The Seven Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle

I slump within myself. I wouldn’t have believed I could be so wounded by the past, but the revelation of my former profession tears a hole right through me. Though my failings were numerous, against them was always stacked the small pride of being a doctor. There was nobility in that course, honour even. But no, Sebastian Bell took the title and twisted it to his own selfish ends, making it perverse, denying what little good remained to him.

Evelyn was right, the truth isn’t always a kindness, but no man should discover himself this way, like an abandoned house stumbled upon in the darkness.

‘I shouldn’t worry about it,’ says Evelyn, cocking her head to catch my averted eye. ‘I see little of that odious creature in the man before me.’

‘Is that why I’m at this party?’ I ask quietly. ‘To sell my wares?’

Her smile is sympathetic. ‘I suspect so.’

I’m numb, two steps behind myself. Every strange glance over the course of the day, every whisper and commotion as I walked into a room is explained. I thought people were concerned for my well-being, but they were wondering when my trunk would reopen for business.

I feel such a fool.

‘I have to...’

I’m moving before I understand how that sentence ends, my body carrying me back through the forest at an ever increasing pace. I’m almost running by the time I arrive on the road. Evelyn’s at my heels, struggling to keep up. She’s trying to anchor me with words, reminding me of my desire to meet Madeline, but I’m impervious to reason, consumed by my hatred for the man I was. His flaws I could accept, perhaps even overcome, but this is a betrayal. He made his mistakes and fled, leaving me holding the tatters of his scorched life.

Blackheath’s door stands open and I’m up the staircase and into my room so quickly the smell of damp earth still clings to me, as I stand panting over the trunk. Is this what drove me into the forest last night? Is this what I spilled blood for? Well, I’m going to smash it all, and with it any connection to the man I was.

Evelyn arrives to find me ransacking my bedroom for something heavy enough to break the lock. Intuiting my purpose, she ducks into the corridor, returning with the bust of some Roman emperor or other.

‘You’re a treasure,’ I say, using it to hammer the lock.

When I yanked the trunk out of the cupboard this morning, it was so heavy it took all my strength to lift, but now it’s sliding backwards with each blow. Once again Evelyn comes to the rescue, sitting on the trunk to keep it in place, and after three enormous strikes, the lock clatters to the floor.

Tossing the bust on the bed, I lift the heavy lid.

The trunk’s empty.

Or at least mostly empty.

In a dark corner is a solitary chess piece with Anna’s name carved into the base.

‘I think it’s time you told me the rest of your story,’ says Evelyn.

8

Darkness presses up against my bedroom window, its cold breath leaving frost on the glass. The fire hisses in response, the swaying flames my only light. Steps hurry down the corridor beyond my closed door, a jumble of voices on their way to the ball. Somewhere in the distance I hear the tremble of a violin coming awake.

Stretching my feet towards the fire, I wait for silence. Evelyn asked me to attend both dinner and the party, but I can’t mingle with these people, knowing who I am and what it is they really want from me. I’m tired of this house, their games. I’m going to meet Anna at 10:20 p.m. in the graveyard, and then I’ll have a stable hand take us to the village, away from this madness.

My gaze returns to the chess piece I found in the trunk. I’m holding it up to the light in the hopes of worrying loose some further memories. Thus far it’s kept quiet and there’s little about the piece itself to illuminate my memory. It’s a bishop, hand-carved and freckled with white paint; a far cry from the expensive ivory sets I’ve seen around the house, and yet... it means something to me. Regardless of any memory there’s a feeling associated with it, a sense of comfort almost. Holding it brings me courage.

There’s a knock on the door, my hand tightening around the chess piece as I start from the chair. The closer I come to the meeting in the graveyard the more highly strung I’ve become, practically leaping out of the window every time the fire pops in the grate.

‘Belly, you in there?’ asks Michael Hardcastle.

He knocks again. It’s insistent. A polite battering ram.

Placing the chess piece on the mantel above the fireplace, I open the door. The hall’s awash with people in costume, Michael wearing a bright orange suit and fiddling with the straps of a giant sun mask.

‘There you are,’ he says, frowning at me. ‘Why aren’t you dressed yet?’

‘I’m not coming,’ I say. ‘It’s been...’

A wave towards my head, but my sign language is too vague for him.

‘Are you feeling faint?’ he asks. ‘Should I call Dickie? I just saw him—’

I have to catch Michael’s arm to prevent him from flying off down the corridor in search of the doctor.

‘I simply don’t feel up to it,’ I say.