The Seven Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle

‘And you think stripping me of my disguise will reveal it?’ he scoffs. ‘A face is a mask of another sort, you know that better than most; though you’re right, I am hiding something. If it makes you feel better, I’m not hiding it from you. Should you somehow succeed and tear this mask free, I’d simply be replaced, and your task would remain. I’ll let you decide if that’s worth the trouble. As for your presence in Blackheath, perhaps it would assuage your doubts to know the name of the man who brought you here.’

‘And what’s that?’

‘Aiden Bishop,’ he says. ‘Unlike your rivals, you came to Blackheath voluntarily. Everything that’s happening today, you brought upon yourself.’

His voice suggests regret, but the expressionless white mask makes the statement sinister, a parody of sadness.

‘That can’t be true,’ I say stubbornly. ‘Why would I come here of my own free will? Why would anybody do this to himself?’

‘Your life before Blackheath is none of my concern, Mr Bishop. Solve the murder of Evelyn Hardcastle and you’ll have all the answers you require,’ he says. ‘In the meantime, Bell needs your help.’ He points behind me. ‘He’s that way.’

Without another word he withdraws into the forest, the dimness swallowing him completely. My mind is clogged up by a hundred small questions, but none of them is going to do me any good in this forest, so I push them to one side and go in search of Bell, finding him bent double and trembling with exertion. He freezes as I approach, catching the sound of twigs cracking beneath my feet.

His timidity revolts me.

Mistaken as she was, at least Madeline had the good sense to flee.

I circle around behind my former self, keeping my face from view. I could try to explain what’s happening here, but frightened rabbits make poor allies, especially those already convinced you’re a murderer.

All I need from Bell is his survival.

Two more steps and I’m behind him, leaning close enough to whisper into his ear. Sweat pours off his body, the smell like a filthy rag pushed to my face. It’s all I can do to speak without gagging.

‘East,’ I say, dropping the compass into his pocket.

Backing away, I head into the trees, towards Carver’s burnt-out cottage. Bell’s going to be lost for another hour or so, giving me plenty of time to follow the flags back to the house without stumbling into him.

Despite my best efforts, everything’s happening exactly as I remember it.

24

The looming shape of Blackheath appears through the gaps in the trees. I’ve come out around the back of the house, which is in an even worse state of repair than the front. Several windows are cracked, the brickwork crumbling. A stone balustrade has tumbled from the roof to lodge itself in the grass, thick moss covering it. Clearly, the Hardcastles only repaired the sections of the house their guests would see – little wonder considering the paucity of their finances.

Just as I lingered on the edge of the forest that first morning, I now find myself crossing the garden with similar foreboding. If I came here voluntarily, I must have had a reason, but no matter how hard I strain for the memory, it’s beyond reach.

I’d like to believe I’m a good man who came to help, but if that’s the case I’m making a damn mess of things. Tonight, as every night, Evelyn’s going to kill herself and if this morning’s actions are any guide, my attempts to paddle away from the disaster may only hurry us towards it. For all I know, my fumbling attempts to save Evelyn are actually the reason she ends up at that reflecting pool with a silver pistol in her hand.

I’m so lost in these thoughts I don’t notice Millicent until I’m almost on top of her. The old lady is shivering on an iron bench that looks out across the garden, her arms folded against the wind. Three shapeless coats encase her completely, her eyes peering out over a scarf pulled up above her mouth. She’s blue with cold, a hat pulled down over her ears. Hearing my steps, she turns to meet me, surprise showing on her wrinkled face.

‘By Jove, you look dreadful,’ she says, pulling the scarf down from her mouth.

‘Good morning to you too, Millicent,’ I say, taken aback by the sudden surge of warmth her presence stokes within me.

‘Millicent?’ she says, pursing her lips. ‘That’s rather modern of you, dear. I prefer ‘‘Mother’’ if it’s all the same to you. I wouldn’t want people thinking I picked you up off the street. Though sometimes I wonder if I mightn’t have been better off.’

My mouth hangs open. I hadn’t previously made the connection between Jonathan Derby and Millicent Derby, probably because it’s easier to imagine him being delivered onto this earth by a biblical plague.

‘Sorry, Mother,’ I say, stuffing my hands into my pockets and sitting down beside her.

She cocks an eyebrow at me, those clever grey eyes alight with amusement.

‘An apology and an appearance before midday, are you feeling quite all right?’ she asks.

‘It must be the country air,’ I say. ‘What about you, why are you out on this dreadful morning?’