The Seven Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle

‘Charles?’ She removes her head from the well. ‘Yes, probably.’

‘Probably, or actually? It’s important, Grace.’

‘I can see that,’ she says, pulling herself clear and wiping her hands. ‘Has he done something wrong?’

‘I really hope not.’

‘So do I,’ she says, mirroring my concern. ‘Let me think? Wait a tick, yes, he was there! He stole an entire fruitcake from the kitchen, I remember him giving me and Donald some. Must have driven Mrs Drudge wild.’

‘What about Michael Hardcastle, was he there?’

‘Michael? Why, I don’t know...’

A hand goes to a curl of hair, twisting it around her finger while she thinks. It’s a familiar gesture, one that fills Rashton with such an overpowering love it’s almost enough to push me aside completely.

‘He was in bed, I think,’ she says eventually. ‘Sick with something or other, one of those childish things.’

She takes my hand in both of her own, holding me fast in those beautiful blue eyes.

‘Are you doing something dangerous, Jim?’ she asks.

‘Yes.’

‘Are you doing it for Charles?’

‘Partly.’

‘Will you ever tell me about it?’

‘Yes, when I know what needs to be said.’

Standing on her tiptoes, she kisses me on the nose.

‘Then you’d better get going,’ she says, rubbing her lipstick off my skin. ‘I know what you’re like when you’ve got a bone to dig up, and you won’t be happy until you have it.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Say it with the story, and say it soon.’

‘I will,’ I say.

It’s Rashton who kisses her now. When I do wrestle this body back from him, I’m flushed and embarrassed, Grace grinning at me with a wicked glint in her eye. It’s all I can do to leave her there, but for the first time since this began, I have my hands around the truth and unless I dig my fingers in, I’m worried it’ll slip free. I need to talk to Anna.

I make my way along the cobbled path around the rear of the gatehouse, shaking the rain from my trench coat before hanging it on the rack in the kitchen. Footsteps echo through the floor, heartbeats in the wood. A commotion’s coming from the sitting room on my right, the place where Dance and his cronies met Peter Hardcastle this morning. My first assumption is that one of them has returned, but, opening the door, I find Anna standing over Peter Hardcastle, who’s slumped in the same chair I found him in earlier.

He’s dead.

‘Anna,’ I say quietly.

She turns to greet me, shock on her face.

‘I heard a noise and came down...’ she says, gesturing at the body. Unlike myself, she’s not spent the day wading through blood, and finding a body has hit her hard.

‘Why don’t you go splash some water on your face?’ I say, touching her lightly on the arm. ‘I’ll have a nose around.’

She nods at me gratefully, offering the body one last lingering look before hurrying out of the room. I can’t say I blame her. His once handsome features are frightfully twisted, his right eye barely open, his left eye fully exposed. His hands are gripping the arms of the chair, his back arched in pain. Whatever happened here took his dignity and his life at the same time.

My first thought would be heart attack, but Rashton’s instincts make me cautious.

I reach out to close his eyes, but can’t bring myself to touch him. With so few hosts left, I’d rather not tempt death’s gaze back towards me.

There’s a folded letter sticking out of his top pocket and, plucking it free, I read the message inside.

I couldn’t marry Ravencourt and I couldn’t forgive my family for making me do so. They brought this on themselves.

Evelyn Hardcastle

A draught is blowing in through an open window. Mud smears the frame, suggesting somebody made their escape through it. About the only note of disturbance I can see is a drawer that’s been left hanging open. It’s the one I rifled through as Dance, and sure enough, Peter’s organiser is missing. First somebody tore a page out of Helena’s planner and now they’ve taken Peter’s. Something Helena did today is worth killing to cover up. That’s useful information. Horrific, but useful.

Putting the letter in my pocket, I poke my head out of the window, looking for some evidence of the murderer’s identity. There’s not much to see, aside from a few footsteps in the dirt, already washing away in the rain. From their shape and size, whoever fled the gatehouse was a woman in pointed boots, which might give the note some credence except that I know Evelyn is with Bell.

She couldn’t have done this.