The Seven Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle

Fireworks explode overhead, staining everything in red and purple, yellow and orange light.

I hook my arms around Evelyn’s midriff, wrestling her out of the water and onto the grass.

Slumped in the mud, I catch my breath, checking to make sure Cunningham’s taken firm hold of Michael as I asked him to.

He has.

The plan’s working. No thanks to me. The old memory the gunshot stirred almost paralysed me. Another woman, and another death. It was the fear on Evelyn’s face. That’s what did it. I recognised that fear. It’s what brought me to Blackheath, I’m certain of it.

Doctor Dickie runs up to me. He’s flushed, panting, a fortune going up in flames behind his eyes. Evelyn told me he’d been paid to fake the death certificate. The jovial old soldier’s got quite the criminal empire up and running.

‘What happened?’ he says.

‘She shot herself,’ I respond, watching the hope blossom on his face. ‘I saw the entire thing, but I couldn’t do anything.’

‘You mustn’t blame yourself.’ He clasps me by the shoulder. ‘Listen here, why don’t you go and get a brandy while I look her over. Leave it to me, eh?’

As he kneels beside the body, I scoop the silver pistol off the ground and make my way to Michael, who’s still being held fast by Cunningham. Looking at the two of them, I wouldn’t have thought it possible. Michael’s short and stocky, a bull ensnared by Cunningham’s rope-like arms. Even so, Michael’s writhing is only tightening Cunningham’s grip. A pry bar and a chisel couldn’t free him at this point.

‘I’m terribly sorry, Mr Hardcastle,’ I say, placing a sympathetic hand on the struggling man’s arm. ‘Your sister took her own life.’

The fight goes out of him immediately, tears building in his eyes as his anguished gaze goes out towards the pool.

‘You can’t know that,’ he says, straining to see past me. ‘She might still be—’

‘The doctor has confirmed it, I’m so sorry,’ I say, taking the silver pistol from my pocket and pressing it into his palm. ‘She used this gun, do you recognise it?’

‘No.’

‘Well, you should keep hold of it for the moment,’ I suggest. ‘I’ve asked a couple of footmen to carry her body into the Sun Room, away from’ – I gesture towards the gathered crowds – ‘well, everybody. If you’d like a few minutes alone with your sister, I can arrange it.’

He’s staring at the pistol dumbly, as though he’s been delivered some object from the far future.

‘Mr Hardcastle?’

Shaking his head, his empty eyes find me.

‘What... yes, of course,’ he says, his fingers closing around the gun. ‘Thank you, Inspector.’

‘Just a constable, sir,’ I say, waving Cunningham over. ‘Charles, would you mind escorting Mr Hardcastle to the Sun Room? Keep him away from the crowds, would you?’

Cunningham meets my request with a curt nod, placing a hand on Michael’s lower back and gently guiding him towards the house. Not for the first time I’m glad the valet is on my side. Watching him depart, I feel a pang of sadness that this will probably be the last time we meet. For all the mistrust and lies, I’ve grown fond of him this last week.

Dickie’s finished his examination, the old man getting slowly to his feet. Under his watchful eye, the footmen drag Evelyn’s body onto a stretcher. He wears his sadness like a second-hand suit. I don’t know how I didn’t see it before. This is murder as pantomime and everywhere I look the curtain is rustling.

As Evelyn is lifted off the ground, I race through the rain towards the Sun Room, on the far side of the house, slipping inside through the French doors I unlocked earlier, and concealing myself behind an Oriental screen. Evelyn’s grandmother watches me from the painting above the fireplace. In the flickering candlelight, I could swear she’s smiling. Perhaps she knows what I know. Maybe she’s always known and has been forced to watch day after day as the rest of us blundered through here oblivious to the truth.

No wonder she was scowling before.

Rain raps the windows as the footmen arrive with their stretcher. They move slowly, trying not to jostle the body, which is now draped in Dickie’s jacket. In no time at all they’re inside, transferring the body onto the sideboard, pressing their flat caps to their chests in respect before departing, closing the French doors behind them.

I watch them go, catching sight of myself in the glass, my hands stuffed into my pockets, Rashton’s quietly competent face suggesting nothing but certainty.

Even my reflection is lying to me.

Certainty was the first thing Blackheath took from me.

The door swings open, the draught from the corridor swiping at the candle flames. In the gaps between the screen’s panels, I can see Michael, pale and shaking, gripping the doorframe for support, tears in his eyes. Cunningham’s behind him, and after flashing a covert glance towards the screen where I’m hiding, he closes the door on us.