The 7½ Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle

by Stuart Turton

  I attempt to back away, but he takes hold of my dressing gown with his long fingers.

  “You don’t need—”

  My vision blurs, the world reduced to a smudge of color and a flash of pain as I crash into a wall, then drop to the floor, blood trickling from my head. He’s looming over me, an iron poker in his hand.

  “Please,” I say, trying to slide backward, away from him. “I’m not—”

  He kicks me in the side, emptying my lungs.

  I reach out a hand, trying to speak, beg, but that only seems to infuriate him further. He’s kicking me faster and faster until there’s nothing I can do but curl up in a ball as he pours his wrath upon me.

  I can barely breathe, barely see. I’m sobbing, buried by pain.

  Mercifully, I pass out.

  10

  DAY THREE

  It’s dark, the net on the window fluttering in the breath of a moonless night. The sheets are soft, the bed comfortable and canopied.

  Clutching the eiderdown, I smile.

  It was a nightmare, that’s all.

  Slowly, beat by beat, my heart quiets down, the taste of blood fading with the dream. It takes me a few seconds to remember where I am, another to pick out the dim shape of a large man standing in the corner of the room.

  My breath catches in my throat.

  Sliding my hand through the covers toward the bedside table, I reach for the matches, but they seem to slither away from my searching fingers.

  “Who are you?” I ask the darkness, unable to keep the tremor from my voice.

  “A friend.”

  It’s a man’s voice, muffled and deep.

  “Friends don’t lurk in the gloom,” I say.

  “I didn’t say I was your friend, Mr. Davies.”

  My blind fumbling almost knocks the oil lamp off the bedside table. Attempting to steady it, my fingers find the matches cowering at its base.

  “Don’t worry about the light,” says the darkness. “It will little profit you.”

  I strike the match with a trembling hand, touching it to the lamp. Flame explodes behind the glass, driving the shadows deep into the corners and illuminating my visitor. It’s the man in the plague doctor costume I met earlier, the light revealing details I’d missed in the gloom of the study. His greatcoat is scuffed and tattered at the edges, a top hat and porcelain beak mask covering all of his face except for the eyes. Gloved hands rest on a black cane, an inscription inlaid in sparkling silver down the side, though the writing’s much too small to read at this distance.

  “Observant, good,” remarks the Plague Doctor. Footsteps sound from somewhere in the house, and I wonder if my imagination is sufficient to conjure the mundane details of such an extraordinary dream.

  “What the hell are you doing in my room?” I demand, surprising myself with this outburst.

  The beak mask ceases its exploration of the room, fixing on me once again.

  “We have work to do,” he says. “I have a puzzle that requires a solution.”

  “I think you’ve mistaken me for somebody else,” I say angrily. “I’m a doctor.”

  “You were a doctor,” he says. “Then a butler, today a playboy, tomorrow a banker. None of them is your real face, or your real personality. Those were stripped from you when you entered Blackheath, and they won’t be returned until you leave.”

  Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a small mirror and tosses it onto the bed.

  “See for yourself.”

  The glass shakes in my hand, reflecting a young man with striking blue eyes and precious little wisdom behind them. The face in the glass isn’t that of Sebastian Bell, or the burned butler.

  “His name’s Donald Davies,” says the Plague Doctor. “He has a sister called Grace and a best friend called Jim, and he doesn’t like peanuts. Davies will be your host for today, and when you wake up tomorrow, you’ll have another. That’s how this works.”

  It wasn’t a dream after all, it really happened. I lived the same day twice in the bodies of two different people. I talked to myself, berated myself, and examined myself through somebody else’s eyes.

  “I’m going mad, aren’t I?” I say, looking at him over the top of the mirror.

  I can hear the cracks in my voice.

  “Of course not,” says the Plague Doctor. “Madness would be an escape, and there’s only one way to escape Blackheath. That’s why I’m here. I have a proposition for you.”

  “Why have you done this to me?” I demand.

  “That’s a flattering notion, but I’m not responsible for your predicament, or Blackheath’s for that matter.”

  “Then who is?”

  “Nobody you’d care to meet or need to,” he says, dismissing the notion with a wave of his hand. “Which brings me back to my proposition—”

  “I must speak with them,” I say.

  “Speak with whom?”

  “The person who brought me here, whoever can free me,” I say through gritted teeth, struggling to keep hold of my temper.

  “Well, the former is long gone, and the latter is before you,” he says, tapping his chest with both hands. Perhaps it’s the costume, but the movement seems somehow theatrical, almost rehearsed. I suddenly have the sense of taking part in a play in which everybody knows their lines but me.

  “Only I know how you can escape Blackheath,” he says.

  “Your proposition?” I say suspiciously.

  “Precisely, though ‘riddle’ might be closer to the truth of it,” he says, lifting out a pocket watch and checking the time. “Somebody’s going to be murdered at the ball tonight. It won’t appear to be a murder, and so the murderer won’t be caught. Rectify that injustice and I’ll show you the way out.”

  I stiffen, gripping the sheets.

  “If freeing me is within your power, why not just do it, damn you!” I say. “Why play these games?”

  “Because eternity is dull,” he says. “Or maybe because playing is the important part. I’ll leave you to speculate. Just don’t procrastinate for too long, Mr. Davies. This day will be repeated eight times, and you’ll see it through the eyes of eight different hosts. Bell was your first, the butler your second, and Mr. Davies the third. That means you only have five hosts left to discover. If I were you, I would move quickly. When you have an answer, bring it to the lake, along with proof, at 11:00 p.m. I’ll be waiting for you.”

  “I will not play these games for your amusement,” I snarl, leaning toward him.

  “Then fail out of spite, but know this: if you don’t solve this problem by midnight in your final host, we’ll strip your memories and return you to the body of Doctor Bell and this will all begin again.”

  He checks his watch, dropping it into his pocket with an irritated tut. “Time runs away from us. Cooperate and I’ll answer more of your questions next time we meet.”

  A breeze slips through the window, extinguishing the lamp and draping us in darkness. By the time I find the matches and relight it, the Plague Doctor is gone.

  Confused and afraid, I jump out of bed as if stung, throwing open the bedroom door and stepping into the cold. The corridor’s black. He could be standing five paces away and I’d never see him.

  Closing the door, I fly toward the wardrobe, dressing myself in whatever comes to hand first. Whomever I’m wearing, he’s skinny and short with a penchant for the garish, and when I’m finished, I’m splashed in purple trousers, an orange shirt, and a yellow waistcoat. There’s a coat and scarf at the back of the cupboard, and I pull them on, before heading out. Murder in the morning and costumes at night, cryptic notes and burned butlers; whatever’s happening here, I will not be yanked around like some puppet on a string.

  I must escape this house.

  The grandfather clock at the top of the stairs points its weary arms at 3:17 a.m., tutt
ing at my haste. Though I’m loath to wake the stable master at such a frightful hour, I can see no other choice if I’m to escape this madness, so I take the staircase two steps at a time, nearly tripping over this peacock’s ridiculously tiny feet.

  It wasn’t like this with Bell or the butler. I feel myself pressed up against the walls of this body, straining at its seams. I’m clumsy, almost drunk.

  Leaves scatter inside as I open the front door. It’s blowing a gale outside, rain swirling in the air, the forest cracking and swaying. It’s a filthy night, the color of tossed soot. I’ll need more light if I’m to find my way without falling and breaking my neck.

  Retreating inside, I head down the servants’ staircase at the rear of the entrance hall. The wood of the banister is rough to the touch, the steps rickety. Thankfully, the lamps are still leaking their rancid light, though the flames burn low and quiet, their flicker indignant. The corridor is longer than I remember, the whitewashed walls sweating with condensation, the smell of earth spilling through the plaster. Everything’s damp, rotten. I’ve seen most of Blackheath’s dirty edges, but none so purposefully neglected. I’m surprised the place has any staff at all, given how little regard they appear to be held in by their masters.

  In the kitchen, I bounce between the stacked shelves until I find a hurricane lamp and matches. Two strikes to light it and I’m bounding back up the stairs and through the front door into the storm.

  The lamp claws at the darkness, the rain stinging my eyes.

  I follow the driveway to the cobbled road leading up to the stables, the forest heaving around me. Slipping over the uneven stones, I strain my eyes for the stable master’s cottage, but the lamp’s too bright, concealing much of what it should reveal. I’m beneath the arch before I see it, sliding on horse manure. As before, the yard is a crush of carriages, each covered in a rippling canvas sheet. Unlike earlier, the horses are in the stables, snorting in their sleep.

  Shaking the manure from my feet, I throw myself on the mercy of the cottage, banging the knocker. The light comes on after a few minutes, the door opening a crack to reveal the sleepy face of an old man in his nightshirt.

  “I need to leave,” I say.

  “At this hour, sir?” he asks dubiously, rubbing his eyes and glancing at the pitch-black sky. “You’ll catch your death.”

  “It’s urgent.”

  He sighs, taking in the scene, then gestures me inside, opening the door fully. Putting on a pair of trousers, he tugs the suspenders over his shoulders, moving in that sluggish daze that marks someone roused unaccountably from their sleep. Taking his jacket from the peg, he drags himself outside, motioning for me to stay where I am.

  I must confess I do so happily. The cottage bulges with warmth and homeliness, the smell of leather and soap a solid, comforting presence. I’m tempted to check the roster by the door to see if Anna’s message is already written there, but no sooner have I reached out my hand than I hear a god-awful commotion, lights blinding me through the window. Stepping into the rain, I find the old stable master sitting in a green automobile, the entire thing coughing and shuddering as if afflicted by some terrible disease.

  “Here you go, sir,” he says, getting out. “I got her started for you.”

  “But…”

  I’m at a loss for words, aghast at the contraption before me.

  “Are there no carriages?” I ask.

  “There are, but the horses are skittish around thunder, sir,” he says, reaching under his shirt to scratch an armpit. “With respect, you couldn’t keep hold of them.”

  “I can’t keep hold of this,” I say, staring at the dreadful mechanical monster, horror strangling my voice. Rain is pinging off the metal and making a pond of the windshield.

  “Easy as breathing it is,” he says. “Grip the wheel and point it where you want to go, then press the pedal to the floor. You’ll make sense of it in no time.”

  His confidence pushes me inside as firmly as any hand, the door closing with a soft click.

  “Follow this cobbled road until the end, and then turn left onto the dirt track,” he says, pointing into the darkness. “That will lead you to the village. It’s long and straight, a bit uneven, mind. Takes anywhere between forty minutes and an hour, depending on how carefully you drive, but you can’t miss it, sir. If you wouldn’t mind, leave the automobile somewhere obvious and I’ll have one of my boys collect it first thing in the morning.”

  With that, he’s gone, disappearing back into his cottage, the door slamming shut behind him.

  Gripping the wheel, I stare at the levers and dials, trying to find some semblance of logic in the controls. I tentatively press the pedal. The dreaded contraption lurches forward, and applying a little more pressure, I urge the automobile beneath the arch and along the bumpy cobbled road, until we reach the left turn the stable master mentioned.

  Rain blankets the glass, forcing me to lean out the window to see where I’m going. The headlamps shine on a dirt track littered with leaves and fallen branches, water cascading across its surface. Despite the danger, I keep the accelerator pedal pinned to the floor, elation replacing my unease. After everything that’s happened, I’m finally escaping Blackheath, each mile of this bumpy track taking me farther from its madness.

  Morning arrives in a smudge, a gray half-light that taints rather than illuminates, though it at least brings an end to the rain. As promised, the road continues straight, the forest unending. Somewhere among those trees, a girl is being murdered and Bell is coming awake to see it. A killer will spare his life with a silver compass that points to a place that doesn’t make sense, and, like a fool, he’ll think himself saved. But how can I be in that forest and in this car—and a butler in between? My hands tighten around the wheel. If I was able to talk to the butler when I was Sebastian Bell, then presumably, whoever I’ll be tomorrow is already walking around Blackheath. I might even have met him. And not just tomorrow, but the man I’ll be the day after that and the day after that. If that’s the case, what does that make me? Or them? Are we shards of the same soul, responsible for each other’s sins, or entirely different people, pale copies of some long-forgotten original?

  The fuel gauge nudges red as fog comes rolling out of the trees, thick upon the ground. My earlier sense of triumph has waned. I should have arrived at the village long ago, but there’s no chimney smoke in the distance and no end to the forest.

  Finally, the car shudders and stills, its dying breath a screech of grinding parts as it comes to a stop mere feet from the Plague Doctor, whose black greatcoat is in stark contrast to the white fog he’s emerging from. My legs are stiff and my back sore, but anger propels me out of the car.

  “Have you got this foolishness out of your system yet?” asks the Plague Doctor, both hands resting on his cane. “You could have done so much with this host; instead you waste him on this road, accomplishing nothing. Blackheath won’t let you go, and while you’re tugging on your lead, your rivals are pressing ahead with their investigations.”

  “And now I have rivals,” I say contemptuously. “It’s one trick after another with you, isn’t it? First you tell me I’m trapped here, and now it’s a competition to escape.”

  I’m marching toward him, fully intending to beat an exit out of him.

  “Don’t you understand yet?” I say. “I don’t care about your rules, because I’m not going to play. Either you let me leave, or I’ll make you sorry I stayed.”

  I’m two steps away when he points his cane at me. Though it hovers an inch from my chest, no cannon was ever so threatening. The silver lettering along the side is pulsing, a faint shimmer rising from the wood, burning away the fog. I can feel the heat of it through my clothes. If he desired, I’m certain this benign-looking stick could rip a hole straight through me.

  “Donald Davies is always the most childish of your hosts,” he tuts, watching me take a ne
rvous step backward. “But you don’t have time to indulge him. There are two other people trapped in this house, wearing the bodies of guests and servants, just like you. Only one of you can leave, and it will be whoever brings me the answer first. Now do you see? Escape isn’t to be found at the end of this dirt road; it’s through me. So run if you must. Run until you can’t stand, and when you wake up in Blackheath again and again, do so in the knowledge that nothing here is arbitrary, nothing overlooked. You’ll stay here until I decide otherwise.”

  Lowering the cane, he tugs loose his pocket watch.

  “We’ll speak again soon, when you’ve calmed down a little,” he says, putting the watch away again. “Try to use your hosts more wisely from now on. Your rivals are more cunning than you can imagine, and I guarantee they won’t be so frivolous with their time.”

  I want to charge him, fists flying, but now the red mist has passed, I can see it’s a preposterous idea. Even taking away the bulk of his costume, he’s a large man, more than capable of weathering my assault. Instead, I veer around him, the Plague Doctor heading back to Blackheath, as I press into the fog ahead. There may be no end to this road, no village to be found, but I can’t give up until I know for sure.

  I won’t return willingly to a madman’s game.

  11

  DAY FOUR

  I awake wheezing, crushed beneath the tremendous monument of my new host’s stomach. The last thing I remember is collapsing exhausted on the road after walking for hours, howling in desperation at a village I couldn’t reach. The Plague Doctor was telling the truth. There’s no escape from Blackheath.

  A carriage clock by the bed tells me it’s 10:30 a.m., and I’m about to rise when a tall man enters through a connecting room carrying a silver tray, which he lays on the sideboard. He’s in his mid-thirties, I’d guess, dark-haired and clean-shaven, blandly attractive without being memorable in any way. A pair of glasses have slipped down his small nose, his eyes looking over them at the curtains he’s walking toward. Without saying a word, he draws them and pushes open the windows, revealing views of the garden and forest.