The Seven Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle

We’re interrupted by a commotion at the door, our heads turning towards Ravencourt’s valet, who’s halfway out of his coat and trying to extricate himself from the clutches of a long purple scarf. He’s wind-tussled and slightly out of breath, his cheeks swollen with cold.

‘I received a message that you required me urgently, my lord,’ he says, still tugging at the scarf.

‘My doing, old love,’ says Daniel, deftly slipping back into character. ‘You’ve a busy day ahead and I thought Cunningham here could be of use. Speaking of busy days, I must be going myself. I’ve got a midday appointment with Sebastian Bell.’

‘I won’t leave Evelyn to her fate, Daniel,’ I say.

‘Neither did I,’ he says, flicking his cigarette into the verge and shutting the window. ‘But fate found her anyway. You should prepare yourself for that.’

He’s gone in a few long strides, the library filling with the burble of voices and the loud clatter of cutlery as he tugs open the door into the study, and passes through on his way to the drawing room. The guests are gathering for lunch, which means Stanwin will soon threaten the maid, Lucy Harper, while Sebastian Bell watches from the window, feeling himself a fraction of a man. A hunt will depart, Evelyn will collect a note from the well, and blood will be spilt in a graveyard while two friends wait for a woman who’ll never arrive. If Daniel’s right, there’s little I can do to disrupt the day’s course, though I’ll be damned if I’m going to lie down before it. The Plague Doctor’s puzzle may be my way out of this house, but I’ll not step over Evelyn’s body to escape. I mean to save her, no matter the cost.

‘How can I be of service, my lord?’

‘Pass me paper, a pen and some ink, would you? I need to write something down.’

‘Of course,’ he says, retrieving the items from his attaché case.

My hands are too clumsy for flowing penmanship, but amidst the smeared ink and ugly blots, the message reads clearly enough.

I check the clock. It’s 11:56 a.m. Almost time.

After airing the paper to dry the ink, I fold it neatly and press the creases down, handing it to Cunningham.

‘Take this,’ I say, noticing the traces of greasy black dirt on his hands as he reaches for the letter. His skin’s pink with scrubbing, but the dirt’s etched into the whorls of his fingertips. Aware of my attention, he takes the letter and clasps his hands behind his back.

‘I need you to go directly to the drawing room where they’re serving lunch,’ I say. ‘Stay there and observe events as they unfold, then read this letter and return to me.’

Confusion paints his face. ‘My lord?’

‘We’re about to have a very strange day, Cunningham, and I’m going to need your absolute trust.’

I wave away his protests, gesturing for him to help me out of the seat.

‘Do as I ask,’ I say, getting to my feet with a grunt. ‘Then return here and wait for me.’

As Cunningham heads for the drawing room, I retrieve my cane and make my way to the Sun Room in the hopes of finding Evelyn. Being early, it’s only half full, ladies pouring themselves drinks from the bar, wilting over chairs and chaise longues. Everything seems to be a very great effort for them, as though the pale flush of youth were a burden, their energy exhausting. They’re muttering about Evelyn, a ripple of ugly laughter directed towards the chess table in the corner, where a game is laid out before her. She has no opponent, her concentration fixed on outwitting herself. Whatever discomfort they’re hoping to heap upon her, she seems oblivious to it.

‘Evie, can we speak?’ I say, hobbling over.

She lifts her head slowly, taking a moment to register me. As yesterday, her blonde hair is tied up into a ponytail, tugging her features into a gaunt, rather severe expression. Unlike yesterday, it doesn’t soften.

‘No, I don’t think so, Lord Ravencourt,’ she says, returning her attention to the board. ‘I’ve quite enough unpleasant things to do today without adding to the list.’

Hushed laughter turns my blood to dust. I crumble from the inside out.

‘Please, Evie, it’s—’

‘It’s Miss Hardcastle, Lord Ravencourt,’ she says pointedly. ‘Manners maketh man, not his bank account.’

A pit of humiliation opens in my stomach. This is Ravencourt’s worst nightmare. Standing in this room, a dozen pairs of eyes upon me, I feel like a Christian waiting for the first rocks to be thrown.

Evelyn ponders me, sweating and shaking. Her eyes narrow, glittering.

‘Tell you what, play me for it,’ she says, tapping the chessboard. ‘You win and we’ll have a conversation; I win and you leave me be for the rest of the day. How would that suit?’

Knowing it’s a trap, but in no position to argue, I wipe the sweat from my brow and wedge myself into the small chair opposite her, much to the delight of the assembled ladies. She could have forced me into a guillotine and I would have been more comfortable. I spill over the sides of the seat, the low back offering so little support that I tremble with the effort of keeping myself upright.