The Seven Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle

by Stuart Turton

  What the hell was I doing under there?

  Aching, I stagger over to one of the windows lining the gallery. It’s shrouded with grime, but wiping a spot clear with my sleeve reveals Blackheath’s gardens below. I’m on the top floor of the house.

  Out of habit, I begin searching my pockets for some clue as to my identity, but realise I don’t need it. I’m Jim Rashton. I’m twenty-seven, a constable in the police force, and my parents Margaret and Henry beam with pride whenever they tell anybody. I have a sister, I have a dog and I’m in love with a woman called Grace Davies, who’s the reason I’m at this party.

  Whatever barrier used to exist between myself and my hosts is almost completely knocked through. I can barely tell Rashton’s life from my own. Unfortunately, my recollection of how I came to end up in the cupboard is clouded by the bottle of Scotch that Rashton was drinking last night. I remember telling old stories, laughing and dancing, barrelling recklessly through an evening that had no other purpose than pleasure.

  Was the footman there? Did he do this?

  I strain for the memory, but last night’s a drunken smear. Agitation instinctively sends my hand to the leather cigarette case Rashton keeps in his pocket, but there’s only one cigarette left inside. I’m tempted to light it to calm my nerves, but given the circumstances a frayed temper might serve me better, especially if I have to fight my way out of here. The footman tracked me from Dance into the butler, so it’s doubtful I’ll find safe harbour in Rashton.

  Caution will be my truest friend now.

  Casting around for a weapon, I find a bronze statue of Atlas. I creep forwards with it held above my head, picking my way through walls of armoires and giant webs of interlocking chairs until I arrive at a faded black curtain stretching the length of the room. Cardboard trees are propped against the walls, near clothes racks stuffed with costumes. Among them are six or seven plague doctor outfits, the hats and masks piled in a box on the floor. It appears the family used to put on plays up here.

  A floorboard creaks, the curtain twitching. Somebody’s shuffling around back there.

  I tense. Raising Atlas above my head, I—

  Anna bursts through, her cheeks red.

  ‘Oh, thank God,’ she says, catching sight of me.

  She’s out of breath, dark circles surrounding bloodshot brown eyes. Her blonde hair is loose and tangled, her cap scrunched up in her hand. The artist’s sketchbook chronicling each of my hosts bulges in her apron.

  ‘You’re Rashton, right? Come on, we only have half an hour to save the others,’ she says, lunging forward to take hold of my hand.

  I step back, the statue still raised, but the breathlessness of the introduction has knocked me off balance, as has the lack of guilt in her voice.

  ‘I’m not going anywhere with you,’ I say, gripping Atlas a little tighter.

  Confusion paints her face, followed by a dawning realisation.

  ‘Is this because of what happened to Dance and the butler?’ she asks. ‘I don’t know anything about that, about anything really. I’ve haven’t been up long. I just know you’re in eight different people and a footman’s killing them, and we need to go and save the ones that are left.’

  ‘You expect me to trust you?’ I say, stunned. ‘You distracted Dance while the footman murdered him. You were standing in the room when he killed the butler. You’ve been helping him, I’ve seen you!’

  She shakes her head.

  ‘Don’t be an idiot,’ she cries. ‘I haven’t done any of that yet, and even when I do, it won’t be because I’m betraying you. If I wanted you dead, I’d pick off your hosts before they ever woke up. You wouldn’t see me, and I certainly wouldn’t work with a man guaranteed to turn on me once we’d finished.’

  ‘Then what were you doing there?’ I demand.

  ‘I don’t know, I haven’t lived that part yet,’ she snaps back. ‘You – another you, I mean – were waiting for me when I woke up. He gave me a book that told me to find Derby in the forest, then come here and save you. That’s my day. That’s everything I know.’

  ‘It’s not enough,’ I say, bluntly. ‘I haven’t done any of that, so I don’t know if you’re telling the truth.’

  Putting the statue down, I walk past her, heading for the black curtain she emerged through.

  ‘I can’t trust you, Anna,’ I say.

  ‘Why not?’ she says, catching my trailing hand. ‘I’m trusting you.’

  ‘That’s not—’

  ‘Do you remember anything from our previous loops?’

  ‘Only your name,’ I say, looking down at her fingers intertwined with mine, my resistance already crumbling. I want to believe her so badly.

  ‘But you don’t remember how any of them ended?’

  ‘No,’ I say impatiently. ‘Why are you asking me this?’

  ‘Because I do,’ she says. ‘The reason I know your name is because I remember calling for you in the gatehouse. We’d arranged to meet there. You were late, and I was worried. I was so happy to see you, and then I saw the look on your face.’

  Her eyes find mine, the pupils wide and dark and daring. They’re guileless. Surely, she couldn’t have...

  Everybody in this house is wearing a mask.

  ‘You murdered me right where I stood,’ she says, touching my cheek, studying the face I still haven’t seen. ‘When you found me this morning, I was so scared I almost ran away, but you were so broken... so scared. All your lives had crashed down on top of you. You couldn’t tell one from another, you didn’t even know who you were. You pushed this book into my hands and said you were sorry. You kept repeating it. You told me you weren’t that man any more and that we couldn’t get out of this by making the same mistakes all over again. It was the last thing you said.’

  Memories are stirring slowly and so far away that I feel like a man reaching across a river to trap a butterfly between his fingers.

  She presses the chess piece into my palm, curling my fingers around it.

  ‘This might help,’ she says. ‘We used these pieces in the last loop to identify ourselves. A bishop for you, Aiden Bishop, and a knight for me. The protector, like now.’

  I remember the guilt, the sorrow. I remember the regret. There aren’t images, there isn’t even a memory. It doesn’t matter. I can feel the truth of what she’s saying, as I felt the strength of our friendship the first time we met, and the agony of the grief that brought me to Blackheath. She’s right, I murdered her.

  ‘Do you remember now?’ she says.

  I nod, ashamed and sick to my stomach. I didn’t want to hurt her, I know that. We’d been working together like today, but something changed... I became desperate. I saw my escape slipping away, and I panicked. I promised myself I’d find a way to get her out after I’d left. I couched my betrayal in noble intentions, and I did something awful.

  I shudder, waves of revulsion washing over me.

  ‘I don’t know which loop the memory is from,’ says Anna. ‘But I think I held on to it as a warning to myself. A warning not to trust you again.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Anna,’ I say. ‘I... I let myself forget what I did. I held on to your name instead. It was a promise to myself, and to you, that I’d do better next time.’

  ‘And you’re keeping that promise,’ she says soothingly.

  I wish that were true, but I know it’s not. I’ve seen my future. I’ve spoken with him, helped him in his schemes. Daniel is making the same mistakes I made in my last loop. Desperation has made him ruthless and unless I stop him, he’s going to sacrifice Anna again.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me the truth when we first met?’ I say, still ashamed.

  ‘Because you already knew,’ she says, wrinkling her forehead. ‘From my perspective, we met two hours ago, and you knew everything about me.’

  ‘The first time I met you, I was Cecil Ravencourt,’ I respond.

  ‘Then we’re meeting in the middle, because I don’t know who that is yet,’ she says. ‘I
t doesn’t matter though. I won’t tell him, or any of the others, because it doesn’t matter. It wasn’t us in those loops. Whoever they were, they made different choices, different mistakes. I’m choosing to trust you, Aiden, and I need you to trust me, because this place is... you know how it works. Whatever you think I was doing when the footman killed you, it wasn’t everything. It wasn’t the truth.’

  She’d seem confident if it weren’t for the nervous throb in her throat, the way her foot worries at the floor. I can feel her hand trembling against my cheek, the strain in her voice. Beneath all the bravado, she’s still afraid of me, of the man I was, of the man who may still be lurking within.

  I can’t imagine the courage it took to bring her here.

  ‘I don’t know how to get us both out of here, Anna.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘But I will, I won’t leave without you, I promise.’

  ‘I know that too.’

  And that’s when she slaps me.

  ‘That’s for murdering me,’ she says, standing on her tiptoes to plant a kiss on the sting. ‘Now, let’s go and make sure the footman doesn’t murder any more of you.’

  44

  Wood creaks, the narrow, twisting staircase darkening the further down we get, until finally we sink beneath the gloom.

  ‘Do you know why I was in that cupboard?’ I ask Anna, who’s ahead of me and moving fast enough to outrun a falling sky.

  ‘No idea, but it saved your life,’ she says, glancing back at me over her shoulder. ‘The book said the footman would be coming for Rashton around this time. If he’d slept in his bedroom last night, the footman would have found him.’

  ‘Maybe we should let him find me,’ I say, feeling a rush of excitement. ‘Come on, I’ve got an idea.’

  I push past Anna, and begin leaping down the steps two at a time.

  If the footman’s coming for Rashton this morning, there’s every chance he’ll still be lurking around the corridors. He’ll be expecting a man asleep in his bed, which means I’ve got the upper hand for once. With a little luck, I can put an end to this here and now.

  The steps end abruptly at a whitewashed wall, Anna still halfway up and calling for me to slow down. A police officer of considerable skill – as he’d freely admit himself – Rashton’s no stranger to hidden things. My fingers expertly locate a disguised catch allowing me to tumble into the dark hallway outside. Candles flicker behind sconces, the Sun Room standing empty on my left. I’ve emerged on the ground floor, the door I came through already blending into the wall.

  The footman is less than twenty yards away. He’s on his knees, jimmying the lock to what I instinctively know is my bedroom.

  ‘Looking for me, you bastard,’ I spit, hurling myself at him before he has a chance to grab his knife.

  He’s on his feet quicker than I could have imagined, leaping backwards and kicking out to catch me in the chest, knocking the wind from me. I land awkwardly, clutching my ribs, but he doesn’t move. He’s standing there waiting, wiping saliva from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand.

  ‘Brave rabbit,’ he says, grinning. ‘I’m going to gut you slow.’

  Rising and dusting myself off, I raise my fists in a boxer’s stance, suddenly aware of how heavy my arms feel. That night in the cupboard’s done me no favours, and my confidence is ebbing away by the second. This time I approach him slowly, feinting left and right, working an opening that never comes. A jab catches my chin, rocking my head back. I don’t even see the second punch that smashes into my stomach, or the third that puts me on the floor.

  I’m disorientated, dizzy, struggling for breath as the footman looms over me, dragging me up by my hair and stretching for his knife.

  ‘Hey!’ shouts Anna.

  It’s the slightest of distractions, but it’s enough. Slipping free of the footman’s hold, I kick his knee, then launch my shoulder up into his face, breaking his nose, blood splattering my shirt. Reeling backwards down the corridor, he grabs hold of a bust and hurls it at me one-handed, forcing me to leap aside as he flees around the corner.

  I want to go after him, but I don’t have the strength. I slide down the wall until I’m sitting on the floor, clutching my aching ribs. I’m shaken and unnerved. He was too fast, too strong. If that fight had gone on any longer, I’d be dead, I’m certain of it.

  ‘You bloody idiot!’ yells Anna, glowering at me. ‘You almost got yourself killed.’

  ‘Did he catch sight of you?’ I say, spitting out the blood in my mouth.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ she says, reaching out a hand to help me up. ‘I kept to the shadows, and I doubt he was seeing much after you broke his nose.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Anna,’ I say. ‘I honestly thought we could catch hold of him.’

  ‘You damn well should be,’ she says, surprising me with a fierce hug, her body trembling. ‘You have to be careful, Aiden. Thanks to that bastard, you’ve only got a few hosts left. If you make a mistake, we’re going to be stuck here.’

  Realisation hits me like a rock.

  ‘I only have three hosts left,’ I repeat, stunned.

  Sebastian Bell fainted after seeing the dead rabbit in the box. The butler, Dance and Derby were slain, and Ravencourt fell asleep in the ballroom after watching Evelyn commit suicide. That leaves Rashton, Davies and Gregory Gold. Between the split days and leaping back and forth, I lost count.

  I should have seen it immediately.

  Daniel claimed he was the last of my hosts, but that can’t be true.

  A warm blanket of shame pulls itself over my body. I can’t believe I was so easily deceived. So willingly deceived.

  It wasn’t entirely your fault.

  The Plague Doctor warned me Anna would betray me. Why would he do that when it was Daniel who was lying to me? And why would he tell me there were only three people trying to escape this house, when there are four? He’s gone out of his way to conceal Daniel’s duplicity.

  ‘I’ve been so blind,’ I say, hollowly.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ says Anna, pulling away and looking at me with concern.

  I falter, my mind clicking into gear as embarrassment gives way to cold calculation. Daniel’s lies were elaborate, but their purpose remains obscure. I could understand him trying to earn my trust if he wanted to profit from my investigation, but that’s not the case. He’s barely asked about it. Quite the contrary; he gave me a head start by telling me it was Evelyn who would be murdered at the ball, and he warned me about the footman.

  I can no longer call him a friend, but I can’t be certain he’s an enemy either. I need to know where he stands, and the best way of doing that is to maintain the illusion of ignorance until he reveals his true intentions.

  I have to begin with Anna.

  God help us if she let anything slip to Derby, or Dance. Their first reaction to a problem is to run at it, even if it’s wrapped in thorns.

  Anna’s watching me, waiting for an answer.

  ‘I know something,’ I say, meeting her eyes. ‘Something that matters to both of us, but I can’t tell you what it is.’

  ‘You’re worried about changing the day,’ she says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. ‘Don’t worry, this book’s full of things I’m not allowed to tell you.’ She smiles, her concern washing away. ‘I trust you, Aiden. I wouldn’t be here, if I didn’t.’

  Holding out a hand, she helps me off the floor.

  ‘We can’t stay in this corridor,’ she says. ‘I’m only alive because he doesn’t know who I am. If he sees us together, I won’t live long enough to help you.’ She smooths her apron and straightens her cap, dropping her chin enough to appear diffident. ‘I’ll go ahead. Meet me outside Bell’s bedroom in ten minutes and keep your eyes open. Once the footman’s healed up, he’ll be looking for you.’

  I agree, but I have no intention of waiting in this draughty corridor. Everything that’s happening today has Helena Hardcastle’s fingerprints on it. I need to spe
ak with her and this might be my last chance.

  Still nursing my injured pride and ribs, I look for her in the drawing room, finding only a few early risers gossiping about how Derby was hauled off by Stanwin’s thug. Sure enough, his plate of eggs and kidneys is sitting on the table, where he discarded it. It’s still warm, he can’t have long departed. Nodding to them, I make my way to Helena’s bedroom, but knocking on her door brings only silence. Running short of time, I kick it open, shattering the lock.

  That’s the mystery of who broke in solved.

  The curtains are drawn, the tangled sheets on the four-poster bed trailing off the mattress onto the floor. The room has the soiled atmosphere of a troubled sleep, the sweat of nightmares as yet unwashed by fresh air. The wardrobe is open, a vanity table covered in spilled powder from a large tin, cosmetics torn open and pushed aside, suggesting Lady Hardcastle attended her toilet in something of a hurry. Laying my hand on the bed, I find it cold. She’s already been gone some time.

  Just as when I visited this room with Millicent Derby, the roll-down bureau stands open, today’s page torn from Helena’s day-planner and the lacquered gun case emptied of the two revolvers it should contain. Evelyn must have taken them very early this morning, probably after receiving the note compelling her to commit suicide. She would have had no trouble slipping through the connecting door from her bedroom after her mother left.

  But if she intends on shooting herself with the revolver, why does she end up using the silver pistol Derby stole from Doctor Dickie instead? And why would she take both revolvers from the case? I know she gives one to Michael to use on the hunt, but I can’t imagine that was foremost in her mind after discovering her own life, and that of her friend, was being threatened.

  My eyes drift towards the day-planner and its torn-out page. Is this also Evelyn’s work, or is somebody else responsible? Millicent suspected Helena Hardcastle.

  Running my fingertip along the torn edge, I let myself worry.

  I’ve seen Helena’s appointments in Lord Hardcastle’s planner, so I know the missing page refers to her meetings with Cunningham, Evelyn, Millicent Derby, the stablemaster and Ravencourt. The only one of those I can be certain Helena Hardcastle kept is with Cunningham. He admitted it to Dance, and his ink-smudged fingerprints are all over the pages.