The Perfect Guests

by Emma Rous

  “I wish I could try one of those cocktails,” I said. I’d only ever tasted cider and an occasional sip of my parents’ wine on special occasions. The thought of alcohol made me wonder what Jonas had drunk the other night, at the party in the village. I blurted out my question to Nina before I could think better of it.

  “Why won’t your mum let you mix with other people? Is she afraid of germs or something?”

  “Yeah,” Nina said without meeting my eye. “Something like that. It’s just one of those things.”

  “Were you ill when you were little?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t remember.”

  “Have you ever been in hospital?”

  “Yeah, once, when I got an ear infection.”

  “Huh.” I shifted on my blanket and thought about the hundreds of hospital appointments I’d attended over the years with my brother. Sometimes Mum would find someone to babysit me, but mostly I’d had to trail along too, and they were so boring. “I guess you’re lucky, then,” I said. And then, more quietly, “I guess we both are.”

  A dramatic pop made us peer out again. The first guests were emerging from the French doors onto the veranda, and they gathered by the bar, chatting and laughing, while the red-cheeked man poured champagne into tall, elegant glasses. As we watched, Leonora and Markus joined the group, bringing a couple more people with them from the house. Leonora wore a shimmering green dress that went right down to her shoes, and her hair was pinned up; she had a string of pearls around her neck. Markus wore a suit so dark green, it looked almost black, and underneath that was a white shirt, open at the collar, with no tie. I turned back to Nina.

  “When’s your—” I hesitated, but my curiosity overrode my instincts. “When’s Markus’s dad coming to see you, then?”

  “Tomorrow afternoon.” Her voice was low.

  “How long for? Has he got other grandchildren? What are you going to say to him?”

  “Oh, Beth, give it a rest.” She rolled away on her blanket and crossed her arms over her face. “Can we just drop the subject of me? Please.”

  Chastened, I asked no more questions, watching in silence as the lawn filled with people. Music started up, and the chatter of the guests grew louder. Eventually, Nina suggested we eat our picnic, and then we wrapped our blankets tightly around ourselves and continued to watch the party as darkness gradually fell. Leonora had been right all along: we grew cold and bored. In the end, we both dozed off.

  We were woken by Markus, poking his head above the top of the ladder and laughing at us in the beam of light from his torch. The garden was completely dark, and we blinked at him, disorientated.

  “Come on, sleepyheads,” he said cheerfully. “Party’s over. Everyone’s gone home. Mum’s making you hot chocolate indoors to warm you up. Come back inside.”

  * * *

  * * *

  The following morning, Nina was sick.

  “I should never have let you stay up in the tree house for so long.” Leonora fussed around Nina’s bed, feeling her forehead and straightening her blankets.

  Nina’s face was a ghastly color against her pillow, almost green. She waved at me feebly, indicating I should step back.

  “No point you catching it too.” She gave me a pained smile, then clutched at her stomach.

  I hurried back to my own bedroom and curled up on my bed, guilt gnawing at me. I shouldn’t have asked Nina all those questions about germs and illness last night—what if this was my fault? What if I’d somehow—despite my protestation to Nina that I didn’t believe in such things—what if my questions had somehow tempted fate?

  I closed my eyes, unable to push away memories of the worst night of my life. I’d asked a lot of questions that day too: Why did Ricky always have to fall ill just before we went on holiday? Would we still go, even if his cough got worse? Why couldn’t he stay behind, with Mrs. Jackson from next door?

  I’d bought new sunglasses that morning from C&A—thick black frames, glamorous reflective lenses. I knew they’d transform me from a round-faced twelve-year-old into a cool teenager as soon as we arrived at the beach. But while I was still lying awake in bed that evening, Ricky’s cough did get worse, and I heard other worrying noises too. Mum yelling that they didn’t have time to wait for an ambulance. Dad running next door to get Mrs. Jackson to babysit me. The squeal of tires as the car roared away. Mum, Dad, Ricky . . . I never saw them again.

  I wore my sunglasses to the funeral, and I barely took them off for the rest of that summer. I wore them while Caroline explained why I could stay with her in her apartment for just a few nights. I wore them while the staff at the children’s home went off to find me a music stand for my alien new bedroom. Those sunglasses masked my emotions; they made me feel less vulnerable, less naked. And by the time they eventually broke, I didn’t need them anymore—I’d learned to present a calm face to the world, no matter what I was feeling inside.

  I sat up on my bed and frowned at my reflection in the cheval mirror across the room. Of course, Nina’s illness wasn’t my fault, just like my family’s accident wasn’t my fault. Nina had caught a bug; that was all. With all those strangers passing through the house before the party—caterers and waiters and gazebo people—it was hardly surprising.

  A soft tap at the door made me jump. I smoothed away my frown as the door was pushed open. Leonora poked her head in, as if not sure what she might find.

  “Ah, there you are.” She hesitated. “Are you okay?”

  I nodded quickly. “I’m fine.”

  “Good.” She came in and closed the door gently behind her. “I need to ask you a favor, Beth.”

  My heart lifted a little. Leonora and Markus had been so kind to me. I’d happily do anything to show them how grateful I was.

  “Of course,” I said. “What is it?”

  She walked across to my wardrobe, pulled open the doors, and gazed at the blue checked dress for a long moment. If she thought it strange that I hadn’t hung any of my own clothes in there yet, she didn’t comment. She gave herself a little shake and lifted the dress down from the rail.

  “The thing is,” she said, turning to face me, “we’re in a bit of a pickle. Markus’s father is coming to see us today. He moved to the States after Nina was born, and he always said he’d never come back, because this place holds a lot of . . .” Her gaze drifted up to the ceiling. “Bad memories. His wife died here . . .” When she dropped her gaze again, her expression was clouded, and she looked at me as though not really seeing me. “But for some reason . . .”

  “He’s changed his mind.”

  She blinked and gave me a tight smile. “Exactly. And the thing is . . .” She came toward me with the dress clutched against her chest, and she perched on the bed as if about to confide a great secret. “Obviously, Nina’s in no fit state to meet him this afternoon. So we’re very much hoping you’ll help us, Beth.” She gave me an earnest, pleading look. “We’d like you to put this dress on, and plait your hair, and pretend to be Nina, just for a little while.”

  I stared at her. “But—he’ll know I’m not Nina.”

  “He won’t. He’s never met her. He never asked for photos, and we never sent them.”

  Sympathy for Nina blossomed in my chest—her only living grandparent, and he’d never even asked for a photo of her.

  “Can’t you just explain to him she’s ill?” I asked.

  “The thing about Markus’s father is”—Leonora closed her eyes and grimaced, as if remembering some previous, traumatic encounter with him—“he likes to get his own way. He’s flown thousands of miles to meet his granddaughter today, and—” She opened her eyes again and looked sorrowfully at the dress in her hands. Then she thrust it toward me. “Just—trust me. All our lives will be much easier if we give him what he wants.”

  I wasn’t convinced, but I took the dress from her anyway. Leonora a
nd Markus had done so much for me; of course I’d do what they asked, even though it sounded bizarre.

  “Okay,” I said. “I’ll try my best.”

  “You’re an angel.” Leonora placed her hand over mine. “Thank you. And don’t look so worried. Just think of it as—a little game.”

  Sadie

  January 2019

  And so the game begins.

  Nazleen leads the two men across the drawing room toward Sadie. They look like father and son, Sadie thinks; they share a similar wiry, angular frame. The elder must be over seventy, but his gaze is sharp, his expression suggesting a lively enjoyment of the situation they find themselves in. The younger man looks to be in his late thirties, and he has softer facial features and collar-length dark hair.

  “Professor Owl,” Nazleen says to the older man, “allow me to introduce Miss Lamb.”

  Before Sadie can shake Professor Owl’s hand, he grabs hold of hers and bows over it to kiss it. He doesn’t mime either; the kiss is decidedly enthusiastic. Champagne whizzes through Sadie’s arteries, and she feels fleetingly unsettled by their character names—lamb, nightingale, owl . . . As quickly as politeness allows, she withdraws her hand from the old man’s talons, and then she laughs inwardly at her silliness.

  “Enchanted, mademoiselle,” Professor Owl says. “Please, call me Everett. Everyone else does.”

  She suspects they’re not supposed to be using their real names, but she smiles anyway. “Sadie. It’s nice to meet you.”

  He turns back to Nazleen. “My word, if all the guests are as pretty as you two, we’re in for a marvelous evening.”

  Nazleen’s professionalism doesn’t falter, but Sadie’s smile evaporates, and she turns away to greet the younger man as Everett and Nazleen fall into conversation. In contrast to Everett’s dinner jacket and deep maroon waistcoat, this man is in black jeans and a casual shirt. He gives Sadie an apologetic smile.

  “I’m Zach,” he says. “Sorry about the old man.”

  “Sadie.” She gestures at his clothes. “You didn’t fancy dressing up, then?”

  “Nah.” He pulls a face. “I wasn’t going to come at all, actually, but Dad talked me into it, last minute. He’s been going on about how we should support local businesses and all that. I think he was just flattered they asked for his endorsement, really, you know.”

  “You live locally, then?” she says.

  He drains his glass of champagne as if he’s parched. “Yep. Born and bred just down the road.”

  The young waiter steps forward and refills Zach’s glass. A photographer moves around the room at a discreet distance, taking pictures, and Sadie tries to ignore her. She declines a top-up of her own glass, and her gaze settles on an amateurish but rather charming painting of Raven Hall, hanging over a polished bureau in the corner.

  “Well, it’s a stunning house,” she says. “Do you know the owner?”

  “No.” Zach peers around at the luxurious furnishings. “It’s been empty as far back as I can remember. This is high-end stuff, though, isn’t it? I hope the food matches up.”

  They both turn as the next guest enters the room: a dark-haired, high-cheekboned young woman in a striking crimson dress. She dips her head slightly as Nazleen leads her across the drawing room toward the others. She must be in her early twenties, Sadie thinks. Everett can’t take his eyes off her.

  “Everyone,” Nazleen says, her accent slipping slightly, “this is Miss Mouse.”

  Miss Mouse nods a meek hello around the group, and she sidles over to stand next to Sadie.

  “So, er—have you come far?” Sadie asks her, for lack of a more inspired question.

  But before Miss Mouse can answer, Everett butts in.

  “Owl and Mouse—we’d fit rather well together, wouldn’t you say?” He looms closer to the young woman, and she blinks back at him, a flash of stunned repulsion in her eyes. Sadie gives Everett a steely look.

  “Step back a bit, would you?” Sadie says to him firmly. “It’s too warm in here to huddle together.”

  Thankfully, Everett’s attention is diverted by the arrival of another new guest—a man in his forties, who hovers in the doorway.

  “Colonel Otter,” Nazleen says loudly. “Welcome. Do come in.”

  By Sadie’s side, Zach makes a pleased sound. “Ah. I didn’t know Joe was coming.”

  Colonel Otter—Joe—is a good-looking man, a few years older than Zach and more athletically built. But he hesitates in the doorway for a moment longer, as if he thinks he’s in the wrong place. The reddish tint in his brown hair clashes rather unfortunately with the bright yellow waistcoat he’s wearing. Someone had a field day choosing all these outfits, Sadie thinks. She smiles at the idea that, according to her alibi card, she and this reluctant-looking man supposedly took a stroll around the garden together earlier.

  “Well, well.” Everett strides toward the man, barging ahead of Nazleen. “Joe, old chap, how’ve you been?”

  Joe’s gaze jumps around the room as he shakes Everett’s hand.

  “I’m fine, thanks,” he says. “I didn’t know you two would be here.”

  Zach goes to join them. “Good to see you, mate.”

  Joe must be another local, Sadie guesses, drafted in alongside the hired actors for this trial event. As the men talk, Sadie turns to the young woman next to her and sees that she’s ducking away from the photographer’s camera.

  “Are you okay?” Sadie asks her quietly, feeling an unexpected surge of protectiveness toward her. “I’m Sadie, by the way.”

  “Genevieve.” The young woman widens her eyes. “Yeah, I only got offered this job a couple of days ago. I just—I didn’t realize everyone would be so . . .”

  “What?” Sadie says. “Old?” She laughs. “They’re taking photos for their website. They’ve got to appeal to the right demographic—people who can afford a murder mystery weekend . . .”

  The young woman pulls a face. “I’d hoped they might be nicer.”

  “Ah.” Sadie shoots a dark look at Everett. “Well, some of us are nice, honestly.” She gives Genevieve what she hopes is a reassuring smile. “Shall we stick together?”

  But Genevieve merely looks at her sideways, as if trying to puzzle her out.

  Zach rejoins them by the fire, and Sadie sighs with relief; he seems the easiest person here to chat to.

  “So, what’s the history of this house, then?” Sadie asks him. “Why did the previous owners abandon it? Do you know?”

  Zach’s expression is vague. “Oh, someone died, I think. I was just a kid; I don’t really know what happened. It’s always been empty, as far back as I can remember. Dad said the owner went off to live abroad.”

  “It seems criminal,” Genevieve says, “to leave a beautiful house like this empty for so long. The owner should be ashamed of himself.”

  Zach wags a finger at her. “Or herself. How do you know the owner isn’t a woman?”

  Genevieve smiles graciously. “Fair point.”

  Sadie glances at the door; she’s waiting for the final guest to join them. There are six of them so far—three men and three women—and she wonders who the seventh will be. Will it have to be another woman, to balance out Nazleen’s—or rather, Lady Nightingale’s—mysteriously missing husband in the game?

  Again, the waiter comes to refill their glasses, and this time, Sadie accepts a top-up. Zach must be on his third glass, at least. The photographer has disappeared, and Sadie’s stomach gives a low rumble. If the last guest doesn’t make an appearance soon, their dinner will be late.

  Finally, there’s movement by the door, and a formidable-looking silver-haired woman in a rich blue evening gown glides into the room.

  “Mrs. Shrew,” Nazleen cries. “How kind of you to join us.”

  Mrs. Shrew’s gaze sweeps over them all, and her expression slides from dist
aste to something more like horror. Sadie hopes she’s another actor, merely playing her part—because if not, the poor woman looks like she’d rather be anywhere but here.

  She decides to take the long route back to the village: around the lake, across Milner’s Drain, and up through the fields to the main road. She wants to distract herself from that scene on the veranda—those two women, the new owners of Raven Hall, the interlopers who stole her house. Also, she has a decision to make before she reaches the village. So yes, she’ll take the long route back, and she’ll hand the rest of her day over to fate.

  Walking around Avermere has always soothed her, even in the terrible days after her mother died, when Daddy locked himself away in his study and Raven Hall itself seemed to creak with misery. Today, she can feel her spirits lifting already. She passes the old tree stump and slows her pace, rolling up her sleeves in the gentle sunshine.

  Flag irises nod at her from among the long grass as if recognizing her as an old friend. Memories drift through her mind as she strolls along.

  Here is the tiny stone beach, only a dozen feet wide, where her mother taught her to swim, and where they brought their picnics every summer. It reminds her of her first experience with the pain of sunburn, and her mother taking her out to the kitchen garden and showing her how to turn strawberry leaves into a soothing lotion for her sun-scorched skin.

  And here are more of her mother’s much-loved medicine plants—cheerful button-headed tansy flowers, with their familiar camphorlike odor. As she dips her head to inhale the scent, a gray heron flaps up out of the vegetation by the lakeshore. It curves its flight path toward her, as if wanting to get a good look at her before it lifts away. She raises a hand in a silent greeting.

  For a few golden minutes, she almost forgets that none of this is hers any longer—her beloved Raven Hall, her beautiful Avermere. But inevitably, her mind drifts on to the last days of her mother’s illness. She remembers arranging daffodils in a jug by her mother’s bedside, and seeing their vivid yellow reflected in the whites of her mother’s eyes. She remembers her mother beckoning her forward . . .