The 7½ Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle

by Stuart Turton

  He pauses, tutting. “I’m more concerned by that arm.”

  We’re interrupted by a knock on the door, Dickie opening it before I can protest. It’s Daniel’s valet, delivering the pressed clothes he promised. Sensing my indecision, Dickie takes the clothes, dismisses the valet, and lays them out on the bed for me.

  “Now, where were we?” he says. “Ah, yes, that arm.”

  I follow his gaze to find blood drawing patterns on my shirtsleeve. Without preamble, he tugs it up to reveal ugly slashes and tattered flesh beneath. They look to have scabbed over, but my recent exertions must have reopened the wounds.

  Bending my stiff fingers one by one, he then fishes a small brown bottle and some bandages from his bag, cleaning my injuries before dabbing them with iodine.

  “These are knife wounds, Sebastian,” he says in a concerned voice, all his good cheer turned to ash. “Recent ones, too. It looks like you held your arm up to protect yourself, like so.”

  He demonstrates with a glass dropper from his medical bag, slashing violently at his forearm, which he’s raised in front of his face. His reenactment is enough to bring me out in goose bumps.

  “Do you recall anything of the evening?” he says, binding my arm so tightly that I hiss in pain. “Anything at all?”

  I push my thoughts toward my missing hours. Upon waking, I’d assumed everything was lost, but now I perceive this isn’t the case. I can sense my memories just out of reach. They have weight and shape, like shrouded furniture in a darkened room. I’ve simply misplaced the light to see them by.

  With a sigh, I shake my head.

  “Nothing’s forthcoming,” I say. “But this morning I saw a—”

  “Woman murdered,” interrupts the doctor. “Yes, Daniel told me.”

  Doubt stains every word, but he knots my bandage without voicing any objection.

  “Either way, you need to inform the police immediately,” he says. “Whoever did this was trying to cause you significant harm.”

  Lifting his case from the bed, he clumsily shakes my hand.

  “Strategic retreat, my boy. That’s what’s required here,” he says. “Talk to the stable master. He should be able to arrange transport back to the village, and from there, you can rouse the constabulary. In the meantime, it’s probably best you keep a weather eye out. There are twenty people staying in Blackheath this weekend, and thirty more arriving for the ball tonight. Most of them aren’t above this sort of thing, and if you’ve offended them…well…” He shakes his head. “Be careful. That’s my advice.”

  He lets himself out, and I hurriedly take the key from the sideboard to lock the door after him, my shaking hands causing me to miss the hole more than once.

  An hour ago, I’d thought myself a murderer’s plaything, tormented, but beyond any physical threat. Surrounded by people, I felt safe enough to insist we try recovering Anna’s body from the forest, thereby spurring the search for her killer. That’s no longer the case. Somebody’s already tried to take my life, and I have no intention of staying long enough for them to try again. The dead cannot expect a debt from the living, and whatever I owe Anna will have to be paid at a distance. Once I’ve met with my Samaritan in the drawing room, I’m going to follow Dickie’s advice and arrange transport back to the village.

  It’s time I went home.

  4

  Water slops over the edges of the bathtub as I quickly slough off the second skin of mud and leaves coating me. I’m inspecting my scrubbed pink body for birthmarks or scars, anything that might trigger a memory. I’m due downstairs in twenty minutes, and I know nothing more of Anna than when I first stumbled up Blackheath’s steps. Banging into the brick wall of my mind was frustrating enough when I thought I’d be helping with the search, but now my ignorance could scupper the entire endeavor.

  By the time I’m finished washing, the bathwater is as black as my mood. Feeling despondent, I towel myself dry and inspect the pressed clothes the valet dropped off earlier. His selection of attire strikes me as rather prim, but peering at the alternatives in the wardrobe, I immediately understand his dilemma. Bell’s clothing—for truly, I can’t yet reconcile us—consists of several identical suits, two dinner jackets, hunting wear, a dozen shirts, and a few waistcoats. They come in shades of gray and black, the bland uniform of what appears thus far to be an extraordinarily anonymous life. The idea that this man could have inspired anybody to violence is quickly becoming the most outlandish part of this morning’s events.

  I dress quickly, but my nerves are so ragged, it takes a deep breath and a stern word to coax my body toward the door. Instinct prompts me to fill my pockets before I leave, my hand leaping toward the sideboard only to hover there uselessly.

  I’m trying to collect possessions that aren’t there and I can no longer remember. This must be Bell’s old routine, a shadow of my former life haunting me still. The pull is so strong, I feel damn queer coming away empty-handed. Unfortunately, the only thing I managed to carry back from the forest was that damnable compass, but I can’t see it anywhere. My Samaritan—the man Doctor Dickie called Daniel Coleridge—must have taken it.

  Agitation pricks me as I step into the corridor.

  I only have a morning’s worth of memories, and I can’t even keep hold of those.

  A passing servant directs me to the drawing room, which turns out to be on the far side of the dining hall, a few doors down from the marble entrance hall I entered this morning. It’s an unpleasant place, the dark wood and scarlet drapes bringing to mind an overlarge coffin, the coal fire breathing oily smoke into the air. A dozen people are gathered within, and though a table’s been laid with cold cuts, most of the guests are flopped in leather armchairs or standing at the leaded windows, staring mournfully at the frightful weather, while a maid, with jam stains on her apron, slips unobtrusively among them, gathering dirty plates and empty glasses onto a huge silver tray she can barely hold. A rotund fellow in green hunting tweeds has set himself up on the pianoforte in the corner and is playing a bawdy tune that causes offense only for the ineptness of its delivery. Nobody is paying much attention to him, though he’s doing his best to rectify that.

  It’s almost midday, but Daniel is nowhere to be seen, and so I busy myself inspecting the various decanters in the drinks cabinet without any clue as to what they are, or what I enjoy. In the end, I pour myself something brown and turn to stare at my fellow guests, hoping for a flash of recognition. If one of these people is responsible for the wounds on my arm, their irritation at seeing me hale and healthy should be obvious. And surely my mind wouldn’t conspire to keep their identity secret should they reveal themselves? Assuming, of course, my mind can find some way of telling them apart. Nearly every man is a braying, beef-faced bully in hunting tweeds, while the women are dressed soberly in skirts, linen shirts, and cardigans. Unlike their boisterous husbands, they move in hushed tones, finding me from the corner of their eyes. I have the impression of being surreptitiously observed, like a rare bird. It’s terribly unsettling, though understandable I suppose. Daniel couldn’t have asked his questions without revealing my condition in the process. I’m now part of the entertainment, whether I like it or not.

  Nursing my drink, I attempt to distract myself by eavesdropping on the surrounding conversations, a sensation akin to sticking my head into a rosebush. Half of them are complaining, the other half are being complained at. They don’t like the accommodations, the food, the indolence of the help, the isolation, or the fact they couldn’t drive up themselves (though heaven knows how they would have found the place). Mostly, though, their ire is reserved for the lack of a welcome from Lady Hardcastle, who has yet to surface, despite many of them having arrived in Blackheath last night—a fact they appear to have taken as a personal insult.

  “’Scuse me, Ted,” says the maid, trying to squeeze past a man in his fifties. He’s broad chested and sunburned beneath a th
inning crop of red hair. Hunting tweeds stretch around a thick body that’s slipping toward fat, his face lit by bright-blue eyes.

  “Ted?” he says angrily, grabbing her wrist and squeezing hard enough to make her wince. “Who the hell do you think you’re talking to, Lucy? It’s Mr. Stanwin to you. I’m not downstairs with the rats anymore.”

  She nods, shocked, searching our faces for help. Nobody moves, even the piano bites its tongue. They’re all terrified of this man, I realize. To my shame, I’m little better. I’m frozen in place, watching this exchange from the corner of my lowered eyes, desperately hoping his vulgarity doesn’t turn in my direction.

  “Let her go, Ted,” says Daniel Coleridge from the doorway.

  His voice is firm, cold. It clatters with repercussions.

  Stanwin breathes through his nose, staring at Daniel out of narrowed eyes. It shouldn’t be a contest. Stanwin is squat and solid and spitting venom. Yet there’s something in the way Daniel stands there, hands in his pockets, head tilted, that gives Stanwin pause. Perhaps he’s wary of being hit by the train Daniel appears to be waiting for.

  A clock drums up its courage and ticks.

  With a grunt, Stanwin releases the maid, brushing past Daniel on his way out, muttering something I can’t quite hear.

  The room breathes, the piano resumes, the heroic clock carrying on as though nothing happened.

  Daniel’s eyes weigh us one by one.

  Unable to face his scrutiny, I stare at my reflection in the window. There’s disgust on my face, revulsion at the endless shortcomings of my character. First the murder in the woods, and now this. How many injustices will I allow to walk by before I pluck up the courage to intervene?

  Daniel approaches, a ghost in the glass.

  “Bell,” he says softly, laying a hand on my shoulder. “Do you have a minute?”

  Hunched beneath my shame, I follow him into the study next door, every pair of eyes at my back. It’s even gloomier in here, untrimmed ivy shrouding the leaded windows, paintings in dark oils soaking up what little light manages to squirm through the glass. A writing desk has been arranged with a view onto the lawn, and looks recently vacated, a fountain pen leaking ink onto a torn piece of blotting paper, a letter opener beside it. One can only imagine the missives written in such an oppressive atmosphere.

  In the opposite corner, near a second door out of the room, a puzzled young man in hunting tweeds is peering down the speaker of a gramophone, clearly wondering why the spinning record isn’t flinging sound into the room.

  “A single term at Cambridge and he thinks he’s Isambard Kingdom Brunel,” says Daniel, causing the young man to look up from his puzzle. He’s no more than twenty-four, with dark hair and wide, flattened features that give the impression of his face being pressed up against a pane of glass. Seeing me, he grins broadly, the boy in the man appearing as if through a window.

  “Belly, you bloody idiot, there you are,” he says, squeezing my hand and clapping me on the back at the same time. It’s like being caught in an affectionate vice.

  He searches my face expectantly, his green eyes narrowing at my lack of recognition.

  “It’s true, then, you can’t remember a thing,” he says, tossing a quick glance at Daniel. “You lucky devil! Let’s get to the bar so I can introduce you to a hangover.”

  “News travels fast in Blackheath,” I say.

  “Boredom’s very flat ground,” he says. “Name’s Michael Hardcastle. We’re old friends, though I suppose we’re better described as recent acquaintances now.”

  There’s no hint of disappointment in the statement. In fact, he seems amused by it. Even at first meeting, it’s evident Michael Hardcastle will be amused by most things.

  “Michael was sitting next to you at dinner last night,” says Daniel, who’s taken up Michael’s inspection of the gramophone. “Come to think of it, that’s probably why you went out and coshed yourself on the head.”

  “Play along, Belly. We’re hoping one day he’ll accidentally say something funny,” says Michael.

  There’s an instinctive pause for my rejoinder, the rhythm of the moment collapsing under the weight of its absence. For the first time since I woke up this morning, I feel a yearning for my old life. I miss knowing these men. I miss the intimacy of this friendship. My sorrow is mirrored on the faces of my companions, an awkward silence digging a trench between us. Hoping to recover at least some of the trust we must once have shared, I roll up my sleeve to show them the bandages covering my arm, blood already beginning to seep through.

  “I wish I had coshed myself on the head,” I say. “Doctor Dickie believes somebody attacked me last night.”

  “My dear fellow,” gasps Daniel.

  “This is because of that damn note, isn’t it?” says Michael, his eyes tracing my injuries.

  “What note?” asks Daniel. “Are you saying you know something about this, Hardcastle? Why didn’t you mention it earlier?”

  “Because the way you described it, all of Belly’s misfortunes came about this morning,” he says. “The note came last night. I didn’t put the two things together until now.”

  “I think an explanation is in order,” says Daniel.

  “There’s not much more to it,” says Michael sheepishly, digging at the thick carpet with the toe of his shoe. “A maid brought a note to the table during our fifth bottle of wine. Next thing I know Belly’s making his excuses and trying to remember how doors work.” He looks at me shamefaced. “I wanted to go with you, but you were adamant you had to go alone. I assumed you were meeting some woman or other, so I didn’t press the issue, and that was the last I saw of you until now.”

  “What did the message say?” I ask.

  “Haven’t the foggiest, old bean. I didn’t see it.”

  “Do you remember the maid who brought it, or if Bell mentioned anybody called Anna?” asks Daniel.

  Michael shrugs, wrapping his entire face around the memory. “Anna? Doesn’t ring any bells, I’m afraid. As for the maid, well…” He puffs up his cheeks, blowing out a long breath. “Black dress, white apron. Oh, dash it all, Coleridge. Be reasonable. There’s dozens of them. How’s a man meant to keep track of their faces.”

  He hands each of us a helpless look, Daniel meeting it with a disgusted shake of the head.

  “Don’t worry, old boy; we’ll get to the bottom of all this,” he says to me, squeezing my shoulder. “And I’ve an idea how.”

  He motions toward a framed map of the estate hanging on the wall. It’s an architectural drawing, rain spotted and yellowing at the edges, but quite beautiful in its depiction of the house and grounds. As it turns out, Blackheath is a huge estate with a family graveyard to the west and a stable to the east, a trail winding down to a lake with a boathouse clinging to the bank. Aside from the driveway, which is actually a stubborn road cutting straight toward the village, everything else is forest. As the view from the upper windows suggests, we’re quite alone among the trees.

  A cold sweat prickles my skin.

  I was meant to disappear in that expanse, as Anna did this morning. I’m searching for my own grave.

  Sensing my disquiet, Daniel glances at me.

  “Lonely sort of place, isn’t it?” he murmurs, tapping a cigarette loose from a silver case. It dangles from his lower lip as he searches his pockets for a lighter.

  “My father brought us out here when his political career keeled over,” says Michael, lighting Daniel’s cigarette and taking one for himself. “The old man fancied himself a country squire. Didn’t work out quite the way he’d hoped, of course.”

  I raise a questioning eyebrow.

  “My brother was murdered by a chap called Charlie Carver, one of our groundskeepers,” says Michael calmly, as though he were declaring the racing results.

  Aghast that I could forget something so horrific, I
stammer out an apology.

  “I’m…I’m sorry, that must have been—”

  “A terribly long time ago,” interrupts Michael, a hint of impatience in his voice. “Nineteen years, in fact. I was only five when it happened, and truthfully, I can barely recall it.”

  “Unlike most of the gutter press,” adds Daniel. “Carver and another fellow drank themselves into a mania and grabbed Thomas near the lake. They half drowned him, then finished the job with a knife. He was seven or so. Ted Stanwin came running and drove them off with a shotgun, but Thomas was already dead.”

  “Stanwin?” I ask, struggling to keep the shock from my voice. “The lout from lunch?”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t go saying that too loudly,” says Daniel.

  “He’s very well thought of by my parents, is old Stanwin,” says Michael. “He was a lowly gamekeeper when he tried to save Thomas, but Father gave him one of our African plantations in thanks and the blighter made his pile.”

  “What happened to the murderers?” I ask.

  “Carver swung,” says Daniel, tapping ash onto the carpet. “The police found the knife he used under the floorboards in his cottage, along with a dozen pilfered bottles of brandy. His accomplice was never caught. Stanwin says he clipped him with the shotgun, but no one turned up at the local hospital with an injury and Carver refused to give him up. Lord and Lady Hardcastle were hosting a party that weekend, so it could have been one of the guests, but the family were adamant that none of them knew Carver.”

  “Rum business all round,” says Michael tonelessly, his expression black as the clouds crowding the windows.

  “So the accomplice is still out there?” I say, dread creeping up my spine. A murder nineteen years ago and a murder this morning. Surely that can’t be a coincidence.

  “Does make you wonder what the police are for, doesn’t it?” says Daniel, falling silent.