‘Look at them all, Johnnie,’ Dahlia said, gazing around the gathering with disdain. ‘Any one of them could have killed the old beggar then poured themselves a cup of tea afterwards, perfectly certain that they’d only done what was right and proper, under the circumstances.’

Dahlia Lively in All the World’s a Stage By Lettice Davenport, 1938

Posy

Posy Starling gazed out of the window at the glitter of snowflakes starting to fall from the leaden January sky. The clouds were so low that the tips of the Welsh mountains surrounding the house were hidden, and even though it was only mid-afternoon, it felt as if night was falling fast.

She felt a million miles away from London, in time, as well as place. Perhaps it was the weather – or more likely the grandeur and feel of the Art Deco mansion she stood in.

With one last look at the fattening flakes, Posy turned back to the room behind her. It was dominated by a large, mahogany dining table with high-backed chairs, and by the immense crystal chandelier that hung above it, sparkling in the light from the cheering fire that roared in the large fireplace. Over the mantelpiece hung a large oil painting of the house itself, showing how it would look in the summer months.

Tŷ Gwyn lived up to its name – the White House – as it shone in the sunshine of the painted landscape, with its curved windows reflecting brighter still above matching balconies. Posy hadn’t had a chance to explore the whole house, yet, but just from that painting, and her impressions as she’d arrived through the wrought iron gates, she thought this place had to be bigger than Aldermere. More luxuri- ous, too, if the glimpses of the rooms she’d passed were representa- tive. There was nothing shabby or faded about Tŷ Gwyn.

Everything here was both shiny and new looking, but also of the perfect vintage for the shooting of a Dahlia Lively film. As if they’d travelled back in time to the actual 1930s, rather than bother trying to recreate it with antiques.

It would be perfect for the movie.

Posy just hoped she could live up to her surroundings.

Because right now, she didn’t feel shiny or new. She felt the weight of her past, her experiences, hanging heavy around her shoulders as the occupants of the room all sized each other up. This was the first time the cast of the new movie had been all together in the same place, ahead of filming beginning next week. Today, they would do a full table read of the script, and start to get a feel for each other as actors.

She just hoped the other cast members wouldn’t let their precon- ceptions of her as a person get in the way.

The wind howling outside the walls, rattling the window frames and screaming down the chimney didn’t seem to disturb any of her new co-workers, many of whom were already chatting like old friends. Probably most of them were, she realised. Brigette, their cast- ing director, had assembled a cast comprised of big names, familiar faces and a few up-and-comers. Posy wasn’t entirely sure where she fitted into that mix, and hadn’t really wanted to ask. But the chances were, most people in this room had worked together on some show or film before, except her. They had history.

She had a past. And that, she’d learned over the years, wasn’t at all the same thing.

Posy glanced down at the table. A name card with Dahlia Lively written in perfect black calligraphy denoted her place, beside a stack of bound paper.

The Lady Detective – Shooting Script.

Inside that script lay her professional future. Her place here. After all the months of setbacks – and the occasional curse – it was finally time for the movie that was going to rebuild her career to start filming.

She looked along the table and spotted one of the few members of the cast she did already know. Rosalind King, the first actor ever to play Dahlia Lively, in the original 1980s movies, was back on set to play a different part, this time – Dahlia’s Great Aunt Hermione, the last murder victim in the film.

Rosalind shifted to look at her, a small smile on her face. And in that moment, Posy ventured she could read her co-star’s mind perfectly.

Look at them all. You don’t need to worry about what they think. None of them solved a murder last summer, did they?

She might not have acting history with the rest of the cast, but she did have history with Rosalind. That was something. She wasn’t alone here. She belonged.

That was what she needed to remember.

Unfortunately, her brain had other ideas.

The delight of seeing Rosalind King on screen again is dimmed only by the realisation that, even as a Lady Of A Certain Age, King still projects more Dahlia Lively spirit in her limited scenes than Starling manages in the full hundred and eight minutes.

Posy clenched her jaw as the mental review ran, unchecked, in her mind. She’d thought she’d rid herself of her inner critic – the one who always sounded like her Uncle Sol, famous film reviewer and her godfather – but apparently he was back with a vengeance now film- ing was starting.

Just what she needed.

At least Caro Hooper wasn’t in the movie, too. After starring as Dahlia Lively for twelve whole series’ on TV, she was by far the most synonymous with the character. For Posy to attempt to play the Lady Detective on screen next to two Dahlias would just be too much.

But it did seem strange to be back in another large country home with Rosalind, but without Caro and her encyclopaedic knowledge of all things Dahlia.

Posy’s gaze slid across the room to Kit Lewis. Her only other friend on set, he would be playing DI Johnnie Swain in their revival – having weathered the initial outcry from certain quarters that the role should have gone to yet another white actor, just like the last two to play the part. He stood near the fireplace, the flames behind the grille making his dark eyes flicker amber against his skin.

She’d seen Kit since they’d left Aldermere last summer, although not as often as either of them would have liked. He was a hot commodity these days, and had two other projects to finish up or promote before heading to Wales to film The Lady Detective.

The rest of the cast were all new faces to her – albeit many of them familiar from the big screen. She’d googled those she didn’t know the moment she’d got the cast list. Now, she watched them each in turn, connecting names with faces and faces with films or shows. Caro’s words, from her good luck phone call the night before, echoed in her mind.

Remember, kiddo, you’re the star there. You’re Dahlia. And that means you’re the boss, whatever that director of yours thinks. You’re the one who needs to pull the team together, to encourage them when you’ve been filming in the rain for three days straight, or when craft services have run out of the good sandwiches. You go in there and show them that you’re a team player all right – but that it’s your team, okay?

Posy wasn’t sure how well that would go down with some of the big stars present. But Caro was right; she had to try. And remember- ing everybody’s name would be a good start.

She tested herself now, as she leaned against the back of her chair and observed them all.

There, talking softly to Kit, was Nina Novak, the Croatian-British actor playing Dahlia’s maid and sidekick, Bess. This was her first film role, as far as Posy had been able to tell, although she’d done quite a bit on stage. Nina fidgeted with her long, dark hair as it hung in a braid over her shoulder. She’d definitely need to befriend Nina; if this movie went well, they could be working together on any number of sequels. Bess had appeared in most of the Dahlia Lively books, serving as Dahlia’s sidekick and someone to whom she could explain her theories.

With them was Tristan Haworth – another one of the actors she’d needed to Google, although she’d instantly recognised a handful of shows she must have seen him in. He was playing Charles, the man Dahlia’s Uncle Francis hoped she’d marry – and to whom Dahlia had no intention of shackling herself.

Tall and lean, with short, pale hair and striking blue eyes, Tristan definitely looked like the classic British aristocratic type Dahlia’s uncle would want her to marry, Posy decided. Brigette had done well finding him.

Tristan said something that made Kit throw his head back with laughter, and even the nervy Nina Novak smile and giggle up at him. The satisfaction on Tristan’s face told Posy that he was going to be the joker on set, although the slow smile he gave her when he caught her watching suggested he might be the cast flirt, too. The idea made the nerves in her stomach kick up a gear, as she thought about how all the personalities on set needed to work together perfectly to avoid issues between the cast. Something that was even more important than usual on such an isolated shoot.

She could almost hear Caro murmuring beside her. A worse flirt than Kit? Kiddo, you are in trouble.

Maybe she did wish Caro was there, after all. Life was a lot more fun with Caro Hooper around. And at least it would be one more voice out of her head . . .

Posy broke away from looking at Tristan, and turned to look down the other end of the room. Over by the window that framed the view across the river, Keira Reynolds-Yang had just arrived and fallen immediately into discussion with Bennett Gracy, Moira Gardiner and Dominic Laugharne. None of them had required any internet searches, of course. The last three were old establishment actors, famous in Britain and Hollywood alike for their long, distinguished careers. Bennett and Moira were just there for the day, to participate in the table read. Their scenes were few, and involved filming away from Tŷ Gwyn, so Anton had scheduled them separately. At least that was two big egos not to have to worry about on set.

Dominic, of course, would be playing her Uncle Francis. In recent years, that seemed to be his preferred sort of role – dominant patri- arch types, of varying eras and styles. He had to be in his sixties now, but he retained the good looks that had made him a star in the first place, while the years added an authority that suited him. Recently, he’d been playing the corrupt billionaire CEO of a family business in a long-running TV series where he yelled at people and then arranged to have them made bankrupt or worse.

Prior to that, Posy recalled, he’d had a spell in the wilderness not unlike her own – although his had been due to his behaviour around his young, female co-stars. The TV role could have been a step down from his previous movie stardom, but after a few years of being blacklisted, she suspected he’d had to take it. And actually, it now seemed to have his star back on the rise.

From what she’d read of the script, Dominic would mostly be red faced and blustering in this movie, while she got to be cool and cutting. Posy was quite looking forward to that.

Despite being decades younger than the three big name actors she stood with, Keira was just as famous in her way – for her social media follower count, her modelling career, her newly burgeoning movie career, her ex-boyfriends . . . and most of all, her parents.

She’d be playing Dominic’s younger – much younger – second wife. Posy wondered how Keira felt about that thirty-plus year age gap, under the circumstances.

The final two cast members, Scarlett Young and Gabriel Perez, had joined Rosalind at the table, sitting either side of her. Gabriel was playing Dahlia’s cousin, Bertie, with Scarlett his wife, Rose. There was at least a ten-year age gap between them, too, Posy guessed – with Gabriel in his mid-thirties, and Scarlett only twenty-two, according to her profiles. He had a fairly established line in support- ing roles in Hollywood while she had, until very recently, been appearing in a well-known British soap opera.

Posy didn’t know either of them personally, although she was almost sure she and Gabriel had met at an awards ceremony or simi- lar over in the States. Given how Swiss-cheesed her memories from those days were, perhaps she’d better hope that he didn’t remember the encounter, just in case.

Outside in the hallway, raised voices caught her attention. Posy shifted slightly behind her chair, so she had a direct line of sight into the entrance hall as Anton, their director, and Brigette came into view.

‘I’m just saying—’ Brigette was cut off by Anton before anyone could learn what she was just saying. He was, by all accounts, a bril- liant director – but in Posy’s experience, not the most patient of men.

‘And I’m saying that if you don’t like it you can— Yes? What is it?’ he snapped at someone standing just out of view. Posy leaned forward, and caught the edge of the bright pink hijab that Rhian, the manager of Tŷ Gwyn, was wearing.

She spoke too softly to be heard at a distance, but as Anton turned to give her his full attention, Brigette threw up her hands and turned away, only to be intercepted by Keira, who had slipped out of the room, presumably also intrigued by the drama in the hall.

‘I say it has to be Moira.’ Bennett’s American accent cut across the room, his voice projecting just enough for everyone else to pause their conversations and listen, as Posy was sure he’d intended. It certainly caught her attention.

‘Oh, no, really,’ Moira demurred, but there was a glow of pride about her that spoke of a well-appreciated compliment.

‘I’m sure it does,’ Tristan said, moving to merge their small groups of chatter into one larger one. ‘But what, exactly, has to be Moira?’

‘Why, the murderer, of course,’ Dominic replied, with a dramatic waggle of the eyebrows to accompany his ‘I was in the RSC, don’t you know’ delivery. ‘It’s always the most famous guest star in these things, isn’t it?’

Ah, that explained Moira’s glow. And the slightly sour expression on Rosalind’s face.

For such a classic novel, Posy would have thought the question of whodunnit was easily answered. But of course this was a reboot, and Hollywood seemed to have a thing for rewriting the rules on endings recently. It was entirely possible that Anton would follow suit and change the murderer for his version of The Lady Detective.

She was pretty sure it wouldn’t be Moira, though. Her character of Uncle Francis’s neighbour was barely in it – and scheduled to die in the opening scenes. Posy was looking forward to filming those. She got to burst into the room and derail Kit’s investigation by announcing that ‘Only an idiot would think this was suicide. You’re not an idiot, are you, Detective Inspector?’

That was going to be fun.

Posy looked up as Keira slipped back into the room. Out in the hall, she saw Anton and Rhian still in conversation – the former’s expression growing more impatient by the second. Behind them, Brigette held her phone to her ear and, frowning, opened the door to the room opposite and stepped inside, closing it tight behind her.

‘Don’t fancy the “most famous guest star” title for yourself, Dom?’ Gabriel joked. ‘We’ve all heard the rumours.’ A slight pause, just enough for Dominic’s smile to tighten. ‘About this year’s awards, I mean.’

‘Ah, but Dominic can’t be the murderer – he’s the victim,’ Kit pointed out. As a Dahlia fan himself, he’d know exactly who was supposed to commit the crimes – and who suffered them. ‘Same goes for Moira, and for our illustrious Rosalind King.’ He shot a fond smile towards the head of the table at that, and Posy noticed that Moira’s glow had dimmed a little. ‘So who does that leave?’

‘I’d think perhaps they’d want to go for a . . . fresher take, for the new movie,’ Keira said. ‘Fame doesn’t mean what it used to, does it?’ Her voice was sweet, but Posy could hear the poison in her words all the same, as she smiled at Scarlett, who looked away.

A tension that hadn’t been there earlier pulled the air in the room tight, until Posy longed to open a window.

‘I’d think the solution to the argument was fairly self-explanatory,’ Rosalind said, raising one eyebrow the way she had on the big screen as Dahlia. Something Posy had been practising in the mirror for four months and still couldn’t get right.

When Rosalind didn’t continue, Posy realised that her friend had given her the opening to fix this. To lead, the way Caro told her she needed to. Posy suspected that Rosalind might have got a call last night, too.

They’d all been given scripts before today, of course, but not the finished article – and if hers was anything to go by, they’d all been missing the important, final scenes where the killer was unmasked.

Was the killer the one Lettice Davenport had written? Or had Libby McKinley, their latest writer – who just happened also to be Lettice’s granddaughter – twisted the ending to fit her own story?

Posy picked up the script in front of her to find out – just as several others did the same.

‘Like I said: Moira.’ Bennett snapped his script closed. ‘She must have faked her death.’ Posy frowned. That couldn’t be right.

‘Mine says it’s the uncle’s second wife,’ Tristan corrected him. ‘That’s Keira.’

‘And mine says it’s you, Bennett. The uncle’s friend from India.’ Kit shrugged and dropped his script back onto the table. ‘How about yours, Posy?’

‘I’ve got cousin Bertie and his wife,’ she replied. ‘Gabriel and Scarlett.’

‘And mine claims Charles did it,’ Rosalind said. ‘Which I suspect means we’re being played with. Correct, Anton?’

Posy looked up to find the director standing in the doorway, amusement twisting his lips into a smile. ‘Not played with, Rosalind. I wouldn’t dream of such a thing.’ Rosalind raised that eyebrow again. ‘It’s simply that we cannot risk our chosen ending leaking to the public before the movie is released. A large part of our publicity campaign is going to hang on the idea that we’re recreating Dahlia Lively for the twenty-first century, and that means anything can happen. After all, why would people want to come see a murder mystery where they already know for certain who the murderer is? So we’ll be filming five possible endings, so that no one can be sure which is the real one!’

A murmur raced around the room at that, although whether it was in appreciation for the tactic, or because of the extra work and time involved, Posy wasn’t sure. Knowing Anton, she wasn’t surprised at the publicity gimmick. Something to make a big deal about in the press – and something else for people to talk about that wasn’t the curse that seemed to have haunted the movie last summer.

‘Now, if we’re all here, why don’t we get started?’ Anton made his way to his chair, in the centre of one of the long sides of the oval table, then stopped. ‘Where did Brigette go? She was with us in the hallway, before that Rhian woman side-tracked me with more of her bloody questions.’

Dominic laughed. ‘Story of my marriage to the woman, Anton. Whenever I thought we were ready to leave to get somewhere on time, there was always something else she needed to do first.’ Posy waited for the ‘and that’s why I divorced her’ punchline, but it never came. She remembered the last interview she’d read with Dominic, maybe six months ago now, where he talked about their power couple heyday in the nineties and noughties, and how Brigette would always be the love of his life.

Obviously, she’d felt differently, Posy concluded.

‘She ducked into the room over there to take a phone call.’ Keira waved towards the still closed door. ‘We were having the loveliest catch up when her phone buzzed, so of course I left her to it and came in here.’ She smiled around her. Posy got the strangest feeling they were supposed to be grateful for her presence.

‘Well, Brigette said she wanted to be here for the read through, but if she’s too busy sulking—’Anton started, but Keira jumped to her feet and interrupted him.

‘I’ll go and find her.’ Keira flashed that too-sweet smile back at the director, and darted for the door. ‘Won’t be a moment.’

They all sat there in the strange stillness of the falling snow, wait- ing for her to return. Over the table, the candle bulbs in the ornate chandelier flickered for a moment.

‘That’s strange.’ Keira reappeared in the doorway. ‘The door won’t open.’

Anton stalked out into the hallway and glared at Rhian, who hovered just outside. ‘Is it stuck? Or do these doors just lock them- selves, now?’

One by one, the rest of the cast also migrated into the hallway.

‘I’d imagine Brigette might have locked herself in there to keep people like Keira out while she had a private conversation,’ Rosalind, who’d come up beside her, murmured in Posy’s ear. ‘I know I would.’

Posy attempted a smile, but the knot that had suddenly formed in her chest wouldn’t allow for it.

Something about this didn’t feel right.

Rhian knocked on the door, then, when no response was forth- coming, tried the handle.

‘You see? Locked,’ Keira said, triumphantly, as Rhian reached for the heavy keyring that hung at her waist.

‘I’ll see if I can open it.’ Rhian slipped the key into the lock and turned it. Posy held her breath as the door swung open and—

Silence.

The room, they could all plainly see, was empty. No sign that Brigette had ever been there at all.

‘She must have left already, and the door locked itself.’ Rhian bent to pick something up off the floor just inside the room, then pushed the door fully open. ‘Sometimes they do that. Would you like me to look for her?’

Anton shook his head, sharply. ‘No need. If she wanted to be here, she would be. Now, let’s get started. If we could all get back into the dining room and take our seats?’

Posy did as she was told, a frown furrowing her brow. She’d been sure that Brigette had gone into that room, too. She’d had a view of it the whole time, and hadn’t seen the door open again, or Brigette walk out. But how was that possible?

Perhaps she was mistaken. But from the way Keira kept glancing across the hallway to the study door, she wasn’t the only one confused by Brigette’s sudden disappearance.

Beside her, Rosalind stared down at her script. Posy leaned close, intending to whisper her thoughts about the mystery to the older Dahlia – but then she saw exactly what Rosalind was staring at.

A postcard, tucked into the pages of her script. One that hadn’t been there before.

One that read:

Watch out.
I’m coming for you.