The Seven Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle

The room’s empty, and has been for some time by the looks of things. The curtains are still drawn, light delivered second-hand from the lamps lining the corridor. A four-poster bed is neatly made, a vanity table is overflowing with face creams, powders and cosmetics of every sort.

Satisfied that it’s safe, Millicent appears from behind me, offering me a level glance best described as a belligerent apology, before making her way around the bed to wrestle the heavy curtains open, banishing the gloom.

The only thing that’s been disturbed is a chestnut bureau with a roll-down top, its drawers hanging open. Among the ink bottles, envelopes and ribbons scattered on it, there’s a large lacquered case with two revolver-shaped hollows in the cushion. The revolvers themselves are nowhere to be seen, though I suspect Evelyn brought one of them to the graveyard. She did say it was her mother’s.

‘Well, at least we know what they wanted,’ says Millicent, tapping the case. ‘Doesn’t make any damn sense though. If somebody wanted a gun, they could just as easily steal one from the stables. There’s dozens of them. Nobody would bat an eyelid.’

Pushing aside the case, Millicent unearths a moleskin day-planner and begins leafing through the pages, running her finger across the meetings and events, reminders and notes crammed inside. The contents would suggest a busy, if rather dull life, if it weren’t for the torn-out last page.

‘That’s curious, today’s appointments are missing,’ she says, her irritation giving way to suspicion. ‘Now why would Helena rip those out?’

‘You believe she did it herself?’ I say.

‘What use would anybody else have for them?’ says Millicent. ‘Mark my words, Helena has something foolish in mind and she doesn’t want anybody finding out about it. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Cecil, I’m going to have to find her and talk her out of it. As usual.’

Tossing the planner on the bed, she stalks out of the bedroom and up the corridor. I barely notice her leave. I’m more concerned with the black smudged fingerprints on the pages. My valet’s been here, and it appears he’s looking for Helena Hardcastle as well.

18

The world’s shrivelling beyond the windows, darkening at the edges and blackening at the centre. The hunters are beginning to emerge from the forest, waddling across the lawn like overgrown birds. Having grown impatient in my parlour waiting for Cunningham’s return, I’m heading to the library to inspect the encyclopaedia.

It’s already a decision I regret.

A day of walking has sapped all my strength, this ponderous body growing heavier by the second. To make matters worse, the house is alive with activity, maids plumping cushions and arranging flowers, darting this way and that like schools of startled fish. I’m embarrassed by their vigour, cowed by their grace.

By the time I enter the entrance hall, it’s filled with hunters shaking the rain from their caps, puddles forming at their feet. They’re soaking wet and grey with cold, the life washed right out of them. They’ve clearly endured a miserable afternoon.

I pass through nervously, my eyes downcast, wondering if any of these scowling faces belongs to the footman. Lucy Harper told me he had a broken nose when he visited the kitchen, which gives me some hope that my hosts are fighting back, not to mention an easy way of picking him out.

Seeing no injuries, I continue more confidently, the hunters standing aside, allowing me to shuffle through on my way to the library, where the heavy curtains have been drawn and a fire set in the grate, the air touched with a faint perfume. Fat candles sit on plates, plumes of warm light pockmarking the shadows, illuminating three women curled up on chairs, engrossed in the books open on their laps.

Heading to the bookshelf where the encyclopaedia should be, I grope about in the darkness, finding only an empty space. Taking a candle from a nearby table, I pass the flame across the shelf hoping it has been moved, but it’s definitely gone. I let out a long breath, deflating like the bellows of some awful contraption. Until now, I hadn’t realised how much hope I’d invested in the encyclopaedia, or in the idea of meeting my future hosts face to face. It wasn’t only their knowledge I craved, but the chance to study them, as one might one’s own twisted reflections in a hall of mirrors. Surely in such observation, I’d find some repeated quality, a fragment of my true self carried through into each man, unsullied by the personalities of their hosts? Without that opportunity, I’m not certain how to identify the edges of myself, the dividing lines between my personality and that of my host. For all I know, the only difference between myself and the footman is the mind I’m sharing.

The day’s leaning on my shoulders, forcing me into a chair opposite the fire. Stacked logs pop and crackle, heat shimmering and sagging in the air.

My breath catches in my throat.