“Thank you, Maeve,” Oliver said, “but I think Ellie can speak for herself.”
Ellie looked as if she were about to contradict him, but after several shuddering breaths, she managed to speak.
“Maeve’s right. I went up to the attic. The door was unlocked, so I went up there to search. But it was very dark. And I couldn’t find the light.” She closed her eyes and swallowed. Lorna leaned in, as though willing Ellie to speak faster. “I’m not sure what happened next. I bumped into a stack of boxes and then something—someone—leapt at me. Almost pushed me down the stairs. I ran.”
“You didn’t see what—who—it was?” The anxiety Lorna had felt last night upon her arrival returned. She glanced up and down the hall as if Ellie’s attacker might suddenly appear. “Was this before or after Maeve thought she heard something?”
“It must’ve been after,” Maeve said, “Because I heard it before Ellie started screaming. That’s why I—”
“And you ended up in this room?” Lorna asked Ellie, interrupting again. Oliver held out a hand, indicating Lorna should take it easy, but she ignored him.
“It was the first door I could open.”
“But it wasn’t unlocked when you first searched this floor?” Lorna asked.
“I . . . I don’t know. Maeve was checking the doors on that side of the hall.”
“And Maeve,” Lorna said, turning to her, “you were where?”
“Down the hall there.” Maeve pointed.
“And that’s where you thought you saw someone?”
“Heard someone. And I did hear them. I’m sure of it now.”
“But when you first passed this way,” Oliver said, “you didn’t realize the door was unlocked? You didn’t check this room?”
Maeve shrank back, hugging her arms around her waist. “No. I mean, I don’t think the door was unlocked. I mean, it could’ve been. I guess I wasn’t really paying attention.”
“Convenient, that, don’t you think, Lorna? Ellie just happens to be attacked while Maeve’s off somewhere else, and Maeve just happens to think she saw someone, and Maeve just happens not to notice an unlocked room with a dead fucking body?”
“This doesn’t matter! None of this matters!” Ellie shouted. She grabbed the note card out of Lorna’s hand and tore it into pieces. “It was an accident! Callum’s death was an accident. Why are we being punished?” She shouted to the ceiling as if someone in the attic would hear her. “It was an accident!”
“We all know that’s not true,” Lorna whispered.
The silence after she spoke was deafening. She might as well have shot off a gun. The truth they’d blanketed safely beneath so many years of lies had now been aired. Spoken aloud for the first time. They might have all been culpable for some of what happened that night, but only one of them had done the act. Lorna looked at the pieces of the card now scattered on the carpet.
You try to leave when it’s too soon, you’ll die like Hollis in your room. Someone murdered Callum dear. Till they confess, you’re all stuck here.
“Hollis died because he tried to leave,” she said.
“Hollis wouldn’t do that,” Ellie said. “He wouldn’t have . . . He’s a detective. If he was leaving, it was probably to help us.”
“Was a detective,” Oliver corrected.
“Shut up!” Lorna took a breath and lowered her voice. “Sorry, Ellie, but Hollis must have tried to leave and that’s why he’s dead. Not because the blackmailer thought it was him. That he was the one who . . .” She couldn’t finish the sentence.
“We don’t know either,” Maeve said. “We’ve never known.”
Wind gusted against the house, flapping a shutter somewhere nearby. They looked at one another. Lorna knew what they were thinking. Which of them was it? Who had done it? And would that person finally break now that over twenty years had passed? Would they confess? Or would they cling to their secret ever more tightly? Try to throw someone else under the bus? Mistrust flickered from face to face. Then, by some unspoken agreement, they decided now was not the time to cast blame. That might come later, but not now.
When the storm was quiet again, Oliver spoke.
“Let’s tell him it was Hollis. It can’t do Drummond any harm. Not anymore.” He paled, like he knew it was a crass thing to say, even if it was practical.
“Hollis was the one who found him,” Ellie said. “And isn’t it normally the person who finds the body?”
But Lorna couldn’t let Hollis take the blame for something she knew he had not done.
“It wasn’t him, though, was it?” she asked, knowing that shifting the blame from Hollis meant she was suspicious of the others. “I mean, I never really thought . . . not him.”
No one said anything, but from the looks on their faces they all thought the same.
“Hollis had been in trouble before Caldwell Street,” she said, “but he didn’t harm anyone to get out of it. There’s no reason to think a boy who rescued baby birds and little old ladies and cried when one of his rugby heroes was injured would suddenly escalate to murder.”
“It might’ve been someone else,” Ellie said. “Someone else who was there that night. At the party.”
Not one of us was left unspoken.
“There’s always a chance,” Oliver agreed.
They all left it at that and stood there in silence, trying not to glance at one another. Trying not to send an accusatory look in the wrong direction. Right now, there was a bigger enemy to fight.
“Is there a landline?” Lorna asked. “This is an old house. It has to have a landline, doesn’t it?”
“I don’t know,” Oliver said. “Maeve, did you happen to see a landline while you were wandering around the house by yourself?”
“Enough.” Lorna warned. “I think there’s one downstairs at the front desk, near the hotel register. It’s possible whoever installed the Wi-Fi jammer also cut the wires, but we should check anyway.”
They all agreed with the suggestion, but no one moved. The threat of leaving this hallway was too great. The house had become a giant mousetrap, filled with hidden dangers. The narrow walls on either side gave the illusion of containment, of safety. There was nothing to harm them in this hall. Yet their time here was limited. Eventually, they would have to move, and that time was nearing. The rain and wind picked up. The lights flickered, the house winking at them.
Oliver grabbed a heavy candlestick from a sideboard in the hall and handed it to Lorna, then gave the matching one to Ellie. He pulled open a drawer and rummaged around until he extracted what looked like a stone paperweight and tossed it to Maeve, who jumped back in fright, then bent down to pick it up. For himself, Oliver chose a smaller metal candle holder that had a bit of weight at the base.
“We’ll go downstairs together,” he said, looking each of them in the eye. “Slowly. Keep your eyes open for anything. Don’t hesitate to strike. But try to keep Caskie alive. I have a few questions I’d like to ask first.”
“God,” sighed Lorna. “When did my life turn into a game of Clue?” The comment slipped out before she could stop it. No one laughed, and she knew she shouldn’t have spoken. Like too many other things in her life, she couldn’t take it back.
Ellie
Their shoes against the hallway carpet sounded louder than shattering china. Several times, Oliver stopped and pressed a finger to his lips. He’d cock his head to the side and then wave them forward. The curves of the silver candlestick dug into Ellie’s palm as the sleeve of her jumper rubbed against the scratches on her arm. This would be heavy enough to crack open the skull of whoever had attacked her. She could still feel the nails on her skin. The hot breath on her cheek as she’d torn herself away. One false step down those attic stairs and she would’ve become like Hollis, her head bleeding out on the floor. She pictured Mr. Caskie standing over her, smiling as he watched her die, and wished she could scratch his eyes out.
Approaching the great red staircase was like walking into an open
wound. Ellie stared across the upper landing to the other wing, watching for Mr. Caskie to appear.
But no one came. What was visible of the foyer remained empty.
They hesitated at the top of the stairs for what seemed too long a time, no one saying a word. Their panicked selves from moments ago had been left outside Hollis’s door. If they retraced their steps, Ellie knew they would see themselves trapped in time, crying and screaming. They were hollow copies now. Empty shells propelled onward on nothing more than some primal instinct to survive.
Oliver finally moved them onward. Two by two they traveled down the two flights of stairs, Oliver and Ellie in front, Lorna with Maeve behind, every step taken with caution. When they reached the foyer, they huddled together like a pack of frightened animals. Oliver scanned the room’s corners, then placed his hand at the small of Maeve’s back and pushed her forward.
“Go on, then. Check it,” he said.
“What? Why me? Why can’t we all go over there together?”
While the front desk was visible, someone could easily be hiding behind. Maeve looked to Lorna and then Ellie for help, but they said nothing. Oliver had singled Maeve out, and Ellie wouldn’t interfere. The group meant safety, and Ellie would do whatever was necessary to remain safe.
Maeve, realizing she wasn’t receiving any support, detached from their huddle, gripping her stone paperweight above her head, ready to strike. Her feet stumbled on the final steps.
A shout.
Ellie flinched, but Maeve lowered the paperweight.
“He’s not here,” she said. A little laugh escaped, a shudder of nerves.
“Brilliant,” said Oliver. “The phone?”
“Right.” Maeve reached for it with the same hand that held the paperweight, winced, and set the weight aside.
Ellie held her breath. Caskie couldn’t have forgotten about the landline, could he? As Maeve lifted the receiver, hope wedged its way into her like a sliver of glass. If the landline worked, it wouldn’t matter that the Wi-Fi and cellular signals had been blocked.
Maeve set the phone down and frowned, an expression reminiscent of Ellie’s mother-in-law’s French bulldog.
“No dial tone,” she said.
“Did anyone notice any other phones in the house?” Lorna asked.
“Probably wouldn’t matter,” said Oliver. “More likely than not he cut the main line.”
“How far does the jammer block the signal?” Lorna asked. “Didn’t the box say a hundred meters? We can walk that far, get a signal.”
“If there’s a signal to be had,” Oliver said. “The moment I drove off that ferry, I lost service. I think there’s one cell tower that serves this entire bloody island, and in this weather?”
As if on cue, a gust of wind blew against the house. The lights flickered again.
Maeve threw up her hands. “So we can’t phone the police or anything. And our cars are buggered so we can’t go anywhere.”
“Who says we can’t go anywhere?” A rain jacket hung on a coatrack by the door. Oliver grabbed it and slipped it on. “We’ve got legs, don’t we? Lorna was right about the walking. Even if we can’t catch a signal, maybe we can catch a boat.”
“You want to walk to the quay?” Lorna asked. “That’s miles away. We’ll never make it there before the last ferry.”
“We’ll make it there in time for some ferry. If not today then tomorrow.”
“You’d stand out there all night? In this?”
Rain lashed the windows.
“It’s better than staying here with a fucking psychopath! You think Caskie hasn’t planned this all out? He’s probably waiting, just waiting, to do us like he did Hollis.”
“You saw the note,” Ellie said. “We’re not supposed to leave. If we leave, he’ll kill us.”
“And maybe no matter what we do, he’ll kill us anyway because that’s been his plan all along.”
“But I still don’t understand,” Maeve said. “Mr. Caskie is half our age. What could he possibly have to do with Caldwell Street? With us? With any of it?”
“I don’t plan on sticking around to find out,” Oliver said. No one moved. “Come on. A stormy night? A creepy house with a psycho killer? I’ve seen this film, and I’m not keen to stick around for the ending.”
The rain marked the time as the fear they thought they’d left upstairs wove its way down to them. Oliver looked at each of them, and Ellie knew that no matter how much he wanted to leave, he wouldn’t go alone. He needed a group, a following. For all his talk, someone else needed to give him the final push, like they had with Callum all those years ago.
“Caskie has what he needs to blackmail us,” Ellie said. “If we leave, maybe he can’t kill us, but he’ll hurt us in other ways.”
“So that’s it then?” Oliver asked. “You want to give in? Ruin the rest of your life?”
“No. I don’t know.” She closed her eyes and shook her head.
“Because I didn’t do anything wrong that night. I have nothing to confess.”
Ellie cleared her throat. “You hit him first.”
Oliver’s eyes raged like the storm outside. He pointed at Ellie.
“Fuck you.”
He pointed at Lorna. “And you.”
He pointed at Maeve. “And you. What Caskie’s got on me, it’s not as bad as a murder charge. Maybe you can’t say the same, but I’m willing to take my chances.”
He threw up the hood of the raincoat, his steps like thunder across the floor. He turned the doorknob and yanked.
And yanked.
And yanked.
“Open up,” Oliver whispered fiercely. “Open. Up.”
He kicked the door. “Open up!”
It held firm.
“Caskie, you fucker!”
He beat on it—Ellie remembering the damage his fists could do—then stormed into the dining room, where they heard him smashing chairs and clawing at windows. He returned to reception, knuckles bloodied, and then he was gone, across to the study.
“We have to get away from him,” Lorna whispered. “You know happens when he—”
“Piece of shit!”
The sound of splintered wood exploded from the study.
Maeve ducked, though there was nothing to avoid.
“Where are we supposed to go?” Maeve asked. “We’re locked in a house with a bloody tornado.”
“Fuck you! Open up!”
“Lorna’s right,” Ellie said. “Even if we can’t get out, we need to find a safe place to hide until he calms down.”
“God fucker piece of—”
Another crash.
“I’m not going back upstairs,” Maeve said.
“The back of the house. This way.” Ellie pointed to the passage that led beneath the main staircase. “Maybe there’s a place back here we can use.”
Oliver’s anger was tearing apart the group that had protected Ellie. Now Caskie seemed the lesser of the two evils. Maybe she could find a way to say what he wanted her to say. Or at least give him enough of the others so she wouldn’t have to give herself. After all, she must’ve been special, or else the others would know as much as she did, wouldn’t they?
“I’ll kill you, you fucking bastard!”
While Lorna and Maeve hurried down the back passage, Ellie lingered by the staircase. Caskie was probably somewhere upstairs. She could find him before the others. Make a deal. Return to David and the children before anyone realized she was missing. Return while Caskie did to them whatever needed to be done. She placed one foot on the staircase.
Oliver
“I’ll kill you, you fucking bastard!”
Oliver threw one last barstool, then staggered back against the wall. His chest burned and a hoarse cough wracked his chest. He spat a glob of mucus into a potted plant and rested his hands on his knees, examining his bloodied knuckles as he tried to regain his breath. His anger—at Hollis, at Caskie, at Wolfheather House—continued to rage inside his head, but his body coul
d no longer keep up. The anger turned inward, at his own stupidity for coming here in the first place. But before self-pity could overtake him, the girls screamed.
Oliver ran into the foyer, face red and flushed, wondering which one would be dead, but all three of them were alive, standing and staring at something on the floor. Ellie noticed him first and stepped aside.
It didn’t register at first, what it was. When he tried to speak, he was out of breath and had to take a big gulp of air before he could ask.
“Who the fuck is that?”
Ellie, paler than usual; Lorna, shaking hands betraying her steely glare; Maeve, chewing on the cuff of her jumper—none answered. And neither did the body on the floor.
The dead old man wore a green parka, mostly dry. His eyes were open, glassy and tinged red from broken blood vessels. His mouth gaping, a glob of dried spit on his chin.
“Any of you seen him before?” Oliver asked.
Each shook her head no.
“Just what we need. Another fucking body.” What remained of his chaotic rage narrowed to a pinpoint of focused anger, spurring him to action. Oliver knelt beside the man and pulled down the collar of the plaid shirt underneath the parka. A red-purple ring circled his neck, but whatever had been used to strangle him had been taken away. Oliver placed the back of his hand against the man’s cheek.
“He’s cold.” He lifted the arm and set it back down. “But not stiff. And he doesn’t smell. So rigor mortis hasn’t set in yet. He’s been dead less than two or three hours.”
“And what makes you a forensics expert all of a sudden?” The waver in Lorna’s voice belied the courage in her words.
“Mum watches a lot of Forensic Files. Like, a shit ton.”
“He’s right,” Ellie said. “My daughter was studying the stages of decomposition for her GCSEs. Jilly was asking her tutor all sorts of morbid questions.”
Oliver checked the man’s pockets but found no keys. There was, however, a driving license.
“Dugal MacLeod,” he read.
“Caskie’s missing caretaker?” Lorna asked.
“Not missing anymore. His jeans are damp. It can’t have been that long ago that he was outside.” Not wanting to touch the dead man again, he tossed the ID onto the floor.
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