I clapped a hand to my forehead. ‘Oh, yes! Khalida’s over at Cullivoe. But it’s all change now, they’re staying here overnight.’
‘There plenty o’ beds for you. You could take een o’ the couches in the sitting room, or there’s the peerie pavilion. You’re well used wi’ the cold.’
I was; and I’d just thought yesterday what a nice bedroom it would make. And what about Gavin? I hoped my face didn’t show the warm tingle that went down my back at the thought of having a night together. Then the thrill was blotted out by nerves. Of course one didn’t forget, but it was such ages ...
‘And what’s this sickness?’ Magnie asked. I tore my thoughts away from baser matters. ‘It’s no sounding right to me. Peter ate here last night, and he was well enough, and now this boy’s saying he’s fine too. Off shellfish doesna do that, apart from the likelihood o’ it.’
I set the tray out for Bryony. A teapot, with a bag of chamomile in it, and a plate. I stuck a couple of pieces of toast in the toaster. Up from dawn, Maman had said, and I’d thought there was something wrong about that, but I hadn’t time to really consider it. I tried to remember what I knew about food poisoning. Two hours or two days, that was it. Either you were sick within two hours, as it hit your gut, or it incubated away for two days, and made you ill then.
‘Two hours or two days,’ I said. ‘The time it takes to come on. Isn’t that right?’
Magnie nodded. ‘Soonds about right.’
‘We ate at ten. They should have started to be ill at midnight.’ I stared at him. ‘Are you thinking it was some kind of poison made them all ill?’
Magnie looked behind him, then rose to kick out the wedge and ease the door shut. ‘I’m just saying it doesna seem right. I was up patrolling the site on the hill, and I saw the lights going on. The worst o’ them was in the early morning, first light.’
‘Seafood can be dodgy.’
Magnie shook his head. ‘Naa, lass. Well, look at you. You ate it an aa. Any ill effects?’
‘No,’ I admitted.
Magnie glanced round again, and lowered his voice. ‘Word is someen ordered seafood specially.’
It gave me a cold feeling in the stomach to hear my own fears shared. ‘Not Maman. She kent Kamilla was allergic.’
‘What did the others eat or drink that you and that youngster didna have?’
It was the question I’d been avoiding. Classic Agatha Christie; poison everyone a little, and one person fatally, with something that would give the same symptoms of breathlessness as an allergy. I poured the boiled water into the teapot, and tried to remember. ‘Well, the starter was either mussels or cullen skink. I went for the mussels, and Caleb had the soup. Kamilla had a salad separately, but they made that at the last minute in the kitchen, so I don’t see how anyone could have interfered with that.’
‘Mind you’re thinking of how aabody coulda been given a mild dose.’
‘It can’t have been the salmon either, that came out on the plates, in portions. Besides, Caleb had that. The lamb came out carved too, and we helped ourselves to the veg.’ I shook my head. ‘I don’t see how it could have been in the main course.’
‘What about the puddings?’
I considered. ‘They were laid out on a side table, for us to help ourselves while the staff cleared our plates. It was big dishes, a trifle and a cheesecake – oh, there was a fruit salad too, you could have poisoned that if you’d had something prepared to pour in, and you could naturally have stirred it to mix it in.’
‘Do you mind who had what?’
I shook my head. ‘I didn’t have any of it. Caleb had the cheesecake, I remember that.’ It had looked temptingly good. ‘Maman would have had the fruit salad, she never eats puddings, and probably Bryony doesn’t either. They were both ill.’ I kept thinking about it. ‘The fruit salad was the only one you could have doctored. If you had, say, one of these film canisters, or a tictac packet, something like that, which you could hide easily in one hand, flick open, then just pour in, quick and casual. I suppose it would be possible, but you’d need to be a very cool customer.’ I wondered how easily the poison ring opened. Flick open, tilt your hand, close the ring again. What order had they risen in? Maman first, then Adrien, right beside her. I suddenly saw him helping her to fruit salad, stirring it first. He could have done it. But if he loved Kamilla, if he was hoping they’d get back together, why would Adrien poison her?
‘Folk who sing in front of total strangers must have nerves o’ steel.’
I conceded that one. ‘Kamilla had the fruit salad, and we kept her plate.’
‘They surely gied you a cup o’ tea after it.’
‘Yes, they did. Bryony handed those out, as if she usually did it.’ In every ship’s company, the person who needed tea most became the tea-maker. ‘She seemed to know what everyone took without being told.’
‘And nobody woulda watched her doing it, because they kent she kent what they wanted. They’d just go on wi’ their conversations, and say thanks when she laid it afore them.’
‘She could have slipped something into each cup, then pretended to be ill herself. I didn’t have time even to taste mine before Kamilla collapsed, and I don’t suppose Caleb did either.’ I shook my head.‘But it doesn’t make sense. You’re wanting to kill Kamilla, right? So you set up the seafood, she has an allergic reaction, she dies. So why poison everyone else? There’s no need for that. It wasn’t the seafood being off that killed her.’
‘Right enough.’ Magnie scratched his head again. ‘Leave that for the moment. How about her food, the lass who died? If she was poisoned, wha coulda done that?’
I’d been thinking about this. ‘I think it might have been in her wine. Whatever it was acted quickly. It would have been so easy to drop something into her glass, between the main course and the dessert. The smokers got up and went outside, and other folk moved round the table to change the person they were speaking to. It could have been any of us.’
Magnie shook his head, more in thought than negating. ‘Well, your policeman will sort it all out.’
I glanced out of the window. Close to shore, the sea had turned from grey to slate-blue; in the sound, waves whitened most of its surface, and there was a pale haze of blown spray over it. I hoped Gavin would make it before the ferries stopped. 15.30 ... it would be tight. I turned to Magnie. ‘Listen, I don’t suppose you know someone with a fast motorboat, who might do a taxi run to Toft?’
He scratched his chin, and considered the waves slashing the sea. ‘Keith has one of those Viking cruisers that’ll do 28 knots, so he says.When do you need to go?’
‘Gavin gets in at 11.45, but there’s no ferry from the mainland to Yell until 13.55.’
Magnie glanced out of the window, just as I had done, and drew the same conclusions. ‘He’ll be lucky to make it before the ferries are called off, wi’ this forecast. Leave it wi’ me, lass.’ He stomped out into the porch. A murmur of conversation, then he came back. ‘Yea, lass, no bother, he says. He’ll leave in fifteen minutes.’ He yawned. ‘I’ll go and get some shut-eye before more o’ this patrolling.’
‘Good luck,’ I said. I phoned Gavin, and left another voicemail: ‘All change here, they’re staying another night in Belmont. Head for Toft, the Yell ferry terminal, and wait for a Viking motorboat.’
I’d just got the kettle boiled when there was a roar in the distance, and a motorboat with a navy hull and a high white bridge curved round the ferry pier and headed off down Bluemull Sound, bouncing over the swell. The cavalry was on its way.
Bryony was in the room next door to Maman and Dad’s. I balanced the tray on my hip, and knocked gently, then pushed it open. The room was the twin of the master bedroom, with the same white-wood panelling and notched cornice. A brass-handled chest of drawers stood in the far corner, with a white lamp on it. The white walls were darkened by a row of dresses hung from the curtain rail: the costumes they’d worn last night.
I slid into the room. ‘Hi.
How are you feeling? Here’s some herbal tea and toast.’
Bryony was in the far bed, curled over as if she’d been trying to sleep. As I came in she turned on her back, dragged herself up the bed and made ineffectual attempts to straighten her pillows. I settled them behind her and put the tray down on the chair by the bed.
She looked awful. There were dark circles under her eyes, and her skin was tinged green, as if she’d spent the night vomiting. Her dark hair bushed out around her head, and she’d dragged a fleece dressing gown over the shoulders of her onesie. If she was just pretending to be ill, I was a landlubber who’d never even been on a rowboat at Brighton.
Her head shook, her mouth opened to refuse, then she changed her mind. ‘Thanks. I’d love a cup of tea.’
‘Sure.’ I poured the mugful, and handed it to her. ‘Could you manage dry toast, just to have something inside?’
She shook her head. ‘I was sick half the night. I’m not hungry.’
‘What you need is a day in bed, with paracetamol and a hot water bottle.’ I could sort this one out, at least. ‘Look, you lie back. I’ll get you a hot water bottle. Then you can just stay put.’ I suddenly realised what was awry about Caleb going off. Fournier couldn’t have told him yet that there was no performance tonight. ‘The replacement can’t get here till tomorrow, so you have another night to get really rested. They’ve changed the performance to tomorrow afternoon.’
‘I do feel awful,’ she admitted. ‘I can’t believe it’s real.’ Her eyes gazed bleakly. ‘Kamilla, I mean. Per phoned me. I can’t believe someone who was so alive can ...’ She paused, searching for another word. ‘Can go, just like that. She didn’t even eat any of it.’
I wasn’t going to share our suspicions. ‘Sometimes just eating stuff prepared in the same area is enough.’
‘I didn’t even know she had an allergy.’ There was something aggrieved about her voice, as if Kamilla had taken an unfair advantage. ‘She never said.’
I felt that same stab of disbelief, and shoved it away in practicality. The room was in as much chaos as if they’d been there for a week, instead of just a night: the costumes hung from the curtain rail, and a tumble of day clothes and Bryony’s slightly-too-bright pink evening dress overflowed the chair by her bed. There was a line of potions on top of the dark-blue mantelpiece, below the oval mirror that reflected me standing there in my workaday gansey: day creams; night creams; powder; paint; mascara; paracetamol; and various other tubs of multi-vitamins and capsules. There was a suitcase in the space below them, and another on the washstand tucked in behind the door, both open, with a tumble of clothes within. ‘Shall I pack her stuff away, so it doesn’t keep reminding you?’
Bryony clutched her mug. ‘No, don’t worry. I’ll sort it later. I feel so awful.’ She looked it. Her face was the grey-white of old ropes, the circles under her eyes blue as a bruise. She clasped both hands round the mug of tea and sipped steadily, then paused to clutch the warm mug to her. ‘I still can’t believe it.’ Her voice was anguished. ‘I didn’t know an allergy could kill someone.’ Her eyes were glossy with tears. ‘Just like that. She was okay, and then –’
I reached for the paracetamol and sat down on Kamilla’s bed to shake two into my hand. There was a photograph case on the bedside table, one of the sort that stands up like a book, with two photos inside. One had two children, a boy and girl, blonde, fair as two young Viking children, and the other was the boy alone, older, in the same pose, but with his hair growing darker, his skin tanned. The girl was Kamilla, I thought, aged about ten. Maman had talked about a brother, but he’d died young, and the second photo showed someone in his twenties. Was he a boyfriend, the classic ‘boy next door’? ‘Tell me about her,’ I said. ‘Did you know her quite well?’
She nodded. ‘We were really good friends.’
I took that with a pinch of salt, from what I’d seen of them together. Bryony steamed on. ‘I had a part in her first show, when she was straight out of college. Carmen. She was in the chorus, but you could see she was going to be good. Adrien was playing Don José, and we were all dreamy about him, but he picked her out straight away.’ Her voice was steadying. ‘Just homed in on her, and before we all knew it they were an item.’
‘He must have been a lot older than her.’
‘Oh, darling, twenty years.’ The colour was coming back to her cheeks, the scratchy note returning to her voice. ‘Well, it was cradle-snatching really, but she was starry-eyed, and he was so sweet with her, very protective, and keen she should advance her career with the right parts when she’d have taken anything she was offered, like the rest of us. And of course, knowing him, well ...’ She shrugged. ‘With his influence, what he considered the right parts did come along.’
‘What did he consider the right parts?’ I asked, curious.
‘Darling, the classical stuff. Mozart’s breeches parts. Gluck. Octavian, of course.’
Of course, darling. ‘So when did she move to early music?’
Bryony glanced around, as if someone might be listening, and lowered her voice. ‘That was because of him. She had to get away.’
‘Away from him? Why?’
Bryony grimaced. ‘The Pygmalion thing. He’s very controlling. There she was, young and nervous and over-awed by him, and he took her over completely. You know how it is – at first you’re really flattered that they take such an interest in you, want to tell you what to wear, and suggest hairstyles, books to read, all that.’
It was an experience I’d managed to dodge, but I took her word for it.
‘She’d enjoyed it for the first couple of years, while she was finding her feet, and he did get her a couple of nice parts –’ She flushed. ‘Oh, I’m not saying she couldn’t sing them. But so could two dozen others. It’s all luck in this business, and knowing the right people, and Adrien certainly did. So there they were, the golden couple – until she started feeling like she was in a cage. That’s what she said to me. I bumped into her at an after-show party, you know how you do, and I asked her how she was getting on, and we ended up having a heart-to-heart in the loo. She felt there was nothing of her left. Oh, he was really in love with her, she never doubted that, but he just controlled every move she made. He wouldn’t even let her go shopping for a dress without taking him – she’d tried it, just two days before, and he’d thrown such a tantrum that it had really frightened her. She’d decided she wanted out, and she was scared he’d stop her. She’d got left without anything of her own, you see – it was his flat, his car, they had a joint bank account, and she just didn’t know what to do, how to get away without him knowing.’
We were so happy together, Adrien had said. I wondered if that was self-delusion or whitewashing.
‘Well, I’d just had a run in London.’ She said it as if she’d been starring in some major production of Madame Butterfly, instead of being a bit part or chorus. ‘So I was pretty flush. I said to her, “If he frightens you, get out. We’ll meet up tomorrow, and I’ll book you a flight somewhere, anywhere you want to go. Leave your phone behind in case he’s got a tracker on it, take just a change of clothes and post a letter from the airport.”’
My mouth dropped open. ‘It was really that serious?’
Bryony nodded. ‘I said to her, “Every battered wife didn’t believe it would happen to them. Just because he’s a singer, or a head teacher, or a top policeman, doesn’t make you safe. Are you scared?” And she nodded, and I could see by her eyes that she meant it.’ Her eyes filled with tears again. She sniffed and brushed them away. ‘Poor Kamilla. Well, we arranged to meet in a café the next day, and she arrived with a bag, like I’d suggested, and we used my computer to book her on a flight to Spain, which was where a friend of mine lived. She’d done a Shirley Valentine, and I knew she needed a nanny for a bit, so I thought Kamilla could fill in doing that while she decided where to go next. She had to keep her career going, you see. So she was there for two months, while she got all the visas for the States,
and then she crossed the pond. And that’s when she began doing early music, just to keep well away from what he did.’
She got a good offer with an early music group in the States had been Adrien’s version. We agreed to do this tour together. That was nonsense, according to Fournier and Maman, who had no reason to spin a yarn. We were becoming closer again, and it was getting like it used to be ...
‘How long ago was this?’
‘Oh ... ages.’ Bryony frowned, thinking. ‘It was in the autumn she ran away. Not last year, nor the one before. Three and a half years ago. We did the occasional phone call, but you know how it is when you’re both busy, and then she got on The Voice and suddenly she was a megastar. And now ... now ...’
She broke down then, sobbing gustily into a tissue. I waited, feeling helpless. Behind what I hoped was a suitably sympathetic face, my thoughts were working furiously. I knew all about running away, because I’d done it myself at sixteen, but not out of fear; I’d been young, and daft, and instead of talking my problems through with Maman I’d emptied my bank account to get a berth on a tall ship bound for Scotland, where I was legally of age. I didn’t like to think now of the worry I’d caused her, and I was glad it was all behind us. But to cast yourself out like that, afraid of being followed, with virtually only what you stood in, just as you were making a name for yourself, to begin again in a strange country –I gave Kamilla’s spirit a mental nod of admiration. Ambitious, Maman had said. She’d earned having her face on magazine covers.
Bryony’s sobbing had subsided a little. I passed her another tissue. ‘It must have been an awful shock to Kamilla when whoever-it-was broke his ankle and Adrien took over.’
‘Darling, dreadful. I’m sure she must have thought about backing out, but of course she couldn’t let Eugénie down.
‘Had she seen him since she’d run away?’
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