The Seven Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle

He sighs, taking in the scene, then gestures me inside, opening the door fully. Putting on a pair of trousers, he tugs the braces over his shoulders, moving in that sluggish daze that marks someone roused unaccountably from their sleep. Taking his jacket from the peg, he drags himself outside, motioning for me to stay where I am.

I must confess I do so happily. The cottage bulges with warmth and homeliness, the smell of leather and soap a solid, comforting presence. I’m tempted to check the rota by the door to see if Anna’s message is already written there, but no sooner have I reached out my hand than I hear a god-awful commotion, lights blinding me through the window. Stepping into the rain, I find the old stablemaster sitting in a green automobile, the entire thing coughing and shuddering as if afflicted by some terrible disease.

‘Here you go, sir,’ he says, getting out. ‘I got her started for you.’

‘But...’

I’m at a loss for words, aghast at the contraption before me.

‘Are there no carriages?’ I ask.

‘There are, but the horses are skittish around thunder, sir,’ he says, reaching under his shirt to scratch an armpit. ‘With respect, you couldn’t keep hold of them.’

‘I can’t keep hold of this,’ I say, staring at the dreadful mechanical monster, horror strangling my voice. Rain is pinging off the metal and making a pond of the windscreen.

‘Easy as breathing it is,’ he says. ‘Grip the wheel and point it where you want to go, then press the pedal to the floor. You’ll make sense of it in no time.’

His confidence pushes me inside as firmly as any hand, the door closing with a soft click.

‘Follow this cobbled road until the end, and then turn left onto the dirt track,’ he says, pointing into the darkness. ‘That will lead you to the village. It’s long and straight, a bit uneven, mind. Takes anywhere between forty minutes and an hour, depending on how carefully you drive, but you can’t miss it, sir. If you wouldn’t mind, leave the automobile somewhere obvious and I’ll have one of my boys collect it first thing in the morning.’

With that, he’s gone, disappearing back into his cottage, the door slamming shut behind him.

Gripping the wheel, I stare at the levers and dials, trying to find some semblance of logic in the controls. I tentatively press the pedal, the dreaded contraption lurches forward, and, applying a little more pressure, I urge the automobile beneath the arch and along the bumpy cobbled road, until we reach the left turn the stablemaster mentioned.

Rain blankets the glass, forcing me to lean out of the window to see where I’m going. The headlamps shine on a dirt track littered with leaves and fallen branches, water cascading across its surface. Despite the danger, I keep the accelerator pedal pinned to the floor, elation replacing my unease. After everything that’s happened, I’m finally escaping Blackheath, each mile of this bumpy track taking me further from its madness.

Morning arrives in a smudge, a grey half-light that taints rather than illuminates, though it at least brings an end to the rain. As promised the road continues straight, the forest unending. Somewhere among those trees, a girl is being murdered and Bell is coming awake to see it. A killer will spare his life with a silver compass that points to a place that doesn’t make sense and like a fool he’ll think himself saved. But how can I be in that forest and in this car – and a butler in between? My hands tighten around the wheel. If I was able to talk to the butler when I was Sebastian Bell, then presumably, whoever I’ll be tomorrow is already walking around Blackheath. I might even have met him. And not just tomorrow, but the man I’ll be the day after that and the day after that. If that’s the case, what does that make me? Or them? Are we shards of the same soul, responsible for each other’s sins, or entirely different people, pale copies of some long forgotten original?

The fuel gauge nudges red as fog comes rolling out of the trees, thick upon the ground. My earlier sense of triumph has waned. I should have arrived at the village long ago, but there’s no chimney smoke in the distance and no end to the forest.

Finally, the car shudders and stills, its dying breath a screech of grinding parts as it comes to a stop mere feet from the Plague Doctor, whose black greatcoat is in stark contrast to the white fog he’s emerging from. My legs are stiff and my back sore, but anger propels me out of the car.

‘Have you got this foolishness out of your system yet?’ asks the Plague Doctor, both hands resting on his cane. ‘You could have done so much with this host; instead you waste him on this road, accomplishing nothing. Blackheath won’t let you go, and while you’re tugging on your lead, your rivals are pressing ahead with their investigations.’

‘And now I have rivals,’ I say contemptuously. ‘It’s one trick after another with you, isn’t it? First you tell me I’m trapped here, and now it’s a competition to escape.’