The 7½ Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle

by Stuart Turton

  She shakes her head, tears sparkling in the candlelight, mirroring the diamonds flashing in her hair.

  “I just…” Her voice chokes. “I need to…”

  Shaking her head, she shrugs him off, flying past me toward her bedroom. Fumbling the key into the lock, she slips inside, slamming the door shut behind her. Michael watches her go despondently, grabbing a glass of port from the tray Madeline’s carrying to the dining hall.

  It disappears in one gulp, his cheeks flushing.

  Lifting the tray out of her hands, he waves the maid toward Evelyn’s bedroom.

  “Don’t worry about this. See to your mistress,” he orders.

  It’s a grand gesture, somewhat undone by the confusion that follows as he tries to work out what to do with the thirty glasses of sherry, port, and brandy he’s inherited.

  From my seat, I watch Madeline rap on Evelyn’s door, the poor maid becoming increasingly upset with every ignored entreaty. Finally, she returns to the entrance hall, where Michael is still casting around for somewhere to put the tray.

  “I’m afraid Mademoiselle is…” Madeline makes a despairing gesture.

  “It’s fine, Madeline,” Michael says wearily. “It’s been a difficult day. Why don’t you leave her be for now. I’m sure she’ll call when she needs you.”

  Madeline lingers uncertainly, looking back toward Evelyn’s bedroom, but after a brief hesitation she does as he asks, disappearing down the servant’s staircase toward the kitchen.

  Casting left and right for somewhere to dispense with the tray, Michael spots me watching him.

  “I must look a damned fool,” he says, blushing.

  “More like an inept waiter,” I say bluntly. “I assume the dinner didn’t go as planned?”

  “It’s this business with Ravencourt,” he says, balancing the tray rather precariously across the padded arms of a nearby chair. “Do you have one of those cigarettes spare?”

  I emerge from the fog to hand him one, lighting it in his fingers. “Does she really have to marry him?” I ask.

  “We’re almost broke, old chum,” he sighs, taking a long drag. “Father’s buying up every empty mine and blighted plantation in the empire. I give it a year or two before our coffers are completely dry.”

  “But I thought Evelyn and your parents didn’t get on? Why would she agree to go through with it?”

  “For me,” he says, shaking his head. “My parents threatened to cut me off if she doesn’t obey them. I’d be flattered if I didn’t feel so damn guilty about it all.”

  “There must be another way.”

  “Father’s wrung every penny he can out of those few banks still impressed by his title. If we don’t get this money, well…truth be told, I don’t know what will happen, but we’ll end up poor, and I’m fairly certain we’ll be dreadful at it.”

  “Most people are,” I say.

  “Well, at least they’ve had practice,” he says, tapping ash onto the marble floor. “Why is there a bandage on your head?”

  I touch it self-consciously, having quite forgotten it was there.

  “I got on the wrong side of Stanwin,” I say. “I heard him arguing with Evelyn about somebody called Felicity Maddox and tried to intervene.”

  “Felicity?” he says, recognition showing on his face.

  “You know the name?”

  He pauses, taking a deep puff of his cigarette, before exhaling slowly.

  “Old friend of my sister,” he says. “Can’t imagine why they’d be arguing about her. Evelyn hasn’t seen her in years.”

  “She’s here in Blackheath,” I say. “She left a note for Evelyn at the well.”

  “Are you certain?” he asks skeptically. “She wasn’t on the guest list, and Evelyn didn’t say anything to me.”

  We’re interrupted by a noise at the doorway, Doctor Dickie hurrying toward me. He places a hand on my shoulder and leans close to my ear.

  “It’s your mother,” he whispers. “You need to come with me.”

  Whatever’s happened, it’s dreadful enough for him to have buried his antipathy toward me.

  Apologizing to Michael, I run after the doctor, my dread growing with every step, until finally he ushers me into her bedroom.

  The window’s open, a cold gust snatching at the candle flames lighting the room. It takes my eyes a few seconds to adjust to the dimness, but finally I find her. Millicent’s lying on her side in bed, eyes closed and chest still, as though she crawled under the covers for a quick nap. She’d begun dressing for dinner and has combed her usually wild gray hair straight, tying it up away from her face.

  “I’m sorry, Jonathan. I know how close you were,” he says.

  Grief squeezes me. No matter how much I tell myself that this woman isn’t my mother, I can’t make it let go.

  My tears arrive suddenly and silently. Trembling, I sit down in the wooden chair beside her bed, taking her still-warm hand in mine.

  “It was a heart attack,” says Doctor Dickie in a pained voice. “It would have happened very suddenly.”

  He’s standing on the other side of the bed, the emotion as raw on his face as my own. Wiping away a tear, he pulls the window shut, cutting off the cold breeze. The candles stand to attention, the light in the room solidifying into a warm, golden glow.

  “Can I warn her?” I say, thinking of the things I can put right tomorrow.

  He looks puzzled for a second, but clearly ascribes the question to grief and answers me in a kind voice.

  “No,” he says, shaking his head. “You couldn’t have warned her.”

  “What if—”

  “It was just her time, Jonathan,” he says softly.

  I nod. It’s all I can manage. He stays a little longer, wrapping me in words I neither hear, nor feel. My grief is a bottomless well. All I can do is fall and hope to hit the bottom. Yet the deeper I go, the more I realize I’m not weeping solely for Millicent Derby. There’s something else down here, something deeper than my host’s grief, something that belongs to Aiden Bishop. It’s raw and desperate, sad and angry, beating at the core of me. Derby’s grief has revealed it, but hard as I try, I can’t quite pull it up, out of the dark.

  Leave it buried.

  “What is it?”

  A piece of you. Now leave it alone.

  A knock at the door distracts me, and looking at the clock, I realize over an hour’s passed. There’s no sign of the doctor. He must have left without me noticing.

  Evelyn pokes her head into the room. Her face is pale, cheeks red with cold. She’s still dressed in the blue ball gown, though it’s picked up a few creases since I last saw her. The tiara is poking from the pocket of her long beige coat, Wellington boots leaving a trail of mud and leaves on the floor. She must have only just returned from the graveyard with Bell.

  “Evelyn…”

  I intend to say more, but I choke on my sorrow.

  Evelyn gathers the shards of the moment together, then tuts and enters the room, heading straight for a bottle of whiskey on the shelf. The glass has barely touched my lips when she tips it upward, forcing me to drink it down in one swallow.

  Gagging, I push the glass away, whiskey running down my chin.

  “Why would you—”

  “Well, you can hardly help me in your current state,” she says.

  “Help you?”

  She’s studying me, turning me over in her mind.

  She hands me a handkerchief.

  “Wipe your chin. You look atrocious,” she says. “I’m afraid sorrow doesn’t suit that arrogant face at all well.”

  “How—”

  “It’s a very long story,” she says. “And I’m afraid we’re somewhat pressed for time.”

  I sit dumbly, struggling to take everything in, wishing for the clarity of Ravencourt’s mind. So much
has happened, so much I can’t quite piece together. I already felt as if I was staring at the clues through a foggy magnifying glass, and now Evelyn’s here, tugging a bedsheet over Millicent’s face, calm as a summer day. Try as I might, I can’t keep up.

  Quite clearly, that little tantrum at dinner regarding her engagement was an act, because there’s no trace of that crippling sadness about her now. Her eyes are clear, her tone contemplative.

  “So I’m not the only one dying tonight,” she says, stroking the old lady’s hair. “What a miserable thing.”

  The glass falls from my hand in shock.

  “You know about—”

  “The reflecting pool, yes. Curious affair, isn’t it?”

  She has a dreamy tone, as though describing something she once heard and now only half remembers. I’d suspect her mind of having buckled in some way, if it weren’t for the hard edge to her words.

  “You seem to be taking the news rather well,” I say cautiously.

  “You should have seen me this morning. I was so angry I was kicking holes in the walls.”

  Evelyn’s running her hand along the edge of the dressing table, opening Millicent’s jewelry box, touching the pearl-handled brush. I’d describe her actions as covetous, if there didn’t appear to be an equal amount of reverence.

  “Who wants you dead, Evelyn?” I ask, unnerved by this curious display.

  “I don’t know,” she says. “There was a letter pushed under my door when I woke up. The instructions were quite specific.”

  “But you don’t know who sent it?”

  “Constable Rashton has a theory, but he’s kept it rather close to his chest.”

  “Rashton?”

  “Your friend? He told me you were helping him investigate.” Doubt and distaste seep out of every word, but I’m too intrigued to take it personally. Could this Rashton be another host? Maybe even the same man who asked Cunningham to deliver that all of them message and gather some people together. Either way, he seems to have swept me up into his plan. Whether I can trust it is another matter.

  “Where did Rashton approach you?” I ask.

  “Mr. Derby,” she says firmly. “I’d love nothing more than to sit down and answer all your questions, but we don’t really have time. I’m expected at the reflecting pool in ten minutes, and I can’t be late. In fact, that’s why I’m here. I need the silver pistol you took from the doctor.”

  “You can’t mean to go through with this,” I say, jumping up from my seat in alarm.

  “As I understand it, your friends are close to unmasking my would-be killer. They simply need a little more time. If I don’t go, the killer will know something is wrong, and I can’t risk that.”

  I’m beside her in two steps, my pulse racing.

  “Are you saying they know who’s behind all of this?” I say excitedly. “Did they give you any indication who it might be?”

  Evelyn’s holding one of Millicent Derby’s cameos up to the light, an ivory face on blue lace. Her hand is shaking. It’s the first sign of fear I’ve seen from her.

  “They didn’t, but I hope they find out soon. I’m trusting your friends to save me before I’m forced to do something…final.”

  “Final?” I say.

  “The note was specific. Either I take my life out by the reflecting pool at 11:00 p.m., or somebody I care about very deeply dies in my stead.”

  “Felicity?” I say. “I know she left a note for you at the well and that you wrote to her some time ago asking her for assistance with your mother. Michael said she’s an old friend. Is she in danger? Is somebody holding her against her will?”

  That would explain why I haven’t been able to find her.

  The jewelry box clatters shut. Evelyn turns to face me, hands now pressed flat against the dressing table.

  “I don’t mean to sound impatient, but don’t you have somewhere to be?” she says. “I was asked to remind you about a rock that needs watching. Does that make any sense to you?”

  I nod, remembering the favor she asked of me earlier this afternoon. I’m to be standing by it when Evelyn kills herself. I wasn’t to move. Not an inch, she’d said.

  “In that case my work here is done and I should go,” says Evelyn. “Where’s the silver pistol?”

  Even in her small fingers, it seems an inconsequential thing, more decoration than weapon, an embarrassing way to end a life. I wonder if that’s the point, if there’s not some quiet rebuke in the instrument of death, as there is in the method. Evelyn isn’t merely being murdered, she’s being embarrassed, dominated.

  Every choice has been taken from her.

  “What a pretty way to die,” says Evelyn, staring at the pistol. “Please don’t be late, Mr. Derby. I suspect my life depends upon it.”

  After a final glance toward the jewelry box, she’s gone.

  31

  Hugging myself against the cold, I stand over Anna’s carefully placed rock, terrified of taking even a small step to my left, where at least I’d be warmed by one of the braziers. I don’t know why I’m here, but if it’s part of a plan to save Evelyn, I’ll stand in this spot until my blood turns to ice.

  Glancing toward the trees, I catch sight of the Plague Doctor in his usual location, half hidden by gloom. He’s not looking at the reflecting pool as I thought when I witnessed this moment as Ravencourt, but away to his right. The angle of his head suggests he’s talking to somebody, though I’m too far away to see who. Either way, it’s an encouraging sign. Evelyn suggested she’d found allies among my hosts, and surely, in those bushes, somebody is waiting to come to her aid?

  Evelyn arrives at eleven exactly, the silver pistol hanging limp in her hand. Drifting from shadow to flame, she follows the braziers, her blue ball gown trailing in the grass. I long to tear the pistol from her grasp, but somewhere beyond my sight an invisible hand is working, pulling levers I can’t possibly understand. Any minute now somebody will call out, I’m certain of it. One of my future hosts will come sprinting into the darkness, telling Evelyn it’s over and the murderer is captured. She’ll drop the gun and sob her thanks, while Daniel presents his plan for both Anna and me to escape.

  For the first time since all this began, I feel myself part of something bigger.

  Encouraged by this, I root my feet, hovering over my rock.

  Evelyn’s come to a stop at the edge of the water, looking around at the trees. For a second, I think she’ll spot the Plague Doctor, but she pulls her gaze back before reaching him. She’s unsteady, swaying slightly as though moved by some music only she can hear. The flames from the brazier are reflected in the diamonds of her necklace, liquid fire pouring down her throat. She’s trembling, desperation mounting on her face.

  Something’s wrong.

  I glance back toward the ballroom to find Ravencourt at the window, looking longingly toward his friend. Words are forming on his lips, but they’re too late to do any good.

  “God help me,” Evelyn whispers to the night.

  Tears streaming down her cheeks, she turns the gun toward her stomach and pulls the trigger.

  The shot is so loud it cracks the world, drowning out my anguished scream.

  In the ballroom, the party holds its breath.

  Surprised faces turn toward the reflecting pool, their eyes seeking out Evelyn. She’s clutching her stomach, blood seeping out from between her fingers. She looks confused, as though she’s been handed something she shouldn’t have been, but before she can make sense of it, she buckles, falling forward into the water.

  Fireworks explode in the night sky, as guests stream through the french doors, pointing and gasping. Somebody’s running toward me, their footsteps pounding the dirt. I turn in time to take their full weight in my chest, sending me sprawling to the ground.

  Trying to scramble to their feet, they only succeed in scraping my f
ace with their fingers, a knee jabbing into my stomach. Derby’s temper, already clawing to be let out, takes hold of me. With a scream of rage, I begin pounding at this shape in the darkness, clutching their clothing even as they try to wrestle their way free.

  Howling in frustration, I’m pulled off the ground, my opponent similarly lofted away, both of us held fast by servants. Lantern light spills across us, revealing a furious Michael Hardcastle desperately trying to break free of Cunningham’s strong arms, which are keeping him from Evelyn’s stricken form.

  I stare at him in astonishment.

  It’s changed.

  The revelation knocks the fight out of me, my body going limp in the servant’s arms as I stare at the reflecting pool.

  When I saw this event through Ravencourt’s eyes, Michael clung to his sister, unable to move her. Now a tall fellow in a trench coat is pulling her out of the water, covering her blood-soaked body with Dickie’s jacket.

  The servant lets me go, and I drop to my knees in time to see a sobbing Michael Hardcastle led away by Cunningham. Determined to soak up as much of this miracle as possible, my gaze darts this way and that. Up by the reflecting pool, Doctor Dickie’s kneeling by Evelyn’s body, discussing something with the man in the trench coat, who appears to be in charge. Ravencourt’s retreated to a couch in the ballroom and is sitting slumped over his cane, lost in thought. The band is being harangued by drunken guests who, oblivious to the horror outside, want them to carry on playing, while servants stand idle, crossing themselves when they draw closer to the body under the coat.

  Heaven knows how long I sit there in the darkness, watching all this unfold. Long enough for everybody else to be ushered into the house by the fellow in the trench coat. Long enough for Evelyn’s limp body to be carried away. Long enough to grow cold, to grow stiff.

  Long enough for the footman to find me.

  He appears around the far corner of the house, a small sack tied to his waist, blood dripping off his hands. Taking out his knife, he begins drawing the blade back and forth across the rim of a brazier. I can’t tell whether he’s sharpening it, or simply warming it, but I suspect it’s irrelevant. He wants me to see it, to hear that unsettling scrape of metal against metal.