The Seven Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle

A handsome blond fellow in a cricket sweater and linen trousers is trotting down the staircase two steps at a time. He looks to be in his early fifties, though age has left him decadently rumpled rather than weary and worn. Keeping his hands in his pockets, he crosses the floor towards me, cutting a straight line through the silent servants, who part before him. I doubt he even notices them so intent are his eyes upon me.

‘My dear man, what on earth happened to you?’ he asks, concern crumpling his brow. ‘Last I saw—’

‘We must fetch the police,’ I say, clutching his forearm. ‘Anna’s been murdered.’

Shocked whispers spring up around us.

He frowns at me, casting a quick glance at the servants, who’ve all taken a step closer.

‘Anna?’ he asks in a hushed voice.

‘Yes, Anna, she was being chased.’

‘By whom?’

‘Some figure in black, we must involve the police!’

‘Shortly, shortly, let’s go up to your room first,’ he soothes, ushering me towards the staircase.

I don’t know if it’s the heat of the house, or the relief of finding a friendly face, but I’m beginning to feel faint, and I have to use the banister to keep from stumbling as we climb the steps.

A grandfather clock greets us at the top, its mechanism rusting, seconds turned to dust on its pendulum. It’s later than I thought, almost 10:30 a.m.

Passages either side of us lead off into opposite wings of the house, although the one into the east wing is blocked by a velvet curtain that’s been hastily nailed to the ceiling, a small sign pinned to the material proclaiming the area ‘under decoration’.

Impatient to unburden myself of the morning’s trauma, I try again to raise the issue of Anna, but my Samaritan silences me with a conspiratorial shake of the head.

‘These damnable servants will smear your words up and down the house in half a minute,’ he says, his voice low enough to scoop off the floor. ‘Best we talk in private.’

He’s away from me in two strides, but I can barely walk in a straight line, let alone keep pace.

‘My dear man, you look dreadful,’ he says, noticing that I’ve fallen behind.

Supporting my arm, he guides me along the passage, his hand at my back, fingers pressed against my spine. Though it’s a simple gesture, I can feel his urgency as he leads me along a gloomy corridor with bedrooms either side, maids dusting inside. The walls must have been recently repainted for the fumes are making my eyes water, further evidence of a hurried restoration gathering as we progress along the passage. Mismatched stain is splashed across the floorboards, rugs laid down to try and muffle creaking joints. Wingback chairs have been arranged to hide the cracks in the walls, while paintings and porcelain vases attempt to lure the eye from crumbling cornices. Given the extent of the decay, such concealment seems a futile gesture. They’ve carpeted a ruin.

‘Ah, this is your bedroom, isn’t it?’ says my companion, opening a door near the end of the corridor.

Cold air slaps me in the face, reviving me a little, but he walks ahead to close the raised window it’s pouring through. Following behind, I enter a pleasant room with a four-poster bed sitting in the middle of the floor, its regal bearing only slightly let down by the sagging canopy and threadbare curtains, their embroidered birds flying apart at the seams. A folding screen has been pulled across the left side of the room, an iron bathtub visible through the gaps between the panels. Other than that, furniture’s sparse – just a nightstand and a large wardrobe near the window, both of them splintered and faded. About the only personal item I can see is a King James Bible on the nightstand, its cover worn through and pages dog-eared.

As my Samaritan wrestles with the stiff window, I come to stand beside him, the view momentarily driving all else from my mind. Dense forest surrounds us, its green canopy unbroken by either a village or a road. Without that compass, without a murderer’s kindness, I’d never have found this place, and yet I cannot shake the feeling that I’ve been lured into a trap. After all, why kill Anna and spare myself, if there wasn’t some grander plan behind it? What does this devil want from me that he couldn’t take in the forest?

Slamming the window shut, my companion gestures to an armchair next to a subdued fire, and, passing me a crisp white towel from the cupboard, he sits down on the edge of the bed, tossing one leg across the other.

‘Start at the beginning, old love,’ he says.

‘There isn’t time,’ I say, gripping the arm of the chair. ‘I’ll answer all your questions in due course, but we must first call for the police and search those woods! There’s a madman loose.’

His eyes flicker across me, as though the truth of the matter is to be found in the folds of my soiled clothing.