Scarlet Wakefield 02 - Kisses and Lies

by Lauren Henderson

  “It’s not really a friendship, Grand—Lady Wakefield,” I correct myself.

  Mistake! Beep beep! Mistake! My grandmother jumps right on that one.

  “Not really a friendship? Then why, after staying with her last Saturday night, are you proposing to spend part of your half-term break with her as well?” she inquires, her blue eyes narrowing.

  I recoup quickly.

  “She’s very nice to me, and I miss London,” I say convincingly. “But mainly”—I look away here, as if it’s hard for me to say the next part—“mainly it’s because I can tell Aunt Gwen doesn’t want me around too much. I really don’t think she’d like me kicking round the house for a whole week with no school to go to. She’s used to having it to herself. I thought it would be easier on her if I went away for part of the time.”

  I’ve been saying this mostly to a portrait of a Wakefield ancestor in a crinoline, her hair in unflattering ringlets, holding a parasol and a small dog and looking rather uncomfortable, which hangs on the far wall of my grandmother’s office. It’s always weird looking at the family portraits, because they’re either the spitting image of my grandmother or of me. Which I expect means I resemble her more than I realize.

  Ooh, that’s a scary thought. I glance back at my grandmother, picturing her at my age, with my dark curls. It’s impossible, though. I can’t imagine her a day younger than she is now. And are my eyes really that bright shade of turquoise? I don’t think so. Mine are paler, more aquamarine. And my skin isn’t as pale as hers—Grandma is as white as a piece of copy paper. She definitely has more striking coloring than I do.

  To my surprise, I see that her expression has actually softened. She’s stopped turning her pearls as well, which is always a good sign.

  “I see,” she says, slowly, as if she’s saying it more to herself than to me.

  “Taylor McGovern is staying here this half-term ’cause—because—her parents are still on their archaeological site and she can’t go and visit them. So when Lizzie invited me, I thought—”

  My grandmother holds up a pale, wrinkly hand.

  “There’s no need to explain further, Scarlett,” she says. “You may go to stay with Lizzie.”

  “Thank you, Gr—Lady Wakefield!” I exclaim enthusiastically.

  Then I wonder if I’ve sounded too keen at the prospect of spending my short holiday with Lizzie. But my grandmother isn’t suspicious: she looks rather sad, actually.

  “Scarlett?” she adds as I’m on my way out of her office.

  Holding the door, I look back. Seated behind her huge mahogany desk, my grandmother should look tiny by comparison. It’s the desk that used to belong to the Wakefield men, made in the Victorian era, with a green leather studded top, very faded now. Desks for ladies of that period are tiny little things, with fold-down tops and a series of pretty little pigeonholes for party invitations and dressmakers’ bills. I know, because Grandmother has one of them, too.

  But, sitting behind this monster of a desk, in a very modern swivel chair, Grandmother looks like the queen of all she surveys. Her white hair’s shining, her pale blue cardigan with pearl buttons is neatly done up over a pristine white blouse. She’s a modern version of all the Wakefields in the portraits. The office is paneled in mahogany and painted dark red where there isn’t paneling: it’s supposed to be imposing, so parents and badly behaved girls summoned before the headmistress are daunted as soon as they walk in. But that’s just an extra. My grandmother doesn’t need this setting to be imposing. She can manage that all on her own.

  “Yes?” I say, almost expecting some words of consolation at my having to live with Aunt Gwen.

  “Just make sure you don’t become too influenced by Lizzie Livermore,” she says firmly, adjusting some papers on the desk. “She’s a very silly, flighty girl without a thought in her head, and she’s much too concerned with fashion and frivolity. And her father’s the height of nouveau riche. Not a connection I want for my only granddaughter.”

  “No, Lady Wakefield,” I say dutifully, closing the door.

  I can’t help grinning to myself. My grandmother really is as tough as old boots. Trust her to get in a comment like that at the end, just when I thought she might be letting down her guard a bit.

  I just hope I’ve inherited half her backbone.

  Lucky it went so well with my grandmother. Because it went as badly as it could possibly have gone with Taylor. She’s furious when I tell her about Mrs. McAndrew’s invitation. I’ve seen Taylor angry before, but not like this. A few weeks ago, she didn’t really know me, and it wasn’t personal. Now, it is.

  “How could you not tell me you were writing to her?!” she yelled at me. “We’re supposed to be partners. We’re in this together!”

  “Try to understand, Taylor. I just need to do this on my own for a while,” I explain.

  Taylor’s fists are resting on her hips, her legs planted just as firmly a couple of feet apart. All of her muscles seem to be bulging, and Taylor has a lot of muscles. She’s frowning so much her thick dark eyebrows are almost joining up. Anger has made her look like a cartoon version of herself.

  “I’m not saying you should have sat down with me to write the letter,” she continues, “but you could at least have told me you were sending it! Or that you found out that Callum is Dan’s brother. Jesus!”

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “Look, I wasn’t deliberately cutting you out or anything like that. After I read the obituary, I just had an idea to write to her and I sat down and did it and posted it off straight away, that’s all . . .”

  “You still could have told me,” she insists.

  I feel really guilty. Taylor has helped me out so much in trying to find out who killed Dan and put herself on the line for me many times. She even took the risk of going through Plum’s bag, when if anyone had caught her, she could have been arrested. For a moment, I wonder if shutting her out was absolutely necessary.

  “I thought we were a team,” she’s saying furiously. “I thought you felt the same way.”

  I look at her helplessly.

  “I don’t know if I can always be a team on this,” I blurt out. “You didn’t even know Dan, Taylor. You weren’t there when he died. But I was. I’m the one he was kissing—I’m the one everyone thought had something to do with killing him. This is really personal to me and I need some space to deal with it on my own.” I pause for breath, shocked by what I’m saying. I’ve never realized this before, not so clearly, but now it’s put into words I realize how true it is. I’m begging her to understand.

  “You could at least have asked if I could come up to Scotland with you,” Taylor complains.

  “I couldn’t do that!” I exclaim. “It’s just going to be me and the family there—I’d have felt ridiculous asking if I could bring a friend.”

  “Whatever,” she says coldly. “Have a great time in Scotland solving your mystery.” She puts a nasty spin on the your, and I can’t blame her. “Don’t bother to send a postcard,” she adds sarcastically.

  Then Taylor McGovern, my only true friend, turns and stomps away.

  eleven

  DOUBLE TAKE

  Whistles blow. People shout and slam doors. I almost expect to see puffs of steam rolling down the platform. There’s something about a long train journey that makes me think of a scene from a film—the train pulling out of the station, a journey beginning that may change your life. I should be hanging out the window, waving goodbye to someone with a handkerchief in my hand. But there’s no one on the platform to see me off, because I told Lizzie to go, after her fussing round my compartment nearly drove me mad.

  She thinks I’m going to stay with friends from St. Tabby’s that my grandmother doesn’t approve of, which is why I had to use her as cover. I hinted that there was a boy involved, which of course got her sentimental heart beating extrafast, and naturally explained why I needed to organize a clandestine stay in Scotland behind my grandmother’s back. I must say, I haven’t foun
d a lie yet that Lizzie won’t swallow.

  I wish Taylor were waving me goodbye. Or, even better, sitting in a bunk above mine. But I doubt Taylor will even hear my name mentioned at the moment without spitting.

  I do seem to have a special gift for alienating my friends.

  The train jerks into motion. I know it isn’t pistons and steam engines and men shoveling coal into open fires anymore, but it feels like it for a moment, as the carriage rattles and creaks beneath my feet. I sit down on the berth and watch through the window as the Caledonian Lowland Express slowly pulls out of Euston, London’s lights sparkling orange and white against the dark midnight sky.

  “Tickets please!”

  I get up and struggle momentarily with the catch of my compartment door, finally managing to open it. A conductor stands there, the strap of his ticket machine straining across his stomach. He looks at my ticket and says, “Traveling alone?”

  I nod. He makes a harrumphing sound. I don’t know what it means.

  “Cooked breakfast from six for first-class passengers in the lounge car,” he says. “If you want something to eat now, you’d better make tracks for the buffet in ten minutes or so. We’re going to run out of sandwiches, I can tell you that for nothing.”

  “I had dinner already,” I say.

  He harrumphs again. “Sensible,” he says. “Couple of stops before Glasgow, but nothing to worry about. I’ll give you a knock at seven, before we get in. Make sure you’re all right.”

  I manage a smile at him by way of thanks. He heaves up his ticket machine, which has slipped below his potbelly, and waddles on down the corridor. I close my door and go back inside the compartment. The bed is all made up; my suitcase is stowed away. I should put on my pajamas, brush my teeth in the basin, and go to sleep. But I’m not tired. I sit back down and stare out of the window again. We’re heading north out of London, the concentration of central-city lights already fading. We’ve got all of England’s backbone, and some of Scotland’s, to travel up till we get to Glasgow the next morning.

  I’m mad to be doing this. I’m mad to be going at all, of course, but in the more narrow scale of things, I’m mad to be going up to Ayr on the night sleeper—which means two trains, because there’s a change at Glasgow station at seven in the morning, when I’ll be bleary-eyed with sleep. I could have flown to Prestwick airport and got a taxi from there to Castle Airlie: that’s what Mrs. McAndrew suggested.

  But I couldn’t face that. It would be such a short flight—I’d be there in an hour. Somehow, I needed more time for the journey, more time to acclimate to the terrifying situation I’m getting myself into. When I found the overnight sleeper, it seemed perfect. Lizzie said it would be romantic. But then, Lizzie’s an idiot. How can it be romantic, when I’m by myself in a single berth?

  At least I can afford a first-class compartment, so I don’t have to share. I barely use my trust fund, and anyway, my grandmother’s secretary, who gets the bills for my emergency credit card, never raises a fuss about my spending. Sometimes I wonder how high I could go before she would.

  I reach for my phone. But then I remember what the time is. I want to ring Taylor, but it’s too late, and I don’t know if she’d talk to me anyway.

  I tried to talk to her after our row, but she didn’t acknowledge my existence. I rang her and e-mailed her in an effort to find another way through, but she blanked me out. And then, for the next couple of days, I was overwhelmed with organizing myself for the trip to Castle Airlie, working out the train up to Ayr, wondering what to bring. I thought I might ring Taylor once I was there, to tell her how it was going, ask her for advice. . . .

  But I’d really like to ring her now. I feel very alone suddenly, rocking gently from side to side in this train compartment, traveling all the way up to Scotland by myself.

  I pull off my jeans and slide under the covers, not bothering to put on my pajamas. I can’t deal with being naked right now, not even for the brief time it would take me to strip off while I’m changing. I don’t even brush my teeth. I turn off the light and lie there in the hard uncomfortable bunk, thinking about what I’m going to face tomorrow morning.

  There is Callum McAndrew, Dan’s brother, who just might be responsible for Dan’s death. That’s an awful thought, but someone did murder Dan, and the trail seems to lead back to his family. Lucy, Callum’s girlfriend, was at the party—and Nadia saw Dan’s EpiPen in what might well have been Lucy’s handbag. It would have been pretty easy for Lucy to get Dan’s EpiPen from him. All you’d have to do would just be to ask him if you could look at it for a minute, just out of curiosity, and then create a small diversion and “forget” to give it back. I checked out Lucy’s online profile again, and discovered she lives in Ayrshire too, so I’m hoping she’ll be around a bit hanging out with Callum while I’m there.

  Even though I have a couple of new suspects, the motive is still unclear. Why would anyone have wanted to kill Dan? When I thought it was Plum who had killed him, her motive was incredibly weak, and to be honest, the more I think about it, the less I see Plum as a sneaky murderess. Plum never does anything without an audience. It would be completely out of character for her to secretly plot and execute such a clever plan to kill someone and then never breathe a word about it. Like I said before, if Plum was going to commit a murder, she’d stab someone or push them off a building in front of a crowd of people and then announce loudly that it was all their fault in the first place.

  And Nadia’s sure Plum never went behind the bar.

  It’s much too much of a coincidence to think that the person who had Dan’s EpiPen in her handbag isn’t the person who killed him. This was a well-orchestrated, carefully worked-out plan. So, with Plum looking increasingly unlikely as a suspect, Lucy Raleigh, with her connection to Callum, is the best possibility I have.

  My brain is racing so much with all this speculation that I’m sure I won’t be able to fall asleep. I close my eyes, and immediately the rocking motion of the train, plus the exhaustion and stress of the last few days, tip me over and I fall into sleep as easily as turning off the night-light.

  I wake up in a panic a few hours later, because the train is grinding and shifting and the noises have given me an awful nightmare. Then I remember that we stop at a station called Carstairs, where the Lowland Express splits into two directions, one for Edinburgh, one for Glasgow. Once I remember, I’m reassured that I haven’t overslept completely and ended up in some railway siding in the Highlands.

  Although I had wanted it this way, it’s no fun doing this on my own. I have to look after myself the whole time, instead of having someone else with me to help me and cheer me up. Since I fall asleep again on that self-pitying thought, I toss and turn restlessly. I’m more than ready to get up at six and stumble down the corridor to the dining car. It’s actually quite nice and old-fashioned and I think the waiter feels a bit sorry for me, because he keeps asking me if I want anything else, topping up my coffee and juice, and giving me extra bacon rolls and croissants. Nerves and greed make me eat the lot. At the end he slips me three minipackets of shortbread, saying, “In case you get hungry later, then!” with a wink.

  By then I’m so buzzed on a potent cocktail of coffee, fried pig meat, sugar, and complex carbohydrates that I cope with the arrival at Glasgow and the change to the train for Ayr without much panic. Especially as the ticket collector makes sure that I know which platform I’m going to. Everyone is sort of taking care of me now, which is nice, and it makes me feel a bit less lonely than I did at five o’clock this morning. But as the little local train chugs down toward Ayr, stopping every five minutes at another little local station, any thoughts of loneliness fade as a much more pressing emotion floods in.

  Fear.

  What on earth have I done? What have I let myself in for? All the McAndrews are going to hate me, and I wouldn’t blame them if they did. Besides, as an extra incentive to get the McAndrews to meet me, I’ve told Mrs. McAndrew that I have something of Da
n’s I wanted to give back, which was a total lie. I’m gambling that I can sneak into Dan’s room and fish something out to give her, but what if that doesn’t come off? What if Dan’s room has been cleaned out, or what if someone catches me at it? Should I just pretend I left it at home? But then what should I say it was?

  By nine o’clock I’m in such a state of nerves that I seriously consider not getting off the train at all, just sitting still till we get to wherever it terminates and working out how to get back to London from there as quickly as possible.

  “The next stop is Ayr,” the crackly loudspeaker says. “Next stop Ayr. Please take all your belongings with you when leaving the train.”

  In my heightened state of nerves, it sounds like it’s saying “Abandon hope all you who are prepared to die,” and my hands are actually shaking as I pull down my suitcase from the overhead rack.

  The train chugs into Ayr station and pulls, groaning, to a halt. The doors take so long to open that I find myself hoping there’s a malfunction, they won’t open at all, and we’ll just have to go on to the next stop.

  But then, with a tired old whoosh, they finally slide open and I lug my suitcase out onto the platform, pull up the handle, and tug it in the direction everyone else is going, toward the exit, my heart beating so fast and heavy it’s almost unbalancing me. Mrs. McAndrew said someone would come to meet me at the station, but she didn’t say who. Maybe he or she will be holding a sign that has KISS OF DEATH GIRL written on it. Wouldn’t that be priceless?

  However, when I walk out through the gate, I see my escort straightaway, but I do a double take because I don’t actually believe what I’m seeing. He’s leaning against a car, hands in his jeans pockets. He’s tall, with wide shoulders and long legs, wearing an old cable-knit sweater which was once probably a cream color and now is so faded it’s almost colorless. His jeans are equally old and battered, and his work boots are mud-stained. His dark brown hair’s close-cropped, and his eyes are gray, the color of lake water, fringed with dark lashes so thick that if he were a girl, you’d think he was wearing mascara. His dark brows are pulled down, and his jaw is set and sullen, his shoulders hunched.