The 7½ Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle

by Stuart Turton

  She’s gone before I can utter another word, bolting into the forest. Snared by weeds, I stagger after her, half falling over the fence.

  Picking myself up, I catch sight of her through the trees, glimpses of a black dress moving far more quickly than I would have reckoned. I call out, but if anything my voice is the whip at her back, driving her forward. Even so, I’m faster and stronger, and though I don’t wish to frighten the girl, I cannot lose sight of her for fear of what will happen to Evelyn.

  “Anna!” Bell calls out from somewhere nearby.

  “Help me!” Madeline screams back, panicked and sobbing.

  She’s so close now. I reach out, hoping to tug her back, but my fingers can only brush the material of her dress, and off-balance, I lose ground.

  She ducks to avoid a branch, stumbling ever so slightly. I catch hold of her dress, causing her to scream again, before a shot whistles by my face, cracking into a tree behind me.

  Surprise loosens my grip on Madeline, who stumbles toward Evelyn as she emerges from the forest. The black revolver she will take to the graveyard is in her hands, but it’s not nearly as terrifying as the fury on her face. One wrong step and she’ll shoot me dead. I’m certain of it.

  “It’s not what… I can explain,” I pant, hands on my knees.

  “Men like you always can,” says Evelyn, sweeping the terrified girl behind her with one arm.

  Madeline’s sobbing, her entire body shaking violently. God help me, but Derby enjoys this. He’s aroused by the fear. He’s done this before.

  “All this…please… It’s a misunderstanding,” I gasp, taking an imploring step forward.

  “Stay back, Jonathan,” says Evelyn fiercely, gripping the revolver with both hands. “Stay away from this girl, stay away from all of them.”

  “I didn’t mean to—”

  “Your mother’s a friend of the family. That’s the only reason I’m letting you walk away,” interrupts Evelyn. “But if I see you near another woman, if I even hear about it, I swear I’ll put a bullet in you.”

  Taking care to keep the gun trained on me, she removes her coat and wraps it around Madeline’s heaving shoulders.

  “You’re going to stay by my side today,” she whispers to the terrified maid. “I’ll see no harm comes to you.”

  They stumble off through the trees, leaving me alone in the forest. Tipping my head to the sky, I suck in cold air, hoping the rain on my face will cool my frustration. I came here to prevent somebody attacking Evelyn, believing I’d unearth a murderer in the process. Instead, I caused the very thing I was trying to stop. I’m chasing my own tail, terrifying an innocent woman in the process. Maybe Daniel was right, maybe the future isn’t a promise we can break.

  “You’re dawdling again,” says the Plague Doctor from behind me.

  He’s standing on the far side of the clearing, little more than a shadow. As always, he seems to have picked the perfect position. Far enough away that I can’t possibly reach him, but close enough that we can talk with relative ease.

  “I thought I was helping,” I say bitterly, still stung by what happened.

  “You still can,” he says. “Sebastian Bell is lost in the woods.”

  Of course. I’m not here for Evelyn, I’m here for Bell. I’m here to make sure the loop begins again. Fate’s leading me around by the nose.

  Removing the compass from my pocket, I hold it in the palm of my hand, remembering the uncertainty I felt as I followed its quivering needle that first morning. Without this, Bell will almost certainly remain lost.

  I toss it into the mud at the Plague Doctor’s feet.

  “This is how I change things,” I say, walking away. “Fetch him yourself.”

  “You misunderstand my purpose here,” he says, the sharpness of his tone bringing me up short. “If you leave Sebastian Bell to wander that forest alone, he’ll never meet Evelyn Hardcastle. He’ll never form the friendship you prize so highly. Abandon him and he won’t care about saving her.”

  “Are you saying I’ll forget her?” I ask, alarmed.

  “I’m saying you should be careful which knots you unpick,” he says. “If you abandon Bell, you’ll also be abandoning Evelyn. It will be cruelty without purpose, and nothing I’ve seen of you so far suggests you’re a cruel man.”

  Perhaps I imagine it, but for the first time, there’s a touch of warmth in his tone. It’s enough to unbalance me, and I turn to face him once more.

  “I need to see this day changed,” I say, hearing the desperation in my voice. “I need to see that it can be done.”

  “Your frustration is understandable, but what use is rearranging the furniture if you burn the house down doing it?”

  Bending over, he retrieves the compass from the ground, wiping the mud from its surface with his fingers. The way he groans and the heaviness of his limbs as he rises suggest an older man beneath the costume. Satisfied with his work, he tosses the compass to me, the damn thing nearly slipping from my hands so wet is its surface.

  “Take this, and solve Evelyn’s murder.”

  “She committed suicide. I watched her with my own eyes.”

  “If you think it’s that simple, you’re much further behind than I thought.”

  “And you’re much crueler than I thought,” I growl. “If you know what’s happening here, why not stop it? Why play these games? Hang the murderer before he harms her.”

  “An interesting idea, except I don’t know who the murderer is.”

  “How is that possible?” I say, incredulously. “You know every step I’m going to take before I think to take it. How could you be blind to the most important fact in this house?”

  “Because it’s not my place to know. I watch you, and you watch Evelyn Hardcastle. We both have our roles to play.”

  “Then I could blame anybody for the crime,” I cry, throwing my hands in the air. “Helena Hardcastle did it. There, you see! Free me!”

  “You forget that I need proof. Not merely your good word.”

  “And what if I save her, what then?”

  “I don’t think it’s possible, and I think you’ll hamper your investigation trying, but my offer stands regardless. Evelyn was murdered last night and every night prior. Even if you could save her tonight, it doesn’t change that. Bring me the name of the person who kills, or is planning to kill, Evelyn Hardcastle, and I’ll free you.”

  For the second time since arriving in Blackheath, I find myself holding a compass and contemplating the instructions of somebody I can’t trust. To do as the Plague Doctor asks is to give myself to a day determined to kill Evelyn, but there seems no way to change things without making them worse. Assuming he’s telling the truth, I either save my first host, or I abandon Evelyn.

  “You doubt my intentions?” he says, prickling at my hesitation.

  “Of course I doubt your intentions. You wear a mask and you talk in riddles, and I don’t for a minute believe you brought me here just to solve a mystery. You’re hiding something.”

  “And you think stripping me of my disguise will reveal it?” he scoffs. “A face is a mask of another sort. You know that better than most. Though you’re right—I am hiding something. If it makes you feel better, I’m not hiding it from you. Should you somehow succeed and tear this mask free, I’d simply be replaced, and your task would remain. I’ll let you decide if that’s worth the trouble. As for your presence in Blackheath, perhaps it would assuage your doubts to know the name of the man who brought you here.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “Aiden Bishop,” he says. “Unlike your rivals, you came to Blackheath voluntarily. Everything that’s happening today, you brought upon yourself.”

  His voice suggests regret, but the expressionless white mask makes the statement sinister, a parody of sadness.

  “That can’t be true,” I say
stubbornly. “Why would I come here of my own free will? Why would anybody do this to himself?”

  “Your life before Blackheath is none of my concern, Mr. Bishop. Solve the murder of Evelyn Hardcastle and you’ll have all the answers you require,” he says. “In the meantime, Bell needs your help.” He points behind me. “He’s that way.”

  Without another word he withdraws into the forest, the dimness swallowing him completely. My mind is clogged up by a hundred small questions, but none of them is going to do me any good in this forest, so I push them to one side and go in search of Bell, finding him bent double and trembling with exertion. He freezes as I approach, catching the sound of twigs cracking beneath my feet.

  His timidity revolts me.

  Mistaken as she was, at least Madeline had the good sense to flee.

  I circle around behind my former self, keeping my face from view. I could try to explain what’s happening here, but frightened rabbits make poor allies, especially those already convinced you’re a murderer.

  All I need from Bell is his survival.

  Two more steps and I’m behind him, leaning close enough to whisper into his ear. Sweat pours off his body, the smell like a filthy rag pushed to my face. It’s all I can do to speak without gagging.

  “East,” I say, dropping the compass into his pocket.

  Backing away, I head into the trees, toward Carver’s burned-out cottage. Bell’s going to be lost for another hour or so, giving me plenty of time to follow the flags back to the house without stumbling into him.

  Despite my best efforts, everything’s happening exactly as I remember it.

  24

  The looming shape of Blackheath appears through the gaps in the trees. I’ve come out around the back of the house, which is in an even worse state of disrepair than the front. Several windows are cracked, the brickwork crumbling. A stone balustrade has tumbled from the roof to lodge itself in the grass, thick moss covering it. Clearly, the Hardcastles only repaired the sections of the house their guests would see—little wonder considering the paucity of their finances.

  Just as I lingered on the edge of the forest that first morning, I now find myself crossing the garden with similar foreboding. If I came here voluntarily, I must have had a reason, but no matter how hard I strain for the memory, it’s beyond reach.

  I’d like to believe I’m a good man who came to help, but if that’s the case, I’m making a damn mess of things. Tonight, as every night, Evelyn’s going to kill herself, and if this morning’s actions are any guide, my attempts to paddle away from the disaster may only hurry us toward it. For all I know, my fumbling attempts to save Evelyn are actually the reason she ends up at that reflecting pool with a silver pistol in her hand.

  I’m so lost in these thoughts I don’t notice Millicent until I’m almost on top of her. The old lady is shivering on an iron bench that looks out across the garden, her arms folded against the wind. Three shapeless coats encase her completely, her eyes peering out over a scarf pulled up above her mouth. She’s blue with cold, a hat pulled down over her ears. Hearing my steps, she turns to meet me, surprise showing on her wrinkled face.

  “By Jove, you look dreadful,” she says, pulling the scarf down from her mouth.

  “Good morning to you too, Millicent,” I say, taken aback by the sudden surge of warmth her presence stokes within me.

  “Millicent?” she says, pursing her lips. “That’s rather modern of you, dear. I prefer ‘Mother,’ if it’s all the same to you. I wouldn’t want people thinking I picked you up off the street. Though sometimes I wonder if I mightn’t have been better off.”

  My mouth hangs open. I hadn’t previously made the connection between Jonathan Derby and Millicent Derby, probably because it’s easier to imagine him being delivered onto this earth by a biblical plague.

  “Sorry, Mother,” I say, stuffing my hands into my pockets and sitting down beside her.

  She cocks an eyebrow at me, those clever gray eyes alight with amusement.

  “An apology and an appearance before midday. Are you feeling quite all right?” she asks.

  “It must be the country air,” I say. “What about you? Why are you out on this dreadful morning?”

  She grunts, hugging herself even tighter. “I’m supposed to be going for a stroll with Helena, but I’ve seen neither hide nor hair of the woman. No doubt she’s got her times wrong as usual. I know she’s meeting Cecil Ravencourt this afternoon. She’s probably gone there instead.”

  “She hasn’t,” I say. “Ravencourt’s still asleep.”

  Millicent peers at me inquisitively.

  “Cunningham told me. Ravencourt’s valet,” I lie.

  “You know him?”

  “Vaguely.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t get too friendly,” she tuts. “I understand how much you enjoy dubious society, but from what Cecil’s told me, this one’s most unsuitable, even by your low standards.”

  That piques my interest. I’m fond of the valet, but he only agreed to help me after I threatened to blackmail him with a secret he’s keeping. Until I know what he’s hiding, I can’t depend on him, and Millicent might be the key to unearthing it.

  “How so?” I ask causally.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” she says, waving an airy hand at me. “You know Cecil, secrets tucked between every fold of skin. If you believe the rumors, he only hired Cunningham because Helena asked him to. Now, he’s discovered something unsavory about the boy and is thinking of letting him go.”

  “Unsavory?” I say.

  “Well, that’s what Cecil said, not that I could get the rest out of him. Blasted fellow has a bear trap for a mouth, but you know how he hates scandal. Given Cunningham’s parentage, it must be desperately salacious if he’s worried. Wish I knew what it was.”

  “Cunningham’s parentage?” I ask, feeling a quiver of excitement. “I think I’ve missed a step.”

  “The boy was raised at Blackheath,” she says. “Cook’s son, or that’s the story at least.”

  “It’s not true?”

  The old lady cackles, looking at me slyly.

  “Word has it the Honorable Lord Peter Hardcastle used to enjoy himself in London from time to time. Well, on one occasion his enjoyment followed him back to Blackheath with a baby in her arms, which she claimed was his. Peter was ready to send the child to the church, but Helena stepped in and demanded they keep it.”

  “Why would she do that?”

  “Knowing Helena, she probably meant it as an insult,” sniffs Millicent, turning her face away from the bitter wind. “She was never very fond of her husband, and inviting his shame into the house would have tickled her. Poor Peter has probably cried himself to sleep every night for the last thirty-three years. Either way, they gave the baby to Mrs. Drudge, the cook, to raise, and Helena made sure everybody knew whose child he was.”

  “Does Cunningham know any of this?”

  “Can’t see how he wouldn’t; it’s one of those secrets people shout at each other,” says the old lady, plucking a handkerchief from her sleeve to wipe her running nose. “Anyway, you can ask him yourself seeing as you’re so chummy. Shall we walk? I see little point in us freezing on this bench waiting for a woman who isn’t coming.”

  She stands before I have a chance to respond, stamping her boots and blowing warm air into her gloved hands. It really is a dreadful day, the gray sky spitting rain, lathering itself into the fury of a storm.

  “Why are you even out here?” I ask, our feet crunching along the gravel path that circles the house. “Couldn’t you have met Lady Hardcastle inside?”

  “Too many people I’d rather not bump into,” she says.

  Why was she in the kitchen this morning?

  “Speaking of bumping into people, I hear you were in the kitchen this morning,” I say.

  She bridles. “Who told you
that?”

  “Well—”

  “I haven’t been anywhere near the kitchen,” she continues, not waiting for a response. “Filthy places. The smell doesn’t come out for weeks.”

  She seems genuinely irritated by the suggestion, which means she probably hasn’t done it yet. A moment later she nudges me good-naturedly, her voice suddenly gleeful. “Did you hear about Donald Davies? Apparently he took an automobile last night and ran off back to London. The stable master saw him, said he turned up in the pouring rain, dressed in every color under the sun.”

  That brings me pause. Surely, I should have returned to Donald Davies by now, as I have done with the butler. He was my third host, and Anna told me I’m obliged to live one full day in each of them, whether I want it or not. It can’t have been much past midmorning when I left him asleep on that road, so why haven’t I seen him again?

  You left him defenseless and alone.

  I feel a ripple of guilt. For all I know, the footman has already found him.

  “Are you listening to me?” says Millicent, annoyed. “I said Donald Davies took off in an automobile. They’re cracked that family, every one of them, and that’s an official medical opinion.”

  “You’ve been talking to Dickie,” I say absently, still thinking about Davies.

  “Been talked at, more like,” she scoffs. “Thirty minutes I spent trying to keep my eyes off that mustache. I’m surprised sound can penetrate it.”

  That makes me laugh.

  “Do you actually like anybody at Blackheath, Mother?” I say, my good cheer returning.

  “Not that I recall, but it’s envy I suspect. Society’s a dance darling, and I’m too old to take part. Speaking of dancing, here comes the organ grinder himself.”

  I follow her gaze to see Daniel approaching us from the opposite direction. Despite the cold, he’s dressed in a cricket sweater and linen trousers, the same outfit he’ll be wearing when he encounters Bell in the entrance hall for the first time. I check my watch. That meeting can’t be far off.

  “Mr. Coleridge,” calls out Millicent with forced bonhomie.