The Seven Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle

‘Of course,’ says Hardcastle, whose red cheeks suggest anything but understanding. ‘It’s just... Helena’s acting damn queer, and now all this. It’s been quite trying.’

He goes back to pouring drinks, an uneasy silence gagging everything but the rain thumping on the windows.

Personally I’m glad of the quiet, and the chair.

My companions walked quickly and keeping up was a chore. I need to catch my breath and pride dictates that nobody notice me doing it. In lieu of conversation, I look around the room, but there’s little worthy of scrutiny. It’s long and narrow, with furniture piled up against the walls like wreckage on a riverbank. The carpet is worn through, the flowery wallpaper gaudy. Age is thick in the air, as though the last owners sat here until they crumbled into dust. It’s nowhere near as uncomfortable as the east wing, where Stanwin has sequestered himself, but it’s still an odd place to find the lord of the house.

I’ve not had cause to ask what Lord Hardcastle’s role in his daughter’s murder might be, but his choice of lodging suggests he’s looking to stay out of sight. The question is, what is he doing with that anonymity?

Drinks are deposited before us, Hardcastle resuming his former seat. He’s rolling his glass between his palms, gathering his thoughts. There’s an endearing awkwardness to his manner that immediately reminds me of Michael.

To my left, Sutcliffe – who’s already halfway through his Scotch and soda – digs a document from his jacket and hands it to me, indicating that I should pass it along to Hardcastle. It’s a marriage contract drafted by the firm Dance, Pettigrew & Sutcliffe. Evidently, myself, the lugubrious Philip Sutcliffe and the oily Christopher Pettigrew are business partners. Even so, I’m certain Hardcastle hasn’t brought us here to talk about Evelyn’s nuptials. He’s too distracted for that, too fidgety. Besides, why request Herrington’s presence if you only needed your solicitors.

Confirming my suspicion, Hardcastle takes the contract from me, offering it the faintest of glances before dropping it on the table.

‘Dance and I worked on it ourselves,’ says Sutcliffe, rising to fetch another drink. ‘Have Ravencourt and Evelyn put their signatures on the bottom and you’re a rich man again. Ravencourt will pay a lump sum upon signing, with the outstanding amount held in trust until after the ceremony. In a couple of years he’ll take Blackheath off your hands as well. Not a bad piece of work if I do say so myself.’

‘Where is old Ravencourt?’ asks Pettigrew, glancing at the door. ‘Shouldn’t he be here for this?’

‘Helena’s looking after him,’ says Hardcastle, taking a wooden case from the lintel above the fireplace and opening it to reveal rows of fat cigars that draw childish coos from the party. Declining one, I watch Hardcastle as he offers them around. His smile hides a dreadful eagerness, his pleasure in this display a foundation for other matters.

He wants something.

‘How is Helena?’ I ask, tasting my drink. It’s water. Dance doesn’t even allow himself the pleasure of alcohol. ‘All of this must be hard on her.’

‘ I should hope so, it was her damn idea to come back,’ snorts Hardcastle, taking a cigar for himself and closing the box. ‘You know, a chap wants to do his best, be supportive, but dash it all, I’ve barely seen her since we got here. Can’t get two words out of the woman. If I were a spiritual sort of fellow, I’d think her possessed.’

Matches are passing from hand to hand, each man indulging his own cigar-lighting ritual. Forgoing Pettigrew’s back and forth motion, Herrington’s gentle touches and Sutcliffe’s circular theatrics, Hardcastle simply lights it, shooting me an exasperated glance.

A flicker of affection stirs within me, the remnants of some stronger emotion reduced to embers.

Blowing out a long trail of yellow smoke, Hardcastle settles back in his chair.

‘Gentleman, I invited you here today, because we all have something in common.’ His delivery is stiff, rehearsed. ‘We are all being blackmailed by Ted Stanwin, but I have a way to free us, if you’ll hear me out.’

He’s watching each of us for a reaction.

Pettigrew and Herrington remain quiet, but the lumpen Sutcliffe splutters, taking a hasty gulp of his drink.

‘Go on, Peter,’ says Pettigrew.

‘I have something on Stanwin we can exchange for our freedom.’

The room is still. Pettigrew is on the edge of his seat, the cigar quite forgotten in his hands.

‘And why haven’t you used it already?’ he asks.

‘Because we’re in this together,’ says Hardcastle.

‘Because it’s damn risky more like,’ interjects a red-faced Sutcliffe. ‘You know what happens if one of us moves against Stanwin, he releases what he has on each of us, dropping us all in the pot. Exactly like Myerson’s lot.’

‘He’s bleeding us dry,’ says Hardcastle heatedly.

‘He’s bleeding you dry, Peter,’ says Sutcliffe, jabbing the table with a thick finger. ‘You’re about to make a pile out of Ravencourt and you don’t want Stanwin getting his hands on it.’