The Seven Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle

by Stuart Turton

  Cold and wet, I might be tempted to give up, but Rashton is already tugging me towards the reflecting pool. The policeman’s eyes aren’t soft like my other hosts. They seek the edges, the absences. My memories of this place aren’t enough for him; he needs to see it all afresh. And so, hands deep in my pockets, I arrange myself at the edge of the water, which is high enough to touch the bottom of my shoes. A light rain is rippling the surface, plinking against thick patches of floating moss.

  At least the rain is constant. It’s tapping Bell’s face as he walks with Evelyn, and the windows of the gatehouse where the butler sleeps and Gold is strung up. Ravencourt’s listening to it in his parlour, wondering where Cunningham has got to, and Derby... well, Derby’s still unconscious, which is the best thing for him. Davies is collapsed on the road, or maybe walking back. Either way, he’s getting wet. As is Dance, who’s traipsing through the forest, a shotgun slung over his arm, wishing he was anywhere else.

  As for me, I’m standing exactly where Evelyn will stand tonight, where she’ll press a silver pistol to her stomach and pull the trigger.

  I’m seeing what she’ll see.

  Trying to understand.

  The murderer found a way to force Evelyn to commit suicide, but why not have her shoot herself in her bedroom out of sight? Why bring her out here during the middle of the party?

  So everybody would see.

  ‘Then why not the middle of the dance floor, or the stage?’ I mutter.

  All this, it’s too theatrical.

  Rashton’s worked on dozens of murders. They aren’t stage-managed, they’re immediate, impulsive acts. Men crawl into their cups after a hard day’s work, stirring the bitterness settled at the bottom. Fights break out, wives grow tired of their black eyes and pick up the nearest kitchen knife. Death happens in alleys and quiet rooms with doilies on the tables. Trees fall, people are crushed, tools slip. People die the way they’ve always died, quickly, impatiently or unluckily; not here, not in front of a hundred people in ball gowns and dinner jackets.

  What kind of mind makes theatre of murder?

  Turning back towards the house, I try to recall Evelyn’s route to the reflecting pool, remembering how she drifted from flame to darkness, wobbling as if drunk. I remember the silver pistol glinting in her hand, the shot, the silence and then the fireworks as she tumbled into the water.

  Why take two guns when one will do?

  A murder that doesn’t look like a murder.

  That’s how the Plague Doctor described it... but what if... my mind gropes at the edges of a thought, teasing it forward out of the dimness. An idea emerges, the queerest of ideas.

  The only one that makes sense.

  I’m startled by a tap on my shoulder, almost sending me stumbling into the reflecting pool. Thankfully, Grace catches hold of me, pulling me back into her arms. It’s not, I must admit, an unpleasant predicament, especially when I turn around to meet those blue eyes, looking up at me with a mixture of love and bemusement.

  ‘What on earth are you doing out here?’ she asks. ‘I’ve been searching for you all over. You missed lunch.’

  There’s concern in her voice. She holds my gaze, searching my eyes, though I have no idea what she’s looking for.

  ‘I came for a walk,’ I say, trying to slip free of her worry. ‘And I started imagining what this place must have been like in its pomp.’

  Doubt flickers on her face, but it vanishes in a blink of her glorious eyes as she slips an arm through mine, the heat of her body warming me up.

  ‘It’s difficult to remember now,’ she says. ‘Every memory I have of this place, even the happy ones, are stained by what happened to Thomas.’

  ‘Were you here when it happened?’

  ‘Have I never told you this?’ she says, resting her head on my shoulder. ‘I suppose I wouldn’t have, I was only young. Yes, I was here, nearly everybody here today was.’

  ‘Did you see it?’

  ‘Thank heavens, no,’ she says, aghast. ‘Evelyn had arranged a treasure hunt for the children. I can’t have been more than seven, same for Thomas. Evelyn was ten. She was all grown up, so we were her responsibility for the day.’

  She grows distant, distracted by a memory taking flight.

  ‘Of course, now I know she just wanted to go riding and not have to look after us, but at the time we thought her terribly kind. We were having a jolly time chasing each other through the forest looking for clues, when all of a sudden Thomas bolted off. We never saw him again.’

  ‘Bolted? Did he say why he was leaving, or where he was going?’

  ‘You sound like the policeman who questioned me,’ she says, hugging me closer. ‘No, he didn’t hang around for questions. He asked after the time and left.’

  ‘He asked the time?’

  ‘Yes, it was like he had somewhere to be.’

  ‘And he didn’t tell you where he was going?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Was he acting strangely, did he say anything odd?’

  ‘Actually, we could barely get a word out of him,’ she says. ‘He’d been in a strange mood all week come to think of it, withdrawn, sulky, not like him at all.’

  ‘What was he normally like?’

  She shrugs. ‘A pest most of the time. He was at that age. He liked to tug our ponytails, and scare us. He’d follow us through the woods, then jump out when we least expected it.’

  ‘But he’d been acting strangely for a week?’ I say. ‘Are you certain that’s how long it had been?’

  ‘Well, that’s how long we were at Blackheath before the party, so yes.’ She’s shivering now, peering up at me. ‘What’s that mind of yours got hold of, Mr Rashton?’ she asks.

  ‘Got hold of?’

  ‘I can see the little crease’ – she taps the spot between my eyebrows – ‘you get when something’s bothering you.’

  ‘I’m not sure yet.’

  ‘Well, try not to do it when you meet grandmother.’

  ‘Crease my forehead?’

  ‘Think, silly.’

  ‘Why the heavens not?’

  ‘She doesn’t take kindly to young men who think too much. She believes it’s a sign of idleness.’

  The temperature is dropping quickly. What little colour was left to the day is fleeing the dark storm clouds bullying the sky.

  ‘Shall we go back to the house?’ says Grace, stamping her feet to warm up. ‘I dislike Blackheath as much as the next girl, but not so much that I’m willing to freeze to death to avoid going back inside it.’

  I glance at the reflecting pool a little forlornly, but I can’t press my idea without speaking to Evelyn first, and she’s out walking with Bell. Whatever my mind’s got hold of – to use Grace’s phrase – it’ll have to keep until she returns in a couple of hours. Besides, the idea of spending time with somebody who isn’t mired in today’s many tragedies is appealing.

  Our shoulders pressed together, we make our way back to the house, arriving in the entrance hall in time to see Charles Cunningham trotting down the steps. He’s frowning, lost in thought.

  ‘Are you quite all right, Charles?’ says Grace, drawing his attention. ‘Honestly, what is it with the men in this house, today? You’re all on a cloud.’

  A grin cracks his face, his joy at seeing us quite at odds with the seriousness with which he normally greets me.

  ‘Ah, my two favourite people,’ he says grandly, leaping from the third step to clap us both on the shoulder. ‘I’m sorry, I was miles away.’

  Affection draws a huge smile on my face.

  Until now the valet was simply somebody who flitted in and out of my day, occasionally helpful, but always pursuing some purpose of his own, making him impossible to trust. Seeing him through Rashton’s eyes is like watching a charcoal outline get coloured in.

  Grace and Donald Davies summered at Blackheath, growing up side by side with Michael, Evelyn, Thomas and Cunningham. Despite being raised by the cook, Mrs Drudge, everybody belie
ved he was Peter Hardcastle’s son by birth, and this elevated him beyond the kitchen. Encouraging this perception, Helena Hardcastle instructed the governess to educate Cunningham with the Hardcastle children. He may have become a servant, but neither Grace nor Donald would ever see him as such, no matter what their parents might say. The three of them are practically family, which is why Cunningham was one of the first people Donald Davies introduced Rashton to when they returned from the war. The three of them are as close as brothers.

  ‘Is Ravencourt being a nuisance?’ asks Grace. ‘You didn’t forget his second helping of eggs again, did you? You know how disagreeable that makes him.’

  ‘No, no, it’s not that.’ Cunningham shakes his head thoughtfully. ‘You know how sometimes your day starts as one thing, and then, just like that, it’s something else? Ravencourt told me something rather startling, and, to tell you the truth, I still haven’t wrapped my head around it.’

  ‘What did he say?’ asks Grace, cocking her head.

  ‘That he’s not...’ he trails off, pinching his nose. Thinking better of it, he sighs, dismissing the entire line of conversation. ‘Best I tell you this evening over a brandy, when everything’s shaken out. Not sure I have the words just yet.’

  ‘It’s always the same with you, Charles,’ she says, stamping her foot. ‘You enjoy starting juicy stories but you never finish them.’

  ‘Well, maybe this will improve your mood.’

  From his pocket he produces a silver key, a cardboard tag identifying it as Sebastian Bell’s. The last time I saw that key it was in the vile Derby’s pocket, shortly before somebody coshed him over the head outside Stanwin’s bedroom and stole it.

  I can feel myself being slotted into place, a cog in a massive ticking clock, propelling a mechanism I’m too small to understand.

  ‘You found it for me?’ says Grace, clapping her hands together.

  He beams at me. ‘Grace asked me snatch a spare key to Bell’s bedroom from the kitchen so we could steal his drugs,’ he says, dangling the key from his finger. ‘I went one better, and found the key to his trunk.’

  ‘It’s childish, but I want Bell to suffer the way Donald is suffering,’ she says, her eyes glittering viciously.

  ‘And how did you come by the key?’ I ask Cunningham.

  ‘In the course of my duties,’ he says a little uneasily. ‘I’ve got his bedroom key in my pocket. All those little vials dropped in the lake, can you imagine?’

  ‘Not the lake,’ says Grace, making a face. ‘It’s bad enough coming back to Blackheath, but I won’t go anywhere near that awful place.’

  ‘There’s the well,’ I say, ‘out by the gatehouse. It’s old and deep. If we drop the drugs down there, nobody will ever find them.’

  ‘Perfect,’ says Cunningham, rubbing his hands together gleefully. ‘Well, the good doctor has gone for a walk with Miss Hardcastle, so I should say this is as good a time as any. Who’s up for a little daylight robbery?’

  48

  Grace keeps watch by the door as Cunningham and I slip into Bell’s bedroom, nostalgia painting everything in cheerful colours. After wrestling with the domineering natures of my other hosts, my attitude towards Bell has softened considerably. Unlike Derby, Ravencourt or Rashton, Sebastian Bell was a blank canvas, a man in retreat, even from himself. I poured into him, filling the empty spaces so completely I didn’t even realise he was the wrong shape.

  In an odd way, he feels like an old friend.

  ‘Where do you think he keeps the stuff?’ Cunningham asks, closing the door behind us.

  Though I know perfectly well where Bell’s trunk is, I feign ignorance, giving myself the opportunity to wade about in his absence for a little while, enjoying the sensation of walking back into a life I once inhabited.

  Cunningham uncovers the trunk soon enough though, engaging my help to drag it out of the wardrobe, making a terrible racket as he scrapes it on the wooden floorboards. It’s as well everybody’s hunting as the noise could wake the dead.

  The key fits perfectly, the latch springing open on well-oiled hinges to reveal an interior stuffed to bursting with brown vials and bottles arranged in neat rows.

  Cunningham has brought a cotton sack and, kneeling either side of the trunk, we begin filling it with Bell’s stash. There are tinctures and concoctions of every sort and not merely those designed to put a foolish smile on the face. Among the dubious pleasures is a half-empty flask of strychnine, the white grains looking for all the world like large chunks of salt.

  Now what’s he doing with that?

  ‘Bell will sell anything to anyone, won’t he?’ says Cunningham with a tut, plucking the flask from my hand and dropping it into the sack. ‘Not for much longer, though.’

  Plucking the bottles from the trunk, I remember the note Gold pushed under my door, and the three things it demanded I pilfer.

  Thankfully, Cunningham’s so enraptured by his task he doesn’t notice me slipping the bottles into my pocket, or the chess piece I drop into the trunk. Amid all the plots, it seems an inconsequential thing to bother with, but I can still remember how much comfort it brought me, how much strength. It was a kindness when I needed one most, and it cheers me to be the one delivering it.

  ‘Charles, I need you to tell me the truth about something,’ I begin.

  ‘I’ve told you, I’m not getting between you and Grace,’ he says distantly, carefully filling his sack. ‘Whatever you’re arguing about this week, admit you’re wrong and be grateful when she accepts your apology.’

  He flashes me a grin, but it evaporates when he sees my grim expression.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ he asks.

  ‘Where did you get the key to the trunk?’ I reply.

  ‘If you must know, one of the servants gave it to me,’ he says, avoiding my gaze as he continues to pack.

  ‘No, they didn’t,’ I say, scratching my neck. ‘You took it off Jonathan Derby’s body after you coshed him over the head. Daniel Coleridge hired you to steal Stanwin’s blackmail ledger, didn’t he?’

  ‘Th... That’s nonsense,’ he says.

  ‘Please, Charles,’ I say, my voice rough with emotion. ‘I’ve already spoken with Stanwin.’

  Rashton has counted on Cunningham’s friendship and counsel many times over the years, and watching him squirm under the spotlight of my questioning is unbearable.

  ‘I... I didn’t mean to hit him,’ says Cunningham, shamefaced. ‘I’d just put Ravencourt into his bath and was going for my breakfast when I heard a commotion on the stairs. I saw Derby hare into the study with Stanwin on his tail. I thought I could slip into Stanwin’s room while everybody was distracted and grab the ledger, but the bodyguard was in there, so I hid in one of the rooms opposite, waiting to see what would happen.’

  ‘You saw Dickie give the bodyguard a sedative, and then Derby find the ledger,’ I say. ‘You couldn’t let him walk out of there with it. It was too valuable.’

  Cunningham nods eagerly.

  ‘Stanwin knows what happened that morning, he knows who really killed Thomas,’ he says. ‘He’s been lying all this time. It’s in that ledger of his. Coleridge is going to decipher it for me and then everybody will know my father, my real father, is innocent.’

  Fear swells in his eyes.

  ‘Does Stanwin know about the bargain I struck with Coleridge?’ he asks suddenly. ‘Is that why you met with him?’

  ‘He doesn’t know anything,’ I say gently. ‘I went to ask about Thomas Hardcastle’s murder.’

  ‘And he told you?’

  ‘He owed me for saving his life.’

  Cunningham is still on his knees, his hands gripping my shoulders. ‘You’re a miracle worker, Rasher,’ he says. ‘Don’t leave me in suspense.’

  ‘He saw Lady Hardcastle covered in blood and cradling Thomas’s body,’ I say, watching him closely. ‘Stanwin drew the obvious conclusion, but Carver arrived some minutes later and insisted Stanwin place the blame on him.’

&nb
sp; Cunningham stares through me as he tries to pick holes in an answer long sought. When he speaks again, there’s bitterness in his voice.

  ‘Of course,’ he says, sagging to the floor. ‘I’ve spent years trying to prove my father was innocent, so naturally I find out that my mother’s the murderer instead.’

  ‘How long have you known who your real parents are?’ I say, doing my best to sound consoling.

  ‘Mother told me when I turned twenty-one,’ he says. ‘She said my father wasn’t the monster he was accused of being, but would never explain why. I’ve spent every day since then trying to work out what she meant.’

  ‘You saw her this morning, didn’t you?’

  ‘I took her tea,’ he says gently. ‘She drank it in bed while we spoke. I used to do the same thing when I was a child. She’d ask after my happiness, my education. She was kind to me. It was my favourite time of the day.’

  ‘And this morning? I assume she didn’t mention anything suspicious?’

  ‘About murdering Thomas? No, it didn’t come up,’ he says sarcastically.

  ‘I meant anything out of character, unusual.’

  ‘Out of character,’ he snorts. ‘She’s barely been in character for a year, or more. Can’t keep up with her. One minute she’s giddy, the next she’s in tears.’

  ‘A year,’ I say thoughtfully. ‘Ever since she visited Blackheath on the anniversary of Thomas’s death?’

  It was after that visit she turned up on Michael’s doorstep raving about clothes.

  ‘Yes... maybe,’ he says, tugging an earlobe. ‘I say, you don’t think it all got on top of her, do you? The guilt I mean. That would explain why she’s been acting so queer. Maybe she’s been building up her courage to finally confess. It would certainly make sense of her mood this morning.’

  ‘Why, what did you speak about?’

  ‘She was calm, actually. A touch distant. She talked about putting things right, and how she was sorry I’d had to grow up ashamed of my father’s name.’ His face falls. ‘That’s it, isn’t it? She means to confess at the party tonight. That’s why she’s gone to all this trouble to reopen Blackheath and invite the same guests back.’