The Seven Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle

I’m walking away, when the thought hits me: the room hasn’t been broken into yet. Ravencourt will find the door shattered early this afternoon, so it’s going to happen in the next few hours.

I’m curious to see who’s responsible, and why they’re so desperate to get inside. I’d originally suspected Evelyn because she had one of the two revolvers stolen from Helena’s bureau, but she nearly killed me with it in the forest this morning. If it’s already in her possession, she has no need to break in.

Unless there’s something else she wants.

The only other thing that was obviously missing was the appointments page in Helena’s day-planner. Millicent believed Helena tore it out herself to conceal some suspicious deed, but Cunningham’s fingerprints were all over the remaining pages. He refused to explain himself, and denied being responsible for the break-in, but if I could catch him with his shoulder to the door, he’d have no choice but to come clean.

My mind made up, I stride into the shadows at the far end of the corridor and begin my vigil.

Five minutes later, Derby is already impossibly bored.

I’m fidgeting, stalking back and forth. I can’t calm him.

At a loss, I follow the smell of breakfast towards the drawing room, planning to carry a plate of food and a chair back to the corridor. Hopefully, they’ll placate my host for half an hour, after which time I’ll have to come up with some new amusement.

I find the room smothered in sleepy conversation. Most of the guests are only halfway out of their beds and they reek of the prior evening, sweat and cigar smoke baked into their skin, spirits curled around every breath. They’re talking quietly and moving slowly, porcelain people riddled with cracks.

Taking a plate from the sideboard, I scoop piles of eggs and kidneys onto a large plate, pausing to eat a sausage from the platter and wipe the grease from my lips with my sleeve. I’m so preoccupied, it takes a little while to realise everybody’s gone silent.

A burly fellow is standing at the door, his gaze passing from face to face, relief coursing through those he slips over. This nervousness is not unwarranted. He’s a brutish-looking chap with a ginger beard and sagging cheeks, his nose so mangled it resembles an egg cracked in a frying pan. An old frayed suit strains to contain his width, raindrops sparkling on shoulders you could serve a buffet on.

His gaze lands on me like a boulder in the lap.

‘Mr Stanwin wants to see you,’ he says.

His voice is coarse, filled with jagged consonants.

‘What for?’ I ask.

‘I expect he’ll tell you.’

‘Well, offer my regrets to Mr Stanwin, but I’m afraid I’m very busy at present.’

‘Either you walk or I carry you,’ he says in a low rumble.

Derby’s temper is bubbling nicely, but there’s no use making a scene. I can’t beat this man; the best I can hope for is to quickly meet Stanwin and return to my task. Besides, I’m curious why he’d want to see me.

Placing my plate of food on the sideboard, I rise to follow Stanwin’s thug from the room. Inviting me to walk ahead of him, the burly fellow guides me up the staircase, telling me to turn right at the top, into the closed-off east wing. Brushing aside the curtain, a damp breeze touches my face, a long corridor stretching out before me. Doors are hanging off their hinges, revealing state rooms covered in dust and four-poster beds collapsed in on themselves. The air scratches my throat as I breathe it.

‘Why don’t you wait in that room over there like a good gentleman and I’ll tell Mr Stanwin you’ve arrived,’ says my escort, jerking his chin towards a room on my left.

Doing as he bids, I enter a nursery, the cheerful yellow wallpaper now hanging limp from the walls. Games and wooden toys litter the floor, a weathered rocking horse put out to pasture by the door. There’s a game in progress on a child’s chessboard, the white pieces decimated by the black.

No sooner have I set foot inside than I hear Evelyn shrieking in the room beside me. For the first time Derby and I move in concert, sprinting around the corner to find the door blocked by the red-headed thug.

‘Mr Stanwin’s still busy, chum,’ he says, rocking back and forth to keep warm.

‘I’m looking for Evelyn Hardcastle, I heard her scream,’ I say breathlessly.

‘Mayhap you did, but doesn’t seem like there’s much you can do about it, does there?’

I peer over his shoulder into the room behind, hoping to catch sight of Evelyn. It looks to be some sort of reception area, but it’s empty. The furniture lies under yellowed sheets, black mould growing up from the hems. The windows are covered in old newspaper, the walls little more than rotting boards. There’s another door on the far wall, but it’s closed. They must be in there.

I return my gaze to the man, who smiles at me, exposing a row of crooked yellow teeth.

‘Anything else?’ he says.

‘I need to make sure she’s all right.’