by Emma Rous
“Fine. Well, Beth, in that case—would you write down your new address for me?”
“What?” Nina said. “She’s not going anywhere.”
Jonas pulled a face. “Well, I doubt she’ll be happy to stay here much longer if you keep treating her like this.”
My heart jumped erratically. How was Nina going to react?
She turned slowly and stared at me. It was probably the first time she’d looked me directly in the eye since I told her I’d pretended to be her for her grandfather’s visit.
“I honestly don’t want to take your place,” I said meekly. “I never meant to—”
She gulped, and then she flung her arms around me.
“I know,” she sobbed. “And I don’t want you to leave. I’ve been really horrible. I was jealous of you getting to meet my grandfather, but I know it wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. I’m sorry, Beth. I’m sorry.”
Jonas sighed loudly. “Girls.” He raised his eyebrows. “Are we going swimming, then, or what?”
Nina and I wiped away our tears, and we ran upstairs to change into our swimsuits. She was extra nice to me for the rest of the day, but I was conscious that our reconciliation was down to Jonas, and I watched him more closely than usual as the three of us messed around in the shallows. When Nina floated out into deeper water, I seized my chance and thanked him privately.
“Well, I had to do something,” he said, holding my gaze. “I’d hate to see you go. I like you, Beth.”
In that brief moment, I forgot about all my worries.
“I like you too,” I said.
“Do you think maybe, one day—” he began. But Nina was splashing toward us, shouting that she’d seen a giant pike, that it had nibbled at her toes. Our moment of intimacy was over, but I smiled to myself each time I thought about his words. “I like you, Beth.” Things weren’t so bad at Raven Hall, after all.
Sadie
January 2019
The next course looks intriguing, Sadie thinks. Thick lamb chops, a medley of green vegetables, and something round, stodgy, and golden brown. She prods it with her fork; it’s larger than the palm of her hand, and it’s clearly been fried, but she can’t work out what it is.
“Puffball mushroom,” Nazleen says, with more than a trace of unease.
“Ah, yes, lovely,” Everett says, and he tucks in with gusto, giving Sadie the confidence to nibble a tiny piece of hers. Not bad. She slices into her lamb, and a thin, bloody liquid oozes instantly across her plate. It’s a good job there are so many courses, she thinks, because at this rate, I won’t finish any of them. She takes another sip of her wine.
The guests continue to ask one another questions while they pick at their food, and Sadie tries to keep track of the replies in her head, wishing she could jot down some notes. She’s confident she’s drawing closer to identifying the guilty party, but she keeps changing her mind, and the alcohol isn’t helping . . . Which guest swore they came downstairs empty-handed? Which clue has she overlooked? As people begin to set down their cutlery, Nazleen appears to remember something.
“Oh.”
Nazleen reaches for the game cards, and she takes a sip of water before she begins her next speech, and Sadie realizes with a jolt of surprise that Nazleen hasn’t been drinking wine like everyone else. Perhaps it’s Nazleen’s choice, or perhaps it’s a condition of the hostess role; the rest of them have been plied with drinks all evening, but maybe the company felt one person should remain sober and in charge.
“It was Nazleen,” Zach whispers at Sadie’s side. “Don’t you think? I’m pretty sure Lady Nightingale murdered her own husband . . .”
Nazleen raises her voice. “Ladies and gentlemen, I have a card here for each of you which will provide you with details of the last conversation you had with Lord Nightingale. This will be new information for you, and something you will now want to question one another about.”
Mrs. Shrew closes her eyes as if she’s in pain, but Genevieve gives Nazleen a bright smile and helps her to hand around the small envelopes.
“Please keep your own cards private,” Nazleen says. “And remember, you must answer all questions truthfully.”
Sadie tears open her envelope and pulls out a square card. Miss Lamb, it reads, In your last conversation with Lord Nightingale, he told you he used to be a friend of your mother’s. Sadie blinks and reads on. He said you must have been a great disappointment to your mother, turning up at grand houses in the hope of employment, unable to hold down a job.
Sadie’s pulse races. She knows this is about her character, but it feels disturbingly close to home—to her recent sacking from the shop, and to her belief that she was a disappointment to her own mother. It’s unnerving. She glances at the serious expressions of the other guests as they each read their private cards. Everett rips his into quarters and posts them in the empty gravy boat in front of him with a snort of disgust.
Sadie drops her gaze back to her own card and reads the second paragraph. Lord Nightingale told you there would never be a place for you at Raven Hall. “Over his dead body” was the phrase he used. He felt the same way as your mother—he knew you’d never amount to anything.
Sadie’s vision blurs. This is just a game, so why does it feel so personal—so nasty? At her side, Zach folds his card carefully in half and slides it into his jeans pocket.
“Is yours . . .” Sadie’s not sure what she wants to ask him. “Is yours what you expected? Does it—you know. Does it make sense, for your character?”
Zach frowns, hesitating, as if suspicious she might be cheating. “I think I’m close to working it out. Is there a prize, do you know, if we get the right answer?”
His oblique reply only disconcerts her more. Across the table, Joe, too, seems to have disposed of his card entirely. Genevieve has rolled hers into a tube, and she looks mildly bored. Mrs. Shrew’s envelope sits unopened next to her plate, and an uncomfortable silence hangs heavily in the room. Nazleen looks like she wants to say something, but she can’t seem to find the words needed to reignite their enthusiasm for the game.
Feeling distinctly uneasy, Sadie slides her card back into its envelope, the word disappointment rolling around in her mind like a marble in a jar. She’s never had a problem keeping a character’s story separate from her own life before, but this has touched a nerve.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake!” Sadie draws herself up as everyone stares at her. She’s determined to regain her former good spirits, to stop being so oversensitive, and to move the game along now. “Come on, then. Who’s going to go first? The answer must be here somewhere.” She catches Joe’s eye. “Right, Colonel Otter, tell me . . .”
The group fires questions and answers across the table for a few minutes. Sadie suspects Genevieve at first, and then Everett. Zach acts as though he suspects her. Joe accuses Nazleen, who in turn accuses Zach. Apart from Mrs. Shrew, they’re all smiling, all making an effort . . . But somehow it still isn’t enough, and eventually the questions tail off. Sadie’s gaze rises to the portrait hanging at the head of the table, and she has the uncomfortable sensation that the stern man is glaring back down at her, rigid with disapproval.
“It’s all red herrings anyway,” Everett grumbles, leaning back in his chair. “They won’t give us all the information until tomorrow morning, will they? They can’t have the game solved before breakfast; that would never do.”
“Oh,” Sadie says, strangely comforted by this thought, “I suppose that’s true.”
On her other side, Zach gives a heavy sigh. “I’m sure I’ve almost got it. If I could just work out who . . .”
While the waiter clears their plates, Sadie drains her water glass and refills it, vowing not to drink any more wine. She has an odd, hollow feeling in her head, and a prickling sensation that the unseen clue writer knows too much about her. If that were true and they though
t poorly of her, why would they have hired her? They wouldn’t. She’s being ridiculous. The waiter bustles out of the room, but he quickly returns with the dessert trolley, and all eyes swivel to the elegant glass dishes.
“Tropical fruit pavlova,” Nazleen murmurs.
Sadie wishes it were something simpler—what’s wrong with plain English strawberries and cream? The waiter sets down her bowl in front of her, and her throat closes; a peeled lychee, resembling nothing more than a ghostly eyeball, stares back at her from its bed of meringue. Her stomach churns, and she can’t tell whether it’s panic, but in that brief clammy moment, she’s seized by the overwhelming conviction that someone has been watching her . . .
She shoves her chair back, desperate to get away from the table, away from these strangers. She thinks she might faint if she stands up, but she lurches to her feet anyway.
“Are you okay?” Nazleen half stands, but Sadie composes herself and gestures for Nazleen to sit down again.
“Yeah, I’m just—” Sadie tries to keep her body language calm as she heads toward the door; she’s a little unwell, that’s all, and she can’t bear any fuss. “I just need some fresh air. Just give me a few minutes.”
It’s much cooler in the hall.
She stands in front of a huge gilt-framed mirror and rests her fingertips on the polished wood of the table beneath it. Slowly her heart rate settles, and the panic-inducing flashes of heat and cold on her skin ease. Perhaps it was something she ate. Perhaps it was just too warm in the dining room. She studies her reflection and gives herself a rueful grin: fancy seeing eyeballs in her pudding; how embarrassing. She feels well enough to go back and join the group now, but she’s struck with the idea of sending Wendy a quick text about this—it’ll make her laugh.
A clattering of pans somewhere at the back of the house jolts her into action—she’s supposed to be a sophisticated dinner guest; she doesn’t want to be caught lurking out here, pulling faces in the mirror. She hurries up the stairs, relieved to have a clear head again, but when she reaches her bedroom, she discovers that, just like Genevieve’s phone, hers has no reception.
Oh well. The humorous text to Wendy will have to wait.
Back out in the corridor, Sadie eyes up the other bedroom doors. She’s curious about her fellow guests. She’s learned all sorts of details about their game characters, but next to nothing about them as real people, and the chances are, she’ll never see them again after this weekend. She’ll probably never stay in such a grand house again either. In a couple of days’ time, she’ll be slumped on the sofa in her flat, browsing uninspiring job adverts and waiting for that big-break phone call from Wendy that never comes. But tonight, she has a chance to explore this mansion and to peek into the lives of the strangers she’s sharing it with.
It’s not spying. It’s just harmless curiosity. A quick look into their bedrooms, that’s all, and then she’ll rejoin the dinner party downstairs.
The first room is clearly Nazleen’s. Two long green dresses are draped over the bed, and the dressing table is scattered with creams and makeup. A small framed wedding photo sits rather endearingly on the bedside table, and Sadie smiles to see a younger-looking Nazleen arm in arm with her red-haired wife. She closes the door gently.
The room on the other side of Sadie’s is blatantly Mrs. Shrew’s. Deep blue items are still folded neatly in the open suitcase, and a feather brooch lies discarded on the bedside table. No photographs in this room; nothing particularly personal at all. A faint floral scent hangs in the air, and Sadie closes the door softly and moves on to the next room.
This one’s owner is harder to identify. The suitcase is closed, so Sadie tiptoes across the layered rugs and lifts the lid. An array of sickly yellow items brings a faint smile to her face—poor Joe. A darker color would have suited him better—racing green perhaps, or a navy blue. A pair of trainers and a running kit are tucked in at one end of the case, and she smiles at his optimism—presumably planning a run before breakfast tomorrow, despite the freezing weather and the excesses of tonight.
After Joe’s room comes a large old-fashioned and fully tiled bathroom, and beyond that is a door set into the end wall of the corridor. Sadie pulls this open and peers up a rising spiral staircase. This must be inside the tower. She glances at her watch and hesitates; it’s tempting. But if she doesn’t return to the others soon, one of them is bound to come up looking for her, and she’d rather not be caught prying. The door falls shut with a clunk.
She moves more quickly as she works her way back down the corridor. The first bedroom is less luxuriously furnished than the others. Thinner curtains, a single bed, a slinky red dress puddled on the floor. Poor Genevieve has been given a lower-grade room, it seems. Perhaps because she was a last-minute hire.
Another, rather chilly, bathroom, and then a room with no company vintage suitcase in sight, just a sports bag dumped by the bed. Sadie frowns, and then her brow clears; this may well be Zach’s room—he of the “nearly didn’t come,” couldn’t-be-bothered-to-dress-up attitude. She closes the door softly and moves along to the last room on this side of the staircase.
And yes, her hunch about Zach’s bedroom was right, because this one clearly belongs to Everett. Purple fabric bulges from the open suitcase, and she spots an invitation card poking out from among the clothes. She can’t resist; she tiptoes across the room and draws the card out to read the personal message in its loopy blue handwriting. Hendrik will appreciate your support. She pulls a face and slides the card back under a soft mauve sweater. Perhaps Hendrik is the owner of the murder mystery company. She can see how such a message would have appealed to Everett’s sense of self-importance.
When she is out on the landing again, a faint thud makes her glance beyond the staircase to the opposite end of the corridor—the fire-damaged end, as she thinks of it. Did someone follow her up here? Suddenly, she feels acutely aware of the house around her. So many rooms. So many nooks and corners and potential hiding places . . . The hairs on her arms rise, and before she can tear her gaze from the double row of identical doors, an odd yelping sound comes from behind one of them, like a laugh morphing into a cry.
She races for the stairs, hurtles down them, and almost slips in her heels before she reaches the bottom, only just saving herself in time.
As before, the hall is deserted. She stands at its center, trying to catch her breath, and when she stares, wide-eyed, back up the staircase, there’s nothing to be seen. No ghost, no sinister, shadowy figure . . . What on earth was I thinking? A rumble of conversation drifts from the dining room; dishes clank in the kitchen. She presses her hand against her chest and waits for her heart rate to settle.
It was probably an animal, that’s all. A fox, maybe, or a bird, that found a route into the once-abandoned house and returns to scavenge now. She draws herself up, trying to summon her former confidence, her sense of amused appreciation at finding herself in this privileged situation. But as she reaches for the dining room door handle, she glances over her shoulder at the door of the dusty study that she and Nazleen discovered earlier. She’s as sure as she can be that it was shut when she went upstairs. And now it’s ajar.
Beth
Summer 1988 to Spring 1989
Jonas may have given me a new reason to feel happy at Raven Hall, but I never saw him alone—Nina and I did almost everything together. As the summer holidays drew to an end, Jonas asked me again whether I’d be joining him at the high school in September, and I felt embarrassed that I couldn’t give him a definite answer. The prospect of being at the same school appealed to me, although I’d be in the year below him, so I probably wouldn’t see him all that much. I asked Nina if she knew what the plan was, but she merely shrugged and suggested we ask her parents that evening.
It seemed Leonora and Markus hadn’t given any thought to my ongoing education either, but they quickly came up with a suggestion.
“Not the local high school, no,” Leonora said, “but let’s go and look at this other place.” She glanced at Nina. “Perhaps you both might like to try it there.”
Nina was surprisingly agreeable, and three weeks later we were both enrolled at a small and very welcoming private school. The other girls there were friendly, and I hit it off with my new violin tutor straightaway. The only downside was the school was miles from Raven Hall. We left in a taxi early in the morning and got home late, but Nina was cheerful about it, so I was determined to be happy too.
At first, I fretted every time money was mentioned at school—why were Leonora and Markus insisting on paying for my education, and what would happen if they stopped? I still felt I had to be careful not to antagonize Nina. Not that she ever referred to the “game” again or said anything pointed, but I knew that if she asked her parents to send me away, they would—they’d always put her first, and quite rightly too. So I stayed alert for any sign that the family might be preparing to send me back to the children’s home. But as the months passed, and my school life grew more absorbing, I began to relax.
Caroline came for a short visit in October, staying for barely an hour, during which time we made polite conversation in the drawing room and I ate a lot of biscuits to fill the awkward silences. She said she’d see me again before Christmas, but in the end, she sent a parcel and her apologies—she’d been assigned work in South America for six weeks. Eventually, at the end of January, she made a second visit to check on my welfare.
“You seem very settled,” she said.
She’d been in the house hardly two minutes. Leonora, Markus, and Nina had retreated promptly, leaving us to chat privately by the fire that crackled in the black marble fireplace, a tea tray placed on the coffee table between us. I scrutinized her expression, sensing that she was, more than anything, relieved that I was no longer her problem. I was tempted to make a snide retort. Yes, how convenient for you, Aunt Caroline. But as ever, I masked my resentment of her.