DUSK IS COMING. CYGNET-GREY CLOUDS huddle above, ready to shed more snow. The Boxing Day shoot is going ahead, even though the house is in mourning, even if the substitute pigeon is indistinguishable from the sky, even if the snow is so deep it’s up to their thighs. Mrs Castle had marched outside in waders and galoshes to set it all up. ‘It’s in my rules,’ is all she will say.
‘Pull!’ Sara shouts. Tom releases a clay pigeon into the air.
A gunshot shocks the sky. The clay cracks into pieces.
All of the cousins were trained in the art of culling clay from an early age. Grandma Violet had made sure of it, first teaching them herself then getting Uncle Edward to step in when she could no longer pull the trigger. She said that it was a tradition in the country to shoot on Boxing Day. She just didn’t want anything to die in the process.
Lily had never enjoyed it. But she doesn’t want to be alone right now, so she’s sitting on a garden chair, watching.
Sara reloads. ‘Pull!’ she shouts again.
Tom sends up another. This time, though, Sara misses. The disc falls to earth intact, ready to clay another day.
‘Again,’ Sara shouts, lifting the gun. Irritation is sewn into her voice.
‘You’ve had three shots, Sara love,’ Tom says. ‘Give someone else a go.’
Sara marches over to him. In her Barbour jacket and Hunter wellies, she looks like she’s about to tell him to get off her land. ‘I’ve told you before, don’t “love” me, Tom,’ she says. ‘And you can drop the accent, too. You haven’t been back in Yorkshire for years. You’ve lost your right to it. And, if I had my way, the house as well.’
‘Tom’s got as much claim to the house as anyone here,’ Rachel says, coming over to stand by her brother.
‘Not anyone,’ Sara replies, looking at Rachel. ‘The spouses only get to help.’
Holly looks at Lily, then lowers her head. She kicks down hard into the snow. ‘Although we’re down to only one of those now.’ She glances up at Ronnie’s room on the first floor. The curtains are closed. He still hasn’t emerged.
‘You’re even nastier than when you were a kid,’ Rachel says to Sara.
‘You just never got to know me then,’ Sara replies.
‘Trust you to sink lower than even I thought possible,’ Tom says, looking at Sara in disgust.
‘You shouldn’t be so trusting,’ she says to him. ‘And you should never have trusted Philippa with that key. Oh, and keep any other keys hidden, if you’re jammy enough to get to them.’
‘You are all trusted, love. Owt else leads to paranoia,’ Tom says to Sara, in a Yorkshire accent so thick you could use it to butter Botham’s tea bread. He’s smiling but his eyes are the iciest Lily has seen them.
‘Where did Philippa keep that key, do you think?’ Sara asks.
Rachel shrugs. ‘Probably in their room.’
‘I suppose it’s Ronnie’s now,’ Sara muses. ‘Unless someone took it from her when she was killed.’
‘You think she was killed her for a key, that may or may not be the right one to unlock a secret door that may or may not exist?’ Tom says. His tone says exactly how unlikely he thinks that is.
Sara aims her gun at the sky. ‘Well, she was killed for some reason or other. By someone or other. Of course, it’s usually the husband.’
‘No, Sara,’ Lily says, the words escape her mouth. ‘Ronnie would never do that.’
‘Pull,’ Sara shouts, and shoots into an empty sky.
‘I’m going in,’ Lily says. She doesn’t need company if this is what it brings. ‘Too cold for me, I’m used to London winters.’
‘But it’s my turn next,’ Tom says. ‘You’ll miss me being brilliant.’
‘You’re always brilliant,’ she says. ‘But I’ll watch from my window.’
Lily turns to go.
‘We’ll come with you,’ Rachel says, taking Holly’s arm.
‘Mind how you go, Lily,’ Sara calls out, her saracastic tone cutting through the air like salt in snow. ‘Make sure you don’t fall again, eh?’
‘I forgot to ask,’ Rachel says to Lily as they walk up the steps to the terrace. ‘How did you know to look in that bookcase?’
‘Lucky guess?’ she says.
Rachel raises an eyebrow. Even Holly looks sceptical.
‘I saw you looking in the poetry section in the library,’ Holly says. ‘You must have known what to look for.’
‘It was the anagram,’ Lily says.
‘Of what?’ Rachel asks.
‘In the sonnet, it mentions “Winter, My Secret”, which was one of Aunt Lil’s favourite poems, by Christina Rossetti. And “t’stories” stood out as it doesn’t change the metre, and Liliana’s Yorkshire accent was never strong, so I thought it might be an anagram.’
‘Of Rossetti,’ Holly says, nodding slowly.
Lily nods and feels a shot of joy. With both of them looking at her, she feels like a Christmas tree whose lights have been turned on. And for once she doesn’t want to turn them off.
‘I wish we’d been closer,’ Rachel says. ‘As kids.’
Lily nods. ‘Might have made things easier for both of us,’ she says.
‘Come and see us, when this is over,’ Holly says, bobbing up and down in excitement. ‘We’d love Beatrice to know her amazing aunt.’
‘We’ll need to bring the family together somehow, after all this,’ Rachel says. ‘Ronnie will need our help with Samuel.’
‘Hopefully the new generation of cousins will all be close,’ Lily says.
*
On the way to her room, Lily stops on the first floor and goes down the East Wing corridor to Ronnie’s room. She knocks on the door but there’s no reply. She opens the door slightly, and sees a huddled shape on the bed. Ronnie snores gently, murmuring in his sleep.
‘I love you, Ronnie,’ Lily whispers, then quietly leaves.