The Seven Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle

I stand at the leaded window, half concealed by the velvet drapes. Out on the driveway, Michael is mingling with the other men. They’re heaving beneath their thick coats, shotguns crooked over their elbows, laughing and chatting, cold breath escaping their lips. Freed from the house with a slaughter to enjoy, they seem almost human.

Daniel’s words were comforting, but they can’t absolve me. I should be out there with them, searching for the body of the woman I failed. Instead, I’m running away. The very least I can do is endure the shame of watching them set off without me.

Dogs pass by the window, straining at leads their masters are struggling to hold. The two commotions merge, striking off across the lawn towards the forest, in precisely the direction I indicated to Daniel, although I can’t see my friend among them. He must be joining the group later.

I wait for the last of them to disappear among the trees before returning to the map on the wall. If it’s correct, the stables aren’t too far from the house. Surely that’s where I’ll find the stablemaster. He can arrange a carriage to the village and from there I’ll catch a train home.

I turn for the drawing room, only to find the doorway blocked by a huge black crow.

My heart leaps, and so do I, straight into the sideboard, sending family photographs and trinkets clattering to the floor.

‘You don’t need to be afraid,’ says the creature, taking a half step out of the gloom.

It’s not a bird at all. It’s a man dressed as a medieval plague doctor, his feathers a black greatcoat, the beak belonging to a porcelain mask, glinting in the light of a nearby lamp. Presumably this is his costume for the ball tonight, though that doesn’t explain why he’s wearing such sinister garb in the middle of the day.

‘You startled me,’ I say, clutching my chest and laughing in embarrassment as I try to shake off my fright. He cocks his head, examining me as if I’m a stray animal he’s found sitting on the carpet.

‘What did you bring with you?’ he asks.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘You woke up with a word on your lips, what was it?’

‘Do we know each other?’ I ask, glancing through the door into the drawing room, hoping to see another guest. Unfortunately, we’re alone, which was almost certainly his intention, I realise with growing alarm.

‘I know you,’ he says. ‘That’s enough for now. What was the word, please?’

‘Why not take off the mask so we might speak face to face,’ I say.

‘My mask is the least of your concerns, Doctor Bell,’ he says. ‘Answer the question.’

Though he’s said nothing threatening, the porcelain muffles his voice, adding a low animal rumble to every sentence.

‘Anna,’ I say, clamping my hand on my thigh to stop my leg from jogging.

He sighs. ‘That’s a pity.’

‘Do you know who she is?’ I say, hopefully. ‘Nobody else in the house has ever heard of her.’

‘I’d be surprised if they had,’ he says, waving away my question with a gloved hand. Reaching into his coat, he pulls out a golden pocket watch, tutting at the time. ‘We’ll have work to do before long, but not today and not while you’re in this state. We’ll speak again soon, when everything’s a little clearer. In the meantime, I’d advise you to acquaint yourself with Blackheath and your fellow guests. Enjoy yourself while you can, Doctor, the footman will find you soon.’

‘The footman?’ I say, the name ringing an alarm bell somewhere deep within me. ‘Is he responsible for Anna’s murder, or the wounds on my arm?’

‘I very much doubt it,’ says the Plague Doctor. ‘The footman isn’t going to stop with your arm.’

There’s a tremendous thump behind me, and I spin towards the noise. A small splash of blood smears the window, a dying bird thrashing the last of its life away among the weeds and withered flowers below. The poor thing must have flown into the glass. I’m startled by the pity I feel, a tear creeping into my eye at this wasted life. Resolving to bury the bird before I do anything else, I turn around, intending to make my excuses to my enigmatic companion, but he’s already left.

I look at my hands. They’re clutched so tightly my fingernails are digging into my palms.

‘The footman,’ I repeat to myself.

The name means nothing, but the feeling it evokes is unmistakable. For some reason, I’m terrified of this person.

Fear carries me over to the writing desk and the letter opener I saw earlier. It’s small, but sharp enough to draw blood from the tip of my thumb. Sucking the wound, I pocket the weapon. It’s not much, but it’s enough to stop me barricading myself in this room.