by Ruth Ware
“And then we were six,” says a little voice from the doorway, and I look up to see Liz, her face a white mask of horror as she gazes at Ani’s prone form.
“What?” Danny says. He looks bewildered, as if he didn’t hear her right.
“Nothing,” Liz says. She gives a shaking, tremulous laugh. It sounds like she’s on the verge of hysterics. I know how she feels. And then she turns and disappears. I hear her door slam, and the lock grind into place. I don’t blame her. A strong part of me would like to do the same. But I can’t. I have to…
I stand, go over to the body, and very gently turn it again, this time forcing myself to look down at Ani’s dead face.
She looks almost like she died in her sleep. Almost. Not quite. There’s a tiny staining of blood on her lip where she must have bitten her tongue. And on her face, a few minute red dots. I know what they are, or rather, I know what they mean, but it takes a few minutes cudgeling my memory before my brain can come up with the medical term. Petechiae. First-year medical students don’t come across much homicide—but I’ve seen enough textbook photographs to recognize it.
There are no marks on her neck, and no other wounds that I can see, apart from the tiny specks of blood on her lips. When I bend to lower her gently back to the position I found her, facedown, I see it has flecked the pillow too. A line sings in my head: Lips as red as blood, skin as white as snow.
“I think she was smothered,” I say quietly to Danny. “Whoever did it either pressed her face down into the pillow, or they held something over her face and then turned her over afterwards. There’s not much bruising and no defensive marks that I can see—she was probably asleep.”
“Oh my God.” Danny’s face crumples into horror. He looks like a man decades older than his twenty-five years. “But, you’re not telling me—Tiger?”
I shake my head, but I’m not disagreeing with him—I just have no idea what to say. I can’t believe that gentle, zen-like Tiger could possibly have done this. But on the other hand—the door was locked. And could someone really have crept in and smothered Ani in her sleep without Tiger waking? I think back to her yoga-toned body, those slim, strong hands. The world seems to tilt and shift on its axis.
* * *
Out in the corridor, the others are waiting, pale and worried. Tiger has sobbed herself silent and is still crouched against the wall, Miranda’s arm protectively around her. Liz is still locked in her room. Carl and Rik are standing with grim, drawn faces either side of the door like sentries. Topher is pacing, and he looks like a man possessed by demons. There is an expression on his face that frightens me.
“What. The. Fuck,” he spits as Danny and I leave the room, closing the door behind us.
“Oi, mate,” Danny puts up his hands, but I shush him. Five of these people are scared and grieving. One… But I can’t think about that. It’s too surreal, too horrible.
“Come down to the living room,” I say. “I think we all need a drink.”
It’s barely 9:00 a.m., but downstairs I pour us all stiff whiskeys, and everyone drinks them without a murmur, except for Tiger, who is lying on the sofa, shivering, in a state of what I can only call near-catatonic shock.
“So,” Rik says, as he puts down his glass. “What happened?”
“Just a second,” Miranda says. “Where’s Liz?”
I feel a wash of panic, followed by a wave of rationality. There is no way anyone can have killed Liz while we were all standing out in the corridor.
“I think she’s in her room,” I say. “I’ll go and get her.”
“Not alone you won’t,” Danny growls, and he follows me upstairs like a watchdog as I make my painful, limping way to knock at Liz’s door.
“Wh-who is it?” I hear through the wood. She sounds as scared as I feel.
“It’s me, Erin,” I say. “And Danny. We—we need to talk about this Liz. About what happened. We need to try to figure out what to do next. Can you come out?”
There is a scraping noise, and the door opens, very slowly, until Liz is standing there, white-faced and hollow-eyed. She looks terrified, like there is nothing in the world she would less rather do than go downstairs and face her fellow guests—and I can’t blame her. I feel the same way. But we have to do it.
By the time we get downstairs, Miranda has built up the fire and Rik has poured everyone another round of very generous whiskeys. I want to say something about the advisability of adding more alcohol to this mix, but since I was the one who suggested a drink in the first place, I don’t feel like I have the right to object.
“So, what happened?” Rik says again as he hands Liz a glass. His voice teeters on the edge of what sounds like aggression, but I think it’s actually fear. “Don’t tell me she just died in her sleep.”
“She didn’t,” I say, very quietly, but they all fall instantly silent. “She had something called petechial hemorrhaging. Do you know what that means?”
There are headshakes all around the circle, apart from Carl, who nods.
“Little red dots, right? Yeah, I watch CSI. Shoot me.”
“Exactly. Little red dots where blood vessels have broken in the skin. It usually means someone has died of some form of asphyxiation—choking or hanging. In this case, given there weren’t any marks around her neck, I think Ani was probably smothered in her sleep.”
“Oh my God.” It’s a long groan from Miranda. She puts her hands over her face.
“She—she knew something.” It’s Liz. She speaks very low, and I have to shush the others to hear what she’s saying. “She came to my room last night, to try to persuade me not to sleep alone. When I asked why she was still awake, she said she had something on her mind, something she’d seen—I begged her to tell me—” She breaks off, her voice cracking. It’s virtually the longest speech I’ve ever heard her make, and she looks like she’s shrinking as all the eyes of the room turn to her.
“Oh, bloody hell.” Danny’s voice is angry, and he stands up, as if he can’t contain his feelings. “What did Erin fucking say? If you know something tell someone.”
“I know!” Liz says, her voice like a sob. “I begged her to say something, I really did—but she said she wasn’t sure—”
“Tiger.” Miranda is shaking Tiger now, gently. “Tiger, did Ani say anything to you last night, before she fell asleep?”
“I was asleep.” Tiger’s voice is broken, and very hoarse. It’s hard to understand what she’s saying, the words are cracked and fractured. I make out, “I’m so sorry… asleep… took a sleeping pill…”
“Wait, you take sleeping pills?” I say. I glance at Danny, who raises an eyebrow back, and I know he is thinking, as I am, of the crushed pills in Elliot’s coffee. Tiger gives a huge sob.
“Not normally, but I couldn’t sleep, I haven’t been able to since I got here. It started the f-first day. Eva said it was the altitude. She gave me some of her pills.”
“It’s true,” Miranda says. She glances round the circle, looking for support. “It was after breakfast that first morning, I remember the conversation. Rik, you heard her, didn’t you?”
“I’m sorry,” Rik says with a shrug. His voice is defensive. “I’m sure you’re right, but I don’t remember.”
“Everyone was there,” Miranda persists. “It was right before we went into the meeting room. Eva said to Tiger, you look like you haven’t slept, and Tiger said, I actually didn’t. And Eva said, it’s the altitude. Remind me to give you some of my sleeping pills. Carl was there too, and Liz. And Topher.”
“I don’t remember either. I expect I was too busy thinking about the presentation,” Topher says, rather brusquely. “What are you trying to say?”
He looks ruffled, like he thinks Miranda is trying to pin something on him. But I know why Miranda is pushing this. She knows that Tiger is the number one suspect for Ani’s death. Tiger was in the room when Ani was smothered, and she slept through it. Which is pretty unlikely—unless you know that she was taking sleepin
g pills. Miranda is trying to show that everyone knew that fact. That anyone could have taken advantage of Tiger’s drugged state to sneak in and kill Ani while Tiger slept. I admire her for it, in a way—she’s standing by her colleague in the face of some pretty horrible evidence.
But there is still the question of the locked door.
“Who got to Ani’s room first?” I ask.
“I did,” Topher says. He is standing propped against the mantelpiece, now he folds his arms. “But it was locked. You saw that.” He nods at Danny, who shrugs with corroboration.
“I tried the door, yeah. It was locked.”
“So how did someone get in?” Topher demands. “Staff key? How many of those things are there?”
“Just two,” I say. I hold up mine. “I had mine with me all night. I’m certain of it. Danny?”
But Danny is frowning, patting his pockets.
“I thought mine was in here. These were the clothes I was wearing yesterday. I thought… Hang on.”
And without waiting for anyone else to accompany him, he jumps up and leaves the room.
“Danny!” I shout after him, but he calls back.
“I’ll only be a sec.”
There’s a long silence. I find my heart beating uncomfortably fast, even though I know it’s irrational. Everyone is in here. I’m looking at them right now. But this is starting to feel like Lord of the Flies.
When Danny comes back, his face is very grave, and the look he shoots at me tells me he’s not relishing what he’s about to say.
“Well, there ain’t no point in sugarcoating this,” he says. “My key’s gone. Someone’s half-inched it.”
“Fuck.” It’s Rik, the word sounding like gunshot in the ensuing silence. “Fuck. You’re saying someone has access to every room in the place now? None of us can lock our doors?”
“That’s about the size of it,” Danny says grimly.
“You,” Topher spits, “are a fucking irresponsible wanker, you had a duty of care to us and—”
Danny stands up, putting himself on the same level as Topher, almost squaring up to him.
“Don’t take that tone with me, mate.”
“This is bloody convenient for you, isn’t it? Before, if anyone managed to get access to any of the rooms you and Erin were prime suspects, now you’ve contrived—”
“I haven’t contrived anything,” Danny snarls back. “And don’t you bring me and Erin into it. We ain’t done nothing, and we never had any trouble until you lot turned up and started bumping each other off. We don’t know any of you from Adam. So the fact that one of your employees nicked my key—”
“Well that’s another thing,” Topher says angrily. “Who exactly is Erin anyway, because she seems to be a little overqualified for a chalet girl if you ask me. Petrifical fucking whatever it was—is that part of the ski chalet training?”
Shit. I knew this was coming. I sigh and stand up too, favoring my good leg.
“No. No it’s not. The truth is…” I glance at Danny, wondering what I can get away with. “The truth is, I went to medical school before I came here. I dropped out, but that’s how I know about the petechiae.”
“But that’s not all, is it,” Topher prods. “It’s been bothering me since I got here. I know you. I know I do.”
Fuck. Fuck.
There is no point in beating around the bush any longer.
“Yes, you probably do know me. My surname is FitzClarence. My friends all call me Erin, but that’s my middle name.”
“I fucking knew it!” Topher’s voice is a shout of triumph. “I knew I knew you. Dorothea FitzClarence. I was at school with your brother, Alex—the one who—”
He breaks off, and I nod reluctantly, because there is nothing else I can do.
“What?” Danny says. He looks thunderstruck. “Erin, what is this bullshit? Dorothea—you what?”
“Let me introduce you,” Topher says, with great malice, “to Lady Dorothea de Plessis FitzClarence, youngest daughter of the Marquess of Cardale.”
LIZ
Snoop ID: ANON101
Listening to: Offline
Snoopers: 0
Snoopscribers: 1
Looking around the circle of frowning faces, it is clear that I am not the only person who is very confused. Erin looks stricken. Topher looks delighted. But everyone else looks as baffled as I feel. What has just happened? What has this got to do with Ani’s death?
There is no time to find out. Danny turns around so abruptly that he knocks over a chair. It falls with a clatter, smashing a whiskey glass.
“Danny,” Erin says desperately.
“You fucking liar,” he shoots over his shoulder. Then he leaves the room.
Erin gives a furious look at Topher.
“Thanks a bunch,” she says, and then she is gone, hobbling after Danny.
“Ha,” Topher says, sitting down in an armchair. There is a look of grim satisfaction on his face.
“Topher,” Miranda says, bewildered. “What on earth was all that about? Ani is dead for goodness’ sake. Have you forgotten that?”
“No,” Topher says defensively, though I think the truth is that he had, just for a minute or two. “No, not at all. That’s very hurtful of you to imply that, Miranda. But I’d had enough of that chippy chef throwing around accusations. We’re not the only people hiding stuff.”
“Speak for yourself, mate!” Carl splutters. “I’m not hiding anything! What the hell has it got to do with anything if Erin’s a bit posher than she’s been letting on?”
“Because she’s got skin in this game too,” Topher hisses angrily. “I’m fed up of them both acting so high and mighty.”
“I remember Alex FitzClarence,” Rik says slowly. “He was a couple of years below us. Didn’t… didn’t he die a few years ago?”
“That’s him,” Topher says. “He was a really good bloke actually. That wasn’t my point—my point was simply that Erin is a bit more entangled in this than she’s letting on. And what happened to Alex—” He stops. Suddenly his expression changes and he grips Rik’s arm, so hard that Rik gives a little wince. He looks as if he has been given a very generous Christmas present. “Hang on a second. Alex died in an avalanche. With his best mate.”
“What are you saying?” Rik is looking wary.
“I remember reading about it in the alumnae newsletter. Alex FitzClarence died in an avalanche in the alps with his best friend, Will Hamilton. The only survivor was Will’s girlfriend, Erin FitzClarence.”
“Topher.” Miranda is looking as alarmed as Rik now. “Topher, what are you getting at?”
“I’m saying, this isn’t the first time our little Erin has been involved in a fatal skiing accident.”
ERIN
Snoop ID: LITTLEMY
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“Danny!” There is no answer, but I know he’s in there. “Danny, please, I’m sorry. Please let me explain.” I bang on his door for maybe the twentieth or thirtieth time, but without much hope now. It’s clear he doesn’t want to open up.
Only then he does.
“This had better be good,” he says, and his expression makes me quail, it’s so angry.
“Danny, I’m sorry,” I say again, desperately.
“You said you were going to explain.” He folds his arms, his fury barely contained. “So go on then. Explain. Explain why you lied to me.”
“I didn’t lie to you—”
He begins to shut the door in my face.
“Hey!” I cry, and instinctively I shove my foot in the gap, forgetting that it’s my bad ankle. The door crunches on it, and I let out a scream of pure agony. Danny claps his hands to his mouth.
“Holy shit, Erin, I’m sorry—I’m so, so sorry—it’s fine!” he bellows, knowing that the others are probably jumping up in panic, attuned to the worst-case scenario. “Erin’s fine, she just knocked her ankle.”
“I’m fi
ne,” I call croakily, blinking away the sudden tears of pain that have started into my eyes, and whether they believe us, or they can’t hear anything through the staff door, no one comes running.
Either way, something has broken in the deadlock between us, because Danny opens the door wider and jerks his head at his bed.
“You better come in. Take the weight off.”
I hobble meekly inside and sit down.
There is a long silence.
“So?” Danny says at last. Every muscle in his body screams antagonism, but at least I’ve been offered the chance to explain.
“You’re right,” I say. “Even if I didn’t lie to you, I didn’t exactly tell you the truth.”
“I thought we were friends,” Danny says, and although the anger is fading from his kind, crumpled face, what’s left is worse—bewildered hurt. “I thought—I thought you and me was on the same side.”
“We were—we are,” I say desperately. “This doesn’t change anything. Everything I told you—about me, about dropping out of uni—it’s all true. I just didn’t tell you why.”
“Why then?” Danny says. He folds his arms and leans back against his little chest of drawers, letting me know with his body language that this isn’t going to be that easy. I’ve got a hole to dig myself out of.
I swallow. I haven’t talked to anyone about this—not since the nightmare days and weeks after the accident. But I owe Danny the truth.
“It’s true my dad’s a marquess,” I say. “But honestly, Danny, it sounds a hell of a lot grander than it is. He doesn’t live in a castle. My family isn’t particularly well-off. Alex went to boarding school, but I went to the local comprehensive because my parents couldn’t afford two sets of fees; I’m no different from you.”
He gives me a look at that, as if to say, Fuck off are you, and I wince, knowing he’s right. Danny grew up on a council estate on the outskirts of Portsmouth, the only child of a single mum who struggled for years to make ends meet. He has pulled himself up by his bootstraps, with no help from anyone. However far the FitzClarence fortunes have fallen, our upbringings were different, and that’s the truth. To pretend otherwise is pretty insulting.
