The Invitation

by A. M. Castle

  I’m looking back now, trying to see if there were any clues that she was pregnant. I think she was drinking champagne with the rest of us. I remember seeing a glass in her hand, certainly. But whether she actually sipped from it … Then it would be quite Rachel to go her own way. Everything she did showed it. Rules were for other people.

  The first time I ever got into a car with her, I immediately wished I hadn’t. ‘No entry sign? What no entry sign?’ she said, foot crashing down on the accelerator as we whizzed the wrong way down one of those rat-run roads behind her flat in Knightsbridge. God knows how she ever passed her test. If it hadn’t been a UK driving licence, I’d say money must have changed hands.

  I’m sad she didn’t say anything to me about the baby; we were best friends for so long. I suppose not getting a wedding invite was a clue to how things had shifted, but I’ve got the childcare T-shirt after all. Loads to pass on. Was she already pregnant at that Soho lunch two months ago? She barely ate. Was it morning sickness … or just Rachel? Or the bypass. At breakfast yesterday she was the same as usual. Glowing, gorgeous. God, it was only a few hours ago. Life turns on a knife edge. Oh. Wish I hadn’t thought that. Suddenly the image of that wicked skewer pops into my head, embedded deep in Rachel’s slender neck.

  Poor Rachel. So much to live for, suddenly. A new husband, a new life here (though I shudder at the idea, I hate this place now) and a new baby, too. Mind you, she wouldn’t have known what was about to hit her. A baby throws everything up in the air. Tom and I were sure we were going to redefine parenthood. I had everything organised before Tasha’s birth, the Baby-gros arranged by colour and size … three weeks later, with no sleep, we looked as though we’d been hit by an asteroid. And those little onesies, piled in the never-ending washing basket. I don’t think I’ve seen the bottom of it since.

  Rachel would have had help, of course. Hot and cold nannies on tap, I’ve no doubt. She would have needed them. I feel disloyal saying it. But really, she was a bit old for a first baby. Or maybe that’s just me. I had mine in my twenties and thirties. I love my girls but Lord, the sleepless nights, the toll on your body. Did Rachel really want to do all that at forty-whatever? And Ross? Whatever age he is, it’s definitely too old. Not to mention he’s got that funny pair of grown-up children already.

  But she won’t be doing it now, will she? And nor will he. That baby has been snatched away with her. Gone, without a trace.

  Ross must be devastated. Funny thing is that I caught a glimpse of his face last night just after Rachel put her hand on her tum and gave us that cat-got-the-cream smile. He was aghast. Granted, that’s sort of his default expression. Arched eyebrows, puckered mouth. Tasha had a teacher once with a face like that. ‘I’ve got Miss Cat-Bum as my form mistress this year,’ she trilled. Not nice, but I knew immediately who she meant. I don’t know if I’ve seen Ross crack a smile yet. I don’t suppose I will, now.

  Oh, Rachel. My eyes brim over again. Ross has got every excuse for looking pretty horrific right now. But if he were ever going to smile at his wife, last night would have been the moment. Surely. He must have wanted children. They’d have talked about it.

  What am I saying? No, they really might not have done. That’s Rachel all over. That was Rachel. I’m the one who likes to communicate. She just acted. She’d never had to wait for anything, any approval, any back-up. She came into her money so young. Her parents must have been younger than we are now when they died. Private planes sound so glamorous, don’t they? But that Kennedy boy and his wife. Then there was a footballer recently …

  Rachel didn’t seem scarred by it. It’s not right to say that coming into zillions must have softened the blow of being orphaned. But she never seemed to have a phobia about flying. She always did have that recklessness about her. Devil-may-care, they say. Well, don’t care was made to care.

  It must have been so liberating, being free to forge ahead at her own pace. That’s what extreme wealth buys you, I suppose. Granted, half the time she made mistakes. A lot of her guys … and then a few business deals over the years … went awry, too. But with a financial cushion the size of a small country’s GDP, it didn’t ever seem to matter overmuch.

  Children aren’t like that, though. They’re a joint venture, right from the off. Even Vicky has had to collaborate over the years with Bob – who really is a shit – because they have Raf together. Or so we thought. No, I’m not ready to think about all that yet, with Tasha. One horrible mess at a time. Betrayal on that scale, my husband, and one of my best friends … No, no, no. I have to shove it away. This is Rachel’s moment.

  Would Rachel have gone ahead with this without involving her husband at all? I sneak a look over at him. Unfortunately, our eyes meet and I have to look away again. God, this is all so awkward. But in that short glance I see he’s aged too, since last night. He looks grey, deeply lined, vicious furrows on his face. Roderick is by his side again. He must have come back down when I tiptoed in to see Rachel. Both look off-kilter. What am I saying? Of course they do. We all do. I think the sun is coming up, though it’s hard to be sure. The sky is still full of ink-black clouds and the rain is pelting the windows, rapping like hail or gunfire. Won’t this storm ever blow itself out?

  I wonder if any of us got any proper sleep at all. I know I hardly did. As for Tom, no sooner had I got back from the morning room just now then he was off. ‘Where are you going?’ I hissed over Ruby’s head.

  ‘Just checking everything’s … locked up,’ he said. God, the idea that someone might have got in from outside … might still be in the castle … I must admit it’s a comfort to have him around. He’s let me down horribly over the years, I can admit that now, but at least he’s a proper man. Ross looks like he couldn’t get out of his chair even if he had to and Roderick is the type I’d watch like a hawk if I had him on my team. He talks the talk – endlessly – but I imagine he’s carried by his employees.

  I dart another glance, this time to the left and right. We’re all huddled in here. Roderick, staring straight ahead. At least he’s not smirking anymore. Raf is pacing restlessly. Can’t Vicky tell him to sit? But Vicky’s still drunk, not even bothering to hide it. Well, what has she got to lose, now? I’ll never respect her again, that’s for sure. She has plenty of sorrows to drown. Her coffee cup is full of, ahem, clear liquid, which she’s sloshed over her shoes at least twice.

  The girls are awake now, at my side, not knowing what to do with themselves. Tasha is about a million miles deep in misery. I can’t even begin to imagine how she’s feeling. I shake my head. Why didn’t Tom see what was going on with her, in all that time when he was home from work? He should have let me know she and Raf were getting so close. But he’s oblivious to anything that doesn’t touch him directly. No, no, I’m not going to give in to all that.

  I’ve forbidden all the girls from posting on social media. Tasha is too heartbroken, and Ruby I hope is still too young, but I don’t want any slips. Terrible that I even have to say it out loud, but I do. For them it’s like breathing.

  Tom’s just come back. It’s a relief. All right, he’s been a shit, but I still worry about him. It’s inbuilt. But as soon as he sticks his nose round the door, Geoff pipes up. ‘Maybe, Tom, you and I should, ahem, do some more to secure the scene, as I believe they say? We are both the representatives of law and order here, are we not? I know we’ve, erm, left the body in situ, as it were, but is the door to the Great Hall actually sealed? Are all the exits covered?’

  Tom just stands there, probably astounded at being bracketed with Geoff. So I jump in. ‘Tom isn’t that kind of policeman, though. He does fraud investigations. He’s not a crime scene person, whatever they call them.’

  ‘CSI,’ Tom says absently. ‘I’m really not sure about this, Geoff …’

  Then, wonders will never cease, Ross raises himself from his semi-coma in his chair. ‘You know, I rather think that might be just the ticket? If you wouldn’t mind, ah, Tom? Taking on those duties yoursel
f? Just until the proper authorities get here from the mainland.’

  Tom shrugs. ‘Well …’

  Roderick chips in. He always seems to be trying to get into his dad’s good books. Poor man, late forties and still after a pat on the head. ‘I agree, Tom, you’re best placed to sort this out. Just temporarily. We don’t want to mess up the investigation. When the staff get here, in a while, they’ll want to start cleaning and so on.’

  ‘OK then, if we’re all agreed?’ Tom looks round and everyone nods, apart from Vicky, who buries her head in her cup, and Geoff, who stalks over to the window, no doubt peeved at being excluded. I admit, I give Tom a little smile. It seems to be the encouragement he needs. ‘I’ll get to it, then,’ he says, all business.

  So the Great Hall is now out of bounds. And Tom will have anything that might be construed as evidence locked up tight somewhere. I really don’t know what. Things that might have fingerprints on? And the twelve skewers that weren’t used as murder weapons, I suppose. God, even saying that makes me remember that horrible napkin tent on Rachel’s back, and I feel sick.

  After sorting out all that, Tom says he’ll go down to the jetty, to see what the tide is up to, what the damage has been from the continuing storm. The wind is still whipping the island like a punishment.

  Part of me wishes I could lash out at Tom the same way. For all his transgressions. But I’ve got to try and keep myself together. We only had a minute, last night, before we all took our seats at the table. And I was too angry to say a word. But Tom swore blind that whatever went on with Vicky twenty years ago was a one-off. And he had no idea about Raf. While Tasha is reeling, I need to be a support to her. It’s not the time to tackle my husband. We’ve got enough to deal with as it is.

  For a second, my mind flicks to Rachel, to what her advice would be. She must have thought I knew. Now I’m even wondering if at some level I did. Rachel would have a take on it. For a second, the loss hits me. A wave of sorrow. I’ll never hear that voice again, persuading, cajoling, always getting away with – well – murder. Rachel, Rachel. I can’t bear it. I can’t bear that you’re gone. With your wildness, your wilful ways, your inconsistency and your charm. I loved you so much.

  But there’s something else that keeps creeping in under the grief. It’s insidious, unwelcome, but I can’t keep it at bay.

  This book-lined room was comfortable and elegant, when everyone first migrated to it, shocked and baffled, in the middle of the night. But it’s getting more claustrophobic by the second. The jumble of bedclothes, my girls’ bits and pieces, my own handbag and pillow and blanket aren’t helping, but clutter isn’t the problem. My sideways glances are being met by other covert peeps and diffident looks. All of us are doing it. All of us feel it. This prickling of the skin, this urge to hide – and yet this urgent, desperate necessity, to stick together.

  Because one of us has blood on their hands.

  Chapter 43

  Vicky

  Mount Tregowan, 1st November

  This is the weirdest situation ever. The atmosphere was bad enough before Rachel died. When the lights went on, when I saw she’d been killed, my first reaction – after the horror – was astonishment. If Gita had finally killed Tom, now, that would have made perfect sense. Or if Gita had killed Penny, for what the silly mare had done to Ruby. Or if she’d even killed me, over the whole Raf thing. And that’s just Gita.

  Geoff was looking like he could cheerfully have stabbed Jane, after getting in such a grump before dinner. Jane’s a deep one. I don’t even know who she’d like to kill, maybe Geoff, maybe someone else, maybe even me, but I’m sure it would be somebody. Tasha could have gone for my lad, for the incest (though that’s hardly his fault) or for her own dad, even. I’d have been in that queue too. Bloody Tom, the trouble he’s caused me.

  Penny looked like she could have killed her dad, most of the evening. I’d even overheard her saying something pretty threatening about Ross to Roderick: ‘We have to deal with Daddy tonight.’ It was probably to do with the car accident she’s always banging on about. And Rachel was gearing up for some sort of announcement, too, not just the baby thing. I know what she was like when she had stuff to spill, that certain look in her eye.

  But in the end, out of everyone, it was Rachel who turned up dead. Now here we are, minus the hostess with the mostest, and surprise surprise, the mood has not improved. In fact, it’s toxic enough to finish the rest of us off easily. All of those other conflicts, festering unresolved. As usual, Rachel has overshadowed us all. And now she’s left us stuck here, desperate to escape but completely unable to. Rats in a trap.

  I suppose we’re all thinking it, aren’t we? We’ve all watched enough crime dramas to know the drill. Whodunit. Who had means, opportunity and motive?

  Well, all of us had the means, right in front of us. Rachel’s stupid skewers. A matching set of murder weapons, presented to us literally on a plate.

  Opportunity. We had that, too. The lights went down, and someone got up. I wish I knew who. But it was black as pitch. I heard the noises. Did the front door open? Then that strange little scream. Was it Rachel? Such a tiny sound, and a matching wound … but it was more than enough. All that life, leaking away. The blood. God.

  As for motives for doing away with Rachel, well, most of us have one. Take me. I should have known, as soon as I turned and saw her, gawping at me and Tom doing the nasty years ago, that the secret would come back to bite me one day. Even now, I don’t want to believe she told Tasha about Raf out of malice. She may have assumed people knew. But it’s probably just that she never really thought much about other people, and their little lives and feelings. She made that loud comment about Raf’s eyes on our first night here. She put two and two together and, selfish to the end, didn’t see a single reason to shut the hell up.

  No wonder Raf’s been giving me such a wide berth. He must have thought I’d be angry about him hooking up with Tasha anyway, even before … Well, I suppose it’s out there now. Even before he knew he might be Tom’s son.

  I mean, it’s not definite. Raf could still be Bob’s son. Or Tom’s. I suppose that’s no defence, though. It probably just makes me look like a slag. More of a slag. What can I say? Nobody minds when it’s the plot of Mamma Mia, when Meryl Streep’s been putting it about. But when it’s me, suddenly everyone’s got a view.

  Bloody Tom. There’s always been something about him. A charm, a way of getting what he wants … whatever it might be. And for however short a time.

  I could blame Rachel, I suppose. I could say it was her fault for throwing that other stupid Halloween party, all those years ago. For inviting Tom, knowing I was fighting my attraction to him. I didn’t like him; I pretty much hated him. But yes, I fancied him. Rotten. Why did I ever confide in her? She was leaky as a sieve. Hang on, is that another motive for me right there?

  I’ve often seen red about Rachel – who hasn’t? But to kill her … Over my lad’s wrecked romance. Come on. He’s twenty. It’s not ideal, obviously, is it? Suspected incest. But Christ, they didn’t know. He’ll get over it. I got over that Tom business, after all.

  I take another sip from my cup, and catch Gita’s eyes on me. I know what she’s thinking. Aside from that long-ago betrayal and its flesh and blood consequences. She thinks I’m on the sauce already. Well, she’s actually wrong. This is water. After last night, not even I can face the booze again. Never say never, of course. But not for the foreseeable. Drinking out of a cup is a good cover.

  Someone here has used that unholy trinity – means, opportunity, motive – to do something unspeakable. If they think that I’m three sheets to the wind, well then, all to the good. But I’m watching. I’ve got my eye on all of them. I hope I can keep it up. As soon as I said just now I didn’t want a drink, of course the craving started. But I’m clamping down. Think about something else, think about something else.

  For the moment, my money is on … I scan the room. Old Tregowan hasn’t spoken, for hours. He
seems almost as withdrawn as Rachel herself is. Rachel. I catch myself tearing up. But no, it’s shock, as much as actual pain. There’s nothing to be gained from more crying. I breathe in, man up.

  Could Ross have done it? It’s not impossible. The whole marriage was odd. Maybe he was having regrets? And she was so indiscreet. Was she blabbing a bit too much about things he wanted kept quiet? Perhaps he did it for his kids. They definitely hated her.

  That makes me think of Roderick and Penny themselves. How did they feel about Rachel’s announcement? The prospect of a new little Tregowan erupting onto the scene? That’s a question. Whatever else is going on in their heads, they must have grown up with the idea that this island was rightfully theirs. Rachel must have been a large and glamorous spanner in the works.

  Had Rachel wriggled her way into Ross’s will? Not that she needed the dosh. But people with money tend to be good at getting more. And then she’d just announced an heir. Suddenly this place would have been divided at least three ways, maybe four. I doubt the stepkids loved that idea. Yet Penny was snivelling away last night, after the lights went up and the discovery was finally made. If the number of tears shed indicated genuine sorrow, then she’s beating the rest of us by litres.

  Still, here’s a thought. If Rachel had made a will, and left everything to her new/old husband, then Penny could honk her nose on twenty-four-carat gold tissues for the rest of her life and not make a dent in that fabulous fortune. Shouldn’t she be smiling from ear to ear? I wonder where she is. I thought we were all supposed to be corralled here, by order of the great Tom. But there’s one law for us, and another for the likes of Penny, as usual.