Scarlet Wakefield 02 - Kisses and Lies

by Lauren Henderson

  I didn’t realize before how close he was standing to me. Maybe I’ve actually taken a tiny step toward him without meaning to, because I could reach out and touch him now very easily with just a small movement of my hand. I wonder what the wool of his sweater feels like, whether it’s rough. . . .

  I know it’s my turn to talk, but I can’t think of anything to say. Anything, that is, that wouldn’t completely embarrass me. I just stand there looking up at him, feeling really confused.

  And he just stands there looking down at me, for what feels like a very, very long time.

  I can hear him breathing, soft and slow.

  I can feel my heart, pounding a drumbeat in my rib cage, battering at the bones.

  “Callum?” a girl’s voice calls, heavily muffled by the thick stone walls. It must be Catriona. “Cal, where are you?”

  I expect Callum to answer, but to my surprise he doesn’t.

  “Cal? Cal!” The voice is getting closer and closer. I hear footsteps now. “Cal!” She appears in the open doorway, and though the light’s behind her, I can tell by the gleam of it on her hair that she’s a blonde.

  Which means it’s not Catriona.

  It’s Lucy.

  She walks out into the courtyard. I can’t help feeling that if I were Callum, I wouldn’t much like my girlfriend yelling for me all over the place like this. It’s not exactly dignified of her, and it makes him look a bit little-boyish, like she’s his mum and she’s chasing him to do his homework or something.

  “There you are,” Lucy says, finally spotting him.

  And as she starts walking toward him, she sees me.

  “What’s going on out here?” she exclaims.

  “Nothing, Luce,” Callum says, his tone resigned. “Scarlett and I were just talking.”

  “I thought I’d come back for dinner and maybe we could play some billiards afterward with your dad,” she says coldly. “But I see you’re busy at the moment.”

  “Actually, Lucy,” he says impatiently, “Scarlett and I were having a talk.”

  “It’s dinnertime,” she snaps. “In case you were interested. I’ll go and tell Moira you’re coming.”

  Lucy turns on her heel and goes back inside. Callum looks at me. It’s an awkward moment.

  “I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “She can be a bit . . .”

  His voice trails off. It’s the first time I’ve seen Callum McAndrew embarrassed. It makes him seem really human. I’d quite like him like this, if it weren’t for the circumstances.

  “She’s—I—” he says, and then he just looks at me, sighing and rubbing his hand vigorously over his skull in a way that would ruffle his hair if he had much to ruffle. Eventually he says, “I’ll see you in there,” and walks off.

  I watch him go inside the castle. I need a few moments to catch my breath and settle down—my pulse is racing.

  That was really odd. I could have sworn that Callum and I were just in that state of suspended animation where you might be about to kiss each other.

  This is too weird. I couldn’t deal with kissing Callum, I just couldn’t. There’s Jase, for one thing, and then there’s the small matter of his being the twin brother of the boy whose murder I’m investigating . . . and the chance that Callum might have something to do with it.

  I take a deep breath, and make a definite resolution never to be alone with Callum McAndrew again.

  eighteen

  “ICE QUEEN STARE”

  Dinner was a disaster. Not the food, which was fantastic—Moira is a world-class cook. I absolutely stuffed myself, partly because all the running around today has made me completely starving, and partly because the nervous tension of sitting opposite from Callum, with Lucy next to him glaring at me, made me lower my head, concentrate on my plate, and fork the food into my mouth as if I were a self-feeding automaton. Moira—who doesn’t sit with the family, but serves the food—keeps offering me more, and I keep taking it. She says how nice it is that I have a healthy appetite. I mumble something between mouthfuls.

  It must be clear to Mrs. McAndrew that her attempt to find closure by inviting me here is not a roaring success so far. She tries to draw me out by asking me about myself, but since I have a massively boring life, that doesn’t get very far. Lucy talks pointedly to Callum about people I’ve never met, all through dinner, and when we’ve had pudding—a rhubarb trifle so good that I’m now convinced the Wakefield Hall catering staff are using some completely different ingredient in what they claim is rhubarb crumble—Mrs. McAndrew stands up and says we’re all going through to the Great Hall for coffee, so Moira can clear our pudding plates. But Lucy promptly insists that she and Callum don’t want coffee and are off to play billiards, making it very clear that I’m not invited.

  Which is fine, as I didn’t want to go anyway. I do ask, however, if I can take photos of everyone on my mobile phone, and though I think they find this a bit odd, it’s after dinner, and everyone (except Lucy) has mellowed out a little with the large quantities of fantastic food. I duly snap the assembled company; Moira, coming in to clear the plates, gets included, and is surprisingly flattered by the request. Catriona’s the best sport, giving me a nice smile. Mr. and Mrs. McAndrew look understandably awkward, and Callum just stares at the phone, expressionless. Lucy scowls, but she’s so photogenic that despite herself, the photo comes out so good that a model agency would sign her up immediately on seeing it.

  Once Lucy and Callum leave, the rest of us walk into the Great Hall. Moira has set out a tray with coffee and biscuits, and we sit around the fireplace. It’s drawing well, with a central log in it the size of a small tree blazing and crackling, set on a bed of burning pinecones. Mrs. McAndrew pours out coffee, and as we all set our cups down on side tables to let it cool enough to drink, I reach into my pocket and pull out the mobile phone charm.

  “Um,” I start hesitantly, “I wrote in my letter that I had something of Dan’s I wanted to give back to you. It’s not much, but here it is. . . .”

  To my surprise, Catriona recognizes it immediately. “That’s Dan’s TARDIS,” she says, picking it from my extended palm. “He loved this. Sometimes he’d make his phone ring just so he could see it flash and spin—remember, Mum?”

  She hands it to her mother, who takes it silently. Mr. McAndrew, sitting next to her on the big sofa, puts his arm round her shoulders.

  “He did love that,” his father says. “I thought it was broken, though. Wasn’t he complaining about that, Flora?” He gives her shoulders an affectionate squeeze.

  “Oh, that’s right,” Catriona agrees. “It wasn’t spinning anymore, he was really upset about it.”

  She looks at me inquiringly. I realize the reason the charm was in Dan’s room: he’d taken it off because it didn’t work. But I can’t have them wondering why he took a broken charm back to London and then proceeded to lend it to me. I think quickly.

  “He must have fixed it,” I say, “because it was working when he put it on my phone. But, you know, it’s been six months—it might not be working anymore by now. I haven’t used it since he . . . um . . .” I trail off, not wanting to say “he died” outright.

  Mrs. McAndrew is still silent, peering down at the charm in her hand.

  “I’m really sorry,” I say, feeling awful at the deception. “I expect I should have just kept it.”

  “No, you did the right thing, Scarlett,” Mrs. McAndrew says finally. A tear starts to roll down her cheek. “It’s good to remember. . . .”

  Her voice trails off as she reaches in her cardigan sleeve and pulls out a hankie, mopping at her eyes. Catriona stands up, goes over, and kisses the top of her mother’s head.

  “I’m going up to my room now,” she says. “I’ve got some stuff to do on the computer. Love you.”

  She crosses the huge Hall and runs lightly up the main staircase. I hear her going along the corridor, and then, in the distance, a door closing. I remember what Callum said about leaving the room when his mother started cry
ing. Apparently he’s not the only one.

  “Thank you, Scarlett,” Mr. McAndrew says over his wife’s head, nodding gravely at me. “We spend a lot of time thinking about Dan but avoiding talking about him. It’s good to have the happy memories.”

  Mrs. McAndrew dries her eyes and reaches out to me with the hand not holding the handkerchief. Awkwardly, I lean forward out of my overstuffed armchair and take her hand. She gives mine a gentle press. I’m horrified at how fragile hers is: I can feel the knobs and joints of her bones all too clearly through the thin flesh covering them, and they seem much too delicate to carry the weight of her rings.

  “Thank you,” she says, managing a smile at me though her eyes are still damp. “I know it’s only a small item of Dan’s, but it has made us all remember how much fun he was.”

  Wow, I think. I chose well when I picked that charm. Though maybe, on reflection, anything of Dan’s that they hadn’t seen in a while would have triggered this response. There must be so many memories bubbling just under the surface, waiting to rise.

  “I—”

  Mrs. McAndrew starts to say something else, and then stops. I sit looking at her, waiting. But gradually, with horror, I can tell that nothing’s going to come out. No words, anyway. She makes an awful gulping noise, like a fish trying to breathe water and only getting air, and then, literally as if someone’s turned on a pair of taps, her eyes flood with tears that pour down her cheeks in a sheet of water. I’ve never seen anything like it. I’m frozen in my seat with embarrassment and helplessness, because I know there’s nothing I can do to make the situation any better.

  “Flora, darling,” Mr. McAndrew begins.

  In one shaky but determined movement, she stands up, waving her husband away. Covering her face with her handkerchief, she walks jerkily across the Hall, her heels tapping on the exposed parts of the stone floor. Halfway to the stairs, she breaks into terrible sobs. I never want to hear anyone crying like that ever again. It’s literally heartbreaking.

  I stare, miserable, at Mr. McAndrew, whose face has gone gray. He looks suddenly very old indeed.

  “I’m so sorry . . . ,” I mumble, as Mrs. McAndrew, weeping, starts to go upstairs.

  He shakes his head at me.

  “Not your fault,” he says sadly. “Not your fault at all. Flora wanted you to come. I just hope to God she’s right, and it’s helping to heal her. I worry that we’re just opening up the wounds instead.”

  I don’t know what to say. I just hang my head.

  “If he’d just had his EpiPen with him,” Mr. McAndrew says wearily. “He never let it out of his sight. But we’ve been over and over this a thousand times, and never been able to work out why he didn’t have it that evening. I have to give up asking that question.” He sighs. “There’ll never be an answer, and it’ll just keep torturing me if I don’t give it up.”

  I wish very much I could tell Mr. McAndrew everything. But I can’t. At the slightest hint that I suspect Callum—or Lucy, acting for him—he’ll throw me out of the castle on the spot.

  “I have to go to her,” he says, standing up.

  I nod, and will myself to burden Dan’s grieving family even further. I don’t have any other choice.

  “Mr. McAndrew, I was thinking,” I begin, “maybe you could show me round the castle a bit tomorrow? If you’re not busy. I’d love to learn a bit about the history of the McAndrews and, um, what Dan’s life was like here.”

  I’ve been practicing in my head throughout dinner, but it sounds a bit feeble now I come out with it. But my request goes down very well with Mr. McAndrew, whose eyes actually brighten at the suggestion.

  “How nice,” he says. “I could show you where Dan played when he was a boy, his favorite places.”

  “I’d like that.”

  “Excellent. Tomorrow morning it is, then.”

  Mr. McAndrew walks toward the staircase, moving slowly, like an old man. Drinking my coffee, I wait for him to climb it and disappear along the corridor. I leave ten minutes after he’s vanished from sight, and then I head up the staircase too, and at the top take the direction in which I think Catriona went.

  I’m feeling a nasty lump in my stomach as a result of having upset Mrs. McAndrew so much, almost like a physical pain. I’m trying to tell myself that she would want to find out who killed her son, particularly seeing how much she’s grieving for him, but I know that’s a bit disingenuous of me. What if I find out it was Callum and Lucy conspiring to do it, so he could inherit? That discovery would probably kill Mrs. McAndrew.

  But I can’t stop. Not when I’m so close to the finish line.

  I hear music coming from further down the corridor, a cool-sounding, electronic chill-out music that I hope is Catriona’s. It sounds like the kind of thing she’d listen to. I reach the door and listen at it for a moment: no voices, which hopefully means it’s not Callum and Lucy. And when I knock, it’s Catriona’s voice that sings out:

  “Come in!”

  I open it and put my head around the door. Catriona’s sitting at a desk, her back to me, doing something on her computer. Squinting to see what it is, I identify it as being an architectural model in 3-D, and I must admit, I’m surprised at how poised she is. After the scene downstairs, I would have thought she’d be messaging some friends, writing about how difficult life is here, with her mother in tears, her brother angry with me, and his girlfriend throwing wobblies every two seconds. But no, she came right up here and started to work on something clearly pretty complicated and brain-taxing. Impressed though I am, I can’t help finding this a bit cold.

  But maybe she’s used to the scenes by now, and this is her way of detaching herself from them. I remind myself that it’s been six months since Dan’s death: Catriona must be horribly accustomed to her brother’s sulks and her mother breaking down in sobs. I suppose I can’t blame her for deciding that, if everyone else is going to give in to their emotions, she’s going to shove hers away and focus on her studies.

  I still can’t help thinking I’d have rung a friend, though, rather than playing around with computer models.

  “Do you mind if I hang out with you a bit?” I ask. “Your parents went off, and I don’t really think I’d be that welcome playing billiards with Callum and Lucy.”

  And I want to ask you lots of things about Callum and Lucy, and this seems like the perfect opportunity.

  “Of course.” Catriona saves whatever she’s working on and swivels round in her chair.

  “Oh wow.” I can’t help but gawp in awe when I enter her room. “This is amazing.”

  It’s a huge, beautiful room, with lots to look at, but the centerpiece is a huge four-poster bed, its posts massive and heavily carved, hung with heavy green velvet curtains. I goggle at it.

  “Isn’t it gorgeous?” Catriona sighs. “I love it so much. I think it’s my favorite thing in the world. Go on, have a look up from inside.”

  I climb up—all the beds at Castle Airlie are so high a child would need steps to reach them—and crane my head back. I see at once what she means. The inside ceiling of the four-poster is draped with more green velvet, caught up into a central swirl like a canopy. I’m eaten up with envy for this bed. You’d feel like a princess going to bed in it every night—drawing the velvet curtains, closing out the world.

  “It’s like being inside a really posh chocolate box,” I say.

  “Sometimes, when it’s pouring out, I just curl up in there and spread out all my books and do all my studying in bed,” she says. “It’s lovely.”

  She smiles, but then her expression sobers as she asks:

  “So, were Mum and Dad okay?”

  “Not really,” I admit guiltily. I’ve manipulated this family so much, I’m beginning to feel really bad about it. “Your mum was all right at first, but then she really started to cry and went upstairs.”

  “Oh God.” Catriona pulls a face. “She thinks she can deal with it, but she can’t, really. Poor Dad just follows her round nervous
ly, trying to take care of her. We’re all pretty worried about her, actually. Moira thinks she’s a few steps short of a nervous breakdown, and Moira’s always right.”

  I don’t know what to say to this, so I look around her room instead. It’s got a thick, pale cream and pink carpet, and the walls are pale green with delicate black-and-white prints hanging on them, all very elegant. Catriona has a dressing table by the window, a proper one with a mirror with folding wings on each side, lots of space for makeup and creams and brushes, and a matching chair in front of it. Beyond, in the far corner, is a pale green sofa, which has a little coffee table in front of it. And her desk, besides the computer, has a printer and scanner as well. It’s all kept incredibly neat and tidy, which I’m sure is Catriona: she seems a very precise and organized kind of person.

  “I can’t believe how big your room is,” I say.

  She giggles. “I’ve even got a study next door for my drawings, and my own bathroom through that door.” She points to it. “Mum and Dad put me in here after I got too big for the nursery, because they said it wouldn’t be fair to make me share a bathroom with two boys. Lucky, eh? But you must have a lot of space where you are, don’t you? Over dinner you were saying Wakefield Hall’s really big.”

  “It is, but my grandmother closed off large parts of it when my dad died,” I explain.

  “Oh, that’s sad. But they’ll be opened back up again one day, won’t they?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “Maybe.”

  She tilts her head to the side and her red ponytail tilts along with her, curling onto one shoulder.

  “I’m studying to be an architect at Edinburgh. Perhaps I’ll come to Wakefield Hall and help you restore up all the old rooms and make them beautiful again.”

  “That sounds great,” I say to be polite, but I couldn’t be less interested in what Catriona is studying. I have information I need to pry out of her.

  But Catriona has a one-track mind. She’s like Lizzie that way.

  “I’m going to do my dissertation on Castle Airlie, of course. This place needs so much work.” She pulls a face, her gray-green eyes crinkling up to amused slits. Unlike her brothers, whose eyes, though exactly the same color, are strikingly large and rimmed with thick black lashes, Catriona’s are slanted over her equally slanted cheekbones. With her dead-white skin and flaming hair, she looks faintly Russian, or Tatar, like her mother. “It’s a bit of a crumbling old ruin, really,” she continues. “The plumbing is Victorian, the heating’s a mess, and it’s horribly drafty.”