‘HAPPY CHRISTMAS!’ TOM SAYS AS Lily walks down the stairs. He’s wearing his kilt, a festive red and grey tartan in honour of his mum’s clan. His legs are surprisingly tanned given he spends most of his days in his office, nodding while his clients tell him their problems. ‘How are you feeling?’ he asks, gesturing to the small bump on her head.
Her hand goes up to it. ‘Bit tender, but otherwise OK,’ she says.
‘Excellent,’ Tom says. ‘May I say, that’s another amazing dress.’
Lily looks down at the dress she’d made for today. It’s in a deep red velvet, with many hours’ worth of hand-embroidered cocoa truffles scattered on the knee-length skirt. An haute couture chocolate box of a frock.
‘You look pale,’ Gray says to Lily. He’s leaning against the wall by the dining-room door. ‘Didn’t you sleep well?’
‘Why, did you hear something?’ Lily says, suddenly worried that he’d overheard her calling out for Mum in the middle of the night. She’d woken herself up several times, and Endgame House’s walls are thin.
‘Should he have?’ Sara says, appearing from the living room. She’s wearing another designer number. How does she afford all these clothes? Lily gets sample sizes from friends sometimes, and adds panels to fit. But Sara’s are made to measure, not usually something you can afford on a teacher’s wage.
‘I was restless in the night,’ Lily says. ‘Went for a wander. I didn’t mean to disturb anyone.’ She smiles, hoping that will do. Sara, though, doesn’t seem appeased.
The dining-room door, hidden within the wood panelling, opens into the hall. ‘Are you coming in, then or not?’ Mrs Castle says, stepping out. She has a sprig of holly tucked into her hair but not even that gives her any hint of merriness. A less festive bearer would be hard to find.
Lily goes in, glad of any distraction to get her away from Sara. What happened in the night lies heavy on her, and leaves her feeling shivery, like fallen snow.
The dining room looks different by day. The dark curtains have been tied back and the walled kitchen garden is visible through the stained-glass windows. Morning sun reflects off the deep snow, making it look ultra-bright outside. The table is different, too. There are small red Christmas stockings at each place setting, names sewn onto the white velvet trims. Platters of croissants, pains au chocolat and other pastries have been placed on a runner spanning the table’s length. Lily’s tummy rumbles. Now that she’s pregnant, she’s always full, and always hungry.
‘When do we get the first clue, Mrs Castle?’ Philippa says once they’ve all sat down at the breakfast table.
‘No clues about the clues,’ Mrs Castle replies. ‘Those are the rules I was given.’
‘You must be able to help us a little bit?’ Philippa tries a Princess Diana-type plea looking up through her heavy fringe. Rather than shy-doe-eyed, she looks cross-eyed.
Mrs Castle stares at Philippa, eyes stewed in something nearing enmity. Without breaking her gaze, she tips the teapot. Philippa’s cup fills right to the brim. The steeped meniscus shivers. Philippa won’t be able to pick up the cup without spillage. Tea has never been served with more aggression.
‘Things happen in their own time, love,’ Ronnie says.
Philippa makes a sound somewhere between a snort and a whinny. ‘That’s what you told me when you set up the restaurant.’
‘Some things, and people, never have their time,’ Ronnie replies, quietly.
Lily wishes she was sitting next to Ronnie rather than opposite him. She’d have given his arm a squeeze, a lean-in to the shoulder. She should speak up, she knows. As it is, she just gives him a smile that she hopes says, ‘I’m on your side.’
She then points to her stocking and says, ‘It’s traditional to open stockings before breakfast, right?’ Anything to distract from another argument. And even her lame detection skills can work out what they might find inside.
‘I never saw you as traditional,’ Sara says, smirking. ‘The opposite, if anything.’
‘What does that mean?’ Holly says, quickly.
‘Just that Lily’s lifestyle can’t be described as conventional.’
‘That’s enough, Sara,’ Tom says. His voice is cracknel brittle. He always did stand up for her. Lily wishes he didn’t have to.
‘Lily’s right,’ Rachel says. ‘Time to open our stockings. Get this game started, eh?’
No one speaks as they each pull out a piece of coal from the stocking.
‘Looks like we’ve all been bad,’ Gray says, quietly.
Sara, however, is already rummaging again in her stocking. There’s a look of triumph to accompany her smug, ‘Ah!’ as she pulls out a folded piece of paper. Her hands are covered in coal dust as she opens the document. She frowns, mouthing the words as she reads them in her head.
Lily feels for her copy, and reads it, too. She can hear everyone else doing the same. There’s a sense of occasion, a certain solemnness. As if everyone is feeling the impact of Liliana’s words.
‘Can I read it out loud?’ Gray asks. He’s holding the clue reverently, as if handling the communion goblet at Mass.
Everyone looks at him. Mouths fall. Gray speaking up is as much of a surprise as a party popper at a funeral and, by the look on Sara’s face, just as welcome.
‘I think your mum would have liked that,’ Tom says, gently.
Gray takes a breath. His hand trembles, but his voice is steady as he reads, slowly, as if drinking in the words.
Elephants are said to remember, I’m
The same, I never forget. Whether it’s
Chamber music, aria moans, mor n rise
Or sun set, in my memory it sits.
When people hurt those that I love, the sting
Stays beneath the skin. This Christmas I will
Draw it out, and, in the endgame, you’ll sing
A song of strangled death and pilfered bills . . .
But enough of this, for now. The first key
Is easy. It lies deep in the forest,
Surrounded by bleak briars and twisting trees
Where animals are stiff and laid to rest,
Where bones are picked and locked in cloth-lined wood
And evidence remains of trunked falsehood.
Silence for a moment. Lily only just stops herself sobbing.
‘This is a clue?’ Holly says. Her eyes are wide, looking at Rachel for back-up. Her wife, though, has already got out a pen from her bag and is circling words.
‘What are we supposed to do with this?’ Philippa says to Ronnie.
Ronnie smiles. ‘It’s one of Aunt Lil’s sonnets,’ he says. ‘She used to write her clues as poems. Aunt Mariana, Lily’s mum, would have music clues, and Grandma Violet could make a code out of anything.’
‘She was at Bletchley Park,’ Gray says. ‘She was a genius, and so were her daughters.’
Ronnie laughs. ‘Are you saying my dad was the only child of Violet who wasn’t a bona fide brainiac? Well, you’re probably right.’
Holly points to one part of the sonnet. ‘We passed through a forest on the w—’
Rachel places a finger over Holly’s mouth, stoppering the next words.
‘Aren’t we all going to work together?’ Holly asks.
Rachel looks at her with such love it makes Lily’s heart hurt. ‘I doubt that’s what anyone wants,’ she replies.
Sara doesn’t say anything. She just scrapes her chair back and strides out of the room. Lily can hear her pulling on her coat and wellies. The front door opens, and then slams shut.
Ronnie grins. ‘Looks like Sara’s already solved it. Maybe the genius gene passed down to her.’
Rachel taps Holly on the shoulder. ‘I’ve got it, too,’ she whispers, tugging at Holly’s arm. Rachel whispers in Holly’s ear as they hurry to the door.
‘Really?’ Holly says, shuddering. ‘Urgh.’
Rachel shushes her, and they both leave.
Philippa gets up, looking worried. ‘Shouldn’t we go too?’
‘Have you solved the clue already?’ Ronnie asks. His raised eyebrows suggest it’s unlikely.
‘Don’t need to if they’ve already got it. We just follow them.’
‘Isn’t that cheating?’ Ronnie asks.
‘I don’t remember anything in the rules that says we can’t piggyback on people solving things,’ Philippa says. ‘And Sara has an advantage – her mum set the clues. Only fair that she helps us.’ She bustles to the front door, calling back. ‘Are you coming or not?’
Ronnie shrugs at Lily, then follows Philippa out of the room.
‘Aren’t you going, too, Gray?’ Tom asks, his voice gentle.
Gray shakes his head. He’s stroking the paper on which the clue has been printed.
Lily also looks down at the words, reads them again, slowly. Excitement and anticipation course through her. She’d forgotten how much she loved the clues, and solving them. Only this time, she knows there’s a code beneath the code. She mouths the words, feels the poetry in her mouth. There’s a bittersweet taste to the lines, a hardness too, like blackened raisins in a burned cake.
Lilian isn’t being subtle in this first clue. It deals with death and remembrance. It suggests that the truth will come out by the end of this festive time, like a splinter working its way out of skin. Funny how no one mentions that side of the sonnet. Either they’re too busy trying to work out where the key is, or they don’t want to mention the accusations that spike the sonnet. Lily’s hand goes to her throat. Does the ‘strangled death’ refer to Mum? Is that how she really died? Maybe the ‘evidence’ for it lies with the key.
Lily scans through the poem after its turning point one more time, and a sudden image comes in her mind.
‘Lily!’ Tom says to Lily, clapping his hands in front of her face.
Lily focuses on him.
‘You were off somewhere again,’ Tom says, his brow creasing with concern.
‘Sorry,’ Lily replies. ‘Got lost in the poem.’
‘I was asking if we should follow them too? I get terrible FOMO – what if they find the key and we’re not there?’
‘Don’t worry,’ Lily says. ‘You won’t miss out. I know where they’re going. And they’re wrong.’