Chapter One

‘There’s nothing like travel to make you see that, at the end of the day, all people want pretty much the same thing, don’t you think?’ Johnnie leaned against the railing as they looked out at the setting sun, pink and golden and red over the gentle swells of the sea.

‘Oh, absolutely,’ Dahlia agreed. ‘And that there will also always be some of them willing to kill for it.’

Dahlia Lively in Dahlia on Tour

By Lettice Davenport, 1951

Monte Carlo, Monaco

Friday 13 September, Afternoon

Caro

Caro Hooper tipped her face towards the Mediterranean sunshine, letting the warmth sweep over her as she stood looking out over the azure-blue waves beyond Port Hercule. Monte Carlo in September bustled, packed with tourists enjoying the late summer heat without the high summer crowds. Still, it wasn’t as busy as Caro suspected it would be in a couple of weeks when the Yacht Show started. Already Port Hercule was stacked with the mega-yachts of the rich and famous.

She wondered which one was the Silver Lining.

Two weeks on a luxury mega-yacht touring the Mediterranean had seemed like a glorious idea, back in London with autumn just starting to press in and turn the streets a gloomy grey.

But now they were actually here, two weeks at sea with a stranger – even if that stranger was one of the richest men in Britain – was just a little intimidating.

Caro checked her watch. Thirty minutes before their arranged meeting with Percival Pendleton himself.

Last chance to get any wobbles out.

It seemed her companion was following the same train of thought.

‘Are we sure this a good idea?’ Beside her, Rosalind King shifted to lean against the railing, staring down at where the third member of their trio, thirty-something rising starlet Posy Starling, was picking her way along the path alone, a wide-brimmed straw hat dangling from her fingers.

‘For us, or for her?’ Caro asked. There was no point pussy-footing around on this one. They both knew why they’d agreed to take this rather unusual case.

A case of expected murder, the letter from Percival’s assistant, Barnaby Yarrow, had read.

Normally, the three Dahlias didn’t get involved until there was an actual dead body to be dealing with.

The three actresses, all famous in their own way for playing the same fictional detective, Dahlia Lively, on screen, had met for the first time three years before, at the stately home belonging to the family of the author, Lettice Davenport, who had written the original Dahlia novels. While they hadn’t immediately taken to each other, Caro had to admit Rosalind and Posy had grown on her.

Oh, fine. They were basically family now. Solving multiple murders tended to bond people together that way.

Until that summer.

‘Both, I suppose,’ Rosalind finally replied. ‘Do you really think she’s ready for this?’

Caro glanced down at Posy once more. She’d paused beside the water, seemingly lost in her own thoughts.

‘She’s quieter now,’ Caro said, softly. ‘Have you noticed?’

Rosalind nodded. ‘I suppose even a month in the Maldives with Kit couldn’t solve everything.’

At the start of the summer, Posy had been the prime suspect in a London murder case, after the dead body of her ex was discovered in her theatre dressing room – with Posy standing over him, covered in blood. And at just the moment when Posy had needed her and Rosalind the most, to prove her innocence, Caro . . .

Caro had doubted.

Now, just a couple of months later, she straightened her spine and vowed to do better.

‘I wasn’t what she needed this summer,’ she admitted. ‘I will be now. We’ll bring her back to us.’

Oh, Posy was pretending that everything was fine, but Caro was an actress, after all: she knew faking when she saw it. Posy had returned from her tropical paradise with her A-lister boyfriend looking relaxed and tanned. But the moment Kit had left the country to start filming again . . . Posy had crept back inside herself.

Caro couldn’t prove it, but she suspected Posy was still having nightmares about what had happened in London.

She’d hoped that, even if Posy didn’t want to talk to them about it, she might talk to Annie. Caro’s wife was a far better listener than either her or Rosalind. She’d orchestrated a Sunday lunch at home where Posy and Annie were alone in the kitchen for a while, but from Annie’s shrug and sad smile over the puddings, she didn’t seem to have got anywhere.

Rosalind had even called Kit, but all Posy’s boyfriend would say was that they had to give her time.

Caro never was very good at being patient.

‘This isn’t all your fault, you realise.’ Rosalind’s focus had shifted. When Caro glanced up, the eldest Dahlia had her gaze firmly fixed on her.

‘Of course it isn’t,’ Caro said, with more certainty than she felt. ‘But that doesn’t mean I can’t make it right.’

Rosalind’s mouth twisted, like she wanted to say something more but wouldn’t for fear of making things worse. Caro wondered if that was a skill one learned with age – Rosalind was, after all, a full twenty-one years older than her own forty-three. Maybe there was a chance Caro could learn not to just say whatever was in her head, one day.

Probably not.

Back to the matter at hand.

‘Look, we stick to the plan.’ Down below, Posy was slowly making her way back up towards them. They needed to agree on a united front before she reached them. ‘We meet this Pendleton guy, we figure out what he really wants from us, and if he turns out to be a freak we can still turn down the job and spend the fortnight enjoying the French Riviera on our own.’

It wouldn’t be the worst outcome, in Caro’s opinion. Not the best, though.

‘You do remember that you were the one who was so keen for us to take this job in the first place,’ Rosalind replied, with infinite patience. Anyone who didn’t know her as well as Caro did wouldn’t hear the hint of irritation behind the words. ‘If you just wanted a holiday, you could have said that, and we could have avoided all this.’

Caro ignored her. ‘The point is, if this really is a proper case – like, there’s something for us to investigate – then it could be just the thing to bring Posy back to herself. To us.’ They’d been over this before, back in London. Caro wasn’t entirely sure if she was convincing Rosalind or herself, at this point.

But a proper Dahlia investigation, the three of them working together again, solving the case before anyone – Mr Pendleton in this case – actually even got murdered? That was the best outcome.

‘And if we take the case and he really is murdered?’ Rosalind asked, one eyebrow raised.

That, obviously, was the worst outcome. Especially if they still couldn’t solve it.

‘We won’t let that happen.’ That would break Posy, after everything that happened that summer.

They’d discussed all the possibilities at length with Posy, too. Which was how Caro knew that, in Posy’s head, preventing this expected murder was all tied up with making amends for both the deaths she couldn’t prevent that summer.

As if Posy was the one who needed to make amends.

Still, by the time they’d reached the packing stage for their trip, Posy had started to have second thoughts. So Caro had barged around to her flat with a bag full of Chinese takeaway and that sparkling elderflower thing she liked, and told her they needed to talk about Rosalind.

‘She’s dragging her feet about this wedding,’ Caro had told her over spring rolls. ‘You know she is. She’s spent more time in London this year than in Wales with her poor fiancé.’

‘Maybe she doesn’t feel ready. It’s a big life change.’ Posy made a valid point, but Caro hadn’t listened to it.

‘It’s got to be a year since Jack first proposed. Nine months since she said yes after everything that happened at Christmas. And three months now since she started wearing her ring and admitted she’d actually said yes in the first place.’ And since then: crickets. Not a hint about wedding dates or venues or maids of honour or anything. Caro didn’t even know if she needed to buy a new hat.

She had, obviously, when she saw the perfect burgundy cloche while shopping for summer clothes for this trip. Just in case Rosalind went for a winter wedding. But it would still be nice to know.

‘It’s not like they’re getting any younger,’ Caro had added, since Rosalind wasn’t there to be offended by it.

Posy had shaken her head and reached for another spring roll. ‘Okay, she’s dragging her feet. What are we going to do about it?’

‘Take this case and use two weeks trapped on a yacht in the middle of the Med to get her to actually open up for once in her life,’ had been Caro’s answer.

Two birds, one stone. She’d get Posy and Rosalind sorted out while on this trip, all while each of them thought they were only there to help the other.

‘It’s just as well you’re on the side of the angels,’ Annie had told her when Caro had explained her plan. ‘Otherwise you’d be sort of diabolical.’ Caro had taken that to mean she approved.

But now she was here . . . there was just the hint of nerves about the whole idea.

Despite solving many murders together over the past few years, the three Dahlias had never actually been hired to investigate a case before. And this wasn’t just any case – or any employer, for that matter.

They’d each recognised the Pendleton name, in a loose, not quite sure where they’d heard it way. Even then, they hadn’t quite realised that Percival was one of those Pendletons. The Pendleton Group Pendletons.

‘You know, I think I was once on a yacht with his father, Gerald. Back in the late eighties, probably,’ Rosalind had said, as their research progressed. ‘The guy threw quite a party.’

But the Pendleton name was synonymous with more than yachts and parties.

The Pendleton Group was a family business dating back at least a couple of hundred years, with canny ancestors of Percival and Gerald building the sort of generational wealth a single person couldn’t hope to ever spend. They’d owned significant chunks of London and the Home Counties long before Percival was ever born, and in the modern era ran a series of high-end housebuilding schemes as well as a luxury hotel chain. If there was a seriously lucrative property deal happening anywhere in Britain, chances were that the Pendleton Group had a finger or two in the pie.

They also had a charitable arm, sponsored industry awards ceremonies, provided scholarships for promising young architects, and had worked with the last government on a new apprenticeship scheme. Caro had a whole folder of research on the Pendleton Group. And a rather smaller one on the family members associated with it. Percival’s family were good at staying out of the spotlight. Other than a nineteenth-century ancestor who accidentally offended the monarchy, but bought his way back into favour, and the tragic death of Percival’s sister and her husband in a car accident some years before, she’d found nothing salacious, scandalous or even amusing about the Pendletons.

She wondered if that would change when they finally met one of them in, oh, fifteen minutes.

There had to be a reason he’d reached out to them instead of law enforcement, didn’t there? Or even just hired better bodyguards?

No, there was something interesting about this case, and Caro was itching to find out what it was.

Posy took the few steps up off the path to join them, still looking fresh and young and beautiful in her bright blue and white linen mini-dress. ‘So. Are we ready for this?’

Caro looked to Rosalind, who nodded. ‘We should head back to the hotel.’

Percival Pendleton had requested to meet them at the five-star Hôtel de Paris, before boarding his yacht. Rosalind had booked the three of them in there too – claiming it was the only place to stay in Monte Carlo – but they hadn’t caught a glimpse of their prospective employer yet.

‘Do you think one of those is the Silver Lining?’ Posy gestured out towards the gleaming yachts in Port Hercule as they passed. ‘I couldn’t see the name on any of the hulls.’

‘Going incognito, perhaps,’ Rosalind suggested. ‘Since he’s expecting to be murdered at any moment.’

Caro looked out at the boats. ‘Maybe he thinks he’ll be safer out at sea, where they can’t get to him.’ Unless the murderer had bribed the captain or one of the crew, of course.

She had to admit, it was a very odd case. They weren’t anything like the protective muscle someone would normally hire for such a job, which suggested to her that knowing who was behind any plot against him was more important to Percival than stopping them – or, more likely, that he already had measures in place to deal with that part, and he was just using them for their brains.

‘Did either of you check it out? The Silver Lining?’ Caro couldn’t see it either, but from what she’d read it would be one of the bigger ones.

‘How would we check it out?’ Rosalind’s forehead crumpled in confusion. ‘It’s a private boat. I don’t imagine he has the schematics up on Google.’

‘Oh, you’d be surprised what I can find on the internet.’ Caro gave a wolfish grin. ‘It looks like he’s had some custom alterations made, but I was able to find the basic specs for the model. Eighty-five metres long, twelve guest cabins plus the master suite, a spa with a gym and sauna, Jacuzzi pool, three different dining areas, a piano bar, a sun deck . . . it goes on!’

Posy grinned, looking almost like her old self again. ‘Imagine if we ended up doing the J’Accuse in the Jacuzzi!’

Caro laughed, and she thought Rosalind probably wanted to, she was just more committed to appearing like the only grown up in the room right now.

‘I don’t think we should be too flippant about this case,’ Rosalind said, a frown line forming between her eyebrows to signal her disapproval. ‘I understand that it feels like a jolly, but we’ve been asked here to catch a prospective murderer. While in a confined space at sea.’

‘It’s got, like, four bars. It’s not that confined,’ Caro said. ‘Besides, I’m sure we’ll be stopping at ports along the way. He’s not going to keep us out at sea for two weeks. Is he?’

‘We don’t know. Because we haven’t met him yet.’ Rosalind’s words silenced them.

Caro checked her watch again. Ten minutes. ‘Then let’s get going.’

The Hôtel de Paris’s impressively ornate white exterior was visible through – and above – the palm trees. Black metal balconies dotted the facade like embellishments on a jacket, similar to some she’d seen in the boutiques they’d passed on their stroll. Caro had to admit, Monte Carlo was a good-looking town.

A doorman waited for them at the top of the steps, standing in front of the glass doors and the columns that made up the entrance. But Caro hesitated at the bottom.

This meeting was their last chance to ask questions, find out what was in store – and, if necessary, walk away. They had to be sure – and she had to ask the right things.

Was this really the right case for them, after everything that had happened in London that summer?

She was banking on it not just being an easy one to solve – having the proposed victim still alive and able to assist in their enquiries had to be a help, right? – but also a way to fix everything that was wrong between them, any lingering trauma Posy was experiencing and an opportunity to plan Rosalind’s wedding.

That was quite a lot to ask of one little – or even huge – yacht.

‘I mean it, though,’ Caro said. ‘We don’t even have to take the meeting. We could just . . . leave. I mean, if you don’t feel ready for this, yet.’

She was watching Posy as she spoke, and saw her shoulders straighten.

‘No.’ There was no room for argument in Posy’s tone. ‘I’m not going to let what happened this summer stop me from being a Dahlia. Now, are you two coming, or not?’

She strode up the steps without waiting for them. Rosalind looked at Caro, raised her eyebrows, and followed. With a sigh, Caro did the same.

Inside, the hotel exuded exactly the sort of old-time glamour hinted at by the outside. Marble floors, ornate ceilings, chandeliers . . . and a bronze statue of a French king (Caro couldn’t remember which one, but probably a Louis) on a horse. While most of the statue had dulled to a dark colour, the horse’s front knee remained shiny and almost golden.

‘Rubbing the horse’s knee is supposed to bring luck,’ a man in hotel livery told her when he noticed her pausing by the statue. He gave her a friendly wink, and Caro grinned.

She wasn’t a huge believer in signs and superstitions – well, no more than any other person who made their living from acting, which meant she was at least a little superstitious – but a little extra good luck for the voyage, or the case, ahead couldn’t hurt.

‘In that case . . .’ Caro ran her hand over the horse’s knee.

Rosalind and Posy were already halfway across the lobby, so she hurried to catch them up, reaching them just as a man who looked to be in his early-to-mid-thirties called out to them.

‘Ms King, Ms Hooper and Ms Starling.’ He smiled warmly at them as they approached. ‘I’m so glad to welcome you to Monte Carlo. I’m Barnaby Yarrow, Mr Pendleton’s executive assistant.’ He reached out to shake each of their hands in turn. Despite the warmth of the day, his hand was cool and dry against Caro’s, his white shirt impeccable under his waistcoat and jacket. How he wasn’t sweating, Caro had no idea – but maybe that was all part of the Executive Assistant to Billionaires training. Or, more likely, the hotel air conditioning.

Barnaby was the sort of skinny that spoke of constant movement, and the moment she let go of his hand he was already in motion, guiding them towards the lifts.

‘Mr Pendleton is awaiting you with afternoon tea,’ he explained.

Caro had expected that they’d be taken to one of the bars or restaurants the hotel boasted to meet their newest client, or perhaps a private meeting room. But instead, she found herself a short time later outside what had to be the most expensive suite in the hotel.

Of course, a man who owned his own mega-yacht would stay in the best suite in the hotel. And of course he’d want to show it off.

Caro was getting a pretty good impression of the man they were there to meet, just from his choice of hotel room and personal assistant. And that impression wasn’t disturbed in the slightest by meeting the man himself.

The suite, or at least the room of it they were let into, was glorious. Neutrals with hints of gold and crystal screamed of luxury, but with actually comfortable furniture, too. Expensive didn’t always mean comfortable, in Caro’s experience, but this place had it right.

Percival Pendleton lounged in the middle of a velvet sofa, both arms thrown over the back, in a sitting area that was larger than some whole flats Caro had lived in back in her youth. He looked to be in his mid-fifties or so, trim and healthy in the way someone with a nutritionist, personal trainer and private doctor on retainer could afford to be, with piercing blue eyes, lightly tanned skin and a full head of salt and pepper hair that only showed the faintest signs of thinning. He wore a grey suit with an azure tie and made Caro feel instantly underdressed, despite the fact that she was wearing her very favourite – and rather expensive – scarlet linen trousers and tunic set for the meeting.

From the letter they’d received, she’d sort of expected an older man, dodderier and paranoid. Perhaps a bitter old Scrooge type, reaching the end of his life and seeking someone to blame for the fact he was miserable despite his millions. Although if Rosalind had partied with his father, she should have known that couldn’t be right. She’d just assumed – something that was always dangerous in their line of work.

Their newest client greeted the three of them with a smile, and rose from his sofa to shake their hands – in age order, Rosalind first, Caro noticed. Someone who understood hierarchies, then. Perhaps that wasn’t so much of a surprise, given the echelons of society he must move in, him and his yacht.

‘The three Dahlias. Well, this is a treat.’ He grinned and motioned for them to take seats around a coffee table that was laden with the sort of afternoon tea Caro had foolishly believed could only be acquired in England. ‘You must join me.’

Caro waited for the others to choose their seats – Rosalind on an armchair at one end of the table, and Posy on the sofa opposite Mr Pendleton – before she sat herself down next to Posy.

The ritual of afternoon tea – the pouring, the stirring, the choosing of the best sandwiches and cakes – carried them through the awkward first minutes of the meeting. Then the familiar cadence of polite small talk, orchestrated by Mr Pendleton, took over. A mention of Rosalind’s most famous film – after the Dahlia Lively ones, obviously – was followed by a reference to Caro’s books, then Posy’s next project. Enough to tell them that he’d done his research – or at least got Barnaby to do it for him. Percival Pendleton knew exactly who he’d invited on his boat.

They’d done their own research too, of course. But it didn’t feel like they knew enough to understand exactly what their role was there. Which mean that one of them had to mention the giant, possibly murderous, elephant in the room.

Naturally, it was her.

‘Mr Pendleton—’

He put up a hand. ‘Please, call me Percy. All my friends do – and I’m so hoping we’ll all be friends, especially since we’ll be travelling together on the Silver Lining.’

Caro decided she’d reserve judgement on the friendship front until they all got to know each other a little better. ‘Percy, the letter you sent us asking us to come here . . . you said you wanted us to investigate a case of “expected murder”. I think we’d all like to know a bit more about that before we agree to go boating with you.’

‘Go boating!’ Percy scoffed. ‘Do you hear her, Barnaby? Two weeks on a luxury yacht like mine and she calls itboating.’

Barnaby, standing to one side of the sitting area, gave a tight smile and a polite nod. ‘I think you understand her point though, sir. Don’t you?’

Percy sobered instantly. ‘Very true, very true. Well, down to business then. I imagine you know my family well enough – or of them, at least?’

‘We do,’ Rosalind replied. ‘The Pendleton Group has quite a name – and a history.’

Rosalind was understating it. But Percy nodded, all the same. ‘I believe you actually knew my father, Ms King?’

Rosalind nodded. ‘Some years ago now, through a mutual acquaintance. I was sorry to hear of his passing.’ Something that had only happened when Caro had pulled up the obituary for her, not that she mentioned that part.

‘As were we all.’ From the even, unemotional tone of Percy’s voice, it was impossible to tell quite how he felt about his father’s death. But Barnaby, Caro noticed, looked away out of the window, his jaw tightening at the mention of it.

Interesting.

‘His death resulted in my inheriting the company this summer,’ Percy went on. ‘Which is the official reason for me arranging this little jaunt around the Med – to mark a new era for the Pendleton Group. But his death is also part of the reason I asked the three of you here.’

Caro raised her eyebrows. ‘The reports we read said your father’s death was due to natural causes.’

Now, it was Percy who stiffened and looked away. ‘Of course that’s what they said. But I have reason to believe otherwise.’ He pushed up from the sofa and got to his feet, staring down at each of them in turn with his hands on his hips. ‘I believe my father was murdered. More than that, I know that whoever killed him is after me next. And that’s why I called you here to Monte Carlo – and why I want you to come with me on board the Silver Lining. To catch a killer – and to stop them killing again