The Seven Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle

That’s how the Plague Doctor described it... but what if... my mind gropes at the edges of a thought, teasing it forward out of the dimness. An idea emerges, the queerest of ideas.

The only one that makes sense.

I’m startled by a tap on my shoulder, almost sending me stumbling into the reflecting pool. Thankfully, Grace catches hold of me, pulling me back into her arms. It’s not, I must admit, an unpleasant predicament, especially when I turn around to meet those blue eyes, looking up at me with a mixture of love and bemusement.

‘What on earth are you doing out here?’ she asks. ‘I’ve been searching for you all over. You missed lunch.’

There’s concern in her voice. She holds my gaze, searching my eyes, though I have no idea what she’s looking for.

‘I came for a walk,’ I say, trying to slip free of her worry. ‘And I started imagining what this place must have been like in its pomp.’

Doubt flickers on her face, but it vanishes in a blink of her glorious eyes as she slips an arm through mine, the heat of her body warming me up.

‘It’s difficult to remember now,’ she says. ‘Every memory I have of this place, even the happy ones, are stained by what happened to Thomas.’

‘Were you here when it happened?’

‘Have I never told you this?’ she says, resting her head on my shoulder. ‘I suppose I wouldn’t have, I was only young. Yes, I was here, nearly everybody here today was.’

‘Did you see it?’

‘Thank heavens, no,’ she says, aghast. ‘Evelyn had arranged a treasure hunt for the children. I can’t have been more than seven, same for Thomas. Evelyn was ten. She was all grown up, so we were her responsibility for the day.’

She grows distant, distracted by a memory taking flight.

‘Of course, now I know she just wanted to go riding and not have to look after us, but at the time we thought her terribly kind. We were having a jolly time chasing each other through the forest looking for clues, when all of a sudden Thomas bolted off. We never saw him again.’

‘Bolted? Did he say why he was leaving, or where he was going?’

‘You sound like the policeman who questioned me,’ she says, hugging me closer. ‘No, he didn’t hang around for questions. He asked after the time and left.’

‘He asked the time?’

‘Yes, it was like he had somewhere to be.’

‘And he didn’t tell you where he was going?’

‘No.’

‘Was he acting strangely, did he say anything odd?’

‘Actually, we could barely get a word out of him,’ she says. ‘He’d been in a strange mood all week come to think of it, withdrawn, sulky, not like him at all.’

‘What was he normally like?’

She shrugs. ‘A pest most of the time. He was at that age. He liked to tug our ponytails, and scare us. He’d follow us through the woods, then jump out when we least expected it.’

‘But he’d been acting strangely for a week?’ I say. ‘Are you certain that’s how long it had been?’

‘Well, that’s how long we were at Blackheath before the party, so yes.’ She’s shivering now, peering up at me. ‘What’s that mind of yours got hold of, Mr Rashton?’ she asks.

‘Got hold of?’

‘I can see the little crease’ – she taps the spot between my eyebrows – ‘you get when something’s bothering you.’

‘I’m not sure yet.’

‘Well, try not to do it when you meet grandmother.’

‘Crease my forehead?’

‘Think, silly.’

‘Why the heavens not?’

‘She doesn’t take kindly to young men who think too much. She believes it’s a sign of idleness.’

The temperature is dropping quickly. What little colour was left to the day is fleeing the dark storm clouds bullying the sky.

‘Shall we go back to the house?’ says Grace, stamping her feet to warm up. ‘I dislike Blackheath as much as the next girl, but not so much that I’m willing to freeze to death to avoid going back inside it.’

I glance at the reflecting pool a little forlornly, but I can’t press my idea without speaking to Evelyn first, and she’s out walking with Bell. Whatever my mind’s got hold of – to use Grace’s phrase – it’ll have to keep until she returns in a couple of hours. Besides, the idea of spending time with somebody who isn’t mired in today’s many tragedies is appealing.

Our shoulders pressed together, we make our way back to the house, arriving in the entrance hall in time to see Charles Cunningham trotting down the steps. He’s frowning, lost in thought.

‘Are you quite all right, Charles?’ says Grace, drawing his attention. ‘Honestly, what is it with the men in this house, today? You’re all on a cloud.’

A grin cracks his face, his joy at seeing us quite at odds with the seriousness with which he normally greets me.

‘Ah, my two favourite people,’ he says grandly, leaping from the third step to clap us both on the shoulder. ‘I’m sorry, I was miles away.’

Affection draws a huge smile on my face.

Until now the valet was simply somebody who flitted in and out of my day, occasionally helpful, but always pursuing some purpose of his own, making him impossible to trust. Seeing him through Rashton’s eyes is like watching a charcoal outline get coloured in.