The 7½ Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle

by Stuart Turton

  “The man you’re going to see. I need you to sedate him.”

  “Sedate him? Why the devil would I sedate him?”

  “Because he’s going to harm my mother.”

  “Millicent?” He stops dead, grabbing me by the arm with a surprising amount of strength. “What’s all this about, Jonathan?”

  “She owes Stanwin money.”

  His face falls, his grip loosening. Without his joviality inflating him, he seems a tired old thing, the lines on his face a little deeper, the sorrows less obscure. For a moment, I feel a little guilty about what I’m doing to him, but then I remember the look in his eyes when he sedated the butler, and all my doubts are wiped away.

  “So he has dear Millicent under his thumb, does he?” he says, sighing. “Shouldn’t be surprised, I suppose; the fiend’s got something on the lot of us. Still, I thought…”

  He carries on walking, though slower than before. We’re at the top of the staircase leading down to the entrance hall, which is flooded with cold. The front door is open, a group of old men departing for a walk, taking their laughter with them.

  I can’t see Stanwin anywhere.

  “So this fellow threatened your mother and you attacked him, eh?” says Dickie, evidently having made up his mind. He beams at me, clapping me on the back. “I see there’s some of your father in you after all. But how will sedating this ruffian help?”

  “I need a chance to talk with Mother before he gets to her.”

  For all Derby’s faults, he’s an accomplished liar, the deceits queuing in orderly fashion on his tongue. Doctor Dickie’s silent, rolling the story around his head, kneading it into shape as we cross into the abandoned east wing.

  “I’ve got just the thing, should put the blighter out for the rest of the afternoon,” he says, clicking his fingers. “You wait here. I’ll signal when it’s done.”

  Squaring his shoulders and puffing out his chest, he strides toward Stanwin’s bedroom, the old soldier given one last battle to fight.

  It’s too exposed in the corridor, and once Dickie’s out of sight, I step through the nearest door, my reflection staring back at me from a cracked mirror. Yesterday, I couldn’t have imagined anything worse than being stuck inside Ravencourt, but Derby’s an entirely different torment—a restless, malevolent imp scurrying between tragedies of his own devising. I can’t wait to be free of him.

  Ten minutes later, the floorboards creak outside.

  “Jonathan,” whispers Doctor Dickie. “Jonathan, where are you?”

  “Here,” I say, poking my head outside.

  He’s already passed the room and jumps at the sound of my voice.

  “Gently, young man. The old ticker, you know,” he says, tapping his chest. “Cerberus is asleep and will be for most of the day. Now, I’m going to deliver my prognosis to Mr. Stanwin. I suggest you use this time to hide yourself somewhere he won’t find you. Argentina, perhaps. Good luck to you.”

  He stands to attention, offering me a sharp salute. I throw one back at him, earning a pat on the shoulder before he saunters off down the corridor, whistling tunelessly.

  I rather suspect I’ve made his day, but I have no intention of hiding. Stanwin is going to be distracted by Dickie for a few minutes at least, giving me a chance to search his belongings for Evelyn’s letter.

  Crossing the reception room previously guarded by Stanwin’s bodyguard, I open the door into the blackmailer’s bedroom. It’s a desolate place, the floorboards barely covered by a threadbare rug, a single iron bed pushed against the wall, flakes of white paint clinging stubbornly to the rust. The only comforts are a starving fire spitting ash and a small bedside table with two dog-eared books on it. As promised, Stanwin’s man is asleep on the bed, looking for all the world like a monstrous marionette with all of its strings cut. His face is bandaged and he’s snoring loudly, his fingers twitching. I can only imagine he’s dreaming of my neck.

  Keeping an ear out for Stanwin’s return, I quickly open the cupboard, sifting through the pockets of his jackets and trousers, finding only lint and mothballs. His trunk is equally bereft of personal objects, the man seemingly immune to sentiment of any kind.

  Frustrated, I check my watch.

  I’ve already been here longer than is safe, but Derby’s not easily deterred. My host knows deceit. He knows men like Stanwin and the secrets they keep. The blackmailer could have had the most luxurious room in the house if he’d wanted, but he chose to sequester himself amongst this decay. He’s paranoid and clever. Whatever his secrets, he wouldn’t carry them with him, not when he’s surrounded by enemies.

  They’re here. Hidden and under guard.

  My gaze falls on the fireplace and its anemic flames. Odd, considering how cold the bedroom is. Kneeling down, I stick my hand up the flue, feeling around and finding a small shelf, my groping fingers closing on a book. Withdrawing it, I see that it’s a small black journal, its cover bearing the scars of a lifetime’s abuse. Stanwin was keeping the fire low to avoid scorching his prize.

  Flicking through the tattered pages, I discover it’s a ledger of sorts containing a list of dates going back nineteen years alongside entries written in strange symbols.

  It must be some sort of code.

  Evelyn’s letter is stuffed between the last two pages.

  Dearest Evelyn,

  Mr. Stanwin has informed me of your plight, and I can quite understand your concern. Your mother’s behavior is certainly alarming, and you’re quite right to be on guard against whatever scheme she’s cooking up. I stand ready to help unravel this plot, but I’m afraid Mr. Stanwin’s word will not be enough. I require some proof of your agency in these matters. I’ve often seen you wearing a signet ring, a small castle engraved on its surface. Send me this, and I’ll know of your serious intent.

  Warmest regards,

  Felicity Maddox

  Looks like clever old Evelyn didn’t accept her fate as easily as I first believed. She brought in somebody called Felicity Maddox to help, and the description of the small castle recalls the one drawn on the note Cunningham found at the well. It may be serving as a signature, a mark of trustworthiness between Evelyn and Felicity, which suggests the message to “stay away from Millicent Derby” came from Felicity.

  The bodyguard snores.

  Unable to wring any further information from the letter, I replace it in the ledger and slip both in my pocket.

  “Thank heavens for devious minds,” I mutter, stepping through the door.

  “You said it,” says somebody behind me.

  Pain explodes in my head as I slam into the floor.

  27

  DAY TWO (CONTINUED)

  I’m coughing blood, red drops spattering my pillow. I’m back in the butler, my aching body screaming as my head jerks upward. The Plague Doctor’s sitting in Anna’s chair, one leg thrown across the other, his top hat in his lap. He’s drumming it with his fingers, coming to a stop when he notices me stirring.

  “Welcome back, Mr. Bishop,” he says, his voice muffled by the mask.

  I stare at him absently, my coughing subsiding as I begin to piece together the pattern of this day. The first time I found myself in this body, it was morning. I answered the door to Bell and was then attacked by Gold after running up the stairs for answers. The second time wasn’t more than fifteen minutes later. I was transported to the gatehouse in the carriage with Anna. Must have been midday when I woke up and we were properly introduced, but judging by the light outside the window, it’s now early afternoon. It makes sense. Anna told me we get a full day in each of our hosts, but it never occurred to me that I’d experience one in so many fragments.

  It feels like a perverse joke.

  I was promised eight hosts to solve this mystery, and I’ve been given them, except that Bell was a coward, the butler was beaten half to death, Donald Davies fled,
Ravencourt could barely move, and Derby can’t hold a thought.

  It’s like I’ve been asked to dig a hole with a shovel made of sparrows.

  Shifting in his seat, the Plague Doctor leans closer to me. His clothes are musty, that old attic smell of something long forgotten and badly aired.

  “Our last conversation was rather abrupt,” he says. “So I thought you might report on your progress. Have you discovered—”

  “Why did it have to be this body?” I interrupt, wincing as a hot streak of pain shoots up through my side. “Why trap me in any of these bodies? Ravencourt couldn’t walk two steps without tiring, the butler’s incapacitated, and Derby’s a monster. If you really want me to escape Blackheath, why stack the deck against me? There must be better alternatives.”

  “More able perhaps, but these men all have some connection to Evelyn’s murder,” he says. “Making them best placed to help you solve it.”

  “They’re suspects?”

  “Witnesses would be a more apt description.”

  A yawn shakes me, my energy already evaporating. Doctor Dickie must have given me another sedative. I feel as though I’m being squeezed out of this body through the feet.

  “And who decides the order?” I say. “Why did I wake up as Bell first and Derby today? Is there any way for me to predict who I’ll be next?”

  Leaning back, he steeples his fingers and cocks his head. It’s a lengthy silence, reevaluating and readjusting. Whether he’s pleased by what he finds, or annoyed, I can’t tell.

  “Why are you asking these questions?” he says eventually.

  “Curiosity,” I say, and when he doesn’t respond to that, “And I’m hoping there’s some advantage to be found in the answers,” I add.

  He makes a small grunt of approval.

  “Good to see you’re finally taking this seriously,” he says. “Very well. Under normal circumstances, you’d arrive in your hosts in the order they woke throughout the day. Fortunately for you, I’ve been tampering.”

  “Tampering?”

  “We’ve done this dance many times before, you and I, more than even I can recall. Loop after loop, I’ve set you the task of solving Evelyn Hardcastle’s murder, and it’s always ended in failure. At first, I thought the blame for this rested solely on your shoulders, but I’ve come to realize that the sequence of hosts plays a part. For example, Donald Davies wakes up at 3:19 a.m., which should make him your first host. That doesn’t work because his life is so appealing. He has good friends in the house, family. Things you spend the loop trying to return to, rather than seeking to escape. It’s for that reason I changed your first host to the more rootless Sebastian Bell,” he says, hoisting his trouser leg to scratch his ankle. “In contrast, Lord Ravencourt doesn’t stir until 10:30 a.m., which meant you shouldn’t have visited him until much deeper in the loop, a period when haste, rather than intellect, is of the essence.”

  I can hear the pride in his voice, the sense of a watchmaker standing back and admiring the mechanism he’s built. “One loop after another, I experimented, making these sorts of decisions for each of your hosts, arriving at the order you’re experiencing now,” he says, spreading his hands magnanimously. “In my opinion, this is the sequence that gives you the best chance of solving the mystery.”

  “So why haven’t I returned to Donald Davies, the way I keep returning to the butler?”

  “Because you walked him down that endless road to the village for almost eight hours and he’s exhausted,” says the Plague Doctor, a hint of rebuke in his tone. “He’s currently sleeping deeply and will be until”—he checks his watch—“9:38 p.m. Until then, you’ll continue to be tugged between the butler and your other hosts.”

  Wood creaks in the corridor. I consider calling for Anna, a thought which must show on my face, because the Plague Doctor tuts at me.

  “Come now, how clumsy do you think I am?” he says. “Anna left a little while ago to meet with Lord Ravencourt. Believe me, I know the routines of this house as a director knows those of the actors in his play. If I had any doubt that we might be interrupted, I wouldn’t be here.”

  I have the sense of being a nuisance to him, an errant child in the headmaster’s office again. Barely worth a scolding.

  A yawn rattles me, long and loud. My brain is clouding over.

  “We have a few more minutes to talk before you fall asleep again,” says the Plague Doctor, clasping his gloved hands together, the leather squeaking. “If you’ve any more questions for me, now would be the time.”

  “Why is Anna in Blackheath?” I say quickly. “You said I chose to come here, and my rivals didn’t. That means she was brought against her will. Why are you doing this to her?”

  “Any questions aside from that one,” he says. “You chose to come to Blackheath, and because of that decision, you have certain advantages. There are also disadvantages, things your rivals instinctively understand, which you do not. I’m here to fill in those blanks, nothing more. Now, how goes the investigation into Evelyn Hardcastle’s murder?”

  “She’s one girl,” I say wearily, struggling to keep my eyes open. The drugs are tugging at me with their warm hands. “What makes her death worth all of this?”

  “I could ask you the same question,” he says. “You’re going out of your way to save Miss Hardcastle, despite all the evidence suggesting it’s impossible. Why is that?”

  “I can’t watch her die and do nothing to prevent it,” I say.

  “That’s very noble of you,” he says, cocking his head. “Then let me respond in kind. Miss Hardcastle’s murder was never solved, and I don’t believe such a thing should be allowed to stand. Does that satisfy you?”

  “People are murdered every day,” I say. “Righting one wrong can’t be the only reason for all of this.”

  “An excellent point,” he says, clapping his hands together in appreciation. “But who’s to say there aren’t hundreds of others like yourself seeking justice for those souls?”

  “Are there?”

  “Doubtful, but it’s a lovely thought, isn’t it?”

  I’m conscious of the effort of listening, the weight of my eyelids, the way the room is melting around me.

  “We don’t have much time I’m afraid,” says the Plague Doctor. “I should—”

  “Wait… I need to… Why did…” My words are sludge, thick in my mouth. “You asked me… You asked… My memory…”

  There’s a great rustling of material as the Plague Doctor gets to his feet. Picking up a glass of water from the sideboard, he hurls the contents in my face. The water’s freezing cold. My body convulses like a cracked whip, dragging me back to myself.

  “Apologies, that was most irregular,” he says, staring at the empty glass, clearly surprised at his actions. “Normally, I let you fall asleep at this point, but… Well, I’m intrigued.” He puts the glass down slowly. “What did you want to ask me? Please choose your words carefully; they’re of some import.”

  Water stings my eyes and drips off my lips, the wetness spreading through my cotton nightshirt.

  “When we first met, you asked me what I remembered when I woke up as Bell,” I say. “Why would that matter?”

  “Each time you fail, we strip your memories and start the loop again, but you always find a way to hold on to something important—a clue, if you will,” he says, dabbing the water from my forehead with a handkerchief. “This time, it was Anna’s name.”

  “You told me it was a pity,” I say.

  “It is.”

  “Why?”

  “Along with the sequence of your hosts, the thing you choose to remember has a significant impact on how the loop plays out,” he says. “If you had remembered the footman, you’d have set off chasing him. At least that would have been useful. Instead, you’ve bound yourself to Anna, one of your rivals.”

  “She
’s my friend,” I say.

  “Nobody has friends in Blackheath, Mr. Bishop, and if you haven’t learned that yet, I’m afraid there may be no hope for you.”

  “Can…” The sedative is dragging at me once again. “Can we both escape?”

  “No,” he says, folding his damp handkerchief and replacing it in his pocket. “An answer for an exit; that’s how this works. At 11:00 p.m., one of you will come to the lake and give me the murderer’s name, and that person will be allowed to leave. You’re going to have to choose who that is.”

  He lifts his gold watch from his breast pocket to check the time.

  “Time runs away and I have a schedule to keep,” he says, retrieving his cane from its spot by the door. “Normally, I remain impartial in these matters, but there’s something you should know before you trip over your nobility. Anna remembers more from the last loop than she’s telling you.”

  His gloved hand lifts my chin, his face so close to mine I can hear his breathing through the mask. He has blue eyes. Old, sad, blue eyes.

  “She’s going to betray you.”

  I open my mouth to protest, but my tongue’s too heavy to move, and the last thing I see is the Plague Doctor disappearing through the door, a great stooped shadow dragging the world behind him.

  28

  DAY FIVE (CONTINUED)

  Life pounds on my eyelids.

  I blink, once, twice, but it hurts to keep them open. My head’s a shattered egg. A noise escapes my throat. It’s somewhere between a groan and a whimper, the low animal gurgle of a creature caught in a trap. I try to heave myself up, but the pain’s an ocean, lapping around my skull. I don’t have the strength to lift it.

  Time passes; I can’t say how much. It isn’t that sort of time. I watch my stomach rise and fall, and when I’m confident it can do so without my help, I drag myself into a sitting position, resting against the crumbling wall. Much to my dismay I’m back in Jonathan Derby, lying on the floor in the nursery. Pieces of a broken vase are everywhere, including my scalp. Somebody must have hit me from behind when I left Stanwin’s bedroom, and then dragged me here out of sight.