The Seven Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle by Stuart Turton (2018) 407 p.

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A man awakens in a forest with no memories. He witnesses what he thinks is a murder. He makes his way to a crumbling country manor called Blackheath, where people tell him that his name is Dr Sebastian Bell. A ball is planned for that evening, to mark the return of Evelyn Hardcastle to her ancestral home. Dr Bell tries to remember what he see, tries to remember who he is. But he soon learns the rules of Blackheath, and that he in fact not Dr Bell but a visitor named Aiden Bishop. Evelyn Hardcastle will be murdered tonight, and Bishop must find her killer. The day will repeat itself over and over again; he will wake up in the body of a new “host” each day; if he has failed to solve the murder after eight days and eight hosts, the cycle will start afresh – just as it already has hundreds if not thousands of times.

So it’s a mix of Groundhog Day, The First 15 Lives of Harry August and an Agatha Christie story. The idea is intriguing enough, but falls flat as a novel. It’s clogged with purple prose, bloating up each page to the point where the book easily could have been half the length. And this is a problem, because the story moves slowly enough as it is, particularly when – given the premise – we end up experiencing the same events over and over again from the points of view of different people. As you’d expect, Blackheath has a whole cast of characters, most of them thinly drawn and with names that blend together. (Three of Bishop’s eight hosts are named Dance, Davies and Derby – for God’s sake, man, cut your readers some slack!) The mystery of how and why Bishop ended up time-hopping through Blackheath is resolved, in a sense, but the story behind that would have been far more interesting to explore in depth than the elaborate Christiesque murder plot we get instead. I’ve only ever read one Agatha Christie novel, considered her best, and found the plot laughably stupid – so if that’s what he’s trying to ape I can’t really fault Turton for creating an equally byzantine Rube Goldberg mystery. The problem is that the whole thing is tedious; by the time the killer was monologuing their way through the climax, I was just glad I was nearly done with the book. An imaginative premise – shame about the execution.

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