The Seven Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle

I feel nauseous, unable to take pleasure in anything I see. I’m contemplating joining the search for Evelyn when Cunningham returns with a bottle of champagne in a silver bucket crammed with ice, and two long-stemmed glasses tucked under his arm. The metal’s sweating, as is Cunningham. It’s been so long I’d quite forgotten what he’d left to do, and I yell into his ear.

‘Where have you been?’

‘Thought... saw Sutcliffe,’ he yells back, about half the words carrying through the music, ‘... costume.’

Evidently Cunningham’s had much the same experience I had.

Nodding my understanding, we sit and drink silently, keeping our eyes open for Evelyn, my frustration mounting. I need to be on my feet, searching the house, questioning guests, but Ravencourt’s incapable of such feats. This room is too crowded, his body too weary. He’s a man of calculation and observation, not action, and if I’m to help Evelyn, these are the skills I must embrace. Tomorrow I’ll dash, but today I must watch. I need to see everything that’s happening in this ballroom, cataloguing every detail, in order to get ahead of this evening’s events.

The champagne calms me, but I put my glass down, wary of dulling my faculties. That’s when I spot Michael, climbing the few steps that lead to the mezzanine overlooking the ballroom.

The orchestra is silenced, the laughter and chatter slowly dying down as all heads turn towards their host.

‘I’m sorry to interrupt,’ says Michael, gripping the banister, ‘I feel foolish for asking, but does anybody know where my sister is?’

A ripple of conversation washes over the crowd as heads turn to look at one another. It takes only a minute to determine she’s not in the ballroom.

It’s Cunningham who spots her first.

Touching my arm, he points towards Evelyn, who’s weaving drunkenly as she follows the braziers towards the reflecting pool. She’s some distance away already, drifting in and out of the light. A small silver pistol’s glinting in her hand.

‘Fetch Michael,’ I cry.

As Cunningham pushes through the crowd, I drag myself to my feet, lurching towards the window. Nobody else has seen her and the commotion’s building again, the temporary fuss of the announcement already fading. The violin player tests a note; the clock shows 11 p.m.

I’ve reached the French doors when Evelyn arrives at the pool.

She’s swaying, trembling.

Standing in the trees, only feet away, the Plague Doctor watches passively, the flames of the brazier reflected on his mask.

The silver pistol flashes as Evelyn raises it to her stomach, the gunshot slicing through conversation and music.

And yet, for a moment, all seems well.

Evelyn’s still standing on the edge of the water, as though admiring her reflection. Then her legs buckle, the gun dropping from her hand as she topples face first into the pool, the Plague Doctor bowing his head and disappearing into the blackness of the trees.

I’m only dimly aware of the screams, or the crowd at my back, surging past me onto the grass as the promised fireworks explode in the air, drenching the pool in colourful light. I’m watching Michael, sprinting into the darkness towards a sister he’s too late to save. He’s screaming her name, his voice drowned out by the fireworks as he wades into the inky water to scoop up her body. Slipping and stumbling, he tries to drag her from the pool, before eventually collapsing, Evelyn still cradled in his arms. Kissing her face, he begs her to open her eyes, but it’s a fool’s hope. Death’s rolled his dice and Evelyn’s paid her debt. All that was of value has been taken.

Burying his face in her wet hair, Michael sobs.

He’s oblivious as the crowd gather, as strong arms pry him from his sister’s limp body, hoisting her onto the grass so Doctor Dickie can kneel down and make his examination. Not that his skills are required, the hole in her stomach and the silver pistol on the grass tell the story eloquently enough. Despite that, he lingers over her, pressing his fingers to her neck to check for a pulse, before tenderly wiping the dirty water from her face.

Still kneeling, he gestures for Michael to come closer, and, taking the weeping man’s hand, he bows his head and begins muttering what looks to be a prayer under his breath.

I’m grateful for his reverence.

A few women are crying into accommodating shoulders, but there’s something hollow about their performance. It’s as though the ball hasn’t really ended. They’re all still dancing, they’ve just changed the steps. Evelyn deserves better than to be entertainment for people she despised. The doctor seems to understand this, his every action, no matter how small, restoring some small part of her dignity.

The prayer only takes a minute, and when it’s done, he drapes his jacket across Evelyn’s face, as though her unblinking stare is of greater offence than the blood staining her dress.