The Seven Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle

‘You shouldn’t be out in this weather,’ I say, removing my scarf and wrapping it around her neck. ‘You’ll catch your death.’

‘And if you keep this up, people might begin mistaking Jonathan Derby for a human being,’ she says, tucking the loose ends of the scarf into her coat.

‘Tell Evelyn Hardcastle that,’ I say. ‘She nearly shot me this morning.’

‘You should have shot her back,’ says Anna matter-of-factly. ‘We could have solved her murder then and there.’

‘I can’t tell if you’re joking or not,’ I say.

‘Of course I am,’ she says, blowing into her chapped hands. ‘If it were that simple, we’d have been out of here ages ago. Mind you, I’m not sure trying to save her life is a much better plan.’

‘You think I should let her die?’

‘I think we’re spending a lot of time not doing the thing we’ve been asked to do.’

‘We can’t protect Evelyn without knowing who wants her dead,’ I say. ‘One thing will give us the other.’

‘I hope you’re right,’ she says dubiously.

I search for some encouraging platitude, but her doubts have crawled under my skin, and they’re beginning to itch. I told her that saving Evelyn’s life would deliver us the murderer, but that was an evasion. There’s no plan here. I don’t even know if I can save Evelyn any more. I’m working at the behest of blind sentiment, and losing ground to the footman as I’m doing it. Anna deserves better, but I have no idea how to give it to her without abandoning Evelyn – and for some reason the thought of doing that is unbearable to me.

There’s a commotion on the path, voices carried through the trees by the wind. Taking my arm, Anna pulls me further into the forest.

‘As fun as this has been, I came to ask for a favour.’

‘Always, what can I do?’

‘What’s the time?’ she says, pulling the artist’s sketchbook from her pocket. It’s the same one I saw her holding in the gatehouse, crumpled sheets and a cover riddled with holes. She’s holding it up so I can’t see inside, but, judging by the way she’s flicking through the pages, it says something important.

I check my watch. ‘It’s 10:08 a.m.,’ I say, itching with curiosity. ‘What’s in the book?’

‘Notes, information; everything I’ve managed to learn about your eight hosts and what they’re doing,’ she says absently, running her finger down one of the pages. ‘And don’t ask to see it because you can’t. We can’t risk you pulling the day down around our ears with what you know.’

‘I wasn’t going to,’ I protest, hastily averting my eyes.

‘Right, 10:08 a.m. Perfect. In a minute, I’m going to put a rock on the grass. I need you standing by it when Evelyn kills herself. You can’t move, Aiden, not an inch, understand?’

‘What’s the meaning of all this, Anna?’

‘Call it Plan B.’ She pecks me on the cheek, cold lips meeting numb flesh, as she slides the book back in her pocket.

She’s only taken a step when she clicks her fingers and turns back to me, holding out two white tablets in her palm.

‘Take these for later,’ she says. ‘I filched them from Doctor Dickie’s bag when he came to see the butler.’

‘What are they?’

‘Headache pills, I’ll trade them for my chess piece.’

‘This ugly old thing?’ I say, handing her the hand-carved bishop. ‘Why would you want it?’

She smiles at me, watching as I wrap the tablets in a blue pocket handkerchief.

‘Because you gave it to me,’ she says, clutching it protectively in her hand. ‘It was the first promise you made me. This ugly old thing is the reason I stopped being scared of this place. It’s the reason I stopped being scared of you.’

‘Me? Why would you be afraid of me?’ I say, genuinely hurt by the idea of anything coming between us.

‘Oh, Aiden,’ she says, shaking her head. ‘If we do this right, everybody in this house is going to be afraid of you.’

She’s carried away on those words, blown through the trees and out onto the grass surrounding the reflecting pool. Perhaps it’s her youth, or her personality, or some curious alchemy of all the miserable ingredients surrounding us, but I can’t see an ounce of doubt within her. Whatever her plan, she seems extraordinarily confident in it. Maybe dangerously so.

From my position in the treeline, I watch her pick up a large white rock from the flower bed and pace out six steps before dropping it on the grass. Holding an arm straight out from her body, she measures a line to the ballroom’s French doors, and then, seemingly satisfied with her work, she wipes the mud from her hands, shoves them in her pockets and strolls away.

For some reason, this little display makes me uneasy.

I came here voluntarily, and Anna did not. The Plague Doctor brought her to Blackheath for a reason, and I have no idea what that could be.

Whoever Anna really is, I’m following her blindly.

25

The bedroom door’s locked, no noise coming from inside. I’d hoped to catch Helena Hardcastle before she set about her day, but it appears the lady of the house is not one to idle. I rattle the handle again, pressing my ear to the wood. Aside from a few curious glances from passing guests, my efforts are in vain. She’s not here.