The Seven Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle

‘I didn’t stop and sup with the man, Dance,’ he says dismissively. ‘I took his measure, and let him know in no uncertain terms I had my eye on him.’ He glances around. ‘Did I leave a bottle in here? Need something to quieten this damnable headache.’

I’ve barely opened my mouth to respond when he starts rooting through my drawers, leaving them standing open as he turns his assault upon the wardrobe. After patting down the pockets of my suits, he spins, surveying the room as though he’s just heard a lion in the bushes.

Another knock, another face. This one belongs to Commander Clifford Herrington, the boring naval chap who was sitting next to Ravencourt at dinner.

‘Come along, you two,’ he says, checking his watch. ‘Old Hardcastle’s waiting for us.’

Freed from the blight of strong alcohol, he’s straight-backed and authoritative.

‘Any idea what he wants from us?’ I ask.

‘None whatsoever, but I expect he’ll tell us when we get there,’ he responds, briskly.

‘I need my walking Scotch,’ says my companion.

‘There’s sure to be some over at the gatehouse, Sutcliffe,’ says Herrington, not bothering to hide his impatience. ‘Besides, you know Hardcastle, he’s damned serious these days, probably best if we don’t turn up half-cut.’

Such is the strength of my connection to Dance that the mere mention of Lord Hardcastle causes me to puff out my cheeks in annoyance. My host’s presence in Blackheath is a matter of obligation, a fleeting visit lasting only so long as it takes to conclude his business with the family. In contrast, I’m desperate to question the master of the house about his missing wife, and my enthusiasm for our meeting is rubbing up against Dance’s agitation like sandpaper on skin.

Somehow, I’m annoying myself.

Badgered once again by the impatient naval officer, the shambling Sutcliffe holds up a hand, begging an extra minute, before turning his desperate fingers loose among my shelves. Sniffing the air, he lurches towards the bed, lifting the mattress to reveal a pilfered bottle of Scotch on the springs.

‘Lead on, Herrington, old boy,’ he says magnanimously, unscrewing the cap and taking a hearty slug.

Shaking his head, Herrington gestures us out into the corridor, where Sutcliffe begins telling a boisterous joke at the top of his voice, his friend trying, unsuccessfully, to quieten him. They’re buffoons both, their good cheer possessing an arrogance that sets my teeth on edge. My host has little time for excess of any kind and would happily stride off ahead, but I do not want to walk these corridors alone. As a compromise, I follow two steps behind, far enough away that I don’t have to join the conversation, but close enough to give the footman pause should he be lurking nearby.

We’re met at the bottom of the stairs by somebody called Christopher Pettigrew, who turns out to be the oily chap Daniel was conferring with at dinner. He’s a thin man, built to sneer, with dark, greasy hair swept over to one side. He’s as stooping and sly as I remember, his gaze running its hands through my pockets before taking in my face. I wondered two nights ago if he might be a future host, but if so I must have given myself freely to his vices as he’s already soft with alcohol, happily taking up the bottle being shared between his chums. It never veers in my direction, meaning I never have to refuse. Clearly, Edward Dance stands apart from this rabble and I’m happy it’s so. They’re a queer bunch; friends certainly, but desperately so, like three men stranded on the same island. Thankfully, their good cheer fades the further we draw from the house, their laughter whipped away by the wind and rain, the bottle forced into a warm pocket along with the cold hand holding it.

‘Did anybody else get yapped at by Ravencourt’s poodle this morning?’ says the oily Pettigrew, who’s little more than a pair of deceitful eyes above a scarf at this point. ‘What’s his name again?’

He clicks his fingers trying to summon the memory.

‘Charles Cunningham,’ I say distantly, only half listening. Further along the path, I’m certain I saw somebody shadowing us in the trees. Just a flash, enough for doubt, except they appeared to be wearing a footman’s livery. My hand goes to my throat, and for an instant I feel his blade again.

Shuddering, I squint at the trees, trying to wring some use out of Dance’s awful eyes, but if it was my enemy, he’s gone now.

‘That’s the one, Charles bloody Cunningham,’ says Pettigrew.

‘Was he asking about Thomas Hardcastle’s murder?’ says Herrington, his face turned resolutely towards the wind, no doubt a habit of his naval background. ‘I heard he was up visiting Stanwin this morning, collared him first thing,’ he adds.

‘Damned impertinent,’ says Pettigrew. ‘What about you Dance, did he come sniffing around?’