The Seven Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle

He holds out his hand. ‘Good luck, Aiden.’

‘You too,’ I say, shaking it and passing outside into the storm.

Anna’s waiting on the road, her eyes fixed on Blackheath. She looks so young, so carefree, but it’s a mask. There’s another face beneath this one, a woman hated by half the world, and I’ve helped free her. Uncertainty flickers within me, but whatever she’s done, whatever’s waiting, we’ll overcome it together. Here and now, that’s all that matters to me.

‘Where should we go?’ asks Anna, as I sweep the dark forest with the lantern’s warm light.

‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘I don’t think it matters.’

She takes my hand, squeezing it gently.

‘Then let’s start walking and see where we end up.’

And so we do, one foot in front of the other, pressing into the darkness with only the dimmest of lights for guidance.

I try to picture what’s waiting for me.

The family I abandoned? Grandchildren raised on stories of what I did? Or just another forest, another house mired in secrets? I hope not. I hope my world is something else entirely. Something unknown and unfathomable, something I can’t even imagine from inside the confines of Gold’s mind. After all, it’s not only Blackheath I’m escaping. It’s them. It’s Bell and the butler, Davies, Ravencourt, Dance and Derby. It’s Rashton and Gold. Blackheath was the prison, but they were the shackles.

And the keys.

I owe my freedom to every single one of them.

And what of Aiden Bishop? What do I owe him? The man who trapped me here so he could torture Annabelle Caulker. I won’t give him his memories back, I’m certain of that. Tomorrow, I’ll see his face in the mirror and, somehow, I’ll have to make it mine. To do that, I need to start again, free of the past, free of him and the mistakes he made.

Free of his voice.

‘Thank you,’ I say under my breath, feeling him finally drift away.

It seems like a dream, too much to hope for. Tomorrow, there’ll be no footman to overcome. No Evelyn Hardcastle to save, or Daniel Coleridge to outwit. No ticking clock hanging over a puzzle-box house. Instead of the impossible, I’ll need only concern myself with the ordinary. The luxury of waking up in the same bed two days in a row, or being able to reach the next village should I choose. The luxury of sunshine. The luxury of honesty. The luxury of living a life without a murder at the end of it.

Tomorrow can be whatever I want it to be, which means for the first time in decades, I can look forward to it. Instead of being something to fear, it can be a promise I make myself. A chance to be braver or kinder, to make what was wrong right. To be better than I am today.

Every day after this one is a gift.

I just have to keep walking until I get there.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Seven Deaths wouldn’t exist without my agent, Harry Illingworth. He knew what this story could be before I did, and helped me dig it out. You’re a gent, Illington.

For her wisdom and word scalpel, I’d like to thank my editor Alison Hennessey, aka the Queen of Ravens, aka glamorous (paragraph) murderer. I wrote a story, Alison made it into a book.

I’m also indebted to Grace Menary-Winefield, my US editor, for asking the questions I never thought to ask, and helping me dig deeper into this world I’ve created.

And while I’m at it, I can’t neglect the rest of the teams at Raven Books and Sourcebooks, who put me to shame with their talent, enthusiasm and general loveliness. Of those, I’d particularly like to highlight Marigold Atkey, who weathered my panic – and last-minute edits – with good humour and wisdom. No doubt somebody, somewhere, heard her screaming, but it wasn’t me. And for that, I’m very grateful.

Special mention must go to my early readers David Bayon, Tim Danton and Nicole Kobie who read this story in its ‘David Lynch’ phase, and very kindly pointed out that clues, grammar and reminders of plot points aren’t a sign of weakness.

And, finally, to my wife, Maresa. If you’re going to do something stupid (like spend three years writing a time-travel, body-hopping, murder-mystery novel), you need your very best friend in your corner, all the way. She was, and is. I couldn’t have done it without her.

A NOTE ON THE AUTHOR

Stuart Turton is a freelance travel journalist who has previously worked in Shanghai and Dubai. The Seven Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle is his debut novel. He is the winner of the Brighton and Hove Short Story Prize and was longlisted for the BBC Radio 4 Opening Lines competition. He lives in west London with his wife.

@Stu_Turton

First published in Great Britain 2018

This electronic edition published in 2018 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc

© Stuart Turton, 2018

Illustrations © Emily Faccini, 2018

Stuart Turton has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as author of this work.