The Seven Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle

There’s a tear on his cheek as he gets to his feet, and placing an arm around Michael, he leads Evelyn’s sobbing brother away. To my eyes, they depart older men, slower and more bent, carrying a great weight of sadness across their shoulders.

No sooner are they inside the house, than rumours bounce through the crowd. The police are coming, a suicide note’s been found, Charlie Carver’s spirit has claimed another Hardcastle child. The stories are spun from one mouth to another and by the time they reach me, they’re rich with details and patterns, strong enough to be carried out of here and into society.

I look for Cunningham, but he’s nowhere to be seen. I can’t imagine what he could be doing, but he’s got a quick eye and willing hands so no doubt he’s found a purpose – unlike myself. The shot has shattered my nerves.

Taking myself back to the now empty ballroom, I drop onto the couch from earlier, where I sit and tremble, my mind racing.

I know my friend will be alive again tomorrow, but it doesn’t change what happened, or the devastation I feel at having witnessed it.

Evelyn took her own life, and I’m responsible. Her marriage to Ravencourt was a punishment, a humiliation designed to push her over the edge, and, however unwittingly, I was part of it. It was my face she hated, my presence that drove her to the water’s edge with a pistol in her hand.

And what of the Plague Doctor? He offered me freedom in return for solving a murder that wouldn’t look like a murder, but I watched Evelyn shoot herself after fleeing a dinner in despair. There can be no doubt about her actions or motivation, which makes me wonder at my captor’s. Was his offer just another torment, a slither of hope to go mad chasing?

What about the graveyard? The gun?

If Evelyn were truly so despondent, why did she seem in such good cheer when she accompanied Bell into the graveyard, less than two hours after the dinner? And what about the gun she was carrying? It was a large black revolver, almost too big for her clutch bag. The gun she used to take her life was a silver pistol. Why would she change weapons?

I don’t know how long I sit there thinking about it, amid the delighted mourners, but the police never come.

The crowds thin and the candles gutter, the party flickers and goes out.

The last thing I see before falling asleep in my chair is the image of Michael Hardcastle, kneeling on the grass cradling the dripping-wet body of his dead sister.

21

Day Two (continued)

Pain stirs me, every breath painful. Blinking away the tatters of sleep, I see a white wall, white sheets and a blossom of crusted blood on the pillow. My cheek is resting on my hand, saliva sticking my top lip to my knuckles.

I know this moment, I saw it through Bell’s eyes.

I’m in the butler again, after he was moved to the gatehouse.

Somebody’s pacing beside my bed, a maid judging by the black dress and white apron. There’s a large book held open in her arms, which she’s flipping through furiously. My head’s too heavy to see anything above her waist, so I groan to call her over.

‘Oh, good, you’re awake,’ she says, halting her pacing. ‘When’s Ravencourt going to be alone? You didn’t write it down, but the bloody idiot has his valet nosing around the kitchen—’

‘Who are—’ My throat is clogged with blood and phlegm.

There’s a jug of water on the sideboard and the maid hurries over to pour me some, placing her book on the counter, while she tips a glass to my lips. I move my head a fraction, trying to look up at her face, but the world immediately starts to spin.

‘You shouldn’t talk,’ she says, using her apron to wipe a stray drop of water from my chin.

She pauses.

‘I mean you can talk, but only when you’re ready.’

She pauses again.

‘Actually, I really need you to answer my question about Ravencourt, before he gets me killed.’

‘Who are you?’ I croak.

‘How hard did that ape... wait—’ She lowers her face to my own, her brown eyes searching for something. She’s puffy-cheeked and pale with strands of tangled blonde hair straying free from her cap. With a start, I realise this is the maid Bell and Evelyn met, the one who was keeping watch on the butler.

‘How may hosts have you had?’ she asks.

‘I don’t—’

‘How many hosts?’ she insists, sitting on the edge of the bed. ‘How many bodies have you been in?’

‘You’re Anna,’ I say, twisting my neck to get a better look at her, the pain setting fire to my bones. Very gently she presses me back down onto the mattress.

‘Yes, I’m Anna,’ she says patiently. ‘How many hosts?’

Tears of joy prod my eyes, affection washing through me like warm water. Even though I can’t remember this woman, I can feel the years of friendship between us, a trust that borders on instinct. More than that, I’m overcome by the simple joy of this reunion. As strange as it is to say about somebody I can’t remember, I now realise I’ve missed her.

Seeing the emotion on my face, answering tears form in Anna’s eyes, and leaning down, she hugs me gently.