The 7½ Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle

by Stuart Turton

  They called it justice for their persecution.

  They said we should have expected this.

  I don’t know anything more about myself, or the rest of my family. I didn’t keep hold of my happy memories. Only those that could help me, only hate and grief.

  It was Juliette’s murder that brought me to Blackheath. It was the weekly phone calls that stopped coming. The stories we stopped sharing. It was the space where she should have been and would never be again. It was the way Annabelle was eventually caught.

  Bloodlessly. Painlessly.

  Entirely without incident.

  And they sent her to Blackheath, where my sister’s murderer would spend a lifetime solving the death of a murdered sister. They called it justice. They patted themselves on the back for their ingenuity, thinking I’d be as pleased as they were. Thinking it was enough.

  They were wrong.

  The injustice tore into me at night and stalked me during the day. It whittled me down until Annabelle Caulker was the only thing I could think about.

  I followed her through the gates of hell. I pursued, terrified, and tortured her, until I forgot the reasons why. Until I forgot Juliette. Until Annabelle became Anna, and all I saw was a terrified girl at the mercy of monsters.

  I became the thing I hated and made Annabelle into the thing I loved.

  And I blamed Blackheath.

  I look up at the Plague Doctor through eyes raw with tears. He’s looking me full in the face, weighing my reaction. I wonder what he sees, because I have no idea what to think. All of this is happening to me because of the person I’m trying to save.

  This is Anna’s fault.

  Annabelle.

  “What?” I ask, surprised by how insistent the voice in my head sounds.

  It’s Annabelle Caulker’s fault, not Anna’s. That’s who we hated.

  “Aiden?” asks the Plague Doctor.

  And Annabelle Caulker’s dead.

  “Annabelle Caulker’s dead,” I repeat slowly, meeting the Plague Doctor’s startled gaze.

  He shakes his head. “You’re wrong.”

  “It took thirty years,” I say. “And it wasn’t done with violence and it wasn’t done with hatred. It was done with forgiveness. Annabelle Caulker is dead.”

  “You’re mistaken.”

  “No, you are,” I say, building in confidence. “You asked me to listen to the voice in my head, and I am. You asked me to believe Blackheath could rehabilitate people, and I have. Now you need to do the same, because you’re so blinded by who Anna used to be, you’re ignoring who she’s become, and if you’re not willing to accept she’s changed, then what good is any of this?”

  Frustrated, he kicks at the dirt with the toe of his boot.

  “I should never have taken the mask off,” he growls, getting to his feet and striding into the garden, scattering the rabbits who’d been eating the grass. Hands on hips, he stares at Blackheath in the distance, and for the first time, I realize it’s as much his master as mine. While I was free to tinker and change, he’s been forced to watch as we murdered and raped and committed suicide. He’s had to accept whatever the day brought him, no matter how horrific. And unlike me, he wasn’t allowed to forget. A man could go mad. Most men would, unless they had faith. Unless they believed the ends justified the means.

  As if privy to my thoughts, the Plague Doctor turns toward me.

  “What is it you’re asking of me, Aiden?”

  “Only that you do your job,” I say firmly. “Come to the lake at eleven. There’ll be a monster there, and I guarantee it won’t be Anna. Watch her, give her a chance to prove herself. You’ll see who she really is, and you’ll see I’m right.”

  He looks uncertain.

  “How can you know that?” he asks.

  “Because I’ll be in danger.”

  “Even if you convince me she’s rehabilitated, you’ve already solved the mystery of Evelyn’s death,” he says. “The rules are clear; the first prisoner to explain who killed Evelyn Hardcastle will be released. That’s you. Not Anna. What’s your solution to that?”

  Getting to my feet, I stumble over to my sketch of the tree, jabbing at the knots, the holes in my knowledge.

  “I haven’t solved everything,” I say. “If Michael Hardcastle planned to shoot his sister in the reflecting pool, why would he also poison her? I don’t think he did. I don’t think he knew there was poison in the drink that killed him. I think somebody else put it there in case Michael failed.”

  The Plague Doctor’s followed me inside.

  “That’s thin reasoning, Aiden.”

  “We still have too many questions for anything else,” I say, recalling Evelyn’s pale face after I saved her in the sunroom, and the message she worked so hard to deliver. “If this was finished, why would Evelyn tell me Millicent Derby was murdered? What does that achieve?”

  “Perhaps Michael killed her also?”

  “And what was his motive? No, we’re missing something.”

  “What sort of something?” he asks, his conviction wavering.

  “I think Michael Hardcastle was working with somebody else, somebody who’s kept out of sight all along,” I say.

  “A second killer,” he says, taking a second to consider it. “I’ve been here for a long time, and I’ve never suspected… Nobody ever has. It can’t be, Aiden. It’s impossible.”

  “Everything about today is impossible,” I say, thumping my charcoal tree. “There’s a second killer, I know there is. I have an idea who it may be, and if I’m right, they killed Millicent Derby to cover their tracks. They’re as implicated in Evelyn’s murder as Michael, and that means you need two answers. If Anna delivers Michael’s partner, will that be enough to set her free?” I ask.

  “My superiors do not want to see Annabelle Caulker leave Blackheath,” he says. “And I’m not certain they can be convinced she’s changed. Even if they can, they’ll be looking for any excuse to keep her imprisoned, Aiden.”

  “You helped me because I don’t belong here,” I say. “If I’m right about Anna, the same is now true for her.”

  Running his hand across his scalp, he paces back and forth, casting anxious glances between myself and the sketch.

  “I can only promise I’ll be at the lake tonight with an open mind,” he says.

  “It’s enough,” I say, clapping him on the shoulder. “Meet me by the boathouse at eleven, and you’ll see I’m right.”

  “And may I ask what you’ll be doing in the meantime?”

  “I’m going to find out who murdered Millicent Derby.”

  54

  Keeping to the trees, I approach Blackheath unseen, my shirt damp with fog, my shoes caked in mud. The sunroom lies a few paces away, and crouching among the dripping bushes, I look for any movement within.

  It’s still early, but I don’t know when Daniel wakes up, or when he’s recruited by Silver Tear. For safety’s sake, I must assume Daniel and his spies are still a threat until he’s lying facedown in the lake, all of his plots drowned with him.

  After the sun’s early foray, it’s abandoned us to the gloom, the sky a muddle of grays. I search the flower beds for splashes of red, hints of purple, pink, or white. I search for the brighter world behind this one, imagining Blackheath alight, wearing a crown of flames and a cape of fire. I see the gray sky burning, black ash falling like snow. I imagine the world remade, if only for an instant.

  I come to a halt, suddenly uncertain of my purpose. I look around, not recognizing anything, wondering why I left the cottage without my brushes and easel. Surely I came to paint, but I’m not a fan of the morning light here. It’s too dreary, too quiet, a gauze across the landscape.

  “I don’t know why I’m here,” I say to myself, looking down at my charcoal-stained shirt.

  Anna. You’re here for Anna
.

  Her name shakes me loose of Gold’s confusion, my memories returning in a flood.

  It’s getting worse.

  Taking a deep breath of cold air, I clutch the chess piece from the mantel in my hand, building a wall between myself and Gold by using every memory I have of Anna. I make bricks of her laughter, her touch, her kindness and warmth, and only when I’m content my wall is high enough, do I resume my study of the sunroom, letting myself inside when I’m satisfied the house sleeps.

  Dance’s drunken friend, Philip Sutcliffe, is asleep on one of the couches, his jacket drawn up over his face. He stirs briefly, smacking his lips and peering at me blearily. He murmurs something, shifts his weight, and then falls asleep again.

  I wait, listening. Dripping. Breathing heavily.

  Nothing else moves.

  Evelyn’s grandmother watches me from the portrait above the fireplace. Her lips are pursed, the artist capturing her exactly at the moment of rebuke.

  My neck prickles.

  I find myself frowning at the painting, dismayed by how gently she’s been rendered. My mind repaints it, the curves as harsh as scars, the oil piled like mountains. It becomes a mood smeared on canvas. A black one at that. I’m certain the old battle-ax would have preferred its honesty.

  A peal of shrill laughter sounds through the open door, a dagger driven into somebody’s story. The guests must have started drifting down to breakfast.

  I’m running out of time.

  Closing my eyes, I try to remember what Millicent spoke with her son about, what drove her to hurry off so quickly and come here, but everything’s a clutter. There are too many days, too many conversations.

  A gramophone springs into life down the corridor, slashing at the quiet with random notes. There’s a crash, the music screeching to a halt, hushed voices bickering and blaming.

  We were standing outside the ballroom, that’s where it started. Millicent was sad, wrapped in memory. We talked of the past; how she’d visited Blackheath as a child and brought her own children when they were old enough. She was disappointed in them, then angry with me. She caught me looking through the ballroom window at Evelyn and mistook my concern for lust.

  “It’s always the weak ones with you, isn’t it?” she said. “Always the…”

  Something she saw caused her to lose her train of thought.

  Squeezing my eyes shut, I try to recall what it was.

  Who else was in there with Evelyn?

  Half a second later, I’m sprinting into the corridor toward the gallery.

  A single oil lamp’s burning on the wall, its sickly flame encouraging the shadows rather than diminishing them. Snatching it off the hook, I hold it up to the family oil paintings, inspecting them one by one.

  Blackheath shrinks around me, shriveling like a spider touched to the flame.

  In a few hours, Millicent will see something in the ballroom that so startles her, she’ll leave her son standing on the path and rush to this gallery. Wrapped in scarves and armed with her suspicions, she’ll spot Gold’s new paintings among the older ones. Any other time she might have walked past. Maybe she has during a hundred other loops, but not on this occasion. This time, the past will hold her hand and squeeze.

  Memory will murder her.

  55

  It’s 7:12 a.m. and the entrance hall is a mess. Smashed decanters litter the marble floor, portraits hang at odd angles, lipstick kisses planted on the mouths of long-dead men. Bow ties dangle from the chandelier like sleeping bats, and at the center of it all stands Anna, barefoot in her white cotton nightgown, staring at her hands as though they’re a riddle she can’t make sense of.

  She hasn’t noticed me, and for a few seconds, I watch her, trying to reconcile my Anna with the Plague Doctor’s stories of Annabelle Caulker. I wonder if Anna’s hearing Caulker’s voice right now, the way I heard Aiden Bishop’s that first morning. Something dry and distant, a part of her, yet apart at the same time, impossible to ignore.

  To my shame, my faith in my friend wavers. After working so hard to convince the Plague Doctor of Anna’s innocence, now I’m the one looking at her askew, questioning whether any part of the monster who murdered my sister has survived, waiting to surface again.

  Annabelle Caulker’s dead. Now, help her.

  “Anna,” I say softly, suddenly wary of my own appearance. Gold spent most of his evening in a laudanum-fueled fug, my only concession to hygiene being a splash of water on his face before I came charging out of the cottage. Goodness knows how I must appear to her, or smell.

  She looks up at me, startled.

  “Do I know you?” she asks.

  “You will,” I say. “This might help.”

  I toss her the chess piece I took from the cottage, which she catches in one hand. Opening her palm, she stares down at it, memory setting light to her face.

  Without warning, she flings herself into my arms, wet tears seeping through my shirt.

  “Aiden,” she says, her mouth against my chest. She smells of milky soap and bleach, her hair catching in my whiskers. “I remember you, I remember…”

  I feel her stiffen, her arms falling loose.

  Disentangling herself, she pushes me away, grabbing a piece of shattered glass from the floor to use as a weapon. It trembles in her hand.

  “You murdered me,” she snarls, gripping the glass tight enough to draw blood.

  “Yes, I did,” I say, the knowledge of what she did to my sister hanging on my lips.

  Annabelle Caulker’s dead.

  “And I’m sorry about that,” I continue, stuffing my hands into my pockets. “I promise it won’t happen again.”

  For a second all she can do is blink at me.

  “I’m not the man you remember anymore,” I say. “It was a different life, a different set of choices. A lot of mistakes I’ve tried not to make again, and haven’t, because of you, I think.”

  “Don’t…” she says, thrusting the glass shard at me when I take a step toward her. “I can’t… I remember things. I know things.”

  “There are rules,” I say. “Evelyn Hardcastle is going to die, and we’re going to save her together. I have a way we can both get out of here.”

  “We can’t both escape, it’s not allowed,” she insists. “That’s one of the rules, isn’t it?”

  “Allowed or not, we’re going to do it,” I say. “You have to trust me.”

  “I can’t,” she says fiercely, wiping a stray tear from her cheek with her thumb. “You killed me. I remember it. I can still feel the shot. I was so excited to see you, Aiden. I thought we were finally leaving. You and me together.”

  “We are.”

  “You killed me!”

  “It wasn’t the first time,” I say, my voice cracked by regret. “We’ve both hurt each other, Anna, and we’ve both paid for it. I’m never going to betray you again, I promise. You can trust me. You already have trusted me; you just can’t remember it.”

  Raising my hands as if surrendering, I move slowly toward the staircase. Brushing away a broken pair of glasses and some confetti, I sit down on the red carpet. Every host is pressing down upon me, their memories of this room crowding the edges of my mind, their weight almost too much to bear. Clear as the morning it happened—

  This is the morning it happened.

  —I recall Bell’s conversation with the butler at the door and how afraid they both were. My hand throbs from the pain of Ravencourt’s cane as he struggled toward the library, shortly before Jim Rashton heaved a sack of stolen drugs out through the front door. I hear the light steps of Donald Davies on the marble, as he fled the house after his first meeting with the Plague Doctor, and the laughter of Edward Dance’s friends, even as he stood silent.

  So many memories and secrets, so many burdens. Every life has such weight. I don’t know how anybody ca
rries even one.

  “What’s wrong with you?” asks Anna, creeping closer, the glass shard held a little looser in her hand. “You don’t look well.”

  “I’ve got eight different people rattling around in here,” I say, tapping my temple.

  “Eight?”

  “Eight versions of today as well,” I say. “Every time I wake up, I’m in a different guest. This is my last one. Either I solve this today, or I start all over again tomorrow.”

  “That’s not… The rules won’t let you. We only get one day to solve the murder, and you can’t be anybody else. That’s… It’s not right.”

  “The rules don’t apply to me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I chose to come here,” I say, rubbing my tired eyes. “I came here for you.”

  “You’re trying to rescue me?” she says incredulously, the glass shard dangling by her side, forgotten.

  “Something like that.”

  “But you murdered me.”

  “I never said I was very good at it.”

  Perhaps it’s my tone, or the way I’m slouching on the step, but Anna lets the glass shard drop to the floor and sits beside me. I can feel the warmth of her, the solidity. She’s the only real thing in a world of echoes.

  “Are you still trying?” she asks, peering up at me through big brown eyes, her skin pale and puffy, streaked with tears. “To rescue me, I mean.”

  “I’m trying to rescue us both, but I can’t do it without your help,” I say. “You have to believe me, Anna. I’m not the man who hurt you.”

  “I want to…” She falters, shaking her head. “How can I trust you?”

  “You just have to start,” I say, shrugging. “We don’t have time for anything else.”

  She nods, taking that in. “And what would you need me to do, if I could start to trust you?”

  “A lot of small favors and two big ones,” I say.