The 7½ Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle

by Stuart Turton

  Hope surges through me.

  Evelyn hasn’t made her way to the reflecting pool, which means there may still be time for me to question Michael and discover if he was working with anybody. Even if I’m too late for that, I can still ambush the footman when he comes for Rashton and find out where he’s keeping Anna.

  Don’t get out of the carriage.

  “Blackheath in a few minutes, m’lady,” the driver shouts down from somewhere above us.

  I glance out the window again. The house is directly in front of us, and the stables down the road on our right. That’s where they keep the shotguns, and I’d have to be a fool to tackle the footman without one.

  Unlocking the door, I leap from the carriage, landing in a painful heap on the wet cobbles. The ladies are shrieking, the coach driver yelling after me as I pick myself up and stagger toward the distant lights. The Plague Doctor told me the pattern of this day was dictated by the character of those living it. I can only hope that’s true and fate is in a charitable mood, because if it’s not I’ve damned both myself and Anna.

  Within the glow of the braziers, stable boys are undoing the harnesses connecting the horses and carriages, leading the whinnying beasts to shelter. They’re working quickly, but they look done in, barely able to speak. I approach the nearest chap who, despite the rain, is wearing only a cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

  “Where do you keep the shotguns?” I ask.

  He’s tightening a harness, gritting his teeth as he pulls the taut strap toward the last buckle. He peers at me suspiciously, his eyes narrowed beneath his flat cap.

  “Bit late for hunting, ain’t it?” he says.

  “And far too early for impertinence,” I snap, overwhelmed by my host’s upper-class disdain. “Where are the damn shotguns, or do I need to bring Lord Hardcastle down here to ask you himself?”

  After looking me up and down, he gestures over his shoulder toward a small redbrick building, a dim light seeping through the window. The shotguns are arranged on a wooden rack, boxes of shells stored in a nearby drawer. I take one down and load it carefully, dropping a handful of spare shells into my pocket.

  The gun is heavy, a cold slab of courage that propels me across the yard and up the road toward Blackheath. The stable hands exchange looks as I approach, standing aside to let me pass. Doubtless they think me some rich lunatic with a score to settle, a piece of gossip to add to the pile tomorrow morning. Certainly not somebody worth risking bodily harm for. I’m glad of that. If they were to creep closer, they might notice how crowded my eyes are, how all my previous hosts are jostling for a better view. In some way or another, the footman’s harmed every one of them, and they’ve all turned up for his execution. I can barely think through their clamor.

  Halfway along the road I notice a light bobbing toward me, and my grip tightens around the shotgun’s trigger.

  “It’s me,” yells Daniel over the din of the storm.

  There’s a storm lantern in his hand, the waxy light running down his face and upper body. He looks like a genie spilled out of a bottle.

  “We have to hurry, the footman’s in the graveyard,” says Daniel. “He has Anna with him.”

  He still thinks we’re fooled by his act.

  My finger strokes the shotgun as I stare back toward Blackheath, trying to decide the best course of action. Michael could be in the sunroom as we speak. But I’m certain Daniel knows where Anna’s being kept, and I won’t have a better opportunity to get the information from him. Two roads and two ends, and somehow I know that one of them leads to failure.

  “This is our chance,” yells Daniel, wiping the rain from his eyes. “This is what we’ve been waiting for. He’s in there, right now, lying in wait. He doesn’t know we’ve found each other. We can spring his trap, and we can finish this together.”

  For so long I fought to change my future, to alter the day. Now I have, I’m undone, racked with the futility of my choices. I saved Evelyn and thwarted Michael, two things which only matter if Anna and I live long enough to tell the Plague Doctor at 11:00 p.m. Past this point, I’m making every decision blind, and with only one host left after today, every decision matters.

  “What if we fail?” I shout back, my words barely making it to his ears. The clatter of rain on stone is almost deafening, the wind ripping and tearing at the forest, screaming through the trees like some feral creature slipped loose of its cage.

  “What choice do we have?” Daniel yells, clutching the back of my neck. “We have a plan, which means for the first time we have the advantage over him. We must pursue it.”

  I remember the first time I met this man, how calm he seemed, how patient and reasonable. None of that is in him now. It’s all been washed away in Blackheath’s endless storms. He has the eyes of a fanatic, eager and imploring, wild and desperate. He has as much riding on the outcome of this moment as I do.

  He’s right, though. We need to put an end to this.

  “What time is it?” I ask.

  He frowns. “Why does that matter?”

  “I never know until afterward,” I say. “The time, please?”

  He checks his watch, impatiently. “Nine forty-six,” he says. “Can we go now?”

  Nodding, I follow him across the lawn into the slanting rain.

  The stars are cowards, closing their eyes as we creep closer to the graveyard, and by the time Daniel pushes open the gate, our only light’s the flickering glow of his storm lantern. We’re shielded by the trees back here, muting the storm which makes its way through to us in sharp gusts, daggers of wind slipping through the cracks in the armor of the forest.

  “We should hide out of sight,” whispers Daniel, hanging the lantern on the angel’s arm. “We’ll call to Anna when she arrives.”

  Lifting the shotgun to my shoulder, I press both barrels to the back of his head.

  “You can drop the act, Daniel. I know we’re not the same man,” I say, my eyes flicking across the woods, searching for some sign of the footman. Unfortunately, the lantern’s so bright it obscures much of what it should reveal.

  “Hands in the air, turn around,” I say.

  He does as I ask, staring at me, pulling me apart, looking for something broken. I don’t know whether he finds it or not, but after a long silence a charming smile breaks out on his handsome face.

  “Couldn’t last forever, I suppose,” he says, gesturing to his breast pocket. I motion for him to continue, and he slowly withdraws a cigarette case, tapping one out against his palm.

  I followed this man into the graveyard, knowing that if I didn’t confront him, I’d always be looking over my shoulder, waiting for him to strike again, but now I’m here, faced with his calmness, my certainty is wavering.

  “Where is she, Daniel? Where’s Anna?” I say.

  “Why, that was to be my question to you,” he says, placing the cigarette between his lips. “That was it exactly, where is Anna? I’ve been trying to get you to tell me all day, even thought I’d succeeded when Derby agreed to help me flush the footman out from under the house. You should have seen your face, so eager to please.”

  Shielding his cigarette from the wind, he finally lights it at the third try, illuminating a face that’s as hollow-eyed as those of the statues beside him. I have a gun pointed at him, and somehow he still has the upper hand.

  “Where’s the footman?” I say, the shotgun growing heavy in my arms. “I know you’re partners.”

  “Oh, it’s nothing like that. I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong end of the stick entirely,” he says, dismissing the fellow with a wave of his hand. “He’s not like you, me, or Anna. He’s one of Coleridge’s associates. There’s actually a few of them in the house. Unsavory chaps the lot of them, but then Coleridge is in an unsavory business. The footman, as you call him, was the brightest of them, so I explained what was happening in Blac
kheath. I don’t think he believed me, but killing’s rather his specialty, so he didn’t bat an eyelid when I pointed him at your hosts. Probably enjoyed it, truth be told. Helps enormously that I’ve made him a very rich man, of course.”

  Blowing smoke out through his nostrils, he grins as though we’ve shared some private joke. He’s moving with assurance, the confidence of a man living in a world of premonitions. A dispiriting contrast to my shaking hands and thudding heart. I just wish he’d hurry up and play his cards. Until I know what he’s planning, I can’t do anything except wait.

  “You’re like Anna, aren’t you?” I say. “One day, and then you forget everything and start again.”

  “Hardly seems fair, does it? Not when you have eight lives and eight days. All the gifts were given to you. Now why was that?”

  “I see the Plague Doctor didn’t tell you everything about me.”

  He grins again. It’s like ice rolling down my spine.

  “Why are you doing this, Daniel?” I ask, surprised by my misery. “We could have helped each other.”

  “But my dear fellow, you have helped me,” he says. “I have both of Stanwin’s blackmail books in my possession. Without Derby poking around his bedroom, I might only have found the one, and I’d be no nearer an answer than I was this morning. In two hours, I’ll take what I’ve learned to the lake and be free of this place, and it’s your doing. Surely you can take some comfort in that.”

  Behind me, wet steps sound. A shotgun is cocked, cold metal pressed into my back. A thug brushes past me, taking a spot in the light beside Daniel. Unlike his friend behind me, he isn’t armed, though he doesn’t need to be by the looks of things. He has the face of a barroom brawler, his nose broken, his cheek decorated by an ugly scar. He’s rubbing his knuckles, his tongue roaming his lips in anticipation. Neither action makes me feel terribly confident about what’s coming.

  “Be a dear and drop the weapon,” says Daniel.

  Sighing, I let the shotgun fall on the ground, raising my hands in the air. Foolish as it may be, my overriding thought is to wish they weren’t trembling so.

  “You can come out now,” says Daniel in a louder voice.

  There’s a rustling in the bushes to my left, the Plague Doctor stepping into the pool of light cast by the lantern. I’m about to hurl some insult at him, when I notice a single silver tear painted on the left side of his mask. It’s glittering in the light, and now that I take stock, I realize there are other differences. This coat is finer, darker, the edges not so frayed. Embroidered roses twist up the gloves, and now I see this person is shorter, more erect in their posture.

  This isn’t the Plague Doctor at all.

  “You were the one talking to Daniel by the lake,” I say.

  Daniel whistles, flicking a glance at his companion.

  “How on earth did he see that?” he asks Silver Tear. “Didn’t you pick that spot so nobody would find us together?”

  “I saw you outside the gatehouse as well,” I say.

  “Curiouser and curiouser,” says Daniel, enjoying himself immensely at his confederate’s expense. “I thought you knew every second of his day?” He adopts a pompous tone. “Nothing happens here that is beyond my sight, Mr. Coleridge,” he huffs.

  “If that were true, I wouldn’t need your help capturing Annabelle,” says Silver Tear. Her voice is stately, a far cry from the put-upon Plague Doctor. “Mr. Bishop’s actions have disrupted the usual course of events. He’s changed Evelyn Hardcastle’s fate and contributed to the death of her brother, unpicking the threads that hold this day together in the process. He’s maintained his alliance with Annabelle far longer than he ever has before, which means things are happening out of order, running long or short, if they happen at all. Nothing’s quite where it’s supposed to be.”

  The mask turns toward me.

  “You should be commended, Mr. Bishop,” she says. “I haven’t seen Blackheath in this much disarray for decades.”

  “Who are you?” I say.

  “I could ask the same of you,” she says, waving my question away. “I won’t because you don’t know yourself, and there are more pressing questions. Suffice to say, I’m here to rectify my colleague’s mistake. Now, please tell Mr. Coleridge where he might find Annabelle.”

  “Annabelle?”

  “He calls her Anna,” says Daniel.

  “What do you want with Anna?” I ask.

  “That’s not your concern,” says Silver Tear.

  “It’s getting to be,” I say. “You must want her very badly if you’re willing to make a deal with somebody like Daniel to bring her to you.”

  “I’m redressing the balance,” she snaps. “Do you think it’s a coincidence that you inhabit the hosts you do, the men closest to Evelyn’s murder? Are you not curious why you woke up in Donald Davies precisely when you needed him most? My colleague has been playing favorites from the beginning and that is forbidden. He was supposed to watch without interfering, to appear at the lake and wait for an answer. Nothing more. Worse, he’s opened the door to a creature who must never be allowed to leave this house. I cannot let this continue.”

  “So that’s why you’re here,” says the Plague Doctor, emerging from the shadows, rainwater running in rivulets down his mask.

  Daniel tenses, watching the interloper warily.

  “Apologies for not announcing myself earlier, Josephine,” continues the Plague Doctor, his attention fixed on Silver Tear. “I wasn’t certain you’d tell me the truth if I asked directly, given how hard you’ve worked to stay hidden. I would never have known you were in Blackheath if Mr. Rashton hadn’t spotted you.”

  “Josephine?” interrupts Daniel. “You two are acquainted?”

  Silver Tear ignores him.

  “I hoped it wouldn’t come to this,” she says, addressing the Plague Doctor. Her tone has softened, warmed. It ripples with regret. “My intention was to complete my task and depart without you knowing.”

  “I fail to see why you’re here, at all. Blackheath is my watch, and everything is well in hand.”

  “You can’t believe that!” she says, becoming exasperated. “Look at how close Aiden and Annabelle have become, how near they are to escape. He’s willing to sacrifice himself for her. Do you see that? If we let this continue, before long, she’ll stand before you with an answer, and then what will you do?”

  “I’m confident it won’t come to that.”

  “I’m confident it will,” she snorts. “Tell me truthfully, will you let her leave?”

  The question knocks him silent a moment, a slight tilt of his head conveying his indecision. My eyes slip toward Daniel, who’s watching them, his face rapt. I imagine he feels as I do, like a child watching his parents argue, understanding only half of the things being said.

  When the Plague Doctor speaks again, his voice is firm, though rehearsed. His conviction born of repetition rather than faith.

  “The rules of Blackheath are very clear, and I’m beholden to them, as you are,” he says. “If she brings me the name of Evelyn Hardcastle’s murderer, I can’t refuse to hear her case.”

  “Rules or not, you know what our superiors will do to you if Annabelle escapes Blackheath.”

  “Have they sent you to replace me?”

  “Of course they haven’t.” She sighs, sounding hurt. “Do you think their reaction would be so temperate? I came as your friend, to clean up this mess before they ever find out how close you came to blundering. I’m going to quietly remove Annabelle, ensuring you won’t have to make a choice you’ll regret.”

  She signals to Daniel. “Mr. Coleridge, could you please persuade Mr. Bishop to reveal Annabelle’s location. I trust you understand what’s at stake.”

  Crushing his cigarette underfoot, Daniel nods at the brawler, who takes hold of my arms, pinning me in place. I try to struggle, but he�
�s much too strong.

  “This is forbidden, Josephine,” says the Plague Doctor, shocked. “We do not take direct action. We do not give orders. We certainly don’t feed them information they aren’t supposed to know. You’re breaking every rule we’ve promised to uphold.”

  “You dare lecture me?” says Silver Tear scornfully. “All you’ve done is interfere.”

  The Plague Doctor shakes his head vehemently.

  “I explained Mr. Bishop’s purpose here and encouraged him when he faltered. Unlike Daniel and Anna, he didn’t wake up with the rules burned into him. He was free to doubt, to veer from his purpose. I never gave him knowledge he hadn’t earned, as you have done with Daniel. I sought to bring balance, not offer advantage. I’m begging you, don’t do this. Let events follow their natural course. He’s so close to solving it.”

  “And because of that, so is Annabelle,” she says, her voice hardening. “I’m sorry, I must choose between Aiden Bishop’s well-being and your own. Proceed, Mr. Coleridge.”

  “No!” yells the Plague Doctor, holding out a placating hand.

  The thug with the shotgun points it at him. He’s nervous, his finger gripping the trigger a little too tightly. I don’t know if the Plague Doctor can be hurt by these weapons, but I can’t let him risk it. I need him alive.

  “Just leave,” I say to him. “There’s nothing else you can do here.”

  “This is wrong,” he protests.

  “Then make it right. My other hosts need you.” I pause meaningfully. “I don’t.”

  I don’t know if it’s my intonation, or whether he’s simply watched this moment play out before, but finally, grudgingly, he relents, staring at Josephine, before disappearing from the graveyard.

  “Selfless, as always,” says Daniel, walking toward me. “I want you to know that I’ve admired that quality, Aiden. The way you’ve fought to save the woman whose death would set you free. Your fondness for Anna, who would have undoubtedly betrayed you if I hadn’t done so first. In the end, though, I’m afraid it’s all been for nothing. Only one of us can leave this house, and I have no interest in it being you.”