The 7½ Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle

by Stuart Turton

  “Really, what did she want?”

  “She didn’t say.”

  “Well, how does she know you?”

  “We didn’t get around to it.”

  “Is she a friend?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Profitable meeting then?” he says slyly, replacing the poker on its stand. “Speaking of which, we should get you into a bath. Dinner’s at 8:00 p.m., and you’re beginning to smell a bit ripe. Let’s not give people any more reason to dislike you than they already do.”

  He moves to help me up, but I wave him back.

  “No, I need you to shadow Evelyn for the rest of the evening,” I say, struggling to raise myself from the chair. Gravity, it seems, is opposed to the idea.

  “To what end?” he asks, frowning at me.

  “Somebody’s planning to murder her,” I say.

  “Yes, and that somebody could be me for all you know,” he says blandly, as though suggesting nothing more important than a fondness for music halls.

  The idea strikes me with such force, I drop back into the seat I’ve half escaped, the wood cracking beneath me. Ravencourt trusts Cunningham completely, a trait I’ve adopted without question despite knowing he has a terrible secret. He’s as much a suspect as anybody.

  Cunningham taps his nose.

  “Now you’re thinking,” he says, sliding my arm over his shoulders. “I’ll find Bell when I’ve got you into the bath, but to my mind, you’re better off shadowing Evelyn yourself when you’re next able. In the meantime, I’ll stick by your side so you can rule me out as a suspect. My life’s complicated enough without having eight of you chasing me around the house accusing me of murder.”

  “You seem well versed in this sort of thing,” I say, trying to scrutinize his reaction from the corner of my eye.

  “Well, I wasn’t always a valet,” he says.

  “And what were you?”

  “I don’t believe that information was part of our little arrangement,” he says, a grimace on his face as he tries to lift me.

  “Then why don’t you tell me what you were doing in Helena Hardcastle’s bedroom?” I suggest. “You smeared the ink while you were rifling through her day planner. I noticed it on your hands this morning.”

  He lets out a whistle of astonishment.

  “You have been busy.” His voice hardens. “Strange you haven’t heard about my scandalous relationship to the Hardcastles, then. Oh, I wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise for you. Ask around. It’s not exactly a secret, and I’m sure somebody will get a thrill from telling you.”

  “Did you break in, Cunningham?” I demand. “Two revolvers were taken, and a page torn from her day planner.”

  “I didn’t have to break in. I was invited,” he says. “Couldn’t tell you about those revolvers, but the day planner was whole when I left. Saw it myself. I suppose I could explain what I was doing there, and why I’m not your man, but, if you’ve got any sense, you wouldn’t believe a word of it, so you might as well find out for yourself. That way you can be certain it’s the truth.”

  We rise in a damp cloud of sweat, Cunningham dabbing the perspiration from my forehead before handing me my cane.

  “Tell me, Cunningham,” I say. “Why does a man like you settle for a job like this?”

  That brings him up short, his normally implacable face darkening.

  “Life doesn’t always leave you a choice in how you live it,” he says grimly. “Now, come on. We’ve a murder to attend.”

  19

  The evening meal is lit by candelabra, and beneath their flickering glow lies a graveyard of chicken bones, fish spines, lobster shells, and pork fat. The curtains remain undrawn despite the darkness beyond, granting a view toward the forest being whipped by the storm.

  I can hear myself eating, the crush and the crack, the squelch and the gulp. Gravy runs down my chins, grease smearing my lips with a ghastly, shimmering shine. Such is the ferocity of my appetite that I leave myself panting between mouthfuls. The other diners are watching this hideous performance from the corner of their eyes, trying to maintain their conversations even as the decorum of the evening crunches between my teeth. How can a man know such hunger? What hollowness must he be trying to fill?

  Michael Hardcastle’s sitting to the left of me, though we’ve barely spoken two words since I arrived. He’s spent most of his time in hushed conversation with Evelyn, heads bowed close, their affection impenetrable. For a woman who knows herself to be in danger, she seems remarkably unperturbed.

  Perhaps she believes herself protected.

  “Have you ever traveled to the Orient, my Lord Ravencourt?”

  If only the seat to my right was similarly oblivious to my presence. It’s filled by Commander Clifford Herrington, a balding former naval officer in a uniform glittering with valor. After an hour spent in his company, I’m struggling to reconcile the man with the deeds. Perhaps it’s the weak chin and averted gaze, the sense of imminent apology. More likely it’s the scotch sloshing around behind his eyes.

  Herrington’s spent the evening tossing around tedious stories without bothering to indulge in the courtesy of exaggeration, and now it appears our conversation is washing up on the shores of Asia. I sip my wine to cover my agitation, discovering the taste to be peculiarly piquant. My grimace causes Herrington to lean over conspiratorially.

  “I had the same reaction,” he says, hitting me full in the face with his warm, alcohol-soaked breath. “I quizzed a servant on the vintage. Might as well have asked the glass I was drinking it out of.”

  The candelabra gives his face a ghoulish yellow cast, and there’s a drunken sheen to his eyes that’s repellent. Putting my wine down, I cast about for some distraction. There must be fifteen people around the table, words of French, Spanish, and German seasoning otherwise dull conversational fare. Expensive jewelry clinks against glass, cutlery rattles as waiters remove plates. The mood in the room is somber, the scattered conversations hushed and urgent, spoken across a dozen empty seats. It’s an eerie sight, mournful even, and though the absences are notable, everybody seems to be going out of their way to avoid noting them. I can’t tell whether it’s a matter of good breeding, or there’s some explanation I’ve missed.

  I search for familiar faces to ask, but Cunningham’s gone to meet Bell and there’s no sign of Millicent Derby, Doctor Dickie, or even the repulsive Ted Stanwin. Aside from Evelyn and Michael, the only other person I recognize is Daniel Coleridge, who’s sitting near a thin fellow at the far end of the table, the two of them eyeing the other guests from behind their half-filled wineglasses. Somebody’s taken exception to that handsome face of Daniel’s, adorning it with a split lip and a swollen eye that will be frightful tomorrow, assuming tomorrow ever actually arrives. The injury doesn’t appear to be bothering him unduly, though it unsettles me. Until this moment, I’d considered Daniel immune to the machinations of this place, assuming his knowledge of the future allowed him to simply sidestep misfortune. Seeing him brought so low is like seeing the cards spilling out of a magician’s sleeve.

  His dining companion thumps the table in delight at one of Daniel’s jokes, drawing my attention. I feel as though I know this fellow, but I can’t place him.

  A future host perhaps.

  I certainly hope not. He’s a smear of a man with oiled hair and a pale, pinched face, his manner that of somebody who finds everything in the room beneath him. I sense cunning in him, cruelty too, though I can’t understand from where I’m gathering these impressions.

  “They have such outlandish remedies,” says Clifford Herrington, raising his voice slightly to reclaim my attention.

  I blink at him in confusion.

  “The Orientals, Lord Ravencourt,” he says, smiling amiably.

  “Of course,” I say. “No, I’m afraid I’ve never visited.”

  “Incredible pl
ace, incredible. They have these hospitals…”

  I raise my hand to attract a servant. If I can’t be spared the conversation, I can be at least spared the wine. One mercy may yet yield another.

  “I was speaking with Doctor Bell last night about some of their opiates,” he continues.

  Make it end…

  “Is the food to your satisfaction, Lord Ravencourt?” says Michael Hardcastle, neatly sidling into the conversation.

  I turn my eyes to meet him, gratitude flooding forth.

  A glass of red wine is half raised to his lips, mischief sparkling in those green eyes. It’s a stark contrast to Evelyn, whose gaze could tear strips from my skin. She’s dressed in a blue evening gown and tiara, her blond hair pinned up in curls, exposing the lavish diamond necklace draped around her neck. It’s the same outfit, minus an overcoat and Wellington boots, that she’ll be wearing when she accompanies Sebastian Bell into the graveyard later this evening.

  Dabbing my lips, I bow my head.

  “It’s excellent. I’m just sorry there aren’t more people to enjoy it,” I say, gesturing toward the empty seats scattered around the table. “I was particularly looking forward to meeting Mr. Sutcliffe.”

  And his plague doctor costume, I think to myself.

  “Well, you’re in luck,” interrupts Clifford Herrington. “Old Sutcliffe’s a good friend of mine. Perhaps I can introduce you at the ball.”

  “Assuming he makes it,” says Michael. “He and my father will have reached the back of the liquor cabinet by now. Doubtless Mother’s trying to rouse them as we speak.”

  “Is Lady Hardcastle coming tonight?” I ask. “I hear she hasn’t been seen much today.”

  “Returning to Blackheath has been hard on her,” says Michael, lowering his voice as though sharing a confidence. “No doubt she’s spent the day exorcising a few ghosts before the party. Rest assured, she’ll be here.”

  We’re interrupted by one of the waiters leaning down to whisper in Michael’s ear. The young man’s expression immediately darkens, and as the waiter retreats, he passes the message to his sister, the gloom washing over her face as well. They look at each other a moment, squeezing hands, before Michael raps on his wineglass with a fork, and gets to his feet. He seems to unfurl as he stands so that he now appears unfeasibly tall, reaching well beyond the dim light of the candelabra, forcing him to speak from the shadows.

  The room is silent, all eyes upon him.

  “I’d rather hoped my parents might make an appearance and save me from making a toast,” he says. “Clearly they’re planning some grand entrance at the ball, which knowing my parents will be very grand indeed.”

  Muted laughter is met with a shy smile.

  My gaze skips across the guests, running straight into Daniel’s amused stare. Dabbing his lips with a napkin, he flicks his eyes toward Michael, instructing me to pay attention.

  He knows what’s coming.

  “My father wanted to thank you for attending tonight, and I’m sure he’ll do so in great detail later,” says Michael.

  There’s a quaver in his voice, the slightest hint of discomfort. “In his stead, I’d like to extend my personal thanks to each of you for coming and to welcome my sister, Evelyn, back home after her time in Paris.”

  She reflects his adoration, the two of them sharing a smile that has nothing to do with this room, or these people. Even so, glasses are raised, reciprocal thanks washing back along the table.

  Michael waits for the commotion to die down, then continues. “She’ll soon be embarking on a brand-new adventure, and…” He pauses, eyes on the table. “Well, she’s going to be married to Lord Cecil Ravencourt.”

  Silence engulfs us, all eyes turning in my direction. Shock becomes confusion then disgust; their faces a perfect reflection of my own feelings. There must be thirty years and a thousand meals between Ravencourt and Evelyn, whose hostility this morning is now explained. If Lord and Lady Hardcastle really do blame their daughter for Thomas’s death, their punishment is exquisite. They plan to steal all the years from her that were stolen from Thomas.

  I look over at Evelyn, but she’s fidgeting with a napkin and biting her lip, her former humor having fled. A bead of sweat is rolling down Michael’s forehead, the wine shaking in his glass. He can’t even look at his sister, and she can’t look anywhere else. Never has a man found a tablecloth so engrossing as I do now.

  “Lord Ravencourt’s an old friend of the family,” says Michael mechanically, soldiering on into the silence. “I can’t think of anybody who’d take better care of my sister.”

  Finally, he looks at Evelyn, meeting her glistening eyes.

  “Evie, I think you wanted to say something.”

  She nods, the napkin strangled in her hands.

  All eyes are fixed on her, nobody moving. Even the servants are staring, standing by the walls, holding dirty plates and fresh bottles of wine. Finally, Evelyn looks up from her lap, meeting the expectant faces arranged before her. Her eyes are wild, like an animal caught in a trap. Whatever words she prepared, they desert her immediately, replaced with a wretched sob that drives her from the room, Michael chasing after her.

  Among the rustle of bodies turning in my direction, I seek out Daniel. The amusement of earlier has passed, his gaze now fixed on the window. I wonder how many times he’s watched the slow blush rise up my cheeks; if he even remembers how this shame felt. Is that why he can’t look at me now? Will I do any better, when my time comes?

  Abandoned at the end of the table, my instinct is to flee with Michael and Evelyn, but I might as well wish for the moon to reach down and pluck me from this chair. Silence swirls until Clifford Herrington gets to his feet, candlelight glinting off his naval medals as he raises his glass.

  “To many happy years,” he says, seemingly without irony.

  One by one, every glass is raised and the toast repeated in a hollow chant.

  At the end of the table, Daniel winks at me.

  20

  The dining hall has long emptied of guests, the servants having finally cleared away the last of the platters when Cunningham comes to collect me. He’s been standing outside for over an hour, but every time he tried to enter, I’ve waved him back. After the humiliation of dinner, having anybody see my valet help me from my seat would be an indignity too far. When he does stroll in, there’s a smirk on his face. No doubt word of my shaming has run laps around the house: fat old Ravencourt and his runaway bride.

  “Why didn’t you tell me about Ravencourt’s marriage to Evelyn?” I demand, stopping him in his tracks.

  “To humiliate you,” he says.

  I stiffen, my cheeks reddening, as he meets my gaze.

  His eyes are green, the pupils uneven, like splashed ink. I see conviction enough to raise armies and burn churches. God help Ravencourt should this boy ever decide to stop being his footstool.

  “Ravencourt is a vain man, easy to embarrass,” continues Cunningham in a level voice. “I noticed you’d inherited this quality, and I made sport of it.”

  “Why?” I ask, stunned by his honesty.

  “You blackmailed me,” he says, shrugging. “You didn’t think I’d take that lying down, did you?”

  I blink at him for a few seconds before laughter erupts out of me. It’s a belly laugh, the rolls of my flesh shaking in appreciation at his audacity. I humiliated him, and he handed back an equal weight of that misery, using nothing more than patience. What man wouldn’t be charmed by such a feat?

  Cunningham frowns at me, his eyebrows knitting together.

  “You’re not angry?” he asks.

  “I suspect my anger is of little concern to you,” I say, wiping a tear from my eye. “Regardless, I threw the first stone. I can’t complain if a boulder comes back at me.”

  My mirth prompts an echoing smile in my companion.

&nbs
p; “It appears there are some differences between yourself and Lord Ravencourt, after all,” he says, measuring each word.

  “Not least a name,” I say, holding out my hand. “Mine is Aiden Bishop.”

  He shakes it firmly, his smile deepening.

  “Very good to make your acquaintance, Aiden. I’m Charles.”

  “Well, I have no intention of telling anybody your secret, Charles, and I apologize for threatening it. I wish only to save Evelyn Hardcastle’s life and escape Blackheath, and I don’t have a lot of time to do either. I’ll need a friend.”

  “Probably more than one,” he says, cleaning his glasses on his sleeve. “In all honesty, this tale’s so peculiar I’m not sure I could walk away now, even if I wished to.”

  “Shall we go, then?” I say. “By Daniel’s reckoning, Evelyn will be murdered at the party at 11:00 p.m. If we’re to save her, that’s where we have to be.”

  The ballroom is on the other side of the entrance hall, Cunningham supporting me at the elbow as we walk there. Carriages are arriving from the village, piling up on the gravel outside. Horses nicker, doormen opening the doors for costumed guests who flutter out like canaries released from their cages.

  “Why is Evelyn being compelled to marry Ravencourt?” I whisper to Cunningham.

  “Money,” he says. “Lord Hardcastle’s got an eye for a bad investment, and not nearly enough intelligence to learn from his mistakes. Rumor suggests he’s driving the family toward bankruptcy. In return for Evelyn’s hand, Lord and Lady Hardcastle will receive a rather generous dowry and Ravencourt’s promise to buy Blackheath in a couple of years for a tidy sum.”

  “So that’s it,” I say. “The Hardcastles are hard up, and they’re pawning their daughter off like old jewelry.”

  My thoughts flock back to this morning’s chess game, the smile on Evelyn’s face as I winced out of the sunroom. Ravencourt isn’t buying a bride, he’s buying a bottomless well of spite. I wonder if the old fool understands what he’s getting into.