Anna’s talking to me, worrying about me, but I’m so exhausted I only hear half of what’s she saying, and the last thing I feel before the darkness takes me is her hand in mine, and the soft touch of her lips as they kiss my forehead.
58
Day Eight (continued)
Fighting through the thick fog of sleep, I announce myself with a cough, startling Anna who’s standing on her tiptoes, her body pressed against mine as she tries to cut me loose with a kitchen knife. I’m back in Gold, strung up from the ceiling by my wrists.
‘I’ll have you down in a tick,’ says Anna.
She must have come straight from the room next door, because her apron is covered in the footman’s blood. Brow furrowed, she saws at the rope, her haste making her clumsy. Swearing, she slows down, but after a few minutes my bonds are slack enough for me to wriggle my hands free.
I drop like a stone, hitting the floor with a thud.
‘Easy,’ says Anna, kneeling beside me. ‘You’ve been tied up all day, there’s no strength left in you.’
‘What...’ A hacking cough overtakes me, but there’s no water in the jug to ease it. The Plague Doctor wasted it all trying to keep me awake earlier. My shirt’s still wet from where he splashed me.
I wait for the coughing to ease, then try speaking again.
‘What time...’ I force out, feeling as though I’m pushing stones up through my throat.
‘It’s 9:45,’ says Anna.
If you’ve killed the footman, he can’t kill Rashton or Derby. They’re alive. They can help.
‘Don’t need them,’ I rasp.
‘Need who?’ says Anna.
I shake my head, gesturing for her to help me up. ‘We have to...’
Another painful cough, another look of sympathy from Anna.
‘Sit a second for pity’s sake,’ she says, handing me a folded piece of paper that’s fallen from my breast pocket.
If she looked inside she’d see the phrase ‘all of them’ written in Gold’s dreadful handwriting. Those words are the key to everything that’s happening, and they’ve been following me around since Cunningham delivered the message to Derby three days ago.
Tucking the note back into my pocket, I gesture for Anna to help me stand.
Somewhere in the darkness, the Plague Doctor is making his way towards the lake, where he’ll be expecting Anna to give him an answer she doesn’t yet have. After eight days of asking questions, we now have a little over an hour to make our case.
With my arm around Anna’s shoulders and hers around my waist, we stumble through the door drunkenly, almost falling down the stairs. I’m very weak, but the greater problem lies in how numb my limbs are. I feel like a wooden puppet on the end of twisted strings.
We depart the gatehouse without a backwards glance, smacking straight into the cold night air. The quickest route to the lake would take us past the wishing well, but there’s too great a chance of bumping into Daniel and Donald Davies by going that way. I have no desire to upset whatever delicate balance we’ve arrived at by blundering into an event that’s already been settled in my favour.
We’ll have to go the long way around.
Prickly with sweat, leaden-footed and gasping, I stagger up the driveway towards Blackheath. My chorus comes with me, Dance, Derby and Rashton out ahead, Bell, Collins and Ravencourt struggling behind. I know they’re figments of my fracturing mind, but I can see them as clearly as reflections, their individual gaits, their eagerness and disdain for the task before us.
Veering off the driveway, we follow the cobbled road to the stables.
It’s quiet there now the party’s in full swing, a few stable hands warming themselves around the braziers, waiting for the last of the carriages to arrive. They look done in, but uncertain of who’s in Daniel’s employ, I tug Anna away from the light and towards the paddock, following the small trail leading up to the lake. A dying flame flickers at the end of the path, its warm glow breaking through the gaps in the trees. Creeping closer, I see that it’s Daniel’s fallen lantern, burning its last breaths in the dirt.
Squinting into the darkness, I spot its owner in the lake, holding Donald Davies face down beneath the water, the younger man thrashing his legs as he tries to escape.
Scooping a rock off the ground, Anna takes a step towards them, but I catch her arm.
‘Tell him... 7:12 a.m.,’ I croak, hoping the intensity of my gaze can carry a message my throat is unfit to elaborate on.
She bounds towards Daniel, raising the rock above her head as she goes.
Turning my back, I pick up the fallen storm lantern, stoking the sickly flame with a hoarse breath. I have no urge to watch somebody else die, no matter how much they may deserve it. The Plague Doctor claimed Blackheath was meant to rehabilitate us, but bars can’t build better men and misery can only break what goodness remains. This place pinches out the hope in people and without that hope what use is love, or compassion, or kindness? Whatever the intention behind its creation, Blackheath speaks to the monster in us, and I have no intention of indulging mine any longer. It’s had free rein long enough.
Lifting the lantern into the air, I peel away towards the boathouse. All day I’ve been looking for Helena Hardcastle, believing her responsible for the events in the house. Strange to think I was probably right, though not in the way I imagined.
Whether she intended it or not, she’s the reason all of this is happening.
The boathouse is little more than a shed overhanging the water, the stilts along the right-hand side collapsed, twisting the entire building out of shape. The doors are locked, but the wood is so rotten it crumbles beneath my touch. They’ll open with the slightest force, but still I hesitate. My hand is shaking, the light bouncing. It’s not fear that gives me pause, Gold’s heart is still as a stone. It’s expectation. Something long sought is about to be found, and when that happens all this will be over.
We’ll be free.
Taking a deep breath, I push the doors open, disturbing some bats which flee the boathouse in a chorus of indignant squeaks. A couple of skeletal rowing boats are tethered inside. Only one of them is covered in a mouldy blanket, though.
Kneeling down, I pull it aside, revealing Helena Hardcastle’s pale face. Her eyes are open, the pupils as colourless as her skin. She seems surprised, as though death arrived with flowers in its hand.
Why here?
‘Because history repeats,’ I mutter.
‘Aiden?’ Anna yells, a slight note of panic in her voice.
I try to shout back but my throat is still hoarse, forcing me outside into the rain. I tip my mouth to the falling rain, swallowing the freezing cold drops.
‘Over here,’ I call out. ‘In the boathouse.’
Stepping back inside, I run my lantern up and down Helena’s body. Her long coat is unbuttoned, revealing a rust-coloured woollen jacket and skirt, with a white cotton blouse beneath. Her hat has been tossed into the boat beside her. She was stabbed in the throat, long enough ago for the blood to have coagulated.
If I’m right, she’s been dead since this morning.
Anna arrives behind me, gasping as she catches sight of the body in the boat.
‘Is that...’
‘Helena Hardcastle,’ I say.
‘How did you know she’d be here?’ she asks.
‘This was the last appointment she kept,’ I explain.
The gash in her neck isn’t large, but it’s large enough, exactly the size of a horseshoe knife I shouldn’t wonder. The same weapon used to kill Thomas Hardcastle nineteen years ago. Here, finally, is what this is all about. Every other death was an echo of this one. A murder nobody heard.
My legs are aching with the strain of crouching, so I stand up and stretch them out.
‘Did Michael do this?’ asks Anna, clutching my coat.
‘No, this wasn’t Michael,’ I say. ‘Michael Hardcastle was afraid. He became a killer out of desperation. This murder was something else; it too
k patience and pleasure. Helena was lured here and stabbed at the door so she’d collapse inside, out of sight. The killer picked a spot not twenty feet from where Thomas Hardcastle was killed on the very anniversary of his death. What does that tell you?’
As I speak, I imagine Lady Hardcastle falling, hearing the crack of wood as she lands in the boat. A shadowy figure looms in my thoughts, drawing the blanket across the body before wading into the water.
‘The killer was covered in blood,’ I say, sweeping the lantern across the room. ‘They washed themselves in the water, knowing they were concealed by the walls of the boathouse. They had fresh clothes waiting...’
Sure enough there’s an old carpet bag in the corner, and, undoing the catch, I discover a mound of bloody women’s clothes inside. The murderer’s clothes.
This was planned...
... A long time ago, for another victim.
‘Who did this, Aiden?’ asks Anna, fear rising in her voice.
I step out of the boathouse, searching the darkness until I spot a storm lantern on the far side of the lake.
‘Expecting company?’ she asks, her gaze fixed on the growing light.
‘It’s the murderer,’ I say, feeling oddly calm. ‘I had Cunningham spread a rumour we were coming out here to... well, use the boathouse, so to speak.’
‘Why?’ says Anna, terrified. ‘If you know who helped Michael, tell the Plague Doctor!’
‘I can’t,’ I say. ‘You have to explain the rest of it.’
‘What?’ she hisses, offering me a sharp glance. ‘We had a deal: I keep you alive; you find Evelyn’s murderer.’
‘The Plague Doctor has to hear it from you,’ I say. ‘He won’t let you go otherwise. Trust me, you have all the pieces, you just need to put them together. Here, take this.’
Reaching into my pocket, I hand her the piece of paper. Unfolding it, she reads it aloud.
‘All of them,’ she says, wrinkling her forehead. ‘What does that mean?’
‘It’s the answer to a question I had Cunningham ask Mrs Drudge.’
‘What question?’
‘Were any of the other Hardcastle children Charlie Carver’s. I wanted to know who he’d give his life for.’
‘But they’re all dead now.’
The mysterious lantern bobs in the air, coming closer and closer. The person holding it is hurrying, making no attempt at stealth. The time for subterfuge has passed.
‘Who is that?’ asks Anna, shielding her eyes and squinting at the approaching light.
‘Yes, who am I?’ says Madeline Aubert, lowering the lantern to reveal the gun pointed directly at us.
She’s discarded her maid’s uniform in favour of trousers and a loose linen shirt, a beige cardigan thrown over her shoulders. Her dark hair’s wet, her pockmarked skin thick with powder. The mask of servitude removed, she has the look of her mother, the same oval eyes and freckles swirling into a milky white complexion. I can only hope Anna sees it.
Anna looks from me to Madeline and back again, confusion giving way to panic on her face.
‘Aiden, help me,’ she pleads.
‘It has to be you,’ I say, searching out her cold hand in the darkness. ‘All the pieces are in front of you. Who was in a position to kill Thomas Hardcastle and Lady Hardcastle in exactly the same way, nineteen years apart? Why did Evelyn say “I’m not” and “Millicent murder” after I saved her? Why did she have a signet ring she’d given to Felicity Maddox? What did Millicent Derby know that got her killed? Why was Gregory Gold hired to paint new portraits of the family when the rest of the house was crumbling? Who would Helena Hardcastle and Charlie Carver have lied to protect?’
Clarity arrives on Anna’s face like a sunrise, her eyes widening as she looks from the note to Madeline’s expectant expression.
‘Evelyn Hardcastle,’ she says quietly. Then louder, ‘You’re Evelyn Hardcastle.’
59
Quite what reaction I’d expected from Evelyn I’m not sure, but she surprises me by clapping her hands in delight, jumping up and down as though we’re pets performing a new trick.
‘I knew it would be worth following you two,’ she says, placing her lantern on the ground, stitching its glow to ours. ‘People don’t trek all the way into the darkness without a little knowledge to light the way. Though I must confess, I’m at a loss as to how this is any of your concern.’
She’s shed her French accent and with it any trace of the dutiful maid she was hiding behind. Shoulders that once slouched straighten immediately, her neck stiffening, pushing her chin into the air so that she seems to survey us from atop some lofty cliff.
Her questioning gaze passes between us, but my attention is fixed on the forest. This will all be for nothing if the Plague Doctor isn’t here to hear it, but beyond the puddle of light cast by our two lanterns, it’s pitch-black. He could be standing ten yards away and I’d never know.
Mistaking my silence for obstinacy, Evelyn offers me a wide smile. She’s enjoying us. She’s going to savour us.
We have to keep her entertained until the Plague Doctor arrives.
‘This was what you had planned for Thomas all those years ago, wasn’t it?’ I say, pointing towards Helena’s body in the boathouse. ‘I questioned the stablemaster who told me you’d gone out riding on the morning of his death, but that was just an alibi. You’d arranged to meet Thomas here, so all you had to do was ride past the gatehouse, tie up the horse and cut directly through the forest. I timed it myself. You could have arrived in under half an hour without anybody seeing, giving you plenty of time to murder Thomas quietly in the boathouse, wash in the water, change clothes and be back on your horse before anybody knew he was missing. You’d stolen the murder weapon from the stablemaster, and the blanket you were going to cover the body in. He was supposed to take the blame once Thomas was found, only the plan went wrong, didn’t it?’
‘Everything went wrong,’ she says, clicking her tongue. ‘The boathouse was a backup, in case my first idea went awry. I intended to daze Thomas with a rock and then drown him, leaving him floating in the lake for somebody to find. A tragic accident, and we’d all go about our lives. Sadly, I didn’t get a chance to use either plan. I hit Thomas over the head, but not nearly hard enough. He started screaming and I panicked, stabbing him out here in the open.’
She sounds irritated, though not unduly so. It’s as though she’s describing nothing more serious than a picnic spoiled by bad weather, and I catch myself staring at her. I’d deduced most of the story before coming here, but to hear it relayed so callously, without regret of any sort, is horrifying. She’s soulless, conscienceless. I can barely believe she’s a person.
Noticing me floundering, Anna takes up the conversation.
‘And that’s when Lady Hardcastle and Charlie Carver stumbled upon you.’ She’s considering every word, laying them ahead of her onrushing thoughts. ‘Somehow you managed to convince them Thomas’s death was an accident.’
‘They did most of the work themselves,’ muses Evelyn. ‘I thought it was all over when they appeared on that path. I got halfway through telling them I was trying to get the knife away from Thomas, when Carver filled in the rest for me. Accident, children playing, that sort of thing. He handed me a story gift-wrapped.’
‘Did you know Carver was your father?’ I ask, regaining my composure.
‘No, but I was a child. I simply accepted my good fortune and went riding, as I was told. It wasn’t until I’d been shipped off to Paris that Mother told me the truth. I think she wanted me to be proud of him.’
‘So Carver sees his daughter covered in blood on the lake bank,’ continues Anna, speaking slowly, trying to put everything in order. ‘He realises you’re going to need some clean clothes, and he goes to the house to fetch them while Helena stays with Thomas. That’s what Stanwin saw when he followed Carver to the lake, that’s why he believed Helena killed her own son. It’s why he let his friend take the blame.’
‘That
and a great deal of money,’ says Evelyn, her lip curling, revealing the tips of her teeth. Her green eyes are glassy, blank. Utterly without empathy, intolerant of remorse. ‘Mother paid him handsomely over the years.’
‘Charlie Carver didn’t know you’d planned the murder beforehand and already had a change of clothes waiting in the boathouse,’ I say, struggling not to look for the Plague Doctor among the trees. ‘The clothes stayed there, hidden, for eighteen years until your mother found them when she visited Blackheath last year. She knew what they meant immediately. She even told Michael about them, probably to test his reaction.’
‘She must have thought he knew about the murder,’ says Anna pityingly. ‘Can you imagine... she couldn’t trust either of her children.’
A breeze is stirring, rain plinking against our lanterns. There’s a noise from the forest, indistinct and distant but enough to draw Evelyn’s attention for an instant.
‘Stall her,’ I mouth to Anna, as I remove my coat and lay it across her thin shoulders, earning a grateful smile.
‘It must have been terrible for Lady Hardcastle,’ says Anna, drawing the coat tighter. ‘Realising the daughter she let her lover go to the gallows to protect had murdered her own brother in cold blood.’ Her voice drops. ‘How could you do that, Evelyn?’
‘I think the better question is why she did it,’ I say, looking at Anna. ‘Thomas liked to follow people around. He knew he’d get into trouble if he was caught, so he got very good at being quiet. One day he followed Evelyn into the forest, where she met a stable boy. I don’t know why they were meeting, or even if it had been planned. Maybe it was a coincidence, but I think there was an accident. I hope it was an accident,’ I say, shooting a glance at Evelyn, who’s appraising me like a moth that’s landed on her jacket. Our entire future’s written in the creases around her eyes; that pale white face is a crystal ball with only horrors in the fog.
‘Doesn’t matter really,’ I carry on, realising she isn’t going to answer me. ‘Either way, she killed him. Likely, Thomas didn’t understand what he’d seen, or he’d have run back and told his mother, but at some point Evelyn realised he knew. She had two choices: silence Thomas before he told somebody, or confess to what she’d done. She chose the first option, and set about her work methodically.’
The Seven Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle Page 41