She sends a quick text to Wendy to confirm she’ll accept the job. Then she starts up her laptop, and types in “Raven Hall, Fens.”
Within seconds, she’s gazing at a grainy photo of a neglected-looking country house with a tower at one end. Ivy hugs its walls, and for a moment, she envisions it surrounded by a thick forest, like a Sleeping Beauty castle, and the image makes her smile. But a second view, from farther away, shows only a bleak, empty landscape all around, with a glint of dark water in the foreground.
She skims down the other search results, but there isn’t much. A ramblers’ group blog entry from a couple of years ago describes the house as having been “abandoned and uncared for since a tragedy befell a local family in the late 1980s.” Sadie clicks back to the photo and peers at the hazy smudging on the pale walls around one of the upstairs windows. It looks like soot—perhaps there was a fire there. How awful. And how sad that the house then sat empty for thirty years—but what a perfect location it makes for a murder mystery event.
If the glossy invitation and the attention to detail in the suitcase of clothes are anything to go by, the company has the funds to have turned Raven Hall back into a comfortable, welcoming place, Sadie thinks. But even if it hasn’t been restored—even if she turns up and discovers it’s still a crumbling wreck—she’ll follow through with the job anyway. Her mother’s landlord hasn’t yet returned the house deposit, and Sadie can’t push her overdraft any higher; she doesn’t have any other options. She’ll cheerfully camp out in a soot-blackened room in a mansion heaving with ghosts if it means she’ll get paid this month before her rent’s overdue. Besides, the game sounds like it will be fun.
Beth
July 1988
Nina gave me the beginnings of a house tour before dinner. We started downstairs, in the drawing room, and I could have spent ages in there alone, looking at the paintings and the grand piano and the black marble fireplace. My fingers itched to stroke everything, but I clasped my hands firmly behind me. Nina was already marching back out to the hall, and I hurried to follow her.
The dining room felt as big as the entire footprint of my old house. The kitchen was similarly huge, with a rich aroma drifting from the enormous oven. I could see no evidence of meal preparation on the long wooden work tops, and I wondered fleetingly whether the Raven Hall family did the same as the children’s home, buying in meals that had been prepared off-site. Nina went straight to the open French doors and stepped out onto the terrace, and she gestured at the wide lawn in front of her.
“What would you like to see first? Do you like raspberries? We could go and pick some.”
My stomach rumbled, but Leonora bustled into the kitchen behind us and interrupted.
“Dinner in ten minutes, girls. Leave the raspberries ’til tomorrow, okay?”
So, instead of heading outside, Nina led me down a short corridor from the back of the kitchen to a long, narrow room that I guessed was meant to be used for laundry. A wooden work top ran all the way along one wall, with a huge double sink at one end, but there were no clothes or drying racks to be seen. Instead, the whole of the work surface and much of the tiled floor were covered in piles of paper. Drawings, paintings, and sketches were stacked haphazardly on every surface.
“Mum’s an illustrator.” Nina picked up a few of the sketches at random. “Have a look—they’re good, aren’t they? She doesn’t sell much, but . . .”
I admired drawings of fantastical beasts and fairy-tale castles and tropical islands. “Yeah, they’re great. And what does your dad do?”
“Oh, he runs a landscape gardening business,” Nina said. “Based in Cambridge. He took the day off today to welcome you.”
I felt flattered but also bemused. I thought of my own parents’ former full-time jobs at the council, and the modest family home we used to live in, and I marveled that a gardener and an artist could make enough money to own a house like Raven Hall.
“So . . .” I plucked up my courage as we returned to the kitchen. “Do you know where my violin went? Only, I like to play it every day, especially since . . .” I bit back the rest of the sentence. My violin was the one constant in my life, the one activity that kept my grief at arm’s length. Nina looked surprised, but Leonora, who was removing a casserole dish from the oven, turned around with a delighted smile.
“Markus put it in the drawing room, just now, Beth. Please, play it whenever you like. We’re all looking forward to hearing you.”
This had to be a good sign. My newfound optimism glowed a little brighter. Nina and I hurried off to set the table in the dining room, and then the four of us sat down to enjoy the most delicious chicken casserole I’d ever tasted.
“So, Beth,” Markus said, offering me a second helping of vegetables across the table, “did you have a nice afternoon? You don’t want to go home yet?”
I flinched at the word home, but I didn’t blame Markus for being tactless—I’d lost count of how many well-meaning people had said similar things since my parents and brother died; they spoke without thinking. Leonora, however, shot me a look brimming with sympathy, and then she frowned at Markus.
“Give her a chance to settle in, poor girl. She’s barely had time to unpack yet.”
Nina didn’t quite manage to suppress a smirk, and I dipped my head and focused on my food, conscious of the ache in my arms from the rowing, and the tingle of sunburn on my shoulders from swimming in the lake.
“I’ll tell you what,” Markus said. “I’m sure we’ve got a bike the right size for Beth in the stables. I’ll have a look after dinner, and I’ll check everything’s roadworthy, and then maybe the two of you can cycle around the lake tomorrow. What do you think?”
Nina shrugged and looked at me.
“That sounds nice,” I said. “Can we ride into the village?”
There was a moment of silence, and I sensed I’d made my own faux pas. Leonora appeared to choose her words carefully.
“We don’t tend to encourage that, Beth. But—” She tried to catch Nina’s eye, but Nina had her head lowered. “Nina has a little friend who comes out here to play with her, don’t you, Nina? Jonas, whose mum runs the B and B. He’s a nice boy.”
Nina’s eye roll was so dramatic, I felt sure either Leonora or Markus would tell her off, but neither did. Leonora turned back to me instead.
“Perhaps you could play something for us after dinner, Beth? Would you mind? That piece you played at the concert last week was lovely. It might inspire Nina . . .”
I nodded eagerly. “Of course. If you like.”
Leonora smiled. “Thank you.” She turned abruptly to Markus. “Oh, did you ring the caterers? The party’s so close, and I’ve got so much to do . . .”