The 7½ Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle by Turton Stuart

Author:Turton, Stuart
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Sourcebooks
Published: 2018-09-17T16:00:00+00:00

35

Our business settled, Sutcliffe, Pettigrew, and Herrington trail out of the sitting room in a long curl of cigar smoke, as Peter Hardcastle walks over to the gramophone on the sideboard. Wiping the dust from a record with a cotton handkerchief, he lowers the needle and flicks a switch, Brahms blowing out through the flared bronze tube.

Motioning to the others to go on without me, I close the door to the hallway. Peter’s taken a seat by the fire, a window opened on his thoughts. He’s yet to notice I’ve stayed behind, and it feels as though some great chasm divides us, though in truth he’s only a step or two away.

Dance’s reticence in this matter is paralyzing. As a man who despises interruption, he is equally wary of disturbing others, and the personal nature of the questions I must ask is only compounding the problem. I’m mired in my host’s manners. Two days ago, this wouldn’t have been an obstacle, but every host is stronger than the last, and fighting Dance is like trying to walk into a gale.

Decorum allows a polite cough, Hardcastle turning in his seat to find me by the door.

“Ah, Dance, old man,” he says. “Did you forget something?”

“I was hoping we could talk privately.”

“Is there some problem with the contract?” he says warily. “I must admit I was worried Sutcliffe’s drinking might—”

“It’s not Sutcliffe. It’s Evelyn,” I say.

“Evelyn,” he says, wariness replaced by weariness. “Yes, of course. Come, sit by the fire. This damned house is drafty enough without inviting its chill.”

Giving me time to settle myself, he hitches his trouser leg, dancing a foot before the flames. Whatever his faults, his manners are meticulous.

“So,” he says after a moment, judging the rigors of etiquette to have been adequately obeyed. “What’s this about Evelyn? I assume she doesn’t want to go through with the wedding?”

Finding no easy way of framing the matter, I decide to simply toss it into his lap.

“I’m afraid it’s more serious than that,” I say. “Somebody’s set their mind to murdering your daughter.”

“Murder?”

He frowns, smiling a little, waiting for the rest of the joke to present itself. Undone by my sincerity, he leans forward, confusion wrinkling his face.

“You’re serious?” he says, hands clasped.

“I am.”

“Do you know who, or why?”

“Only how. She’s being compelled to commit suicide, otherwise, somebody she loves will be murdered. The information was relayed in a note.”

“A note?” he scoffs. “Sounds damn iffy to me. Probably just a game. You know how these girls can be.”

“It’s not a game, Peter,” I say sternly, knocking the doubt from his face.

“May I ask how you came by this information?”

“The same way I come by all my information, I listen.”

He sighs, pinching his nose, weighing the facts and the man bringing them to him.

“Do you believe somebody’s trying to sabotage our deal with Ravencourt?” he asks.

“I hadn’t considered it,” I say, startled by his response. I’d expected him to be concerned for his daughter’s well-being, perhaps spurred into making plans to ensure her safety.

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