The 7½ Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle

by Stuart Turton

  “Sounds like you’ve made a friend,” she says, chewing noisily.

  “He’s using me,” I say. “I just don’t know what for.”

  “Daniel might, they seem chummy enough,” she says, joining me at the window. “Any idea what they’re talking about? Have you solved Evelyn’s murder and forgotten to tell me?”

  “If we do this right, there won’t be a murder to solve,” I say, my attention fixed on the scene below.

  “So you’re still trying to save her, even after the Plague Doctor said it was almost impossible?”

  “As a rule, I ignore half of everything he tells me,” I say distantly. “Call it a healthy skepticism of any wisdom delivered through a mask. Besides, I know this day can be changed. I’ve seen it.”

  “Christ’s sake, Aiden,” she says angrily.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask, startled.

  “This, all of this!” she says, spreading her arms exasperatedly. “We had a deal, you and me. I’d sit in this little room and keep these two safe, and you’d use your eight lives to solve this murder.”

  “That’s what I’m doing,” I say, confused by her anger.

  “No, it’s not,” she says. “You’re running around trying to save the person whose death is our best chance of escape.”

  “She’s my friend, Anna.”

  “She’s Bell’s friend,” Anna counters. “She humiliated Ravencourt, and she nearly killed Derby. Far as I’ve seen, there’s more warmth in a long winter than in that woman.”

  “She had her reasons.”

  It’s a weak response, intended to bat away the question rather than answer it. Anna’s right. Evelyn hasn’t been my friend for a long time now, and though the memory of her kindness still lingers, it’s not my driving impulse. That’s something else, something deeper, something squirming. The idea of leaving her to be slain sickens me. Not Dance, not any of my other hosts. It sickens me, Aiden Bishop.

  Unfortunately, Anna’s building up a head of steam and doesn’t give me a chance to dwell on the revelation.

  “I don’t care about her reasons; I care about yours,” she says, pointing at me. “Maybe you don’t feel it, but deep down, I know how long I’ve been in this place. It’s decades, Aiden, I’m sure of it. I need to leave, I have to, and this is my best chance, with you. You’ve got eight lives; you’ll get out of here eventually. I do all this once, and then forget. Without you I’m stuck, and what happens if next time you wake up as Bell, you don’t remember me?”

  “I won’t leave you here, Anna,” I insist, shaken by the desperation in her voice.

  “Then solve the damn murder like the Plague Doctor asked you to, and believe him when he says that Evelyn can’t be saved!”

  “I can’t trust him,” I say, losing my temper and turning my back on her.

  “Why not? Everything he’s said has happened. He’s—”

  “He said you’d betray me,” I shout.

  “What?”

  “He told me you’d betray me,” I repeat, shaken by the admission. Until now, I’d never actually voiced the accusation, preferring to dismiss it in the quiet of my thoughts. Now I’ve said it out loud, it’s a real possibility, and it worries me. Anna’s right. Everything else the Plague Doctor’s said has come true, and as strong as my connection to this woman is, I can’t be completely certain she won’t turn on me.

  She reels backward as if struck, shaking her head.

  “I’d never… Aiden, I’d never do that, I swear.”

  “He said you remembered more about our last loop than you were admitting,” I say. “Is that true? Is there something you’re not telling me?”

  She hesitates.

  “Is it true, Anna?” I demand.

  “No,” she says forcefully. “He’s trying to get between us, Aiden. I don’t know why, but you can’t listen to him.”

  “That’s my point,” I shoot back. “If the Plague Doctor’s telling the truth about Evelyn, he’s telling the truth about you. I don’t believe he is. I think he wants something, something we don’t know about, and I think he’s using us to get it.”

  “Even if that’s the case, I don’t understand why you’re so insistent on saving Evelyn,” says Anna, still struggling with what I told her.

  “Because somebody’s going to kill her,” I say haltingly. “And they’re not doing it themselves, they’re twisting her in knots so she’ll do it herself, and they’re making sure everybody sees. It’s cruel and they’re enjoying it, and I can’t… It doesn’t matter whether we like her, or whether the Plague Doctor is right, you don’t get to kill somebody and put them on display. She’s innocent, and we can stop it. And we should.”

  I falter, breathless, teetering on the edge of a memory sprung loose by Anna’s questions. It’s as though a curtain’s been pulled back, the man I used to be almost visible through the gap. Guilt and grief, they’re the keys, I’m certain of it. They’re what brought me to Blackheath in the first place. They’ve been driving me to save Evelyn, but that wasn’t my purpose here, not really.

  “There was somebody else,” I say slowly, clutching at the edges of the memory. “A woman, I think. She’s the reason I came here, but I couldn’t save her.”

  “What was her name?” says Anna, taking my wrinkled, old hands and looking up into my face.

  “I can’t remember,” I say, my head throbbing in concentration.

  “Was it me?”

  “I don’t know,” I say.

  The memory’s slipping away. There are tears on my cheeks, an ache in my chest. I feel like I’ve lost somebody, but I have no idea who. I look into Anna’s wide, brown eyes.

  “It’s gone,” I say weakly.

  “I’m sorry, Aiden.”

  “Don’t be,” I say, feeling my strength return. “We’re going to get out of Blackheath, I promise, but I have to do it my way. I’ll make it work, you just have to trust me, Anna.”

  I’m expecting an objection, but she confounds me with a smile.

  “Then where do we start?” she says.

  “I’m going to find Helena Hardcastle,” I say, wiping my face with a handkerchief. “Do you have any leads on the footman? He killed Derby last night, and I doubt Dance is far behind.”

  “Actually, I’ve been thinking up a plan.”

  She peers under the bed, bringing out the artist’s sketchbook, which she opens and drops on my lap. This is the book that’s been guiding her all day, but the intricate spiderweb of cause and effect I’d anticipated is nowhere to be seen.

  Its contents are gibberish, far as I can tell.

  “I thought I wasn’t allowed to see this?” I say, craning my head to read her awkward upside-down writing. “I’m honored.”

  “Don’t be. I’m only letting you see the bit you need,” she says.

  Circled warnings and sketches of the day’s events have been scrawled in an erratic hand, snatches of conversation dashed onto the page, without any context to explain them. I recognize a few of the moments, including a hasty drawing of the butler’s beating at the hands of Gold, but most of them are meaningless.

  It’s only after I’ve been assaulted by the chaos, that I begin to see Anna’s attempt to bring order. Using a pencil, she’s diligently written notes for herself near the entries. Guesses have been made, times noted down, our conversations recorded and cross-referenced with those in the book, teasing out the useful information contained within.

  “I doubt you’ll be able to do much with it,” says Anna, watching me struggle. “One of your hosts gave it to me. Might as well be written in another language. A lot of it doesn’t make any sense, but I’ve been adding to it, using it to keep track of your comings and goings. This is everything I know about you. Every host, everything they’ve done. It’s the only way I can keep up, but it’s not complete. There are holes. That’s why I need
you to show me the best time to approach Bell.”

  “Bell, why?”

  “This footman is looking for me, so we’re going to tell him exactly where I’ll be,” she says, flipping to the last page of the book, where a short message is written. “We’ll gather some of your other hosts and be waiting for him when he gets his knife out.”

  “And how are we going to trap him?” I say.

  “With this.” She tears out the message and hands it to me. “If you tell me about Bell’s day, I can make sure to put it somewhere he’ll find it. Once I mention it in the kitchen, the meeting will be up and down the house in an hour. The footman’s sure to hear of it.”

  Don’t leave Blackheath, more lives than your own are depending on you. Meet me by the mausoleum in the family graveyard at 10:20 p.m., and I’ll explain everything.

  Love, Anna

  I’m transported back to that evening, when Evelyn and Bell stalked into the dank graveyard, revolver in hand, finding only shadows and a shattered compass covered in blood.

  As omens go, it’s not reassuring, but it’s not definitive either. It’s another piece of the future come loose from the whole, and until I get there, I’ll have no idea what it means.

  Anna’s waiting for my reaction, but my unease isn’t sufficient reason for objection.

  “Have you seen how this ends? Does it work?” she asks, fingering the hem of her sleeve nervously.

  “I don’t know, but it’s the best plan we have,” I say.

  “We’re going to need help, and you’re running short of hosts.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll find it.”

  I pull a fountain pen from my pocket, adding one more line to the message, something to spare poor Bell a great deal of frustration.

  Oh, and don’t forget your gloves. They’re burning.

  37

  I hear the horses before I see them, dozens of shoes clopping along the cobblestones ahead of me. Not far behind is their smell, a musty odor mingled with the stench of manure, a thick rolling mix even the wind can’t disturb. Only after I’ve been assaulted by their impression do I finally come upon the animals themselves, thirty or so being led out of the stables and up the main road toward the village, carriages harnessed to their backs.

  Stable hands are guiding them on foot, their uniform flat caps, white shirts, and loose gray trousers rendering them as indistinguishable from each other as the horses in their care.

  I’m watching the hooves nervously. In a flash of memory, I recall being thrown from a horse as a boy, the beast’s hooves catching me in the chest, my bones cracking…

  Don’t let Dance get a grip on you.

  I tear myself free of my host’s memories, lowering the hand that had instinctively gone to the scar on my chest.

  It’s getting worse.

  Bell’s personality rarely surfaced at all, but between Derby’s lust and Dance’s manners and childhood traumas, it’s becoming difficult to keep a straight course.

  A few horses in the middle of the mass are nipping at those to the side of them, a ripple of agitation passing through the muscular brown tide. It’s enough for me to take an ill-advised step off the road, straight into a pile of manure.

  I’m flicking the filth free when one of the stable hands peels away from the pack.

  “Something I can help you with, Mr. Dance?” he says, tipping his cap at me.

  “You know me?” I say, surprised by this recognition.

  “Sorry, sir. Name’s Oswald, sir. I saddled the stallion you rode yesterday. Fine thing, sir, seeing a gentleman on a horse. Not many know how to ride that way anymore.”

  He smiles, showing off two rows of gappy teeth stained brown with tobacco.

  “Of course, of course,” I say, the passing horses nudging him in the back. “Actually, Oswald, I was looking for Lady Hardcastle. She was supposed to be meeting Alf Miller, the stable master.”

  “Not sure ’bout her ladyship, sir, but you’ve just missed Alf. Left with somebody about ten minutes gone. Heading to the lake, best I could tell, took the path alongside the paddock. It’s on your right as you pass under the arch, sir. You can probably still catch them if you hurry.”

  “Thank you, Oswald.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  Tipping his cap again, he falls in with the pack.

  Keeping to the edge of the road, I carry on toward the stables, the loose cobbles slowing me down considerably. In my other hosts, I simply leaped aside when one slid beneath me. Dance’s old legs aren’t nimble enough for that, and every time one wobbles under my weight, it twists my ankles and knees, threating to tip me over.

  Vexed, I pass beneath the arch to find oats, hay, and smashed fruit littering the courtyard, a boy doing his best to sweep the debris into the corners. He’d probably have more luck if he wasn’t half the size of the brush. He peeks at me shyly as I pass, trying to doff his cap but only succeeding in losing it to the wind. The last I see of him, he’s chasing it across the yard as though all his dreams were stuffed inside.

  The path nestled alongside the paddock is little more than a muddy trail rotten with puddles, and my trousers are already filthy by the time I’m halfway along. Twigs are cracking, rain dripping from the plants. I have the sense of being watched, and though there’s nothing to suggest it’s anything more than nerves, I swear I can feel a presence among the trees, a pair of eyes dogging my steps. I can only hope I’m mistaken, because if the footman does spring onto the path, I’m too weak to fight and too slow to run. The rest of my life will be precisely how long it takes him to pick a way of killing me.

  Seeing no sign of the stable master or Lady Hardcastle, I sacrifice my deportment completely, splattering mud up my back as I break into a worried trot.

  The trail soon veers away from the paddock and into the forest, that sense of being watched only growing as I move farther away from the stables. Brambles snatch at my clothes as I push through, until finally I hear the murmur of approaching voices and the lapping of water against the shore. Relief overwhelms me, and I realize I’ve been holding my breath this entire time. We’re face-to-face in two steps, though it’s not Lady Hardcastle I find accompanying the stable master, but rather Cunningham, Ravencourt’s valet. He’s wearing a thick coat and the long purple scarf he’ll struggle to tug loose when he interrupts Ravencourt speaking with Daniel.

  The banker must be asleep in the library.

  Surprise silences us, their alarm at bumping into me suggesting they were discussing far more than mere gossip.

  It’s Cunningham who recovers first, smiling amiably.

  “Mr. Dance, what a pleasant surprise,” he says. “What brings you out on this foul morning?”

  “I was looking for Helena Hardcastle,” I say, glancing from Cunningham to the stable master. “I was under the impression she was taking a walk with Mr. Miller here.”

  “No, sir,” says Miller, kneading his cap between his hands. “Supposed to be meeting at my cottage, sir. I’m on my way there now.”

  “We three find ourselves in the same boat then,” says Cunningham. “I was also hoping to catch her. Perhaps, we can go along together. My business shouldn’t take very long, but I’ll be happy to stand in line, as it were.”

  “And what is your business?” I ask, as we begin walking back toward the stables. “It was my understanding you met with Lady Hardcastle before breakfast.”

  The directness of my question momentarily unsettles his good cheer, a flash of annoyance passing across his face.

  “A few matters for Lord Hardcastle,” he says. “You know how these things are. One mess soon leads to another.”

  “But you have seen the lady of the house today?” I say.

  “Indeed, first thing.”

  “How did she seem?”

  He shrugs, frowning at me. “I couldn’t say. Our talk was very
brief. May I ask where these questions are leading, Mr. Dance? I rather feel like I’m facing you in court.”

  “Nobody else has seen Lady Hardcastle today. That strikes me as strange.”

  “Perhaps she’s wary of being pestered with questions,” he says, flaring.

  We arrive at the stable master’s cottage in an irritated mood, Mr. Miller writhing in discomfort as he invites us inside. It’s as neat and orderly as the last time I was here, although much too small for three men and their secrets.

  I take the chair by the table, while Cunningham inspects the bookcase, and the stable master frets, doing his best to tidy an already tidy cottage.

  We wait for ten minutes, but Lady Hardcastle never arrives.

  It’s Cunningham who breaks the silence.

  “Well, it seems the lady has other plans,” he says, checking his watch. “I’d better get off. I’m expected in the library. Good morning to you, Mr. Dance, Mr. Miller,” he says, inclining his head before opening the door and departing.

  Miller looks up at me nervously.

  “What about you, Mr. Dance?” he says. “Will you be waiting longer?”

  I ignore this and join him by the fireplace.

  “What were you speaking with Cunningham about?” I ask.

  He stares at the window, as though his answers are coming by messenger. I snap my fingers in front of his face, drawing his watery eyes toward me.

  “At this moment, I’m simply curious, Mr. Miller,” I say in a low voice dripping with unpleasant possibilities. “In a minute or so, I’ll be annoyed. Tell me what you were speaking about.”

  “He wanted somebody to show him around,” he says, jutting out his lower lip, revealing the pink flesh within. “Wanted to see the lake, he did.”

  Whatever Miller’s skills in this world, lying is not one of them. His elderly face is a mass of wrinkles and overhanging flesh, more than enough material for his emotions to build a stage from. Every frown is a tragedy; every smile, a farce. A lie, sitting as it does somewhere between both, is enough to collapse the entire performance.