The Seven Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle

by Stuart Turton

  ‘That was all? No signature?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. I’m sorry Sebastian, I’d hoped to have better news.’

  We’ve reached the mausoleum at the far end of the graveyard, a large marble box watched over by two broken angels. A lantern hangs from one of their beckoning hands and though it flickers in the gloom, there’s nothing of note to illuminate. The graveyard’s empty.

  ‘Perhaps Anna’s running a little late,’ says Evelyn.

  ‘Then who left the lantern burning?’ I ask.

  My heart is racing, damp seeping up my trousers as I wade through ankle-deep leaves. Evelyn’s watch assures us of the time, but Anna’s nowhere to be seen. There’s just that damnable lantern, squeaking as it sways in the breeze, and for fifteen minutes or more, we stand stiff beneath it, the light draping our shoulders, our eyes searching for Anna and finding her everywhere: in the shifting shadows and stirring leaves, the low-hanging branches disturbed by the breeze. Time and again one of us taps the other on the shoulder, drawing their attention to a sudden sound or startled animal darting through the underbrush.

  As the hour grows later, it’s difficult to keep one’s thoughts from venturing to more frightening places. Doctor Dickie believed the wounds on my arms were defensive in nature, as though I’d been fending off an assault with a knife. What if Anna isn’t an ally, but an enemy? Perhaps that’s why her name was fixed in my mind? For all I know, she penned the note I received at the dinner table, and has now lured me out here to finish the job started yesterday evening.

  These thoughts spread like cracks through my already brittle courage, fear pouring into the hollowness behind. Only Evelyn’s presence keeps me upright, her own courage pinning me in place.

  ‘I don’t think she’s coming,’ says Evelyn.

  ‘No, I rather think not,’ I say, speaking quietly to mask my relief. ‘Perhaps we should head back.’

  ‘I think so,’ she says. ‘I’m so sorry, dear heart.’

  With an unsteady hand, I take the lantern down from the angel’s arm, and follow Evelyn towards the gate. We’ve only taken a couple of steps when Evelyn clutches my arm, lowering her flame towards the ground. Light splashes the leaves, revealing blood splattered across their surface. Kneeling down, I rub the sticky substance between my thumb and forefinger.

  ‘Here,’ says Evelyn quietly.

  She’s followed the drips to a nearby tombstone, where something glitters beneath the leaves. Sweeping them aside, I find the compass that led me out of the forest this morning. It’s bloodstained and shattered, yet still unwavering in its devotion to north.

  ‘Is that the compass the killer gave you?’ says Evelyn, her voice hushed.

  ‘It is,’ I say, weighing it in my palm. ‘Daniel Coleridge took it from me this morning.’

  ‘And then it appears somebody took it from him.’

  Whatever danger Anna intended to warn me about, it seems to have found her first and Daniel Coleridge was involved somehow.

  Evelyn lays a hand on my shoulder as she squints warily into the darkness beyond the glow of the lantern.

  ‘I think it’s best we get you out of Blackheath,’ she says. ‘Go to your room and I’ll send a carriage to fetch you.’

  ‘I have to find Daniel,’ I protest weakly. ‘And Anna.’

  ‘Something awful is happening here,’ she hisses. ‘The slashes on your arm, the drugs, Anna and now this compass. These are pieces in a game neither of us knows how to play. You must leave, for me, Sebastian. Let the police deal with all of this.’

  I nod. I’ve not the will to fight. Anna was the only reason I stayed in the first place, the shreds of my courage convincing me there was some honour to be found in obeying a request delivered so cryptically. Without that obligation, the ties binding me to this place have been severed.

  We return to Blackheath in silence, Evelyn leading the way, her revolver poking at the darkness. I trail behind quietly, little more than a dog at her heel, and before I know it I’m saying goodbye to my friend and opening the door into my bedroom.

  All is not how I left it.

  There’s a box sitting on my bed, wrapped in a red ribbon that comes loose with a single tug. Sliding away the lid, my stomach flips, bile rushing into my throat. Stuffed inside is a dead rabbit with a carving knife stabbed through its body. Blood has congealed at the bottom, staining its fur and almost obscuring the note pinned to its ear.

  From your friend,

  The footman.

  Black swims up into my eyes.

  A second later I faint.

  9

  Day Two

  A deafening clanging jolts me upright, my hands flying to my ears. Wincing, I look around for the source of the noise to find I’ve been moved in the night. Instead of the airy bedroom with the bathtub and welcoming fire, I’m in a narrow room with whitewashed walls and a single iron bed, dusty light poking through a small window. There’s a chest of drawers on the opposite wall beside a ratty brown dressing gown hanging from a door peg.

  Swinging my legs from the bed, my feet touch cold stone, a shiver dancing up my spine. After the dead rabbit, I immediately suspect the footman of perpetrating some new devilry, but this incessant noise is making it impossible to concentrate.

  I pull on the dressing gown, nearly choking on the smell of cheap cologne, and poke my head into the corridor beyond. Cracked tiles cover the floor, whitewashed walls ballooning out with damp. There are no windows, only lamps staining everything with a dirty yellow light that never seems to settle. The clanging is louder out here and, covering my ears, I follow the din until I reach the bottom of a splintered wooden staircase, leading up into the house. Dozens of large tin bells are attached to a board on the wall, each with a plaque beneath it naming a section of the house. The bell for the front door is shaking so hard I’m worried it’s going to unsettle the foundations.

  Hands pressed to my ears, I stare at the bell, but short of ripping it from the wall, there’s no obvious way of quietening the clamour beyond answering the door. Belting the dressing gown tight, I rush up the stairs, emerging at the rear of the entrance hall. It’s much quieter here, the servants moving through in a calm procession, their arms filled with bouquets of flowers and other decorations. I can only assume they’re too busy clearing away the detritus of last night’s party to have heard the noise.

  With an annoyed shake of the head, I open the door to find myself confronted by Doctor Sebastian Bell.

  He’s wild-eyed and dripping wet, shivering with cold.

  ‘I need your help,’ he says, spitting panic.

  My world empties.

  ‘Do you have a telephone?’ he continues, the desperation terrible in his eyes. ‘We need to send for the authorities.’

  This is impossible.

  ‘Don’t just stand there, you devil!’ he cries out, shaking me by the shoulders, the cold of his hands seeping through my pyjamas.

  Unwilling to wait for a response, he pushes past me into the entrance hall, searching for aid.

  I try to make sense of what I’m seeing.

  This is me.

  This is me yesterday.

  Somebody is speaking to me, tugging on my sleeve, but I can’t focus on anything except the imposter dripping on the floor.

  Daniel Coleridge has appeared at the top of the staircase.

  ‘Sebastian?’ he says, descending with one hand on the banister.

  I watch him for the trick, some flicker of rehearsal, of jest, but he pads down the steps exactly as he did yesterday, just as light of foot, just as confident and admired.

  There’s another tug on my arm, a maid placing herself in my eyeline. She’s looking at me with concern, her lips moving.

  Blinking away my confusion, I focus on her, finally hearing what she’s saying.

  ‘... Mr Collins, you all right, Mr Collins?’

  Her face is familiar, though I can’t place it.

  I look over her head to the stairs, where Daniel is already ushe
ring Bell up to his room. Everything’s happening precisely as it did yesterday.

  Pulling free of the maid, I rush to a mirror on the wall. I can barely look at it. I’m badly burnt, my skin mottled and rough to the touch like fruit left too long in the sweltering sun. I know this man. Somehow, I’ve awoken as the butler.

  My heart hammering, I turn back to the maid.

  ‘What’s happening to me?’ I stammer, clutching at my throat, surprised by the hoarse northern voice coming out of it.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘How did...’

  But I’m asking the wrong person. The answers are caked in dirt and trudging up the stairs to Daniel’s room.

  Picking up the edges of my dressing gown, I hurry after them, following a trail of leaves and muddy rainwater. The maid is calling my name. I’m halfway up when she bolts past me, planting herself in the way with both hands pressed against my chest.

  ‘You can’t go up there, Mr Collins,’ she says. ‘There’ll be merry hell to pay if Lady Helena catches you running around in your smalls.’

  I try to go around her, but she steps sideways, blocking me again.

  ‘Let me pass, girl!’ I demand, immediately regretting it. This isn’t how I speak, blunt and demanding.

  ‘You’re having one of your turns, Mr Collins, that’s all,’ she says. ‘Come down to the kitchen, I’ll make us a pot of tea.’

  Her eyes are blue, earnest. They flick over my shoulder self-consciously, and I look behind me to find other servants gathered at the bottom of the stairs. They’re watching us, their arms still laden with flowers.

  ‘One of my turns?’ I ask, doubt opening its mouth and swallowing me.

  ‘On account of your burns, Mr Collins,’ she says quietly. ‘Sometimes you say things, or see things that ain’t right. A cup of tea’s all it takes, a few minutes and you’re right as rain.’

  Her kindness is crushing, warm and heavy. I’m reminded of Daniel’s pleas yesterday, his delicate way of speaking, as though I might fracture if pressed too hard. He thought I was mad, as this maid does now. Given what’s happening to me, what I think is happening to me, I can’t be certain they’re wrong.

  I offer her a helpless look and she takes my arm, guiding me back down the steps, the crowd parting to let us through.

  ‘Cup of tea, Mr Collins,’ she says reassuringly. ‘That’s all you need.’

  She leads me like a lost child, the soft grip of her calloused hand as calming as her tone. Together we leave the entrance hall, heading back down the servants’ staircase and along the gloomy corridor into the kitchen.

  Sweat stands up on my brow, heat rushing out of ovens and stoves, pots bubbling over open flames. I smell gravy, roasted meats and baking cakes, sugar and sweat. Too many guests and too few working ovens, that’s the problem. They’ve had to start preparing dinner now to make sure everything goes out on time later.

  The knowledge bewilders me.

  It’s true, I’m certain of it, but how could I know that unless I really am the butler?

  Maids are rushing out carrying breakfast, scrambled eggs and kippers heaped on silver platters. A wide-hipped, ruddy-faced elderly woman is standing by the oven bellowing instructions, her pinafore covered in flour. No general ever wore a chestful of medals with such conviction. Somehow she spots us through the commotion, her iron glare striking the maid first, then myself.

  Wiping her hands on her apron, she strides over to us.

  ‘I’m sure you’ve somewhere to be, haven’t you, Lucy,’ she says with a stern look.

  The maid hesitates, considering the wisdom of objecting.

  ‘Yes, Mrs Drudge.’

  Her hand releases me, leaving a patch of emptiness on my arm. A sympathetic smile and she’s gone, lost among the din.

  ‘Sit yourself down, Roger,’ says Mrs Drudge, her tone aspiring to gentleness. She has a split lip, bruising beginning to show around her mouth. Somebody must have struck her, and she winces when she speaks.

  There’s a wooden table at the centre of the kitchen, its surface covered in platters of tongue, roasted chickens and hams piled high. There are soups and stews, trays of glistening vegetables, with more being added all the time by the harassed kitchen staff, most of whom look to have spent an hour in the ovens themselves.

  Pulling out a chair, I sit down.

  Mrs Drudge slides a tray of scones from the oven, putting one on a plate with a small curl of butter. She brings it over, placing the plate in front of me and touching my hand. Her skin’s hard as old leather.

  Her gaze lingers, kindness wrapped in thistle, before she turns away, bellowing her way back through the crowd.

  The scone is delicious, the melting butter dripping off the sides. I’m only a bite into it when I see Lucy again, finally remembering why she’s familiar. This is the maid who will be in the drawing room at lunchtime – the one who will be abused by Ted Stanwin and rescued by Daniel Coleridge. She’s even prettier than I recall, with freckles and large blue eyes, red hair straying from beneath her cap. She’s trying to open a jam jar, her face screwed up with effort.

  She had jam stains all over her apron.

  It happens in slow motion, the jar slipping from her hands and hitting the floor, glass spraying across the kitchen, her apron splattered with dripping jam.

  ‘Oh, bloody hell, Lucy Harper,’ somebody cries, dismayed.

  My chair clatters to the floor as I dart from the kitchen, racing down the corridor and back upstairs. I’m in such a rush that as I turn the corner onto the guest corridor, I collide with a wiry chap, curly black hair spilling down his brow, charcoal staining his white shirt. Apologising, I look up into the face of Gregory Gold. Fury wears him like a suit, his eyes empty of all reason. He’s livid, trembling with rage, and only too late do I remember what comes next, how the butler looked after this monster did his work.

  I attempt to back away, but he takes hold of my dressing gown with his long fingers.

  ‘You don’t need—’

  My vision blurs, the world reduced to a smudge of colour and a flash of pain as I crash into a wall, then drop to the floor, blood trickling from my head. He’s looming over me, an iron poker in his hand.

  ‘Please,’ I say, trying to slide backwards, away from him. ‘I’m not—’

  He kicks me in the side, emptying my lungs.

  I reach out a hand, trying to speak, beg, but that only seems to infuriate him further. He’s kicking me faster and faster until there’s nothing I can do but curl up in a ball as he pours his wrath upon me.

  I can barely breathe, barely see. I’m sobbing, buried beneath my pain.

  Mercifully, I pass out.

  10

  Day Three

  It’s dark, the net on the window fluttering in the breath of a moonless night. The sheets are soft, the bed comfortable and canopied.

  Clutching the eiderdown, I smile.

  It was a nightmare, that’s all.

  Slowly, beat by beat, my heart quietens, the taste of blood fading with the dream. It takes me a few seconds to remember where I am, another to pick out the dim shape of a large man standing in the corner of the room.

  My breath catches in my throat.

  Sliding my hand through the covers towards the bedside table, I reach for the matches, but they seem to slither away from my searching fingers.

  ‘Who are you?’ I ask the darkness, unable to keep the tremor from my voice.

  ‘A friend.’

  It’s a man’s voice, muffled and deep.

  ‘Friends don’t lurk in the gloom,’ I say.

  ‘I didn’t say I was your friend, Mr Davies.’

  My blind fumbling almost knocks the oil lamp off the bedside table. Attempting to steady it, my fingers find the matches cowering at its base.

  ‘Don’t worry about the light,’ says the darkness. ‘It will little profit you.’

  I strike the match with a trembling hand, touching it to the lamp. Flame explodes behind the glass, driving the sha
dows deep into the corners and illuminating my visitor. It’s the man in the plague doctor costume I met earlier, the light revealing details I’d missed in the gloom of the study. His greatcoat is scuffed and tattered at the edges, a top hat and porcelain beak mask covering all of his face except for the eyes. Gloved hands rest on a black cane, an inscription inlaid in sparkling silver down the side, though the writing’s much too small to read at this distance.

  ‘Observant, good,’ remarks the Plague Doctor. Footsteps sound from somewhere in the house, and I wonder if my imagination is sufficient to conjure the mundane details of such an extraordinary dream.

  ‘What the hell are you doing in my room?’ I demand, surprising myself with this outburst.

  The beak mask ceases its exploration of the room, fixing on me once again.

  ‘We have work to do,’ he says. ‘I have a puzzle which requires a solution.’

  ‘I think you’ve mistaken me for somebody else,’ I say angrily. ‘I’m a doctor.’

  ‘You were a doctor,’ he says. ‘Then a butler, today a playboy, tomorrow a banker. None of them is your real face, or your real personality. Those were stripped from you when you entered Blackheath and they won’t be returned until you leave.’

  Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a small mirror and tosses it onto the bed.

  ‘See for yourself.’

  The glass shakes in my hand, reflecting a young man with striking blue eyes and precious little wisdom behind them. The face in the glass isn’t that of Sebastian Bell, or the burnt butler.

  ‘His name’s Donald Davies,’ says the Plague Doctor. ‘He has a sister called Grace and a best friend called Jim, and he doesn’t like peanuts. Davies will be your host for today, and when you wake up tomorrow, you’ll have another. That’s how this works.’

  It wasn’t a dream after all, it really happened. I lived the same day twice in the bodies of two different people. I talked to myself, berated myself and examined myself through somebody else’s eyes.

  ‘I’m going mad, aren’t I?’ I say, looking at him over the top of the mirror.