But Leonora spoke sharply. “Nina.”
It jolted me into action, and I forced myself to join him on the sofa. He placed one of his gnarly hands over mine and took a moment to compose himself.
“That was beautiful, my child.” He gave me a surprisingly gentle smile. “You remind me so much of your grandmother, Anneliese. She played the cello every day of her life up until she—” His face contorted briefly. “Well, up until she grew too weak to hold it upright anymore. I’ll tell you something else. She’d have been very proud of you.”
I pictured the old cello case leaning in the corner of Markus’s study, and I nodded mutely. But Nina’s grandfather seemed to be waiting for a proper reply, and when I glanced at Leonora and Markus, they, too, were watching me with expectant expressions.
“Thank you,” I managed to say.
At that, Markus’s father tightened his grip on my hand. “Tell me, Nina. How would you like to come and live in America with me?”
Leonora made a choking sound, and Markus caught hold of her arm. His father’s gaze was fixed on me, and either he didn’t notice Leonora’s reaction, or he chose to ignore it.
“There’s an excellent music school in my city,” he continued, “and lots of wonderful opportunities for a bright girl like you. You could live in a big, airy apartment, go out to fancy restaurants, see a different show every night of the week. How does that grab you?”
I stared at him, thinking of the real Nina, upstairs, ill, in her bed. What would Nina say to this? Nina, who swam in the lake and the water channels around here every single day in the summer; who could row across to the island faster than Jonas could swim to it; who loved her turret bedroom and her tree house and the acres of fenland she’d grown up in.
“Thank you,” I said, “but I love living at Raven Hall too much. I think if I ever had to leave, I might die of a broken heart.”
First, his white eyebrows shot up. Then they hunched down, and he pulled my hand closer to him, bringing his face right up to mine. I tried to wriggle away, but he wouldn’t let me go.
“I see,” he said, and his voice had become a growl. “I see exactly what’s going on here. You’ve been brainwashed by your mother, haven’t you? I should have guessed.”
I scrambled to my feet, desperately trying to tug my hand free of his.
“Let go of me!”
“Dad,” Markus said sharply.
Finally, his father dropped my hand with a look of disgust. He got to his feet in one smooth, furious motion, and he glared at Markus, his body quivering.
“I’ve seen enough,” he snapped. “I’ll think about what you said, but I’m very disappointed in you, Markus. You’re my only son—” He cut himself off and stalked to the door. “I’ll see myself out.”
Sadie
January 2019
Sadie deliberately hangs back as the guests set down their champagne glasses and leave the drawing room.
Nazleen leads the way, with an eager Everett hurrying to accompany her, for all the world as if he really is an owl, sizing up his prey. Mrs. Shrew has regained her composure, but her expression is now severe. When Joe offers her his arm, she grants him the briefest of smiles, and she allows him to guide her from the room. Zach and Genevieve follow, arguing mildly about some aspect of the architecture of the house. Sadie brings up the rear, wondering which of them she’ll be seated next to at dinner.
The dining room is a striking mix of old grandeur and modern luxury. Dark wooden paneling gives way to a lustrous raspberry-colored wallpaper above; dozens of flickering candles set the crystal glasses twinkling and the silver cutlery gleaming. The table is set for eight, and as the guests seek out their place cards, they see the head of the table remains empty. An enormous portrait looms over it: a severe-looking gentleman with bushy eyebrows and a thatch of blond-white hair.
Nazleen, their hostess, hovers at the foot of the table while the others circle and find their places. Before they take their seats, she gestures theatrically at the portrait and glances around to make sure they’re all paying attention.
“Ladies and gentlemen, this is my husband, Lord Nightingale.”
On Sadie’s right, Zach murmurs, “A bit old for her, isn’t he?”
Sadie shushes him.
Nazleen continues. “I regret to inform you that this afternoon, Lord Nightingale was found murdered in his study. He was killed by a toxic powder that was delivered to him inside a sealed envelope. When Lord Nightingale opened the envelope, he inhaled the powder, and it killed him instantly.” She looks at each of the guests in turn. “He died at three o’clock this afternoon, precisely.”
Sadie thinks of her alibi card. She visited Lord Nightingale in his study between two and three . . . Her pulse quickens, questions already flitting through her mind.
“Now,” Nazleen continues, “the envelope was addressed to my husband, and there was no stamp on it, so we know it didn’t arrive in the post. Therefore, one of you must have delivered it to his study today. One of you, perhaps, slipped it under his study door, or left it discreetly on his desk, at some point this afternoon.” She draws herself up. “As far as I’m concerned, one of you killed him.” Her eyebrows lift meaningfully. “But you, of course, may suspect me.”
Sadie glances at the other guests. They’re all watching Nazleen with varying degrees of fascination—even sour-faced Mrs. Shrew.
Nazleen eases her shoulders down ever so slightly, and when she speaks again, her tone is calmer. She’s good, Sadie thinks. I can see why they hired her; she’s really good.
“Now,” Nazleen says, switching effortlessly from wronged wife to dinner party hostess, “each of you should have read your preliminary alibi card, so you know certain things to be true about your own activities here today. You may refer to your cards as needed. Your task, ladies and gentlemen, is to question one another—and me, of course—on your movements leading up to three o’clock this afternoon.”
Genevieve claps her hands. “How exciting!”
But Mrs. Shrew’s voice injects a mood-destroying contrast. “Are you going to give us permission to sit down, Lady Nightingale?”
“Oh, er, yes, of course,” Nazleen says. “Please, go ahead.”
They all pull out their heavy high-backed chairs and settle into position before Nazleen resumes her instructions.
“Right, and, um, a new piece of information will be provided with each course—a new clue, if you like. Please remember, everyone, you must be truthful in your answers, but you don’t have to share anything that you’re not directly asked about.” Nazleen holds a pose while the photographer points her camera at her, and then, finally, she reaches the end of her speech. “The last clue will be given at breakfast tomorrow morning, and then you will be asked to submit your theories and name your prime suspect.”