The Seven Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle

‘She... I...’

At first I mistake his floundering for remorse, his gasping for the shallow breaths of a man searching for the right words. It’s only when his fingers grip the arm of the chair, white foam running down his lips, that I realise he’s been poisoned.

I spring to my feet in alarm, but I have no idea what to do.

‘Somebody help us,’ I yell.

His back arches, his muscles tense, his eyes turning red as the blood vessels pop. Gurgling, he falls forward onto the floor. From behind me I hear rattling. Swinging around, I find Evelyn convulsing on the sideboard, the same white foam bubbling up between her lips.

The door bursts open, Cunningham taking in the scene with an open mouth.

‘What’s happening?’ he asks.

‘They’ve been poisoned,’ I say, looking from one to the other. ‘Fetch Dickie.’

He’s gone before the words have fallen from my lips. Hand to my forehead, I stare helplessly at them. Evelyn is writhing on the sideboard as if possessed, while Michael’s clenched teeth crack in his mouth.

The drugs, you fool.

My hand dives into my pocket, retrieving the three vials I was instructed to steal from Bell’s trunk when Cunningham and I ransacked it this afternoon. Unwrapping the note, I search for instructions I know aren’t on it. Presumably, I mix everything together, but I don’t know how much to give them. I don’t even know if I have enough for two doses.

‘I don’t know who to save,’ I cry, looking from Michael to Evelyn.

Michael knows more than he’s told us.

‘But I gave Evelyn my word I’d protect her,’ I say.

Evelyn spasms on the table so violently she falls to the floor, as Michael continues to thrash, his eyes now rolled so far back in his head only the whites can be seen.

‘Damn it,’ I say, running over to the bar.

Emptying the three vials into a Scotch glass, I add water from a jug and stir it all together until it foams. Evelyn’s back is arched, her fingers biting into the thick weave of a rug. Tilting her head back, I pour the entire filthy creation down her throat, even as Michael chokes behind me.

Evelyn’s seizures end as abruptly as they started. Blood weeping from her eyes, she sucks in deep, hoarse breaths. Letting out a sigh of relief, I touch my fingers to her neck, checking for a pulse. It’s frantic, but it’s strong. She’s going to live. Unlike Michael.

I cast a guilty glance at the body of the young man. He looks exactly as his father did in the sitting room. They’ve clearly been poisoned by the same hand, using the strychnine Sebastian Bell smuggled into the house. It must have been in the Scotch he drank. Evelyn’s Scotch. Her glass was half full. Judging by how long it took to affect her, she can only have taken a sip or two. Michael, by contrast, finished the lot in under a minute. Did he know it was poisoned? The alarm I saw on his face suggests not.

This was somebody else’s work.

There’s another killer in Blackheath.

‘But who?’ I demand, angry with myself for allowing this to happen. ‘Felicity? Helena Hardcastle? Who was Michael working with? Or was it somebody he knew nothing about?’

Evelyn’s stirring, the colour already returning to her cheeks. Whatever was in that concoction, it’s working fast, though she’s still weak. Her fingers paw at my sleeve, her lips forming empty sounds.

I lower my ear to her mouth.

‘I’m not...’ – she swallows – ‘Millicent was... murder.’

Very weakly she tugs at her throat, pulling out the chain which was concealed by her dress. There’s a signet ring on the end of it, bearing the Hardcastle family seal if I’m not very much mistaken.

I blink at her, not understanding.

‘I hope you got everything you needed,’ says a voice from the French doors. ‘It’s not going to do you much good though.’

Looking over my shoulder, I see the footman emerging out of the darkness, his knife glinting in the candlelight as he taps the point against his thigh. He’s wearing his red and white livery, the jacket dotted with grease spots and dirt, as though the essence of him is somehow leaking through. A clean, empty hunting sack is tied to his waist, and with mounting horror I remember how he tossed a full sack at Derby’s feet, the material so blood soaked it hit the ground with a wet slap.

I check the clock. Derby will be out there now, sitting in the warmth of a brazier, watching the party dissolve around him. Whatever the footman’s going to put in the bag, he plans to carve off Rashton.

The footman smiles at me, his eyes glittering in anticipation.

‘You’d think I’d get bored of killing you, wouldn’t you?’ he asks.

The silver pistol’s still in the plant pot where Michael discarded it. It won’t fire, but the footman doesn’t know that. If I could reach it, I might be able to bluff him into fleeing. It will be a close-run thing, but there’s a table in his way. I should be able to get there before him.

‘I’m going to do it slow,’ he says, touching his broken nose. ‘I owe you for this.’