Today's Reading
On the other side of the lawn, Reginald raised his teacup in a mocking toast. Daphne turned away, but she could still feel his eyes on her.
His presence forced her to see herself through his eyes. Old and wrinkly, with thin lips and small eyes, loose skin hanging from her arms—how did he know that when she always wore long sleeves?—and, worst of all, ridiculous, in her old-fashioned dresses and the wig she wore to hide her bald spot.
Daphne still thought of herself as young and beautiful, but it was as though Reginald could see the portrait of Dorian Gray hidden in the attic.
Oh, why had he come here? She had been so happy here before Reginald turned up and ruined everything.
Daphne took a bite of her scone. It seemed to grow in her mouth, and she sipped her champagne in an attempt to wash it down. Even that tasted stale, like old apples and rot and the relentless passage of time, and she searched irritably for somewhere to put her plate.
In the end, her secretary and right-hand woman, Margaret, took it away. She returned a short while later carrying a new bottle of champagne, and she filled Daphne's glass without a word.
"Bit of a tense atmosphere," said Margaret, as prosaic as ever. She was the kind of person who would look out at the Flood, turn to Noah, and say, "Looks like a spot of rain."
"Yes, it is rather," Daphne agreed.
Right then, much too late, she remembered the angry man's name. He was a Samson, not a Smith. The owner of the little supermarket in the village.
"How are we for champagne?" she asked.
"Stock levels are good," Margaret replied.
Then there's nothing more we can do, thought Daphne. Where was Berit Gardner?
She surveyed her guests' glum faces and found herself wondering just how many of them were fantasizing about killing someone. She counted in her head.
At least five of them wanted to kill her nephew. And at least one wanted to kill her.
CHAPTER ONE
"Stayin' alive, stayin' alive, bam-bam-bam-bam, stayin' aliiiiiiive."
Berit Gardner hummed to herself as she ironed a white shirt on the table in her spartan kitchen. She was wearing her best going-out jeans and had a corduroy jacket and two scarves waiting for her on the back of the chair.
She was looking forward to the tea party at Tawny Hall with a mix of anticipation and fear, considerably more of the latter.
What if she didn't find them there? What if she didn't hear anything at all?
She had never looked forward to a mingle before. There was something about people trying to show off their best sides that virtually guaranteed it would be boring, and she had no reason to think that today would be any different. On the contrary, there was a real risk she would come away having wasted the afternoon chatting about the weather.
No, she told herself. There were stories to be found here, she could feel it. She had known that since the moment she first laid eyes on the little cottage. It felt right. As though she had returned to a long-lost home or finally reached the place she had been heading toward all her life.
In truth, it had started before she even arrived. The minute she saw the ad, she had felt a pang of something she had been longing for, something she had missed.
Even the names had something special about them. She said them aloud to herself now, trying to conjure up some of their magic.
"Great Diddling," she said. "Albert Lane. Wisteria Cottage."
It was that sense of magic and adventure that had convinced her to plow all of her savings, every last penny of the unexpected royalty payment, into a cottage in the middle of nowhere in a tired, rundown village in Cornwall.
And now she was going to attend the tea party. She would smile; she would mingle; she would make small talk about the weather if that was what it took. And she would find them.
...
