Nine Liars （Truly Devious, #5）
Maureen Johnson
Dedication
For Gillian Pensavalle and Patrick Hinds,
who would never go to the murder
mansion in the countryside
June 23, 1995
9:30 p.m.
“JULIAN IS AN ARSE,” SOOZ SAID. “A WORLD-CLASS, UNMITIGATED arse.”
Sooz Rillingon took full advantage of her spot in the front seat of the Volvo. She stretched out her six-foot-tall frame, allowing the world at large to behold her abs, which were neatly exposed by a sports bra she pretended was a shirt. There wasn’t much of an audience at present, aside from maybe a few sparrows or wood pigeons in the trees along the road, but if they were interested in human abs, they were in for a treat.
They had gotten a late start from Cambridge, but English summer days stretch on for miles. There was still plenty of golden light spilling down on the country lane in Gloucester even at this late hour. The sky was clear now, but there was a vertical line of gunmetal clouds in the distance. It would rain soon.
This was England. There was always rain in the future.
“A Titanic arse,” Sooz continued, “that sinks all who ride it.”
The remarks were directed at Rosie Mortimer, who was paying no attention. She was looking through the open window of the car, reaching out her fingers to gently brush the hedgerows. Her blond pigtails flapped in the breeze, slapping her face. She didn’t seem to notice or care. Rosie was not the quiet type, so this distracted silence of hers threw off the usual chemistry.
“We know,” Yash said. Yash Varma was about as tall as Sooz, but also had unfailing good manners and had ceded the front seat to her. “Why were you with him for the better part of two years if he’s such an arse, Sooz?”
“Because he also has a world-class arse.”
From the driver’s seat, Sebastian Holt-Carey nodded at this.
“Undeniably true on all counts,” he said. “Our Julian is in all ways arse.”
Sebastian checked the rearview mirror to make sure he hadn’t lost the beat-up Volkswagen Golf that was following them. It had vanished from view for a moment, but soon reappeared. There were five people in this car, the Volvo, and another four in the Golf, weaving their way through the hedgerows. Nine in total. Not just any nine. The Nine. Greater than the sum of their parts. Sebastian, Theodora, Yash, Peter, Sooz, Angela, Julian, Rosie, and Noel.
They require introduction. They were:
Sebastian Holt-Carey: future sixth Viscount Holt-Carey. The lord of the manor. Quick-witted and bighearted, with a taste for glam and goth and boys who liked glam and goth. He slid through Cambridge on a trail of red wine, charm, and a title. Squeaked by with a third in chemistry, and missed out on last place in the exams, which bothered him. You’d think he was passed out or not paying attention, and then he’d bring the house down with a single comment. Tremendously good at playing intense people and improving scenes. Never at a loss for words.
Rosie Mortimer: A pocket-sized Irish student, barely five feet tall, but with the voice and personality of someone five times that size, and a laugh that made the walls shake. An unstoppable force. A bit dramatic, perhaps, but that’s what’s called for in a drama group. Always willing to take things to the maximum level. Once threw a mug of tea at a policeman.
Sooz Rillington: Big doe-like eyes, legs for miles, and the confidence of ten mediocre men. A brilliant mind for Shakespeare and masterful impressionist. The one who would take off all her clothes on the slightest provocation and run down the road, laughing. Go on. Give her a reason.
Noel Butler: Tall and thin—all angles and nerves and cigarette smoke. He favored vintage 70s clothes—not fancy ones, but proper charity shop ones. Big glasses. Wide-collared shirts. Wide-gauge corduroy jackets. The best straight man a comedy group could have.
Peter Elmore: The natural athlete who had no interest in rowing or chasing a ball. Lanky, with reddish-blond hair that was always an inch longer than he wanted it and heavy-lidded eyes. Technically he was a student of modern political theory; in reality he was a walking database of jokes and gags and the history of comedy. Perhaps the most determined of the group to break into the business. Most likely to burn down the kitchen trying to make toast.
Yash Varma: The other comedy nerd. Obsessed since childhood with all things funny. Sat in front of the TV, transcribing shows by hand to study the patterns and learn how to write. The only person in the group who could possibly take on Peter in terms of comedy knowledge, which was why the two had decided to merge their brains and form a writing pair. The most romantic of the group, with an easily broken heart.
Julian Reynolds: The beautiful one with the soulful eyes and the long lashes. The trouble. Tourists asked him to stand with them in pictures, for no reason aside from the fact that he was a Cambridge student or English or simply there. Irritatingly gifted as a performer. The full package—could act, could sing, could play the guitar. The one who never raised his voice, ever. He never had to—everyone leaned forward to hear what he had to say. His little town up north couldn’t contain him. Most of the Nine would grudgingly admit he was often the only reason people came to their shows.
Angela Gill: The history student from Leeds. The quiet one, until she wasn’t. Cried with homesickness for the first three nights at Cambridge until she met Sooz at a mixer. She wrote her sketches alone, often with a gin and tonic in a mug on her desk and a cigarette dangling from her lips. Detail oriented, conscientious, and the only one who ever used the washing machine properly.
Theodora Bailey: Without question, the academic of the group. A medical student from Notting Hill in London. The one who planned on using her degree. The one who fixed you up after a long night. The director. The one who figured it all out. As a Black woman at Cambridge, the one who had to deal with the looks, the muttered remarks, and the remarks said right to her face about the color of her skin. Usually locked hip to hip with Sebastian.
The Nine. Going off on a final adventure in two cars down a country road late on a June night.
“The trouble with Julian . . . ,” Sooz went on.
“Oh God.” Yash put his hands over his face. “Enough. We’ve talked about Julian nonstop for three years. Let’s call a moratorium this week, all right?”
“How do we not talk about him when he’s right there?”
“He’s not here now, in this car.”
“I just want Rosie to know she did the right thing. You know that, don’t you, Rose? I did the same myself when he did it to me. He’s a cheat. He’s rotten. One of us should have killed him a long time ago.”
Rosie maintained her distracted silence, her brow furrowed in thought.
“We’re close, aren’t we?” Theo said. Theo was the fifth passenger in the car, squeezed between Yash and Rosie. In the middle of everything, as usual. This attempt to redirect the conversation fooled no one, but it had an effect.
“About ten minutes away, darlings,” Sebastian replied.
Sooz accepted that the topic had been adjourned and reached into a bag of cheese and onion crisps. She found that there was nothing but crumbs left and crushed the empty bag into the pocket of her tracksuit bottoms. Or someone’s tracksuit bottoms. Possibly Peter’s, as they were long, and Peter was both tall and one of the few people in the house with any sportswear. In their house at Cambridge, the laundry would get mixed together, and clothes slowly became communal property. If you didn’t take your shirt off the drying rack fast enough, it would be claimed by someone else.