The Seven Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle

The water’s long cold, leaving me blue and shivering. Vainglorious though it may be, I can’t bear the thought of Ravencourt’s valet lifting me out of this bath like a sodden sack of potatoes.

A polite knock on the bedroom door relieves me of the decision.

‘Lord Ravencourt, is all well?’ he calls, entering the room.

‘Quite well,’ I insist, my hands numb.

His head appears around the edge of the screen, his eyes taking hold of the scene. After a moment’s scrutiny, he approaches without my beckoning, rolling up his sleeves to pull me out of the water with a strength that belies his thin frame.

This time I do not protest. I have too little pride left to salvage.

As he helps me out of the bathtub, I spot the edge of a tattoo poking from beneath his shirt. It’s smeared green, the details lost. Noticing my attention, he hurriedly pulls his sleeve down.

‘Folly of youth, my lord,’ he says.

For ten minutes I stand there, quietly humiliated, as he towels me dry, mothering me into my suit; one leg then the next, one arm then the other. The clothes are silk, beautifully tailored but tugging and pinching like a roomful of elderly aunts. They’re a size too small, fitting Ravencourt’s vanity rather than his body. When all is done, the valet combs my hair, rubbing coconut oil into my fleshy face before handing me a mirror that I might better inspect the results. The reflection is nearing sixty, with suspiciously black hair and brown eyes the colour of weak tea. I search them for some sign of myself, the hidden man working Ravencourt’s strings, but I’m obscured. For the first time I wonder who I was before coming here, and the chain of events that led me into this trap.

Such speculation would be intriguing if it weren’t so frustrating.

As with Bell, my skin prickles when I see Ravencourt in the mirror. Some part of me remembers my real face and is perplexed by this stranger staring back.

I hand the mirror to the valet.

‘We need to go to the library,’ I say.

‘I know where it is, my lord,’ he says. ‘Shall I fetch you a book?’

‘I’m coming with you.’

The valet pauses, frowning. He speaks hesitatingly, his words testing the ground they’re tiptoeing across.

‘It’s a fair walk, my lord. I fear you may find it... tiring.’

‘I’ll manage, besides I need the exercise.’

Arguments queue behind his teeth, but he fetches my cane and an attaché case and leads me into a dark corridor, oil lamps spilling their warm light across the walls.

We walk slowly, the valet tossing news at my feet, but my mind is fixed on the ponderousness of this body I’m dragging forward. It’s as though some fiend has remade the house overnight, stretching the rooms and thickening the air. Wading into the sudden brightness of the entrance hall, I’m surprised to discover how steep the staircase now appears. The steps I sprinted down as Donald Davies would require climbing equipment to surmount this morning. Little wonder Lord and Lady Hardcastle lodged Ravencourt on the ground floor. It would take a pulley, two strong men and a day’s pay to hoist me into Bell’s room.

Requiring frequent rests at least allows me to observe my fellow guests as they make their way around the house, and it’s immediately evident that this is not a happy gathering. Whispered arguments spill out of nooks and crannies, raised voices moving hurriedly up the stairs only to be cut off by slamming doors. Husbands and wives goad each other, drinks gripped too tightly, faces flushed red with barely controlled rage. There’s a needle in every exchange, the air prickly and dangerous. Perhaps it’s nerves, or the hollow wisdom of foresight, but Blackheath seems fertile ground for tragedy.

My legs are trembling by the time we arrive at the library, my back aching with the effort of holding myself erect. Unfortunately, the room offers scant reward for such suffering. Dusty, overburdened bookshelves line the walls, a mouldy red carpet smothering the floor. The bones of an old fire lie in the grate, opposite a small reading table with an uncomfortable wooden chair placed beside it.

My companion sums up his feelings in a single tut.

‘One moment, my lord, I’ll fetch you a more comfortable chair from the drawing room,’ he says.

I’ll need it. My left palm is blistered where it’s rubbed against the top of the cane and my legs are wobbling beneath me. Sweat has soaked through my shirt, leaving my entire body itchy. Crossing the house has left me a wreck, and if I’m to reach the lake tonight before my rivals, I’m going to need a new host, preferably one capable of conquering a staircase.

Ravencourt’s valet returns with a wingback chair, placing it on the floor in front of me. Taking my arm, he lowers me into the green cushions.

‘May I ask our purpose here, my lord?’

‘If we’re very lucky, we’re meeting friends,’ I reply, mopping my face with a handkerchief. ‘Do you have a piece of paper to hand?’

‘Of course.’