Angela recovered from her initial surprise, or at least made a good effort at covering. The kitchen was at the back of the house—a small, cheerful space with pale yellow walls. Izzy dumped the bags on the table and Angela started pulling down plates from the cabinet while the five Americans shifted around and tried not to get in the way, which was difficult.
“Are you over on holiday?” Angela asked politely.
“We’re on a weeklong study-abroad trip,” Janelle offered.
“Oh, right. That’s quite fun.”
Izzy kept pulling containers from the bag. It seemed endless. There were little tin dishes of steaming rice with yellow and orange flecks in it, multiple curries, dishes of chickpeas and greens, flatbreads, and then about a dozen tiny plastic cups of condiments, none of which Stevie could recognize. This was one of those moments where she felt like she had failed at some primary task of life, to know the basics of an Indian takeout meal.
Angela sneezed loudly several times.
“I’m getting over a cold,” she said by way of an apology for dabbing at her nose with a napkin. “I can just about taste. How much was the food?” Angela examined the receipt. “Seventy-eight pounds. Here.”
She went into a drawer and produced four twenty-pound notes and handed them to Izzy.
“Oh no,” Izzy said, “really . . .”
Angela gave her an “I’m your aunt and you are taking this money” wave, and Izzy accepted the notes.
They all filled their plates with the food, which looked as beautiful as it smelled delicious—the rich red and soft yellow of the curries, the charred bubbles on the fresh bread, the bright pops of cilantro. Nate eagerly filled his plate until it almost ran over the edge. There wasn’t enough room in the kitchen for seven people, so they decamped to the living room, where Angela tried to make her unexpected guests comfortable.
“So, Stevie and Janelle and Nate and Vi all go to a school called Ellingham Academy, in Vermont,” Izzy said, sitting on the floor alongside the coffee table and tucking into her meal. “And David went there as well.”
She said the word Vermont like it was a magical, fictional place of ill repute. To be fair, it was a bit. At least in Stevie’s corner of Vermont.
“I’ve heard of Ellingham,” Angela said, tearing a piece of the bread with gusto. “The kidnapping, in the nineteen thirties? They never solved that, did they? Or something happened recently, maybe?”
“That was Stevie!” Izzy said, passing around the condiments on a tray.
She didn’t clarify, and Angela didn’t ask. It was better that way. Stevie was already in a stranger’s house, holding a massive plate of food, slightly stupefied with exhaustion. She was not prepared to give a talk on her detecting. She wanted to eat, avoid burping, make out with her boyfriend, and possibly fall asleep on the floor.
To Stevie’s surprise, Izzy began to recount the story of Stevie’s work on the Ellingham kidnapping and murders—even the stuff that hadn’t been in the press. She told the story of the Truly Devious letters and the recent deaths. These were things she could have learned only from David. She knew these things in detail, and she got the details right. This told Stevie a few things. One: David talked about Stevie a lot. Two: Izzy paid attention. Three: Izzy made it sound like Stevie was Wikipedia Holmes, a walking, talking, deducing database that ate true crime and spat out justice.
“Oh,” Angela said in reply when Izzy had concluded. “I see. That’s really quite something.”
It was sort of flattering, but some other, darker emotion was slipping into Stevie’s brainpan. Why did Izzy care so much about her? Was it just to bring her here, to talk to her aunt? Or was it to build trust with David? “Oh, your girlfriend! Tell me all about her . . .” Stevie suddenly conjured images of long nights at the pub, their feet touching under the table, Izzy’s intent and interested expression. She had warm brown eyes, that soft halo of hair, a dimple on her left cheek. And she was smart. She had been talking with Vi on the Tube about international politics. Vi’s and Izzy’s interests overlapped a bit—environmental justice, food insecurity, the political implications of prisons. Izzy had started learning Japanese online and Vi, who had studied it a bit longer, was giving her some tips. Izzy was the full package, warm and vibrant and smart and engaged; she was with David all the time. . . .
And then there was Stevie, far away in America, no future plan, and no idea how to fix the planet. She couldn’t even figure out how to cut her hair.
There was a loud burst of pops outside, like a scatter of gunfire, and Stevie saw a glint of yellow light. Having participated in school shooter drills since she was in kindergarten, she almost reflexively scooted herself under the window and out of view.
“Nothing to be alarmed about,” Angela said, reaching for some more chutney. “Those are just leftover fireworks from Bonfire Night. Someone keeps setting them off in their garden.”
“Do you know Bonfire Night?” Izzy asked. “Remember, remember the fifth of November, gunpowder treason and plot?”
“Vaguely?” Janelle said.
Stevie had heard of it in the many English mystery books she read. She knew there was something about a mannequin, but never really understood what it was about.
“Henry the Eighth,” Angela said, “you probably know that he had six wives. When he wanted to leave his first wife, Catherine of Aragon, to marry Anne Boleyn the Church wouldn’t let him do it. After fighting with them for years, he broke with the Catholic Church and declared himself head of the church in England. He destroyed a thousand years of the Roman Catholic Church’s rule in England. He dissolved the monasteries. He took all the wealth the church had, which was a lot. This change in religion caused turmoil for decades, Catholics and Protestants fighting for control of the crown. And in 1605, a group of Catholic zealots launched a conspiracy to blow up Parliament and the king. Guy Fawkes was found hiding under Parliament with thirty-six barrels of gunpowder. Things didn’t go well for him. They tortured him until he gave up his confederates. Knobby! No!”
Doorknob had settled his happy orange bulk on Stevie’s coat and was sucking on one of the buttons. As soon as Angela moved to get up, he jumped off and skittered up the steps.
“He does that,” Angela said. “Likes to chew buttons off things. Buttons, zips, laces. Sorry.”
“Tea?” Izzy suddenly popped up off the floor and grabbed some dirty plates. “Anyone? I’ll make tea.”
She hurried out of the room.
“You’re going to the Tower tomorrow?” Angela asked. “That’s where they tortured him. I’m going to be doing some filming there in a few weeks. I’m one of those people who host historical documentaries, or I appear in them. Izzy may have mentioned that. This one is another program about the wives of Henry the Eighth. There is an insatiable appetite for things about the wives of Henry the Eighth. Everyone loves them. Sex and murder.”
“Murder?” Stevie said.
“How else would you describe killing two of your wives?”
It was a good point, and Stevie felt stupid for having said the word like it was a question. Her brain was slow.