The Seven Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle

‘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 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. Unsavoury chaps the lot of them, but then Coleridge is in an unsavoury business. The footman, as you call him, was the brightest of them, so I explained what was happening in Blackheath. I don’t think he believed me, but killing’s rather his speciality, 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. He’s got something planned and until I know what it is, I can’t do anything but 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.’

Wet steps sound. A shotgun is cocked, cold metal presses 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 bar-room 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 floor, 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 I take stock, I realise 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.