The 7½ Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle

by Stuart Turton

  My eyes find Michael, who’s staring into the drawing room. It’s emptying out as the guests drift toward the entrance hall, carrying their conversations with them. Even from here, I can hear the stinging, swirling swarm of insults touching on everything from the rundown state of the house to Lord Hardcastle’s drunkenness and Evelyn Hardcastle’s icy demeanor. Poor Michael. I can’t imagine how it must feel to have one’s family so openly ridiculed, in their own home no less.

  “Look, we didn’t come here to bore you with ancient history,” says Daniel, fracturing the quiet. “I’ve been asking around after Anna. It’s not good news, I’m afraid.”

  “Nobody knows her?”

  “There isn’t anybody by that name among the guests or the staff,” says Michael. “More to the point, nobody’s missing from Blackheath.”

  I open my mouth to protest, but Michael holds his hand up, silencing me. “You never let me finish, Belly. I can’t gather a search party, but the chaps are going hunting in about ten minutes. If you give me a vague idea where you woke up this morning, I’ll make sure we head in that direction and keep our eyes open. Fifteen of us are going out, so there’s a good chance we’ll spot something.”

  Gratitude swells in my chest.

  “Thank you, Michael.”

  He smiles at me through a cloud of cigarette smoke. “I’ve never known you to over-egg the pudding, Belly, so I can’t imagine you’re doing it now.”

  I stare at the map, eager to do my part, but I have no clue where I spotted Anna. The murderer pointed me east, and the forest disgorged me toward the front of Blackheath, but I can only guess for how long I walked or where I may have started from. Taking a breath and trusting to providence, I prod the glass with my fingertip as Daniel and Michael hover over my shoulder.

  Michael nods, rubbing his chin.

  “I’ll tell the chaps.” He looks me up and down. “You’d better get changed. We’ll be leaving soon.”

  “I’m not coming,” I say, my voice strangled by shame. “I have to… I just can’t…”

  The young man shifts awkwardly. “Come now—”

  “Use your head, Michael,” interrupts Daniel, clapping a hand on my shoulder. “Look what was done to him. Poor Bell barely got out of that forest. Why would he want to go back?”

  His tone softens.

  “Don’t you worry, Bell. We’ll find your missing girl, and the man who murdered her. It’s in our hands now. Get yourself as far away from this mess as you can.”

  5

  I stand at the leaded window, half concealed by the velvet drapes. Out on the driveway, Michael is mingling with the other men. They’re heaving beneath their thick coats, shotguns crooked over their elbows, laughing and chatting, cold breath escaping their lips. Freed from the house with a slaughter to enjoy, they seem almost human.

  Daniel’s words were comforting, but they can’t absolve me. I should be out there with them, searching for the body of the woman I failed. Instead, I’m running away. The very least I can do is endure the shame of watching them set off without me.

  Dogs pass by the window, straining at leads their masters are struggling to hold. The two commotions merge, striking off across the lawn toward the forest, in precisely the direction I indicated to Daniel, although I can’t see my friend among them. He must be joining the group later.

  I wait for the last of them to disappear among the trees before returning to the map on the wall. If it’s correct, the stables aren’t too far from the house. Surely that’s where I’ll find the stable master. He can arrange a carriage to the village, and from there, I’ll catch a train home.

  I turn for the drawing room, only to find the doorway blocked by a huge black crow.

  My heart leaps, and so do I, straight into the sideboard, sending family photographs and trinkets clattering to the floor.

  “You don’t need to be afraid,” says the creature, taking a half step out of the gloom.

  It’s not a bird at all. It’s a man dressed as a medieval plague doctor, his feathers a black greatcoat, the beak belonging to a porcelain mask, glinting in the light of a nearby lamp. Presumably this is his costume for the ball tonight, though that doesn’t explain why he’s wearing such sinister garb in the middle of the day.

  “You startled me,” I say, clutching my chest and laughing in embarrassment as I try to shake off my fright. He cocks his head, examining me as if I’m a stray animal he’s found sitting on the carpet.

  “What did you bring with you?” he asks.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “You woke up with a word on your lips. What was it?”

  “Do we know each other?” I ask, glancing through the door into the drawing room, hoping to see another guest. Unfortunately, we’re alone, which was almost certainly his intention, I realize with growing alarm.

  “I know you,” he says. “That’s enough for now. What was the word, please?”

  “Why not take off the mask so we might speak face-to-face,” I say.

  “My mask is the least of your concerns, Doctor Bell,” he says. “Answer the question.”

  Though he’s said nothing threatening, the porcelain muffles his voice, adding a low animal rumble to every sentence.

  “Anna,” I say, clamping my hand on my thigh to stop my leg from jogging.

  He sighs. “That’s a pity.”

  “Do you know who she is?” I say hopefully. “Nobody else in the house has ever heard of her.”

  “I’d be surprised if they had,” he says, waving away my question with a gloved hand. Reaching into his coat, he pulls out a golden pocket watch, tutting at the time. “We’ll have work to do before long, but not today and not while you’re in this state. We’ll speak again soon, when everything’s a little clearer. In the meantime, I’d advise you to acquaint yourself with Blackheath and your fellow guests. Enjoy yourself while you can, Doctor. The footman will find you soon.”

  “The footman?” I say, the name ringing an alarm bell somewhere deep within me. “Is he responsible for Anna’s murder, or the wounds on my arm?”

  “I very much doubt it,” says the Plague Doctor. “The footman isn’t going to stop with your arm.”

  There’s a tremendous thump behind me, and I spin toward the noise. A small splash of blood smears the window, a dying bird thrashing the last of its life away among the weeds and withered flowers below. The poor thing must have flown into the glass. I’m startled by the pity I feel, a tear creeping into my eye at this wasted life. Resolving to bury the bird before I do anything else, I turn around, intending to make my excuses to my enigmatic companion, but he’s already left.

  I look at my hands. They’re clutched so tightly my fingernails are digging into my palms.

  “The footman,” I repeat to myself.

  The name means nothing, but the feeling it evokes is unmistakable. For some reason, I’m terrified of this person.

  Fear carries me over to the writing desk and the letter opener I saw earlier. It’s small, but sharp enough to draw blood from the tip of my thumb. Sucking the wound, I pocket the weapon. It’s not much, but it’s enough to stop me barricading myself in this room.

  Feeling a touch more confident, I head for my bedroom. Without the guests to distract from the décor, Blackheath is a melancholy pile indeed. Aside from the magnificent entrance hall, the other rooms I pass through are musty, thick with mildew and decay. Pellets of rat poison have been piled up in the corners, dust covering any surface too high for a maid’s short arm to reach. The rugs are threadbare, the furniture scratched, the smeared silver crockery arranged behind the dirty glass of display cabinets. As unpleasant as my fellow guests seem, I miss the thrum of their conversations. They’re the lifeblood of this place, filling up the spaces where otherwise this grim silence would fall. Blackheath’s only alive so long as people are in it. Without them, it’s a depressing ruin waiti
ng on the mercy of a wrecking ball.

  I collect my coat and umbrella from my bedroom and make my way outside where rain is bouncing off the ground, the air smothered by the stink of rotten leaves. Uncertain of which window the bird crashed against, I follow the verge until I locate its body, and using the letter opener as a makeshift shovel, I bury it in a shallow grave, soaking my gloves in the process.

  Already shivering, I consider my route. The cobbled road to the stables skirts the bottom edge of the lawn. I could cut across the grass, but my shoes seem ill suited to the venture. Instead, I take the safer option, following the gravel driveway until the road appears on my left. Unsurprisingly, it’s in a terrible state of disrepair. Tree roots have overturned the stones; untrimmed branches hang low like pilfering fingers. Still unsettled by my meeting with the strange man in the plague doctor costume, I clutch the letter opener and move slowly, wary of losing my footing, afraid of what might spring out at me from the woods if I do. I’m not sure what his game is, dressing up like that, but I can’t seem to shrug off his warnings.

  Somebody murdered Anna and gave me a compass. It’s doubtful that same person attacked me last night only to save me this morning, and now I must contend with this footman. Who must I have been to assemble so many enemies?

  At the end of the road is a tall, redbrick arch with a shattered glass clock at the center, and beyond that a courtyard, stables and outbuildings arranged around its edge. Troughs overflow with oats, and carriages stand wheel to wheel, draped in green canvas covers to keep the weather off.

  The only things missing are the horses.

  Every stable is empty.

  “Hello?” I call out tentatively, my voice echoing around the yard but meeting no response.

  A plume of black smoke is escaping the chimney of a little cottage, and finding the door unlocked, I chase my hollered greetings inside. No one’s home, which is curious as a fire’s burning in the hearth, porridge and toast laid out on the table. Removing my soggy gloves, I hang them on the kettle pole above the fire, hoping to spare myself a little discomfort on the walk back.

  Touching the food with a fingertip, I discover it’s lukewarm, so not long abandoned. A saddle lies discarded beside a leather patch, suggesting an interrupted repair. I can only assume whoever lives here has rushed out to deal with some emergency, and I consider waiting for them to return. It’s not an unpleasant refuge, though the air’s thick with burning coal and smells rather strongly of polish and horsehair. Of greater concern is the cottage’s isolation. Until I know who attacked me last night, everybody in Blackheath must be treated with caution, including the stable master. I will not meet him alone, if it can be helped.

  A work roster hangs on a nail by the door, a pencil dangling from a piece of string beside it. Taking it down, I turn the sheet over intending to leave a message requesting a ride to the village, but there’s a note already written there.

  Don’t leave Blackheath, more lives than your own are depending on you. Meet me by the mausoleum in the family graveyard at 10:20 p.m. and I’ll explain everything. Oh, and don’t forget your gloves. They’re burning.

  Love, Anna

  Smoke fills my nostrils, and I swing around to see my gloves smoldering above the fire. Snatching them down, I stamp the ashes out, eyes wide and heart pounding, as I search the cottage for some indication as to how the trick might have come to pass.

  Why don’t you ask Anna when you meet her tonight?

  “Because I saw her die,” I snarl at the empty room, embarrassing myself.

  Recovering my composure, I read the note once more, the truth of it no nearer at hand. If Anna’s survived, she’d have to be a cruel creature to play such games with me. More likely, after word of this morning’s misadventure spread around the house, somebody has decided to play a trick on me. Why else would they choose such a sinister location and hour for the meeting?

  Is this somebody a fortune-teller?

  “It’s a foul day. Anybody could have predicted I’d dry my gloves once I arrived.”

  The cottage listens politely, but even to my ears that reasoning’s desperate. Almost as desperate as my urge to discredit the message. So defective is my character, I’d happily abandon any hope of Anna being alive in order to flee this place with a clean conscience.

  Feeling miserable, I pull on my singed gloves. I need to think, and walking seems to help.

  Heading around the stables, I come upon an overgrown paddock, the grass grown waist high and the fences so badly rotted they’ve all but collapsed. On the far side, two figures huddle beneath an umbrella. They must be following a hidden path as they’re moving easily, arm in arm. Heaven knows how they spot me, but one of them raises a hand in greeting. I return the gesture, sparking a brief moment of distant kinship, before they disappear into the gloom of the trees.

  Lowering my hand, I make my decision.

  I told myself that a dead woman could lay no claim to me, and that’s why I was free to leave Blackheath. It was a coward’s reason, but at least it had a ring of truth to it.

  If Anna’s alive, that’s no longer the case.

  I failed her this morning, and it’s all I’ve thought about since. Now that I have a second chance, I cannot turn my back. She’s in danger and I can help, so I must. If that’s not enough to keep me at Blackheath, I don’t deserve the life I’m so fearful of losing. Come what may, I must be in the graveyard at 10:20 p.m.

  6

  “Somebody wants me dead.”

  It feels strange to say it out loud, as though I’m calling fate down upon myself, but if I’m to survive until this evening, I’ll need to face down this fear. I refuse to spend any more time cowering in my bedroom. Not while there are so many questions to answer.

  I’m walking back to the house, scouring the trees for any sign of danger, my mind running back and forth across the morning’s events. Over and over again, I wonder about the slashes on my arm and the man in the plague doctor costume, the footman and this mysterious Anna, who now appears to be alive and well, and leaving enigmatic notes for me to find.

  How did she survive in the forest?

  I suppose she could have written the note earlier this morning, before she was attacked, but then how did she know I’d be in that cottage, drying my gloves over the fire? I didn’t tell anybody about my plans. Did I speak out loud? Could she have been watching?

  Shaking my head, I take a step away from that particular rabbit hole.

  I’m looking too far forward, when I need to be looking back. Michael told me that a maid delivered a note to the dinner table last night, and that was the last he saw of me.

  Everything started with that.

  You need to find the servant who brought the note.

  I’m barely through Blackheath’s doors when voices pull me toward the drawing room, which is empty aside from a couple of young maids clearing the lunchtime detritus onto two huge trays. They work side by side, heads bowed in hushed gossip, oblivious to my presence at the door.

  “…Henrietta said she’d gone mad,” says one girl, brown curls tumbling free of her white cap.

  “It’s not right to say that about Lady Helena, Beth,” scolds the older girl. “She’s always been good to us, treated us fair, hasn’t she?”

  Beth weighs this fact against the wealth of her gossip.

  “Henrietta told me she was raving,” she continues. “Screaming at Lord Peter. Said it was probably on account of being back in Blackheath after what happened to Master Thomas. Does funny things to a person, she said.”

  “She says a lot of things, does Henrietta. I’d put them out of your mind. Not like we haven’t heard them fighting before, is it? Besides, if it were serious, Lady Helena would tell Mrs. Drudge, wouldn’t she? Always does.”

  “Mrs. Drudge can’t find her,” says Beth triumphantly, the case against Lady Helena well and truly proven.
“Hasn’t seen her all morning, but—”

  My entrance slaps the words out of the air, the maids attempting startled curtsies that swiftly devolve into a tangle of arms, legs, and blushes. Waving away their confusion, I ask after the servants who served dinner last night, prompting only blank stares and mumbled apologies. I’m on the verge of giving up, when Beth ventures that Evelyn Hardcastle is entertaining the ladies in the sunroom toward the rear of the house and would certainly know more.

  After a brief exchange, one of them leads me through a communicating door into the study where I met Daniel and Michael this morning. There’s a library beyond it, which we cross briskly, exiting the room into a dim connecting passage. Darkness stirs to greet us, a black cat drifting out from beneath a small telephone table, its tail dusting the wooden floor. On silent feet, it pads up the corridor, slipping through a door left slightly ajar at the far end. A warm, orange light is seeping through the gap, voices and music on the other side.

  “Miss Evelyn’s in there, sir,” says the maid.

  Her tone succinctly describes both the room and Evelyn Hardcastle, neither of which she seems to hold in particularly high regard.

  Brushing off her scorn, I open the door, the heat of the room hitting me full in the face. The air is heavy, sweet with perfume, stirred only by a scratchy music that soars and glides and stuns itself against the walls. Large leaded windows look out over the garden at the rear of the house, gray clouds piling up beyond a cupola. Chairs and chaise longues have been gathered around the fire, young women draped over them like wilted orchids, smoking cigarettes and clinging to their drinks. The mood in the room is one of restless agitation rather than celebration. About the only sign of life comes from an oil painting on the far wall, where an old woman with coals for eyes sits in judgment of the room, her expression conveying her distaste for this gathering.

  “My grandmother, Heather Hardcastle,” says a woman from behind me. “It’s not a flattering picture, but then she wasn’t a flattering woman by all accounts.”