The Seven Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle

‘Maybe,’ I say, unable to keep my doubt from surfacing. ‘Why were your fingerprints all over her planner? What were you looking for?’

‘When I pressed her for more information, she asked me to look up what time she was meeting the stablemaster. She said she’d be able to tell me more after that, and I should come by the stables. I waited, but she never arrived. I’ve been looking for her all day, but nobody’s seen her. Maybe she’s gone to the village.’

I ignore that.

‘Tell me about the stable hand who went missing,’ I say. ‘You asked the stablemaster about him.’

‘Nothing to tell really. A few years back I got drunk with the inspector who investigated Thomas’s murder. He never believed my father – Carver, I mean – did it, mainly because this other boy, Keith Parker, had gone missing a week earlier while my father was in London with Lord Hardcastle, and he didn’t like the coincidence. The inspector asked around after the boy, but nothing came of it. By all accounts, Parker upped and left without a word to anybody, and never came back. They never found a body, so couldn’t disprove the rumour that he’d run away.’

‘Did you know him?’

‘Vaguely, he used to play with us sometimes, but even the servants’ children had jobs to do around the house. He worked in the stables most of the time. We rarely saw him.’

Catching my mood, he looks at me inquisitively.

‘Do you really think my mother’s a murderer?’ he says.

‘That’s what I need your help to find out,’ I say. ‘Your mother entrusted Mrs Drudge to raise you, yes? Does that mean they were close?’

‘Very close, Mrs Drudge was the only other person who knew about my real father before Stanwin found out.’

‘Good, I’m going to need a favour.’

‘What sort of favour?’

‘Two favours actually,’ I say. ‘I need Mrs Drudge to... Oh!’

I’ve just caught up to my past. The answer to a question I was about to ask has already been delivered to me. Now I need to make sure it happens again.

Cunningham waves a hand in front of my face. ‘You quite all right, Rasher? You seem to have come over a bit queer.’

‘Sorry, old chap, I got distracted,’ I say, batting away his confusion. ‘As I was saying, I need Mrs Drudge to clear something up for me, and then I need you to gather a few people together. When you’re done, find Jonathan Derby and tell him everything you’ve discovered.’

‘Derby? What’s that scoundrel got to do with this?’

The door opens, Grace poking her head inside the room.

‘For heaven’s sake, what’s taking so long?’ she asks. ‘If we wait any longer, we’re going to have to run Bell a bath and pretend we’re servants.’

‘One more minute,’ I say, laying my hand on Cunningham’s arm. ‘We’re going to put this right, I promise you. Now listen closely, this is important.’

49

The cotton sack clinks as we walk, its weight conspiring with the uneven ground to continually trip me up, Grace wincing in sympathy at each stumble.

Cunningham’s run off to do my favour, Grace meeting his sudden departure with puzzled silence. I feel the urge to explain, but Rashton knows this woman well enough to know it’s not expected. Ten minutes after Donald Davies introduced his grateful family to the man who’d saved his life during the war, it was clear to anybody with eyes and a heart that Jim Rashton and Grace Davies would one day be married. Undaunted by their different backgrounds, they spent that first dinner building a bridge out of affectionate barbs and probing questions, love blossoming across a table littered with cutlery Rashton couldn’t identify. What was born that day has only grown since, the two of them coming to inhabit a world of their own making. Grace knows I’ll tell the story when it’s finished, when it’s shored up with facts strong enough to support the telling. In the meantime, we walk together in a companionable silence, happy just to be in each other’s company.

I’m wearing my brass knuckles, having vaguely mentioned a threat from Bell and Doctor Dickie’s confederates. It’s a weak lie, but it’s enough to keep Grace on her toes, the young woman glaring suspiciously at every dripping leaf. So it is that we come upon the well, Grace pushing aside a tree branch that I might emerge into the clearing without becoming snagged. I immediately drop the sack into the well, where it hits the bottom with a tremendous crash.

Waggling my arms, I try to shake the ache from my muscles, while Grace peers into the well’s darkness.

‘Any wishes?’ she asks.

‘That I don’t have to carry the sack back,’ I say.

‘Oh, my heavens, it really works,’ she says. ‘Do you think I can wish for more wishes?’

‘Sounds like cheating to me.’

‘Well, nobody’s used it for years, there’s probably a few going spare.’

‘May I ask you a question?’ I reply.

‘Never known you to be shy about them,’ she says, leaning so far into the well her feet are in the air.

‘The morning of Thomas’s murder, when you went on the scavenger hunt, who was with you?’

‘Come on, Jim, it was nineteen years ago,’ she says, her voice muffled by the stone.

‘Was Charles there?’