The Seven Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle

‘You make it sound like a choice,’ she says bitterly, tightening her scarf as the wind carves through the trees. ‘My parents ordered my return, they even threatened to cut me out of the will should I refuse. When that didn’t work, they threatened to cut Michael out of the will instead. So here I am.’

‘I don’t understand, why would they behave so despicably and then throw you a party?’

‘A party?’ she says, shaking her head. ‘Oh, my dear man, you really have no idea what’s happening here, do you?’

‘Perhaps if you—’

‘My brother was murdered nineteen years ago tomorrow, Sebastian. I don’t know why, but my parents have decided to mark the occasion by reopening the house where it happened and inviting back the very same guests who were here that day.’

Anger is rising in her voice, a low throb of pain I’d do anything to make go away. She’s turned her head to face the lake, her blue eyes glossy.

‘They’re disguising a memorial as a party and they’ve made me the guest of honour, which I can only assume means something dreadful is coming for me,’ she continues. ‘This isn’t a celebration, it’s a punishment, and there’ll be fifty people in their very finest clothes watching it happen.’

‘Are your parents really so spiteful?’ I ask, shocked. I feel much as I did when that bird hit the window earlier this morning, a great swell of pity mingled with a sense of injustice at life’s sudden cruelties.

‘My mother sent me a message this morning, asking me to meet her by the lake,’ she says. ‘She never came, and I don’t think she ever meant to. She just wanted me to stand out there, where it happened, remembering. Does that answer your question?’

‘Evelyn... I... I don’t know what to say.’

‘There’s nothing to say, Sebastian. Wealth is poisonous to the soul and my parents have been wealthy a very long time – as have most of the guests who will be at this party,’ says Evelyn. ‘Their manners are a mask, you’d do well to remember that.’

She smiles at my pained expression, taking my hand. Her fingers are cold, her gaze warm. She has the brittle courage of a prisoner walking their final steps to the gallows.

‘Oh, don’t fret, dear heart,’ she says. ‘I’ve done all the tossing and turning it’s possible to do. I see little benefit in your losing sleep over it also. If you want, you could make a wish in the well on my behalf, though I’d understand if you have more pressing concerns.’

From her pocket she pulls out a small coin.

‘Here,’ she says, handing it to me. ‘I don’t think our pebbles did much good.’

The coin travels a long way, hitting rock rather than water at the bottom. Despite Evelyn’s advice, I hitch no hopes for myself to its surface. Instead, I pray for her deliverance from this place, for a happy life and freedom from her parents’ machinations. Like a child I close my eyes in the hopes that when I open them again, the natural order will be overturned, the impossible made plausible by desire alone.

‘You’ve changed so much,’ mutters Evelyn, a ripple of emotion disturbing her face, the slightest indication of discomfort when she realises what she’s said.

‘You knew me before?’ I say, surprised. Somehow it never occurred to me that Evelyn and I might have had a relationship prior to this one.

‘I shouldn’t have said anything,’ she says, walking away from me.

‘Evie, I’ve been in your company for over an hour, which makes you my best friend in this world,’ I say. ‘Please, be honest with me. Who am I?’

Her eyes criss-cross my face.

‘I’m not the right person to say,’ she protests. ‘We met two days ago, and only briefly. Most of what I know is innuendo and rumour.’

‘I’m sitting at an empty table, I’ll take whatever crumbs I’m fed.’

Her lips are tight. She’s tugging her sleeves down awkwardly. If she had a shovel, she’d dig herself an escape tunnel. The deeds of good men are not related so reluctantly, and I’m already beginning to dread what she has to tell me. Even so, I cannot let this go.

‘Please,’ I plead. ‘You told me earlier I could choose who I wanted to be, but I cannot do that without knowing who I was.’

Her obstinacy flickers, and she looks up at me from under her eyelashes.

‘Are you certain you wish to know?’ she asks. ‘The truth isn’t always a kindness.’

‘Kind or not, I need to understand what’s been lost.’

‘Not a great deal in my opinion,’ she sighs, squeezing my hand in both of hers. ‘You were a dope dealer, Sebastian. You made your living alleviating the boredom of the idle rich, and quite a living it was too, if your practice on Harley Street is anything to go by.’

‘I’m a...’

‘Dope dealer,’ she repeats. ‘Laudanum’s the fashion I believe, though from what I understand, your trunk of tricks has something to cater to every taste.’