‘Could Mr King not join us?’ asks Cecilia.
‘Unfortunately not,’ says George. ‘Do I sense aspecialinterest in Mr King?’
Cecilia goes pink and stares at her feet. ‘Not at all.’
‘A most unsuitable match,’ declares Penelope. ‘I’ll thank you not to encourage it.’
‘I didn’t mean it like that,’ says Cecilia again, but only Odette seems to hear her.
The gong sounds. Odette is flushed into the dining room by Penelope and Leo behind her, and she sits down at the table where they laid out her mother’s body.
There is an anger in her that feels like a sickness. Her skin fits wrongly; each breath is a task around this great boulder of sorrow and rage and injustice that has swelled and swelled, a great boil that is close to setting her howling.
She does not know how to say what is wrong. It is so obvious what is wrong that it makes her feel mad to have to say it.
But then, what is never said is how wrong it has been for so long.
She remembers, suddenly, her mother drawing her down beneath the blankets on the couch in her studio in Herne House,the smell of wine on her breath.
God. No. Stop it.
Silence is her best option, and she exercises it liberally, looking only at the pattern on the series of plates placed before her, mock-turtle soup, stewed eels, grouse, lobster, sweetbreads, lifting her glass in toast when required, and letting the conversation wash blankly over her. A woman passes the doorway, white skirts flashing in the corner of Odette’s eye, and she looks around to see which of the guests has risen from their place – but they are all present.
The skin prickles along the back of her neck.
This is her mother’s house.
Her mother would not leave it so easily.
No. A maid, the flash of her starched apron.
Only—
Odette drinks deeply from her wine glass and listens to Claudine, who is holding court.
‘I must apologise for the potatoes – quite plebeian in their simplicity, but it takes time to train up a new cook.’
Odette has the distinct impression that Claudine thinks she has said something wry and witty, rather than simply rude. There is appreciative laughter and much discussion of the plebeian potatoes, and Odette realises how absolutely dull her father’s set is. Leo laughs along, a little too obviously keen to be counted amongst them; he has grown a small moustache in the months Odette has been away and she sees now that it is a poor copy of Mr Wrexham’s.
No wonder Lydia became a little strange when she had been trapped amongst these tiresome people for twenty years.
As if in response, there is a cold gust against her neck. The candles do not flicker.
Odette holds the stem of her glass tighter.
Here is the thought that has stolen her sleep, her appetite,stalked her through the fens of Cambridge:
What if the apparition was real?
She hides her face in her cup for a moment, suddenly hot, her heart racing, as though the people sat around her can hear her thoughts.
What if she is not mad at all?
Dinner progresses through the courses until dessert is placed on the table, with fresh fruit, bon-bons, dried and candied fruit intermingled with lemon-water ices and sweet wine.
Claudine sits amongst it, candlelight flashing off the jewels at her throat and the crystal of the glass in her hand, smiling, triumphant.
What if Odette has sat down to dinner with a killer?