The Seven Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle

Hunched beneath my shame, I follow him into the study next door, every pair of eyes at my back. It’s even gloomier in here, untrimmed ivy shrouding the leaded windows, paintings in dark oils soaking up what little light manages to squirm through the glass. A writing desk has been arranged with a view onto the lawn, and looks recently vacated, a fountain pen leaking ink onto a torn piece of blotting paper, a paper knife beside it. One can only imagine the missives written in such an oppressive atmosphere.

In the opposite corner, near a second door out of the room, a puzzled young man in hunting tweeds is peering down the speaker of a phonograph, clearly wondering why the spinning record isn’t flinging sound into the room.

‘A single term at Cambridge and he thinks he’s Isambard Kingdom Brunel,’ says Daniel, causing the young man to look up from his puzzle. He’s no more than twenty-four, with dark hair and wide, flattened features that give the impression of his face being pressed up against a pane of glass. Seeing me, he grins broadly, the boy in the man appearing as if through a window.

‘Belly, you bloody idiot, there you are,’ he says, squeezing my hand and clapping me on the back at the same time. It’s like being caught in an affectionate vice.

He searches my face expectantly, his green eyes narrowing at my lack of recognition.

‘It’s true then, you can’t remember a thing,’ he says, tossing a quick glance at Daniel. ‘You lucky devil! Let’s get to the bar so I can introduce you to a hangover.’

‘News travels fast in Blackheath,’ I say.

‘Boredom’s very flat ground,’ he says. ‘Name’s Michael Hardcastle. We’re old friends, though I suppose we’re better described as recent acquaintances now.’

There’s no hint of disappointment in the statement. In fact, he seems amused by it. Even at first meeting, it’s evident Michael Hardcastle will be amused by most things.

‘Michael was sat next to you at dinner last night,’ says Daniel, who’s taken up Michael’s inspection of the gramophone. ‘Come to think of it, that’s probably why you went out and coshed yourself on the head.’

‘Play along, Belly, we’re hoping one day he’ll accidentally say something funny,’ says Michael.

There’s an instinctive pause for my rejoinder, the rhythm of the moment collapsing under the weight of its absence. For the first time since I woke up this morning, I feel a yearning for my old life. I miss knowing these men. I miss the intimacy of this friendship. My sorrow is mirrored on the faces of my companions, an awkward silence digging a trench between us. Hoping to recover at least some of the trust we must once have shared, I roll up my sleeve to show them the bandages covering my arm, blood already beginning to seep through.

‘I wish I had coshed myself on the head,’ I say. ‘Doctor Dickie believes somebody attacked me last night.’

‘My dear fellow,’ gasps Daniel.

‘This is because of that damn note, isn’t it?’ says Michael, his eyes tracing my injuries.

‘What are you talking about, Hardcastle?’ asks Daniel, raising his eyebrows. ‘Are you saying you know something about this? Why didn’t you say so earlier?’

‘There’s not much to it,’ says Michael sheepishly, digging at the thick carpet with the toe of his shoe. ‘A maid brought a note to the table during our fifth bottle of wine. Next thing I know Belly’s making his excuses and trying to remember how doors work.’ He looks at me, shamefaced. ‘I wanted to go with you, but you were adamant you had to go alone. I assumed you were meeting some woman or other so I didn’t press the issue, and that was the last I saw of you until now.’

‘What did the message say?’ I ask.

‘Haven’t the foggiest, old bean, I didn’t see it.’

‘Do you remember the maid who brought it, or if Bell mentioned anybody called Anna?’ asks Daniel.

Michael shrugs, wrapping his entire face around the memory. ‘Anna? Doesn’t ring any bells, I’m afraid. As for the maid, well...’ He puffs up his cheeks, blowing out a long breath. ‘Black dress, white apron. Oh, dash it all, Coleridge, be reasonable. There’s dozens of them, how’s a man meant to keep track of their faces.’

He hands each of us a helpless look, Daniel meeting it with a disgusted shake of the head.

‘Don’t worry, old boy, we’ll get to the bottom of all this,’ he says to me, squeezing my shoulder. ‘And I’ve an idea how.’

He motions towards a framed map of the estate hanging on the wall. It’s an architectural drawing, rain spotted and yellowing at the edges, but quite beautiful in its depiction of the house and grounds. As it turns out, Blackheath is a huge estate with a family graveyard to the west and a stable to the east, a trail winding down to a lake with a boathouse clinging to the bank. Aside from the driveway, which is actually a stubborn road cutting straight towards the village, everything else is forest. As the view from the upper windows suggests, we’re quite alone among the trees.

A cold sweat prickles my skin.