The Family Game by Catherine Steadman (81)

Edward leans in now, taking charge. “Okay, why doesn’t Harry just sit it out this year? Considering everything,” he says lightly, gesturing in the direction of my stomach, “it might be worth taking the stress out of her first Christmas with the family. She can play next year—if she wants.”

Robert looks across at me expectantly. “Would you like to skip this year, Harriet?”

It’s not a question.

“No, I would not,” I answer by rote. “I’ll do it. I just, I don’t get how it’s a Christmas game, that’s all. I mean, where’s the Christmas spirit?”

Robert sips his scotch and perches on the arm of a sofa with an amused smile. “What could be more in the spirit of Christmas than offering everyone in the family a chance to do the right thing? Whoever wins has the opportunity to act with kindness as much as greed, you see? You choose. The game gives us a chance to rebalance the scales, once a year, to rectify the power balance in the family. It reminds us that we must be good to one another all year long or risk the consequences if the tables are turned.” He breaks off, Eleanor topping up his glass. “But as Edward rightly says, it is just a game. No one gets hurt here; by the end there are just bruised egos, some damaged pride, and it has always meant a lot to those who play it. The only reason you might have to fear the game is if you have something to hide. Do you have something to hide?”

“Nothing you wouldn’t already know,” I answer.

“Then you’ll play,” Robert concludes.

“Of course,” I say with a smile that I hope presents as authentic. “After all, it’s not the winning that counts, right?” I ask hopefully. “It’s just the taking part. That’s what they say, right?”

“Ha, I bet they do,” Stuart mutters, a sharp look from Oliver quickly shutting him down.

“Well, then. I think we’re decided. If we’re ready,” Eleanor suggests as she lifts the silver dice cup from the black bear’s wooden claws and jostles it. Inside, dice rattle. “Highest number starts the game,” she instructs, offering up the cup to the group. “Who wants to roll first?”





43


One Clue. Two Clue.


SATURDAY, DECEMBER 24



Standing in front of the card table, the fire roaring, I pull my card from its envelope. Two players have already gone before me.

I can feel the family’s eyes on me, but having watched both Fiona and Stuart take their turns, I know not to give anything away as I read my card.

Up the wooden hill to Bed-ford-shire,

Heading for the land of dreams.

When I look back to those happy childhood days,

Nothing is quite what it seems.

I look up at the faces staring back at me.

“Who writes these?” I ask.

All eyes swivel to Robert, answering the question for me. “And who writes yours?” I ask.

“I do,” Eleanor answers, then gestures to my card. “Does everything there make sense?” she asks with generosity.

I look down at it again.

“I think so, yes,” I reply.

Like the players before me, I drop my card into the roaring fire, carefully watching as it burns to nothing.

“Wonderful.” Eleanor beams. “Then good luck, Harriet, and happy hunting.”

I feel Edward’s eyes on me but I do not engage with him, or anyone else, for fear that somehow the truth will pour out of me, out of my face, my eyes. Instead, head high, I make my way straight past the remaining players and directly out of the room.

I need to go up the wooden hill—the stairs—to find a bedroom, that much is clear. A childhood bedroom. I’m reminded of the ones Robert mentioned in his tape, his children’s childhood rooms. There I will find my next clue, and hopefully the trail Robert is leaving me will start to make sense.

My heels tap a sharp rhythm across the parquet hallway and muffle as I take the carpeted stairs up two at a time. Time is against me. The previous players have a decent head start already. I listen ahead for the sound of Fiona or Stuart, but the low hum of Christmas music is all that greets me.

At the top of the stairs, I catch my breath and take in the landing, its four wings branching off in different directions. To my right are the guest bedrooms we have been staying in, to my left the wing where Robert and Eleanor sleep; which leaves the two wings behind me as possibilities.

I turn and face them, the right-hand corridor dimly lit and matching the style of the rest of the house, the left-hand corridor bright and new, part of the new wing protected by a glass security door. The childhood bedrooms certainly won’t be in the new wing.

I grab the banister and propel myself around the landing toward the old wing, unsteady in my heels.

I pull up short. I can’t spend the rest of the evening like this. I listen for movement from downstairs, checking if I can hear the next player beginning, but the hall is silent. Taking my opportunity, I squat down, unstrap my heels, and abandon them in the hallway as I race back to the blue room and grab my trainers. After shoving them on, I bolt back in the direction of the old wing.

I dash around the staircase, following the bend of the corridor away from the main building, and as the hallway doors appear, I throw one open after another looking for anything that resembles a childhood bedroom.

I don’t know why, but Bobby’s name springs to mind as I go. My clue mentions nothing being “quite what it seems,” and nobody knew how ill Bobby was before he died, so perhaps I need to find Bobby’s old room.