The 7½ Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle

by Stuart Turton

  “Mrs. Derby,” he says, drawing alongside us. “Broken any hearts this morning?”

  “They don’t even quiver these days, Mr. Coleridge. More’s the pity.” There’s something cautious in her tone, as if she’s crossing a bridge she feels certain will break. “What disreputable business brings you out on such a terrible morning?”

  “I’ve a favor to ask your son, and I assure you, it’s entirely aboveboard.”

  “Well, that’s disappointing.”

  “For you and me both.” He looks at me for the first time. “A minute, Derby?”

  We step aside, Millicent doing her best to appear uninterested, while shooting us speculative glances from above her scarf.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  “I’m going after the footman,” he says, that handsome face of his caught somewhere between fear and excitement.

  “How?” I say, immediately taken with the idea.

  “We know he’s going to be in the dining hall tormenting Ravencourt around 1:00 p.m.,” he says. “I propose catching hold of the dog there.”

  Recalling those ghostly steps and that evil laughter is enough to raise goose bumps on my neck, and the thought of finally laying hands on the devil sets fire to my veins. The ferocity of the feeling isn’t far off what Derby felt in the forest, when we were chasing the maid, and it immediately puts me on my guard. I can’t give this host an inch.

  “What’s your scheme?” I say, tempering my enthusiasm. “I was in that room alone. I couldn’t even guess at where he was hiding.”

  “Nor could I, until I got talking to an old friend of the Hardcastles at dinner last night,” he says, drawing me a little farther away from Millicent who’s managed to sidle onto the edge of our conversation. “Turns out there’s a warren of priest tunnels beneath the floorboards. That’s where the footman was hiding, and that’s where we’ll put an end to him.”

  “How?”

  “My new friend tells me there are entrances in the library, drawing room, and gallery. I suggest we each watch an entrance and grab him when he comes out.”

  “Sounds ideal,” I say, struggling to contain Derby’s rising excitement. “I’ll take the library; you take the drawing room. Who’s in the gallery?”

  “Ask Anna,” he says. “But none of us is strong enough to tackle the footman alone. Why don’t you two guard the library, and I’ll round up some of our other hosts to help me with the drawing room and gallery?”

  “Magnificent,” I say, beaming.

  If I didn’t have a hand on Derby’s lead, he’d already be running toward the tunnels with a lantern and a kitchen knife.

  “Good,” he says, lavishing a smile of such affection upon me it’s impossible to imagine how we could ever fail. “Take your position a few minutes before one. With any luck, this will all be over by dinner.”

  He turns to depart, but I catch his arm.

  “Did you tell Anna you’d find a way for both of us to escape if she helped us?” I ask.

  He gazes at me steadily, and I quickly withdraw my hand.

  “Yes,” he says.

  “It’s a lie, isn’t it?” I say. “Only one of us can escape Blackheath.”

  “Let’s call it a potential lie, shall we? I’ve not given up hope of fulfilling our end of the bargain.”

  “You’re my last host. How much hope do you have?”

  “Not a great deal,” he says, his expression softening. “I know you’re fond of her. Believe me, I haven’t forgotten how that felt, but we need her on our side. We won’t escape this house if we have to spend the day looking over our shoulder for both the footman and Anna.”

  “I have to tell her the truth,” I say, aghast at his callous disregard of my friend.

  He stiffens.

  “Do that and you make an enemy of her,” he hisses, looking around to make sure we’re not being overheard. “At which point, any hope of genuinely helping her goes up in smoke.”

  Puffing out his cheeks, he ruffles his hair and smiles at me, agitation leaking out of him like air from a punctured balloon.

  “Do what you think is right,” he says. “But at least wait until we’ve caught the footman.” He checks his watch. “Three more hours, that’s all I’m asking.”

  Our eyes meet, mine doubtful and his appealing. I can’t help but submit.

  “Very well,” I say.

  “You won’t regret it,” he says.

  Squeezing my shoulder, he waves cheerily at Millicent, before striding back toward Blackheath, a man possessed by purpose.

  I turn to find Millicent contemplating me through pursed lips.

  “You have some rotten friends,” she says.

  “I’m a rotten sort of chap,” I respond, holding her gaze, until finally she shakes her head and carries on walking, slowing enough for me to fall in step beside her. We come upon a long greenhouse. Most of the windowpanes are cracked, the plants inside so overgrown they’re bulging against the glass. Millicent peers inside, but the foliage is much too dense. Gesturing for me to follow, we head to the far end, finding the doors locked with a new chain and padlock.

  “Pity,” she says, rattling it futilely. “I used to love coming here when I was younger.”

  “You’ve visited Blackheath before?”

  “I summered here when I was girl. We all did: Cecil Ravencourt, the Curtis twins, Peter Hardcastle, and Helena—that’s how they met. When I married, I brought your brother and sister down. They practically grew up with Evelyn, Michael, and Thomas.”

  She links my arm, continuing our walk.

  “Oh, I used to love those summers,” she says. “Helena was always frightfully jealous of your sister, because Evelyn was so plain. Michael wasn’t much better mind, with that squashed face of his. Thomas was the only one with a dash of beauty and he ended up in that lake, which strikes me as fate kicking the poor woman twice, but there it is. Wasn’t a one of them could measure up to you, my handsome lad,” she says, cupping my cheek.

  “Evelyn turned out all right,” I protest. “She’s quite striking actually.”

  “Really?” says Millicent disbelievingly. “Must have blossomed in Paris, not that I’d know. The girl’s been avoiding me all morning. Like mother, like daughter, I suppose. Explains why Cecil’s circling, though. Vainest man I’ve ever met, which is saying something after fifty years of living with your father.”

  “The Hardcastles hate her, you know. Evelyn, I mean.”

  “Who’s filled you head with that rot?” says Millicent, gripping my arm while she shakes her foot, trying to dislodge some mud from her boot. “Michael adores her. He’s over in Paris almost every month, and from what I understand, they’ve been thick as thieves since she got back. And Peter doesn’t hate her; he’s indifferent. It’s only Helena, and she’s never been quite right since Thomas died. Still comes up here, you know. Every year on the anniversary of his death, she takes a walk around the lake, even talks to him sometimes. Heard her myself.”

  The path has brought us to the reflecting pool. This is where Evelyn will take her life tonight, and as with everything at Blackheath, its beauty is dependent on distance. Viewed from the ballroom, the reflecting pool’s a magnificent sight, a long mirror conveying all the drama of the house. Here and now, though, it’s just a filthy pond, the stone cracked, moss growing thick as carpet on the surface.

  Why take her life here? Why not in her bedroom or the entrance hall?

  “Are you okay, dear?” asks Millicent. “You look a little pale.”

  “I was thinking it’s a shame they’ve let the place go,” I say, hoisting a smile onto my face.

  “Oh, I know, but what could they do?” she says, adjusting her scarf. “After the murder they couldn’t live here, and nobody wants these big piles anymore, especially not when they have Blackheath’s history. Should have left it to
the forest, if you ask me.”

  It’s a maudlin thought, but nothing lingers in Jonathan Derby’s mind for too long, and I’m soon distracted by the preparations for tonight’s party, which I can see through the ballroom windows beside us. Servants and workmen are scrubbing the floors and painting the walls, while maids balance on teetering stepladders with long feather dusters. At the far end of the hall, bored-looking musicians are scraping semiquavers off the surface of their polished instruments as Evelyn Hardcastle points and gesticulates, arranging things from the center of the room. She’s flitting from group to group, touching arms and spreading kindness, making me ache for that afternoon we spent together.

  I search for Madeline Aubert, finding her laughing with Lucy Harper—the maid abused by Stanwin and befriended by Ravencourt—the two of them arranging a chaise longue by the stage. That these two mistreated woman have found each other brings me a small measure of comfort, though it by no means alleviates my guilt over this morning’s events.

  “I told you last time I wouldn’t clean up another of your indiscretions,” says Millicent sharply, her entire body stiff.

  She’s watching me watching the maids. Loathing and love swirl within her eyes, the shape of Derby’s secrets visible in the fog. What I’d only vaguely understood before, now stands in stark relief. Derby’s a rapist, more than once over. They’re all there, held in Millicent’s gaze, every woman he’s attacked, every life he’s destroyed. She carries them all. Whatever darkness lurks inside Jonathan Derby, Millicent tucked it in at night.

  “It’s always the weak ones with you, isn’t it?” she says. “Always the…”

  She falls silent, her mouth hanging open as though the next words simply evaporated on her lips.

  “I have to go,” she says suddenly, squeezing my hand. “I’ve had a very strange thought. I’ll see you at dinner, darling.”

  Without another word, Millicent returns back the way we came, disappearing around the corner of the house. Perplexed, I look back into the ballroom, trying to see what she saw, but everybody’s moved around except for the band. That’s when I notice the chess piece sitting on the window ledge. If I’m not mistaken, it’s the same hand-carved piece I found in Bell’s trunk, speckled with white paint and looking at me through clumsily whittled eyes. There’s a message etched into the dirt on the glass above it.

  Behind you.

  Sure enough, Anna’s waving at me from the edge of the forest, her tiny body shrouded by a gray coat. Pocketing the chess piece, I glance left and right to make sure we’re alone, and then follow her deeper into the trees, beyond Blackheath’s sight. She looks to have been waiting for some time and is dancing from foot to foot to keep warm. Judging by her blue cheeks, it’s not doing the blindest bit of good. Little wonder given her attire. She’s draped in shades of gray, her coat threadbare, her knitted hat thin as gossamer. These are clothes passed down and down and down, patched so many times the original material is long gone.

  “Don’t suppose you’ve got an apple or something,” she says without preamble. “I’m bloody starving.”

  “I’ve got a hip flask,” I say, holding it out to her.

  “Have to do, I suppose,” she says, taking it from me and unscrewing the cap.

  “I thought it was too dangerous for us to meet outside of the gatehouse.”

  “Who told you that?” she asks, wincing as she tastes the flask’s contents.

  “You did,” I say.

  “Will.”

  “What?”

  “I will tell you it isn’t safe for us to meet, but I haven’t yet,” she says. “I couldn’t have. I’ve only been awake for a few hours and I’ve spent most of that time keeping the footman from making pin cushions out of your future hosts. Missed breakfast doing it, too.”

  I blink at her, struggling to stitch together a day being delivered in the wrong order. Not for the first time, I find myself wishing for the speed of Ravencourt’s mind. Working within the confines of Jonathan Derby’s intellect is like stirring croutons into a thick soup.

  Seeing my confusion, she frowns.

  “Do you know about the footman yet? I never know where we’re up to.”

  I very quickly tell her about Bell’s dead rabbit and the ghostly steps that dogged Ravencourt in the dining hall, her expression darkening with each fresh detail.

  “That bastard,” she splutters, when I’m finished. She’s prowling back and forth, her hands clenched and shoulders rolled forward. “Wait until I get my hands on him,” she says, shooting the house a murderous glance.

  “You won’t have to wait long,” I say. “Daniel thinks he’s hiding in some tunnels. There are a few entrances, but we’re going to guard the library. He wants us in there before one.”

  “Or we could slit our own throats and save the footman the bother of killing us,” she says, her tone frank and unimpressed. She’s looking at me as if I’ve lost my mind.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “The footman’s not an idiot,” she says. “If we know where he is, it’s because we’re supposed to know. He’s been one step ahead of us since this started. Wouldn’t surprise me one bit if he’s lying in wait, hoping to trip us up on our own cleverness.”

  “We have to do something!” I protest.

  “We will, but what’s the point of doing something stupid when we can do something smart,” she says patiently. “Listen to me, Aiden. I know you’re desperate, but we’ve got a deal, you and me. I keep you alive so you can find Evelyn’s killer, and then we both get out of here. This is me, doing my job. Now, promise me you won’t go after the footman.”

  Her argument makes sense, but it’s weightless against my fear. If there’s a chance to put an end to this madman before he finds me, I’m going to take it, no matter the risk. I’d rather die on my feet than cowering in a corner.

  “I promise,” I say, adding another lie to the pile.

  Thankfully, Anna’s too cold to notice the catch in my voice. Despite having drunk from the hip flask, she’s shivering so hard all the color has abandoned her face. In an attempt to shelter from the wind, she presses against me. I can smell the soap on her skin, forcing me to avert my gaze. I don’t want her to see Derby’s lust squirming within me.

  Sensing my discomfort, she tilts her head to meet my downcast face.

  “Your other hosts are better, I promise,” she says. “You have to keep hold of yourself. Don’t give in to him.”

  “How do I do that when I don’t know where they start and I begin?”

  “If you weren’t here, Derby would have his hands all over me,” she says. “That’s how you know who you are. You don’t just remember it—you do it, and you keep doing it.”

  Even so, she takes a step back into the wind, freeing me from my discomfort.

  “You shouldn’t be out in this weather,” I say, removing my scarf and wrapping it around her neck. “You’ll catch your death.”

  “And if you keep this up, people might begin mistaking Jonathan Derby for a human being,” she says, tucking the loose ends of the scarf into her coat.

  “Tell Evelyn Hardcastle that,” I say. “She nearly shot me this morning.”

  “You should have shot her back,” says Anna matter-of-factly. “We could have solved her murder then and there.”

  “I can’t tell if you’re joking or not,” I say.

  “Of course I am,” she says, blowing into her chapped hands. “If it were that simple, we’d have been out of here ages ago. Mind you, I’m not sure trying to save her life is a much better plan.”

  “You think I should let her die?”

  “I think we’re spending a lot of time not doing the thing we’ve been asked to do.”

  “We can’t protect Evelyn without knowing who wants her dead,” I say. “One thing will give us the other.”

  “I hope you’re right,�
�� she says dubiously.

  I search for some encouraging platitude, but her doubts have crawled under my skin, and they’re beginning to itch. I told her that saving Evelyn’s life would deliver us the murderer, but that was an evasion. There’s no plan here. I don’t even know if I can save Evelyn anymore. I’m working at the behest of blind sentiment, and losing ground to the footman as I’m doing it. Anna deserves better, but I have no idea how to give it to her without abandoning Evelyn—and for some reason the thought of doing that is unbearable to me.

  There’s a commotion on the path, voices carried through the trees by the wind. Taking my arm, Anna pulls me farther into the forest.

  “As fun as this has been, I came to ask for a favor.”

  “Always. What can I do?”

  “What’s the time?” she says, pulling the artist’s sketchbook from her pocket. It’s the same one I saw her holding in the gatehouse, crumpled sheets and a cover riddled with holes. She’s holding it up so I can’t see inside, but, judging by the way she’s flicking through the pages, there’s something important inside.

  I check my watch. “10:08 a.m.,” I say, itching with curiosity. “What’s in the book?”

  “Notes, information. Everything I’ve managed to learn about your eight hosts and what they’re doing,” she says absently, running her finger down one of the pages. “And don’t ask to see it because you can’t. We can’t risk you pulling the day down around our ears with what you know.”

  “I wasn’t going to,” I protest, though I must admit to trying to catch a peek.

  “Right, 10:08 a.m.,” says Anna. “Perfect. In a minute, I’m going to put a rock on the grass. I need you standing by it when Evelyn kills herself. You can’t move, Aiden. Not an inch. Understand?”

  “What’s the meaning of all this, Anna?”

  “Call it Plan B.” She pecks me on the cheek, cold lips meeting numb flesh, as she slides the book back in her pocket.

  She’s only taken a step when she clicks her fingers and turns back to me, holding out two white tablets in her palm.

  “Take these for later,” she says. “I filched them from Doctor Dickie’s bag when he came to see the butler.”