Page 26 of The Perfect Guests
“Is yours...” Sadie’s not sure what she wants to ask him. “Is yours what you expected? Does it—you know. Does it make sense, for your character?”
Zach frowns, hesitating, as if suspicious she might be cheating. “I think I’m close to working it out. Is there a prize, do you know, if we get the right answer?”
His oblique reply only disconcerts her more. Across the table, Joe, too, seems to have disposed of his card entirely. Genevieve has rolled hers into a tube, and she looks mildly bored. Mrs. Shrew’s envelope sits unopened next to her plate, and an uncomfortable silence hangs heavily in the room. Nazleen looks like she wants to say something, but she can’t seem to find the words needed to reignite their enthusiasm for the game.
Feeling distinctly uneasy, Sadie slides her card back into its envelope, the worddisappointmentrolling around in her mind like a marble in a jar. She’s never had a problem keeping a character’s story separate from her own life before, but this has touched a nerve.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake!” Sadie draws herself up as everyone stares at her. She’s determined to regain her former good spirits, to stop being so oversensitive, and to move the game along now. “Come on, then. Who’s going to go first? The answer must be here somewhere.” She catches Joe’s eye. “Right, Colonel Otter, tell me...”
The group fires questions and answers across the table for a few minutes. Sadie suspects Genevieve at first, and then Everett. Zach acts as though he suspects her. Joe accuses Nazleen, who in turn accuses Zach. Apart from Mrs. Shrew, they’re all smiling, all making an effort... But somehow it still isn’t enough, and eventually the questions tail off. Sadie’s gaze rises to the portrait hanging at the head of the table, and she has the uncomfortable sensation that the stern man is glaring back down at her, rigid with disapproval.
“It’s all red herrings anyway,” Everett grumbles, leaning back in his chair. “They won’t give us all the information until tomorrow morning, will they? They can’t have the game solved before breakfast; that would never do.”
“Oh,” Sadie says, strangely comforted by this thought, “I suppose that’s true.”
On her other side, Zach gives a heavy sigh. “I’m sure I’ve almost got it. If I could just work out who...”
While the waiter clears their plates, Sadie drains her water glass and refills it, vowing not to drink any more wine. She has an odd, hollow feeling in her head, and a prickling sensation that the unseen clue writer knows too much about her. If that were true and they thought poorly of her, why would they have hired her? They wouldn’t. She’s being ridiculous. The waiter bustles out of the room, but he quickly returns with the dessert trolley, and all eyes swivel to the elegant glass dishes.
“Tropical fruit pavlova,” Nazleen murmurs.
Sadie wishes it were something simpler—what’s wrong withplain English strawberries and cream? The waiter sets down her bowl in front of her, and her throat closes; a peeled lychee, resembling nothing more than a ghostly eyeball, stares back at her from its bed of meringue. Her stomach churns, and she can’t tell whether it’s panic, but in that brief clammy moment, she’s seized by the overwhelming conviction that someonehasbeen watching her...
She shoves her chair back, desperate to get away from the table, away from these strangers. She thinks she might faint if she stands up, but she lurches to her feet anyway.
“Are you okay?” Nazleen half stands, but Sadie composes herself and gestures for Nazleen to sit down again.
“Yeah, I’m just—” Sadie tries to keep her body language calm as she heads toward the door; she’s a little unwell, that’s all, and she can’t bear any fuss. “I just need some fresh air. Just give me a few minutes.”
It’s much cooler in the hall.
She stands in front of a huge gilt-framed mirror and rests her fingertips on the polished wood of the table beneath it. Slowly her heart rate settles, and the panic-inducing flashes of heat and cold on her skin ease. Perhaps it was something she ate. Perhaps it was just too warm in the dining room. She studies her reflection and gives herself a rueful grin: fancy seeing eyeballs in her pudding; how embarrassing. She feels well enough to go back and join the group now, but she’s struck with the idea of sending Wendy a quick text about this—it’ll make her laugh.
A clattering of pans somewhere at the back of the house jolts her into action—she’s supposed to be a sophisticated dinner guest; she doesn’t want to be caught lurking out here, pulling faces in the mirror. She hurries up the stairs, relieved to have a clear head again, but when she reaches her bedroom, she discovers that, just like Genevieve’s phone, hers has no reception.
Oh well. The humorous text to Wendy will have to wait.
Back out in the corridor, Sadie eyes up the other bedroom doors. She’s curious about her fellow guests. She’s learned all sorts of details about their game characters, but next to nothing about them as real people, and the chances are, she’ll never see them again after this weekend. She’ll probably never stay in such a grand house again either. In a couple of days’ time, she’ll be slumped on the sofa in her flat, browsing uninspiring job adverts and waiting for that big-break phone call from Wendy that never comes. But tonight, she has a chance to explore this mansion and to peek into the lives of the strangers she’s sharing it with.
It’s not spying. It’s just harmless curiosity. A quick look into their bedrooms, that’s all, and then she’ll rejoin the dinner party downstairs.
The first room is clearly Nazleen’s. Two long green dresses are draped over the bed, and the dressing table is scattered with creams and makeup. A small framed wedding photo sits rather endearingly on the bedside table, and Sadie smiles to see a younger-looking Nazleen arm in arm with her red-haired wife. She closes the door gently.
The room on the other side of Sadie’s is blatantly Mrs. Shrew’s. Deep blue items are still folded neatly in the open suitcase, and a feather brooch lies discarded on the bedside table. No photographs in this room; nothing particularly personal at all. A faint floral scent hangs in the air, and Sadie closes the door softly and moves on to the next room.
This one’s owner is harder to identify. The suitcase is closed, so Sadie tiptoes across the layered rugs and lifts the lid. An array of sickly yellow items brings a faint smile to her face—poor Joe. A darker color would have suited him better—racing green perhaps, or a navy blue. A pair of trainers and a running kit are tucked in at one end of the case, and she smiles at his optimism—presumablyplanning a run before breakfast tomorrow, despite the freezing weather and the excesses of tonight.
After Joe’s room comes a large old-fashioned and fully tiled bathroom, and beyond that is a door set into the end wall of the corridor. Sadie pulls this open and peers up a rising spiral staircase. This must be inside the tower. She glances at her watch and hesitates; it’s tempting. But if she doesn’t return to the others soon, one of them is bound to come up looking for her, and she’d rather not be caught prying. The door falls shut with a clunk.
She moves more quickly as she works her way back down the corridor. The first bedroom is less luxuriously furnished than the others. Thinner curtains, a single bed, a slinky red dress puddled on the floor. Poor Genevieve has been given a lower-grade room, it seems. Perhaps because she was a last-minute hire.
Another, rather chilly, bathroom, and then a room with no company vintage suitcase in sight, just a sports bag dumped by the bed. Sadie frowns, and then her brow clears; this may well be Zach’s room—he of the“nearly didn’t come,”couldn’t-be-bothered-to-dress-up attitude. She closes the door softly and moves along to the last room on this side of the staircase.
And yes, her hunch about Zach’s bedroom was right, because this one clearly belongs to Everett. Purple fabric bulges from the open suitcase, and she spots an invitation card poking out from among the clothes. She can’t resist; she tiptoes across the room and draws the card out to read the personal message in its loopy blue handwriting.Hendrik will appreciate your support.She pulls a face and slides the card back under a soft mauve sweater. Perhaps Hendrik is the owner of the murder mystery company. She can see how such a message would have appealed to Everett’s sense of self-importance.
When she is out on the landing again, a faint thud makes herglance beyond the staircase to the opposite end of the corridor—the fire-damaged end, as she thinks of it. Did someone follow her up here? Suddenly, she feels acutely aware of the house around her. So many rooms. So many nooks and corners and potential hiding places... The hairs on her arms rise, and before she can tear her gaze from the double row of identical doors, an odd yelping sound comes from behind one of them, like a laugh morphing into a cry.
She races for the stairs, hurtles down them, and almost slips in her heels before she reaches the bottom, only just saving herself in time.
