The 7½ Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle

by Stuart Turton

  “She’s…” She shakes her head. “Nothing. I shouldn’t even be talking to you.”

  She turns for the door, but I catch her by the wrist, pulling her back rather more forcefully than I’d intended. Anger flashes on her face, and I immediately release her, raising my hands.

  “Ted Stanwin told me everything,” I say desperately, trying to keep her from storming out of the room.

  I need a plausible explanation for the things I know, and Derby overheard Stanwin and Evelyn arguing this morning. If I’m very lucky, the blackmailer has a hand in all of this. It’s not much of a stretch. He has a hand in everything else that’s happening today.

  Evelyn’s still, watchful, like a deer in the woods that’s just heard a branch snap.

  “He said you were planning to kill yourself by the reflecting pool this evening, but that made no sense,” I press on, trusting to Stanwin’s formidable reputation to sell the story. “Forgive me for being blunt, Miss Hardcastle, but if you were serious about ending your life, you’d already be dead, not playing the dutiful hostess to people you despise. My second idea was that you wanted everybody to see it happen, but then why not do it in the ballroom, during the party? I couldn’t make sense of it until I stood on the edge of the reflecting pool and realized how dark it was, how easily it could conceal something dropped into it.”

  Scorn glitters in her eyes.

  “And what is it you want, Mr. Rashton? Money?”

  “I’m trying to help you,” I insist. “I know you intend to go to the reflecting pool at 11:00 p.m., press a black revolver to your stomach, and collapse into the pool. I know you won’t actually pull the trigger of the black revolver, and a starting pistol will make the sound of the gunshot everybody hears, just as I know you plan to drop the starting pistol into the water when you’re done. The vial of blood will be hung from a long cord around your neck and will crack open when you hit it with the revolver, providing the gore.

  “I’m guessing the syringe I found in the sack is filled with some combination of muscle relaxant and sedative to help you play dead, making it easy for Doctor Dickie—who I assume is being paid handsomely for his trouble—to make it official on the death certificate, forgoing the need for an unpleasant inquest. One would imagine that a week or so after your death, you’ll be back in France enjoying a nice glass of white.”

  A couple of maids are carrying slopping buckets of dirty water toward the doors, their gossip coming to an abrupt halt as they notice us. They pass by with uncertain dips, Evelyn steering me farther into the corner.

  For the first time, I see fear on her face.

  “I admit I didn’t want to marry Ravencourt, and I knew I couldn’t keep my family from forcing me into it unless I disappeared, but why would anybody want to kill me?” she asks, the cigarette still trembling in her hand.

  I study her face for a lie, but I might as well be turning a microscope on a patch of fog. This woman has been lying to everybody for days. I wouldn’t recognize the truth even if it did manage to escape her lips.

  “I have certain suspicions, but I need proof,” I say. “That’s why I need you to go through with your plan.”

  “Go through with it, are you mad?” she exclaims, lowering her voice as all eyes turn toward us. “Why would I go through with it after what you’ve just told me?”

  “Because you won’t be safe until we draw the conspirators out, and for that they need to believe their plan has succeeded.”

  “I’ll be safe when I’m a hundred miles from here.”

  “And how will you get there?” I ask. “What happens if the carriage driver is part of the plot, or a servant? Whispers carry in this house, and when the murderers get word you’re trying to leave, they’ll push forward with their plan and kill you. Believe me, running will only delay the inevitable. I can put a stop to it here and now, but only if you go along with it all. Point a gun at your stomach and play dead for half an hour. Who knows, you may even get to stay dead and escape Ravencourt as you planned.”

  She has her hand pressed to her forehead, eyes squeezed shut in concentration. When she speaks again, it’s in a quieter voice, somehow emptier.

  “I’m caught between the devil and the deep, blue sea, aren’t I?” she says. “Very well, I’ll go through with it, but there’s something I need to know first. Why are you helping me, Mr. Rashton?”

  “I’m a policeman.”

  “Yes, but you’re not a saint, and only a saint would put themselves in the middle of all this.”

  “Then consider it a favor to Sebastian Bell,” I say.

  Surprise softens her expression. “Bell? What on earth has the dear doctor got to do with this?”

  “I don’t know yet, but he was attacked last night, and I doubt it’s a coincidence.”

  “Perhaps, but why is that your concern?”

  “He wants to be a better person,” I say. “That’s a rare thing in this house. I admire it.”

  “As do I,” she says, pausing to weigh up the man in front of her. “Very well, tell me your plan, but first I want your word that I’ll be safe. I’m putting my life in your hands, and that’s not something I submit to without guarantee.”

  “How do you know my word is worth anything?”

  “I’ve been around dishonorable men my entire life,” she says simply. “You’re not one of them. Now, give me your word.”

  “You have it.”

  “And a drink,” she continues. “I’m going to need a little courage to see this through.”

  “More than a little,” I say. “I want you to befriend Jonathan Derby. He has a silver pistol we’ll be needing.”

  51

  Dinner’s being served, the guests taking their seats at the table, as I crouch in the bushes near the reflecting pool. It’s early, but my plan depends on being the first person to reach Evelyn when she emerges from the house. I can’t risk the past tripping me up.

  Rain drips from the leaves, icy cold on my skin.

  The wind stirs, my legs cramping.

  Shifting my weight, I realize I haven’t eaten or taken a drink all day, which isn’t ideal preparation for the evening ahead. I’m light-headed, and without anything to distract me, I can feel every one of my hosts pressed up against the inside of my skull. Their memories crowd the edges of my mind, the weight of them almost too much to bear. I want everything they want. I feel their aches and am made timid by their fears. I’m no longer a man, I’m a chorus.

  Oblivious to my presence, two servants spill out of the house, their arms laden with wood for the braziers, oil lamps hanging from their belts. One by one they ignite the braziers, drawing a line of fire into the pitch-black evening. The last one is next to the greenhouse, the flames reflecting on the glass panels so that the entire thing seems to be ablaze.

  As the wind howls and the trees drip, Blackheath flickers and changes, following the guests as they make their way from the dining hall to their bedrooms and finally into the ballroom, where the band has taken to the stage, and the evening guests await. Servants open the french doors, music exploding outward, tumbling across the ground and into the forest.

  “Now you see them as I do,” says the Plague Doctor, in a low voice. “Actors in a play, doing the same thing night after night.”

  He’s standing behind me, mostly obscured by trees and bushes. In the uncertain light of the brazier, his mask appears to float in the gloom like a soul trying to tug free of its body.

  “Did you tell the footman about Anna?” I hiss.

  It’s taking every ounce of self-control I have not to leap up and throttle him.

  “I have no interest in either of them,” he says flatly.

  “I saw you outside the gatehouse with Daniel, then again near the lake, and now Anna’s missing,” I say. “Did you tell him where to find her?”

  For the first time, the Plague
Doctor sounds uncertain.

  “I assure you, I wasn’t at either of those locations, Mr. Bishop.”

  “I saw you,” I growl. “You spoke with Daniel.”

  “It wasn’t…” When he speaks again, it’s with a spark of understanding. “So that’s how he’s been doing it. I wondered how he knew so much.”

  “He lied to me from the start, and you kept his secret.”

  “It wasn’t my place to interfere. I knew you’d see through him eventually.”

  “So why warn me about Anna?”

  “Because I worried that you wouldn’t.”

  The music stops sharply, and checking my watch, I discover it’s a few minutes before eleven. Michael Hardcastle has silenced the orchestra to ask if anybody’s seen his sister. There’s movement by the side of the house, darkness stirred by darkness as Derby takes his position by the rock, following Anna’s instructions.

  “I wasn’t in that clearing, Mr. Bishop. I promise you,” says the Plague Doctor. “I’ll explain everything soon, but for the moment, I have my own investigation to undertake.”

  He departs quickly, leaving only questions in his wake. If this were any other host, I’d run after him, but Rashton’s a subtler creature, slow to startle, quick to think. For the moment, Evelyn’s my only concern. I put the Plague Doctor out of my thoughts and creep closer to the reflecting pool. Thankfully, the leaves and twigs are so demoralized by the earlier rain they don’t have the heart to cry out beneath my feet.

  Evelyn’s approaching, sobbing, looking for me in the trees. Whatever her involvement in all this, she’s clearly afraid, her entire body shaking. She must have already taken the muscle relaxant because she’s swaying slightly, as though moved by some music only she can hear.

  I rustle a nearby bush to let her know I’m here, but the drug’s doing its work. She can barely see, let alone find me in the darkness. Even so, she keeps on walking, the silver pistol glinting in her right hand, and the starting pistol in her left. It’s pressed against her leg, out of sight.

  She has courage; I’ll give her that.

  Reaching the edge of the reflecting pool, Evelyn hesitates, and knowing what comes next, I wonder if perhaps the silver pistol is too heavy for her now, the weight of the plan too much.

  “God help us,” she says quietly, turning it toward her own stomach and pulling the trigger of the starting pistol by her leg.

  The shot is so loud it cracks the world, the starting pistol slipping from Evelyn’s hand into the inky blackness of the reflecting pool, as the silver pistol hits the grass.

  Blood spreads across her dress.

  She watches it, bemused, then topples forward into the pool.

  Anguish paralyzes me, some combination of the gunshot and Evelyn’s expression before she fell nudging an old memory loose.

  You don’t have time for this.

  It’s so close. I can almost see another face, hear another plea. Another woman I failed to save, who I came to Blackheath to…what?

  “Why did I come here?” I gasp out loud, struggling to pull the memory up from the darkness.

  Save Evelyn. She’s drowning!

  Blinking, I look at the reflecting pool, where Evelyn’s floating facedown. Panic washes away the pain, and I scramble to my feet, leaping through the bushes and into the icy water. Her dress has spread across the surface, as heavy as a sodden sack, and the base of the reflecting pool is covered in slippery moss.

  I can’t get any purchase on her.

  There’s a commotion by the ballroom. Derby is fighting with Michael Hardcastle, drawing almost as much attention as the dying woman in the pool.

  Fireworks explode overhead, staining everything in red and purple, yellow and orange lights.

  I hook my arms around Evelyn’s midriff, wrestling her out of the water and onto the grass.

  Slumped in the mud, I catch my breath, checking to make sure Cunningham’s taken firm hold of Michael as I asked him to.

  He has.

  The plan’s working. No thanks to me. The old memory the gunshot stirred almost paralyzed me. Another woman, and another death. It was the fear on Evelyn’s face. That’s what did it. I recognized that fear. It’s what brought me to Blackheath, I’m certain of it.

  Doctor Dickie runs up to me. He’s flushed, panting, a fortune going up in flames behind his eyes. Evelyn told me he’d been paid to fake the death certificate. The jovial old soldier’s got quite the criminal empire up and running.

  “What happened?” he says.

  “She shot herself,” I respond, watching the hope blossom on his face. “I saw the entire thing, but I couldn’t do anything.”

  “You mustn’t blame yourself.” He clasps me by the shoulder. “Listen here, why don’t you go and get a brandy while I look her over. Leave it to me, eh?”

  As he kneels beside the body, I scoop the silver pistol off the ground and make my way to Michael, who’s still being held fast by Cunningham. Looking at the two of them, I wouldn’t have thought it possible. Michael’s short and stocky, a bull ensnared by Cunningham’s rope-like arms. Even so, Michael’s writhing is only tightening Cunningham’s grip. A pry bar and a chisel couldn’t free him at this point.

  “I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Hardcastle,” I say, placing a sympathetic hand on the struggling man’s arm. “Your sister took her own life.”

  The fight goes out of him immediately, tears building in his eyes as his anguished gaze goes out toward the pool.

  “You can’t know that,” he says, straining to see past me. “She might still be—”

  “The doctor has confirmed it. I’m so sorry,” I say, taking the silver pistol from my pocket and pressing it into his palm. “She used this gun. Do you recognize it?”

  “No.”

  “Well, you should keep hold of it for the moment,” I suggest. “I’ve asked a couple of footmen to carry her body into the sunroom, away from…” I gesture toward the gathered crowds. “Well, everybody. If you’d like a few minutes alone with your sister, I can arrange it.”

  He’s staring at the silver pistol dumbly, as though he’s been delivered some object from the far future.

  “Mr. Hardcastle?”

  Shaking his head, his empty eyes find me.

  “What… Yes, of course,” he says, his fingers closing around the gun. “Thank you, Inspector.”

  “Just a constable, sir,” I say, waving Cunningham over. “Charles, would you mind escorting Mr. Hardcastle to the sunroom? Keep him away from the crowds, would you?”

  Cunningham meets my request with a curt nod, placing a hand on Michael’s lower back and gently guiding him toward the house. Not for the first time, I’m glad the valet is on my side. Watching him depart, I feel a pang of sadness that this will probably be the last time we meet. For all the mistrust and lies, I’ve grown fond of him this last week.

  Dickie’s finished his examination, the old man getting slowly to his feet. Under his watchful eye, the footmen drag Evelyn’s body onto a stretcher. He wears his sadness like a secondhand suit. I don’t know how I didn’t see it before. This is murder as pantomime, and everywhere I look the curtain is rustling.

  As Evelyn is lifted off the ground, I race through the rain toward the sunroom, on the far side of the house, slipping inside through the french doors I unlocked earlier and concealing myself behind a screen. Evelyn’s grandmother watches me from the painting above the fireplace. In the flickering candlelight, I could swear she’s smiling. Perhaps she knows what I know. Maybe she’s always known and has been forced to watch day after day as the rest of us blundered through here oblivious to the truth.

  No wonder she was scowling before.

  Rain raps the windows as the footmen arrive with their stretcher. They move slowly, trying not to jostle the body, which is now draped in Dickie’s jacket. In no time at all, they’re inside, tran
sferring the body onto the sideboard, pressing their flat caps to their chests in respect before departing, closing the french doors behind them.

  I watch them go, catching sight of myself in the glass, my hands stuffed into my pockets, Rashton’s quietly competent face suggesting nothing but certainty.

  Even my reflection is lying to me.

  Certainty was the first thing Blackheath took from me.

  The door swings open, the draft from the corridor swiping at the candle flames. In the gaps between the screen’s panels, I can see Michael, pale and shaking, gripping the doorframe for support, tears in his eyes. Cunningham’s behind him, and after flashing a covert glance toward the screen where I’m hiding, he closes the door on us.

  The instant he’s alone, Michael springs out of his grief, his shoulders straightening and eyes hardening, his sorrow transformed into something altogether more feral. Hurrying over to Evelyn’s body, he searches her bloodied stomach for a bullet hole, murmuring to himself when he doesn’t find one.

  Frowning, he removes the magazine from the gun I gave him outside, finding it loaded.

  Evelyn was supposed to take a black revolver to the pool, not this silver pistol. He must be wondering what caused her to change the plan, and whether she actually carried through on the plot.

  Satisfied that she’s still alive, he backs away, fingers drumming his lips as he weighs the pistol. He appears to be in communion with it, frowning and biting his lip as though navigating a series of tricky questions. I lose sight of him momentarily when he strides off into the corner of the room, forcing me to lean out a little from my hiding place to get a better look. He’s picked up an embroidered pillow from one of the chairs and he brings it to Evelyn, pressing it against her stomach, presumably to muffle the sound of the pistol jammed up against it.

  There isn’t even a pause, any sort of goodbye. Turning his face away, he pulls the trigger.

  The pistol clicks impotently. He tries again and again, until I step out from behind the screen, putting an end to this charade.

  “It won’t work,” I say. “I filed down the firing pin.”