The dress was red. No, not red, scarlet. Her dress was the bright fiery red of passion, of fire, of rage. And it suited her. Her dark hair was pulled back elegantly into a seductive bun hanging at the back of her neck, a few tendrils escaping the diamond clasp and hanging against her fair skin. Kohl lined her watchful eyes as they scanned the room, watching, waiting. The cocktail glass grazed her red painted lips as she tasted it, her nose wrinkling in distaste: much too sweet. Setting it down on the ornate table, she turns away from the paneled window and back into the party.
The air is thick with the buzz of conversation. She knows she must converse with the guests, though she is happy they are not her guests and her responsibility. She has had quite enough of guests.
“Vivianne!” Hearing her name, she turns to face the speaker, her diamond earring grazing her shoulder.
“Why Michael!” she responds instantly with mock surprise.
“And you my darling are looking most splendid this fine evening.”
“Your flattery does nothing but enlarge my ego, Colonel,” she wishes she had something to sip on during this dull conversation, and almost considers retrieving her overly-sweet drink.
“What a curse it must be to be so familiar with the art of flattery. For I am sure, my dear, that I am not the first to comment on your appearance this evening.”
Well at least he wasn’t daft. It was true enough; this was not the first time one of the countless single men at the event had been so transparent and complimented her on her hair, jewels, or dress.
“And I see you have taken your family name quite literally this evening, Miss Scarlet.”
She rolls her eyes. Internally, of course, for it would be much too improper to show such a lack of courtesy in a social situation. Though she wishes a man would be more intelligent than the rest and notice something besides the colour of her dress.
“I see you have too, Colonel,” she contrasts quickly, gesturing to the yellow-toned suit the Colonel is wearing.
“So I have,” he laughs, as if it is the funniest comment he has heard all night. He takes a long swig of his drink, and she recognises the colour: scotch. How appropriate…
“I do so hate to interrupt our conversation but it seems I am the only one in this hall without a drink,” Vivianne notes lightly.
“My lady, I should be beyond pleased to fetch one for you,” Colonel Mustard offers with all the prescribed gentlemanliness of high society. Vivianne cannot refuse.
“That would be much too lovely of you, Michael,” she tells him, her tone bored.
“Any preference, Miss Scarlet?”
Vivianne pauses for a moment, trying to decide on the most bitter, alcoholic cocktail she can get away with in this house, “An Old Fashioned, Colonel. With orange, and less sugar than usual. Don’t tell them it’s for me, or they’ll double the sugar and cut the bitters.”
He smirks at her slyly, “As you wish, Vivianne,” he says, and slinks off into the crowd without another word.
Thankful, Vivianne takes the time to circulate around the room. Apart from a few polite ‘hello’s and ‘good evening’s, Vivianne is left mostly alone. Alone that is, until she decides it is time to find her old cigarette holder, and at least contribute to the haze of smoke that hangs above everyone’s heads. Her brows knit in concentration, but Vivianne cannot recall any details of the silver holder; she has not been back at Tudor Manor in quite some time. Catching a flash of black and white from between the crowds, Vivianne darts toward the ever familiar, ever secretive Tudor Manor maid, Mrs. White, who always knows were everything is in the enormous house. Eventually Vivianne catches up to the older woman, facing the wall.
“Mrs. White?” Vivianne asks strongly, placing a hand on the woman’s shoulder. As if touched by fire, the maid jumps to face her, nearly dropping the platter of drinks she is carrying as a small clear phial rolls to the floor and underneath a nearby curtain.
“Yes Miss Scarlet,” the woman responds, flustered, a hint of competition still clear in her eye.
“I was wondering if you knew where my cigarette holder was; if you could fetch it for me, please.”
“It’s in your room; the top left drawer of the bedside table, as always. I’ll have one of the other maids bring it down for you soon, Miss Scarlet.”
“Thank you, Mrs. White.”
“No trouble, my dear, no trouble,” she breathes, then leaves swiftly toward the billiard room where Vivianne’s uncle is playing.
Vivianne pauses again, thinking for a moment that she should probably find Colonel Mustard and not avoid him as she has been. After all, he has her drink. Soon enough, the too-familiar yellow suited man makes an appearance, holding Vivianne’s preferred cocktail in one hand.
“Vivianne!” he greets from a few feet away. Creative… she thinks sarcastically. “You’re Old Fashioned,” he continues, handing her the drink.
“Why thank you, Michael,” she takes a long sip, savouring the bitter, burning taste on her tongue and her throat as it slides down through her mouth. Instantly, she feels relieved.
“Only the gentlemanly thing to do, Miss Scarlet.”
“And you are such a gentleman, Colonel.”
“Only in the presence of such a beautiful lady,” he counters, a glint in his eye.
“Then you must introduce me to this woman, for she has worked a spell so magical I am ready to believe her a witch!” A little flirting would not hurt, she thinks. And it’s amusing, watching him fall so easily under her spell.
“And a little witch you are, my dear Miss Scarlet, for it seems you have me nearly intoxicated. What is that lovely perfume you are wearing?”
The side of her mouth curves upward, “That, Colonel, is simply something I cannot tell you.” She sips her drink, her red lips lingering on the glass.
“Miss Scarlet?” asks a meek voice at her side, “your holder.”
“Ah,” Vivianne replies, taking the slim silver object from the tray used to present it to her. “Lovely.” The maid disappears, leaving Vivianne once again with Michael. “You’ll have to excuse me – I simply detest when people handle my cigarettes. I’ll return soon, Colonel.”
“Of course, Vivianne.” He replies smoothly and watches the red silk moving with her body as she walks to the cigar cabinet. It is only across the room, but soon, the scarlet dress is lost in the sea of people.
Vivianne opens the cabinet gently, her eyes following the familiar path to where her cigarettes are kept. Taking the box, she sets one into the holder, and turns to light it, but she is interrupted before she can.
“Real Carerras? My dear I simply adore them! Might I?” Mrs. Peacock interrupts, swirls of feathers engulfing her frame, a drink in one hand and a cigarette holder in the other.
“Go ahead,” Vivianne tells her, handing the box over to the older woman, whose pasty fingers are loaded in diamonds and exotic jewels. Mrs. Peacock stubs out her previous cigarette, finalizing its inferiority as she places a Carerra in her one-and-a-half-foot holder. Ridiculous, Vivianne thinks, but she offers the ageing heir a light nonetheless.
Vivianne leans on the dark wooden cabinet, and the uninvited Mrs. Peacock continues to press for conversation.
“You know, one day you will be having grand old parties just like this one, Miss Scarlet. And in this very room too. Your husband will be a lucky man; his wife the neie and only heir to Mr Boddy! Investor and high society man extraordinaire! My dear, you have a wonderful, glamorous life ahead of you. I say, live the life of luxury, and milk those damn husbands for all their worth.”
“Actually I’m not so convinced I shall marry,” Vivianne states simply, her drink long finished as she takes a quick drag of the cigarette. “Perhaps I shall enjoy the life of an heiress until the day I die.”
“No, no, no, my dear, oh no,” Mrs. Peacock shakes her head dramatically. “So long ago, I was so much like you my dear, but then I met dear Albert. Oh! And what a difference it made! Oh for sure he was pleasant enough but men will simply shower you with gifts. I was like you, you know, I know what it will be like for you.”
“Do you now…” Vivianne mumbles distractedly.
“Oh yes, yes. The jewels, the cars, the clothes, the houses. You my dear have it all made for you! The world is your oyster, and you its pearl! Oh, pearls! You know,” she takes a long drink of her cocktail, “Albert bought me pearls just before he died. I never though I would miss him, but now that he is gone, it can just be so… lonely. Oh,” she drapes a powdered hand on Vivianne’s arm, “I do miss him so!”
“I am sure wherever he is Albert is thinking of you, Mrs. Peacock,” Vivianne adds for politeness, looking desperately around the room for an escape.
“Call me Henrietta, dear please.”
“I am quite sure Albert is thinking of you, Henrietta.”
“Oh, I like to think so…”
From across the room, Vivianne catches a glimpse of something metal. Her eye catches the green suit of one of her uncle’s business partners, Mr. Green. With a flash of his belt-loop, Vivianne thinks she can see the faint outline of a knife sheath. Curious…
“I’m so sorry Mrs. Peacock, but I really must be going. I believe Colonel Mustard has been waiting for me for some time.”
“You really shouldn’t keep him waiting my dear! And Colonel Mustard! Such a fine young bachelor… off you go, off you go. You shouldn’t keep him waiting!”
Without hesitating, Vivianne slinks off through the crowd, the red dress following Mr. Green’s suit. She follows him at a safe distance, curious, but observant, until he disappears into one of the maze-like hallways near the study; she has lost him. She is disappointed, but it is still time to make her move. Stubbing the cigarette out and hanging the holder to one of the waiting maids, Vivianne slips out of the ballroom, and down the hall, determination and focus in her steps. Just as she turns past the billiard room, a man in a plush velvet suit nearly tramples her in his own determined pace.
“Professor!” Vivianne cries as he narrowly misses her shoulder.
“Oh, Miss Scarlet! My deepest apologies, I was simply… preoccupied. Really, I am deeply sorry. I was just… in the… the… library, yes, library. I was just… looking around, you see. In the library…” he pauses, nervously wiping his glasses, “fascinating things in libraries.”
“I am sure. Good evening Professor Plum.”
“And a very good evening to yourself, Miss Scarlet,” he echoes, and scurries off down the hallway and back into the ballroom.
Continuing along the hall, Vivianne is too determined to worry about Professor Plum’s peculiarities and odd behaviour; there is just too much at stake. As she strides down the hallway, she looks over her shoulder; checking, watching, listening. When Vivianne is sure there is no one coming, she quickly pops open the cabinet just outside her uncle’s study, removing Colonel Mustard’s revolver. She smiles; a full, twisted, smile. Last night was not completely useless. Silently, she creeps along the hallway toward the door to the study. In front of it, she pauses, she waits; poised, perfect, deadly.
Miss Scarlet, in the study, with the revolver.
