The Seven Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle

We’re interrupted by a noise at the doorway, Doctor Dickie hurrying towards me. He places a hand on my shoulder and leans close to my ear.

‘It’s your mother,’ he whispers. ‘You need to come with me.’

Whatever’s happened, it’s dreadful enough for him to have buried his antipathy towards me.

Apologising to Michael, I run after the doctor, my dread growing with every step, until finally he ushers me into her bedroom.

The window’s open, a cold gust snatching at the candle flames lighting the room. It takes my eyes a few seconds to adjust to the dimness, but finally I find her. Millicent’s lying on her side in bed, eyes closed and chest still, as though she crawled under the covers for a quick nap. She’d begun dressing for dinner and has combed her usually wild grey hair straight, tying it up away from her face.

‘I’m sorry, Jonathan, I know how close you were,’ he says.

Grief squeezes me. No matter how much I tell myself that this woman isn’t my mother, I can’t make it let go.

My tears arrive suddenly and silently. Trembling, I sit down in the wooden chair beside her bed, taking her still-warm hand in mine.

‘It was a heart attack,’ says Doctor Dickie in a pained voice. ‘It would have happened very suddenly.’

He’s standing on the other side of the bed, the emotion as raw on his face as my own. Wiping away a tear, he pulls the window shut, cutting off the cold breeze. The candles stand to attention, the light in the room solidifying into a warm, golden glow.

‘Can I warn her?’ I say, thinking of the things I can put right tomorrow.

He looks puzzled for a second, but clearly ascribes the question to grief, and answers me in a kind voice.

‘No,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘You couldn’t have warned her.’

‘What if—’

‘It was just her time, Jonathan,’ he says softly.

I nod, it’s all I can manage. He stays a little longer, wrapping me in words I neither hear, nor feel. My grief is a bottomless well. All I can do is fall and hope to hit the bottom. Yet the deeper I go, the more I realise I’m not weeping solely for Millicent Derby. There’s something else down here, something deeper than my host’s grief, something that belongs to Aiden Bishop. It’s raw and desperate, sad and angry, beating at the core of me. Derby’s grief has revealed it, but hard as I try I can’t quite pull it up, out of the dark.

Leave it buried.

‘What is it?’

A piece of you, now leave it alone.

A knock at the door distracts me, and looking at the clock I realise over an hour’s passed. There’s no sign of the doctor. He must have left without me noticing.

Evelyn pokes her head into the room. Her face is pale, cheeks red with cold. She’s still dressed in the blue ball gown, though it’s picked up a few creases since I last saw her. The tiara is poking from the pocket of her long beige coat, Wellington boots leaving a trail of mud and leaves on the floor. She must have only just returned from the graveyard with Bell.

‘Evelyn...’

I intend to say more, but I choke on my sorrow.

Evelyn gathers the shards of the moment together, then tuts and enters the room, heading straight for a bottle of whisky on the sideboard. The glass has barely touched my lips when she tips it upwards, forcing me to drink it down in one swallow.

Gagging, I push the glass away, whisky running down my chin.

‘Why would you—’

‘Well, you can hardly help me in your current state,’ she says.

‘Help you?’

She’s studying me, turning me over in her mind.

She hands me a handkerchief.

‘Wipe your chin, you look atrocious,’ she says. ‘I’m afraid sorrow doesn’t suit that arrogant face at all well.’

‘How—’

‘It’s a very long story,’ she says. ‘And I’m afraid we’re somewhat pressed for time.’

I sit dumbly, struggling to take everything in, wishing for the clarity of Ravencourt’s mind. So much has happened, so much I can’t quite piece together. I already felt as if I was staring at the clues through a foggy magnifying glass, and now Evelyn’s here, tugging a bedsheet over Millicent’s face, calm as a summer day. Try as I might, I can’t keep up.

Quite clearly, that little tantrum at dinner regarding her engagement was an act, because there’s no trace of that crippling sadness about her now. Her eyes are clear, her tone contemplative.

‘So I’m not the only one dying tonight,’ she says, stroking the old lady’s hair. ‘What a miserable thing.’

The glass falls from my hand in shock.

‘You know about—’

‘The reflecting pool, yes. Curious affair, isn’t it?’

She has a dreamy tone, as though describing something she once heard and now only half remembers. I’d suspect her mind of having buckled in some way, if it weren’t for the hard edge to her words.

‘You seem to be taking the news rather well,’ I say cautiously.

‘You should have seen me this morning, I was so angry I was kicking holes in the walls.’