Chapter 18
Sadie
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.”
Sadie beams at Nazleen, and Nazleen shoots her a grateful smile in response.
“Well,” Everett booms. “This is all very jolly.”
The young waiter appears in the doorway with a loaded catering trolley, and the photographer helps him to wheel it in, while the guests shake out their pleasingly heavy napkins and gaze wide-eyed around the room.
Sadie is seated directly opposite Joe, and she watches him watching the others for a few seconds, until suddenly their eyes meet.
She finds it amusing and smiles, but he seems rather disconcerted, and he turns to Mrs. Shrew and murmurs to her, asking if she needs anything.
Mrs. Shrew shakes her head. Sadie wants to start questioning everyone, but she can’t decide which guest to start with, and she’s distracted by the plate of food being set in front of her.
The first course is sea bass, served whole, with a light lemon-dressed salad.
Sadie blinks down at the entire fish on her plate, and its blank pupil stares back up at her.
Her appetite shrivels, and she glances enviously at Genevieve’s vegetarian alternative.
On her left, Everett is already devouring his fish, while the waiter moves around the table, pouring wine.
On the other side of her, Zach nudges her elbow. “Free food. Don’t knock it.”
“The chef has an impressive CV . . . ,” Nazleen says, poking her fork into her own fish with an uncertain expression.
Everett strikes up a loud conversation about local fishing sites with Joe, and Sadie is tempted to interrupt him and steer him back to the game they’re supposed to be playing. But she’s curious about the white-haired man in the portrait, so she takes the opportunity to ask a quiet question of Zach.
“Is he the real owner, do you think?” She lifts a tiny portion of sea bass to her mouth and is pleasantly surprised by how tasty it is. “Lord Nightingale, or whatever his name is.”
“I’m sure the name’s made up, and I’ve never heard of a lord around here,” Zach says. “But yeah, I guess the portrait looks real enough. Dad’ll probably know—ask him.”
But Sadie’s reluctant to interrupt Everett’s rambling anecdote. She catches Genevieve’s eye, and they exchange a brief raised-eyebrow grimace as Everett cracks a bad-taste joke. Sadie sips her wine, and before she can stop him, Zach grabs the bottle and tops her up again.
“Shouldn’t we be asking each other questions?” she says to Zach. And then, “So, what were you doing, leading up to three o’clock today?”
He grins. “I was still in bed with a hangover.” But he takes pity on her and raises his voice. “Okay, I was in the library with Miss Mouse all afternoon. I heard loud talking in Lord Nightingale’s study at half past two.”
The other guests rapidly switch their attention to Zach, except for Everett, who concentrates once more on clearing his plate.
“Is that right, Miss Mouse?” Sadie asks Genevieve.
Genevieve pats around her crimson lips with her napkin, and Sadie guesses she’s buying time while she recalls the details on her alibi card.
“Yes,” Genevieve says, “except I went to use the bathroom just after two. I was only gone five minutes, but . . .” She widens her eyes at Zach in mock horror. “It would have given you time to . . .”
Zach thumps the table enthusiastically. “I didn’t deliver any envelope. I deny everything. I’m innocent, I tell you.”
Sadie leans forward and tries to catch Joe’s eye. “And where were you leading up to three o’clock, Colonel Otter?”
But Joe is already shoving back his chair, and he looks only at Nazleen, with an apologetic expression. “Please excuse me a moment. I need to use your phone.”
The room sits silent in his wake, like a deflated balloon. Everett, the only one of them who seems oblivious, spears something onto his fork and lifts it halfway to his lips before gazing around.
“Fish eyes,” he says. “Very good for you. Omega-threes, you know.” He pops the morsel into his mouth, and Sadie’s not the only guest to turn her head away.
Sadie takes a large swallow of her wine, and once again Zach tops up her glass immediately; it’s irritating.
The only person who hasn’t said a word since they took their seats is Mrs. Shrew, and Sadie studies her, still unsure whether she’s playing a role or she’s genuinely unhappy about being here.
“So, Mrs. Shrew,” Sadie says brightly, “do you live locally too?”
The woman’s lips pucker as if Sadie’s insulted her, and for several seconds, Sadie thinks she’s not going to answer. But eventually she gives a sharp shake of her head.
“No, I traveled a long way for this.” Her gaze rests on the pearls around Sadie’s neck, and her expression tightens even further. “Believe me, I’m beginning to wish I hadn’t bothered.”
Zach snorts into his wineglass, and Sadie’s mood dips.
She feels out of place suddenly—the way Mrs. Shrew looks at her .
. . Can the woman tell that Sadie’s never been inside such a huge mansion before, never eaten such a lavish meal or worn such beautiful clothes and jewelry?
But as soon as she recognizes her reaction as embarrassment, she shakes it off.
Sadie’s just as good as anyone here, and she won’t let them make her feel inferior.
The waiter clears their plates deftly, and as he leaves the room, Joe comes back in.
“The phone line’s dead.” Joe’s voice is tight with annoyance.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Nazleen says. “They were supposed to reconnect it last week. I’ll chase it up on Monday morning.”
“But”—Genevieve half stands in alarm—“I haven’t got a mobile signal either.”
“That’s something you have to expect,” Everett says complacently, “out here in the Fens.” He grins wolfishly at Genevieve as she sinks back onto her seat. “Don’t worry, my dear. I’ll look after you.”
Sadie smooths the tablecloth in front of her.
She’s tempted to blurt out, Did you cut the telephone wire, Colonel Otter?
but she senses the feeble joke would worsen Joe’s mood, and she’s keen to get the game back on track so they can all start enjoying themselves.
The waiter returns with the freshly restocked trolley, and Sadie excuses herself from the table and walks to the window.
She parts the thick curtains and peers out at the faintly lit gravel.
The chauffeur-driven cars have all gone, unsurprisingly, but two ordinary-looking cars sit over in the shadows by the stable block.
We can drive to the village for help if we need to, she thinks, and then she smiles at herself for letting Joe’s discovery unsettle her.
Of course, they won’t need to go for help—she’s being ridiculous.
It must be the fish eyes that have made her jumpy.
She lets the curtains fall back and returns to the table.
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.