The Seven Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle

‘Then why don’t you tell me what you were doing in Helena Hardcastle’s bedroom?’ I suggest. ‘You smeared the ink while you were rifling through her day-planner. I noticed it on your hands this morning.’

He lets out a whistle of astonishment.

‘You have been busy.’ His voice hardens. ‘Strange you haven’t heard about my scandalous relationship to the Hardcastles, then. Oh, I wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise for you. Ask around, it’s not exactly a secret and I’m sure somebody will get a thrill from telling you.’

‘Did you break in, Cunningham?’ I demand. ‘Two revolvers were taken, and a page torn from her day-planner.’

‘I didn’t have to break in, I was invited,’ he says. ‘Couldn’t tell you about those revolvers, but the day-planner was whole when I left. Saw it myself. I suppose I could explain what I was doing there, and why I’m not your man, but, if you’ve got any sense, you wouldn’t believe a word of it, so you might as well find out for yourself. That way you can be certain it’s the truth.’

We rise in a damp cloud of sweat, Cunningham dabbing the perspiration from my forehead before handing me my cane.

‘Tell me, Cunningham,’ I say. ‘Why does a man like you settle for a job like this?’

That brings him up short, his normally implacable face darkening.

‘Life doesn’t always leave you a choice in how you live it,’ he says grimly. ‘Now come on, we’ve a murder to attend.’

19

The evening meal is lit by candelabra and beneath their flickering glow lies a graveyard of chicken bones, fish spines, lobster shells and pork fat. The curtains remain undrawn despite the darkness beyond, granting a view towards the forest being whipped by the storm.

I can hear myself eating, the crush and the crack, the squelch and the gulp. Gravy runs down my chins, grease smearing my lips with a ghastly shimmering shine. Such is the ferocity of my appetite that I leave myself panting between mouthfuls, my napkin resembling a battlefield. The other diners are watching this hideous performance from the corner of their eyes, trying to maintain their conversations even as the decorum of the evening crunches between my teeth. How can a man know such hunger? What hollowness must he be trying to fill?

Michael Hardcastle’s sitting to the left of me, though we’ve barely spoken two words since I arrived. He’s spent most of his time in hushed conversation with Evelyn, heads bowed close, their affection impenetrable. For a woman who knows herself to be in danger, she seems remarkably unperturbed.

Perhaps she believes herself protected.

‘Have you ever travelled to the Orient, my Lord Ravencourt?’

If only the seat to my right was similarly oblivious to my presence. It’s filled by Commander Clifford Herrington, a balding former naval officer in a uniform glittering with valour. After an hour spent in his company, I’m struggling to reconcile the man with the deeds. Perhaps it’s the weak chin and averted gaze, the sense of imminent apology. More likely it’s the Scotch sloshing around behind his eyes.

Herrington’s spent the evening tossing around tedious stories without bothering to indulge in the courtesy of exaggeration, and now it appears our conversation is washing up on the shores of Asia. I sip my wine to cover my agitation, discovering the taste to be peculiarly piquant. My grimace causes Herrington to lean over conspiratorially.

‘I had the same reaction,’ he says, hitting me full in the face with his warm, alcohol-soaked breath. ‘I quizzed a servant on the vintage. Might as well have asked the glass I was drinking it out of.’

The candelabra gives his face a ghoulish yellow cast and there’s a drunken sheen to his eyes that’s repellent. Putting my wine down, I cast about for some distraction. There must be fifteen people around the table, words of French, Spanish and German seasoning otherwise dull conversational fare. Expensive jewellery clinks against glass, cutlery rattles as waiters remove plates. The mood in the room is sombre, the scattered conversations hushed and urgent, spoken across a dozen empty seats. It’s an eerie sight, mournful even, and though the absences are notable, everybody seems to be going out of their way to avoid noting them. I can’t tell whether it’s a matter of good breeding, or there’s some explanation I’ve missed.