The Seven Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle

by Stuart Turton

  ‘That’s the stuff,’ she says, a fresh round of clinking glass suggesting the first was a warm-up. ‘I told Helena this party was a terrible idea, but she wouldn’t hear of it and now look: Peter’s hiding in the gatehouse, Michael’s holding the party together with his fingernails and Evelyn’s playing dress up. The entire thing will be a disaster, mark my words.’

  Drink in hand, the elderly lady resumes her position in front of the fire. She’s shrunken magnificently after discarding a few layers, revealing pink cheeks and small pink hands, a crop of grey hair running wild on her head.

  ‘What’s this then,’ she says, lifting a white card off the mantel. ‘Were you going to write to me, Cecil?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  She hands me the card, a simple message written on the front.

  Meet Millicent Derby

  A.

  Anna’s work no doubt.

  First burning gloves and now introductions. As strange as it is having somebody scattering breadcrumbs throughout my day, it’s nice to know I have a friend in this place, even if it does put paid to my theory about Mrs Derby being one of my rivals, or even another host. This old lady’s much too herself to be anybody else underneath.

  Then why was she sniffing around the kitchen asking questions about the maids?

  ‘I asked Cunningham to invite you for drinks,’ I say smoothly, taking a sip of my whisky. ‘He must have got distracted while writing the message down.’

  ‘That’s what happens when you trust the lower classes with important tasks,’ sniffs Millicent, dropping into a nearby chair. ‘Mark my words, Cecil, one day you’ll find he’s emptied your accounts and done a bunk with one of your maids. Look at that damnable Ted Stanwin. Used to waft about this place like a soft breeze when he was a groundskeeper, now you’d think he owns the place. The nerve of it.’

  ‘Stanwin’s an objectionable fellow I agree, but I’ve a soft spot for the household staff,’ I say. ‘They’ve treated me with a great deal of kindness. Besides, word has it you were down in the kitchen earlier, so you can’t find them all bad.’

  She waves her glass at me, splashing whisky over my objection.

  ‘Oh, that, yes...’ she trails off, sipping her drink to buy herself time. ‘I think one of the maids stole something from my room, that’s all. It’s like I say, you never know what’s going on underneath. Remember my husband?’

  ‘Vaguely,’ I say, admiring the elegance with which she’s switched topic. Whatever she was doing in the kitchen, I doubt it had anything to do with theft.

  ‘Same thing,’ she sniffs. ‘Dreadful lower-class upbringing, yet built himself forty-odd cotton mills without ever being anything less than an absolute ass. In fifty years of marriage I didn’t smile till the day I buried him and haven’t stopped since.’

  She’s interrupted by a creaking sound from the corridor, followed by the squeak of hinges.

  ‘Maybe that’s Helena,’ says Millicent, pushing herself out of the chair. ‘Her room is next door.’

  ‘I thought the Hardcastles were staying in the gatehouse?’

  ‘Peter’s staying in the gatehouse,’ she says, raising an eyebrow. ‘Helena’s staying here, insisted on it, by all accounts. Was never much of a marriage, but it’s disintegrating quickly. I tell you, Cecil, it was worth coming for the scandal alone.’

  The old lady heads into the corridor, calling out Helena’s name, only to fall suddenly silent. ‘What on earth...’ she mutters, before poking her head into my parlour again. ‘Get up, Cecil,’ she says nervously. ‘Something odd is going on.’

  Concern drags me to my feet and into the hall, where Helena’s bedroom door creaks back and forth in a breeze. The lock has been shattered, splinters of wood crunching underfoot.

  ‘Somebody broke in,’ hisses Millicent, staying behind me.

  Using my cane, I slowly push the door open, allowing us to peer inside.

  The room’s empty, and has been for some time by the looks of things. The curtains are still drawn, light delivered second-hand from the lamps lining the corridor. A four-poster bed is neatly made, a vanity table is overflowing with face creams, powders and cosmetics of every sort.

  Satisfied that it’s safe, Millicent appears from behind me, offering me a level glance best described as a belligerent apology, before making her way around the bed to wrestle the heavy curtains open, banishing the gloom.

  The only thing that’s been disturbed is a chestnut bureau with a roll-down top, its drawers hanging open. Among the ink bottles, envelopes and ribbons scattered on it, there’s a large lacquered case with two revolver-shaped hollows in the cushion. The revolvers themselves are nowhere to be seen, though I suspect Evelyn brought one of them to the graveyard. She did say it was her mother’s.

  ‘Well, at least we know what they wanted,’ says Millicent, tapping the case. ‘Doesn’t make any damn sense though. If somebody wanted a gun, they could just as easily steal one from the stables. There’s dozens of them. Nobody would bat an eyelid.’

  Pushing aside the case, Millicent unearths a moleskin day-planner and begins leafing through the pages, running her finger across the meetings and events, reminders and notes crammed inside. The contents would suggest a busy, if rather dull life, if it weren’t for the torn-out last page.

  ‘That’s curious, today’s appointments are missing,’ she says, her irritation giving way to suspicion. ‘Now why would Helena rip those out?’

  ‘You believe she did it herself?’ I say.

  ‘What use would anybody else have for them?’ says Millicent. ‘Mark my words, Helena has something foolish in mind and she doesn’t want anybody finding out about it. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Cecil, I’m going to have to find her and talk her out of it. As usual.’

  Tossing the planner on the bed, she stalks out of the bedroom and up the corridor. I barely notice her leave. I’m more concerned with the black smudged fingerprints on the pages. My valet’s been here, and it appears he’s looking for Helena Hardcastle as well.

  18

  The world’s shrivelling beyond the windows, darkening at the edges and blackening at the centre. The hunters are beginning to emerge from the forest, waddling across the lawn like overgrown birds. Having grown impatient in my parlour waiting for Cunningham’s return, I’m heading to the library to inspect the encyclopaedia.

  It’s already a decision I regret.

  A day of walking has sapped all my strength, this ponderous body growing heavier by the second. To make matters worse, the house is alive with activity, maids plumping cushions and arranging flowers, darting this way and that like schools of startled fish. I’m embarrassed by their vigour, cowed by their grace.

  By the time I enter the entrance hall, it’s filled with hunters shaking the rain from their caps, puddles forming at their feet. They’re soaking wet and grey with cold, the life washed right out of them. They’ve clearly endured a miserable afternoon.

  I pass through nervously, my eyes downcast, wondering if any of these scowling faces belongs to the footman. Lucy Harper told me he had a broken nose when he visited the kitchen, which gives me some hope that my hosts are fighting back, not to mention an easy way of picking him out.

  Seeing no injuries, I continue more confidently, the hunters standing aside, allowing me to shuffle through on my way to the library, where the heavy curtains have been drawn and a fire set in the grate, the air touched with a faint perfume. Fat candles sit on plates, plumes of warm light pockmarking the shadows, illuminating three women curled up on chairs, engrossed in the books open on their laps.

  Heading to the bookshelf where the encyclopaedia should be, I grope about in the darkness, finding only an empty space. Taking a candle from a nearby table, I pass the flame across the shelf hoping it has been moved, but it’s definitely gone. I let out a long breath, deflating like the bellows of some awful contraption. Until now, I hadn’t realised how much hope I’d invested in the encyclopaedia, or in the idea of meeting my future hosts face to fac
e. It wasn’t only their knowledge I craved, but the chance to study them, as one might one’s own twisted reflections in a hall of mirrors. Surely in such observation, I’d find some repeated quality, a fragment of my true self carried through into each man, unsullied by the personalities of their hosts? Without that opportunity, I’m not certain how to identify the edges of myself, the dividing lines between my personality and that of my host. For all I know, the only difference between myself and the footman is the mind I’m sharing.

  The day’s leaning on my shoulders, forcing me into a chair opposite the fire. Stacked logs pop and crackle, heat shimmering and sagging in the air.

  My breath catches in my throat.

  Among the flames lies the encyclopaedia, burnt to ash but holding its shape, a breath away from crumbling.

  The footman’s work no doubt.

  I feel like I’ve been struck, which was no doubt the intention. Everywhere I go, he seems to be a step ahead of me. And yet, simply winning isn’t enough. He needs me to know it. He needs me to be afraid. For some reason, he needs me to suffer.

  Still reeling from this blatant act of contempt, I lose myself in the flames, piling all my misgivings onto the bonfire until Cunningham calls me from the doorway.

  ‘Lord Ravencourt?’

  ‘Where the devil have you been?’ I snap, my temper slipping away from me completely.

  He strolls around my chair, taking a spot near the fire to warm his hands. He looks to have been caught in the storm, and though he’s changed his clothes, his damp hair is still wild from the towel.

  ‘It’s good to see Ravencourt’s temper is still intact,’ he says placidly. ‘I’d feel positively adrift without my daily dressing down.’

  ‘Don’t play the victim with me,’ I say, wagging my finger at him. ‘You’ve been gone hours.’

  ‘Good work takes time,’ he says, tossing an object onto my lap.

  Holding it up to the light, I stare into the empty eyes of a porcelain beak mask, my anger evaporating immediately. Cunningham lowers his voice, glancing at the woman, who are watching us with open curiosity.

  ‘It belongs to a chap called Philip Sutcliffe,’ says Cunningham. ‘One of the servants spotted it in his wardrobe, so I crept into his room when he left for the hunt. Sure enough the top hat and greatcoat were in there as well, along with a note promising to meet Lord Hardcastle at the ball. I thought we could intercept him.’

  Slapping my hand against my knee, I grin at him like a maniac. ‘Good work, Cunningham, good work indeed.’

  ‘I thought you’d be happy,’ he says. ‘Unfortunately, that’s where my good news ends. The note waiting for Miss Hardcastle at the well, it was... odd, to say the least.’

  ‘Odd, how so?’ I say, holding the beak mask over my face. The porcelain’s cold, clammy against my skin, but aside from that it’s a good fit.

  ‘The rain had smeared it, but best I could tell it said, ‘‘Stay away from Millicent Derby’’, with a simple drawing of a castle beneath it. There was nothing else.’

  ‘That’s a peculiar sort of warning,’ I say.

  ‘Warning? I took it as a threat,’ says Cunningham.

  ‘You think Millicent Derby’s going to take after Evelyn with her knitting needles?’ I say, raising an eyebrow.

  ‘Don’t dismiss her because she’s old,’ he says, prodding some life into the dwindling fire with a poker. ‘At one time, half the people in this house were under Millicent Derby’s thumb. There wasn’t a dirty secret she couldn’t ferret out, or a dirty trick she wouldn’t use. Ted Stanwin was an amateur in comparison.’

  ‘You’ve had dealings with her?’

  ‘Ravencourt has and he doesn’t trust her,’ he says. ‘The man’s a bastard, but he’s no fool.’

  ‘That’s good to know,’ I say. ‘Did you meet with Sebastian Bell?’

  ‘Not yet, I’ll catch him this evening. I wasn’t able to turn over anything about the mysterious Anna either.’

  ‘Oh, no need, she found me earlier today,’ I say, picking at a loose piece of leather on the arm of the chair.

  ‘Really, what did she want?’

  ‘She didn’t say.’

  ‘Well, how does she know you?’

  ‘We didn’t get around to it.’

  ‘Is she a friend?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘Profitable meeting then?’ he says slyly, replacing the poker on its stand. ‘Speaking of which, we should get you into a bath. Dinner’s at 8 p.m. and you’re beginning to smell a bit ripe. Let’s not give people any more reason to dislike you than they already do.’

  He moves to help me up, but I wave him back.

  ‘No, I need you to shadow Evelyn for the rest of the evening,’ I say, struggling to raise myself from the chair. Gravity, it seems, is opposed to the idea.

  ‘To what end?’ he asks, frowning at me.

  ‘Somebody’s planning to murder her,’ I say.

  ‘Yes, and that somebody could be me for all you know,’ he says blandly, as though suggesting nothing more important than a fondness for music halls.

  The idea strikes me with such force, I drop back into the seat I’ve half-escaped, the wood cracking beneath me. Ravencourt trusts Cunningham completely, a trait I’ve adopted without question despite knowing he has a terrible secret. He’s as much a suspect as anybody.

  Cunningham taps his nose.

  ‘Now you’re thinking,’ he says, sliding my arm over his shoulders. ‘I’ll find Bell when I’ve got you into the bath, but to my mind, you’re better off shadowing Evelyn yourself when you’re next able. In the meantime, I’ll stick by your side so you can rule me out as a suspect. My life’s complicated enough without having eight of you chasing me around the house accusing me of murder.’

  ‘You seem well versed in this sort of thing,’ I say, trying to scrutinise his reaction from the corner of my eye.

  ‘Well, I wasn’t always a valet,’ he says.

  ‘And what were you?’

  ‘I don’t believe that information was part of our little arrangement,’ he says, a grimace on his face as he tries to lift me.

  ‘Then why don’t you tell me what you were doing in Helena Hardcastle’s bedroom?’ I suggest. ‘You smeared the ink while you were rifling through her day-planner. I noticed it on your hands this morning.’

  He lets out a whistle of astonishment.

  ‘You have been busy.’ His voice hardens. ‘Strange you haven’t heard about my scandalous relationship to the Hardcastles, then. Oh, I wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise for you. Ask around, it’s not exactly a secret and I’m sure somebody will get a thrill from telling you.’

  ‘Did you break in, Cunningham?’ I demand. ‘Two revolvers were taken, and a page torn from her day-planner.’

  ‘I didn’t have to break in, I was invited,’ he says. ‘Couldn’t tell you about those revolvers, but the day-planner was whole when I left. Saw it myself. I suppose I could explain what I was doing there, and why I’m not your man, but, if you’ve got any sense, you wouldn’t believe a word of it, so you might as well find out for yourself. That way you can be certain it’s the truth.’

  We rise in a damp cloud of sweat, Cunningham dabbing the perspiration from my forehead before handing me my cane.

  ‘Tell me, Cunningham,’ I say. ‘Why does a man like you settle for a job like this?’

  That brings him up short, his normally implacable face darkening.

  ‘Life doesn’t always leave you a choice in how you live it,’ he says grimly. ‘Now come on, we’ve a murder to attend.’

  19

  The evening meal is lit by candelabra and beneath their flickering glow lies a graveyard of chicken bones, fish spines, lobster shells and pork fat. The curtains remain undrawn despite the darkness beyond, granting a view towards the forest being whipped by the storm.

  I can hear myself eating, the crush and the crack, the squelch and the gulp. Gravy runs down my chins, grease smearing my lips with a ghastly shim
mering shine. Such is the ferocity of my appetite that I leave myself panting between mouthfuls, my napkin resembling a battlefield. The other diners are watching this hideous performance from the corner of their eyes, trying to maintain their conversations even as the decorum of the evening crunches between my teeth. How can a man know such hunger? What hollowness must he be trying to fill?

  Michael Hardcastle’s sitting to the left of me, though we’ve barely spoken two words since I arrived. He’s spent most of his time in hushed conversation with Evelyn, heads bowed close, their affection impenetrable. For a woman who knows herself to be in danger, she seems remarkably unperturbed.

  Perhaps she believes herself protected.

  ‘Have you ever travelled to the Orient, my Lord Ravencourt?’

  If only the seat to my right was similarly oblivious to my presence. It’s filled by Commander Clifford Herrington, a balding former naval officer in a uniform glittering with valour. After an hour spent in his company, I’m struggling to reconcile the man with the deeds. Perhaps it’s the weak chin and averted gaze, the sense of imminent apology. More likely it’s the Scotch sloshing around behind his eyes.

  Herrington’s spent the evening tossing around tedious stories without bothering to indulge in the courtesy of exaggeration, and now it appears our conversation is washing up on the shores of Asia. I sip my wine to cover my agitation, discovering the taste to be peculiarly piquant. My grimace causes Herrington to lean over conspiratorially.

  ‘I had the same reaction,’ he says, hitting me full in the face with his warm, alcohol-soaked breath. ‘I quizzed a servant on the vintage. Might as well have asked the glass I was drinking it out of.’

  The candelabra gives his face a ghoulish yellow cast and there’s a drunken sheen to his eyes that’s repellent. Putting my wine down, I cast about for some distraction. There must be fifteen people around the table, words of French, Spanish and German seasoning otherwise dull conversational fare. Expensive jewellery clinks against glass, cutlery rattles as waiters remove plates. The mood in the room is sombre, the scattered conversations hushed and urgent, spoken across a dozen empty seats. It’s an eerie sight, mournful even, and though the absences are notable, everybody seems to be going out of their way to avoid noting them. I can’t tell whether it’s a matter of good breeding, or there’s some explanation I’ve missed.