He hands me the drink and sits down on the edge of the table opposite, the encyclopedia now lying open beside him.
“I believe you were looking for me,” says Daniel, blowing smoke from the corner of his mouth.
He sounds different through Ravencourt’s ears, the softness shed like an old skin. Before I can answer him, he begins reading from the encyclopedia.
“It’s logical to believe that many of you have been here longer than I and possess knowledge of this house, our purpose here and our captor, the Plague Doctor, that I do not.” He closes the book. “You called and I answered.”
I search the shrewd eyes fixed upon me.
“You’re like me,” I say.
“I am you, just four days ahead,” he says, pausing to let my mind ram itself against the idea. “Daniel Coleridge is your final host. Our soul, his body, if you can make any sense of that. Unfortunately, it’s his mind, too.” He taps his forehead with his forefinger. “Which means you and I think differently.”
He holds up the encyclopedia.
“Take this, for example,” he says, letting it drop on the table. “Coleridge would never have thought to write to our other hosts asking for help. It was a clever idea, very logical, very Ravencourt.”
His cigarette flares in the gloom, illuminating the hollow smile beneath. This is not the Daniel of yesterday. There’s something colder, harder in his gaze, something trying to pry me open so it might peer inside. I don’t know how I didn’t see it when I was Bell. Ted Stanwin did, when he backed down in the drawing room. The thug’s cleverer than I gave him credit for.
“So you’ve already been me…this me, Ravencourt, I mean?” I say.
“And those who follow him,” he says. “They’re a difficult bunch. You should enjoy Ravencourt while you can.”
“Is that why you’re here? To warn me about my other hosts?”
The notion seems to amuse him, a smile touching his lips before drifting away with the cigarette smoke.
“No, I’ve come because I remember sitting where you are and being told what I’m about to tell you.”
“Which is?”
There’s an ashtray on the far side of the table, and he reaches across, drawing it toward him.
“The Plague Doctor has asked you to solve a murder, but he didn’t mention the victim. It’s Evelyn Hardcastle—that’s who’s going to die at the ball tonight,” he says, tapping ash into the ashtray.
“Evelyn?” I say, struggling to sit upright, splashing a little of my forgotten drink across my leg. Panic has hold of me, a terror of my friend being hurt, a woman who went out of her way to be kind to me even as her own parents filled the house with cruelty. “We must warn her!” I demand.
“To what end?” asks Daniel, dousing my alarm with his calm. “We cannot solve the murder of somebody who isn’t dead, and without that answer, we cannot escape.”
“You would let her die?” I say, shocked by his callousness.
“I’ve lived this day eight times over, and she’s died every evening regardless of my actions,” he says, running his finger along the edge of the table. “Whatever happened yesterday, it will happen tomorrow and the day after. I promise you, however you may consider interfering, you’ve already tried and it’s already failed.”
“She’s my friend, Daniel,” I say, surprised at the depth of my feeling.
“And mine,” he says, leaning closer. “But every time I’ve tried to change today’s events, I’ve ended up becoming the architect of whatever misery I was trying to prevent. Believe me, trying to save Evelyn is a waste of time. Circumstances beyond my control brought me here, and very soon, sooner than you can imagine, you’ll find yourself sitting where I am, explaining it as I have, and wishing you still had the luxury of Ravencourt’s hope. The future isn’t a warning my friend—it’s a promise—and it won’t be broken by us. That’s the nature of the trap we’re caught in.”
Rising from the table, he wrestles with a window’s rusty handle and pushes it open. His eyes are fixed on some distant point, a task four days beyond my comprehension. He has no interest in me, my fears or hopes. I’m just part of some old story he’s tired of telling.
“It makes no sense,” I say, hoping to remind him of Evelyn’s qualities, the reasons she’s worth saving. “Evelyn’s kind and gentle, and she’s been away for nineteen years. Who’d want to harm her now?”
Even as I say it, a suspicion begins to dawn on me. In the forest yesterday, Evelyn mentioned that her parents had never forgiven her for letting Thomas wander off alone. She blamed herself for his murder at Carver’s hands, and, worst of all, so did they. Their ire was so great, she believed they were plotting some terrible surprise at the ball. Could this be it? Could they really hate their own daughter enough to murder her? If so, my meeting with Helena Hardcastle could prove fortuitous indeed.
“I don’t know,” says Daniel, a note of irritation in his voice. “There are so many secrets in this house, it can be difficult to pick the right one from the pile. If you heed my advice, though, you’ll start looking for Anna immediately. Eight hosts may sound a great deal, but this task needs double that number. You’re going to need all the help you can get.”
“Anna,” I exclaim, remembering the woman in the carriage with the butler. “I thought she was an acquaintance of Bell’s?”
He takes a long drag of his cigarette, considering me through narrowed eyes. I can see him sifting through the future, working out how much to tell me.
“She’s trapped here like us,” he says eventually. “She’s a friend, as much as somebody can be in our situation. You should find her quickly, before the footman does. He’s hunting us both.”
“He left a dead rabbit in my room—Bell’s room, I mean—last night.”
“That’s only the beginning,” he says. “He means to kill us, though not before he’s had his fun.”
My blood runs cold, my stomach nauseated. I’d suspected as much, but to hear the fact laid out so baldly is something else entirely. Closing my eyes, I let a long breath out through my nose, releasing my fear with it. It’s a habit of Ravencourt’s, a way of clearing the mind, though I couldn’t say how I know that.
When I open my eyes again, I’m calm.
“Who is he?” I ask, impressed by the strength in my voice.
“I’ve no idea,” he says, blowing smoke into the wind. “I’d call him the devil if I thought this place anything so mundane as hell. He’s picking us off one by one, making sure there’s no competition when he delivers his answer to the Plague Doctor tonight.”
“Does he have other bodies, other hosts, like us?”
“That’s the curious thing,” he says. “I don’t believe he does, but he doesn’t seem to need them. He knows the faces of every one of our hosts, and he strikes when we’re at our weakest. Every mistake I’ve made, he’s been waiting.”
“How do we stop a man who knows our every step before we do?”
“If I knew that, there’d be no need of this conversation,” he says irritably. “Be careful. He haunts this house like a bloody ghost, and if he catches you alone…well, don’t let him catch you alone.”
Daniel’s tone is dark, his expression brooding. Whoever this footman is, he has taken hold of my future self in a way that’s more unsettling than all the warnings I’ve heard. It’s not hard to understand why. The Plague Doctor gave me eight days to solve Evelyn’s murder and eight hosts to do it. Because Sebastian Bell slept past midnight, he’s now lost to me.
There goes day one.
My second and third hosts were the butler and Donald Davies. The woman in the carriage didn’t mention Davies, which seems a curious omission, but I’m assuming the same rules apply to him as the butler. They both have plenty of hours left until midnight, but one of them is severely injured and the other asleep on a road, miles from Blackheath. They’
re practically useless. So much for days two and three.
I’m already on my fourth day, and Ravencourt is proving a burden rather than a boon. I don’t know what to expect from my remaining four hosts—though Daniel seems capable enough—but it feels as though the Plague Doctor is stacking the deck against me. If the footman truly knows my every weakness, then God help me, because there’s plenty to exploit.
“Tell me everything you’ve already learned about Evelyn’s death,” I say. “If we work together, we can solve it before the footman has a chance to harm us.”
“The only thing I can tell you is that she dies promptly at 11:00 p.m. every single night.”
“Surely, you must know more than that.”
“A great deal more, but I can’t risk sharing the information,” he says, glancing at me. “All my plans are built around things you’re going to do. If I tell you something that stops you doing those things, I can’t be certain they’ll play out the same way. You might blunder into the middle of an event settled in my favor, or be elsewhere when you should have been distracting the fellow whose room I’m sneaking into. One wrong word could leave all my plans in ruins. This day must proceed as it always does, for your sake as much as mine.” He rubs his forehead, all of his weariness seeming to pour out of the gesture. “I’m sorry, Ravencourt. The safest course is for you to go about your investigation without interference from me or any of the others.”
“Very well,” I say, hoping to keep my disappointment from him. It’s a foolish notion, of course. He’s me. He remembers this disappointment for himself. “But the fact you’re counseling me to solve this murder suggests you trust the Plague Doctor,” I say. “Have you uncovered his identity?”
“Not yet,” he says. “And trust is too strong a word. He has his own purpose in this house, I’m certain of it, but for the moment, I can’t see any other course beyond doing as he demands.”
“And has he told you why this is happening to us?” I ask.
We’re interrupted by a commotion at the door, our heads turning toward Ravencourt’s valet, who’s halfway out of his coat and trying to extricate himself from the clutches of a long purple scarf. He’s wind tussled and slightly out of breath, his cheeks swollen with cold.
“I received a message that you required me urgently, my lord,” he says, still tugging at the scarf.
“My doing, old love,” says Daniel, deftly slipping back into character. “You’ve a busy day ahead, and I thought Cunningham here could be of use. Speaking of busy days, I must be going myself. I’ve got a midday appointment with Sebastian Bell.”
“I won’t leave Evelyn to her fate, Daniel,” I say.
“Neither did I,” he says, flicking his cigarette into the verge and shutting the window. “But fate found her anyway. You should prepare yourself for that.”
He’s gone in a few long strides, the library filling with the burble of voices and the loud clatter of cutlery as he tugs open the door on his way to the study and passes through into the drawing room. The guests are gathering for lunch, which means Stanwin will soon threaten the maid, Lucy Harper, while Sebastian Bell watches from the window, feeling himself a fraction of a man. A hunt will depart, Evelyn will collect a note from the well, and blood will be spilt in a graveyard while two friends wait for a woman who’ll never arrive. If Daniel’s right, there’s little I can do to disrupt the day’s course, though I’ll be damned if I’m going to lie down before it. The Plague Doctor’s puzzle may be my way out of this house, but I’ll not step over Evelyn’s body to escape. I mean to save her, no matter the cost.
“How can I be of service, my lord?”
“Pass me paper, a pen, and some ink, would you? I need to write something down.”
“Of course,” he says, retrieving the items from his attaché case.
My hands are too clumsy for flowing penmanship, but amidst the smeared ink and ugly blots, the message reads clearly enough.
I check the clock. It’s 11:56 a.m. Almost time.
After airing the paper to dry the ink, I fold it neatly and press the creases down, handing it to Cunningham.
“Take this,” I say, noticing the traces of greasy black dirt on his hands as he reaches for the letter. His skin’s pink with scrubbing, but the dirt’s etched into the whorls of his fingertips. Aware of my attention, he takes the letter and clasps his hands behind his back.
“I need you to go directly to the drawing room where they’re serving lunch,” I say. “Stay there and observe events as they unfold, then read this letter and return to me.”
Confusion paints his face. “My lord?”
“We’re about to have a very strange day, Cunningham, and I’m going to need your absolute trust.”
I wave away his protests, gesturing for him to help me out of the seat.
“Do as I ask,” I say, getting to my feet with a grunt. “Then return here and wait for me.”
As Cunningham heads for the drawing room, I retrieve my cane and make my way to the sunroom in the hopes of finding Evelyn. Being early, it’s only half full, ladies pouring themselves drinks from the bar, wilting over chairs and chaise longues. Everything seems to be a very great effort for them, as though the pale flush of youth were a burden, their energy exhausting. They’re muttering about Evelyn, a ripple of ugly laughter directed toward the chess table in the corner, where a game is laid out before her. She has no opponent, her concentration fixed on outwitting herself. Whatever discomfort they’re hoping to heap upon her, she seems oblivious to it.
“Evie, can we speak?” I say, hobbling over.
She lifts her head slowly, taking a moment to register me. As yesterday, her blond hair is tied up into a ponytail, tugging her features into a gaunt, rather severe expression. Unlike yesterday, it doesn’t soften.
“No, I don’t think so, Lord Ravencourt,” she says, returning her attention to the board. “I’ve quite enough unpleasant things to do today, without adding to the list.”
Hushed laughter turns my blood to dust. I crumble from the inside out.
“Please, Evie, it’s—”
“It’s Miss Hardcastle, Lord Ravencourt,” she says pointedly. “Manners maketh man, not his bank account.”
A pit of humiliation opens in my stomach. This is Ravencourt’s worst nightmare. Standing in this room, a dozen pairs of eyes digging at me, I feel like a Christian waiting for the first rocks to be thrown.
Evelyn ponders me, sweating and shaking. Her eyes narrow, glittering.
“Tell you what: play me for it,” she says, tapping the chessboard. “You win and we’ll have a conversation; I win and you leave me be for the rest of the day. How would that suit?”
Knowing it’s a trap, but in no position to argue, I wipe the sweat from my brow and wedge myself into the small chair opposite her, much to the delight of the assembled ladies. She could have forced me into a guillotine and I would have been more comfortable. I spill over the sides of the seat, the low back offering so little support that I tremble with the effort of keeping myself upright.
Unmoved by my suffering, Evelyn crosses her arms on the table and pushes a pawn across the board. I follow it with a rook, the pattern of the middle game weaving itself in my mind. Although we’re evenly matched, discomfort is digging holes in my concentration, my tactics proving too ramshackle to overpower Evelyn. The best I can do is prolong the match, and after half an hour of counters and feints, my patience is exhausted.
“Your life is in danger,” I blurt out.
Evelyn’s fingers pause on her pawn, a little tremor of her hand sounding loud as a bell. Her eyes skirt my face, then those of the ladies behind us, searching for anybody who might have heard. They’re frantic, working hard to scrub the moment from history.
She already knows.
“I thought we had a deal, Lord Ravencourt,” she interrupts, her expression hardening once mor
e.
“But—”
“Would you prefer I leave?” she says, her glare strangling any further attempts at conversation.
Move after move follows, but I’m so perplexed by her response, I pay little heed to strategy. Whatever’s going to happen tonight, Evelyn seems to be aware of it, and yet her greater fear seems to be that somebody else will find out. For the life of me, I can’t imagine why that would be, and it’s clear she’s not going to open her heart to Ravencourt. Her disdain for this man is absolute, which means if I’m to save her life, I must either put on a face she likes or press forward without her help. It’s an infuriating turn of events, and I’m desperately trying to find a way of reframing my argument when Sebastian Bell arrives at the door, provoking the queerest of sensations within me. By any measure this man is me, but watching him creep into the room like a mouse along a skirting board, I struggle to believe it. His back is stooped, his head low, arms stiff by his sides. Furtive glances scout every step, his world seemingly filled with sharp edges.
“My grandmother, Heather Hardcastle,” says Evelyn, watching him examine the portrait on the wall. “It’s not a flattering picture, but then she wasn’t a flattering woman by all accounts.”
“My apologies,” says Bell. “I was—”
Their conversation proceeds exactly as it did yesterday, her interest in this frail creature prompting a pang of jealousy, though that’s not my principal concern. Bell’s repeating my day exactly, and yet he believes himself to be making his choices freely, as I did. Likely then I’m blindly following a course plotted by Daniel, which makes me what…an echo, a memory or just a piece of driftwood caught in the current?
Flip over the chessboard. Change this moment. Prove yourself unique.
My hand reaches out, but the thought of Evelyn’s reaction, her disdain, the laughter of the assembled ladies, is too much. Shame cripples me, and I jerk my hand back. There’ll be further opportunities, I need to keep watch for them.
The 7½ Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle Page 10
