The Seven Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle

by Stuart Turton

  I scramble to my feet, snarling.

  He hasn’t moved. He isn’t out of breath. He doesn’t care.

  ‘Your parents gave you everything but sense, didn’t they?’ he says, the blandness of the sentiment hitting me like a bucketful of cold water. ‘Mr Stanwin’s not hurting her if that’s your concern. Wait a few minutes and you can ask her all about it when she comes out.’

  We eye each other for a moment, before I retreat along the corridor into the nursery. He’s right, I’m not getting by him, but I can’t wait for Evelyn to come out. She won’t tell Jonathan Derby anything after this morning, and whatever is happening behind that door could be the reason she takes her life tonight.

  Hurrying over to the wall, I press my ear to the boards. If I haven’t missed my mark, Evelyn’s talking to Stanwin in the room next door, only a few pieces of rotten wood between us. I soon catch the hum of their voices, much too faint to make anything out. Using my pocket knife, I tear the wallpaper from the wall, digging the blade between the loose wooden slats to pry them free. They’re so damp they come away without objection, the wood disintegrating in my hands.

  ‘... tell her she best not play any games with me, or it’ll be the end of both of you,’ says Stanwin, his voice poking through the insulating wall.

  ‘Tell her yourself, I’m not your errand girl,’ says Evelyn coldly.

  ‘You’ll be anything I damn well please, so long as I’m footing the bill.’

  ‘I don’t like your tone, Mr Stanwin,’ says Evelyn.

  ‘And I don’t like being made a fool of, Miss Hardcastle,’ he says, practically spitting her name. ‘You forget I worked here for nearly fifteen years. I know every corner of this place, and everybody in it. Don’t mistake me for one of these blinkered bastards you’ve surrounded yourself with.’

  His hatred is viscous, it has texture. I could wring it out of the air and bottle it.

  ‘What about the letter?’ says Evelyn quietly, her outrage overwhelmed.

  ‘I’ll keep hold of that, so you understand our arrangement.’

  ‘You’re a vile creature, are you aware of that?’

  Stanwin swats the insult from the air with a belly laugh.

  ‘At least I’m an honest one,’ he says. ‘How many other people in this house can claim the same thing? You can go now. Don’t forget to pass along my message.’

  I hear the door to Stanwin’s room open, Evelyn storming past the nursery a few moments later. I’m tempted to follow her, but there’d be little value in another confrontation. Besides, Evelyn mentioned something about a letter that’s now in Stanwin’s possession. She seemed keen to retrieve it, which means I need to see it. Who knows, perhaps Stanwin and Derby are friends.

  ‘Jonathan Derby’s waiting for you in the nursery,’ I hear the burly fellow tell Stanwin.

  ‘Good,’ says Stanwin, drawers scraping open. ‘Let me get changed for this hunt and we’ll go and have a word with the greasy little bugger.’

  Or perhaps not.

  26

  I sit with my feet on the table, the chessboard beside them. Cupping my chin in my hand, I stare at the game trying to decipher some strategy from the arrangement of the pieces. It’s proving an impossible task. Derby’s too flighty for study. His attention is forever straying towards the window, towards the dust in the air and the noises in the corridor. He’s never at peace.

  Daniel warned me that each of our hosts thinks differently, but only now do I comprehend the full extent of his meaning. Bell was a coward and Ravencourt ruthless, but both possessed focused minds. That’s not the case with Derby. Thoughts come buzzing through his head like bluebottles, lingering long enough to be distracting but never settling.

  A sound draws my attention to the door, Ted Stanwin shaking out a match as he surveys me from above his pipe. He’s larger than I recall, a slab of a man spreading sideways like a wedge of melting butter.

  ‘Never took you for a chess man, Jonathan,’ he says, pushing the old rocking horse back and forth so that it thumps on the floor.

  ‘I’m teaching myself,’ I say.

  ‘Good for you, men should seek to better themselves.’

  His eyes linger on me before being tugged to the windows. Though Stanwin hasn’t done or said anything threatening, Derby’s afraid of him. My pulse is tapping that out in Morse code.

  I glance at the door, ready to bolt, but the burly fellow is leaning against the wall in the corridor with his arms crossed. He offers me a little nod, friendly as two men in a cell.

  ‘Your mother’s running a little late on her payments,’ says Stanwin, his forehead pressed against the window. ‘I hope all’s well?’

  ‘Quite well,’ I say.

  ‘I’d hate for that to change.’

  I shift in my seat to catch his eye.

  ‘Are you threatening me, Mr Stanwin?’

  He turns from the window, smiling at the fellow in the corridor, then myself.

  ‘Of course not, Jonathan, I’m threatening your mother. You don’t think I’d come all this way for a worthless little sod like yourself, do you?’

  Taking a puff on his pipe, he picks up a doll and casually tosses it at the chessboard, sending the pieces scattering across the room. Rage snatches me up by the strings, flinging me at him, but he catches my fist in the air, spinning me around as one of his huge arms crushes my throat.

  His breath is on my neck, rotten as old meat.

  ‘Talk to your mother, Jonathan,’ he sneers, squeezing my windpipe hard enough for black spots to swim in the corners of my eyes. ‘Otherwise, I might have to pay her a visit.’

  He lets the words settle, then releases me.

  I drop to my knees, clutching my throat and gasping for air.

  ‘You’ll come a cropper with that temper,’ he says, jabbing his pipe in my direction. ‘I’d get it under control if I were you. Don’t worry, my friend here is good at helping people learn new things.’

  I glare at him from the floor, but he’s already on his way out. Passing into the corridor, he nods to his companion who steps into the room. He looks at me without emotion, peeling off his jacket.

  ‘On your feet, lad,’ he says. ‘Sooner we get started, sooner it’ll be over.’

  Somehow, he seems even bigger than he did at the door. His chest is a shield, his arms straining the seams of his white shirt. Terror takes hold of me as he closes the distance between us, my fingers searching blindly for a weapon and finding the heavy chessboard on the table.

  Without thinking, I hurl it at him.

  Time seems to hang as the chessboard turns in the air, an impossible object in flight, my future clinging onto its surface for dear life. Evidently, fate has a soft spot for me because it hits his face with a sickening crunch, sending him reeling backwards into the wall with a muffled cry.

  I’m on my feet as the blood pours between his fingers, sprinting down the corridor with Stanwin’s angry voice at my back. A quick glance behind me reveals Stanwin’s halfway out of the reception room, his face red with rage. Fleeing down the staircase, I follow the burble of voices into the drawing room, which is now full of red-eyed guests digging into their breakfasts. Doctor Dickie’s guffawing with Michael Hardcastle and Clifford Herrington, the naval officer I met at dinner, while Cunningham piles food onto the silver platter that will greet Ravencourt when he wakes up.

  A sudden quieting of chatter tells me Stanwin’s approaching, and I slip through into the study, hiding behind the door. I’m half hysterical, my heart beating hard enough to shatter my ribs. I want to laugh and cry, to pick up a weapon and throw myself at Stanwin, screaming. It’s taking all my concentration to stand still, but if I don’t, I’m going to lose this host and one more precious day.

  Peering through the gap between the door and frame, I watch as Stanwin wrenches people around by the shoulder, searching for my face. Men stand aside for him, the powerful mumbling vague apologies as he approaches. Whatever his hold on these people, it’s complete enou
gh that nobody takes umbrage at his manhandling of them. He could beat me to death in the middle of the carpet and they wouldn’t say a word about it. I’ll find no help here.

  Something cold touches my fingers, and, looking down, I discover my hand has closed around a heavy cigarette box on a shelf.

  Derby’s arming himself.

  Hissing at him, I let it go and return my attention to the drawing room, almost crying out in shock.

  Stanwin’s a few paces away, and he’s walking directly towards the study.

  I look for places to hide, but there aren’t any, and I can’t flee into the library without passing the door he’s about to walk through. I’m trapped.

  Picking up the cigarette box, I take a deep breath, preparing to pounce on him when he walks in.

  Nobody appears.

  Slipping back to the gap, I peek into the drawing room. He’s nowhere to be seen.

  I’m shaking, uncertain. Derby isn’t built for indecision, he doesn’t have the patience, and before I know it, I’m creeping around the door to get a better view.

  I immediately see Stanwin.

  He has his back to me, and is talking to Doctor Dickie. I’m too far away to catch their conversation but it’s enough to propel the good doctor out of the room, presumably to tend to Stanwin’s stricken bodyguard.

  He has sedatives.

  The idea delivers itself fully formed.

  I just need to get out of here without being seen.

  A voice calls to Stanwin from near the table, and the moment he’s out of sight, I drop the cigarette case and flee into the gallery, taking the long way around to reach the entrance hall unseen.

  I catch Doctor Dickie as he’s leaving his bedroom, his medical case swinging in his hand. He smiles as he sees me, that ridiculous moustache of his leaping about two inches up his face.

  ‘Ah, young Master Jonathan,’ he says cheerfully, as I fall into step beside him. ‘Everything well? You seem a little puffed.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I say, hurrying to keep up with him. ‘Well, I’m not actually. I need a favour.’

  His eyes narrow, the cheerful tone dropping out of his voice. ‘What have you done this time?’

  ‘The man you’re going to see, I need you to sedate him.’

  ‘Sedate him? Why the devil would I sedate him?’

  ‘Because he’s going to harm my mother.’

  ‘Millicent?’ He stops dead, grabbing me by the arm with a surprising amount of strength. ‘What’s all this about, Jonathan?’

  ‘She owes Stanwin money.’

  His face falls, his grip loosening. Without his joviality inflating him, he seems a tired old thing, the lines on his face a little deeper, the sorrows less obscure. For a moment, I feel a little guilty about what I’m doing to him, but then I remember the look in his eyes when he sedated the butler, and all my doubts are wiped away.

  ‘So he has dear Millicent under his thumb, does he?’ he says, sighing. ‘Shouldn’t be surprised I suppose, the fiend’s got something on the lot of us. Still, I thought...’

  He carries on walking, though slower than before. We’re at the top of the staircase leading down to the entrance hall, which is flooded with cold. The front door is open, a group of old men departing for a walk, taking their laughter with them.

  I can’t see Stanwin anywhere.

  ‘So this fellow threatened your mother and you attacked him, eh?’ says Dickie, evidently having made up his mind. He beams at me, clapping me on the back. ‘I see there’s some of your father in you, after all. But how will sedating this ruffian help?’

  ‘I need a chance to talk with Mother before he gets to her.’

  For all Derby’s faults, he’s an accomplished liar, the deceits queuing in orderly fashion on his tongue. Doctor Dickie’s silent, rolling the story around his head, kneading it into shape as we cross into the abandoned east wing.

  ‘I’ve got just the thing, should put the blighter out for the rest of the afternoon,’ he says, clicking his fingers. ‘You wait here, I’ll signal when it’s done.’

  Squaring his shoulders and puffing out his chest, he strides towards Stanwin’s bedroom, the old soldier given one last battle to fight.

  It’s too exposed in the corridor and once Dickie’s out of sight, I step through the nearest door, my reflection staring back at me from a cracked mirror. Yesterday, I couldn’t have imagined anything worse than being stuck inside Ravencourt, but Derby’s an entirely different torment – a restless, malevolent imp scurrying between tragedies of his own devising. I can’t wait to be free of him.

  Ten minutes later, the floorboards creak outside.

  ‘Jonathan,’ whispers Doctor Dickie. ‘Jonathan, where are you?’

  ‘Here,’ I say, poking my head outside.

  He’s already passed the room, and jumps at the sound of my voice.

  ‘Gently, young man, the old ticker, you know,’ he says, tapping his chest. ‘Cerberus is asleep and will be for most of the day. Now, I’m going to deliver my prognosis to Mr Stanwin. I suggest you use this time to hide yourself somewhere he won’t find you. Argentina, perhaps. Good luck to you.’

  He stands to attention, offering me a sharp salute. I throw one back at him, earning a pat on the shoulder before he saunters off down the corridor, whistling tunelessly.

  I rather suspect I’ve made his day, but I have no intention of hiding. Stanwin is going to be distracted by Dickie for a few minutes at least, giving me a chance to search his belongings for Evelyn’s letter.

  Crossing the reception room previously guarded by Stanwin’s bodyguard, I open the door into the blackmailer’s bedroom. It’s a desolate place, the floorboards barely covered by a threadbare rug, a single iron bed pushed against the wall, flakes of white paint clinging stubbornly to the rust. The only comforts are a starving fire spitting ash and a small bedside table with two dog-eared books on it. As promised, Stanwin’s man is asleep on the bed, looking for all the world like a monstrous marionette with all of its strings cut. His face is bandaged and he’s snoring loudly, his fingers twitching. I can only imagine he’s dreaming of my neck.

  Keeping an ear out for Stanwin’s return, I quickly open the cupboard, sifting through the pockets of his jackets and trousers, finding only lint and mothballs. His trunk is equally bereft of personal objects, the man seemingly immune to sentiment of any kind.

  Frustrated, I check my watch.

  I’ve already been here longer than is safe, but Derby’s not easily deterred. My host knows deceit. He knows men like Stanwin and the secrets they keep. The blackmailer could have had the most luxurious room in the house if he’d wanted, but he chose to sequester himself in a ruin. He’s paranoid and clever. Whatever his secrets, he wouldn’t carry them with him, not when he’s surrounded by enemies.

  They’re here. Hidden and under guard.

  My gaze falls on the fireplace and its anaemic flames. Odd, considering how cold the bedroom is. Kneeling down, I stick my hand up the flume, feeling around and finding a small shelf, my groping fingers closing on a book. Withdrawing it, I see that it’s a small black journal, its cover bearing the scars of a lifetime’s abuse. Stanwin was keeping the fire low to avoid scorching his prize.

  Flicking through the tattered pages, I discover it’s a ledger of sorts containing a list of dates going back nineteen years alongside entries written in strange symbols.

  It must be some sort of code.

  Evelyn’s letter is stuffed between the last two pages.

  Dearest Evelyn,

  Mr Stanwin has informed me of your plight, and I can quite understand your concern. Your mother’s behaviour is certainly alarming, and you’re quite right to be on guard against whatever scheme she’s cooking up. I stand ready to help, but I’m afraid Mr Stanwin’s word will not be enough. I require some proof of your agency in these matters. In the society pages, I’ve often seen you wearing a signet ring, a small castle engraved on its surface. Send me this, and I’ll know of your serious intent.


  Warmest regards,

  Felicity Maddox

  Looks like clever old Evelyn didn’t accept her fate as easily as I first believed. She brought in somebody called Felicity Maddox to help, and the description of the small castle recalls the one drawn on the note at the well. It may be serving as a signature, which suggests the message to ‘stay away from Millicent Derby’ was from Felicity.

  The bodyguard snores.

  Unable to wring any further information from the letter, I replace it in the ledger and slip both in my pocket.

  ‘Thank heavens for devious minds,’ I mutter, stepping through the door.

  ‘You said it,’ says somebody behind me.

  Pain explodes in my head as I slam into the floor.

  27

  Day Two (continued)

  I’m coughing blood, red drops spattering my pillow. I’m back in the butler, my aching body screaming as my head jerks upwards. The Plague Doctor’s sitting in Anna’s chair, one leg thrown across the other, his top hat in his lap. He’s drumming it with his fingers, coming to a stop when he notices me stirring.

  ‘Welcome back, Mr Bishop,’ he says, his voice muffled by the mask.

  I stare at him absently, my coughing subsiding as I begin to piece together the pattern of this day. The first time I found myself in this body, it was morning. I answered the door to Bell and was attacked by Gold after running up the stairs for answers. The second time wasn’t more than fifteen minutes later. I was transported to the gatehouse in the carriage with Anna. Must have been midday when I woke up and we were properly introduced, but, judging by the light outside the window, it’s now early afternoon. It makes sense. Anna told me we get a full day in each of our hosts, but it never occurred to me that I’d experience one in so many fragments.

  It feels like a perverse joke.

  I was promised eight hosts to solve this mystery, and I’ve been given them, except that Bell was a coward, the butler was beaten half to death, Donald Davies fled, Ravencourt could barely move, and Derby can’t hold a thought.