The Seven Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle

I take a seat opposite Peter Hardcastle, as Dance did this morning. Despite the late hour, the memory of that gathering is still about the room. The glasses we drank from haven’t been removed from the table and the cigar smoke still hangs in the air. Hardcastle’s wearing the same clothes I last saw him in, meaning he never got changed for the hunt, so it’s likely he’s been dead for a couple of hours. One by one I dab my finger into the dregs of the drinks, tasting each of them with the tip of my tongue. They’re all fine, except for Lord Hardcastle’s. Behind the charred whisky lies a subtle bitter taste.

Rashton recognises it immediately.

‘Strychnine,’ I say, staring into the victim’s twisted, smiling face. He looks delighted by the news, as though he’s sat here all this time waiting for somebody to tell him how he died. He’d probably also want to know who killed him. I have an idea about that, but for the moment an idea’s all it is.

‘Is he telling you anything?’ asks Anna, passing me a towel.

She’s still a little pale, but her voice is stronger, suggesting she’s recovered from her initial shock. Even so, she keeps her distance from the body, arms wrapped tight around herself.

‘Somebody poisoned him with strychnine,’ I say. ‘Bell supplied it.’

‘Bell? Your first host? You think he’s tied up in all of this?’

‘Not willingly,’ I say, drying my hair. ‘He’s too much of a coward to tangle himself up in murder. Strychnine is often sold in small quantities as rat poison. If the killer was part of the household, they could have requested a significant amount under the guise of getting Blackheath up and running. Bell would have no reason to be suspicious until the bodies started appearing. That probably explains why somebody tried to kill him.’

‘How do you know all of this?’ says Anna, astonished.

‘Rashton knows it,’ I say, tapping my forehead. ‘He worked on a strychnine case a few years back. Nasty business. Matter of inheritance.’

‘And you can just... remember it?’

I nod, still thinking through the implications of the poisoning.

‘Somebody lured Bell out to the forest last night, intending to silence him,’ I say to myself. ‘But the good doctor managed to escape with only the injuries to his arms, losing his pursuer in the darkness. Lucky fellow.’

Anna’s looking at me strangely.

‘What’s wrong?’ I say, frowning.

‘It’s the way you were speaking’ – she falters – ‘it wasn’t... I didn’t recognise you. Aiden, how much of you is still in there?’

‘Enough,’ I say impatiently, handing her the letter I found in Hardcastle’s pocket. ‘You should see this. Somebody wants us to believe this is Evelyn’s doing. The murderer’s trying to wrap it all up in a nice little bow.’

She drags her gaze away from me, and reads the letter.

‘What if we’ve been looking at this all wrong?’ she says, after she’s finished. ‘What if somebody means to knock off the entire Hardcastle family, and Evelyn is just the first?’

‘You think Helena’s hiding?’

‘If she’s got any sense, that’s exactly what she’s doing.’

I let my mind bat the idea around for a while, trying to see it from every angle. Or at least, I try. It’s too heavy. Too ponderous. I can’t see what could be on the other side.

‘What do we next?’ she asks.

‘I need you to tell Evelyn that the butler’s awake and that he needs to speak with her, privately,’ I say, getting to my feet.

‘But the butler isn’t awake, and he doesn’t want to speak with her.’

‘No, but I do, and I’d rather stay out of the footman’s crosshairs if I can.’

‘Of course I’ll go, but you need to watch the butler and Gold in my place,’ she says.

‘I will.’

‘And what are you going to say to Evelyn when she gets here?’

‘I’m going to tell her how she dies.’

50

It’s 5:42 p.m. and Anna hasn’t returned.

It’s been over three hours since she left. Three hours of fidgeting and worrying, the shotgun laid across my lap, leaping into my hands at the slightest noise, making it a near-constant presence in my arms. I don’t know how Anna did it.

This place is never at rest. The wind claws its way through the cracks in the windows, howling up and down the corridor. Timbers creak, floorboards stretch, shifting under their own weight as though the gatehouse were an old man trying to rise out of his chair. Time and again I heard steps approaching, only to open the door and find I’d been tricked by the banging of a loose shutter or a tree branch rapping on the window.