The Seven Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle

Blood has soaked the sheets where the footman stabbed me earlier. The agony must have been enough to knock me unconscious, but not enough to kill me. Surely that’s no accident. The footman has ushered a lot of people into the afterlife and I doubt he got lost this time. The idea chills me. I thought nothing was more frightening than somebody trying to kill me. Turns out, it’s more a matter of who’s doing the killing, and when that’s the footman, being left alive is far more terrifying.

‘Aiden, are you awake?’

I turn over painfully to see Anna in the corner of the room, legs and hands tied by a length of rope, which is knotted around an old radiator. Her cheek is swollen, a black eye blossoming on her face like a flower in the snow.

Night shows through the window above her, but I don’t have any clue what time it is. For all I know, it’s already eleven and the Plague Doctor is waiting for us by the lake.

Seeing me awake, Anna lets out a sob of relief.

‘I thought he’d killed you,’ she says.

‘That makes two of us,’ I croak.

‘He grabbed me outside the house, told me he’d kill me if I didn’t come with him,’ she says, struggling against her bonds. ‘I knew Donald Davies was safely asleep on that road, and that he couldn’t reach him, so I did what he asked. I’m so sorry, Aiden, but I couldn’t think of another way.’

She’ll betray you.

This is what the Plague Doctor warned me about, the decision Rashton mistook for evidence of Anna’s duplicity. That lack of trust nearly sabotaged everything we’ve been working for throughout the day. I wonder if the Plague Doctor knew the circumstances of Anna’s ‘betrayal’, hiding them for his own ends, or whether he genuinely believed this woman had turned against me.

‘It’s not your fault, Anna,’ I say.

‘I’m still sorry.’ She flicks a frightened glance at the door, then lowers her voice. ‘Can you reach the shotgun? He put it on the sideboard.’

I glance across towards it. It’s only a few feet away, but it might as well be on the moon. I could barely roll over, let alone stand up to get it.

‘Awake are you?’ interrupts the footman, who emerges through the door, slicing chunks off an apple with his pocket knife. ‘That’s a shame, I was looking forward to waking you up again.’

There’s another man behind him. It’s the thug from the graveyard, the one who held my arms while Daniel tried to beat Anna’s location out of me.

The footman approaches the bed.

‘Last time we met, I let you live,’ he says. ‘Had to be done, but still... it was unsatisfying.’ Clearing his throat, I feel a wet splat of saliva hit my cheek. Disgust echoes through me, but I haven’t the strength to lift my arm and wipe it away.

‘Won’t happen a second time,’ he says. ‘I don’t like people waking up again. Feels like a job half done. I want Donald Davies, and I want you to tell me where I can lay my hands on him.’

My mind whirls, connecting the giant jigsaw pieces of my life.

Daniel found me on the road after I jumped out of the carriage and convinced me to follow him into the graveyard. I never questioned how he knew where I’d be, but here is my answer anyway. In a few minutes, I’m going to tell the footman.

If I wasn’t so afraid, I’d smile at the irony.

Daniel believes I’m betraying Davies to his death, but without their confrontation in the graveyard, I’ll never find out Silver Tear is in Blackheath, or fight Daniel by the lake, allowing Anna to finally finish him off.

It’s a trap all right. One built by Rashton, sprung by Davies and baited by me. It’s as neat as you’d like, except that when I tell the footman what he wants to know, he’ll butcher Anna and me like cattle.

Placing his knife and the apple on the sideboard beside the shotgun, the footman picks up the sleeping tablets, the jar rattling as he shakes a pill into his hand. I can almost hear him frowning at it, his thoughts thudding back and forth. His companion is still at the door, arms folded and expressionless.

The jar rattles again. Once, twice, three times.

‘How many of these things does it take to kill a burnt cripple like you, eh?’ he asks, gripping my chin with his hand and forcing my face towards his own.

I try to turn away but his grip hardens, his eyes fastening on mine. I can feel the heat of him; his malice a prickly, hot thing crawling along my skin. I could have woken up behind that gaze. I could have shared that rat’s warren of a brain, wading through memories and impulses I’d never have been able to shake off.

Maybe I did in a past loop.

Suddenly even the loathsome Derby seems like a blessing.

His iron fingers release me, my head lolling to one side, beads of perspiration welling on my forehead.

I don’t know how much longer I have.

‘Judging by those burns, you’ve had a hard life,’ he says, withdrawing a little. ‘Hard life deserves an easy death, I reckon. That’s what I’m offering. Fall asleep with a belly full of pills, or writhe around for a couple of hours, while I keep missing the important bits with my knife.’