The Seven Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle

by Stuart Turton

  I can hear the cracks in my voice.

  ‘Of course not,’ says the Plague Doctor. ‘Madness would be an escape and there’s only one way to escape Blackheath. That’s why I’m here, I have a proposition for you.’

  ‘Why have you done this to me?’ I demand.

  ‘That’s a flattering notion, but I’m not responsible for your predicament, or Blackheath’s for that matter.’

  ‘Then who is?’

  ‘Nobody you’d care to meet or need to,’ he says, dismissing the notion with a wave of his hand. ‘Which brings me back to my proposition—’

  ‘I must speak with them,’ I say.

  ‘Speak with whom?’

  ‘The person who brought me here, whoever can free me,’ I say through gritted teeth, struggling to keep hold of my temper.

  ‘Well, the former is long gone, and the latter is before you,’ he says, tapping his chest with both hands. Perhaps it’s the costume, but the movement seems somehow theatrical, almost rehearsed. I suddenly have the sense of taking part in a play in which everybody knows their lines but me.

  ‘Only I know how you can escape Blackheath,’ he says.

  ‘Your proposition?’ I say suspiciously.

  ‘Precisely, though riddle might be closer to the truth of it,’ he says, lifting out a pocket watch and checking the time. ‘Somebody’s going to be murdered at the ball tonight. It won’t appear to be a murder and so the murderer won’t be caught. Rectify that injustice and I’ll show you the way out.’

  I stiffen, gripping the sheets.

  ‘If freeing me is within your power, why not just do it, damn you!’ I say. ‘Why play these games?’

  ‘Because eternity is dull,’ he says. ‘Or maybe because playing is the important part. I’ll leave you to speculate. Just don’t procrastinate for too long, Mr Davies. This day will be repeated eight times, and you’ll see it through the eyes of eight different hosts. Bell was your first, the butler your second and Mr Davies the third. That means you only have five hosts left to discover. If I were you, I would move quickly. When you have an answer, bring it to the lake, along with proof, at 11 p.m. I’ll be waiting for you.’

  ‘I will not play these games for your amusement,’ I snarl, leaning towards him.

  ‘Then fail out of spite, but know this: if you don’t solve this problem by midnight in your final host, we’ll strip your memories and return you to the body of Doctor Bell and this will all begin again.’

  He checks his watch, dropping it into his pocket with an irritated tut. ‘Time runs away from us. Cooperate and I’ll answer more of your questions next time we meet.’

  A breeze slips through the window, extinguishing the light and draping us in darkness. By the time I find the matches and relight it, the Plague Doctor is gone.

  Confused and afraid, I jump out of bed as though stung, throwing open the bedroom door and stepping into the cold. The corridor’s black. He could be standing five paces away and I’d never see him.

  Closing the door, I fly towards the wardrobe, dressing myself in whatever comes to hand first. Whoever I’m wearing, he’s skinny and short with a penchant for the garish, and when I’m finished I’m splashed in purple trousers, an orange shirt and a yellow waistcoat. There’s a coat and scarf at the back of the cupboard and I pull them on, before heading out. Murder in the morning and costumes at night, cryptic notes and burnt butlers; whatever’s happening here, I will not be yanked around like some puppet on a string.

  I must escape this house.

  The grandfather clock at the top of the stairs points its weary arms at 3:17 a.m., tutting at my haste. Though I’m loathe to wake the stablemaster at such a frightful hour, I can see no other choice if I’m to escape this madness, so I take the staircase two steps at a time, nearly tripping over this peacock’s ridiculously tiny feet.

  It wasn’t like this with Bell or the butler. I feel myself pressed up against the walls of this body, straining at its seams. I’m clumsy, almost drunk.

  Leaves scatter inside as I open the front door. It’s blowing a gale outside, rain swirling in the air, the forest cracking and swaying. It’s a filthy night, the colour of tossed soot. I’ll need more light if I’m to find my way without falling and breaking my neck.

  Retreating inside, I head down the servants’ staircase at the rear of the entrance hall. The wood of the banister is rough to the touch, the steps rickety. Thankfully, the lamps are still leaking their rancid light, though the flames burn low and quiet, their flicker indignant. The corridor is longer than I remember, the whitewashed walls sweating with condensation, the smell of earth spilling through the plaster. Everything’s damp, rotten. I’ve seen most of Blackheath’s dirty edges, but none so purposefully neglected. I’m surprised the place has any staff at all, given how little regard they appear to be held in by their masters.

  In the kitchen I bounce between the stacked shelves until I find a hurricane lamp and matches. Two strikes to light it and I’m bounding back up the stairs and through the front door into the storm.

  The lamp claws at the darkness, the rain stinging my eyes.

  I follow the driveway to the cobbled road leading up to the stables, the forest heaving around me. Slipping over the uneven stones, I strain my eyes for the stablemaster’s cottage, but the lamp’s too bright, concealing much of what it should reveal. I’m beneath the arch before I see it, sliding on horse manure. As before, the yard is a crush of carriages, each covered in a rippling canvas sheet. Unlike earlier, the horses are in the stables, snorting in their sleep.

  Shaking the manure from my feet, I throw myself on the mercy of the cottage, banging the knocker. The light comes on after a few minutes, the door opening a crack to reveal the sleepy face of an old man in his long johns.

  ‘I need to leave,’ I say.

  ‘At this hour, sir?’ he asks dubiously, rubbing his eyes and glancing at the pitch-black sky. ‘You’ll catch your death.’

  ‘It’s urgent.’

  He sighs, taking in the scene, then gestures me inside, opening the door fully. Putting on a pair of trousers, he tugs the braces over his shoulders, moving in that sluggish daze that marks someone roused unaccountably from their sleep. Taking his jacket from the peg, he drags himself outside, motioning for me to stay where I am.

  I must confess I do so happily. The cottage bulges with warmth and homeliness, the smell of leather and soap a solid, comforting presence. I’m tempted to check the rota by the door to see if Anna’s message is already written there, but no sooner have I reached out my hand than I hear a god-awful commotion, lights blinding me through the window. Stepping into the rain, I find the old stablemaster sitting in a green automobile, the entire thing coughing and shuddering as if afflicted by some terrible disease.

  ‘Here you go, sir,’ he says, getting out. ‘I got her started for you.’

  ‘But...’

  I’m at a loss for words, aghast at the contraption before me.

  ‘Are there no carriages?’ I ask.

  ‘There are, but the horses are skittish around thunder, sir,’ he says, reaching under his shirt to scratch an armpit. ‘With respect, you couldn’t keep hold of them.’

  ‘I can’t keep hold of this,’ I say, staring at the dreadful mechanical monster, horror strangling my voice. Rain is pinging off the metal and making a pond of the windscreen.

  ‘Easy as breathing it is,’ he says. ‘Grip the wheel and point it where you want to go, then press the pedal to the floor. You’ll make sense of it in no time.’

  His confidence pushes me inside as firmly as any hand, the door closing with a soft click.

  ‘Follow this cobbled road until the end, and then turn left onto the dirt track,’ he says, pointing into the darkness. ‘That will lead you to the village. It’s long and straight, a bit uneven, mind. Takes anywhere between forty minutes and an hour, depending on how carefully you drive, but you can’t miss it, sir. If you wouldn’t mind, leave the automobile somewhere obvious and I’ll have o
ne of my boys collect it first thing in the morning.’

  With that, he’s gone, disappearing back into his cottage, the door slamming shut behind him.

  Gripping the wheel, I stare at the levers and dials, trying to find some semblance of logic in the controls. I tentatively press the pedal, the dreaded contraption lurches forward, and, applying a little more pressure, I urge the automobile beneath the arch and along the bumpy cobbled road, until we reach the left turn the stablemaster mentioned.

  Rain blankets the glass, forcing me to lean out of the window to see where I’m going. The headlamps shine on a dirt track littered with leaves and fallen branches, water cascading across its surface. Despite the danger, I keep the accelerator pedal pinned to the floor, elation replacing my unease. After everything that’s happened, I’m finally escaping Blackheath, each mile of this bumpy track taking me further from its madness.

  Morning arrives in a smudge, a grey half-light that taints rather than illuminates, though it at least brings an end to the rain. As promised the road continues straight, the forest unending. Somewhere among those trees, a girl is being murdered and Bell is coming awake to see it. A killer will spare his life with a silver compass that points to a place that doesn’t make sense and like a fool he’ll think himself saved. But how can I be in that forest and in this car – and a butler in between? My hands tighten around the wheel. If I was able to talk to the butler when I was Sebastian Bell, then presumably, whoever I’ll be tomorrow is already walking around Blackheath. I might even have met him. And not just tomorrow, but the man I’ll be the day after that and the day after that. If that’s the case, what does that make me? Or them? Are we shards of the same soul, responsible for each other’s sins, or entirely different people, pale copies of some long forgotten original?

  The fuel gauge nudges red as fog comes rolling out of the trees, thick upon the ground. My earlier sense of triumph has waned. I should have arrived at the village long ago, but there’s no chimney smoke in the distance and no end to the forest.

  Finally, the car shudders and stills, its dying breath a screech of grinding parts as it comes to a stop mere feet from the Plague Doctor, whose black greatcoat is in stark contrast to the white fog he’s emerging from. My legs are stiff and my back sore, but anger propels me out of the car.

  ‘Have you got this foolishness out of your system yet?’ asks the Plague Doctor, both hands resting on his cane. ‘You could have done so much with this host; instead you waste him on this road, accomplishing nothing. Blackheath won’t let you go, and while you’re tugging on your lead, your rivals are pressing ahead with their investigations.’

  ‘And now I have rivals,’ I say contemptuously. ‘It’s one trick after another with you, isn’t it? First you tell me I’m trapped here, and now it’s a competition to escape.’

  I’m marching towards him, fully intending to beat an exit out of him.

  ‘Don’t you understand, yet?’ I say. ‘I don’t care about your rules, because I’m not going to play. Either you let me leave, or I’ll make you sorry I stayed.’

  I’m two steps away when he points his cane at me. Though it hovers an inch from my chest, no cannon was ever so threatening. The silver lettering along the side is pulsing, a faint shimmer rising from the wood, burning away the fog. I can feel the heat of it through my clothes. If he desired, I’m certain this benign-looking stick could rip a hole straight through me.

  ‘Donald Davies is always the most childish of your hosts,’ he tuts, watching me take a nervous step backwards. ‘But, you don’t have time to indulge him. There are two other people trapped in this house, wearing the bodies of guests and servants, just like you. Only one of you can leave, and it will be whoever brings me the answer first. Now, do you see? Escape isn’t to be found at the end of this dirt road, it’s through me. So run if you must. Run until you can’t stand, and when you wake up in Blackheath again and again, do so in the knowledge that nothing here is arbitrary, nothing overlooked. You’ll stay here until I decide otherwise.’

  Lowering the cane, he tugs loose his pocket watch.

  ‘We’ll speak again soon, when you’ve calmed down a little,’ he says, putting the watch away again. ‘Try to use your hosts more wisely from now on. Your rivals are more cunning than you can imagine, and I guarantee they won’t be so frivolous with their time.’

  I want to charge him, fists flying, but now the red mist has passed, I can see it’s a preposterous idea. Even taking away the bulk of his costume, he’s a large man, more than capable of weathering my assault. Instead, I veer around him, the Plague Doctor heading back to Blackheath, as I press into the fog ahead. There may be no end to this road, no village to be found, but I can’t give up until I know for sure.

  I won’t return willingly to a madman’s game.

  11

  Day Four

  I awake wheezing, crushed beneath the tremendous monument of my new host’s stomach. The last thing I remember is collapsing exhausted on the road after walking for hours, howling in desperation at a village I couldn’t reach. The Plague Doctor was telling the truth. There’s no escape from Blackheath.

  A carriage clock by the bed tells me it’s 10:30 a.m., and I’m about to rise when a tall man enters through a connecting room carrying a silver tray, which he lays on the sideboard. He’s in his mid-thirties, I’d guess, dark-haired and clean-shaven, blandly attractive without being memorable in any way. A pair of glasses have slipped down his small nose, his eyes fixed on the curtains he’s walking towards. Without saying a word, he draws them and pushes open the windows, revealing views of the garden and forest.

  I watch him in fascination.

  There’s something oddly precise about this man. His actions are small and quick, without any wasted effort. It’s as though he’s saving his energy for some great labour ahead.

  For a minute or so, he stands at the window with his back to me, letting the room breathe cold air. I feel as though something is expected of me; that this pause has been manufactured for my benefit, but for the life of me I can’t guess what I should be doing. No doubt sensing my indecision, he abandons his vigil, slipping his hands under my armpits and tugging me into a sitting position.

  I pay for his assistance in shame.

  My silk pyjamas are soaked through with sweat and the odour rising from my body is so pungent it brings tears to my eyes. Oblivious to my embarrassment, my companion retrieves the silver tray from the sideboard and places it on my lap, lifting the dome cover. The platter beneath is piled high with eggs and bacon, a side helping of pork chops, a pot of tea and a jug of milk. Such a meal should be daunting, but I’m ravenous and tear into it like an animal, while the tall man – who I can only assume is my valet – disappears behind an Oriental screen, the sound of pouring water issuing forth.

  Pausing for breath, I take this opportunity to examine my surroundings. In contrast to the frugal comforts of Bell’s bedroom, this place is awash in wealth. Red velvet drapes flow down the windows, piling up on a thick blue carpet. Art spots the walls, the lacquered mahogany furniture polished to a shine. Whoever I am, he’s held in high esteem by the Hardcastle family.

  The valet returns to find me mopping grease from my lips with a napkin, panting with the effort of eating. He must be disgusted. I am disgusted. I feel like a pig in a trough. Even so, no flicker of emotion shows on his face as he removes the tray and slides my arm across his shoulders to better help me out of bed. God only knows how many times he’s been through this ritual, or what he’s paid to do it, but once is enough for me. Like a wounded soldier, he half-walks, half-drags me behind the screen where a steaming hot bath has been prepared.

  That’s when he begins to undress me.

  I have no doubt this is all part of the routine, but the shame’s too much to bear. Though this isn’t my body, I’m humiliated by it, appalled by the waves of flesh lapping against my hips, the way my legs rub together as I walk.

  I shoo my companion away, but it’s pointles
s.

  ‘My lord, you can’t...’ He pauses, collecting his words together carefully, ‘you’re not going to be able to get in and out of the bath alone.’

  I want to tell him to go hang, to leave me in peace, but he is, of course, correct.

  Squeezing my eyes shut, I nod my submission.

  In practised motions he unbuttons my pyjama top and pulls down the bottoms, lifting my feet one at a time so I don’t become tangled in them. In a few seconds I’m naked, my companion standing at a respectful distance.

  Opening my eyes, I find myself reflected in a full-length mirror on the wall. I resemble some grotesque caricature of the human body, my skin jaundiced and swollen, a flaccid penis peeking out of an unkempt crop of pubic hair.

  Overcome by disgust and humiliation, I let out a sob.

  Surprise lights up the valet’s face and then, just for a moment, delight. It’s a patch of raw emotion, gone as quickly as it appeared.

  Hurrying over, he helps me into the bathtub.

  I remember the euphoria I felt climbing into the hot water as Bell, but there’s none of that now. My immense weight means the joy of getting into a warm bath is eclipsed by the certain humiliation of getting out of it again.

  ‘Will you require the reports this morning, Lord Ravencourt?’ asks my companion.

  Sitting stiff in the bath, I shake my head, hoping he’ll leave the room.

  ‘The house has prepared a few activities for the day: hunting, a forest walk, they asked –’

  I shake my head again, staring at the water. How much more must I endure?

  ‘Very well, then it’s just the appointments.’

  ‘Cancel them,’ I say quietly. ‘Cancel them all.’

  ‘Even with Lady Hardcastle, my lord?’

  I find his green eyes for the first time. The Plague Doctor claimed I must solve a murder to depart this house, and who better than the lady of the house to help me sift through its secrets.

  ‘No, not that one,’ I say. ‘Remind me where we’re meeting again?’