Roots of Evil(61)

How much might Lucy know about Crispin? About the secrets?

They had played a game called Secrets on that night all those years ago when Lucy’s parents died. Edmund had been invited for the weekend; Lucy’s mother, bright, butterfly creature that she was, loved filling the house with people and she had said that of course Edmund must come, wasn’t it his autumn half-term from Bristol, or something? Nonsense, of course he could be there; all work and no play, remember the old warning, Edmund.

Mariana Trent’s party-game that weekend was a hybrid: a mixture of the old-fashioned Murder and Sardines, all to do with hiding in the dark (which would be pleasantly flirtatious, said Mariana), and with trying to elude the designated murderer (which should be deliciously spooky). It was Mariana’s own invention: a super game and it was called Secret Murder, and everyone would hugely enjoy it.

The party had a 1920s theme, which meant the females could dress up like mad in fringed outfits, and Mariana could wear a jewelled headband and a feather boa, while the men were persuaded fretfully into dinner jackets. There would be a nice supper, and Bruce would see to the drinks; he mixed a lethal Sidecar and they would have White Ladies or Manhattans with the food.

‘She’s trying to re-create Lucretia,’ said Deborah, on hearing Mariana planning all this. ‘She’s always doing it and I wish she wouldn’t, because no one ever will re-create Lucretia. You’d think Bruce would get tired of it, wouldn’t you, but he’s nearly as bad as she is. I suppose that’s why they married. Kindred spirits. She’ll be nicknaming people Bunty or Hugo next, and telling Lucy to call her mumsie-darling. Like something out of Somerset Maugham or a Noel Coward play.’

Lucy, who was only eight, would go to bed as usual; her room was at the top of the house, so she would be far enough away from the party not to be disturbed. They would look in on her from time to time, said Mariana, but she would sleep through it all, the lamb.

Everyone was very complimentary about the 1920s theme, saying wasn’t it fun to dress up like this, and imagine playing a Murder game before supper, what a hoot, and it would be just like an Agatha Christie book. And look at this – Mariana had set out little displays of ’20s and ’30s photographs and theatre programmes and things, how clever of her, where on earth had she found all that?

‘Oh, I just ferreted around a bit,’ said Mariana, delightedly. ‘There’s oceans of stuff in the attics, all packed away in trunks, in fact no one’s thrown anything away for the last hundred years; we’re all absolute magpies, you could write a whole family saga from the stuff if you wanted to. Eat your heart out, Mr Galsworthy.’

The game of Secret Murder required everyone to imagine the house to be in the middle of nowhere. There had been a power cut, and it had just been discovered that there was a mad killer among the house-guests…

‘It’s not Agatha Christie at all, it’s a remake of The Cat and the Canary,’ said somebody disagreeably and was told to hush.

‘And,’ said Mariana, with mock-severity, ‘you’ll all be given a folded-up card, which will assign you a role at the house-party. There’s a shady lady and a sinister foreigner and a colonel and so on – oh, and a butler, of course. And whoever gets the card marked with a cross is the murderer.’

Bruce, chiming in good-humouredly, explained that everyone’s identity must be kept secret, but the object of the game was for the guests to keep out of the murderer’s reach until the lights came on again. They could all go anywhere in the house, well, anywhere except Lucy’s bedroom, which was on the little second floor, and the killer had to find as many people as possible in the dark and murder them.

‘How?’ demanded the person who had said this was The Cat and the Canary.

‘Well, by tapping the victim on the shoulder and saying “You’re dead”.’

‘How extremely polite and refined. If I get the murderer’s card I’ll do a bit more than tap shoulders, I promise you.’

This was greeted by several, slightly nervous, female giggles.

Bruce was on light-switching duty, said Mariana, and the lights would go off exactly ten minutes after the printed cards had been drawn, and remain off for half an hour. Then they would all gather in the big sitting-room for the interrogation.

Edmund had joined in, agreeing that it was marvellously spooky. A terrific game. He had been enjoying the party; there were one or two younger girls to whom he had been introduced, and everyone was friendly. Just before the lights went out, he heard one of the older female guests asking Mariana who was that nice-looking boy, and he paused, pleased to hear himself described as nice-looking and wanting to hear the reply.

‘Oh, that’s Edmund Fane,’ said Mariana. ‘He’s a relation of Deb’s husband. He’s reading law – it’s only his first year, but they say he’s so clever. Yes, he is nice-looking, isn’t he? But he has such a bleak time of it, poor Edmund, with the most frightful father, you wouldn’t believe how awful – well, yes, it is a medical condition, melancholia or something, and we’re all so sorry about it. That’s why I said to Bruce, let’s for goodness’ sake give the poor boy some fun for once, prime some of the girls to flirt with him a bit…I said to Bruce, it’s only kind…’

The bitch. The all-time, gilt-edged, venom-tongued bitch. Edmund stood very still, the noise and the laughter of the party going on all round him, but coldly and angrily detached from it all. As if a glass panel had come down between him and the guests.