Chapter 13
Sadie
Raven Hall’s entrance hall is warm and welcoming after the icy wind outside, and Sadie gazes in awe at the portraits and the huge bronze vases of hothouse flowers and the gorgeous foliage weaving up the banisters of the central staircase.
She barely registers the chauffeur setting her suitcase down and leaving.
“What a beautiful house,” she says.
“Bloody hell.” Lady Nightingale lunges toward the floor, trying to catch the cards and papers she’s just dropped.
“Oops,” Sadie says. “Here, let me help.”
Together, they gather it all up. The cards are for the game, Sadie sees; they’re numbered, and they’re now in the wrong order. There are little envelopes, too, all with animal names on them, and sheets of paper similarly mixed up.
Lady Nightingale gives her a rueful smile.
“I’m Nazleen,” she says, dropping the cut-glass accent.
“You’re one of the other actors, aren’t you?
I’m so glad I didn’t do that in front of a real guest. I’ve got so many things to remember; I can’t—” She glances around at the multiple doors leading off the hall.
“Do you think there might be a desk or something, down here, where I can sort these out?”
A young man in black tie hovers by Sadie’s suitcase. “Shall I show you up to your room, miss?”
“Do you know if there’s a desk we can use somewhere . . . ?” Sadie asks him, but the young man merely looks anxious.
“We’re not allowed in the other rooms.”
“Right, okay.” Sadie indicates her suitcase. “Well, if you don’t mind taking my case up now, I’ll go up and find it in a minute.” She turns back to Nazleen. “Come on, I’ll give you a hand.”
The two doors that stand already open reveal beautifully furnished interiors—one a drawing room with bright flames crackling in a black marble fireplace, the other a grand dining room with silver cutlery and crystal glasses sparkling on a snow-white tablecloth.
They ignore these rooms and work their way down the hall.
The first door they try is locked; the next opens into a dimly lit cloakroom filled with racks of coats.
Then Sadie finds a door with the key still in it, and she unlocks it.
“In here,” she says. “It looks like it used to be someone’s study.”
Nazleen darts in after her and closes the door behind them.
“The next guests could be here any moment,” Nazleen says, “but it won’t take long.”
She takes the paperwork over to a dusty green-topped desk and spreads it out.
Sadie stands in the center of the room and turns in a slow circle, gazing at the many curious objects lining the walls.
Shells and corals, mysterious bits of pottery, a heavy-looking cello case.
Cobwebs trail from every surface, and Sadie could believe no one’s been in here for thirty years.
“Okay,” Nazleen says. “I’m done. I’d better get back out there.
” She consults one of her sheets of paper as they return to the brightly lit hall.
“So, Miss Lamb’s room . . . ah. Top of the stairs, turn left.
You’re in the second room on the left. You’re supposed to be taken up there to freshen up, and then come back down for drinks at seven. ”
“Got it.” Sadie watches Nazleen draw herself up in an effort to regain her former composure. “You sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.” Nazleen’s smile holds a trace of embarrassment. “I just really want this job, you know? I’m hoping it’ll turn into a long-term contract. So I can’t afford to mess it up.”
Sadie hasn’t considered that the hostess job might not be a one-off, and she wonders fleetingly whether she should try for it herself.
Nazleen is a few years older than her and might have more relevant experience, but Sadie rather likes the idea of taking on the hostess role.
She peers up the broad staircase. Perhaps she’ll see how this weekend goes first, and then she’ll ask Wendy to make some enquiries.
When she reaches the landing, she looks right, toward the room that appeared to show soot around its window in the photo she saw online.
The whole corridor appears to have been recently wallpapered, and its skirting and coving freshly painted—she can still catch a trace of the paint smell in the air.
There’s no evidence of any fire damage. She turns left and makes for her allocated bedroom, and her heart lifts when she opens the door.
The room is warm and beautifully furnished, with a high bed, a solid-oak wardrobe and drawers, and soft Turkish rugs laid over the carpet.
A cheval mirror of darker wood stands in one corner, and a vase of pink roses sits on the bedside table.
Her case has been laid out on a trunk near the window.
She strolls to the window and slides her hands down the thick embroidered curtains before parting them to peer out into the night.
A pair of headlights is approaching from the direction of the road, and she glances at her watch—it’s almost six thirty.
As the car draws closer, she catches a reflection from water to the side of the driveway, and she remembers the lake from the photo, now swallowed by darkness.
Another set of headlights appears in the distance, and she wonders how many guests have been invited to play this game.
* * *
It doesn’t take her long to freshen up. She’s eager to get the evening started, and she listens impatiently to the other arrivals being shown to their rooms. She almost sticks her head out the door to say hello and size them up, but she’s mindful that she’s being paid rather a lot for this, and she probably ought to behave as instructed.
At ten to seven, she can wait no longer.
She checks her appearance in the cheval mirror, straightens her pearls, and descends to the drawing room.
Nazleen rises gracefully from a sofa near the fire as Sadie enters.
The young man who earlier took Sadie’s case to her bedroom now offers her a glass of champagne from a silver tray.
Sadie tries not to grin as she takes it; she must remember her part—newly arrived, looking for employment .
. . She joins Nazleen by the black marble fireplace, and they perch side by side on the sofa and sip their drinks simultaneously.
“Thanks for helping me out earlier,” Nazleen murmurs.
“No problem.”
Sadie’s gaze roams around the room. Crystal wall lights and table lamps lend the air a shimmering quality, and there are more vibrant flowers in here, and abstract sculptures on the polished wooden side tables.
She runs her free hand over the velvet of the sofa.
So much in here looks brand-new. Such a contrast to that dusty study.
“How many guests are coming?” she asks.
“Seven.” Nazleen touches her necklace, as if checking it’s still there. “Well, six of you, plus me. I know I’m the hostess, but I don’t know the answer to the mystery either. It’s my husband who gets murdered.”
Sadie flinches, then feels silly. “In the game,” she says. “Of course.”
“Yes.” Nazleen laughs softly, her gaze on the door.
Male voices are drifting closer; it sounds as though at least two guests are making their way down the stairs.
“In the game, I’m the lady of the house, and my husband has—well, I’m not supposed to tell you that yet.
But you have to work out who’s responsible and how it happened. ”
“Excellent.” Sadie, too, turns an expectant face to the door. “It’s going to be fun.”
Nazleen rises just as gracefully as she did before, and her upper-class accent has returned in full force.
“Welcome, gentlemen,” she says as she crosses the room on her narrow heels.
Sadie sips her champagne like a new-to-the-area young lady hoping to land a job, and she thanks her lucky stars for whatever made the company pick her for this outrageously civilized role.
Then she, too, rises to greet the new arrivals.