The Seven Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle

I’m marching towards him, fully intending to beat an exit out of him.

‘Don’t you understand, yet?’ I say. ‘I don’t care about your rules, because I’m not going to play. Either you let me leave, or I’ll make you sorry I stayed.’

I’m two steps away when he points his cane at me. Though it hovers an inch from my chest, no cannon was ever so threatening. The silver lettering along the side is pulsing, a faint shimmer rising from the wood, burning away the fog. I can feel the heat of it through my clothes. If he desired, I’m certain this benign-looking stick could rip a hole straight through me.

‘Donald Davies is always the most childish of your hosts,’ he tuts, watching me take a nervous step backwards. ‘But, you don’t have time to indulge him. There are two other people trapped in this house, wearing the bodies of guests and servants, just like you. Only one of you can leave, and it will be whoever brings me the answer first. Now, do you see? Escape isn’t to be found at the end of this dirt road, it’s through me. So run if you must. Run until you can’t stand, and when you wake up in Blackheath again and again, do so in the knowledge that nothing here is arbitrary, nothing overlooked. You’ll stay here until I decide otherwise.’

Lowering the cane, he tugs loose his pocket watch.

‘We’ll speak again soon, when you’ve calmed down a little,’ he says, putting the watch away again. ‘Try to use your hosts more wisely from now on. Your rivals are more cunning than you can imagine, and I guarantee they won’t be so frivolous with their time.’

I want to charge him, fists flying, but now the red mist has passed, I can see it’s a preposterous idea. Even taking away the bulk of his costume, he’s a large man, more than capable of weathering my assault. Instead, I veer around him, the Plague Doctor heading back to Blackheath, as I press into the fog ahead. There may be no end to this road, no village to be found, but I can’t give up until I know for sure.

I won’t return willingly to a madman’s game.

11

Day Four

I awake wheezing, crushed beneath the tremendous monument of my new host’s stomach. The last thing I remember is collapsing exhausted on the road after walking for hours, howling in desperation at a village I couldn’t reach. The Plague Doctor was telling the truth. There’s no escape from Blackheath.

A carriage clock by the bed tells me it’s 10:30 a.m., and I’m about to rise when a tall man enters through a connecting room carrying a silver tray, which he lays on the sideboard. He’s in his mid-thirties, I’d guess, dark-haired and clean-shaven, blandly attractive without being memorable in any way. A pair of glasses have slipped down his small nose, his eyes fixed on the curtains he’s walking towards. Without saying a word, he draws them and pushes open the windows, revealing views of the garden and forest.

I watch him in fascination.

There’s something oddly precise about this man. His actions are small and quick, without any wasted effort. It’s as though he’s saving his energy for some great labour ahead.

For a minute or so, he stands at the window with his back to me, letting the room breathe cold air. I feel as though something is expected of me; that this pause has been manufactured for my benefit, but for the life of me I can’t guess what I should be doing. No doubt sensing my indecision, he abandons his vigil, slipping his hands under my armpits and tugging me into a sitting position.

I pay for his assistance in shame.

My silk pyjamas are soaked through with sweat and the odour rising from my body is so pungent it brings tears to my eyes. Oblivious to my embarrassment, my companion retrieves the silver tray from the sideboard and places it on my lap, lifting the dome cover. The platter beneath is piled high with eggs and bacon, a side helping of pork chops, a pot of tea and a jug of milk. Such a meal should be daunting, but I’m ravenous and tear into it like an animal, while the tall man – who I can only assume is my valet – disappears behind an Oriental screen, the sound of pouring water issuing forth.

Pausing for breath, I take this opportunity to examine my surroundings. In contrast to the frugal comforts of Bell’s bedroom, this place is awash in wealth. Red velvet drapes flow down the windows, piling up on a thick blue carpet. Art spots the walls, the lacquered mahogany furniture polished to a shine. Whoever I am, he’s held in high esteem by the Hardcastle family.

The valet returns to find me mopping grease from my lips with a napkin, panting with the effort of eating. He must be disgusted. I am disgusted. I feel like a pig in a trough. Even so, no flicker of emotion shows on his face as he removes the tray and slides my arm across his shoulders to better help me out of bed. God only knows how many times he’s been through this ritual, or what he’s paid to do it, but once is enough for me. Like a wounded soldier, he half-walks, half-drags me behind the screen where a steaming hot bath has been prepared.