‘Is that—’
‘A lake,’ says Evelyn, looking past me. ‘The lake, I suppose you’d say. That’s where my brother was murdered by Charlie Carver.’
A shiver of silence divides us.
‘I’m sorry, Evie,’ I say at last, embarrassed by the poverty of the sentiment.
‘You’ll think me awful, but it happened so long ago it barely seems real,’ she says. ‘I can’t even remember Thomas’s face.’
‘Michael shared a similar sentiment,’ I say.
‘That’s not surprising, he was five years younger than me when it happened.’ She’s hugging herself, her tone distant. ‘I was supposed to be looking after Thomas that morning, but I wanted to go riding and he was always pestering me, so I arranged a treasure hunt for the children and left him behind. If I hadn’t been so selfish, he’d never have been at the lake in the first place, and Carver wouldn’t have got his filthy hands on him. You can’t imagine what that thought does to a child. I didn’t sleep, barely ate. I couldn’t feel anything that wasn’t anger or guilt. I was monstrous to anybody who tried to console me.’
‘What changed?’
‘Michael’ – she smiles wistfully – ‘I was vile to him, positively horrid, but he stayed by my side, no matter what I said. He saw I was sad and he wanted to make me feel better. I don’t even think he knew what was happening, not really. He was just being nice, but he kept me from drifting away completely.’
‘Is that why you went to Paris, to get away from it all?’
‘I didn’t choose to leave, my parents sent me away a few months after it happened,’ she says, biting her lip. ‘They couldn’t forgive me and I wouldn’t have been allowed to forgive myself if I’d stayed. I know it was supposed to be a punishment, but exile was a kindness, I think.’
‘And yet you came back?’
‘You make it sound like a choice,’ she says bitterly, tightening her scarf as the wind carves through the trees. ‘My parents ordered my return, they even threatened to cut me out of the will should I refuse. When that didn’t work, they threatened to cut Michael out of the will instead. So here I am.’
‘I don’t understand, why would they behave so despicably and then throw you a party?’
‘A party?’ she says, shaking her head. ‘Oh, my dear man, you really have no idea what’s happening here, do you?’
‘Perhaps if you—’
‘My brother was murdered nineteen years ago tomorrow, Sebastian. I don’t know why, but my parents have decided to mark the occasion by reopening the house where it happened and inviting back the very same guests who were here that day.’
Anger is rising in her voice, a low throb of pain I’d do anything to make go away. She’s turned her head to face the lake, her blue eyes glossy.
‘They’re disguising a memorial as a party and they’ve made me the guest of honour, which I can only assume means something dreadful is coming for me,’ she continues. ‘This isn’t a celebration, it’s a punishment, and there’ll be fifty people in their very finest clothes watching it happen.’
‘Are your parents really so spiteful?’ I ask, shocked. I feel much as I did when that bird hit the window earlier this morning, a great swell of pity mingled with a sense of injustice at life’s sudden cruelties.
‘My mother sent me a message this morning, asking me to meet her by the lake,’ she says. ‘She never came, and I don’t think she ever meant to. She just wanted me to stand out there, where it happened, remembering. Does that answer your question?’
‘Evelyn... I... I don’t know what to say.’
‘There’s nothing to say, Sebastian. Wealth is poisonous to the soul and my parents have been wealthy a very long time – as have most of the guests who will be at this party,’ says Evelyn. ‘Their manners are a mask, you’d do well to remember that.’
She smiles at my pained expression, taking my hand. Her fingers are cold, her gaze warm. She has the brittle courage of a prisoner walking their final steps to the gallows.
‘Oh, don’t fret, dear heart,’ she says. ‘I’ve done all the tossing and turning it’s possible to do. I see little benefit in your losing sleep over it also. If you want, you could make a wish in the well on my behalf, though I’d understand if you have more pressing concerns.’
From her pocket she pulls out a small coin.
‘Here,’ she says, handing it to me. ‘I don’t think our pebbles did much good.’
The coin travels a long way, hitting rock rather than water at the bottom. Despite Evelyn’s advice, I hitch no hopes for myself to its surface. Instead, I pray for her deliverance from this place, for a happy life and freedom from her parents’ machinations. Like a child I close my eyes in the hopes that when I open them again, the natural order will be overturned, the impossible made plausible by desire alone.
‘You’ve changed so much,’ mutters Evelyn, a ripple of emotion disturbing her face, the slightest indication of discomfort when she realises what she’s said.
‘You knew me before?’ I say, surprised. Somehow it never occurred to me that Evelyn and I might have had a relationship prior to this one.
‘I shouldn’t have said anything,’ she says, walking away from me.
‘Evie, I’ve been in your company for over an hour, which makes you my best friend in this world,’ I say. ‘Please, be honest with me. Who am I?’
Her eyes criss-cross my face.
‘I’m not the right person to say,’ she protests. ‘We met two days ago, and only briefly. Most of what I know is innuendo and rumour.’
‘I’m sitting at an empty table, I’ll take whatever crumbs I’m fed.’
Her lips are tight. She’s tugging her sleeves down awkwardly. If she had a shovel, she’d dig herself an escape tunnel. The deeds of good men are not related so reluctantly, and I’m already beginning to dread what she has to tell me. Even so, I cannot let this go.
‘Please,’ I plead. ‘You told me earlier I could choose who I wanted to be, but I cannot do that without knowing who I was.’
Her obstinacy flickers, and she looks up at me from under her eyelashes.
‘Are you certain you wish to know?’ she asks. ‘The truth isn’t always a kindness.’
‘Kind or not, I need to understand what’s been lost.’
‘Not a great deal in my opinion,’ she sighs, squeezing my hand in both of hers. ‘You were a dope dealer, Sebastian. You made your living alleviating the boredom of the idle rich, and quite a living it was too, if your practice on Harley Street is anything to go by.’
‘I’m a...’
‘Dope dealer,’ she repeats. ‘Laudanum’s the fashion I believe, though from what I understand, your trunk of tricks has something to cater to every taste.’
I slump within myself. I wouldn’t have believed I could be so wounded by the past, but the revelation of my former profession tears a hole right through me. Though my failings were numerous, against them was always stacked the small pride of being a doctor. There was nobility in that course, honour even. But no, Sebastian Bell took the title and twisted it to his own selfish ends, making it perverse, denying what little good remained to him.
Evelyn was right, the truth isn’t always a kindness, but no man should discover himself this way, like an abandoned house stumbled upon in the darkness.
‘I shouldn’t worry about it,’ says Evelyn, cocking her head to catch my averted eye. ‘I see little of that odious creature in the man before me.’
‘Is that why I’m at this party?’ I ask quietly. ‘To sell my wares?’
Her smile is sympathetic. ‘I suspect so.’
I’m numb, two steps behind myself. Every strange glance over the course of the day, every whisper and commotion as I walked into a room is explained. I thought people were concerned for my well-being, but they were wondering when my trunk would reopen for business.
I feel such a fool.
‘I have to...’
I’m moving before I understand how that sentence end
s, my body carrying me back through the forest at an ever increasing pace. I’m almost running by the time I arrive on the road. Evelyn’s at my heels, struggling to keep up. She’s trying to anchor me with words, reminding me of my desire to meet Madeline, but I’m impervious to reason, consumed by my hatred for the man I was. His flaws I could accept, perhaps even overcome, but this is a betrayal. He made his mistakes and fled, leaving me holding the tatters of his scorched life.
Blackheath’s door stands open and I’m up the staircase and into my room so quickly the smell of damp earth still clings to me, as I stand panting over the trunk. Is this what drove me into the forest last night? Is this what I spilled blood for? Well, I’m going to smash it all, and with it any connection to the man I was.
Evelyn arrives to find me ransacking my bedroom for something heavy enough to break the lock. Intuiting my purpose, she ducks into the corridor, returning with the bust of some Roman emperor or other.
‘You’re a treasure,’ I say, using it to hammer the lock.
When I yanked the trunk out of the cupboard this morning, it was so heavy it took all my strength to lift, but now it’s sliding backwards with each blow. Once again Evelyn comes to the rescue, sitting on the trunk to keep it in place, and after three enormous strikes, the lock clatters to the floor.
Tossing the bust on the bed, I lift the heavy lid.
The trunk’s empty.
Or at least mostly empty.
In a dark corner is a solitary chess piece with Anna’s name carved into the base.
‘I think it’s time you told me the rest of your story,’ says Evelyn.
8
Darkness presses up against my bedroom window, its cold breath leaving frost on the glass. The fire hisses in response, the swaying flames my only light. Steps hurry down the corridor beyond my closed door, a jumble of voices on their way to the ball. Somewhere in the distance I hear the tremble of a violin coming awake.
Stretching my feet towards the fire, I wait for silence. Evelyn asked me to attend both dinner and the party, but I can’t mingle with these people, knowing who I am and what it is they really want from me. I’m tired of this house, their games. I’m going to meet Anna at 10:20 p.m. in the graveyard, and then I’ll have a stable hand take us to the village, away from this madness.
My gaze returns to the chess piece I found in the trunk. I’m holding it up to the light in the hopes of worrying loose some further memories. Thus far it’s kept quiet and there’s little about the piece itself to illuminate my memory. It’s a bishop, hand-carved and freckled with white paint; a far cry from the expensive ivory sets I’ve seen around the house, and yet... it means something to me. Regardless of any memory there’s a feeling associated with it, a sense of comfort almost. Holding it brings me courage.
There’s a knock on the door, my hand tightening around the chess piece as I start from the chair. The closer I come to the meeting in the graveyard the more highly strung I’ve become, practically leaping out of the window every time the fire pops in the grate.
‘Belly, you in there?’ asks Michael Hardcastle.
He knocks again. It’s insistent. A polite battering ram.
Placing the chess piece on the mantel above the fireplace, I open the door. The hall’s awash with people in costume, Michael wearing a bright orange suit and fiddling with the straps of a giant sun mask.
‘There you are,’ he says, frowning at me. ‘Why aren’t you dressed yet?’
‘I’m not coming,’ I say. ‘It’s been...’
A wave towards my head, but my sign language is too vague for him.
‘Are you feeling faint?’ he asks. ‘Should I call Dickie? I just saw him—’
I have to catch Michael’s arm to prevent him from flying off down the corridor in search of the doctor.
‘I simply don’t feel up to it,’ I say.
‘Are you sure? There are going to be fireworks and I’m certain my parents have been cooking up a surprise all day. Seems a shame to—’
‘Honestly, I’d rather not.’
‘If you’re certain,’ he says reluctantly, his voice as crestfallen as his face. ‘I’m sorry you’ve had such a wretched day, Belly. Here’s hoping tomorrow will be better, with fewer misunderstandings, at least.’
‘Misunderstandings?’ I say.
‘The murdered girl?’ He smiles in confusion. ‘Daniel told me it was all a big mistake. I felt a right bloody fool calling off the search halfway through. No harm done, though.’
Daniel? How could he possibly have known Anna was alive?
‘It was a mistake, wasn’t it?’ he asks, noting my bafflement.
‘Of course,’ I say brightly. ‘Yes... terrible mistake. I’m sorry to have bothered you with it.’
‘Not to worry,’ he says slightly dubiously. ‘Think no more about it.’
His words are stretched thin, like overburdened elastic. I can hear his doubt, not only in the story, but in the man standing before him. After all, I’m not the person he knew and I think he’s coming to realise that I no longer wish to be. This morning I’d have done almost anything to repair the fracture between us, but Sebastian Bell was a drug peddler and a coward, the consort of vipers. Michael was a friend of that man, so how could he ever be a friend of mine?
‘Well, I’d best be off,’ he says, clearing his throat. ‘Feel better, old man.’
Rapping the doorframe with his knuckle, he turns away, following the rest of the guests on their way to the party.
I watch him go, digesting the news. I’d quite forgotten about Anna’s flight through the woods this morning, our imminent meeting in the graveyard sapping much of the horror from my first memory. And yet, something momentous clearly happened, even if Daniel has been telling people it didn’t. I’m certain of what I witnessed, the gunshot and the fear. Anna was chased by a figure in black, whom I must now assume to have been the footman. Somehow she survived, as did I after my assault last night. Is that what she wants to talk about? Our mutual enemy, and why he wants us dead? Perhaps he’s after the drugs? They’re clearly valuable. Maybe Anna’s my partner and she removed them from the trunk to keep them out of his hands? That would, at least, explain the presence of the chess piece. Maybe it’s some sort of calling card?
After taking my coat from the wardrobe, I wrap myself in a long scarf and slip my hands into a thick pair of gloves, pocketing the paperknife and chess piece on the way out. I’m rewarded by a crisp, cold night. As my eyes adjust to the gloom, I breathe in the fresh air, still damp with the storm, and follow the gravel path around the house towards the graveyard.
My shoulders are tense, my stomach unsettled.
I’m frightened of this forest, but I’m more frightened by this meeting.
When I first awoke I wanted nothing more than to rediscover myself, but last night’s misadventure now seems a blessing. Injury has given me the chance to start again, but what if meeting Anna brings all my old memories flooding back? Can this higgledy-piggledy personality I’ve cobbled together over the course of the day survive such a deluge, or will it be washed away entirely?
Will I be washed away?
The thought is almost enough to turn me around by the shoulders, but I cannot confront the person I was by running from the life he built. Better to make a stand here, confident of whom I wish to become.
Gritting my teeth, I follow the path through the trees, coming upon a small gardener’s cottage, the windows dark. Evelyn’s leaning against the wall, smoking a cigarette, a lantern burning by her feet. She’s wearing a long beige coat and wellington boots, an outfit somewhat at odds with the blue evening dress beneath it and the diamond tiara sparkling in her hair. She’s really quite beautiful, though she carries it awkwardly.
She notices me noticing.
‘I didn’t have time to change after dinner,’ she says defensively, tossing her cigarette away.
‘What are you doing here, Evie?’ I ask. ‘You’re supposed to be at the ball.’
‘I slipped away. You didn’t think I’d miss all the fun?’ she says, grinding the cigarette beneath her heel.
‘It’s dangerous.’
‘Then it would be foolish for you to go alone, besides I brought some help.’
From her handbag, she pulls out a black revolver.
‘Where on earth did you find that?’ I ask, feeling shocked and slightly guilty. The idea that my problem has put a weapon in Evelyn’s hand seems like a betrayal somehow. She should be warm and safe in Blackheath, not out here in harm’s way.
‘It’s my mother’s, so the better question might be where she found it.’
‘Evie, you can’t—’
‘Sebastian, you’re my only friend in this dreadful place and I’m not going to let you stroll into a graveyard alone, without knowing what’s waiting for you. Somebody’s already tried to kill you once. I have no intention of letting them try again.’
A lump of gratitude lodges itself in my throat.
‘Thank you.’
‘Don’t be silly, it’s either this or I stay in that house with everybody’s eyes upon me,’ she says, lifting the lantern into the air. ‘I should be thanking you. Now, shall we go? There’ll be hell to pay if I’m not back for the speeches.’
Darkness weighs heavy on the graveyard, the iron fence buckled, trees bent low over crooked gravestones. Thick piles of rotting leaves smother the plots, the tombs cracked and crumbling, taking the names of the dead with them. ‘I spoke with Madeline about the note you received last night,’ says Evelyn, pushing open the squeaking gate and leading us inside. ‘I hope you don’t mind.’
‘Of course, I don’t,’ I say, looking around nervously. ‘It slipped my mind, truth be told. What did she say?’
‘Only that the note was given to her by Mrs Drudge, the cook. I spoke to her separately, and she told me it had been left in the kitchen, though she couldn’t say by whom. There was too much coming and going.’
‘And did Madeline read it?’ I ask.
‘Of course,’ says Evelyn, wryly. ‘She didn’t even blush when she admitted to it. The message was very brief, it asked you to come immediately to the usual spot.’
The Seven Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle Page 6