The Seven Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle

by Stuart Turton

  I search for familiar faces to ask, but Cunningham’s gone to meet Bell and there’s no sign of Millicent Derby, Doctor Dickie or even the repulsive Ted Stanwin. Aside from Evelyn and Michael, the only other person I recognise is Daniel Coleridge, who’s sitting near a thin fellow at the far end of the table, the two of them eyeing the other guests from behind their half-filled wine glasses. Somebody’s taken exception to that handsome face of Daniel’s, adorning it with a split lip and a swollen eye that will be frightful tomorrow, assuming tomorrow ever actually arrives. The injury doesn’t appear to be bothering him unduly, though it unsettles me. Until this moment, I’d considered Daniel immune to the machinations of this place, assuming his knowledge of the future allowed him to simply sidestep misfortune. Seeing him brought so low is like seeing the cards spilling out of a magician’s sleeve.

  His dining companion thumps the table in delight at one of Daniel’s jokes, drawing my attention. I feel as though I know this fellow, but I can’t place him.

  A future host perhaps.

  I certainly hope not. He’s a smear of a man with oiled hair and a pale, pinched face, his manner that of somebody who finds everything in the room beneath him. I sense cunning in him, cruelty too, though I can’t understand from where I’m gathering these impressions.

  ‘They have such outlandish remedies,’ says Clifford Herrington, raising his voice slightly to reclaim my attention.

  I blink at him in confusion.

  ‘The Orientals, Lord Ravencourt,’ he says, smiling amiably.

  ‘Of course,’ I say. ‘No, I’m afraid I’ve never visited.’

  ‘Incredible place, incredible. They have these hospitals...’

  I raise my hand to attract a servant. If I can’t be spared the conversation, I can at least be spared the wine. One mercy may yet yield another.

  ‘I was speaking with Doctor Bell last night about some of their opiates,’ he continues.

  Make it end...

  ‘Is the food to your satisfaction, Lord Ravencourt?’ says Michael Hardcastle, neatly sidling into the conversation.

  I turn my eyes to meet him, gratitude flooding forth.

  A glass of red wine is half raised to his lips, mischief sparkling in those green eyes. It’s a stark contrast to Evelyn, whose gaze could tear strips from my skin. She’s dressed in a blue evening gown and tiara, her blonde hair pinned up in curls, exposing the lavish diamond necklace draped around her neck. It’s the same outfit, minus an overcoat and wellington boots, that she’ll be wearing when she accompanies Sebastian Bell into the graveyard later this evening.

  Dabbing my lips, I bow my head.

  ‘It’s excellent, I’m just sorry there aren’t more people to enjoy it,’ I say, gesturing towards the empty seats scattered around the table. ‘I was particularly looking forward to meeting Mr Sutcliffe.’

  And his plague doctor costume, I think to myself.

  ‘Well, you’re in luck,’ interrupts Clifford Herrington. ‘Old Sutcliffe’s a good friend of mine, perhaps I can introduce you at the ball.’

  ‘Assuming he makes it,’ says Michael. ‘He and my father will have reached the back of the liquor cabinet by now. Doubtless Mother’s trying to rouse them as we speak.’

  ‘Is Lady Hardcastle coming tonight?’ I ask. ‘I hear she hasn’t been seen much today.’

  ‘Returning to Blackheath has been hard on her,’ says Michael, lowering his voice as though sharing a confidence. ‘No doubt she’s spent the day exorcising a few ghosts before the party. Rest assured, she’ll be here.’

  We’re interrupted by one of the waiters leaning down to whisper in Michael’s ear. The young man’s expression immediately darkens, and as the waiter retreats, he passes the message to his sister, the gloom washing over her face as well. They look at each other a moment, squeezing hands, before Michael raps on his wine glass with a fork, and gets to his feet. He seems to unfurl as he stands so that he now appears unfeasibly tall, reaching well beyond the dim light of the candelabra, forcing him to speak from the shadows.

  The room is silent, all eyes upon him.

  ‘I’d rather hoped my parents might make an appearance and save me from making a toast,’ he says. ‘Clearly they’re planning some grand entrance at the ball, which knowing my parents will be very grand indeed.’

  Muted laughter is met with a shy smile.

  My gaze skips across the guests, running straight into Daniel’s amused stare. Dabbing his lips with a napkin, he flicks his eyes towards Michael, instructing me to pay attention.

  He knows what’s coming.

  ‘My father wanted to thank you for attending tonight and I’m sure he’ll do so in great detail later,’ says Michael.

  There’s a quiver in his voice, the slightest hint of discomfort. ‘In his stead, I’d like to extend my personal thanks to each of you for coming and to welcome my sister, Evelyn, back home after her time in Paris.’

  She reflects his adoration, the two of them sharing a smile that has nothing to do with this room, or these people. Even so, glasses are raised, reciprocal thanks washing back along the table.

  Michael waits for the commotion to die down, then continues. ‘She’ll soon be embarking on a brand-new adventure, and...’ he pauses, eyes on the table, ‘Well, she’s going to be married to Lord Cecil Ravencourt.’

  Silence engulfs us, all eyes turning in my direction. Shock becomes confusion, then disgust; their faces a perfect reflection of my own feelings. There must be thirty years and a thousand meals between Ravencourt and Evelyn, whose hostility this morning is now explained. If Lord and Lady Hardcastle really do blame their daughter for Thomas’s death, their punishment is exquisite. They plan to steal all the years from her that were stolen from Thomas.

  I look over at Evelyn, but she’s fidgeting with a napkin and biting her lip, her former humour having fled. A bead of sweat is rolling down Michael’s forehead, the wine shaking in his glass. He can’t even look at his sister, and she can’t look anywhere else. Never has a man found a tablecloth so engrossing as I do now.

  ‘Lord Ravencourt’s an old friend of the family,’ says Michael mechanically, soldiering on into the silence. ‘I can’t think of anybody who’d take better care of my sister.’

  Finally, he looks at Evelyn, meeting her glistening eyes.

  ‘Evie, I think you wanted to say something.’

  She nods, the napkin strangled in her hands.

  All eyes are fixed on her, nobody moving. Even the servants are staring, standing by the walls, holding dirty plates and fresh bottles of wine. Finally, Evelyn looks up from her lap, meeting the expectant faces arranged before her. Her eyes are wild, like an animal caught in a trap. Whatever words she prepared, they desert her immediately, replaced with a wretched sob that drives her from the room, Michael chasing after her.

  Among the rustle of bodies turning in my direction, I seek out Daniel. The amusement of earlier has passed, his gaze now fixed on the window. I wonder how many times he’s watched the slow blush rise up my cheeks; if he even remembers how this shame felt. Is that why he can’t look at me now? Will I do any better, when my time comes?

  Abandoned at the end of the table, my instinct is to flee with Michael and Evelyn, but I might as well wish for the moon to reach down and pluck me from this chair. Silence swirls until Clifford Herrington gets to his feet, candlelight glinting off his naval medals as he raises his glass.

  ‘To many happy years,’ he says, seemingly without irony.

  One by one, every glass is raised and the toast repeated in a hollow chant.

  At the end of the table, Daniel winks at me.

  20

  The dining hall has long emptied of guests, the servants having finally cleared away the last of the platters when Cunningham comes to collect me. He’s been standing outside for over an hour, but every time he’s tried to enter, I’ve waved him back. After the humiliation of dinner, having anybody see my valet help me from my seat would be an indignity too far. When he does s
troll in, there’s a smirk on his face. No doubt word of my shaming has run laps around the house: fat old Ravencourt and his runaway bride.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me about Ravencourt’s marriage to Evelyn?’ I demand, stopping him in his tracks.

  ‘To humiliate you,’ he says.

  I stiffen, my cheeks reddening, as he meets my gaze.

  His eyes are green, the pupils uneven, like splashed ink. I see conviction enough to raise armies and burn churches. God help Ravencourt should this boy ever decide to stop being his footstool.

  ‘Ravencourt is a vain man, easy to embarrass,’ continues Cunningham in a level voice. ‘I noticed you’d inherited this quality and I made sport of it.’

  ‘Why?’ I ask, stunned by his honesty.

  ‘You blackmailed me,’ he says, shrugging. ‘You didn’t think I’d take that lying down, did you?’

  I blink at him for a few seconds before laughter erupts out of me. It’s a belly laugh, the rolls of my flesh shaking in appreciation at his audacity. I humiliated him and he handed back an equal weight of that misery, using nothing more than patience. What man wouldn’t be charmed by such a feat?

  Cunningham frowns at me, his eyebrows knitting together.

  ‘You’re not angry?’ he asks.

  ‘I suspect my anger is of little concern to you,’ I say, wiping a tear from my eye. ‘Regardless, I threw the first stone. I can’t complain if a boulder comes back at me.’

  My mirth prompts an echoing smile in my companion.

  ‘It appears there are some differences between yourself and Lord Ravencourt, after all,’ he says, measuring each word.

  ‘Not least a name,’ I say, holding out my hand. ‘Mine is Aiden Bishop.’

  He shakes it firmly, his smile deepening.

  ‘Very good to make your acquaintance, Aiden, I’m Charles.’

  ‘Well, I have no intention of telling anybody your secret, Charles, and I apologise for threatening it. I wish only to save Evelyn Hardcastle’s life and escape Blackheath, and I don’t have a lot of time to do either. I’ll need a friend.’

  ‘Probably more than one,’ he says, cleaning his glasses on his sleeve. ‘In all honesty, this tale’s so peculiar I’m not sure I could walk away now, even if I wished to.’

  ‘Shall we go then,’ I say. ‘By Daniel’s reckoning, Evelyn will be murdered at the party at 11 p.m. If we’re to save her, that’s where we have to be.’

  The ballroom is on the other side of the entrance hall, Cunningham supporting me at the elbow as we walk there. Carriages are arriving from the village, queuing up on the gravel outside. Horses nicker, footmen opening the doors for costumed guests, who flutter like canaries released from their cages.

  ‘Why is Evelyn being compelled to marry Ravencourt?’ I whisper to Cunningham.

  ‘Money,’ he says. ‘Lord Hardcastle’s got an eye for a bad investment, and not nearly enough intelligence to learn from his mistakes. Rumour suggests he’s driving the family towards bankruptcy. In return for Evelyn’s hand, Lord and Lady Hardcastle will receive a rather generous dowry and Ravencourt’s promise to buy Blackheath in a couple of years for a tidy sum.’

  ‘So that’s it,’ I say. ‘The Hardcastles are hard up and they’re pawning their daughter off like old jewellery.’

  My thoughts flock back to this morning’s chess game, the smile on Evelyn’s face as I winced out of the Sun Room. Ravencourt isn’t buying a bride, he’s buying a bottomless well of spite. I wonder if the old fool understands what he’s getting into.

  ‘And what of Sebastian Bell?’ I say, remembering the task I set him. ‘Did you speak with him?’

  ‘Afraid not, the poor fellow was passed out on the floor of his room when I arrived,’ he says, genuine pity in his voice. ‘I saw the dead rabbit; seems your footman has a twisted sense of humour. I called for the doctor and left them to it. Your experiment will have to wait another day.’

  My disappointment is drowned out by the music beating at the ballroom’s closed doors, the sound tumbling into the hall when a servant sweeps them open for us. There must be at least fifty people inside, whirling through a soft puddle of light cast by a chandelier wreathed in candles. An orchestra is playing with bravado on a stage pressed against the far wall, but the majority of the room has been given over to the dance floor where Harlequins in full livery court Egyptian queens and grinning devils. Jesters leap and mock, dislodging powdered wigs and gold masks held up on long sticks. Dresses, capes and cowls swoop and swish across the floor, the crush of bodies disorientating. The only space to be found surrounds Michael Hardcastle in his dazzling sun mask, its pointed rays extending such a distance from his face that it’s unsafe to venture anywhere near him.

  We’re viewing all this from a mezzanine, a small staircase leading down to the dance floor. My fingers are rapping the banister, keeping time with the music. Some part of me, the part that’s still Ravencourt, knows this song and is enjoying it. He yearns to pick up an instrument and play.

  ‘Ravencourt’s a musician?’ I ask Cunningham.

  ‘In his youth,’ he says. ‘Talented violinist, by all accounts. Broke his arm riding, and could never play as well again. He still misses it, I think.’

  ‘He does,’ I say, surprised by the depth of his longing.

  Putting it aside, I return my attention to the matter at hand, but I have no idea how we’re going to spot Sutcliffe among the crowd.

  Or the footman.

  My heart sinks. I hadn’t considered that. Amid the noise and the crush of bodies, a blade could do its work and vanish without anybody ever being the wiser.

  Such thoughts would have caused Bell to flee back to his room, but Ravencourt is made of sterner stuff. If this is where the attempt will be made on Evelyn’s life, this is where I must be, come what may, and so with Charles supporting my arm, we descend the stairs, keeping to the shadowy edges of the ballroom.

  Clowns slap me on the back and women swirl in front of me, butterfly masks in hand. I ignore much of it, pushing my way to the couches near the French doors, where I can better rest my weary legs.

  Until now, I’d only witnessed my fellow guests in their handfuls, their spite spread thin across the house. To be ensnared among them all, as I am now, is something else entirely, and the further I descend into the uproar, the thicker their malice seems to become. Most of the men look to have spent the afternoon soaking in their cups and are staggering instead of dancing, snarling and staring, their conduct savage. Young women throw their heads back and laugh, their make-up running and hair coming loose as they’re passed from body to body, goading a small group of wives who’ve grouped together for safety, wary of these panting, wild-eyed creatures.

  Nothing like a mask to reveal somebody’s true nature.

  Beside me Charles has grown increasingly tense, his fingers digging deeper into my forearm with every step. All of this is wrong. The celebration is too desperate. This is the last party before Gomorrah fell.

  We reach a couch, Charles lowering me onto the cushions. Waitresses are moving through the crowd with trays of drinks, but it’s proving impossible to signal them from our position on the fringe of the party. It’s too loud to talk, but he points towards the champagne table guests are stumbling away from arm in arm. I nod, dabbing the sweat from my forehead. Perhaps a drink will serve to settle my nerves. As he leaves to fetch a bottle, I feel a breeze on my skin and notice that somebody has opened the French doors, presumably to let a little air circulate. It’s pitch-black outside, but braziers have been lit, the flickering flames winding all the way up to a reflecting pool surrounded by trees.

  The darkness swirls, taking shape, solidifying as it sweeps inside, candlelight dripping onto a pale face.

  Not a face, a mask.

  A white porcelain beak mask.

  I look around for Charles, hoping he’s near enough to lay hands on the fellow, but the crowd has carried him away. Looking back towards the French doors, I see the Plague Doctor slipping
through the revellers shoulder first.

  Gripping my cane, I heave myself to my feet. Wrecks have been raised from the ocean bed with less effort, but I hobble towards the cascade of costumes shrouding my quarry. I follow glimpses – the glint of a mask, the swirl of a cloak – but he’s fog in a forest, impossible to snatch hold of.

  I lose him somewhere in the far corner.

  Turning on the spot, I try to catch sight of him, but somebody comes clattering into me. I bellow in fury, finding myself looking into a pair of brown eyes peering out from behind a porcelain beak mask. My heart leaps and so do I evidently, for the mask is swiftly removed to reveal the pinched boyish face behind.

  ‘Gosh, I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I didn’t—’

  ‘Rochester, Rochester, over here!’ somebody yells to him.

  We turn at the same time, another fellow in a plague doctor costume approaching us. There’s another behind him, three more in the crowd. My quarry has multiplied, yet none of them can be my interlocutor. They’re too stout and short, too tall and thin; too many imperfect copies of the real thing. They try to drag their friend away, but I catch hold of the nearest arm – any arm, they’re all the same.

  ‘Where did you get these costumes?’ I ask.

  The fellow scowls at me, his grey eyes bloodshot. They’re lightless, expressionless. Empty doorways without a coherent thought behind them. Shaking himself loose of my grip, he prods me in the chest.

  ‘Ask me nicely,’ he slurs drunkenly. He’s itching for a fight and, lashing out with my cane, I give it to him. The heavy wood catches him on the leg, a curse detonating on his lips as he drops to one knee. Attempting to steady himself, he places his palm flat on the dance floor, the point of my cane landing on top of his hand, pinning him to the ground.

  ‘The costumes,’ I shout. ‘Where did you find them?’