The 7½ Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle

by Stuart Turton

  His voice is thoughtful, a rather strange sound coming from this shaggy, shapeless creature. “Pretty little thing that cook, lost her husband in the war,” he muses. “The Hardcastles paid for the boy’s education, even got him the job with Ravencourt when he came of age.”

  “What’s Ravencourt want with a nineteen-year-old murder?” asks Pettigrew.

  “Due diligence,” says Herrington bluntly, stepping around horse manure. “Ravencourt’s buying a Hardcastle. He wants to know what baggage she’s bringing along.”

  Their conversation swiftly frays into trivialities, but my thoughts remain fixed on Cunningham. Last night, he pressed a note into Derby’s hand that read all of them and told me he was rounding up guests on behalf of a future host. That would suggest I can trust him, but he clearly has his own agenda in Blackheath. I know he’s Peter Hardcastle’s illegitimate son and that he’s asking questions about the murder of his half brother. Somewhere between those two facts is a secret he’s so desperate to keep, he’s allowed himself to be blackmailed with it.

  I grit my teeth. For once, it would be refreshing to find somebody in this place who was exactly what they appeared to be.

  Passing the cobbled path toward the stables, we push south along the never-ending road into the village, before finally coming upon the gatehouse. One by one, we fill the narrow corridor of the building, hanging our coats and shaking the rain free of our clothes while complaining about the conditions outside.

  “Through here, chaps,” says a voice from behind a door on our right.

  We follow the voice into a gloomy sitting room lit by an open fire, where Lord Peter Hardcastle sits in an armchair near the window. He has one leg flung across the other, a book flat on his lap. He’s somewhat older than his portrait suggested, though still broad chested and fit looking. Dark eyebrows slide toward each other in a V-shape, pointing toward a long nose and mopey mouth curved downward at the edges. A ragged specter of beauty suggests itself, but his stash of splendor has almost run dry.

  “Why the hell are we meeting all the way out here?” asks Pettigrew grumpily, dropping into a chair. “You’ve a perfectly good…” He waves in the direction of Blackheath. “Well, you’ve got something that resembles a house down the road.”

  “That damn house has been a curse on this family ever since I was a boy,” says Peter Hardcastle, pouring drinks into five glasses. “I won’t set foot inside until it’s absolutely necessary.”

  “Perhaps you should have thought of that before throwing history’s most tasteless party,” says Pettigrew. “Do you really intend on announcing Evelyn’s engagement on the anniversary of your own son’s murder?”

  “Do you think any of this is my idea?” asks Hardcastle, slamming the bottle down and glaring at Pettigrew. “Do you think I want to be here?”

  “Easy, Peter,” soothes Sutcliffe, shambling over to awkwardly pat his friend’s shoulder. “Christopher’s grumpy because, well, he’s Christopher.”

  “Of course,” says Hardcastle, whose red cheeks suggest anything but understanding. “It’s just…Helena’s acting damn queer, and now all this. It’s been quite trying.”

  He goes back to pouring drinks, an uneasy silence gagging everything but the rain thumping on the windows.

  Personally I’m glad of the quiet, and the chair.

  My companions walked quickly and keeping up was a chore. I need to catch my breath, and pride dictates that nobody notice me doing it. In lieu of conversation, I look around the room, but there’s little worthy of scrutiny. It’s long and narrow, with furniture piled up against the walls like wreckage on a riverbank. The carpet is worn through, the flowery wallpaper gaudy. Age is thick in the air, as though the last owners sat here until they crumbled into dust. It’s nowhere near as uncomfortable as the east wing, where Stanwin has sequestered himself, but it’s still an odd place to find the lord of the house.

  I’ve not had cause to ask what Lord Hardcastle’s role in his daughter’s murder might be, but his choice of lodging suggests he’s looking to stay out of sight. The question is, what is he doing with that anonymity?

  Drinks are deposited before us, Hardcastle resuming his former seat. He’s rolling his glass between his palms, gathering his thoughts. There’s an endearing awkwardness to his manner that immediately reminds me of Michael.

  To my left, Sutcliffe—who’s already halfway through his scotch and soda—digs a document from his jacket and hands it to me, indicating that I should pass it along to Hardcastle. It’s a marriage contract drafted by the firm Dance, Pettigrew & Sutcliffe. Evidently, myself, the lugubrious Philip Sutcliffe, and the oily Christopher Pettigrew are business partners. Even so, I’m certain Hardcastle hasn’t brought us here to talk about Evelyn’s nuptials. He’s too distracted for that, too fidgety. Besides, why request Herrington’s presence if you only needed your solicitors.

  Confirming my suspicion, Hardcastle takes the contract from me, offering it the faintest of glances before dropping it on the table.

  “Dance and I worked on it ourselves,” says Sutcliffe, rising to fetch another drink. “Have Ravencourt and Evelyn put their signatures on the bottom and you’re a rich man again. Ravencourt will pay a lump sum upon signing, with the outstanding amount held in trust until after the ceremony. In a couple of years, he’ll take Blackheath off your hands as well. Not a bad piece of work if I do say so myself.”

  “Where is old Ravencourt?” asks Pettigrew, glancing at the door. “Shouldn’t he be here for this?”

  “Helena’s looking after him,” says Hardcastle, taking a wooden case from the lintel above the fireplace and opening it to reveal rows of fat cigars that draw childish coos from the party. Declining one, I watch Hardcastle as he offers them around. His smile hides a dreadful eagerness, his pleasure in this display a foundation for other matters.

  He wants something.

  “How is Helena?” I ask, tasting my drink. It’s water. Dance doesn’t even allow himself the pleasure of alcohol. “All of this must be hard on her.”

  “I should hope so. It was her damn idea to come back,” snorts Hardcastle, taking a cigar for himself and closing the box. “You know, a chap wants to do his best, be supportive, but dash it all, I’ve barely seen her since we got here. Can’t get two words out of the woman. If I were a spiritual sort of fellow, I’d think her possessed.”

  Matches are passing from hand to hand, each man indulging his own cigar-lighting ritual. Forgoing Pettigrew’s back and forth motion, Herrington’s gentle touches, and Sutcliffe’s circular theatrics, Hardcastle simply lights it, shooting me an exasperated glance.

  A flicker of affection stirs within me, the remnants of some stronger emotion reduced to embers.

  Blowing out a long trail of yellow smoke, Hardcastle settles back in his chair.

  “Gentlemen, I invited you here today because we all have something in common.” His delivery is stiff, rehearsed. “We are all being blackmailed by Ted Stanwin, but I have a way to free us, if you’ll hear me out.”

  He’s watching each of us for a reaction.

  Pettigrew and Herrington remain quiet, but the lumpen Sutcliffe splutters, taking a hasty gulp of his drink.

  “Go on, Peter,” says Pettigrew.

  “I have something on Stanwin we can exchange for our freedom.”

  The room is still. Pettigrew is on the edge of his seat, the cigar quite forgotten in his hands.

  “And why haven’t you used it already?” he asks.

  “Because we’re in this together,” says Hardcastle.

  “Because it’s damn risky more like,” interjects a red-faced Sutcliffe. “You know what happens if one of us moves against Stanwin: he releases what he has on each of us, dropping us all in the pot. Exactly like Myerson’s lot.”

  “He’s bleeding us dry,” says Hardcastle heatedly.

  “He’s bleeding you dry, Pet
er,” says Sutcliffe, jabbing the table with a thick finger. “You’re about to make a pile out of Ravencourt, and you don’t want Stanwin getting his hands on it.”

  “That devil’s had his hand in my pocket for nearly twenty years,” exclaims Hardcastle, flushing a little. “How much longer can I be expected to let it go on?”

  He turns his gaze on Pettigrew.

  “Come now, Christopher, surely you’re ready to listen to me. Stanwin’s the reason…” Storm clouds of embarrassment drift across his gray face. “Well, perhaps Elspeth wouldn’t have left if…”

  Pettigrew sips at his drink, offering neither rebuke nor encouragement. Only I can see the warmth rising up his neck, or how his fingers are squeezing the glass so tightly the skin behind his nails has turned white.

  Hardcastle hurriedly turns his attention toward me.

  “We can rip Stanwin’s hand from our throat, but we need to confront him together,” he says, striking a balled fist into his palm. “Only by showing that we’re all ready to act against him will he listen.”

  Sutcliffe puffs up. “That’s—”

  “Quiet, Philip,” interrupts Herrington, the naval officer’s eyes never leaving Hardcastle’s. “What have you got on Stanwin?”

  Hardcastle flicks a suspicious glance at the door, before lowering his voice.

  “He has a child squirreled away somewhere,” he says. “He’s kept her hidden for fear she may be used against him, but Daniel Coleridge claims to have uncovered her name.”

  “The gambler?” says Pettigrew. “How’s he mixed up in all of this?”

  “Didn’t seem prudent to ask, old chap,” says Hardcastle, swirling his drink. “Some men walk in dark places the rest of us shouldn’t tread.”

  “Word has it he pays half the servants in London for information on their masters,” says Herrington, pulling his lip. “I wouldn’t be surprised if the same was true of Blackheath, and Stanwin certainly worked here long enough to have let a secret slip. There could be something in this, you know.”

  Hearing them discuss Daniel gives me an odd tingle of excitement. I’ve known for some time he’s my final host, but he’s been operating so far in my future, I’ve never truly felt connected to him. To see our investigations converging this way is like catching sight of something long sought on the horizon. Finally, there’s a road between us.

  Hardcastle’s on his feet, warming his hands by the heat of the fire. Lit by the flames, it’s clear the years have taken more from him than they’ve given. Uncertainty is a crack through the center of him, undermining any suggestion of solidity or strength. This man’s been broken in two and put back together crooked, and if I had to guess, I’d say there was a child-shaped hole right in the middle.

  “What does Coleridge want from us?” I ask.

  Hardcastle looks at me with flat, unseeing eyes.

  “I’m sorry?” he says.

  “You said Daniel Coleridge has something on Stanwin, which means he wants something from us in exchange for it. I assume that’s why you’ve called us all together.”

  “Just so,” says Hardcastle, fingering a loose button on his jacket. “He wants a favor.”

  “Only one?” asks Pettigrew.

  “From each of us, with the promise that we’ll honor it whenever he calls upon us, no matter what it might be.”

  Glances are exchanged, doubt handed from face to face. I feel like a spy in the enemy camp. I’m not certain what Daniel’s up to, but I’m obviously meant to help sway this argument in his favor. In my favor. Whatever this favor turns out to be, hopefully it will help free us and Anna from this dreadful place.

  “I’m for it,” I say grandly. “Stanwin’s comeuppance is long overdue.”

  “I concur,” says Pettigrew, waving cigar smoke from his face. “He’s had enough out of me. What about you, Clifford?”

  “I agree,” says the old sailor.

  All heads turn to Sutcliffe, whose eyes are running circuits of the room.

  “We’re trading devils,” says the shaggy lawyer eventually.

  “Perhaps,” says Hardcastle, “but I’ve read my Dante, Philip. Not all hells are created equal. Now, what do you say?”

  He nods grudgingly, eyes lowered to his glass.

  “Good,” says Hardcastle. “I’ll meet with Coleridge, and we’ll confront Stanwin before dinner. All being well, this will be over by the time we announce the wedding.”

  “And just like that we climb out of one pocket and into another,” says Pettigrew, finishing off his drink. “How splendid it is to be a gentleman.”

  35

  Our business settled, Sutcliffe, Pettigrew, and Herrington trail out of the sitting room in a long curl of cigar smoke, as Peter Hardcastle walks over to the gramophone on the sideboard. Wiping the dust from a record with a cotton handkerchief, he lowers the needle and flicks a switch, Brahms blowing out through the flared bronze tube.

  Motioning to the others to go on without me, I close the door to the hallway. Peter’s taken a seat by the fire, a window opened on his thoughts. He’s yet to notice I’ve stayed behind, and it feels as though some great chasm divides us, though in truth he’s only a step or two away.

  Dance’s reticence in this matter is paralyzing. As a man who despises interruption, he is equally wary of disturbing others, and the personal nature of the questions I must ask is only compounding the problem. I’m mired in my host’s manners. Two days ago, this wouldn’t have been an obstacle, but every host is stronger than the last, and fighting Dance is like trying to walk into a gale.

  Decorum allows a polite cough, Hardcastle turning in his seat to find me by the door.

  “Ah, Dance, old man,” he says. “Did you forget something?”

  “I was hoping we could talk privately.”

  “Is there some problem with the contract?” he says warily. “I must admit I was worried Sutcliffe’s drinking might—”

  “It’s not Sutcliffe. It’s Evelyn,” I say.

  “Evelyn,” he says, wariness replaced by weariness. “Yes, of course. Come, sit by the fire. This damned house is drafty enough without inviting its chill.”

  Giving me time to settle myself, he hitches his trouser leg, dancing a foot before the flames. Whatever his faults, his manners are meticulous.

  “So,” he says after a moment, judging the rigors of etiquette to have been adequately obeyed. “What’s this about Evelyn? I assume she doesn’t want to go through with the wedding?”

  Finding no easy way of framing the matter, I decide to simply toss it into his lap.

  “I’m afraid it’s more serious than that,” I say. “Somebody’s set their mind to murdering your daughter.”

  “Murder?”

  He frowns, smiling a little, waiting for the rest of the joke to present itself. Undone by my sincerity, he leans forward, confusion wrinkling his face.

  “You’re serious?” he says, hands clasped.

  “I am.”

  “Do you know who, or why?”

  “Only how. She’s being compelled to commit suicide, otherwise, somebody she loves will be murdered. The information was relayed in a note.”

  “A note?” he scoffs. “Sounds damn iffy to me. Probably just a game. You know how these girls can be.”

  “It’s not a game, Peter,” I say sternly, knocking the doubt from his face.

  “May I ask how you came by this information?”

  “The same way I come by all my information, I listen.”

  He sighs, pinching his nose, weighing the facts and the man bringing them to him.

  “Do you believe somebody’s trying to sabotage our deal with Ravencourt?” he asks.

  “I hadn’t considered it,” I say, startled by his response. I’d expected him to be concerned for his daughter’s well-being, perhaps spurred into making plans to ensure her safety
. But Evelyn’s incidental. The only loss he fears is that of his fortune.

  “Can you think of anybody whose interests would be served by Evelyn’s death?” I say, struggling to contain my sudden distaste for this man.

  “One makes enemies, old families who’d happily see us ruined, but none of them would resort to this. Whispers are more their thing—gossip at parties, spiteful comments in the Times. You know how it is.”

  He raps the arm of the chair in frustration.

  “Dash it all, Dance. Are you sure about this? It seems so outlandish.”

  “I’m certain, and truth be told, my suspicions lie a little closer to home,” I say.

  “One of the servants?” he asks, lowering his voice, his gaze leaping to the door.

  “Helena,” I say.

  His wife’s name strikes him like a blow.

  “Helena, you must be… I mean… My dear man…”

  His face is turning red, his words boiling over and spilling out of his mouth. I can feel a similar heat in my own cheeks. This line of questioning is poison to Dance.

  “Evelyn suggested the relationship was fractured,” I say quickly, laying the words down like stones across a boggy field.

  Hardcastle’s gone to the window, where he’s standing with his back to me. Civility clearly does not allow for confrontation, though I can see his body trembling, his hands clenched behind him.

  “I won’t deny you Helena has no great fondness for Evelyn, but without her we’ll be bankrupt in a couple of years,” he says, measuring every word as he struggles to keep his anger in check. “She wouldn’t put our future in jeopardy.”

  He didn’t say she’s not capable of it.

  “But—”

  “Damn it, Dance. What’s your interest in this slander?” he shouts, yelling at my reflection in the glass so he doesn’t have to yell at me.

  This is it. Dance knows Peter Hardcastle well enough to know he’s at the end of his patience. My next answer will decide whether he opens up, or points me toward the door. I need to choose my words carefully, which means pressing the thing he most cares about. Either I tell him I’m trying to save his daughter’s life or…