Their second course looks more appetizing: panfried partridge breasts with celeriac chips. Nazleen makes a show of pulling out the next game card, and again, she pauses for the photographer to take some pictures. Then she lifts her chin and waits for her six dinner party guests to give her their full attention.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Nazleen says, “I, myself, heard footsteps approaching and leaving my husband’s study on two separate occasions this afternoon. Either one of them might have been the person who delivered the envelope to Lord Nightingale.”
“If we’re to believe you,” Zach says, but he’s smiling, waiting for Nazleen to tell them more.
“One set of footsteps belonged to a woman,” Nazleen continues. “Clearly high heels. The other must have been a man’s—they were heavy, like boots . . .”
Genevieve rolls her eyes as if she’s struggling not to protest at the wording. Sadie shoots Nazleen an encouraging smile. Yes, the company could do with a more politically correct writer, but it’s good to gain new clues, and Sadie would dearly love to be the guest who solves this mystery—why shouldn’t she be the winner? And besides, what if Nazleen is secretly assessing Sadie’s and Genevieve’s performances tonight? Sadie doesn’t want to damage her chances of being reemployed by this company, and she certainly doesn’t want to put tomorrow’s paycheck in jeopardy.
“What else can you tell us?” Sadie asks.
Nazleen gestures around the table. “It’s up to all of you, now. You need to ask one another more questions . . .”
Sadie turns immediately to Zach. “Were you wearing men’s shoes when you left the library?”
Too late, she realizes this wasn’t the right question, and she flinches as a ripple of laughter passes through the other guests. Even Mrs. Shrew’s lips twitch, and Nazleen gives Sadie a surprisingly grateful look. For the first time, there’s a real feeling of camaraderie in the room, and Sadie feels mildly astonished that she was the one to create it.
“I’m afraid not,” Zach says. “I was wearing pink stilettos.”
“I was so surprised when I saw him,” Joe says, “I almost dropped the envelope I was carrying.” They all laugh again. “Joke!” Joe adds. “Joke. It wasn’t me who poisoned him . . .”
“Do you call it poison,” Zach says, “if you inhale it? Because I thought . . .”
But he’s interrupted by a shout of annoyance from Everett, who scrapes his chair back noisily as he lurches to his feet.
“What’s the matter?” Joe says.
“Damn lead shot in the partridge.” Everett leans forward and spits out a tiny metal pellet, which pings onto his plate surprisingly loudly. “Nearly broke my bloody tooth on it.”
“I’m afraid”—Genevieve’s tone drips with gleeful malice—“that’s something you have to expect, out here in the Fens.”
Everett coughs and glares at her, and Sadie turns her face the other way to hide her own smile. Mrs. Shrew positively beams down the table at Genevieve, and even Zach is grinning. Nazleen tries to smooth things over. She calls back the waiter and asks him to let the chef know about the shot, and she apologizes to Everett until even he has to concede it’s no one’s fault.
“Please,” Nazleen says to the rest of them, “do carry on.”
Sadie’s not sure whether Nazleen wants them to carry on eating, or to continue questioning one another, but she sets her cutlery down neatly on her plate and resolves to do neither until her head has cleared a little.
Beth
July 1988
We sat in silence in the drawing room after Markus’s father stormed out. First came the slam of the front door, then his angry footsteps across the gravel, then the double slam as he and the chauffeur got back in the car. The engine started. The sound of it faded. Finally, just when I thought my tears were going to spill over, Leonora rose and came to me, and she wrapped her arms around me.
“You were wonderful, Beth.”
I inhaled her rose scent and felt myself relaxing.
“Yes, very well done,” Markus said. “You played it beautifully.”
But they both spoke cautiously, as if they weren’t sure themselves exactly what had just happened. And it was soon clear they no longer required my company.
“Don’t wake Nina, will you?” Leonora said to me as she and Markus headed out to the terrace with a bottle of wine. “Leave her to rest, okay?”
But I was too unsettled to know what else to do with myself, so I crept up the spiral staircase and tapped cautiously on Nina’s door.
“Come in.”
She still looked pale, but her eyes were brighter than earlier. She patted the bed next to her, and I decided I’d rather have her company and risk catching her bug than sit in my own room alone with my churning thoughts.
“What on earth are you wearing?” she asked, and she reached out and tweaked the end of one of my plaits. “And your hair. You look funny.”
“Your grandfather came,” I said.
“Oh.” She glanced at her alarm clock. “I forgot. Is he still here?”
“He—” I didn’t know where to start.
“Beth? What’s the matter?”
I wondered, suddenly, whether Nina already knew about the game. I wasn’t sure if that would make it better or worse. Perhaps this was the sort of thing her parents did all the time. Maybe she’d laugh. Maybe I was worrying about nothing.
“He—I—They made me dress up, and I had to pretend to be you, Nina. Your grandfather believed I was you.” I gazed earnestly at her. “Your mum said if I didn’t, he’d be angry you were ill, and he—” I didn’t know what he’d have done, but I knew it must have been something truly awful.
But Nina was shaking her head. “You’re making this up, right? This is a joke.”
“No. I swear. That’s why I’m wearing this dress. And your mum plaited my hair, and—”
“You’re saying you took my place?”
I stared at her, hesitating. “Yeah. They asked me to.”
“You mean you actually called yourself Nina? And pretended my parents were your mum and dad?”
I nodded miserably. “I was only trying to help.”
She sank back into her pillows, staring at me, and then she turned her face sharply away, and neither of us spoke for a minute. Then—
“Can you go, please?” she said. “I’d like to be alone now.”