‘Mr Bishop solved the murders of Michael, Peter and Helena Hardcastle, and the attempted murder of Felicity Maddox, a crime so cleverly concealed it was entirely unknown to myself and my superiors,’ says the Plague Doctor. ‘I cannot fault him for answering questions we never thought to ask, nor will I punish a man who risked so much to save somebody else’s life. His answer stands. Now I need yours. Who killed Evelyn Hardcastle, Anna?’
‘You didn’t say anything about Aiden’s other hosts,’ she says, stubbornly. ‘Will you let them go, as well? Some of them are still alive. If we go now, we can probably still save the butler. And what about poor Sebastian Bell. He only woke up this morning. What will he do without me to help him?’
‘Aiden is the Sebastian Bell who woke up this morning,’ says the Plague Doctor, kindly. ‘They were never anything more than a trick of the light, Anna. Shadows cast on a wall. Now you get to walk away with the flame that casts them, and once that happens, they’ll vanish.’
She blinks at him.
‘Trust me, Anna.’ He says. ‘Tell me who killed Evelyn Hardcastle and everybody is freed. One way or another.’
‘Aiden?’
She glances at me uncertainly, waiting for my approval. I can only nod. A flood of emotion is welling up inside of me, waiting for release.
‘Felicity Maddox,’ she declares.
‘You’re free,’ he says, standing up. ‘Blackheath won’t cling to either of you any longer.’
My shoulders are shaking. Unable to hold it in, I begin sobbing wretchedly, eight days of misery and fear pouring out like poison. Anna takes hold of me, but I can’t stop. I’m on the edge of my nerves, relieved and exhausted, terrified we’re being tricked.
Everything else in Blackheath was a lie, why not this as well?
I stare at Evelyn’s body, and see Michael thrashing in the Sun Room, and Stanwin’s baffled expression when Daniel shot him in the forest. Peter and Helena, Jonathan and Millicent, Dance, Davies, Rashton. The footman and Coleridge. The dead piled up.
How does somebody escape all this?
By saying a name...
‘Anna,’ I mutter.
‘I’m here,’ she says, clutching me fiercely. ‘We’re going home, Aiden. You did it, you kept your promise.’
She gazes at me, not a drop of doubt anywhere in her eyes. She’s smiling, jubilant. One day and one life, I thought it wouldn’t be enough to escape this place, but perhaps it’s the only way to escape this place.
Keeping tight hold of me, she looks up at the Plague Doctor.
‘What happens next?’ she asks. ‘I still can’t remember anything before this morning.’
‘You will,’ says the Plague Doctor. ‘You’ve served your sentence so all possessions will be returned to you, including your memories. If you wish. Most choose to leave them behind, and go on as they are. It may be something worth considering.’
Anna digests this, and I realise she still doesn’t know who she is, or what she did. That’s going to be a difficult conversation, but it’s not one I have the strength to face right now. I need to pack Blackheath away, deep in the dark, where my nightmares live, and I’m not going to be free of it for a very long time. If I can spare Anna similar suffering, even for a little while, I will.
‘You should go,’ says the Plague Doctor. ‘I think you’ve lingered here long enough.’
‘Are you ready?’ asks Anna.
‘I am,’ I say, letting her help me to my feet.
‘Thank you for everything,’ she says to the Plague Doctor, curtsying before leaving the house.
He watches her depart, then hands me Evelyn’s lantern.
‘They’ll be looking for her, Aiden,’ he whispers. ‘Don’t trust anybody, and don’t let yourselves remember. At best the memories will cripple you, at worst...’ He lets that hang. ‘Once you’re released, start running and don’t stop. That’s your only chance.’
‘What’s going to happen to you?’ I ask. ‘I doubt your superiors will be happy when they find out what you’ve done.’
‘Oh, they’ll be furious,’ he says cheerfully. ‘But today feels like a good day, and Blackheath hasn’t seen one of those for a very long time. I think I’ll enjoy it for a while and worry about the cost tomorrow. It will come soon enough, it always does.’
He holds out his hand. ‘Good luck, Aiden.’
‘You too,’ I say, shaking it and passing outside into the storm.
Anna’s waiting on the road, her eyes fixed on Blackheath. She looks so young, so carefree, but it’s a mask. There’s another face beneath this one, a woman hated by half the world, and I’ve helped free her. Uncertainty flickers within me, but whatever she’s done, whatever’s waiting, we’ll overcome it together. Here and now, that’s all that matters to me.
‘Where should we go?’ asks Anna, as I sweep the dark forest with the lantern’s warm light.
‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘I don’t think it matters.’
She takes my hand, squeezing it gently.
‘Then let’s start walking and see where we end up.’
And so we do, one foot in front of the other, pressing into the darkness with only the dimmest of lights for guidance.
I try to picture what’s waiting for me.
The family I abandoned? Grandchildren raised on stories of what I did? Or just another forest, another house mired in secrets? I hope not. I hope my world is something else entirely. Something unknown and unfathomable, something I can’t even imagine from inside the confines of Gold’s mind. After all, it’s not only Blackheath I’m escaping. It’s them. It’s Bell and the butler, Davies, Ravencourt, Dance and Derby. It’s Rashton and Gold. Blackheath was the prison, but they were the shackles.
And the keys.
I owe my freedom to every single one of them.
And what of Aiden Bishop? What do I owe him? The man who trapped me here so he could torture Annabelle Caulker. I won’t give him his memories back, I’m certain of that. Tomorrow, I’ll see his face in the mirror and, somehow, I’ll have to make it mine. To do that, I need to start again, free of the past, free of him and the mistakes he made.
Free of his voice.
‘Thank you,’ I say under my breath, feeling him finally drift away.
It seems like a dream, too much to hope for. Tomorrow, there’ll be no footman to overcome. No Evelyn Hardcastle to save, or Daniel Coleridge to outwit. No ticking clock hanging over a puzzle-box house. Instead of the impossible, I’ll need only concern myself with the ordinary. The luxury of waking up in the same bed two days in a row, or being able to reach the next village should I choose. The luxury of sunshine. The luxury of honesty. The luxury of living a life without a murder at the end of it.
Tomorrow can be whatever I want it to be, which means for the first time in decades, I can look forward to it. Instead of being something to fear, it can be a promise I make myself. A chance to be braver or kinder, to make what was wrong right. To be better than I am today.
Every day after this one is a gift.
I just have to keep walking until I get there.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Seven Deaths wouldn’t exist without my agent, Harry Illingworth. He knew what this story could be before I did, and helped me dig it out. You’re a gent, Illington.
For her wisdom and word scalpel, I’d like to thank my editor Alison Hennessey, aka the Queen of Ravens, aka glamorous (paragraph) murderer. I wrote a story, Alison made it into a book.
I’m also indebted to Grace Menary-Winefield, my US editor, for asking the questions I never thought to ask, and helping me dig deeper into this world I’ve created.
And while I’m at it, I can’t neglect the rest of the teams at Raven Books and Sourcebooks, who put me to shame with their talent, enthusiasm and general loveliness. Of those, I’d particularly like to highlight Marigold Atkey, who weathered my panic – and last-minute edits – with good humour and wisdom. No doubt somebody, somewhere, heard her screaming, but it wasn’t me.
And for that, I’m very grateful.
Special mention must go to my early readers David Bayon, Tim Danton and Nicole Kobie who read this story in its ‘David Lynch’ phase, and very kindly pointed out that clues, grammar and reminders of plot points aren’t a sign of weakness.
And, finally, to my wife, Maresa. If you’re going to do something stupid (like spend three years writing a time-travel, body-hopping, murder-mystery novel), you need your very best friend in your corner, all the way. She was, and is. I couldn’t have done it without her.
A NOTE ON THE AUTHOR
Stuart Turton is a freelance travel journalist who has previously worked in Shanghai and Dubai. The Seven Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle is his debut novel. He is the winner of the Brighton and Hove Short Story Prize and was longlisted for the BBC Radio 4 Opening Lines competition. He lives in west London with his wife.
@Stu_Turton
First published in Great Britain 2018
This electronic edition published in 2018 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
© Stuart Turton, 2018
Illustrations © Emily Faccini, 2018
Stuart Turton has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as author of this work.
Every reasonable effort has been made to trace copyright holders of material reproduced in this book, but if any have been inadvertently overlooked the publishers would be glad to hear from them.
This is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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