The Seven Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle

I tell him everything, from the murder in the forest and my first day as Bell, right through to the never-ending road and my recent conversation with Daniel. Doubt flickers on his face, but every time it seems to have a foothold, he glances at the letter. I almost feel sorry for him.

‘Do you need another drink?’ I ask, nodding towards his half-empty glass.

‘If you’re not Lord Ravencourt, where is he?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Is he alive?’

He can barely make eye contact.

‘Would you rather he wasn’t?’ I ask.

‘Lord Ravencourt’s been good to me,’ he says, anger flashing across his face.

That doesn’t answer the question.

I look at Cunningham again. Downcast eyes and dirty hands, a smeared tattoo from a troubled past. In a flash of intuition, I realise he’s afraid, but not of what I’ve told him. He’s afraid of what somebody who’s already seen this day unfold might know. He’s hiding something, I’m certain of it.

‘I need your help, Cunningham,’ I say. ‘There’s lots to do and while I’m shackled to Ravencourt, I don’t have the legs to do any of it.’

Draining his glass, he gets to his feet. The drink’s painted two spots of colour on his cheeks and when he speaks his voice drips with the bottle’s courage.

‘I’m going to take my leave now and resume service tomorrow when Lord Ravencourt has...’ – he pauses, considering the right word – ‘returned.’

He bows stiffly, before heading for the door.

‘Do you think he’ll take you back when he knows your secret?’ I say abruptly, an idea dropping into my head like a stone into a pond. If I’m right and Cunningham is hiding something, it may be shameful enough to use as leverage.

He stops dead beside my chair, hands clenched tight.

‘What do you mean?’ he says, staring straight ahead.

‘Look beneath the cushion of your seat,’ I say, trying to keep the tension from my voice. The logic of what I’m attempting is sound, but that doesn’t mean it will actually work.

He glances at the chair, then back towards me. Without a word he does as I say, discovering a small white envelope. Triumph twists a smile from my lips as he tears it open, his shoulders sagging.

‘How did you know?’ he asks, his voice cracked.

‘I don’t know a thing, but when I wake up in my next host, I’m going to dedicate myself to the task of uncovering your secret. I’m then going to return to this room and place the information in that envelope for you to find. Should this conversation not go the way I want, I’ll place the envelope where the other guests can find it.’

He snorts at me, his contempt a slap in the face.

‘You may not be Ravencourt, but you sound exactly like him.’

The idea is so startling it momentarily silences me. Until now I’d assumed my personality – whatever that might be – was carried into each new host, filling them as pennies fill a pocket, but what if I was wrong?

None of my previous hosts would have thought to blackmail Cunningham, let alone had the stomach to act on the threat. In fact, looking back at Sebastian Bell, Roger Collins, Donald Davies and now Ravencourt, I can see little in their behaviour to suggest a common hand at work. Could it be that I’m bending to their will, rather than the other way around? If so, I must be wary. It’s one thing to be caged in these people, quite another to abandon oneself entirely to their desires.

My thoughts are interrupted by Cunningham, who’s setting fire to a corner of the letter with a lighter from his pocket.

‘What is it you want from me?’ he says in a hard, flat voice, dropping the burning paper into the grate.

‘Four things, initially,’ I say, counting them off on my thick fingers. ‘First, I need you to find an old well off the road into the village. There’ll be a note tucked into a crack in the stone. Read it, put it back and return to me with the message. Do it soon, the note will be gone within the hour. Secondly, you need to find that plague doctor costume I asked about earlier. Thirdly, I want you scattering the name Anna around Blackheath like confetti. Let it be known Lord Ravencourt is looking for her. Finally, I need you to introduce yourself to Sebastian Bell.’

‘Sebastian Bell, the doctor?’

‘That’s the chap.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I remember being Sebastian Bell, but I don’t remember meeting you,’ I say. ‘If we change that, it means I prove to myself that something else can be changed today.’

‘Evelyn Hardcastle’s death?’

‘Precisely.’

Letting out a long breath, Cunningham turns to face me. He seems diminished, as though our conversation were a desert he’s spent a week crossing.

‘If I do these things, can I expect the contents of this letter to stay between us?’ he says, his expression conveying more hope than expectation.

‘It will, you have my word.’

I extend a sweaty hand.

‘Then it seems I have no choice,’ he says, shaking it firmly, only the slightest flicker of disgust showing on his face.