The Seven Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle

‘Not that I’m aware,’ I say, still staring at the forest. We’re passing close to the spot where I thought I spotted the footman, but now I see the splash of colour is a red trail marker nailed to a tree. My imagination’s painting monsters in the woods.

‘What did Cunningham want?’ I say, reluctantly returning my attention to my companions.

‘It’s not him,’ says Pettigrew. ‘He was asking questions on behalf of Ravencourt, seems the fat old banker’s taken an interest in Thomas Hardcastle’s murder.’

That brings me up short. Of all the tasks I set Cunningham when I was Ravencourt, asking questions about Thomas Hardcastle’s murder wasn’t one of them. Whatever Cunningham’s doing, he’s using Ravencourt’s name to curry favour. Perhaps this is part of the secret he was so keen to keep me from revealing, the secret which still needs to find its way into an envelope beneath the chair in the library.

‘What sort of questions?’ I say, my interest kindled for the first time.

‘Kept asking me about the second killer, the one Stanwin said he clipped with his shotgun before he escaped,’ says Herrington, who’s tipping a hip flask to his lips. ‘Wanted to know if there were any rumours about who they were, any descriptions.’

‘Were there?’ I ask.

‘Never heard anything,’ says Herrington. ‘Wouldn’t have told him if I had. Sent him away with a flea in his ear.’

‘Not surprised Cecil’s got Cunningham on it though,’ adds Sutcliffe, scratching his whiskers. ‘He’s thick as thieves with every charwoman and gardener who ever took a shilling at Blackheath, probably knows more about this place than we do.’

‘How’s that?’ I ask.

‘He was living here when the murder happened,’ says Sutcliffe, glancing over his shoulder at me. ‘Just a boy back then, of course, bit older than Evelyn, as I remember. Rumour had it he was Peter’s bastard. Helena gave him to the cook to raise, or something like that. Never could work out who she was punishing.’

His voice is thoughtful, a rather strange sound coming from this shaggy, shapeless creature. ‘Pretty little thing that cook, lost her husband in the war,’ he muses. ‘The Hardcastles paid for the boy’s education, even got him the job with Ravencourt when he came of age.’

‘What’s Ravencourt want with a nineteen-year-old murder?’ asks Pettigrew.

‘Due diligence,’ says Herrington bluntly, stepping around horse manure. ‘Ravencourt’s buying a Hardcastle, he wants to know what baggage she’s bringing along.’

Their conversation swiftly frays into trivialities, but my thoughts remain fixed on Cunningham. Last night, he pressed a note into Derby’s hand that read ‘all of them’ and told me he was rounding up guests on behalf of a future host. That would suggest I can trust him, but he clearly has his own agenda in Blackheath. I know he’s Peter Hardcastle’s illegitimate son, and that he’s asking questions about the murder of his half-brother. Somewhere between those two facts is a secret he’s so desperate to keep, he’s allowed himself to be blackmailed with it.

I grit my teeth. For once, it would be refreshing to find somebody in this place who was exactly what they appeared to be.

Passing the cobbled path towards the stables, we push south along the never-ending road into the village, before finally coming upon the gatehouse. One by one we fill the narrow corridor, hanging our coats and shaking the rain free of our clothes while complaining about the conditions outside.

‘Through here, chaps,’ says a voice from behind a door on our right.

We follow the voice into a gloomy sitting room lit by an open fire, where Lord Peter Hardcastle is sitting in an armchair near the window. He has one leg flung across the other, a book flat on his lap. He’s somewhat older than his portrait suggested, though still broad chested and fit-looking. Dark eyebrows slide towards each other in a V-shape, pointing towards a long nose and mopey mouth curved downwards at the edges. A ragged spectre of beauty suggests itself, but his stash of splendour has almost run dry.

‘Why the hell are we meeting all the way out here?’ asks Pettigrew grumpily, dropping into a chair. ‘You’ve a perfectly good...’ – he waves in the direction of Blackheath – ‘well, you’ve got something that resembles a house down the road.’

‘That damn house has been a curse on this family ever since I was a boy,’ says Peter Hardcastle, pouring drinks into five glasses. ‘I won’t set foot inside until it’s absolutely necessary.’

‘Perhaps you should have thought of that before throwing history’s most tasteless party,’ says Pettigrew. ‘Do you really intend on announcing Evelyn’s engagement on the anniversary of your own son’s murder?’

‘Do you think any of this is my idea?’ asks Hardcastle, slamming the bottle down and glaring at Pettigrew. ‘Do you think I want to be here?’

‘Easy, Peter,’ soothes Sutcliffe, shambling over to awkwardly pat his friend’s shoulder. ‘Christopher’s grumpy because, well, he’s Christopher.’