The Last Murder at the End of the World: A Novel

Praise for The Last Murder at the End of the World

"A mind-bending, genre-blending, boy-that-ending mystery unlike any I’ve ever read. A treat and a triumph."

—A. J. Finn

"An extraordinary novel. Midsommar meets Station Eleven meets The Mist meets a fresh postapocalyptic murder mystery. Audacious and utterly mind-blowing. Stu Turton is one of the most inventive writers working today."

—Will Dean

Stuart Turton’s literary pyrotechnics are on full display in this magnificently sly novel. Part Holmesian deduction, part Shyamalan-level twists, Turton somehow manages to reinvent both himself and the mystery genre with every book. An absolute blast.

—Benjamin Stevenson

Stu Turton is the master of intricately plotted, brilliantly imaginative murder mysteries. His latest delivers all that wonderful head-scratching complexity in a darkly drawn future world with a message about what makes us human at its heart. I loved it.

—C. J. Tudor

"Stu Turton has done it again with The Last Murder at the End of the World, the mad, alchemy-embracing bastard. A murder mystery wrapped in a sci-fi allegory, it’s utterly gripping, constantly confounding, and will be another monster hit."

—Adam Simcox

"Even better than The 7½ Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle. Turton’s cemented his reputation as the king of the mind-blowing mystery."

—Gareth Rubin, Sunday Times bestselling author of The Turnglass

Set in a postapocalyptic world, with a literal village full of incredible characters, this is an original take on the murder mystery, and I loved it. Unique, thought-provoking, but above all, addictive.

—Louise Hare, author of This Lovely City and Miss Aldridge Regrets

"The Last Murder at the End of the World is wildly inventive. Stuart Turton is a unique talent."

—M. W. Craven

"Stu Turton has done it again. I finished The Last Murder at the End of the World last night, and it might just be his barmiest, cleverest, and creepiest mystery yet. Buckle up, because you’ve never read a whodunit like this one."

—Tom Hindle

"Believe the hype about this book. I absolutely raced through. Such a great sharp little jigsaw of a sci-fi mystery."

—Alice Bell

"A unique, intricate murder mystery absolutely full of heart, The Last Murder at the End of the World is a heartbreaking exploration of what it means to be human."

—Vikki Patis

Praise for The Devil and the Dark Water

"The Devil and the Dark Water is mind-bending, genre-bending, intricate, vivid, intelligent, and with one of the most gloriously grizzly casts of characters ever. An absolute razztwizzler of a novel."

—Ali Land, Sunday Times bestselling author of Good Me Bad Me

An absolute treat from the most original voice in crime fiction.

—Ragnar Jónasson, international bestselling author of Snowblind and The Island

Praise for The 7½ Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle

"Dazzling. A revolving door of suspects (and narrators); a sumptuous country-house setting; a pure-silk Möbius strip of a story. This bracingly original, fiendishly clever murder mystery—Agatha Christie meets Groundhog Day—is quite unlike anything I’ve ever read and altogether triumphant. I wish I’d written it."

—A. J. Finn, #1 New York Times bestselling author of The Woman in the Window

"I hereby declare Stuart Turton the Mad Hatter of Crime. The 7½ Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle is unique, energizing, and clever. So original, a brilliant read."

—Ali Land, Sunday Times bestselling author of Good Me Bad Me

"Pop your favorite Agatha Christie whodunit into a blender with a scoop of Downton Abbey, a dash of Quantum Leap, and a liberal sprinkling of Groundhog Day, and you’ll get this unique murder mystery."

—Harper’s Bazaar

Turton’s debut is a brainy, action-filled send-up of the classic mystery.

—Kirkus Reviews

"If Agatha Christie and Terry Pratchett had ever had LSD-fueled sex, then The 7½ Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle would be their acid trip book baby. Darkly comic, mind-blowingly twisty, and with a cast of fantastically odd characters, this is a locked room mystery like no other."

—Sarah Pinborough, New York Times bestselling author

This novel is so ingenious and original that it’s difficult to believe it’s Turton’s debut. The writing is completely immersive… Readers may be scratching their heads in delicious befuddlement as they work their way through this novel, but one thing will be absolutely clear: Stuart Turton is an author to remember.

—Booklist, Starred Review

Atmospheric and unique, this is a mystery that adds ‘Who am I?’ to the question of whodunit, with existentially suspenseful results.

—Foreword Reviews

This book blew my mind! Utterly original and unique.

—Sophie Hannah, international bestselling author

"Agatha Christie meets Downton Abbey with a splash of red wine and Twin Peaks. Dark and twisty, lush and riddled with gorgeous prose, part of me will always be trapped in Blackheath."

—Delilah S. Dawson, New York Times bestselling author

"A kaleidoscopic mystery that brilliantly bends the limits of the genre and the mind of the reader. The 7½ Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle is urgent, inventive, creepy, and, above all, a blast to read!"

—Matthew Sullivan, author of Midnight at the Bright Ideas Bookstore

Absolute envy-making bloody murderous brilliance.

—Natasha Pulley, author of The Watchmaker of Filigree Street

I’m green with envy; I wish I’d written this book.

—Jenny Blackhurst, author of How I Lost You

Gloriously inventive, playful, and clever, this is a must for mystery fans. I wish I’d written it myself.

—Robin Stevens, author of the Wells and Wong Mystery series

Stuart Turton’s debut novel is dazzling in its complexity, astonishing in its fiendishness, and shocking in its sheer audacity. Every page, every character, and every deliciously dark secret is an absolute treat. Turton is going places.

—Anna Stephens, author of the Godblind trilogy

Audaciously inventive, gripping, and original.

—Louise O’Neill, author of Only Ever Yours and Asking for It

This book had me mesmerized from the very first page to the last. A totally unique premise and a beautifully plotted tale told with breathtaking skill. One of the best books I’ve read in a long time. Every page either sparkles or fizzes with beauty or danger. This is a real mind-melter of a novel from a writer who has complete mastery over his work. If more people could write like this, who’d need cinema?

—Imran Mahmood, author of You Don’t Know Me

Brilliant, brilliant, brilliant! It’s a work of sheer genius. An amazing, unique book that blew my mind.

—Sarah J. Harris, author of The Color of Bee Larkham’s Murder

"Bonkers but brilliant. It’s an Agatha Christie manor-house mystery—with a Black Mirror twist. Kept me engrossed and guessing throughout, and I still didn’t figure it out."

—Kirsty Logan, author of The Gracekeepers

Also by Stuart Turton

The 7½ Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle

The Devil and the Dark Water

Copyright © 2024, 2025 by Stuart Turton

Cover and internal design © 2024 by Sourcebooks

Cover design by David Mann

Cover images © Tithi Luadthong/Shutterstock, Rocks n Roses/Shutterstock

Map © 2024 by Emily Faccini

Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks.

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Apart from well-known historical figures, any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

Published by Sourcebooks Landmark, an imprint of Sourcebooks

P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

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Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file with the Library of Congress.

To Resa,

For having a heart twice the size of anybody else’s.

For being funny, even when you’re grumpy.

For listening. And caring.

And the cups of tea.

For smiling when I walk into a room.

For the life that radiates out of you like sunlight.

For being with me, even when it’s not easy.

You’re my best friend, and the person I love most in the world.

Next time you catch me looking at you and you ask me what I’m thinking, it’s that. It’s always that.

As requested, I have compiled a list of people whose lives, or deaths, will be necessary for your plan to succeed. Watch them carefully. They all have a part to play in what’s coming.

The Investigators

Emory & her daughter, Clara

Their Family

Matis (Emory’s grandfather)

Seth (Emory’s father)

Jack (Emory’s husband—deceased)

Judith (Emory’s mother—deceased)

The Scientists

Niema Mandripilias

Hephaestus Mandripilias

Thea Sinclair

Villagers of Consequence

Hui (Clara’s best friend)

Magdalene (Emory’s best friend)

Ben (newest arrival to the village)

Adil (Magdalene’s grandfather)

Contents

Prologue

107 Hours until Humanity’s Extinction

1

2

3

4

5

6

74 Hours until Humanity’s Extinction

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

50 Hours until Humanity’s Extinction

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

30

31

32

33

34

35

36

37

38

39

40

41

42

43

44

45

46

47

48

49

50

51

52

53

54

23 Hours until Humanity’s Extinction

55

56

57

58

59

60

61

62

63

64

65

66

67

2 Hours until Humanity’s Extinction

68

69

70

71

72

73

74

75

76

77

78

79

27 Hours after Humanity’s Survival

80

epilogue

Afterword

Reading Group Guide

A Conversation with the Author

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Prologue

Is there no other way? asks a horrified Niema Mandripilias, speaking out loud in an empty room.

She has olive skin and a smudge of ink on her small nose. Her gray hair is shoulder length, and her eyes are strikingly blue with flecks of green. She looks to be around fifty and has for the last forty years. She’s hunched over her desk, lit by a solitary candle. There’s a pen in her trembling hand and a confession beneath it that she’s been trying to finish for the last hour.

None that I can see, I reply in her thoughts. Somebody has to die for this plan to work.

Suddenly short of air, Niema scrapes her chair back and darts across the room, swiping aside the tattered sheet that serves as a makeshift door before stepping into the muggy night air.

It’s pitch-black outside, the moon mobbed by storm clouds. Rain is pummeling the shrouded village, filling her nostrils with the scent of wet earth and cypress trees. She can just about see the tops of the encircling walls, etched in silver moonlight. Somewhere in the darkness, she can hear the distant squeal of machinery and the synchronized drumbeat of footsteps.

She stands there, letting the warm rain soak her hair and dress. I knew there’d be a cost, she says, her voice numb. I didn’t realize it would be so high.

There’s still time to put this plan aside, I say. Leave your secrets buried, and let everybody go about their lives as they’ve always done. Nobody has to die.

And nothing will change, she shoots back angrily. I’ve spent ninety years trying to rid humanity of its selfishness, greed, and impulse toward violence. Finally, I have a way to do it. She touches the tarnished cross hanging around her neck for comfort. If this plan works, we’ll create a world without suffering. For the first time in our history, there’ll be perfect equality. I can’t turn my back on that because I don’t have the strength to do what’s necessary.

Niema speaks as if her dreams were fish swimming willingly into her net, but these are murky waters, far more dangerous than she can see.

From my vantage in her mind—and the minds of everybody on the island—I can predict the future with a high degree of accuracy. It’s a confluence of probability and psychology, which is easy to chart when you have access to everybody’s thoughts.

Streaking away from this moment are dozens of possible futures, each waiting to be conjured into existence by a random event, an idle phrase, a miscommunication, or an overheard conversation.

Unless a violin performance goes flawlessly, a knife will be rammed into Niema’s chest. If the wrong person steps through a long-closed door, a huge, scarred man will be emptied of every memory, and a young woman who isn’t young at all will run willingly to her own death. If these things don’t happen, the last island on earth will end up covered in fog, everything dead in the gloom.

We can avoid those pitfalls if we’re cautious, says Niema, watching lightning tear through the sky.

You don’t have time to be cautious, I insist. Once you commit to this plan, secrets will surface, old grudges will come to light, and people you love will realize the extent of your betrayal. If any of these things disrupts your plan, the human race will be rendered extinct in one hundred and seven hours.

Niema’s heart jolts, her pulse quickening. Her thoughts waver, only to harden again as her arrogance takes the reins.

The greatest achievements have always brought the greatest risk, she says stubbornly, watching a line of figures walking stiffly in the darkness. Start your countdown, Abi. In four days, we’re either going to change the world or die trying.

107 Hours until Humanity’s Extinction

1

Two rowboats float at world’s end, a rope pulled taut between them. There are three children in each with exercise books and pencils, listening to Niema deliver her lesson.

She’s at the bow of the boat on the right, gesticulating toward a wall of black fog that rises a mile into the air from the ocean’s surface. The setting sun is diffused through the sooty darkness, creating the illusion of flames burning on the water.

Thousands of insects are swirling inside, glowing gently.

They’re held back by a barrier produced by twenty-three emitters located around the island’s perimeter…

Niema’s lesson wafts past Seth, who’s the only person in either of the boats not paying attention. Unlike the children, who range in age from eight to twelve, Seth’s forty-nine, with a creased face and sunken eyes. It’s his job to row Niema and her students out here and back again when they’re done.

He’s peering over the edge, his fingers in the water. The ocean’s warm and clear, but it won’t stay that way. It’s October, a month of uncertain temper. Glorious sunshine gives way to sudden storms, which burn themselves out quickly, then apologize as they hurry away, leaving bright-blue skies in their wake.

The emitters were designed to run for hundreds of years unless… Niema falters, losing her thread.

Seth looks toward the bow to find her staring into space. She’s given this same lesson every year since he was a boy, and he’s never once heard her trip over the wording.

Something has to be wrong. She’s been like this all day: seeing through people, only half listening. It’s not like her.

A swell brings a dead fish floating by Seth’s hand, its body torn to shreds, its eyes white. More follow, thudding into the hull one after another. There are dozens of them, equally torn apart, drifting out of the black fog. Their cold scales brush against his skin, and he snatches his hand back inside the boat.

As you can see, the fog kills anything it touches, Niema tells her students, gesturing to the fish. Unfortunately, it covers the entire earth, except for our island and half a mile of ocean surrounding it.

2

Magdalene’s sitting cross-legged at the end of a long concrete pier that extends into the glittering bay. Her hair is a tangled red pile, clumsily tied up with a torn piece of yellow linen. She looks like some ancient figurehead fallen off her galleon.

It’s early evening, and the bay is filled with swimmers doing laps or else hurling themselves off the rocks to her left, their laughter chasing them into the water.

Magdalene’s staring at the distant rowboats with the children in them, a few flicks of charcoal adding them to the sketchbook in her lap. They seem so small against the wall of black.

She shudders.

Her eleven-year-old son, Sherko, is in one of those boats. She’s never understood why Niema insists on taking them all the way to world’s end for this lesson. Surely, they could learn about their history without being in touching distance of it.

She remembers being out there when she was a girl, hearing this same lesson from the same teacher. She cried the entire way and nearly jumped out to swim for home when they dropped anchor.

The children are safe with Niema, I say reassuringly.

Magdalene shivers. She thought sketching this moment would alleviate her worry, but she can’t watch any longer. She was only given her son three years ago, and she still mistakes him for fragile.

What’s the time, Abi?

5:43 p.m.

She notes it in the corner, alongside the date, jabbing a pin in history, which flutters and rustles on the page.

After blowing away the charcoal dust, she stands and turns for the village. It was formerly a naval base, and from this vantage, it appears much more inhospitable than it actually is. The buildings inside are protected by a high wall, which is covered in ancient graffiti, weeds sprouting from long cracks. Vaulted roofs peek over the top, their gutters hanging loose, the solar panels made into glinting mirrors by the bright sunlight.

Magdalene follows a paved road through a rusted iron gate, the sentry towers so overrun by vegetation they look like hedges.

The barracks looms up in front of her. It’s n-shaped and four stories high, made of crumbling concrete blocks, every inch painted with jungle, flowers, and birds, animals stalking through the undergrowth. It’s a fantasy land, the paradise of people who’ve grown up surrounded by dry earth and barren rock.

Rickety staircases and rusted balconies grant access to the dormitories inside, none of which have doors or windows in the frames. A few villagers are hanging their washing over the railings or sitting on the steps, trying to catch whatever scraps of breeze dare to clamber over the wall. Friends call to her cheerfully, but she’s too anxious to respond.

Where’s Emory? she asks, her eyes moving fretfully across the faces in front of her.

Near the kitchen, with her grandfather.

Magdalene heads into the space between the two wings of the barracks, searching for her best friend. This used to be an exercise yard for the troops, but it’s slowly been transformed into a park by three generations of villagers.

Flowers have been planted in long beds along the walls, and the old collapsed radar dish has been patched up and turned into a huge bird bath. Four rusted jeeps serve as potters for herbs, while lemon and orange trees grow out of shell casings. There’s a covered stage for musical performances and an outdoor kitchen with six long tables for communal meals. Everybody eats together every night.

One hundred and twenty-two people live in the village, and most of them are in this yard. Games are being played, instruments practiced, and poems written. Performances are being rehearsed on the stage. Food is being cooked and new dishes attempted.

There’s a lot of laughter.

For a second, this joy loosens Magdalene’s worry. She scans the area, searching for Emory, who isn’t hard to find. Most of the villagers are squat and broad-shouldered, but Emory’s slighter and shorter than most, with oval eyes and a huge head of curly brown hair. She once described herself as looking like some strange species of dandelion.

Stay still, demands Matis, peering around the statue. I’m almost finished.

Matis is nearly sixty, which makes him the oldest man in the village. He’s thick-armed, with gray whiskers and bushy eyebrows.

I’m itchy, complains Emory, struggling to reach a spot on her upper back.

I gave you a break half an hour ago.

For fifteen minutes! she exclaims. I’ve been standing here with this stupid apple for six hours.

Art always has a price, he says loftily.

Emory sticks her tongue out at him, then resumes her pose, lifting the gleaming apple into the air.

Muttering, Matis returns to his work, shaving a sliver from the sculpture’s chin. He’s so close to it, his nose is almost touching the stone. His eyesight has been fading for the last decade, but there’s nothing we can do. Even if we could, there’d be little point. He’ll be dead tomorrow.

3

Emory sees Magdalene striding toward her, one of her sketchbooks under her arm. She’s moving stiffly, knotted by worry.

Emory doesn’t need to ask what’s wrong. Magdalene’s fear for her son is obsessive. She sees snakes in every patch of grass and strong currents under every stretch of calm water. Every splinter brings sepsis, and every illness is fatal. By Magdalene’s reckoning, this island has a thousand clawed hands, and they’re all reaching for her child.

Abandoning her pose, Emory gives her friend a hug.

Don’t worry, Mags. Sherko will be fine, says Emory comfortingly.

Magdalene’s face is buried against Emory’s shoulder, her voice muffled.

One swell and—

They’re at anchor, says Emory. Niema’s been taking kids out to world’s end since before we were born. Nobody ever gets hurt.

That doesn’t mean it couldn’t happen today.

Emory’s eyes scour the blue sky. The sun is behind the volcano, which looms up behind the village, and the moon is already taking shape. In an hour, they’ll be painted in shade.

They’ll be home soon, says Emory kindly. Come on. We can help set the tables for the funeral; it’ll take your mind off it.

Her eyes flash toward Matis guiltily. She should be spending these last hours with her grandfather, but he silently shoos her away.

Forty minutes later, the six schoolchildren come running through the gate, to the jubilation of the village. Magdalene engulfs Sherko, earning a squirming giggle, as the rest of them are hugged and kissed, bounced from adult to adult until finally they reach their parents, mussed and laughing.

The crowd murmurs warmly, parting to let Niema through. There are three elders in the village and they’re all revered, but only Niema is loved. The villagers stroke her arms as she passes, their faces bright with adoration.

Niema bestows smiles on each of them in turn, squeezing their hands. The other two elders, Hephaestus and Thea, keep to themselves, but Niema eats with the villagers every night. She dances along to the band and sings at the top of her voice during the chorus.

Niema lays a comforting hand on Magdalene’s shoulder, then lifts her chin with a fingertip. Niema’s a head taller than most villagers, forcing Magdalene to crane her neck to meet her gaze.

I know what you’re worried about, but I’ll never put any of these children in harm’s way, she says, her voice a low rasp. There’s so few of us left. We need every one of them kept safe.

Tears brim in Magdalene’s eyes, her expression awestruck and grateful. Unlike Emory, she didn’t catch the hitch in Niema’s voice, the faint drag of doubt.

After laying on a little more sentiment, Niema works her way back out of the crowd, gracefully linking arms with Emory on her way to the barracks.

That should hold her for a few days, she says when they’re out of earshot. Come fetch me next time she starts fretting. I was worried she was going to swim out to the boat.

I’ve been trying to calm her down for an hour, says Emory, glancing at Magdalene’s beatific expression. How did you do that?

I’m just old, replies Niema brightly. Wrinkles look like wisdom to the young. She lowers her voice conspiratorially, tapping Emory’s hand. Come on. I have another book for you.

Emory’s heart leaps in excitement.

Arm in arm, they walk in companionable silence through the humid air, which is filling with fireflies as twilight descends. This is Emory’s favorite time of day. The sky is pink and purple, the stone walls blushing. The fierce heat has receded to a pleasant warmth, and everybody’s back inside the village, their joy pouring into the empty spaces.

How’s the carpentry coming? asks Niema.

The villagers leave school at fifteen, and they’re free to choose any occupation that’s of benefit to the community, but Emory’s been cycling through jobs for a decade, struggling to make headway in any of them.

I gave it up, she admits.

Oh, why?

Johannes begged me to, replies Emory sheepishly. It turns out I’m not very good at sawing wood, planing beams, or making joints, and he didn’t think a wonky cabinet was worth losing a finger over.

Niema laughs. What about the cooking? What happened to that?

Katia told me that dicing an onion should be the start of my kitchen skills, not the end of them, says Emory dejectedly. Before that, Daniel told me that it didn’t matter which way I held a guitar, because it would all sound the same. Mags lent me her paint for half a day, then didn’t stop laughing for a week. It turns out I’m hopeless at everything.

You’re very observant, remarks Niema gently.

What use is that when Abi sees everything we do anyway, replies Emory disconsolately. I want to be of service to the village, but I have no idea how.

Actually, I’ve been wondering if you might like to come and work in the school with me, says Niema tentatively. I’m going to need somebody to take over, and I think you’d make an excellent replacement.

For a second, Emory can only frown at this suggestion. Niema’s been the village’s only teacher for as long as anybody can remember.

You’re giving it up? asks Emory in surprise. Why?

Age, replies Niema, climbing the rattling steps toward her dormitory. Teaching is wonderful for the soul, but it’s a torment for my poor back. I’ve lived a long life, Emory, but my happiest memories took place in the classroom. Seeing the elation on a child’s face when they finally understand a difficult concept is an astonishing feeling. She pauses her ascent, glancing over her shoulder. I truly think you’d be good at it.

Emory’s excellent at spotting lies, and Niema’s altered pitch makes this one particularly easy to pick out.

The young woman’s eyes narrow suspiciously. And which particular qualities of mine make you think that?

Niema’s response is immediate, delivered with the brisk air of rehearsal. You’re clever and curious, and you’ve got a way with people.

Yes, they find me mildly annoying, supplies Emory. Have you been talking to my dad?

Niema falters, hesitation coming into her tone.

He may have mentioned that you’re between occupations again, she replies. But I wouldn’t have made the offer if—

Tell Dad I’m writing a play!

Niema offers her a sidelong glance. You’ve been writing a play for a year.

I don’t want to rush it.

There doesn’t seem to be any danger of that, murmurs Niema, pushing aside the tatty sheet that serves as the door to her dorm room.

This sheet has always been a quirk of hers. None of the villagers have a problem with empty doors, privacy being a concept that has remarkably little value when you’re born with a voice in your head that can hear your thoughts.

Over the years, the villagers have done their best to repair the dorms, but there’s only so much that can be done with a building this old. The concrete walls are riddled with cracks and holes; the gray floor tiles are shattered, and the beams supporting the roof are rotted. Mildew permeates the air.

Such decay is dreary, so the villagers beat it back with color and life. Niema has put down a large rug and placed a vase of freshly cut flowers on the windowsill. The walls are covered in paintings, spanning every artist who’s ever worked in the village. Most of them aren’t very good, leading Emory to wonder why Niema chose to preserve them. In many cases, the bare