The Seven Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle

I try to go around her, but she steps sideways, blocking me again.

‘Let me pass, girl!’ I demand, immediately regretting it. This isn’t how I speak, blunt and demanding.

‘You’re having one of your turns, Mr Collins, that’s all,’ she says. ‘Come down to the kitchen, I’ll make us a pot of tea.’

Her eyes are blue, earnest. They flick over my shoulder self-consciously, and I look behind me to find other servants gathered at the bottom of the stairs. They’re watching us, their arms still laden with flowers.

‘One of my turns?’ I ask, doubt opening its mouth and swallowing me.

‘On account of your burns, Mr Collins,’ she says quietly. ‘Sometimes you say things, or see things that ain’t right. A cup of tea’s all it takes, a few minutes and you’re right as rain.’

Her kindness is crushing, warm and heavy. I’m reminded of Daniel’s pleas yesterday, his delicate way of speaking, as though I might fracture if pressed too hard. He thought I was mad, as this maid does now. Given what’s happening to me, what I think is happening to me, I can’t be certain they’re wrong.

I offer her a helpless look and she takes my arm, guiding me back down the steps, the crowd parting to let us through.

‘Cup of tea, Mr Collins,’ she says reassuringly. ‘That’s all you need.’

She leads me like a lost child, the soft grip of her calloused hand as calming as her tone. Together we leave the entrance hall, heading back down the servants’ staircase and along the gloomy corridor into the kitchen.

Sweat stands up on my brow, heat rushing out of ovens and stoves, pots bubbling over open flames. I smell gravy, roasted meats and baking cakes, sugar and sweat. Too many guests and too few working ovens, that’s the problem. They’ve had to start preparing dinner now to make sure everything goes out on time later.

The knowledge bewilders me.

It’s true, I’m certain of it, but how could I know that unless I really am the butler?

Maids are rushing out carrying breakfast, scrambled eggs and kippers heaped on silver platters. A wide-hipped, ruddy-faced elderly woman is standing by the oven bellowing instructions, her pinafore covered in flour. No general ever wore a chestful of medals with such conviction. Somehow she spots us through the commotion, her iron glare striking the maid first, then myself.

Wiping her hands on her apron, she strides over to us.

‘I’m sure you’ve somewhere to be, haven’t you, Lucy,’ she says with a stern look.

The maid hesitates, considering the wisdom of objecting.

‘Yes, Mrs Drudge.’

Her hand releases me, leaving a patch of emptiness on my arm. A sympathetic smile and she’s gone, lost among the din.

‘Sit yourself down, Roger,’ says Mrs Drudge, her tone aspiring to gentleness. She has a split lip, bruising beginning to show around her mouth. Somebody must have struck her, and she winces when she speaks.

There’s a wooden table at the centre of the kitchen, its surface covered in platters of tongue, roasted chickens and hams piled high. There are soups and stews, trays of glistening vegetables, with more being added all the time by the harassed kitchen staff, most of whom look to have spent an hour in the ovens themselves.

Pulling out a chair, I sit down.

Mrs Drudge slides a tray of scones from the oven, putting one on a plate with a small curl of butter. She brings it over, placing the plate in front of me and touching my hand. Her skin’s hard as old leather.

Her gaze lingers, kindness wrapped in thistle, before she turns away, bellowing her way back through the crowd.

The scone is delicious, the melting butter dripping off the sides. I’m only a bite into it when I see Lucy again, finally remembering why she’s familiar. This is the maid who will be in the drawing room at lunchtime – the one who will be abused by Ted Stanwin and rescued by Daniel Coleridge. She’s even prettier than I recall, with freckles and large blue eyes, red hair straying from beneath her cap. She’s trying to open a jam jar, her face screwed up with effort.

She had jam stains all over her apron.

It happens in slow motion, the jar slipping from her hands and hitting the floor, glass spraying across the kitchen, her apron splattered with dripping jam.

‘Oh, bloody hell, Lucy Harper,’ somebody cries, dismayed.

My chair clatters to the floor as I dart from the kitchen, racing down the corridor and back upstairs. I’m in such a rush that as I turn the corner onto the guest corridor, I collide with a wiry chap, curly black hair spilling down his brow, charcoal staining his white shirt. Apologising, I look up into the face of Gregory Gold. Fury wears him like a suit, his eyes empty of all reason. He’s livid, trembling with rage, and only too late do I remember what comes next, how the butler looked after this monster did his work.

I attempt to back away, but he takes hold of my dressing gown with his long fingers.

‘You don’t need—’