20
The others came back still heavy-eyed and headachy and in a prickly mood. The film had been crap, they said, some awful thing with a random Baldwin brother having endless supposedly comic misunderstandings with someone who looked like Teri Hatcher but wasn’t; the cinema had been full of kids who were clearly below the age limit and who had spent the whole two hours texting each other and eating crackly things and kicking the back of Justin’s seat. Rafe and Justin were still very obviously not talking, and now Rafe and Abby apparently weren’t either. Dinner was leftover lasagna, crunchy on top and scorched on the bottom and eaten in tense silence. No one had bothered to make a salad to go with it, or to light the fire.
Just when I was about ready to scream, Daniel said calmly, glancing up, “By the way, Lexie, I meant to ask you something. I thought I might touch on Anne Finch with my Monday group, but I’m awfully rusty. Would you mind giving me a quick rundown, after dinner?”
Anne Finch wrote a poem from the point of view of a bird, she showed up here and there in Lexie’s thesis notes, and that, since there are only twenty-four hours in a day, was basically all I knew about her. Rafe would have pulled something like this out of pure malicious mischief, yanking my chain just because he could, but Daniel never opened his mouth without a solid reason. That brief, strange alliance in the garden was over. He was showing me, starting with the little things, that if I insisted on sticking around he could make my life very, very awkward.
There was no way I was going to make an eejit of myself by spending my evening babbling about voice and identity to someone who knew I was talking rubbish. Lucky for me Lexie had been an unpredictable brat—although probably luck had nothing to do with it: I was pretty sure she had constructed that side of her personality specifically for moments a lot like this one. “I don’t feel like it,” I said, keeping my head down and jabbing at my crunchy lasagna with my fork.
There was an instant of silence. “Are you OK?” Justin asked.
I shrugged, not looking up. “I guess.”
Something had just hit me. That silence and the fine thread of new tension through Justin’s voice, and quick glances flicking back and forth across the table: the others were, instantly and so easily, worried about me. Here I’d spent weeks trying to get them to relax, drop their guard; I had never thought about how fast I could send them skidding in the opposite direction, and how serious a weapon that might make if I used it right.
“I helped you with Ovid when you needed it,” Daniel reminded me. “Don’t you remember? I spent ages finding you that quote—what was it?”
Obviously I wasn’t about to rise to that one. “I’d only get mixed up and end up telling you about Mary Barber or someone. I can’t think straight today. I keep . . .” I shoved lasagna bits aimlessly around my plate. “Never mind.”
Nobody was eating any more. “You keep what?” Abby asked.
“Leave it,” Rafe said. “God knows I’m not in the mood for Anne bloody Finch. If she’s not either—”
“Is something bothering you?” Daniel asked me, politely.
“Leave her alone.”
“Of course,” Daniel said. “Get some rest, Lexie. We’ll do it another night, when you’re feeling better.”
I risked a quick look up. He had picked up his fork and knife again and was eating steadily, with nothing on his face but thoughtful absorption. This move had backfired; he was calmly, intently considering his next one.
I went for a preemptive strike. After dinner we were all in the sitting room, reading, or anyway pretending to—no one had even suggested anything as social as a game of cards. The ashes from last night’s fire were still in a dreary pile in the fireplace, and there was a soggy chill in the air; distant bits of the house kept letting out sharp cracks or ominous groans, making us all jump. Rafe was kicking the hearth-rail with the toe of one shoe, in a steady, irritable rhythm, and I was fidgeting, changing position in my chair every few seconds. Between the two of us, we were making both Justin and Abby tenser every second. Daniel, head bent over something with an awful lot of footnotes, didn’t seem to have noticed.
Around eleven, like always, I went out to the hall and put on my outdoor stuff. Then I went back to the sitting room and hung in the doorway, looking unsure.
“Going for a walk?” Daniel asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “It might help me relax. Justin, will you come with me?”
Justin started, stared at me like a rabbit in headlights. “Me? Why me?”
“Why anyone?” Daniel inquired, with mild curiosity.
I shrugged, an uneasy twitch. “I don’t know, OK? My head feels weird. I keep thinking . . .” I twisted my scarf round my finger, bit my lip. “Maybe I had bad dreams last night.”
“Nightmares,” Rafe said, without looking up. “Not ‘bad dreams.’ You’re not six.”
“What kind of bad dreams?” Abby asked. There was a tiny, worried furrow between her eyebrows.
I shook my head. “I don’t remember. Not properly. Just . . . I just don’t feel like being out in the lanes alone.”
“But I don’t either,” said Justin. He looked really upset. “I hate it out there—really hate it, not just . . . It’s horrible. Eerie. Can’t someone else go?”
“Or,” Daniel suggested helpfully, “if you’re this anxious about going out, Lexie, why don’t you stay at home?”
“Because. If I sit around in here any longer, I’m going to go crazy.”
“I’ll go with you,” Abby said. “Girl chat.”
“No offense,” Daniel said, with a slight, affectionate smile at Abby, “but I think a homicidal maniac might be less intimidated by the two of you than he should be. If you’re feeling nervous, Lexie, you should have someone large with you. Why don’t you and I go?”
Rafe raised his head. “If you’re going,” he told Daniel, “then so am I.”
There was a small, tight silence. Rafe stared coldly at Daniel, unblinking; Daniel gazed calmly back. “Why?” he asked.
“Because he’s a moron,” Abby said, to her book. “Ignore him and maybe he’ll go away, or at least shut up. Wouldn’t that be fun?”
“I don’t want you guys,” I said. I was all ready for this, Daniel trying to join the party. I hadn’t counted on Justin having some weird unexplained phobia of country lanes, though. “All you’ll do is bitch at each other, and I’m not in the mood. I want Justin. I never see him any more.”
Rafe snorted. “You see him all day, every day. How much Justin can one person take?”
“That’s different. We haven’t talked in ages, not properly.”
“I can’t go out there in the middle of the night, Lexie,” Justin said. He looked like he was actually in pain. “I would, honestly, but I just can’t.”
“Well,” Daniel said to me and Rafe, putting his book down. There was a glint in his eye, something like a wry, tired triumph: one all. “Shall we go?”
“Forget it,” I said, giving them all a disgusted glare. “Just forget it. Never mind. You can all stay here and bitch and complain, I’ll go by myself, and if I get stabbed again, I hope you’ll be happy.”
Just before I slammed the kitchen door, panes of glass trembling, I heard Rafe starting to say something and Abby’s voice cutting across his, low and fierce: “Shut up.” When I turned back at the bottom of the garden, all four of them had their heads bent over their books again, in their pools of lamplight; glowing, enclosed, untouchable.
The night had turned cloudy, the air thick and immovable as a wet duvet dumped over the hills. I walked fast, trying to wear myself out, aiming for the point where I could fool myself that it was the exercise making my heart race. I thought of that great imaginary clock I’d felt somewhere in the background, my first couple of days, urging me faster. Sometime after that it had faded away into nothing, left me swaying to Whitethorn House’s own sweet slow rhythms, with all the time in the world. Now it was back, ticking savagely and getting louder every minute, speeding towards some huge shadowy zero hour.
I rang Frank from down in one of the lanes—even the thought of climbing my tree, having to stay in one place, made me itch all over. “There you are,” he said. “What were you doing, running a marathon?”
I leaned against a tree trunk and tried to get my breathing back to normal. “Trying to walk off my hangover. Clear my head.”
“Always a good idea,” Frank agreed. “First off, babe, well done last night. I’ll buy you a fancy cocktail for that one, when you get home. I think you may just have got us the break we needed.”
“Maybe. I’m not counting chickens. For all we know, Ned could be bullshitting me about the whole thing. He tries to buy Lexie’s share of the house, she blows him off, he decides to give it one more go, then I mention the memory loss and he sees his chance to convince me we had a deal all along . . . He’s no Einstein, but he’s no idiot either, not when it comes to wheeling and dealing.”
“Maybe not,” Frank said. “Maybe not. How’d you manage to hook up with him, anyway?”
I had my answer to that one all ready. “I’ve been keeping an eye on that cottage, every night. I figured Lexie went there for a reason—and if she was meeting someone, that would be the logical place. So I thought there was a decent chance whoever it was would show up there again.”
“And Slow Eddie wanders in,” Frank said blandly, “just when I’d told you about the house, given the two of you something to talk about. He’s got good timing. Why didn’t you ring me, after he left?”
“My head was buzzing, Frankie. All I could think about was how this changes the case, how I can use it, what I do next, how to find out if Ned’s bullshitting . . . I meant to phone you, but it went straight out of my head.”
“Better late than never. So how was your day?”
His voice was pleasant, absolutely neutral, giving away nothing. “I know, I know, I’m a lazy cow,” I said, giving it an apologetic cringe. “I should’ve tried to get something out of Daniel, while I had him to myself, but I just couldn’t face it. My head was killing me, and you know what Daniel’s like; he’s not exactly light entertainment. Sorry.”
“Hmm,” said Frank, not very reassuringly. “And what’s with the stroppy-bitch act? I’m assuming it was an act.”
“I want to unsettle them,” I said, which was true. “We’ve tried relaxing them into talking, and it hasn’t worked. What with the new info, I think it’s time to kick it up a gear.”
“It didn’t occur to you to talk that over with me before you swung into action?”
I left a small, startled pause. “I just figured you’d guess what I was at.”
“OK,” Frank said, in a mild voice that started sirens rising in my head. “You’ve done a great job, Cass. I know you didn’t want to get involved, and I appreciate the fact that you did it anyway. You’re a good cop.”
It felt like something had hit me in the stomach. “What, Frank,” I said, but I already knew.
He laughed. “Relax; it’s good news. Time to wind it up, babe. I want you to go home and start complaining that you feel like you’re getting the flu— dizzy, feverish, achy. Don’t mention the wound hurting, or they’ll want to look at it; just feel crap all over. Maybe wake one of them up during the night—Justin’s the worrier, isn’t he?—and tell him it’s getting worse. If they haven’t taken you to the emergency room by morning, make them. I’ll handle it from there.”