The 7½ Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle

by Stuart Turton

  “One of your hosts left it for you. Don’t bother calling for Anna,” he says, noticing that I’m eyeing the door. “She’s not here. I came to warn you that your rival has almost solved the murder. I’m expecting him to find me at the lake tonight. You must work quickly from this point onward.”

  I try to straighten out, but the pain in my ribs immediately puts an end to my efforts.

  “Why are you so interested in me?” I ask, letting the agony settle into its familiar spots.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Why do you keep coming here for these talks? I know you don’t bother with Anna, and I’d wager you don’t see much of the footman either.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Why does—”

  “Answer the question,” he says, rapping the floor with his cane.

  “Edward Da…no, Derby. I…” I flounder for a moment. “Aiden…something.”

  “You’re losing yourself to them, Mr. Bishop,” he says, crossing his arms and leaning back in his chair. “It’s been happening for a while now. That’s why we only allow you eight hosts. Any more than that and your personality wouldn’t be able to rise above theirs.”

  He’s right. My hosts are getting stronger, and I’m getting weaker. It’s been happening incrementally, insidiously. It’s as though I fell asleep on a beach and now find myself cast out to sea.

  “What do I do?” I say, feeling a surge of panic.

  “Hold on,” he says with a shrug. “It’s all you can do. There’s a voice in your mind, you must have heard it by now. Dry, slightly distant? It’s calm when you’re panicked, fearless when you’re afraid.”

  “I’ve heard it.”

  “That’s what’s left of the original Aiden Bishop, the man who first entered Blackheath. It’s not much more than a fragment anymore, a little piece of his personality clinging on from one loop to the next, but if you begin to lose yourself, heed that voice. It’s your lighthouse. Everything that remains of the man you once were.”

  With a great rustling of clothing, he gets to his feet, the candle flame snapping in the breeze. Stooping down, he lifts the candle from the floor and heads to the door.

  “Wait,” I say.

  He pauses, his back to me. The candlelight forms a warm halo around his body.

  “How many times have we done all of this?” I ask.

  “Thousands, I suspect. More than I could possibly count.”

  “So why do I keep failing?”

  He sighs, looking over his shoulder at me. There’s a sense of weariness in his bearing, as though every loop is sediment, pressing down on him.

  “It’s a question I’ve pondered myself from time to time,” he says, melting wax running down the side to stain his glove. “Chance has played its part, stumbling when being surefooted would have saved you. Mostly, though, I think it’s your nature.”

  “My nature?” I ask. “You think I’m destined to fail?”

  “Destined? No. That would be an excuse, and Blackheath is intolerant of excuses,” he says. “Nothing that’s happening here is inevitable, much as it may appear otherwise. Events keep happening the same way day after day, because your fellow guests keep making the same decisions day after day. They decide to go hunting; they decide to betray each other; one of them drinks too much and skips breakfast, missing a meeting that would change his life forever. They cannot see another way, so they never change. You are different, Mr. Bishop. Throughout the loops, I’ve watched you react to moments of kindness and cruelty, random acts of chance. You make different decisions, and yet repeat the same mistakes at crucial junctures. It’s as though some part of you is perpetually pulled toward the pit.”

  “Are you saying I have to become somebody else to escape?”

  “I’m saying every man is in a cage of his own making,” he says. “The Aiden Bishop who first entered Blackheath.” He sighs, as if the memory troubles him. “The things he wanted and his way of getting them were…unyielding. That man could never have escaped Blackheath. This Aiden Bishop before me is different. I think you’re closer than you’ve ever been, but I’ve thought that before and been fooled. The truth is you’ve yet to be tested, but that’s coming, and if you’ve changed, truly changed, then who knows, there may be hope for you.”

  Ducking under the doorframe, he disappears into the corridor with the candle.

  “You have four hosts after Edward Dance, including what’s left of the days of the butler and Donald Davies. Be cautious, Mr. Bishop, the footman isn’t going to rest until they’re all dead, and I’m not sure you can afford to lose a single one of them.”

  With that, he closes the door.

  40

  DAY SIX (CONTINUED)

  Dance’s years fall on me like a thousand small weights.

  Michael and Stanwin are speaking behind me, Sutcliffe and Pettigrew laughing uproariously with a drink in their hand.

  Rebecca hovers over me with a silver tray, one last glass of brandy for the taking.

  “Rebecca,” I say fondly, almost reaching out a hand to touch my wife’s cheek.

  “No, sir. It’s Lucy, sir, Lucy Harper,” says the maid, concerned. “Sorry to wake you. I was worried you were going to fall off the wall.”

  I blink away the memory of Dance’s dead wife, cursing myself for a fool. What a ridiculous mistake to make. Thankfully, the remembrance of Lucy’s kindness toward the butler tempers my irritation at being caught in a moment of such sentiment.

  “Would you like a drink, sir?” she asks. “Something to warm you up?”

  I look past her to see Evelyn’s lady’s maid, Madeline Aubert, packing dirty glasses and half-empty brandy bottles into a hamper. The two of them must have carried it over from Blackheath, arriving while I slept. I seem to have dozed for longer than I suspected, as they’re already readying themselves to leave.

  “I think I’m unsteady enough,” I say.

  Her gaze flickers over my shoulder toward Ted Stanwin, whose hand is gripping Michael Hardcastle’s shoulder. Uncertainty writes itself in large letters across her face, which is little wonder considering his treatment of her at lunchtime.

  “Don’t worry, Lucy. I’ll take it over to him,” I say, rising and removing the glass of brandy from the tray. “I need to speak with him anyway.”

  “Thank you, sir,” she says with a wide smile, departing before I can change my mind.

  Stanwin and Michael are quiet when I come upon them, but I can hear the things not being said and the unease that stands in its place.

  “Michael, may I have a private word with Mr. Stanwin?” I ask.

  “Of course,” says Michael, inclining his head and withdrawing.

  I hand Stanwin the drink, ignoring the suspicion with which he glances at the glass.

  “Rare that you’d lower yourself to come talk with me, Dance,” says Stanwin, sizing me up the way a boxer might an opponent in the ring.

  “I thought we could help each other,” I say.

  “I’m always interested in making new friends.”

  “I need to know what you saw on the morning of Thomas Hardcastle’s murder.”

  “It’s an old story,” he says, tracing the edge of his glass with a fingertip.

  “But worth hearing from the horse’s mouth, surely,” I say.

  He’s looking over my shoulder, watching Madeline and Lucy depart with their hamper. I have the sense he’s searching for a distraction. Something about Dance puts him on edge.

  “No harm in it, I suppose,” he says with a grunt, returning his attention to me. “I was Blackheath’s gamekeeper back then. I was on my rounds around the lake, same as every morning, when I saw Carver and another devil with his back to me stabbing the little boy. I took a shot at him, but he escaped into the woods while I was wrestling with Carver.”

  “And for that Lord and
Lady Hardcastle gave you a plantation?” I say.

  “They did, not that I asked,” he sniffs.

  “Alf Miller, the stable master, says Helena Hardcastle was with Carver that morning, a few minutes before the attack. What do you say to that?”

  “That he’s a drunk and a damned liar,” says Stanwin smoothly.

  I search for some tremor, some hint of unease, but he’s an accomplished deceiver this one, his fidgeting put away now he knows what I want. I can feel the scales tipping in his direction, his confidence growing.

  I’ve misjudged this.

  I believed I could bully him as I did the stable master and Dickie, but Stanwin’s nervousness wasn’t a symptom of fear. It was the unease of a man finding a lone question in his pile of answers.

  “Tell me, Mr. Dance,” he says, leaning close enough to whisper into my ear. “Who’s the mother of your son? I know it wasn’t your dearly departed Rebecca. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve got a few ideas, but it would save me the cost of confirming them if you’d tell me up front. I might even discount your monthly payment afterward, for services rendered.”

  My blood freezes. This secret sits at the core of Dance’s being. It’s his greatest shame, his only weakness, and Stanwin’s just closed his fist around it.

  I couldn’t respond even if I wanted to.

  Stepping away from me, Stanwin tosses the untouched brandy into the bushes with a flick of his wrist.

  “Next time you come to trade, make sure you have something—”

  A shotgun explodes behind me.

  Something splashes my face, Stanwin’s body jolting backward before hitting the ground in a mangled heap. My ears are ringing and, touching my cheek, I find blood on my fingertips.

  Stanwin’s blood.

  Someone shrieks, others gasp and cry out.

  Nobody moves, then everybody does.

  Michael and Clifford Herrington race toward the body, hollering for somebody to fetch Doctor Dickie, but it’s obvious the blackmailer’s dead. His chest is broken open, the malice that drove him flown the coop. One good eye is pointed in my direction, an accusation held within. I want to tell him this wasn’t my fault, that I didn’t do this. Suddenly, that seems like the most important thing in the world.

  It’s shock.

  Bushes rustle, Daniel stepping out, smoke rising from the barrel of his shotgun. He’s looking down at the body with so little emotion, I could almost believe him innocent of the crime.

  “What did you do, Coleridge?” cries Michael, checking Stanwin for a pulse.

  “Exactly what I promised your father I would do,” he says flatly. “I’ve made sure Ted Stanwin will never blackmail any of you again.”

  “You murdered him!”

  “Yes,” says Daniel, meeting his shocked gaze. “I did.”

  Reaching into his pocket, Daniel hands me a silk handkerchief.

  “Clean yourself up, old man,” he says.

  I take it unthinkingly, even thanking him. I’m dazed, bewildered. Nothing about this feels real. Wiping Stanwin’s blood off my face, I stare at the crimson smear on the handkerchief, as if it can somehow explain what’s happening. I was speaking with Stanwin, and then he was dead, and I don’t understand how that could be. Surely, there should be more? A chase, fear, warning of some sort. We shouldn’t simply die. It feels like a swindle. So much paid, too much asked.

  “We’re ruined,” wails Sutcliffe, slumping against a tree. “Stanwin always said that if anything happened to him, our secrets would be made common knowledge.”

  “That’s your concern?” yells Herrington, wheeling on him. “Coleridge murdered a man in front of us!”

  “A man we all hated,” Sutcliffe shoots back. “Don’t pretend you weren’t thinking the same thing. Don’t any of you pretend! Stanwin bled us dry in life, and he’s going to destroy us in death.”

  “No, he won’t,” says Daniel, resting the shotgun across his shoulder.

  He’s the only one who’s calm, the only one who isn’t acting like an entirely different person. None of this means anything to him.

  “Everything he has on us—” says Pettigrew.

  “Is written in a book that I now own,” interrupts Daniel, retrieving a cigarette from his silver case.

  His hand’s not even shaking. My hand. What the hell does Blackheath make me?

  “I commissioned somebody to steal it for me,” he continues casually, lighting his cigarette. “Your secrets are my secrets, and they’ll never see the light of day. Now, I believe each of you owes me a promise. It’s this: you won’t mention this to anybody for the rest of the day. Is that understood? If anybody asks, Stanwin stayed behind when we left. He didn’t say why, and that was the last you saw of him.”

  Blank faces find each other, everybody too stunned to speak. I can’t tell whether they’re aghast at what they’ve witnessed or simply overcome by their good fortune.

  For my part, the shock is fading, the horror of Daniel’s actions finally sinking in. Half an hour ago, I was praising him for showing a modicum of kindness to Michael. Now I’m covered in another man’s blood, realizing how deeply I’ve underestimated his desperation.

  My desperation. This is my future I’m seeing, and it makes me sick.

  “I need to hear the words, gentleman,” says Daniel, blowing smoke from the corner of his mouth. “Tell me you understand what happened here.”

  Assurances arrive in a jumble, muted but sincere. Only Michael seems upset.

  Meeting his gaze, Daniel speaks coldly.

  “And don’t forget, I have all of your secrets in my hands.” He lets that settle. “Now, I think you should head back before anybody comes looking for us.”

  The suggestion is met with a murmur of agreement, everybody disappearing back into the forest. Signaling for me to remain behind, Daniel waits until they’re out of earshot before speaking.

  “Help me go through his pockets,” he says, rolling up his sleeves. “The other hunters will be coming back this way soon, and I don’t want them to see us with the body.”

  “What have you done, Daniel?” I hiss.

  “He’ll be alive tomorrow,” he says, waving his hand dismissively. “I’ve knocked over a scarecrow.”

  “We’re supposed to be solving a murder, not committing one.”

  “Give a little boy an electric train set and he’ll immediately try to derail it,” he says. “The act does not speak to his character, nor do we judge him for it.”

  “You think this is a game?” I snap, pointing at Stanwin’s body.

  “A puzzle, with disposable pieces. Solve it and we get to go home.” He frowns at me, as if I’m a stranger who’s asked directions to a place that doesn’t exist. “I don’t understand your concern.”

  “If we solve Evelyn’s murder in the manner you’re suggesting, we don’t deserve to go home! Can’t you see? These masks we wear betray us. They reveal us.”

  “You’re babbling,” he says, searching Stanwin’s pockets.

  “We are never more ourselves than when we think people aren’t watching. Don’t you realize that? It doesn’t matter if Stanwin’s alive tomorrow; you murdered him today. You murdered a man in cold blood, and that will blot your soul for the rest of your life. I don’t know why we’re here, Daniel, or why this is happening to us, but we should be proving that it’s an injustice, not making ourselves worthy of it.”

  “You’re misguided,” he says, contempt creeping into his voice. “We can no more mistreat these people than we could their shadow cast upon the wall. I don’t understand what you’re asking of me.”

  “That we hold ourselves to a higher standard,” I say, my voice rising. “That we be better men than our hosts! Murdering Stanwin was Daniel Coleridge’s solution, but it shouldn’t be yours. You’re a good man. You can’t lose sight of that.”

&
nbsp; “A good man,” he scoffs. “Avoiding unpleasant acts doesn’t make a man good. Look at where we are, what’s been done to us. Escaping this place requires that we do what is necessary, even if our nature compels us otherwise. I know this makes you squeamish, that you don’t have the stomach for it. I was the same, but I no longer have the time to tiptoe around my ethics. I can end this tonight and I mean to, so don’t measure me by how tightly I cling to my goodness, measure me by what I’m willing to sacrifice that you might cling to yours. If I fail, you can always try another way.”

  “And how will you live with yourself when you’re done?” I demand.

  “I’ll look at the faces of my family and know that what I lost in this place was not nearly as important as my reward for leaving it.”

  “You can’t believe that,” I say.

  “I do, and so will you after a few more days in this place,” he says. “Now, please, help me search him before the hunters find us here. I have no intention of wasting my evening answering a policeman’s questions.”

  It’s no use arguing with him. Shutters have come down behind his eyes.

  I sigh, taking myself over to the body.

  “What am I looking for?” I ask.

  “Answers, same as always,” he says, unbuttoning the blackmailer’s bloody jacket. “Stanwin collected every lie in Blackheath, including the last piece of our puzzle, the reason for Evelyn’s murder. Every scrap of knowledge he holds is contained in a book written in code, with a separate book of ciphers required to read it. I have the first. Stanwin keeps the latter on him at all times.”

  That was the book Derby stole from Stanwin’s bedroom.

  “Did you take it from Derby?” I ask. “I was coshed on the head almost as soon as I got my hands on it.”

  “Of course not,” he says. “Coleridge had already commissioned somebody to retrieve the book before I took control of him. I didn’t even know he was interested in Stanwin’s blackmail business until the book was delivered to me. If it’s any consolation, I did consider warning you.”

  “So, why didn’t you?”