The 7½ Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle

by Stuart Turton

  “What are they?”

  “Headache pills. I’ll trade them for my chess piece.”

  “This ugly old thing?” I say, handing her the hand-carved bishop. “Why would you want it?”

  She smiles at me, watching as I wrap the tablets in a blue pocket handkerchief.

  “Because you gave it to me,” she says, clutching it protectively in her hand. “It was the first promise you made me. This ugly old thing is the reason I stopped being scared of this place. It’s the reason I stopped being scared of you.”

  “Me? Why would you be afraid of me?” I say, genuinely hurt by the idea of anything coming between us.

  “Oh, Aiden,” she says, shaking her head. “If we do this right, everybody in this house is going to be afraid of you.”

  She’s carried away on those words, blown through the trees and out onto the grass surrounding the reflecting pool. Perhaps it’s her youth, or her personality, or some curious alchemy of all the miserable ingredients surrounding us, but I can’t see an ounce of doubt within her. Whatever her plan, she seems extraordinarily confident in it. Maybe dangerously so.

  From my position in the tree line, I watch her pick up a large white rock from the flower bed and pace out six steps before dropping it on the grass. Holding an arm straight out from her body, she measures a line to the ballroom’s french doors, and then, seemingly satisfied with her work, she wipes the mud from her hands, shoves them in her pockets, and strolls away.

  For some reason, this little display makes me uneasy. I came here voluntarily and Anna did not. The Plague Doctor brought her to Blackheath for a reason, and I have no idea what that could be.

  Whoever Anna really is, I’m following her blindly.

  25

  The bedroom door’s locked, no noise coming from within. I’d hoped to catch Helena Hardcastle before she set about her day, but it appears the lady of the house is not one to idle. I rattle the handle again, pressing my ear to the wood. Aside from a few curious glances from passing guests, my efforts are in vain. She’s not here.

  I’m walking away, when the thought hits me: the room hasn’t been broken into yet. Ravencourt will find the door shattered early this afternoon, so it’s going to happen in the next few hours.

  I’m curious to see who’s responsible, and why they’re so desperate to get inside. I’d originally suspected Evelyn because she had one of the two revolvers stolen from Helena’s bureau, but she nearly killed me with it in the forest this morning. If it’s already in her possession, she has no need to break in.

  Unless there’s something else she wants.

  The only other thing that was obviously missing was the appointment page in Helena’s day planner. Millicent believed Helena tore it out herself to conceal some suspicious deed, but Cunningham’s fingerprints were all over the remaining pages. He refused to explain himself and denied being responsible for the break-in, but if I could catch him with his shoulder to the door, he’d have no choice but to come clean.

  My mind made up, I stride into the shadows at the far end of the corridor and begin my vigil.

  Five minutes later, Derby is already impossibly bored.

  I’m fidgeting, stalking back and forth. I can’t calm him.

  At a loss, I follow the smell of breakfast toward the drawing room, planning to carry a plate of food and a chair back to the corridor. Hopefully, they’ll placate my host for half an hour, after which I’ll have to come up with some new amusement.

  I find the room smothered in sleepy conversation. Most of the guests are only halfway out of their beds, and they reek of the prior evening, sweat and cigar smoke baked into their skin, spirits curled around every breath. They’re talking quietly and moving slowly, porcelain people riddled with cracks.

  Taking a plate from the sideboard, I scoop piles of eggs and kidneys onto a large plate, pausing only to eat a sausage from the platter and wipe the grease from my lips with my sleeve. I’m so preoccupied, it takes a little while to realize everybody is silent.

  A burly fellow is standing at the door, his gaze passing from face to face, relief coursing through those he slips over. This nervousness is not unwarranted. He’s a brutish-looking chap with a ginger beard and sagging cheeks, his nose so mangled it resembles an egg cracked in a frying pan. An old frayed suit strains to contain his width, raindrops sparkling on shoulders you could serve a buffet on.

  His gaze lands on me like a boulder in the lap.

  “Mr. Stanwin wants to see you,” he says.

  His voice is coarse, filled with jagged consonants.

  “What for?” I ask.

  “I expect he’ll tell you.”

  “Well, offer my regrets to Mr. Stanwin, but I’m afraid I’m very busy at present.”

  “Either you walk or I carry you,” he says in a low rumble.

  Derby’s temper is bubbling nicely, but there’s no use making a scene. I can’t beat this man; the best I can hope for is to quickly meet Stanwin and return to my task. Besides, I’m curious why he’d want to see me.

  Placing my plate of food on the sideboard, I follow Stanwin’s thug from the room.

  Inviting me to walk ahead of him, the burly fellow guides me up the staircase, telling me to turn right at the top, into the closed-off east wing. Brushing aside the curtain, a damp breeze touches my face, a long corridor stretching out before me. Doors are hanging off their hinges, revealing staterooms covered in dust and four-poster beds collapsed in on themselves. The air scratches my throat as I breathe it.

  “Why don’t you wait in that room over there like a good gentleman and I’ll tell Mr. Stanwin you’ve arrived,” says my escort, jerking his chin toward a room on my left.

  Doing as he bids, I enter a nursery, the cheerful yellow wallpaper now hanging limp from the walls. Games and wooden toys litter the floor, a weathered rocking horse put out to pasture by the door. There’s a game in progress on a child’s chessboard, the white pieces decimated by the black.

  No sooner have I set foot inside than I hear Evelyn shrieking in the room beside me. For the first time Derby and I move in concert, sprinting around the corner to find the door blocked by the redheaded thug.

  “Mr. Stanwin’s still busy, chum,” he says, rocking back and forth to keep warm.

  “I’m looking for Evelyn Hardcastle. I heard her scream,” I say breathlessly.

  “Mayhap you did, but doesn’t seem like there’s much you can do about it, does there?”

  I peer over his shoulder into the room behind, hoping to catch sight of Evelyn. It looks to be some sort of reception area, but it’s empty. The furniture lies under yellowed sheets, black mold growing up from the hems. The windows are covered in old newspaper, the walls little more than rotting boards. There’s another door on the far wall, but it’s closed. They must be in there.

  I return my gaze to the man, who smiles at me, exposing a row of crooked yellow teeth.

  “Anything else?” he says.

  “I need to make sure she’s all right.”

  I try to barge past him, but it’s a foolish notion. He’s three times my weight and half again my height. More to the point, he knows how to use his strength. Planting a flat hand on my stomach, he shoves me backward, barely a flicker of emotion on his face.

  “Don’t bother,” he says. “I’m paid to stand here and make sure nice gentlemen like you don’t do themselves a misfortune by wandering places they ain’t supposed to go.”

  They’re just words, coals in the furnace. My blood’s boiling. I try to dart around him, and, like a fool, I think I’ve succeeded. Until I’m hoisted backward and tossed bodily back down the corridor.

  I scramble to my feet, snarling.

  He hasn’t moved. He isn’t out of breath. He doesn’t care.

  “Your parents gave you everything but sense, didn’t they?” he says, the blandness of the sentiment
hitting me like a bucketful of cold water. “Mr. Stanwin’s not hurting her if that’s your concern. Wait a few minutes and you can ask her all about it when she comes out.”

  We eye each other for a moment, before I retreat along the corridor into the nursery. He’s right; I’m not getting by him. But I can’t wait for Evelyn to come out. She won’t tell Jonathan Derby anything after this morning, and whatever is happening behind that door could be the reason she takes her life tonight.

  Hurrying over to the wall, I press my ear to the boards. If I haven’t missed my mark, Evelyn’s talking to Stanwin in the room next door, only a few pieces of rotten wood between us. I soon catch the hum of their voices, much too faint to make anything out. Using my pocketknife, I tear the wallpaper from the wall, digging the blade between the loose wooden slats to pry them free. They’re so damp they come away without objection, the wood disintegrating in my hands.

  “…tell her she best not play any games with me, or it’ll be the end of both of you,” says Stanwin, his voice poking through the insulating wall.

  “Tell her yourself. I’m not your errand girl,” says Evelyn coldly.

  “You’ll be anything I damn well please, so long as I’m footing the bill.”

  “I don’t like your tone, Mr. Stanwin,” says Evelyn.

  “And I don’t like being made a fool of, Miss Hardcastle,” he says, practically spitting her name. “You forget I worked here for nearly fifteen years. I know every corner of this place, and everybody in it. Don’t mistake me for one of these blinkered bastards you’ve surrounded yourself with.”

  His hatred is viscous; it has texture. I could wring it out of the air and bottle it.

  “What about the letter?” says Evelyn quietly, her outrage overwhelmed.

  “I’ll keep hold of that, so you understand our arrangement.”

  “You’re a vile creature, are you aware of that?”

  Stanwin swats the insult from the air with a belly laugh.

  “At least I’m an honest one,” he says. “How many other people in this house can claim the same thing? You can go now. Don’t forget to pass along my message.”

  I hear the door to Stanwin’s room open, Evelyn storming past the nursery a few moments later. I’m tempted to follow her, but there’d be little value in another confrontation. Besides, Evelyn mentioned something about a letter that’s now in Stanwin’s possession. She seemed keen to retrieve it, which means I need to see it. Who knows, perhaps Stanwin and Derby are friends.

  “Jonathan Derby’s waiting for you in the nursery,” I hear the burly fellow tell Stanwin.

  “Good,” says Stanwin, drawers scraping open. “Let me get changed for this hunt and we’ll go have a word with the greasy little bugger.”

  Or perhaps not.

  26

  I sit with my feet on the table, the chessboard beside them. Cupping my chin in my hand, I stare at the game trying to decipher some strategy from the arrangement of the pieces. It’s proving an impossible task. Derby’s too flighty for study. His attention is forever straying toward the window, toward the dust in the air, and the noises in the corridor. He’s never at peace.

  Daniel warned me that each of our hosts thinks differently, but only now do I comprehend the full extent of his meaning. Bell was a coward and Ravencourt ruthless, but both possessed focused minds. That’s not the case with Derby. Thoughts come buzzing through his head like bluebottles, lingering long enough to be distracting but never settling.

  A sound draws my attention to the door, Ted Stanwin shaking out a match as he surveys me from above his pipe. He’s larger than I recall, a slab of a man spreading sideways like a wedge of melting butter.

  “Never took you for a chess man, Jonathan,” he says, pushing the old rocking horse back and forth so that it thumps on the floor.

  “I’m teaching myself,” I say.

  “Good for you. Men should seek to better themselves.”

  His eyes linger on me before being tugged to the windows. Though Stanwin hasn’t done or said anything threatening, Derby’s afraid of him. My pulse is tapping that out in Morse code.

  I glance at the door, ready to bolt, but the burly fellow is leaning against the wall in the corridor with his arms crossed. He offers me a little nod, friendly as two men in a cell.

  “Your mother’s running a little late on her payments,” says Stanwin, his forehead pressed against the window. “I hope all’s well?”

  “Quite well,” I say.

  “I’d hate for that to change.”

  I shift in my seat to catch his eye.

  “Are you threatening me, Mr. Stanwin?”

  He turns from the window, smiling at the fellow in the corridor, then myself.

  “Of course not, Jonathan. I’m threatening your mother. You don’t think I’d come all this way for a worthless little sod like yourself, do you?”

  Taking a puff on his pipe, he picks up a doll and casually tosses it at the chessboard, sending the pieces scattering across the room. Rage snatches me up by the strings, flinging me at him, but he catches my fist in the air, spinning me around as one of his huge arms crushes my throat.

  His breath is on my neck, rotten as old meat.

  “Talk to your mother, Jonathan,” he sneers, squeezing my windpipe hard enough for black spots to swim in the corners of my eyes. “Otherwise, I might have to pay her a visit.”

  He lets the words settle, then releases me.

  I drop to my knees, clutching my throat and gasping for air.

  “You’ll come a cropper with that temper,” he says, jabbing his pipe in my direction. “I’d get it under control if I were you. Don’t worry. My friend here is good at helping people learn new things.”

  I glare at him from the floor, but he’s already on his way out. Passing into the corridor, he nods to his companion who steps into the room. He looks at me without emotion, peeling off his jacket.

  “On your feet, lad,” he says. “Sooner we get started, sooner it’ll be over.”

  Somehow, he seems even bigger than he did at the door. His chest is a shield, his arms straining the seams of his white shirt. Terror takes hold of me as he closes the distance between us, my fingers searching blindly for a weapon and finding the heavy chessboard on the table.

  Without thinking, I hurl it at him.

  Time seems to hang as the chessboard turns in the air, an impossible object in flight, my future clinging onto its surface for dear life. Evidently, fate has a soft spot for me because it hits his face with a sickening crunch, sending him reeling backward into the wall with a muffled cry.

  I’m on my feet as the blood pours between his fingers, sprinting down the corridor with Stanwin’s angry voice at my back. A quick glance behind me reveals Stanwin’s halfway out of the reception room, his face red with rage. Fleeing down the staircase, I follow the burble of voices into the drawing room, which is now full of red-eyed guests digging into their breakfasts. Doctor Dickie’s guffawing with Michael Hardcastle and Clifford Herrington, the naval officer I met at dinner, while Cunningham piles food onto the silver platter that will greet Ravencourt when he wakes up.

  A sudden quieting of chatter tells me Stanwin’s approaching, and I slip through into the study, hiding behind the door. I’m half hysterical, my heart beating hard enough to shatter my ribs. I want to laugh and cry, to pick up a weapon and throw myself at Stanwin, screaming. It’s taking all my concentration to stand still, but if I don’t, I’m going to lose this host and one more precious day.

  Peering through the gap between the door and frame, I watch as Stanwin wrenches people around by the shoulder, searching for my face. Men stand aside for him, the powerful mumbling vague apologies as he approaches. Whatever his hold on these people, it’s complete enough that nobody takes umbrage at his manhandling of them. He could beat me to death in the middle of the carpet and they wouldn’t
say a word about it. I’ll find no help here.

  Something cold touches my fingers, and, looking down, I discover my hand has closed around a heavy cigarette box sitting on the sideboard.

  Derby’s arming himself.

  Hissing at him, I let it go and return my attention to the drawing room, almost crying out in shock.

  Stanwin’s a few paces away, and he’s walking directly toward the study.

  I look for places to hide, but there aren’t any, and I can’t flee into the library without passing the door he’s about to walk through. I’m trapped.

  Picking up the cigarette box, I take a deep breath, preparing to pounce on him when he walks in.

  Nobody appears.

  Slipping back to the gap, I peek into the drawing room. He’s nowhere to be seen.

  I’m shaking, uncertain. Derby isn’t built for indecision; he doesn’t have the patience. And before I know it, I’m creeping around the door to get a better view.

  I immediately see Stanwin.

  He has his back to me and is talking to Doctor Dickie. I’m too far away to catch their conversation, but it’s enough to propel the good doctor out of the room, presumably to tend to Stanwin’s stricken bodyguard.

  He has sedatives.

  The idea delivers itself fully formed.

  I just need to get out of here without being seen.

  A voice calls to Stanwin from near the table, and the moment he’s out of sight, I drop the cigarette case and flee into the gallery, taking the long way around to reach the entrance hall unseen.

  I catch Doctor Dickie as he’s leaving his bedroom, his medical case swinging in his hand. He smiles as he sees me, that ridiculous mustache of his leaping about two inches up his face.

  “Ah, young Master Jonathan,” he says cheerfully, as I fall into step beside him. “Everything well? You seem a little puffed.”

  “I’m fine,” I say, hurrying to keep up with him. “Well, I’m not actually. I need a favor.”

  His eyes narrow, the cheerful tone dropping out of his voice. “What have you done this time?”