The Seven Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle

‘I believe you were looking for me,’ says Daniel, blowing smoke from the corner of his mouth.

He sounds different through Ravencourt’s ears, the softness shed like an old skin. Before I can answer him, he begins reading from the encyclopaedia.

‘It’s logical to believe that many of you have been here longer than I and possess knowledge of this house, our purpose here and our captor, the Plague Doctor, that I do not.’ He closes the book. ‘You called and I answered.’

I search the shrewd eyes fixed upon me.

‘You’re like me,’ I say.

‘I am you, just four days ahead,’ he says, pausing to let my mind ram itself against the idea. ‘Daniel Coleridge is your final host. Our soul, his body, if you can make any sense of that. Unfortunately, it’s his mind, too’ – he taps his forehead with his forefinger – ‘which means you and I think differently.’

He holds up the encyclopaedia.

‘Take this, for example,’ he says, letting it drop on the table. ‘Coleridge would never have thought to write to our other hosts asking for help. It was a clever idea, very logical, very Ravencourt.’

His cigarette flares in the gloom, illuminating the hollow smile beneath. This is not the Daniel of yesterday. There’s something colder, harder in his gaze, something trying to pry me open so it might peer inside. I don’t know how I didn’t see it when I was Bell. Ted Stanwin did, when he backed down in the drawing room. The thug’s cleverer than I gave him credit for.

‘So you’ve already been me... this me, Ravencourt, I mean?’ I say.

‘And those who follow him,’ he says. ‘They’re a difficult bunch, you should enjoy Ravencourt while you can.’

‘Is that why you’re here, to warn me about my other hosts?’

The notion seems to amuse him, a smile touching his lips before drifting away with the cigarette smoke.

‘No, I’ve come because I remember sitting where you are and being told what I’m about to tell you.’

‘Which is?’

There’s an ashtray on the far side of the table and he reaches across, drawing it towards him.

‘The Plague Doctor has asked you to solve a murder, but he didn’t mention the victim. It’s Evelyn Hardcastle, that’s who’s going to die at the ball tonight,’ he says, tapping ash into the ashtray.

‘Evelyn?’ I say, struggling to sit upright, splashing a little of my forgotten drink across my leg. Panic has hold of me, a terror of my friend being hurt, a woman who went out of her way to be kind to me even as her own parents filled the house with cruelty.

‘We must warn her!’ I demand.

‘To what end?’ asks Daniel, dousing my alarm with his calm. ‘We cannot solve the murder of somebody who isn’t dead and without that answer we cannot escape.’

‘You would let her die?’ I say, shocked by his callousness.

‘I’ve lived this day eight times over and she’s died every evening regardless of my actions,’ he says, running his finger along the edge of the table. ‘Whatever happened yesterday, it will happen tomorrow and the day after. I promise you, however you may consider interfering, you’ve already tried and it’s already failed.’

‘She’s my friend, Daniel,’ I say, surprised at the depth of my feeling.

‘And mine,’ he says, leaning closer. ‘But every time I’ve tried to change today’s events, I’ve ended up becoming the architect of whatever misery I was trying to prevent. Believe me, trying to save Evelyn is a waste of time. Circumstances beyond my control brought me here and very soon, sooner than you can imagine, you’ll find yourself sitting where I am, explaining it as I have and wishing you still had the luxury of Ravencourt’s hope. The future isn’t a warning my friend, it’s a promise, and it won’t be broken by us. That’s the nature of the trap we’re caught in.’

Rising from the table, he wrestles with a window’s rusty handle and pushes it open. His eyes are fixed on some distant point, a task four days beyond my comprehension. He has no interest in me, my fears or hopes. I’m just part of some old story he’s tired of telling.

‘It makes no sense,’ I say, hoping to remind him of Evelyn’s qualities, the reasons she’s worth saving. ‘Evelyn’s kind and gentle, and she’s been away for nineteen years, who’d want to harm her now?’

Even as I say it, a suspicion begins to dawn on me. In the forest yesterday, Evelyn mentioned that her parents had never forgiven her for letting Thomas wander off alone. She blamed herself for his murder at Carver’s hands, and, worst of all, so did they. Their ire was so great, she believed they were plotting some terrible surprise at the ball. Could this be it? Could they really hate their own daughter enough to murder her? If so, my meeting with Helena Hardcastle could prove fortuitous indeed.