by A. M. Castle
Oh. She must be on about my liking for the drink. Well, that’s none of her beeswax. ‘Easy to know all the answers when you’re thirteen years old, isn’t it, love?’ I say, shrugging to Jane.
‘I’m eighteen!’ the girl wails, sounding five, now. I catch sight of Gita’s face. She’s not impressed with me. However much her daughter is making a tit of herself, of course she’s going to side with her. Even against one of her oldest friends.
‘Flesh and blood. It’s always flesh and blood,’ I say, disgustedly.
‘Yes, and he’s your flesh and blood, isn’t he? Raf, I mean.’ Tasha’s little face is scarlet now.
I nod. ‘Give that girl a prize,’ I say, raising my glass to her.
‘And … my father’s. That’s right, isn’t it? Admit it. Admit it to my mother. Raf’s my half-brother.’
I say nothing, air where my jaw used to be. I look at Gita, but her eyes are round and her head is shaking from side to side. She’s backing away.
But she’s not telling Tasha she’s got it all wrong. She’s not yelling at me to deny it. It makes me wonder if she’s suspected, all this time. And has at last had her doubts confirmed.
Meanwhile Jane looks like I’ve hit her round the gob, God alone knows why. I turn back to Tasha, and see pain as well as twisted triumph in her eyes. Shit. They were thick as thieves, her and my lad this morning. Too late, I get it. ‘You … and Raf?’
‘Me and Raf. My brother. Thanks, Vicky. Thanks for nothing.’ This time, even in my fug, I notice she doesn’t call me ‘aunty’. I take a step towards them, her and Gita and Ruby, huddled now, but then there’s a voice on the stairs.
‘Good evening, everyone.’ It’s Rachel, with that skull on a stick, her new husband, in tow. I turn to her, my fists bunched. I knew I’d heard right, last night. That casual little comment about my lad’s eyes. Rachel couldn’t let it rest, could she? She had to cause trouble. I rush towards her, then suddenly I catch sight of Tom, right behind her, with that smug smile on his face.
That bloody snake. It’s his fault, after all. The shit. Taking advantage of my weaknesses, my liking for a glass too many and that soft spot I had for him – and exploiting Gita’s trusting nature too. Suddenly I’m raging about all of it. Well, I’m going to swing for him now. He’s had it coming for long enough. He’s going to get it.
I grit my teeth and take a step forward.
Chapter 40
Rachel
Mount Tregowan, 31st October
Poor Vicky. We all knew, of course. But maybe not how bad things had got. Still, it doesn’t take long for her to ‘freshen up’. She’s lucky she didn’t break her nose, falling headlong like that. Drunks bounce, don’t they? And, once she’s tottered out of the loo, looking greener than Tasha’s emerald dress, she’s ready to go into battle again. I can see it.
Too late, though, Vicks. We’re now all seated at my lovely long table. I see her hesitate and swallow. Her throat must be like sandpaper after all that upchucking, but it’s worked, just like it used to at uni. ‘The Romans did it,’ she’d point out at parties. ‘They built special rooms for it.’ Well, Vicky, my loo is not a vomitorium. And we’ve all grown past that shit. Or the rest of us have. She pulls out her own chair, waving away the server, and subsides. She’s furious with me – I did glean that much from her ramblings. But who can she really blame, but herself?
I smile down the table. It feels good to have everyone here, all present and correct. Granted, the day has been full of more ‘alarums and excursions’ than I would have liked. Funny how my mind keeps drifting back to uni tonight. I remember the lecturer who first droned that phrase, and how Gita and I leapt on it. Every party after that was dissected for its share of alarums and excursions. And none had more than mine.
But tonight, I sense we all want to just enjoy the simple pleasures. I nod and more Cristal is poured. I hope those girls are appreciating it. Both Tasha and her mother are tucking in like it’s lemonade. Tasha’s had a shock, poor child. She won’t look me in the eye. I hope Gita’s not riled all over again. I’ll speak to her later, smooth those ruffled feathers.
Raf, on the far side of the table, seems to have annexed his own bottle. Like mother, like son. I suppose it’s a lot to take in. Even the backs of his ears are burning red, though why he should be embarrassed I don’t know. It’s his mother’s little slip, not his. Well, hers and Tom’s. I sip from my own flute, but only fizzy water tickles my nose. Honestly, this lot are so short-sighted. Even Tom, the ha-ha professional, is incapable of clocking the obvious tonight. He’s got a lot of explaining to do – that’s for sure.
I suppose it is down to me, as usual, to lance the boil, and release the ill will swirling around this table. But first I shall focus on higher things. The highest of them all. Love, not to put too fine a point on it. The one thing that eluded me for years, but which I’ve found on this funny little mountain. I raise my glass to Ross, all the way down the other end of the table. He’s turned to speak to Penny. I cough, and his head shoots round. He salutes me and we both sip.
I look at Penny, her funny sour face, and I have a little idea. Quite a lot of tonight has been scripted – I’m known for my meticulous preparation – but I can improvise when I need to. ‘Penny, have you asked Tom about all that business with your mother?’ I call out. ‘You know he could investigate for you?’
I love the colour Penny’s gone, a shade paler even than dear Vicky, post-vom. Her mouth is hanging open but it’s Tom who speaks. ‘I do have a job, you know, Rachel,’ he drawls. He even tries that eyebrow thing, trying to look laconic. I don’t know how the others fell for it, long ago. He’s got more fromage going on than Harrods’ cheese counter. I can’t resist.
‘But do you, Tom?’ My words fall into a sudden silence. Gita looks my way, as stricken as though I’ve ripped off her dress and revealed her pants. We could leave it there – but Tom won’t be able to. He’s always on the attack. It’s the way he was made.
‘What do you mean by that? If you’ve got something to say, spit it out,’ he says. ‘Of course I have a job.’
He asked for it. ‘That’s not quite what I heard,’ I purr.
Vicky stares hard at Tom, almost the first time she’s glanced his way all weekend. Raf looks confused, as well he might after guzzling that much champers. Tasha looks as miserable as her goth sister. Ruby, bless her, is nearly asleep, thumb in mouth. Jane seems to be in her own private hell, and that lump of a husband of hers just appears confused. I pity the bumpkins who run to him for boundary advice and whatnot.
Tom tries to style it out, shrugging as though I’m crazy and turning to Gita. She looks poleaxed. She’s always hated being confronted by the truth, but she doesn’t say a word. It’s Geoff who finally pipes up. ‘What do you mean, precisely, Rachel?’ he says.
‘Tell them, Tom. They call it gardening leave, don’t they? Or maybe it’s different at the Met? Body-under-the-patio leave?’
‘Window-box leave in my case,’ he says heartily, trying to take the sting away. ‘I’ve never been much of a one for gardening.’
‘Oh, silly me,’ I say. ‘They probably say it’s a suspension, don’t they? Or maybe … just a straightforward sacking?’ Now Tom’s face is like thunder. And, right on cue, the first real-life peals of the coming storm crack right above us.
Gita leaps on it to divert us all. ‘Oooh, thunder, girls. Shall we count to see how far away the storm is? One, two, three …’ she starts intoning, but the girls just stare at their father.
‘Is this true, Dad? Have you been sacked?’ This time it’s Nessie who speaks. ‘Why didn’t you tell me? You kept saying everything was fine.’ Her strange features twist and suddenly she’s crying. I might have known she’d be teary. And she’s set off her little sister again. Damn. I’ll have to press on with the main event. Back to the sideshow later.
I tap my spoon against my glass. The staff are scurrying around, taking away the main course, the wild Alaskan salmon and the wagyu
beef. Now the plates are being swapped for the special golden chargers with the pumpkin border. Laid across each one is a long brass skewer, copied exactly from the Tregowan coat of arms. They impale a parade of perfect berries, interspersed with exquisite mini macarons. Oh, and there’s a dollop of sabayon on the side. Simply delicious.
I tap again, more loudly, and everyone swings to me. I can tell Gita wants to launch into some sort of protest so I get up quickly, gathering my cloak around me with a fluid gesture. ‘I just wanted to thank you all so much for coming,’ I say, my words sprinkling onto a multitude of expressions. ‘And I wanted to make a little announcement, before we get sidetracked. We don’t want our dear Tom to grab all the attention, do we? Even though he’s pretty good at getting his way with us ladies – am I right, girls?’ I can’t help exchanging meaningful glances with my friends.
‘Well, this very special bit of news is all mine … and my dear husband’s.’
I glance over at Ross again, and he’s sitting bolt upright, a polite smile on his face. On either side of him, the ugly steps bristle in anticipation.
Oh, this is going to be so much fun.
‘Everyone, please raise your glasses, to the ancient and noble family of Tregowan.’ I wave my glass aloft. ‘And … to its newest addition.’
I let my cloak fall open and I caress my stomach in the unmistakable gesture of mothers-to-be over the millennia, just as there’s another almighty thunderclap overhead. This time, the lightning wastes no time at all in striking. It’s immediate, and comes with a curious fizzing sound. And then, to my eternal annoyance, my moment is cruelly cut short.
All the lights go out.
PART TWO
Chapter 41
Geoff
Mount Tregowan, 1st November, Ten minutes past midnight
The horrible realisation that one among our number is dead ought to act like a pall upon the room. A dignified silence would be the only decent response to such an outrage. I regret to say that the exact opposite is happening here; there is complete and utter pandemonium in the Great Hall. The storm raging above us does not help one bit.
‘Sit down! Sit down!’ It takes me a few moments even to hear Roderick, let alone to register that no one is taking a blind bit of notice of him. Whether it is Vicky, drunkenly lurching about, or Gita’s youngest daughter, weeping and shrieking hysterically, there is movement and noise everywhere. Everyone is on their feet; most are running around in the manner of decapitated poultry.
All except one of us, that is. There is a single, silent figure in our midst, at the centre of all the wild gesticulation, cries and shouts. It is not for some minutes that we begin to realise who, exactly, it must be.
It comes down to this. There were thirteen of us at the table, when Rachel began this supremely ill-advised so-called Halloween Feast. There are now twelve. And a body.
Rachel’s university chums are all present and correct, their partners and offspring, if applicable, ditto. Her new, if one can call it that, family is hale and hearty. No, the corpse, I note with infinite regret, belongs to none other than our beautiful, eccentric, and some would say, wilful, hostess herself. Rachel Cadogan. Or, more properly, the second Lady Tregowan.
It takes some others round the table rather longer to make this deduction. The ceaseless movement and caterwauling do not, apparently, help people to reach logical conclusions. But, nevertheless, I now hear the word Rachel issue from more than one mouth. I am just wondering whether I should step in, reintroduce a bit of order, as Roderick has signally failed to quell the commotion, when there is a sudden and authoritative bark from the side of the room.
‘Right, silence please. And nobody move.’
It is Tom. I suppose all that police training must be coming to the fore. ‘Not a moment too soon,’ I murmur in approval, and receive a frosty glance from him for my pains.
‘Step away from the body, there,’ he says, and Roderick and his sister shuffle back. They are closest to Rachel, and seem to have been inspecting her, ah, remains.
‘Penny is a nurse,’ Roderick quavers in outrage. ‘She was just checking for a pulse.’
‘And is there one?’ says Tom drily. ‘I can’t help thinking all this noise might have woken Rachel up. If anything was going to.’
At that, there is another wail from young Ruby, and Gita starts to escort her out of the room. ‘Take the others, too,’ Tom tells his wife, nodding his head at his older daughters. ‘As for the rest of you, everyone keep clear. And do not touch anything.’
Vicky puts down her glass with a fumble, and the wine goes all over the tablecloth. She giggles helplessly. ‘Jane, could you help Vicky to bed?’ Tom says, raising an eyebrow. I step forward too.
‘Not you,’ says Tom abruptly. ‘All the men, I want us to quickly check the castle’s locks and bolts. Then I suggest we all try and get some rest.’
I look at him in some astonishment, and there is an equally shocked murmur of protest from the others. None of us, quite obviously, is going to get a wink of sleep in this place tonight. Tom cannot seriously imagine that someone got in from outside. From whence, exactly? We all know the castle has been surrounded by rough seas for hours, and we are now in the eye of a storm. No one can have got in. No one can get out. We are, to put it quite simply, trapped.
I am as brave as the next man, I hope. But I must admit I am not particularly keen on traipsing around the dark and sinister corridors of this castle at the present moment.
Because there is, as we all now know, a killer in our midst.
Chapter 42
Gita
Mount Tregowan, 1st November
We’re huddled in the library. Ross’s domain, Rachel calls it. Called it.
Most of us have been here all night since … it happened. Penny and Roderick were with us for a bit, but they’ve gone to their own rooms now. I suppose it’s that stiff upper lip thing. God, I don’t care about looking British, doing the right thing. I just want us to be safe. I got the girls to bed right after it happened, insisted they had to sleep, but then I immediately regretted it. What if the killer came back? Because someone murdered Rachel; that much is terrifyingly obvious. So I bundled them downstairs with their duvets and we’ve been camped out down here ever since.
It seems like safety in numbers, but that’s an illusion. There are only twelve of us in the castle now, no longer Rachel’s unlucky thirteen, but that doesn’t make me feel one tiny bit safer. There’s still a psychopath somewhere. And not out there, on the wind-lashed island. Somewhere in this place.
Here we all are, grim and gritty-eyed, with our hostess, the reason we’re all here, the only thing most of us have in common, lying dead and cold in another room. I want to leave now, this minute, run out of here screaming and never come back. But we can’t go anywhere. The sea beyond these walls is wild and swirling, waves crashing right up to the windows. The storm hasn’t died down at all. The landline is still dead, and there’s no mobile reception either.
We’ve got no choice; we have to wait for the tide. Then Roderick, before he went to his room, kept shaking his head at the waves and making dire predictions that we wouldn’t even be able to cross in the morning. ‘It’s happened before. Adverse weather conditions,’ he said, with a sort of subdued glee. He couldn’t stand Rachel, that much was plain from the start, but I think he ought to hide his delight better than this. She’s dead, after all.
God, I can’t believe it. I can’t, I can’t. She can’t be gone. She was more alive than all the rest of us put together. How can she be there, all alone in the Great Hall, cold and still, with her cloak – that silly bit of finery, so Rachel – now serving as her shroud?
I went in to see her just now. The girls were sleeping fitfully at last, and Tom just nodded at me, and whispered, ‘You go. I’ve got this.’ He knew I’d want to pay my respects. Despite everything, despite Vicky and her little bombshell over Raf, I decided I could trust him to keep an eye on them – for five minutes. He slipped up bi
g time with Ruby earlier, but he’s their dad after all.
They say people look like they’re sleeping. She doesn’t. She looks … dead. And so ungainly, hunched over the table like that. We couldn’t move her; Tom said not to, but it seems wrong. I was only in there for a minute, but every detail is seared on my mind.
Someone – Ross, maybe, or one of the staff – had tried to spread a napkin over her hunched shoulders, to hide that dreadful skewer, but it just made things worse, tenting absurdly. She looked like some sort of hunchback, and under the wig you could see her poor pale face. She’d have hated this ridiculous, clumsy death. She was always so graceful.
So little time has passed, but already she was waxen, changing from flesh, into something halfway to stone. Her velvet robe was draped on the back of her chair – did someone take it off her, thinking she could be resuscitated? I didn’t like to get too close.
Should we all gather in the chapel, say a prayer? If I were talking to Penny, I’d discuss it with her. But I can’t bear to look at the woman, let alone speak to her. I can’t forgive her for luring Ruby into the priest’s hole. All right, I ought to feel compassion – she obviously has mental health issues. Perhaps I’ll ask Roderick. If I can bring myself to. I can’t forget that gleam of delight in his eye earlier, after we found Rachel.
But something else is puzzling me about Rachel. I couldn’t help noticing it. Once I’d got over some of the horror of her huddled there, so awfully, awkwardly dead. We didn’t see much of her dress last night, because of the cape. But slumped across the table like that, I could see the simple black satin gown. Beautifully cut, it goes without saying. Her stomach, though. Looking at her from the side. It was flat. There was no sign at all of a baby bump.
Then the night we arrived, her sea-green slip dress was so clingy. She was in amazing shape, no belly then either. Was she wearing some sort of next-level shapewear? Or was she just sticking her tummy out a mile last night on purpose, before the lights went out? For effect. I mean, I dread to think what I’d look like if I relaxed my stomach muscles in public, after three kids. I’d definitely look as though I was ready to pop the fourth. She must have been doing that, jutting her hips forward, when she made her announcement. Typical Rachel. Always so dramatic.