The Seven Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle

‘Well, I have no intention of telling anybody your secret, Charles, and I apologise for threatening it. I wish only to save Evelyn Hardcastle’s life and escape Blackheath, and I don’t have a lot of time to do either. I’ll need a friend.’

‘Probably more than one,’ he says, cleaning his glasses on his sleeve. ‘In all honesty, this tale’s so peculiar I’m not sure I could walk away now, even if I wished to.’

‘Shall we go then,’ I say. ‘By Daniel’s reckoning, Evelyn will be murdered at the party at 11 p.m. If we’re to save her, that’s where we have to be.’

The ballroom is on the other side of the entrance hall, Cunningham supporting me at the elbow as we walk there. Carriages are arriving from the village, queuing up on the gravel outside. Horses nicker, footmen opening the doors for costumed guests, who flutter like canaries released from their cages.

‘Why is Evelyn being compelled to marry Ravencourt?’ I whisper to Cunningham.

‘Money,’ he says. ‘Lord Hardcastle’s got an eye for a bad investment, and not nearly enough intelligence to learn from his mistakes. Rumour suggests he’s driving the family towards bankruptcy. In return for Evelyn’s hand, Lord and Lady Hardcastle will receive a rather generous dowry and Ravencourt’s promise to buy Blackheath in a couple of years for a tidy sum.’

‘So that’s it,’ I say. ‘The Hardcastles are hard up and they’re pawning their daughter off like old jewellery.’

My thoughts flock back to this morning’s chess game, the smile on Evelyn’s face as I winced out of the Sun Room. Ravencourt isn’t buying a bride, he’s buying a bottomless well of spite. I wonder if the old fool understands what he’s getting into.

‘And what of Sebastian Bell?’ I say, remembering the task I set him. ‘Did you speak with him?’

‘Afraid not, the poor fellow was passed out on the floor of his room when I arrived,’ he says, genuine pity in his voice. ‘I saw the dead rabbit; seems your footman has a twisted sense of humour. I called for the doctor and left them to it. Your experiment will have to wait another day.’

My disappointment is drowned out by the music beating at the ballroom’s closed doors, the sound tumbling into the hall when a servant sweeps them open for us. There must be at least fifty people inside, whirling through a soft puddle of light cast by a chandelier wreathed in candles. An orchestra is playing with bravado on a stage pressed against the far wall, but the majority of the room has been given over to the dance floor where Harlequins in full livery court Egyptian queens and grinning devils. Jesters leap and mock, dislodging powdered wigs and gold masks held up on long sticks. Dresses, capes and cowls swoop and swish across the floor, the crush of bodies disorientating. The only space to be found surrounds Michael Hardcastle in his dazzling sun mask, its pointed rays extending such a distance from his face that it’s unsafe to venture anywhere near him.

We’re viewing all this from a mezzanine, a small staircase leading down to the dance floor. My fingers are rapping the banister, keeping time with the music. Some part of me, the part that’s still Ravencourt, knows this song and is enjoying it. He yearns to pick up an instrument and play.

‘Ravencourt’s a musician?’ I ask Cunningham.

‘In his youth,’ he says. ‘Talented violinist, by all accounts. Broke his arm riding, and could never play as well again. He still misses it, I think.’

‘He does,’ I say, surprised by the depth of his longing.

Putting it aside, I return my attention to the matter at hand, but I have no idea how we’re going to spot Sutcliffe among the crowd.

Or the footman.

My heart sinks. I hadn’t considered that. Amid the noise and the crush of bodies, a blade could do its work and vanish without anybody ever being the wiser.

Such thoughts would have caused Bell to flee back to his room, but Ravencourt is made of sterner stuff. If this is where the attempt will be made on Evelyn’s life, this is where I must be, come what may, and so with Charles supporting my arm, we descend the stairs, keeping to the shadowy edges of the ballroom.

Clowns slap me on the back and women swirl in front of me, butterfly masks in hand. I ignore much of it, pushing my way to the couches near the French doors, where I can better rest my weary legs.

Until now, I’d only witnessed my fellow guests in their handfuls, their spite spread thin across the house. To be ensnared among them all, as I am now, is something else entirely, and the further I descend into the uproar, the thicker their malice seems to become. Most of the men look to have spent the afternoon soaking in their cups and are staggering instead of dancing, snarling and staring, their conduct savage. Young women throw their heads back and laugh, their make-up running and hair coming loose as they’re passed from body to body, goading a small group of wives who’ve grouped together for safety, wary of these panting, wild-eyed creatures.