The Seven Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle

The instant he’s alone, Michael springs out of his grief, his shoulders straightening and eyes hardening, his sorrow transformed into something altogether more feral. Hurrying over to Evelyn’s body, he searches her bloodied stomach for a bullet hole, murmuring to himself when he doesn’t find one.

Frowning, he removes the magazine from the gun I gave him outside, finding it loaded. Evelyn was supposed to take a black revolver to the pool, not this silver pistol. He must be wondering what caused her to change the plan, and whether she’s actually carried through on the plot.

Satisfied she’s still alive, he backs away, fingers drumming his lips as he weighs the pistol. He appears to be in communion with it, frowning and biting his lip as though navigating a series of tricky questions. I lose sight of him momentarily when he strides off into the corner of the room, forcing me to lean out a little from my hiding place to get a better look. He’s picked up an embroidered pillow from one of the chairs and he brings it to Evelyn, pressing it against her stomach, presumably to muffle the sound of the pistol jammed up against it.

There isn’t even a pause, any sort of goodbye. Turning his face away, he pulls the trigger.

The pistol clicks impotently. He tries again and again, until I step out from behind the screen, putting an end to this charade.

‘It won’t work,’ I say. ‘I filed down the firing pin.’

He doesn’t turn around. He doesn’t even let go of the pistol.

‘I’ll make you a rich man if you let me kill her, Inspector,’ he says, a quiver in his voice.

‘I can’t do that, and as I told you outside, I’m a constable.’

‘Oh, not for very much longer with a mind like yours, I’m sure.’

He’s trembling, the pistol still held firm against Evelyn’s body. Sweat is trickling down my spine, the tension in the room thick enough to scoop up in handfuls.

‘Drop the weapon and turn around, Mr Hardcastle. Slowly, if you please.’

‘You don’t need to fear me, Inspector,’ he says, dropping the pistol into a plant pot and turning around with his hands in the air. ‘I have no desire to hurt anybody.’

‘No desire?’ I say, surprised by the sorrow on his face. ‘You tried to put five bullets into your own sister.’

‘And every one of them would have been a kindness, I assure you.’

Hands still raised, he angles a long finger towards an armchair near the chessboard where I first met Evelyn.

‘Mind if I sit down?’ he asks. ‘I’m feeling a little light-headed.’

‘Be my guest,’ I say, watching him closely as he drops into the chair. Part of me worries he’s going to make a dash for the door, but truth be told he looks like a man who’s had all the fight wrung out of him. He’s pale and twitchy, arms hanging limp by his sides, legs splayed out before him. If I had to guess, I’d say it took all his strength to decide to pull the trigger.

Murder didn’t come easy to this man.

I let him settle, then drag a wingback chair over from the window to sit opposite him.

‘How did you know what I was planning to do?’ he asks.

‘It was the revolvers,’ I say, sinking a little deeper into the cushion.

‘The revolvers?’

‘Two matching black revolvers were taken from your mother’s room, early this morning. Evelyn had one, and you the other. I couldn’t understand why.’

‘I’m not following.’

‘The only obvious reasons Evelyn had to steal a gun were because she thought herself in danger – a rather redundant explanation for somebody about to commit suicide – or because she planned to use it in the suicide. The latter being more likely, what reason could she possibly have for taking both of the revolvers? Surely one was up to the task.’

‘And where did these thoughts lead you?’

‘Nowhere, until Dance noticed you carrying the second revolver on the hunt. What had been odd, was now damn peculiar. A woman contemplating suicide, at her lowest ebb, has enough forethought to remember her brother’s aversion to hunting and steal the second weapon for him?’

‘My sister loves me a great deal, Inspector.’

‘Perhaps, but you told Dance that you didn’t know you were going hunting until midday, and the revolvers disappeared from your mother’s room early in the morning, well before that decision was made. Evelyn couldn’t possibly have taken the second gun for the reason you suggested. Once I heard about your sister’s fake suicide scheme I realised you were lying, and from there everything became clear. Evelyn didn’t take the revolvers from your mother’s room. You did. You kept one, and gave Evelyn the other to use as a prop.’

‘Evelyn told you about the fake suicide?’ he asks, his tone dubious.