The 7½ Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle

by Stuart Turton

  “What are the big ones?”

  “I need you to save my life. Twice. This will help.”

  From my pocket I take out the artist’s sketchbook, a battered old thing filled with crumpled pieces of loose-leaf paper, the leather covers bound with string. I found it in Gold’s jacket when I left the cottage. After tossing away Gold’s somewhat anarchic sketches, I wrote down everything I could remember about my hosts’ schedules, leaving notes and instructions dotted throughout.

  “What is it?” she asks, taking it from me.

  “It’s the book of me,” I say. “And it’s the only advantage we have.”

  56

  “Have you seen Gold? He should already be here.”

  I’m sitting in Sutcliffe’s empty bedroom, the door opened a crack. Daniel is busy speaking with Bell in the room opposite, and Anna’s outside, pacing furiously.

  It’s not my intention to make her fret, but after I finished scattering letters across the house, including the one in the library revealing Cunningham’s parentage, I retired here with a decanter of whiskey from the drawing room. I’ve been drinking solidly for an hour, trying to wash away the shame of what’s coming, and though I’m drunk, I’m not nearly drunk enough.

  “What’s our plan?” I hear Rashton say to Anna.

  “We need to keep the footman from killing the butler and Gold this morning,” she says. “They’ve still got a role to play in all this, assuming we can keep them alive long enough.”

  I take another belt of the whiskey, listening to them talk.

  Gold doesn’t have a drop of violence in him, and it would take a great deal of convincing to make him hurt an innocent man. I don’t have time for that, so I’m hoping to numb him instead.

  I’m not having any luck so far.

  Gold beds other men’s wives, cheats at dice, and generally carries on as though the sky is going to fall any minute, but he wouldn’t crush a wasp that stung him. He loves life too much to bring pain to anybody else’s, which is unfortunate, because pain is the only thing that will keep the butler alive long enough to meet Anna in the gatehouse.

  Hearing his dragging steps outside the door, I take a breath and stride into the corridor, obstructing his path. Through Gold’s strange eyes, he’s a beautiful sight, his burned face a joy, so much more engaging than the bland symmetry of most people.

  He tries to back away from me with a hurried apology, but I snatch his wrist. He looks up at me, mistaking my mood. He sees anger when all I feel is anguish. I have no desire to hurt this man, yet I must.

  He tries to move around me, but I block his path.

  I despise what I must do, wishing I could explain, but there isn’t time. Even so, I can’t bring myself to raise the poker and strike an innocent man. I keep seeing him lying in bed, swaddled in white cotton sheets, beaten black and blue, struggling to breathe.

  If you don’t do this, Daniel wins.

  Just his name is enough to stir my hate, my fists balling by my sides. I think of his duplicity, fanning the flames of my rage by remembering every lie he told me, drowning all over again with the little boy in the lake. I remember the feeling of the footman’s knife as it slipped between Derby’s ribs and slashed Dance’s throat. The surrender he forced on Rashton.

  With a roar I vent my anger, striking the butler with the poker I took from the fireplace, catching him across the back of the shoulders, sending him crashing into the wall and down onto the floor.

  “Please,” he says, trying to slide away from me. “I’m not—”

  He wheezes for help, holding out an imploring hand. It’s the hand that pushes me over the edge. Daniel did something similar by the lake, turning my own pity upon me. Now it’s Daniel I see on the floor, and my anger catches fire, boiling in my veins.

  I kick him.

  Once, then again and again and again. Reason deserts me, rage pouring into the void. Every betrayal, every pain and sorrow, every regret, every disappointment, every humiliation, every anguish, every hurt…all of them, they’re filling me up.

  I can barely breathe, barely see. I’m sobbing, as I kick him over and over.

  I pity this man.

  I pity myself.

  I hear Rashton an instant before he hits me with the vase. The crash echoes inside my skull as I fall and fall, the ground catching me in its hard arms.

  57

  DAY TWO (CONTINUED)

  “Aiden!”

  The voice is distant, washing over my body like water lapping a beach.

  “God, wake up. Please wake up.”

  Wearily, ever so wearily, my eyes flicker open.

  I’m staring at a cracked wall, my head resting on a white pillowcase spattered with red blood. Tiredness reaches for me, threatening to drag me back under.

  Much to my surprise, I’m the butler again, lying in that bed in the gatehouse.

  Stay awake. Stay still. We’re in trouble.

  I move my body a fraction, the pain in my side leaping as far as my mouth before I bite it back, trapping a scream in my throat. If nothing else, it’s enough to wake me up.

  Blood has soaked the sheets where the footman stabbed me earlier. The agony must have been enough to knock me unconscious, but not enough to kill me. Surely that’s no accident. The footman has ushered a lot of people into the afterlife, and I doubt he got lost this time. The idea chills me. I thought nothing was more frightening than somebody trying to kill me. Turns out, it’s more a matter of who’s doing the killing, and when that’s the footman, being left alive is far more terrifying.

  “Aiden, are you awake?”

  I turn over painfully to see Anna in the corner of the room, legs and hands tied by a length of rope, which is knotted around an old radiator. Her cheek is swollen, a black eye blossoming on her face like a flower in the snow.

  Night shows through the window above her, but I don’t have any clue what time it is. For all I know, it’s already eleven and the Plague Doctor is waiting for us by the lake.

  Seeing me awake, Anna lets out a sob of relief.

  “I thought he’d killed you,” she says.

  “That makes two of us,” I croak.

  “He grabbed me outside the house, told me he’d kill me if I didn’t come with him,” she says, struggling against her bonds. “I knew Donald Davies was safely asleep on that road, and that he couldn’t reach him, so I did what he asked. I’m so sorry, Aiden, but I couldn’t think of another way.”

  She’ll betray you.

  This is what the Plague Doctor warned me about, the decision Rashton mistook for evidence of Anna’s duplicity. That lack of trust nearly sabotaged everything we’ve been working for throughout the day. I wonder if the Plague Doctor knew the circumstances of Anna’s “betrayal,” hiding them for his own ends, or whether he genuinely believed this woman had turned against me.

  “It’s not your fault, Anna,” I say.

  “I’m still sorry.” She flicks a frightened glance at the door, then lowers her voice. “Can you reach the shotgun? He put it on the sideboard.”

  I glance across toward it. It’s only a few feet away, but it might as well be on the moon. I could barely roll over, let alone stand up to get it.

  “Awake are you?” interrupts the footman, who emerges through the door, slicing chunks off an apple with his pocketknife. “That’s a shame. I was looking forward to waking you up again.”

  There’s another man behind him. It’s the thug from the graveyard, the one who held my arms while Daniel tried to beat Anna’s location out of me.

  The footman approaches the bed.

  “Last time we met, I let you live,” he says. “Had to be done, but still…it was unsatisfying.” Clearing his throat, I feel a wet splat of saliva hit my cheek. Disgust echoes through me, but I haven’t the strength to lift my arm and wipe it away.

  “Won’
t happen a second time,” he says. “I don’t like people waking up again. Feels like a job half done. I want Donald Davies, and I want you to tell me where I can lay my hands on him.”

  My mind whirls, connecting the giant jigsaw pieces of my life.

  Daniel found me on the road after I jumped out of the carriage and convinced me to follow him into the graveyard. I never questioned how he knew where I’d be, but here is my answer anyway. In a few minutes, I’m going to tell the footman.

  If I wasn’t so afraid, I’d smile at the irony.

  Daniel believes I’m betraying Davies to his death, but without their confrontation in the graveyard, I’ll never find out Silver Tear is in Blackheath, or fight Daniel by the lake, allowing Anna to finally finish him off.

  It’s a trap all right. One built by Rashton, sprung by Davies, and baited by me. It’s as neat as you’d like, except that when I tell the footman what he wants to know, he’ll butcher Anna and me like cattle.

  Placing his knife and the apple on the sideboard beside the shotgun, the footman picks up the sleeping tablets, the jar rattling as he shakes a pill into his hand. I can almost hear him frowning at it, his thoughts thudding back and forth. His companion is still at the door, arms folded and expressionless.

  The jar rattles again. Once, twice, three times.

  “How many of these things does it take to kill a burned cripple like you, eh?” he asks, gripping my chin with his hand and forcing my face toward his own.

  I try to turn away, but his grip hardens, his eyes fastening on mine. I can feel the heat of him; his malice a prickly, hot thing crawling along my skin. I could have woken up behind that gaze. I could have shared that rat’s warren of a brain, wading through memories and impulses I’d never have been able to shake off.

  Maybe I did in a past loop.

  Suddenly, even the loathsome Derby seems like a blessing.

  His iron fingers release me, my head lolling to one side, beads of perspiration welling on my forehead.

  I don’t know how much longer I have.

  “Judging by those burns, you’ve had a hard life,” he says, withdrawing a little. “Hard life deserves an easy death, I reckon. That’s what I’m offering. Fall asleep with a belly full of pills, or writhe around for a couple of hours while I keep missing the important bits with my knife.”

  “Leave him alone!” Anna screams from the corner, the wood creaking as she strains to break free.

  “Better yet,” he says, waving his knife at her. “I could take my blade to the girl here. I need her alive. Doesn’t mean she can’t scream a bit first.”

  He takes a step toward her.

  “Stables,” I say quietly.

  He stops dead, looking at me over his shoulder.

  “What did you say?”

  He walks back over to me.

  Close your eyes. Don’t let him see your fear. That’s what he craves. He won’t kill you until you open your eyes.

  Squeezing them shut, I feel the bed sag as he sits down. A few seconds later, the edge of his blade caresses my face.

  Fear tells me to open my eyes, to see the harm coming.

  Just breathe. Wait for your moment.

  “Donald Davies will be at the stables?” he hisses. “Is that what you said?”

  I nod, trying to ward off panic.

  “Leave him alone!” Anna screams again from the corner, pounding the floorboards with her heels and pulling violently against the ropes restraining her.

  “Shut up!” the footman screams at her, before returning his attention to me. “When?”

  My mouth is so dry I’m not even sure I can still speak.

  “When?” he insists, the blade biting my cheek, drawing blood.

  “Twenty to ten,” I say, remembering the time Daniel gave me.

  “Go! That’s ten minutes from now,” he tells the man at the door, fading steps charting the thug’s departure down the corridor.

  The blade wanders along the edge of my lips, tracing the contours of my nose until I feel the slightest pressure on my closed eyelid.

  “Open your eyes,” he hisses.

  I wonder if he can hear my heart beating. How could he not? It’s pounding like mortar fire, wearing down what little bravery remains to me.

  I begin to tremble, ever so slightly.

  “Open your eyes,” he repeats, spittle hitting my cheeks. “Open your eyes, little rabbit. Let me see inside.”

  Wood snaps and Anna screams.

  I can’t help but look.

  She’s managed to rip the radiator from one of its brackets, freeing her hands in the process, though not her legs. The knife withdraws as the footman leaps to his feet, the bedsprings squeaking as they’re relieved of his weight.

  Now. Move now!

  I throw myself at him. There’s no skill in it, no strength, just desperation and momentum. A hundred other times I fail and my body hits him like a blown rag, but there’s something about the angle he’s standing at and the way he’s holding the knife. I catch the handle perfectly, turning it and pushing the blade into his stomach, blood welling up between my fingers as we hit the floor in a tangled pile.

  He’s gasping, stunned, hurt even, but not fatally so. Already he’s gathering himself.

  I look down at the knife in my hand, only the hilt now visible, and I know it’s not going to be enough. He’s too strong and I’m too weak.

  “Anna!” I yell, ripping the knife free and skimming it across the floor toward her, watching in despair as it comes to a halt a few inches from her straining fingertips.

  The footman claws at me, nails raking across my cheeks as he scrabbles desperately for my throat. The weight of my body pins his right hand, my shoulder crushing his face, blinding him. He’s writhing, grunting, trying to shake me off.

  “I can’t hold him!” I scream at Anna.

  His hand finds my ear, and he wrenches at it, my eyes filled with blinding white pain. I jerk away, banging into the sideboard, knocking the shotgun to the floor.

  The footman’s hand breaks free from underneath me. He pushes me off him, and as I hit the floorboards, I see Anna reaching for the shotgun, the freshly severed rope still trailing from her wrist. Our eyes meet, fury gathered on her face.

  The footman’s hands wrap themselves around my neck and tighten.

  I strike at his broken nose, causing him to howl in pain, but he doesn’t let go. He squeezes harder, choking the breath from me.

  The shotgun explodes, and so does the footman, his headless body collapsing beside me, blood pouring from his neck and spreading across the floor.

  I stare at the shotgun trembling in Anna’s hands. If it hadn’t fallen when it did…if the knife hadn’t reached her, or she’d been a few seconds later freeing herself…

  I shiver, horrified at the margins between life and death.

  Anna’s talking to me, worrying about me, but I’m so exhausted I only hear half of what’s she saying, and the last thing I feel before the darkness takes me is her hand in mine, and the soft touch of her lips as they kiss my forehead.

  58

  DAY EIGHT (CONTINUED)

  Fighting through the thick fog of sleep, I announce myself with a cough, startling Anna, who’s standing on her tiptoes, her body pressed against mine as she tries to cut me loose with a kitchen knife. I’m back in Gold, strung up from the ceiling by my wrists.

  “I’ll have you down in a tick,” says Anna.

  She must have come straight from the room next door, because her apron is covered in the footman’s blood. Brow furrowed, she saws at the rope, her haste making her clumsy. Swearing, she slows down, but after a few minutes my bonds are slack enough for me to wriggle my hands free.

  I drop like a stone, hitting the floor with a thud.

  “Easy,” says Anna, kneeling beside me. “You’ve been
tied up all day, there’s no strength left in you.”

  “What…” A hacking cough overtakes me, but there’s no water in the jug to ease it. The Plague Doctor wasted it all trying to keep me awake earlier. My shirt’s still wet from where he splashed me.

  I wait for the coughing to ease, then try speaking again.

  “What time…” I force out, feeling as though I’m pushing stones up through my throat.

  “Nine forty-five,” says Anna.

  If you’ve killed the footman, he can’t kill Rashton or Derby. They’re alive. They can help.

  “Don’t need them,” I rasp.

  “Need who?” says Anna.

  I shake my head, gesturing for her to help me up. “We have to…”

  Another painful cough, another look of sympathy from Anna.

  “Sit a second for pity’s sake,” she says, handing me a folded piece of paper that’s fallen from my breast pocket.

  If she looked inside, she’d see the phrase all of them written in Gold’s dreadful handwriting. Those words are the key to everything that’s happening, and they’ve been following me around since Cunningham delivered the message to Derby three days ago.

  Tucking the note back into my pocket, I gesture for Anna to help me stand.

  Somewhere in the darkness, the Plague Doctor is making his way toward the lake, where he’ll be expecting Anna to give him an answer she doesn’t yet have. After eight days of asking questions, we now have a little over an hour to make our case.

  I have to hope it’s enough.

  With my arm around Anna’s shoulders and hers around my waist, we stumble through the door drunkenly, almost falling down the stairs. I’m very weak, but the greater problem lies in how numb my limbs are. I feel like a wooden puppet on the end of twisted strings.

  We depart the gatehouse without a backward glance, smacking straight into the cold night air. The quickest route to the lake would take us past the wishing well, but there’s too great a chance of bumping into Daniel and Donald Davies by going that way. I have no desire to upset whatever delicate balance we’ve arrived at by blundering into an event that’s already been settled in my favor.