The 7½ Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle

by Stuart Turton

  The letter, you fool.

  My hand leaps to my pocket, searching for Evelyn’s letter and the ledger I stole from Stanwin, but they’re gone, along with the key to Bell’s trunk. All that remains are the two headache pills given to me by Anna, which are still wrapped in the blue handkerchief.

  She’s going to betray you.

  Could this be her doing? The Plague Doctor’s warning couldn’t have been any clearer, and yet surely an enemy wouldn’t provoke such feelings of warmth, or kinship? Perhaps Anna does remember more from our last loop than she admits, but if that information was destined to make us enemies, why would I drag her name from one life into the next, knowing I would chase it like a dog after a burning stick? No, if there’s betrayal afoot, it’s a result of the empty promises I’ve made, and that’s rectifiable. I need to find the right way of telling Anna the truth.

  Swallowing the tablets dry, I claw my way up the wall, staggering back into Stanwin’s room.

  The bodyguard’s still unconscious on the bed, the light fading beyond the window. I check my watch to find it’s 6:00 p.m., which means the hunters, including Stanwin, are probably already on their way home. For all I know, they’re crossing the lawn or ascending the stairs even now.

  I need to leave before the blackmailer comes back.

  Even with the tablets, I’m woozy, the world slipping beneath me as I crash through the east wing before pushing aside the curtain to arrive on the landing above the entrance hall. Each step is a battle until I fall through Doctor Dickie’s door, nearly vomiting on his floor. His bedroom’s identical to all the others on this corridor, with a four-poster bed against one wall and a bath and sink behind a screen opposite. Unlike Bell, Dickie’s made himself at home. Pictures of his grandchildren are dotted about the place, a crucifix hanging from one of the walls. He’s even laid a small rug down, presumably to keep his feet off the cold wood in the mornings.

  This familiarity with oneself is a miracle to me, and I find myself gaping at Dickie’s possessions, my wounds momentarily forgotten. Picking up the picture of his grandchildren, I wonder for the first time if I too have a family waiting beyond Blackheath: parents or children, friends who miss me?

  Startled by footsteps passing in the corridor, I drop the family picture on the bedside table, accidentally cracking the glass. The steps pass without incident, but awakened to the peril, I move more quickly.

  Dickie’s medical bag is nestled beneath his bed, and I upend it over his mattress, spilling bottles, scissors, syringes, and bandages onto the covers. The last thing out is a King James Bible, which bounces onto the floor, the pages falling open. Just like the one in Sebastian Bell’s bedroom, certain words and paragraphs are underlined in red ink.

  It’s a code.

  A wolf’s smile spreads across Derby’s face, recognition of another crook. If I had to guess, I’d say Dickie’s a silent partner in Bell’s drug-peddling business. No wonder he was so concerned for the good doctor’s welfare. He was worried about what he’d say.

  I snort. It’s another secret in a house full of them, and it’s not the one I’m after today.

  Gathering the bandages and iodine from the pile on the bed, I take them over to the sink and begin my surgery.

  It’s not a delicate operation.

  Every time I pluck one piece loose, blood wells up between my fingers, running down my face and dripping off my chin into the sink. Tears of pain cloud my vision, the world a stinging blur for nearly thirty minutes while I pick apart my porcelain crown. My only consolation is that somewhere within me this is hurting Jonathan Derby almost as much as it’s hurting me.

  When I’m certain every shard has been removed, I set to work wrapping my head in bandages, securing them with a safety pin, and inspecting my work in the mirror.

  The bandages look fine. I look terrible.

  My face is pale, my eyes hollow. Blood has stained my shirt, forcing me to strip down to my undershirt. I’m a man undone, coming apart at the seams. I can feel myself unraveling.

  “What the devil!” cries Doctor Dickie from the door.

  He’s fresh from the hunt, dripping wet and shivering, gray as the ashes in the grate. Even his mustache is sagging.

  I follow his disbelieving gaze around the room, seeing the devastation through his eyes. The picture of his grandchildren is cracked and smeared with blood, his Bible discarded, his medical bag tossed on the floor, its contents scattered across the bed. Bloody water fills the sink, my shirt in his bathtub. His surgery can’t look much worse after an amputation.

  Catching sight of me in my undershirt, the bandage trailing loose from my forehead, the shock on his face turns to anger.

  “What have you done, Jonathan?” he demands, his voice swelling with rage.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t know where else to go,” I say, panicked. “After you left, I searched Stanwin’s room for something to help Mother and I found a ledger.”

  “A ledger?” he says in a strangled voice. “You took something from him? You must put it back. Now, Jonathan!” he yells, sensing my hesitation.

  “I can’t. I was attacked. Somebody smashed a vase across my head and stole it. I was bleeding, and the bodyguard was going to wake up, so I came here.”

  A dreadful silence swallows the end of the story as Doctor Dickie stands the picture of his grandchildren upright and slowly gathers everything back into his medical bag, sliding it back under the bed.

  He moves as though manacled, dragging my secrets behind him.

  “It’s my fault,” he mutters. “I knew you weren’t to be trusted, but my affection for your mother…”

  He shakes his head, pushing by me to collect my shirt from the bathtub. There’s a resignation to his actions that frightens me.

  “I didn’t mean to—” I begin.

  “You used me to steal from Ted Stanwin,” he says quietly, gripping the edges of the counter. “A man who can ruin me with a snap of his fingers.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  He turns suddenly, his anger thick.

  “You’ve made that word cheap, Jonathan! You said it after we covered up that business in Enderleigh House, and again at Little Hampton. Remember? Now you’d have me swallow this hollow apology as well.”

  He presses my shirt against my chest, his cheeks flushed red. Tears stand in his eyes. “How many women have you forced yourself upon? Do you even remember? How many times have you wept at your mother’s breast, begging her to fix it, promising never to do it again and knowing full well that you would? And now, here you are again, doing the same to me, bloody, stupid Doctor Dickie. Well, I’m done. I can’t stomach it anymore. You’ve been a blight on this world ever since I brought you into it.”

  I take an imploring step toward him, but he pulls a silver pistol from his pocket, letting it dangle by his side. He’s not even looking at me.

  “Get out, Jonathan, or by God, I’ll shoot you myself.”

  Keeping one eye on the pistol, I back out of the room, closing the door as I step into the corridor.

  My heart’s thumping.

  Doctor Dickie’s gun is the very same one Evelyn will use to take her life tonight. He’s holding the murder weapon.

  29

  Quite how long I stare at Jonathan Derby in my bedroom mirror, it’s impossible to say. I’m looking for the man within, some hint of my real face.

  I want Derby to see his executioner.

  Whiskey warms my throat, the bottle plundered from the drawing room and already half empty. I need it to stop my hands from shaking as I try to knot my bow tie. Doctor Dickie’s testimony confirmed what I already knew. Derby’s a monster, his crimes washed away by his mother’s money. There’s no justice waiting for this man, no trial or punishment. If he’s to pay for what he’s done, I’ll have to march him to the gallows myself, and that’s what I intend to do.

>   First, though, we’re going to save Evelyn Hardcastle’s life.

  My gaze is drawn toward Doctor Dickie’s silver pistol, lying harmless on an armchair like a fly swatted out of the air. Stealing it was a simple matter, as easy as sending a servant with an invented emergency to lure the doctor out of his room while I slipped in afterward and took it from his nightstand. For too long I’ve allowed this day to dictate terms to me, but no longer. If somebody wishes to murder Evelyn with this pistol, they’ll have to come through me first. The Plague Doctor’s riddle be damned! I don’t trust him, and I won’t stand idly by while horrors play out in front of me. It’s time Jonathan Derby finally did some good on this earth.

  Slipping the pistol into my jacket pocket, I take one last mouthful of whiskey and step out into the corridor, following the other guests down the staircase to dinner. Unlike their manners, their taste is impeccable. Evening gowns expose naked backs and pale skin adorned with glittering jewelry. The listlessness of earlier is gone, their charm extravagant. At last, as evening calls, they’ve come alive.

  As always, I keep an eye out for some hint of the footman among these passing faces. He’s long overdue a visit, and the longer the day goes on, the more certain I become that something dreadful is coming. At least it’ll be a fair fight. Derby has very few laudable qualities, but his anger makes him a handful. I can barely keep hold of him, so I can’t imagine what it would be like to see him flying at you, dripping hate.

  Michael Hardcastle’s standing in the entrance hall with a painted-on smile, greeting the guests coming down the stairs, as though genuinely glad to see every last wretched one of them. I had intended on questioning him about the mysterious Felicity Maddox, and the note at the well, but it will have to wait until later. There’s an impregnable wall of taffeta and bow ties between us.

  Piano music drags me through the crowds into the long gallery, where guests are mingling with drinks as servants prepare the dining hall on the other side of the doors. Taking a whiskey from one of the passing trays, I keep an eye out for Millicent. I’d hoped to give Derby his goodbyes, but she’s nowhere to be seen. In fact, the only person I recognize is Sebastian Bell, who’s drifting through the entrance hall on his way to his room.

  Stopping a maid, I ask after Helena Hardcastle, hoping the lady of the house might be near at hand, but she hasn’t arrived. That means she’s been missing all day. Absence has officially become disappearance. It can’t be coincidence that Lady Hardcastle is nowhere to be found on the day of her daughter’s death, though whether she’s a suspect or victim I can’t be sure. One way or another, I’m going to find out.

  My glass is empty, my head becoming foggy. I’m surrounded by laughter and conversation, friends and lovers. The good cheer is stirring Derby’s bitterness. I can feel his disgust, his loathing. He hates these people, this world. He hates himself.

  Servants slip past me with silver platters, Evelyn’s last meal arriving in a procession.

  Why isn’t she afraid?

  I can hear her laughter from here. She’s mingling with the guests as though all her days lay ahead, yet when Ravencourt brought up the danger this morning, it was clear she knew something was amiss.

  Discarding my glass, I make my way through the entrance hall and into the corridor toward Evelyn’s bedroom. If there are answers, perhaps that’s where I’ll find them.

  The lamps have been lowered to dim flames. It’s quiet and oppressive, a forgotten edge of the world. I’m halfway up the passage when I notice a splash of red emerging from the shadows.

  A footman’s livery.

  He’s blocking the passage.

  I freeze. Glancing behind me, I try to work out whether I can reach the entrance hall before he’s on me. The odds are slim. I’m not even sure my legs will listen when I tell them to move.

  “Sorry, sir,” says a chirpy voice, the footman taking a step closer and revealing himself to be a short, wiry boy, no more than thirteen, with pimples and a nervous smile. “Excuse me,” he adds after a moment, and I realize I’m in his way. Mumbling an apology, I let him pass and blow out an explosive breath.

  The footman’s made me so afraid, the mere suggestion of his presence is enough to cripple even Derby, a man who’d throw a punch at the sun because it burned him. Was that his intention? The reason he taunted Bell and Ravencourt, rather than killing them? If this continues, he’ll be able to pick off my hosts without a shred of resistance.

  I’m earning the “rabbit” nickname he’s given me.

  Proceeding cautiously, I continue to Evelyn’s bedroom, finding it locked. Knocking brings no answer, and unwilling to leave without something to show for my efforts, I take a step backward, intending to put my shoulder through it. That’s when I notice the door to Helena’s bedroom is in exactly the same place as the door into Ravencourt’s parlor. Poking my head into both rooms, I find the dimensions are identical. That suggests Evelyn’s bedroom was once a parlor. If that’s the case, there will be a connecting door from Helena’s room, which is useful, because the lock is still broken from this morning.

  My guess is proven correct. The connecting door is hidden behind an ornate tapestry on the wall. Thankfully, it’s unlocked and I’m able to slip through into Evelyn’s room.

  Given her fractured relationship with her parents, I’d half expected to find her sleeping in a broom closet, but the bedroom is comfortable enough, if modest. There’s a four-poster bed at the center, a bathtub and bowl behind a curtain on a rail. Evidently the maid hasn’t been allowed in for some time because the bath is full of cold, dirty water, towels discarded in soggy heaps on the floor, a necklace tossed carelessly on the bedside table next to a pile of scrunched-up tissues, all stained with makeup. The curtains are drawn, Evelyn’s fire piled high with logs. Four oil lamps stand in the corners of the room, pinching the gloom between their flickering light and that of the fireplace.

  I’m shaking with pleasure, Derby’s excitement at this intrusion a warm blush rising through my body. I can feel my spirit trying to recoil from my host, and it’s all I can do to hold onto myself as I sift through Evelyn’s possessions, searching for anything that might drive her toward the reflecting pool later tonight. She’s a messy sort, discarded clothes stuffed wherever they happen to fit, costume jewelry heaped in the drawers, tangled up with old scarves and shawls. There’s no system, no order, no hint that she allows a maid anywhere near her things. Whatever her secrets, she’s hiding them from more than me.

  I catch myself stroking a silk blouse, frowning at my own hand before realizing it’s not me that wants this. It’s him.

  It’s Derby.

  With a cry, I pull my hand back, slamming the wardrobe shut.

  I can feel his yearning. He’d have me on my knees, pawing through her belongings, inhaling her scent. He’s a beast, and for a second, he had control.

  Wiping the beads of desire from my forehead, I take a deep breath to collect myself before pushing on with the search.

  I narrow my concentration to a point, keeping hold of my thoughts, allowing no gap for him to creep through. Even so, the investigation is fruitless. About the only item of interest is an old scrapbook containing curios from Evelyn’s life: old correspondence between herself and Michael, pictures from her childhood, scraps of poetry and musings from her adolescence, all combining to present a portrait of a very lonely woman who loved her brother desperately and now misses him terribly.

  Closing the book, I push it back under the bed where I found it, departing the room as quietly as I came, dragging a thrashing Derby within me.

  30

  I’m sitting in an armchair in a dim corner of the entrance hall, the seat arranged to give me a clear view to Evelyn’s bedroom door. Dinner’s ongoing, but Evelyn will be dead in three hours and I plan to dog her every step to the reflecting pool.

  Such patience would normally be beyond my host, but I’ve d
iscovered that he enjoys smoking, which is handy because it makes me light-headed, dulling the cancer of Derby in my thoughts. It’s a pleasant, if unexpected, benefit of this inherited habit.

  “They’ll be ready when you need them,” says Cunningham, appearing through the fog and crouching by my chair. There’s a pleased grin on his face I can make neither head nor tail of.

  “Who’ll be ready?” I say, looking at him.

  This grin disappears, embarrassment taking its place as he lurches to his feet.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Derby, I thought you were somebody else,” he says hastily.

  “I am somebody else, Cunningham. It’s me, Aiden. I still don’t have the foggiest idea what you’re talking about, though.”

  “You asked me to get some people together,” he says.

  “No, I didn’t.”

  Our confusions must mirror each other, because Cunningham’s face has twisted into the same knot as my brain.

  “I’m sorry, he said you’d understand,” says Cunningham.

  “Who said?”

  A sound draws my attention to the entrance hall, and turning in my seat, I see Evelyn fleeing across the marble, weeping into her hands.

  “Take this. I have to go,” says Cunningham, thrusting a piece of paper into my hand with the phrase all of them written on it.

  “Wait! I don’t know what this means,” I call after him, but it’s too late. He’s already gone.

  I’d follow him, but Michael is chasing Evelyn into the entrance hall, and this is why I’m here. These are the missing moments that transform Evelyn from the brave, kind woman I met as Bell into the suicidal heiress who’ll take her life by the reflecting pool.

  “Evie, Evie, don’t go. Tell me what I can do,” says Michael, catching her arm at the elbow.