The Seven Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle

Unmoved by my suffering, Evelyn crosses her arms on the table and pushes a pawn across the board. I follow it with a rook, the pattern of the middle game weaving itself in my mind. Although we’re evenly matched, discomfort is digging holes in my concentration, my tactics proving too ramshackle to overpower Evelyn. The best I can do is prolong the match, and after half an hour of counters and feints, my patience is exhausted.

‘Your life is in danger,’ I blurt out.

Evelyn’s fingers pause on her pawn, a little tremor of her hand sounding loud as a bell. Her eyes skirt my face, then those of the ladies behind us, searching for anybody who might have heard. They’re frantic, working hard to scrub the moment from history.

She already knows.

‘I thought we had a deal, Lord Ravencourt,’ she interrupts, her expression hardening once more.

‘But—’

‘Would you prefer I leave?’ she says, her glare strangling any further attempts at conversation.

Move after move follows, but I’m so perplexed by her response, I pay little heed to strategy. Whatever’s going to happen tonight, Evelyn seems to be aware of it and yet her greater fear seems to be that somebody else will find out. For the life of me I can’t imagine why that would be and it’s clear she’s not going to open her heart to Ravencourt. Her disdain for this man is absolute, which means if I’m to save her life, I must either put on a face she likes or press forward without her help. It’s an infuriating turn of events and I’m desperately trying to find a way of reframing my argument when Sebastian Bell arrives at the door, provoking the queerest of sensations. By any measure this man is me, but watching him creep into the room like a mouse along a skirting board, I struggle to believe it. His back is stooped, his head low, arms stiff by his sides. Furtive glances scout every step, his world seemingly filled with sharp edges.

‘My grandmother, Heather Hardcastle,’ says Evelyn, watching him examine the portrait on the wall. ‘It’s not a flattering picture, but then she wasn’t a flattering woman by all accounts.’

‘My apologies,’ says Bell. ‘I was—’

Their conversation proceeds exactly as it did yesterday, her interest in this frail creature prompting a pang of jealousy, though that’s not my principal concern. Bell’s repeating my day exactly and yet he believes himself to be making his choices freely, as I did. Likely then I’m blindly following a course plotted by Daniel, which makes me, what... an echo, a memory or just a piece of driftwood caught in the current?

Flip over the chessboard, change this moment. Prove yourself unique.

My hand reaches out, but the thought of Evelyn’s reaction, her disdain, the laughter of the assembled ladies, is too much. Shame cripples me, and I jerk my hand back. There’ll be further opportunities, I need to keep watch for them.

Thoroughly demoralised and with defeat unavoidable, I dash the last few moves, putting my king to the sword with unseemly haste before staggering from the room, Sebastian Bell’s voice fading behind me.

15

As ordered, Cunningham’s waiting for me in the library. He’s sitting on the edge of a chair, the letter I gave him unfolded and trembling slightly in his hand. He stands as I enter, but in my desire to put the Sun Room behind me I’ve moved too quickly. I can hear myself breathing, wheezy desperate bursts from my overburdened lungs.

He doesn’t venture to help.

‘How did you know what was going to happen in the drawing room?’ he asks.

I try to answer, but there isn’t room for both words and air in my throat. I choose the latter, guzzling it with the same appetite as everything else in Ravencourt’s life, while staring into the study. I’d hoped to catch the Plague Doctor while he chatted with Bell, but my futile attempt to warn Evelyn dragged on longer than I expected.

Perhaps I shouldn’t be surprised.

As I saw on the road to the village, the Plague Doctor seems to know where I’ll be and when, no doubt timing his appearances so I can’t ambush him.

‘It happened exactly as you described it,’ continues Cunningham, staring at the paper in disbelief. ‘Ted Stanwin insulted the maid and Daniel Coleridge stepped in. They even spoke the words you wrote down. They spoke them exactly.’

I could explain, but he hasn’t got to the section troubling him yet. Instead, I hobble over to the chair, lowering myself onto the cushion with a great deal of effort. My legs throb in pitiful gratitude.

‘Was it a trick?’ he asks.

‘No trick,’ I say.

‘And this... the final line, where you say...’

‘Yes.’

‘... that you’re not Lord Ravencourt.’

‘I’m not Ravencourt,’ I say.

‘You’re not?’

‘I’m not. Get a drink, you’re looking a little pale.’

He does as I say, obedience seemingly being the only part of him that hasn’t thrown its hands up in defeat. He returns with a glass of something and sits down, sipping it, his eyes never leaving mine, legs pressed together, shoulders bowed.