entirely,’ he says, dismissing the fellow with a wave of his hand. ‘He’s not like you, me or Anna. He’s one of Coleridge’s associates. There’s actually a few of them in the house. Unsavoury chaps the lot of them, but then Coleridge is in an unsavoury business. The footman, as you call him, was the brightest of them, so I explained what was happening in Blackheath. I don’t think he believed me, but killing’s rather his speciality, so he didn’t bat an eyelid when I pointed him at your hosts. Probably enjoyed it, truth be told. Helps enormously that I’ve made him a very rich man, of course.’

  Blowing smoke out through his nostrils, he grins as though we’ve shared some private joke. He’s moving with assurance, the confidence of a man living in a world of premonitions. A dispiriting contrast to my shaking hands and thudding heart. He’s got something planned and until I know what it is, I can’t do anything but wait.

  ‘You’re like Anna, aren’t you?’ I say. ‘One day, and then you forget everything and start again.’

  ‘Hardly seems fair, does it? Not when you have eight lives and eight days. All the gifts were given to you. Now why was that?’

  ‘I see the Plague Doctor didn’t tell you everything about me.’

  He grins, again. It’s like ice rolling down my spine.

  ‘Why are you doing this, Daniel?’ I ask, surprised by my misery. ‘We could have helped each other.’

  ‘But my dear fellow, you have helped me,’ he says. ‘I have both of Stanwin’s blackmail books in my possession. Without Derby poking around his bedroom, I might only have found the one, and I’d be no nearer an answer than I was this morning. In two hours, I’ll take what I’ve learned to the lake and be free of this place, and it’s your doing. Surely you can take some comfort in that.’

  Wet steps sound. A shotgun is cocked, cold metal presses into my back. A thug brushes past me, taking a spot in the light beside Daniel. Unlike his friend behind me, he isn’t armed, though he doesn’t need to be by the looks of things. He has the face of bar-room brawler, his nose broken, his cheek decorated by an ugly scar. He’s rubbing his knuckles, his tongue roaming his lips in anticipation. Neither action makes me feel terribly confident about what’s coming.

  ‘Be a dear and drop the weapon,’ says Daniel.

  Sighing, I let the shotgun fall on the floor, raising my hands in the air. Foolish as it may be, my overriding thought is to wish they weren’t trembling so.

  ‘You can come out now,’ says Daniel in a louder voice.

  There’s a rustling in the bushes to my left, the Plague Doctor stepping into the pool of light cast by the lantern. I’m about to hurl some insult at him, when I notice a single silver tear painted on the left side of his mask. It’s glittering in the light, and now I take stock, I realise there are other differences. This coat is finer, darker, the edges not so frayed. Embroidered roses twist up the gloves and now I see this person is shorter, more erect in their posture.

  This isn’t the Plague Doctor at all.

  ‘You were the one talking to Daniel by the lake,’ I say.

  Daniel whistles, flicking a glance at his companion.

  ‘How on earth did he see that?’ he asks Silver Tear. ‘Didn’t you pick that spot so nobody would find us together?’

  ‘I saw you outside the gatehouse as well,’ I say.

  ‘Curiouser and curiouser,’ says Daniel, enjoying himself immensely at his confederate’s expense. ‘I thought you knew every second of his day?’ He adopts a pompous tone. ‘Nothing happens here that is beyond my sight, Mr Coleridge,’ he huffs.

  ‘If that were true, I wouldn’t need your help capturing Annabelle,’ says Silve
r Tear. Her voice is stately, a far cry from the put-upon Plague Doctor. ‘Mr Bishop’s actions have disrupted the usual course of events. He’s changed Evelyn Hardcastle’s fate and contributed to the death of her brother, unpicking the threads that hold this day together in the process. He’s maintained his alliance with Annabelle far longer than he ever has before, which means things are happening out of order, running long or short, if they happen at all. Nothing’s quite where it should be.’

  The mask turns towards me.

  ‘You should be commended, Mr Bishop,’ she says. ‘I haven’t seen Blackheath in this much disarray for decades.’

  ‘Who are you?’ I say.

  ‘I could ask the same of you,’ she says, waving my question away. ‘I won’t because you don’t know yourself, and there are more pressing questions. Suffice to say, I’ve been sent by my superiors to rectify my colleague’s mistake. Now, please tell Mr Coleridge where he might find Annabelle.’

  ‘Annabelle?’

  ‘He calls her Anna,’ says Daniel.

  ‘What do you want with Anna?’ I ask.

  ‘That’s not your concern,’ says Silver Tear.

  ‘It’s getting to be,’ I say. ‘You must want her very badly if you’re willing to make a deal with somebody like Daniel to bring her to you.’

  ‘I’m redressing the balance,’ she says. ‘Do you think it’s a coincidence that you inhabit the hosts you do, the men closest to Evelyn’s murder? Are you not curious why you woke up in Donald Davies precisely when you needed him most? My colleague has been playing favourites from the beginning and that is forbidden. He was supposed to watch without interfering, to appear at the lake and wait for an answer. Nothing more. Worse, he’s opened the door to a creature who must never be allowed to leave this house. I cannot let this continue.’

  ‘So that’s why you’re here,’ says the Plague Doctor, emerging from the shadows, rainwater running in rivulets down his mask.

  Daniel tenses, watching the interloper warily.