A Game For All The Family (48 page)

Anne’s head jerks back, as if to avoid a blow.

“Oh, wait, wait.” I giggle. “Bascom Ingrey murdered Perrine? That seems incredibly unlikely—within the terms of the story, I mean.”

“He and my mother planned it together,” says Olwen. “They’re both murderers. But my father—
our
father, Lisette’s and mine—was the one who did the deed.”

For a moment, Anne’s eyes are full of emotion. Shock and also . . . is she impressed that Olwen was clever enough to get it right? Or convinced, finally, that this is her estranged sister Allisande talking to her? Then it passes, and she’s staring expressionlessly ahead again. It’s strange watching her reactions like this. I feel like a scientist doing an experiment. She’s different today from how she was in my kitchen. Then she was more herself. The Anne-Donbavand-ness of her burned stronger. Now she’s like a hollow, person-shaped object. With her empty-tunnel eyes blank like this, it’s almost as if there’s no one inside the flesh-and-bone container.

“Lisette, tell Allisande that her theory of Perrine’s murder makes no sense,” I say. “Bascom and Sorrel Ingrey went to every conceivable length to protect Perrine from the local hordes who were determined to hang her from trees, etcetera etcetera. What I mean is: they
would
have gone to those lengths, if all of this weren’t total and utter crap—but since we’re pretending it’s not . . . There’s no way Bascom and Sorrel did it. If they wanted Perrine dead, why take her out of school after the attempt on her life? Why confine her to the house to keep her safe, and build gates and fences to protect her?”

“And your next question is going to be: Why hire the music teacher, David Butcher?” Olwen tells me.

“Yes. What’s the answer?”

“Dad hired him because, when he and Mum had almost given up all hope of curing whatever was wrong inside Perrine’s head, Dad had a brainwave. Music might do the trick, he thought. David Butcher, by instilling in Perrine a love of music, might save her soul.”

“Okay, so why do
that
?” I pretend to get impatient. “Why try so hard to save your daughter’s soul, and then suddenly decide to murder her?”

“Oh, there was nothing sudden about Mum and Dad’s decision,” says Olwen. “Was there, Lisette?”

Slowly, Anne starts to walk along the hall, toward the living room. She stops in the doorway, grips the doorframe with both her hands.

“Grab a chair, Anne,” I say. “Make yourself comfortable for the rest of the story. Olwen, I think you’d better wait till she’s sitting comfortably.”

“She’s right, Lisette—you ought to sit down. You look pale.”

Anne takes three more steps. Then a pause, then another two. She perches on the edge of the nearest sofa. “I don’t have to listen to either of you,” she says, not sounding entirely sure.

“True,” I agree. “You will, though.”
Because Olwen’s pretending to be the sister you so badly need to believe in. She’s pretending to be sorry, to understand everything, to forgive everything. I’d take that deal if I were you—it’s the best you’re going to get.

“You’ll listen to Olwen because, even though we all know she’s talking pure nonsense, she’s right, isn’t she?” I go on. “She’s cracked the mystery. No one’s ever done that before. No one’s cared enough to try and work it out until now. Olwen, what did you mean when you said there was nothing sudden about Bascom and Sorrel’s decision?”

Olwen sits down opposite Anne. She smiles at her. “Mum and Dad disagreed about nearly everything, didn’t they, Lisette? They disagreed, and so they compromised. They took turns. Always. In everything. That was how they made family life work.”

“Shut up,” Anne mutters, her eyes darting left and right. “I don’t know who you are.”

She can’t leave. She wants to, but she’s stuck. Can’t stop listening.

“I’m your sister Allisande. After Perrine killed Malachy Dodd, Mum and Dad disagreed about what to do, didn’t they? Do you remember? Mum had no illusions. She knew she’d raised a monster—or given birth to one, depending on your views about nature and nurture. Perrine was a monster, plain and simple. Mum knew she’d kill again and again if no one stopped her. As someone who hated anything that wasn’t easy and fun, Mum didn’t want the unpleasantness of Perrine’s presence in all our lives to stretch out and take up years. She wanted it over with quickly, so that she could go back to enjoying herself.”

“Are you saying Sorrel Ingrey wanted to kill Perrine?” I deliver my next line with what I hope is the right mixture of curiosity and disbelief.

“In the circumstances . . . yes, she did,” says Olwen gravely. “She couldn’t bear to have anything horrible or difficult anywhere near her—it was a childlike, almost pathological horror she had of anything that wasn’t pleasurable. Perrine was her daughter, and for as long as she lived, Sorrel couldn’t avoid close involvement with her. Sorrel, therefore, needed Perrine to stop existing. She dressed it up with altruism—pretended to Bascom that she wanted Perrine dead only so that she couldn’t kill anybody else. But that wasn’t her true motive.”

“And Bascom Ingrey?” I ask. “What did he have to say about it? Anne, why don’t you tell us?”

Silence from Anne. A small shake of the head.

“Dad passionately disagreed,” says Olwen. “He said there was no such thing as an evil person and that anyone could be redeemed. He was horrified that Mum wanted to give up on Perrine without trying to change her, without giving her a chance. And so, as was their way in everything, they decided to take turns. To compromise.”

“I see. That makes sense,” I say. “So that’s why they bickered about Bascom’s method being tried first when it was Sorrel’s turn. He’d gone first last time they’d disagreed and had to take turns. She thought it was unfair that she had to go second yet again.”

“Yes, but Dad argued, sensibly, that he
had
to try his way first—it simply wouldn’t have worked the other way around,” says Olwen. “You can’t murder someone and then try to reform their character. No dead person has ever been persuaded to live a more virtuous life. Oh, Dad had moments of self-doubt—times when he thought Mum was bound to be right, and maybe they ought to just kill Perrine immediately and have done with it. But on those occasions, Mum didn’t take advantage. She asked him if he was
sure
he wanted to end his turn prematurely. And of course he didn’t—not really.”

Did Anne nod her head? Did I imagine it?

“So, if this whole tale weren’t pure invention, what’s the explanation for the fact that Bascom and Sorrel Ingrey were never charged with Perrine’s murder?” I ask.

“You’ve just said it yourself,” says Olwen. “Bascom and Sorrel never fell under suspicion. Lisette here even went to the police with her story—with the truth—but they didn’t take her seriously. She only went once, didn’t you, Lissy? She was too scared of what I’d do to her to try very hard to convince anybody. Everyone local knew that Bascom and Sorrel had done everything they could, for two years, to save their daughter’s life. Everyone, including the police, had witnessed their care and protection of Perrine, day after day. Why would you do that for so long, then suddenly change tack and murder the very person you’ve devoted all your time and energy to keeping alive?”

“Unless you’re parents who can’t agree and so are taking turns,” I say. “Yes, I understand. Bascom and Sorrel made a deal: two years—or one year, or however long—of trying to reform Perrine, and if it didn’t work . . .” With my hand, I make a slicing gesture across my neck.

“I wonder if Mum imposed a condition, in exchange for Dad going first yet again,” Olwen says. “What do you think, Lisette? I mean, I can’t prove it . . .”

“What condition?” asks Anne.

That sounded more like the Anne from my kitchen. I stiffen. I don’t want her to find her voice; it’s safer when she’s tied up inside herself and can’t get out.

Please God don’t let this be a terrible mistake.

It will be okay. It will.

“The condition was that if, after two years or however long it was, Perrine wasn’t a better, kinder person, Dad had to agree to be the one to kill her. Mum would have nothing to do with the actual . . . practical carrying out of the murder. Whereas if Dad had agreed to the killing of Perrine straightaway, Mum would have done the deed. Not that she wanted to, by any means,” Olwen embellishes. “But she was willing to do it, in exchange for not having to prolong the agony of life with Perrine in the family.”

Good detail. Nice work, Olwen.
I am in a room with two accomplished storytellers.

“Anne?” I prompt. “Any views? Did it go down the way Sandie’s describing?”

“Even after Perrine had killed two people—Jack Kirbyshire and David Butcher—Bascom was devastated to think of what he had to do to his own daughter,” Olwen goes on. “He loved her. That’s why he took the bed with him to the jetty. He disassembled it and reassembled it, so that he could tuck his youngest daughter up in bed after he’d killed her—so that it felt less like murder and more like saying goodnight.”

“Anne.” I click my fingers in the air to get her attention. “Just to remind you: Olwen’s not your sister. She worked all this out based on what she’s heard from Ellen, via me. Ellen heard it from George. Olwen is not a member of your family. She’s—no offense, Olwen—literally just a dog breeder who’s nothing to do with you.”

“You know that’s not true, Lisette. We know the truth, don’t we, you and I? The day that Mum unlocked the gates and invited everyone to Speedwell House, the day Perrine was supposed to be arrested and taken away . . . and by the way, why would Mum invite so many guests who would all need to be catered for? She
hated
making any kind of effort! She invited those people for one reason and one reason only: to be The Suspects. Not guests, not intruders, but murder suspects.”

Olwen’s good at this. More than once since she started, I’ve said silently to myself,
She’s not Allisande. She’s only pretending to be Allisande.

“The morning The Suspects came around for breakfast, the morning Perrine was supposedly murdered—that wasn’t when she was killed. No, it happened the night before! We knew it couldn’t have happened while The Suspects were in the house, didn’t we, Lisette? You and I sat in our chairs by the drawing-room window the whole time they were there. Dad brought us our breakfast there. We were the only ones who would have seen if anyone had left the house and grounds carrying our dead sister and pieces of her bed. And we saw, didn’t we, that
no one did leave
?”

Anne is rubbing her left arm with the palm of her right hand. She seems nervous.
If I could only know what she was thinking . . .

“We knew what it meant, that no one left,” Olwen says gently. I wonder if she’s starting to feel sorry for Anne. The idea makes me angry. “If Perrine and her bed weren’t removed from the house that morning by one of our visitors, then they must have been removed during the night, and there were only two people who could have done that: Mum and Dad. We knew it was them in other ways too: after Perrine had murdered David Butcher and been locked in her room, Mum took supper up to her bedroom on a tray. Remember, Lisette?”

Anne shakes her head violently.

“Yes, you do. You also remember—I know you do—that on the morning that everybody was invited to the house to see Perrine arrested, no breakfast was taken up to Perrine’s room. Think back to that day: Mum and Dad were in the kitchen, and so were we. Mum was preparing the breakfast buffet and told us to get out from under her feet. She said Dad would bring us our breakfast in the drawing room, which he did, but he never took up any breakfast to Perrine. Neither did Mum. I could hear her in the kitchen the whole time. Dad didn’t go upstairs—we’d have seen and heard if he had. If Perrine had been alive upstairs, why wouldn’t Mum have sent breakfast up to her like she’d taken supper up to her the night before?”

Anne’s mouth is hanging open: a tunnel to the land of lies, everything inside it dark and dead.

“Sorrel didn’t take breakfast up to Perrine because she knew she was dead by then,” I say. “Dead, and tucked up in her bed on the jetty. Murdered during the night, by Bascom.” It’s comforting to tell the story. Silence would be worse.

I try not to think about how we’re going to get Anne out of Olwen’s house once this is finished. What if she won’t go? What if she’s not any kind of recognizable person anymore at the end of all this?

“I’m ashamed to say that I threatened Lisette,” Olwen tells me. “I said that if she spoke out and incriminated our parents, I’d kill her. I was wrong to do that. I cast suspicion onto Lisette, made sure the police suspected her and believed she’d fled Devon to escape punishment. That was terribly wrong of me too. And . . .” Olwen lets out a jagged sigh. It’s convincing.

She’s still Olwen. Nice, trustworthy Olwen.

“What Mum and Dad did was terrible, Lissy. I’ve been trying not to let myself believe that, all these years, but . . . Mum and Dad are old now. I don’t know how long they’ll be around, and once they’ve gone, you’ll be my only family—my only sister. I don’t want to be estranged from you for one day, hour,
second
longer than I already have been.”

That line was my idea:
day, hour, second.
Olwen laughed when I first suggested it. Then she said, “If you insist. You’re the one with the background in drama.”

“Please forgive me, Lissy,” she says now. “I’m so, so sorry for everything I’ve put you through.” She stands and picks up the smallest of the three dogs in the room. What’s this one called? Holly Bears the Crown, I think—Holly for short.

No. Don’t give her a dog.
This wasn’t part of the plan. Olwen’s improvising, and it feels dangerous. My stomach twists.

Slowly, Olwen walks over to Anne and places the Bedlington on her lap. “She’s yours if you want her,” she says. “A peace offering. Her name’s Holly.”

“Holly,” Anne repeats in a toneless voice. Then she smiles. Something about her eyes has changed.

“No . . .” I start to say.

“Sweet little doggy,” Anne whispers. She puts her hands around Holly’s neck and squeezes. Olwen whimpers.