Thirty-Four
Carol sat onher balcony, a puzzle book she couldn’t turn her mind to on her lap. A duvet of dark clouds spanned the sky. It hadn’t rained in weeks. People were out on the lawn playing croquet again. She picked up her binoculars to identify the participants.
Jim was there, as ever, directing the play. Geoffrey was standing on the periphery, no doubt uncomfortable at not being in charge. Margaret and Catherine were sitting on a bench, watching the action (though “action” was a generous word) and sharing a flask of tea.
Carol spotted an abandoned lawn mower. Even Tyler was joining in. Elisa came out and called his name angrily. He sulked over to her and they walked inside together. Poor lad, thought Carol. She noticed that the rope fence he’d been working on when she first arrived had never been finished. Perhaps there was a little room for improvement in his work ethic, but Carol instinctively sided with those on the lowest rung on the ladder.
One of Carol’s final murders had been that of her boss. Authority had always rubbed her the wrong way. When her little sandwich business had ended, she’d needed work, so had applied for the job of secretary to a jeweler. He’d had a few branches around town, a few million in the bank, and was under the mistaken impression that it was all down to hard work, not luck. She could still smell his tobacco breath, feel his eyes on her young body when he asked her to do a twirl in his office. She’d known in that moment that he had to die, but this time she’d do some planning first. This would be no spontaneous kill. She was coming to realize she had a talent, and talented people, whatever their skill, whether it was baking cakes or murder, deserved to be paid.
So she tolerated him for a time. Ignored his hand on her bottom, laughed at his jokes, gained his trust, and slowly but surely moved his money into a different account.
Then, one Friday night, when he was planning to squeeze his fat frame into his Porsche and drive to his place on the coast, a place he insisted on calling his “pad,” she accompanied him to the pub and filled his drinks with sedative. On the Monday, she’d arrived at work to the news she had hoped for. Her boss was dead. When she looked back now, she was grateful that no one else had died. That had been a careless way for her to go about killing someone: He could easily have taken a few others with him. The recklessness of youth, she guessed. He and his car had slammed into a bridge and crumpled like accordions, and she, though no one else knew it, was a millionaire.
This was one of the murders she’d never been caught for, one that didn’t count toward her official total of seven. As far as the world knew, it had never happened; sometimes your best workcomes with no credit, but it was the murder that had paid for her place at Sheldon Oaks.
Carol looked out at the lawn again. Everyone was there, everyone but Polly, whose fate presumably lay in the hands of the Crown Prosecution Service. A home full of investigators but it had been Carol who had cracked the case. Ex-cricketers made the best umpires and ex-murderers made the best sleuths: It was only the professionals who truly understood the game. Polly’s unmasking could lead to Carol’s reintroduction to society. That was what she hoped. Maybe she’d join them in a minute, tell them the news.
But what if Polly didn’t do it? Was a piece of wool enough to convict someone? Why would Polly wait all that time to get her revenge on Desmond? The whole story was surely yet to be told. Maybe they’d all done it. Desmond was pushed, poisoned, strangled, bludgeoned. Maybe it was a case of death by a thousand or, more precisely, four murderers. Elisa could have messed with his medicine dose and poisoned him. Then Jim could have hit him on the head with a croquet mallet, before Tyler or Shep strangled him and Polly gave him a final hug, leaving the wool on his top, before pushing him off the edge.
But that wouldn’t be much of a whodunit, would it? Polly wouldn’t like that one bit. What’s the point of spending all this time on a mystery when there are no wrong answers? Who did it? They all did. Like a children’s sports day when everyone gets a medal. No, that wouldn’t do. There was room for only one person at the top of this particular podium, and it was Polly.
Carol looked down at her crossword and finally took in a clue.
One across. Smoothie company (eight letters).
This was one of those clues Carol could never get. All thoseyears away and some things just escaped her. She didn’t even know what a smoothie was. Was it something to do with skateboarding? A new genre of music?
She heard men’s voices yelling and looked back to the lawn. Jim had his finger in Geoffrey’s face. They were too old to be letting testosterone get the better of them, surely. Perhaps they had history. It occurred to her that she’d never considered Geoffrey as the possible murderer and that that had been an oversight.
A flash of lightning and then, a split second later, thunder. The heavens opened. The group headed indoors, none of them able to move quickly enough to avoid a soaking, and Carol was, in that moment at least, grateful not to be a part of the gang.
Thirty-Five
Giles Temple walkedout of the rain, down from the roof, and straight into his office. He shook himself like a wet dog and let out a huge sigh. The steady hum of anxiety that dominated his life wouldn’t budge. He scrolled through some TikTok videos. The algorithm was pushing him ways to be happy—exercise, vegetables, therapy, the ocean, a dog, sleep. Giles knew that none of them could cure his funk. Money. Money. Giles needed money. And until things quietened down, his only reliable revenue stream was cut off.
He’d tried everything: making honey, installing a climbing wall.Everything. Recently, after afternoon sessions in Wetherspoons, he’d taken to calling up business associates and making threats. Stupid, he knew, but that was how panicked Giles was. A private school boy, the weakest on the rugby team, playing the hard man. The cap didn’t fit.
He caught a glimpse of himself in the reflection on his phone. He wasn’t getting any younger.
There was a way out. He didn’t want to take it, but it was there. Someone had offered to buy the home. Until now, he’d resisted it. Sheldon Oaks was the Temple legacy. Letting it leave the family felt like a betrayal of his father. He’d disappointed him in life, and now he’d be disappointing him in death.
But the offer was a life raft, the only one he could see. Maybe Giles just had to accept that he was not an exceptional person, not in any way. Whatever he set his mind to, he was destined to fail, because Giles Temple was a very average man. Below average, in fact. He was a schlub, a loser. But at least if he took the offer he’d be a loser with money.
He stared at his phone, his thumb hovering over the “send” button. Sod it.
Ok you’ve twisted my arm. Let’s do it.
Whoosh.
He sent messages to the people who needed to know, and sat back. For the first time in months, his shoulders dropped.
Yes. It had been the right decision.
He took off his damp clothes, put on a dressing gown, and took the lift down to the basement. One last sauna to celebrate.
—
Giles didn’t hearthe lock turn on the sauna door. His eyes closed, he was enjoying the bliss of the end of his financial worries. Why had he wavered? Of course it was the right thing to do. Twenty minutes ago he’d been in despair. Now his confidence was already returning. Now that he was about to have some cashagain, should he get back into business? Maybe open another restaurant? Of course he should! He was older and wiser now. He was Giles Temple, and Giles Temple—if you discounted everything he’d done in his life so far—could do anything he set his mind to.
