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 distaste 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.