The Seven Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle

Nothing like a mask to reveal somebody’s true nature.

Beside me Charles has grown increasingly tense, his fingers digging deeper into my forearm with every step. All of this is wrong. The celebration is too desperate. This is the last party before Gomorrah fell.

We reach a couch, Charles lowering me onto the cushions. Waitresses are moving through the crowd with trays of drinks, but it’s proving impossible to signal them from our position on the fringe of the party. It’s too loud to talk, but he points towards the champagne table guests are stumbling away from arm in arm. I nod, dabbing the sweat from my forehead. Perhaps a drink will serve to settle my nerves. As he leaves to fetch a bottle, I feel a breeze on my skin and notice that somebody has opened the French doors, presumably to let a little air circulate. It’s pitch-black outside, but braziers have been lit, the flickering flames winding all the way up to a reflecting pool surrounded by trees.

The darkness swirls, taking shape, solidifying as it sweeps inside, candlelight dripping onto a pale face.

Not a face, a mask.

A white porcelain beak mask.

I look around for Charles, hoping he’s near enough to lay hands on the fellow, but the crowd has carried him away. Looking back towards the French doors, I see the Plague Doctor slipping through the revellers shoulder first.

Gripping my cane, I heave myself to my feet. Wrecks have been raised from the ocean bed with less effort, but I hobble towards the cascade of costumes shrouding my quarry. I follow glimpses – the glint of a mask, the swirl of a cloak – but he’s fog in a forest, impossible to snatch hold of.

I lose him somewhere in the far corner.

Turning on the spot, I try to catch sight of him, but somebody comes clattering into me. I bellow in fury, finding myself looking into a pair of brown eyes peering out from behind a porcelain beak mask. My heart leaps and so do I evidently, for the mask is swiftly removed to reveal the pinched boyish face behind.

‘Gosh, I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I didn’t—’

‘Rochester, Rochester, over here!’ somebody yells to him.

We turn at the same time, another fellow in a plague doctor costume approaching us. There’s another behind him, three more in the crowd. My quarry has multiplied, yet none of them can be my interlocutor. They’re too stout and short, too tall and thin; too many imperfect copies of the real thing. They try to drag their friend away, but I catch hold of the nearest arm – any arm, they’re all the same.

‘Where did you get these costumes?’ I ask.

The fellow scowls at me, his grey eyes bloodshot. They’re lightless, expressionless. Empty doorways without a coherent thought behind them. Shaking himself loose of my grip, he prods me in the chest.

‘Ask me nicely,’ he slurs drunkenly. He’s itching for a fight and, lashing out with my cane, I give it to him. The heavy wood catches him on the leg, a curse detonating on his lips as he drops to one knee. Attempting to steady himself, he places his palm flat on the dance floor, the point of my cane landing on top of his hand, pinning him to the ground.

‘The costumes,’ I shout. ‘Where did you find them?’

‘The attic,’ he says, his face now as pale as the discarded mask. ‘There’s dozens of them hanging on a rack.’

He strains to free himself, but only a fraction of my weight is resting on the cane. I add a little more, pain unsettling his features.

‘How did you know about them?’ I ask, taking a little pressure off his hand.

‘A servant found us last night,’ he says, tears forming in his eyes. ‘He was already wearing one, mask and hat, the entire get-up. We didn’t have costumes, so he took us up to the attic to find some. He was helping everybody, must have been two dozen people up there, I swear.’

Seems the Plague Doctor doesn’t want to be found.

I watch him squirm for a second or two, balancing the veracity of his story against the pain on his face. Content that the two are of equal weight, I lift my cane, allowing him to stumble away, clutching his aching hand. He’s barely out of my sight before Michael emerges from the crowd, spotting me at a distance and driving straight towards me. He’s flustered, two red spots on his cheeks. His mouth is moving frantically, but his words are lost in the music and laughter.

I signal that I cannot understand, and he comes closer.

‘Have you seen my sister?’ he yells.

I shake my head, suddenly fearful. I can see in his eyes that something is wrong, but before I can quiz him further, he’s pushing back through the whirling dancers. Hot and giddy, oppressed by a sense of foreboding, I fight my way to my seat, removing my bow tie and loosening my collar. Masked figures drift by, naked arms glittering with perspiration.