The Love Letter by Lucinda Riley (36)

36

When Simon arrived back at the office, he noticed a faint smell of expensive perfume that hung around Ian’s old desk, while his overflowing ashtrays and half-drunk coffee mugs had been replaced by an orchid in a pot. A Chanel handbag was slung by its elegant chain on the back of the chair.

‘Who’s the new boy?’ Simon asked Richard, the office’s systems manager and resident gossip.

‘Monica Burrows.’ Richard raised an eyebrow. ‘She’s on secondment from the CIA.’

‘I see.’ Simon sat down at his own desk and switched on his computer to check his emails. He’d been out of the office for most of the past month. He glanced at Ian’s desk and a gamut of mixed emotions assailed him. A gut-wrenching guilt that it was he who had ended Ian’s life . . .

There were no words he could ever write that could put his feelings onto a page, nothing he could say to explain. He was his own judge and jury – never outwardly tried for his crime, but neither pardoned nor condemned and in a moral limbo for the rest of his life. And doubting more and more that this was the career for him.

Simon checked himself. It wasn’t Monica’s fault she’d been given the desk of a man who no longer existed . . .

‘Human life is like a bucket of water. Take out a cupful of it and the bucket fills over,’ someone had once said to him.

Pulling himself out of his reverie, he checked the time and realised he had only fifteen minutes before reporting for his meeting.

‘Hi,’ said an unfamiliar voice from behind him.

Simon turned round to see a tall brunette in a well-cut jacket and skirt. The woman was immaculate – blow-dried from head to toe. She held out her hand. ‘Monica Burrows, good to meet you.’

‘Simon Warburton.’ Simon shook her hand, noticing her smile was warm, but the perfectly made-up green eyes were cold.

‘Seems we’re desk neighbours,’ Monica purred as she sat down and crossed her long, slim legs. ‘Maybe you’ll help show me the ropes.’

‘Sure, but I’m afraid I’m on my way out.’ Simon stood up, nodded at her, then headed for the door.

‘See you around,’ he heard her say as he pushed it open.

Life goes on . . . he thought as he emerged from the lift on the top floor and walked along the thickly carpeted corridor. ‘Even when it doesn’t,’ he muttered as he went to make himself known to the faithful receptionist who sat in state alone on the top floor.

The strong morning sunlight was pouring in through the high windows. As he entered the room, Simon thought how frail the man looked, the bright light accentuating the deeply engraved lines on his face.

‘Good morning, sir,’ he said as he walked towards the desk.

‘Sit down, Warburton. Before we go any further, did you turn up anything on that private detective agency that James Harrison had engaged?’

‘The chap I interviewed from the agency told me that James Harrison had asked him to investigate what had happened to Niamh Deasy all those years ago in Ireland.’

‘Guilt in the last stages of his life,’ sighed the old man. ‘I presume they came up with nothing?’

‘No more than that she and the child died at the birth, sir.’

‘Well, at least I can take comfort that the British security service managed to cover their tracks sufficiently on that one. And the Marcus Harrison situation has been smoothed over, I take it?’

‘Yes, it’s been reported as a shooting accident, and I doubt anyone will dig deeper. His funeral was last month.’

‘Good. Now, this name that Miss Haslam gave you is interesting, very interesting indeed. I’d always wondered who it was our “Lady” trusted enough to deliver the damned letters. Of course, I should have thought of her long ago. She was certainly a close friend of our “Lady”, though if memory serves me, she’d left to marry by the time all this happened. I’ve got some men on it, but the chances are, she’s probably dead anyway.’

‘Probably, sir, but at this point any avenue is worth a shot.’

‘We’ve looked through every damned piece of paper in that attic. Any other hiding place that’s struck you, Warburton?’

‘I’m afraid not, although I’m seriously beginning to wonder whether he destroyed the letter, that maybe it just doesn’t exist any more. It’s obvious to me that the Harrison family know nothing of Sir James’s past.’

‘Look how close the Haslam girl came to discovering the truth. We were only lucky that Harrison’s Irish affair provided the perfect smokescreen.’ The old man sighed again. ‘He would have kept the damned thing and I cannot rest until that letter is found and destroyed. Mark my words, if we don’t get hold of it, then someone else will.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘As there seem to be few other options, I’m putting you back on duty with Zoe Harrison. The palace is dithering as to how to play the situation. HRH is still resisting all attempts to bring him to his senses. They’re having to go along with him for the present and hope the relationship peters out.’

Simon studied his hands, his heart sinking. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘He is also insisting that Miss Harrison and he begin to be seen out officially in public together. The palace has agreed to her attending a film premiere with him in a couple of weeks’ time. He’s also eager to move her, but they are resisting. She’s been away on a short holiday with her son for the past week, but she’s been told to expect you at Welbeck Street on Monday morning.’

‘Yes, sir. One last thing: Monica Burrows from the CIA – Jenkins told me she’ll be working alongside us. I presume she knows nothing?’

‘Absolutely not. Personally, I disapprove of all this getting into bed with other intelligence agencies, sharing methods and pooling ideas. Jenkins will put her on light surveillance work, spending time with members of the department, shadowing them, that sort of thing. Thank you, Warburton. We’ll speak at the usual time tomorrow.’

Simon left the office thinking how weary the old man seemed. But then he’d carried the secret alone for many, many years. And the burden of that was enough to sap the strength of the strongest constitution.

It was certainly sapping his.

‘Joanna!’ A pair of thick, hairy arms went around her shoulders and clasped her in a bear hug.

‘Hi, Alec.’ She was taken aback by his display of affection.

He dropped his arms and stood back to look at her. ‘How are you, love?’

‘I’m fine.’

‘You look terrible, girl. Skin and bone. Sure you’re okay?’

‘Yes. Honestly, Alec, I just want to get on with some work, try to forget all about the past few weeks.’

‘Right, well, I’ll see you for a sandwich in the local at one o’clock. There’s a few things I should fill you in on. Some . . . changes that have occurred since you went away. Go on, get off with you to your old desk and catch up with your emails.’ He winked at her and returned to his computer.

Joanna wandered across the office, breathing in its fuggy smell. No matter how many NO SMOKING notices the management posted, a cloud of cigarette smoke still hung permanently above the desks in the newsroom. Glad Alice’s chair next door to her was empty – she wanted some time to settle in without a barrage of questions – Joanna sat down and turned on her computer.

She stared sightlessly at the screen, as her mind continued to run over the new facts. Since she’d seen Dora, she’d compared further photos of the young Duke with that of the young Michael O’Connell in the programme. Any differences between the two men were virtually indistinguishable.

Taking Dora’s idea of a ‘double’, Joanna had come up with a vague outline of what might have happened: a young actor, very similar in looks and age to the Duke of York, plucked to play the part of his life. The Duke could not have been in Ireland at the time in question due to official engagements and the fact that his wife was pregnant, so it had to have been Michael O’Connell who had stayed in the coastguard’s house. And therefore it was Michael O’Connell who had the affair with Niamh Deasy. Poor Ciara had seen the picture of the Duke of York’s coronation on the front of the Irish Times ten years later and understandably thought it was he who had been staying at the house across the bay, he who’d had an affair with her dead sister. And, Joanna thought sadly, the letter, hidden for so many years under the floorboards of the house, had probably been no more than the last few sad words of a dying woman to Michael, the man she loved.

If this was the case, why had Michael O’Connell changed his identity? What had he known that had provided him with a house the size of Welbeck Street, money, an aristocratic wife and huge success as an actor? And what about the love letter to ‘Siam’ from the mysterious lady – the letter that had begun her quest in the first place? Had Rose written it, as she’d previously thought, or someone else . . . ?

Joanna sighed in frustration. The bottom line was that, even though the similarity between the two men was incredible, there was absolutely no proof of anything.

Joanna glanced around trying to bring herself back to reality. The chances were that if she gave anyone so much as a sniff of the fact she was still ‘interested’, they’d be on to her immediately. They’d only given her back her life because they thought what she knew was safe. The big question was, did she have the strength and courage to continue to pursue the truth? Even if she had no firm answers, Joanna’s instincts told her she was dangerously close to finding out what it was.

Despite her protestations, Alec pushed her into the nearby pub at one o’clock on the dot, eager to hear the whole story.

‘So, tell all.’ Alec eyed her over his pint.

‘Nothing to tell,’ Joanna said. ‘There were some duck hunters out, and Marcus and I got caught in the midst of it. He was shot. I ran away from the gunfire and fell into the estuary, then got carried away by the current and nearly drowned,’ she repeated like a mantra.

‘Duck hunters!’ Alec snorted. ‘For God’s sake, Jo! It’s me you’re talking to here. What was it you found out that had you fighting for your life? And Marcus losing his?’

‘Nothing, Alec, really,’ she said wearily. ‘All my leads led to nothing. As far as I’m concerned, the chapter’s closed. I’ve got the job I love back and I intend to concentrate on digging the dirt on supermodels and soap stars, rather than getting carried away imagining fantastical plots fertilised by little old ladies.’

‘Haslam, you are a bloody shit liar, but I accept that them upstairs have done a good job and you’ve been well and truly scared off. Which is a shame, because I’ve done a little further digging myself.’

‘I wouldn’t bother if I were you, Alec. The road leads to nowhere.’

‘I don’t like to pull rank on you, sweetheart, but I’ve been in this business longer than you’ve been on the planet and I can smell a scandal from a mile off. Do you want to hear or not?’

Joanna shrugged casually. ‘Not really, no.’

‘Ah, go on, I’ll tell you anyway. I was reading through one of those autobiographies of our Sir James and something struck me as odd.’

Joanna focused on looking disinterested as Alec went on. ‘It recalls how close Sir James was to his wife, Grace. How strong their marriage was and how devastated he was when she died.’

‘Yes. So?’

‘Grace died in France apparently. I mean, if your beloved died abroad, surely you’d want to collect the body and have it buried on home soil? So that one day you could lie together for eternity? And we know Sir Jim is buried in Dorset. Alone,’ he added.

‘Maybe. Marcus certainly came home from Ireland.’ Joanna swallowed hard. ‘Though I was too ill to go to the funeral.’

‘So sorry about that, love. But there you go. So why didn’t Sir James do the same with his beloved? Could it be that she didn’t die after all?’

‘I don’t know. Can I have my sandwich? I’m starving.’

‘Sure. Cheese do?’

‘Fine.’

Alec shouted over the noisy hubbub to order the sandwich and a couple more drinks. ‘Anyway, she’d be over ninety by now, so the chances of her being either alive or compos mentis are slim.’

‘You really think she could still be alive? That she was involved in all this too?’

‘Could be, Jo, could be.’ Alec slurped his pint.

‘Alec, this is all very interesting, but as I said, I’ve come to the end of the line.’

‘Well, your call, darling.’

‘Besides, how would you go about trying to locate someone who’s supposedly been dead for nearly sixty years?’

‘Ah now, Jo, them’s the tricks of the trade. There’s always a way to reel ’em in, if you word it right.’

‘Word what right?’

‘An advertisement placed on the obituaries page. Every old crone reads those to see if anyone they know has copped the Big D. Come on, Jo, eat your sandwich. Looks like you could do with putting on a few pounds.’

Joanna let herself into her flat that night, feeling utterly exhausted, and went to run a bath. Coming back from the clean Yorkshire air made London – and her – feel grimy. Once she had bathed and donned her dressing gown and furry slippers, she sat on the sofa in the sitting room. She wondered now if she had returned too quickly – at least in Yorkshire she had felt safe and secure, and never as alone as she felt right now.

Reaching for the pile of post that had gathered whilst she was away, she began to open it. There was a sweet letter from Zoe Harrison, welcoming her back to London and asking Joanna to ring her so they could get together for lunch. There were also a frightful number of unpaid bills, and Joanna was grateful to have her job back. As she sorted the pile into ‘important’ and ‘wastepaper’ piles, a slim white envelope slipped onto the floor. She picked it up and, seeing it was a handwritten note with just her name on it, she opened it.

‘Oh God, oh God, Marcus . . .’ Tears spilt out of Joanna’s eyes. ‘But you did show me, darling, you did!’

She cried some more, the awful finality of death – the fact she could never thank him for what he had done for her – hitting her acutely as she reread his last words to her. She realised that, despite his flaws, never in her life had she been loved as much as she had been by Marcus. And now he was gone.

‘I’m not strong, or brave,’ she muttered, as she wandered into the bedroom and looked in her rucksack for the sleeping pills the doctor had given her when she’d left the hospital. She would definitely need them tonight.

Pulling out the old newspaper cuttings and the envelope containing all her ‘evidence’, Joanna climbed into bed and looked at the pile. Yet again she was compelled to compare the photographs, and yet again her mind reached for answers.

‘This was your grandfather, Marcus,’ she whispered into the silent room as she swallowed a pill and tried to get comfortable on the new mattress.

‘Who was he?’ she asked the ether.

An hour later, still unable to sleep despite the pill, Joanna sat up. Surely . . . surely she owed it to Marcus, who had lost his life on the search, to find out?

Following Alec’s advice about posting an advert in the small ads, Joanna set to work on her computer. Over a dozen national French newspapers were listed, plus numerous local papers. She decided she’d start with Le Monde and The Times, which, being of English origin, Grace might buy to keep in touch. If she received no joy from adverts in those, she’d move on to the next two, and so on. After all, there was no guarantee that Grace was still living in France. She might well have left soon after her faked ‘death’ all those years ago.

But how to word the advert so that Grace would know it was safe to reveal herself? And, by the same token, not alert anyone who might be watching and waiting? Joanna sat cross-legged on her bed far into the night, the pile of discarded scraps of paper – each one of which she knew she must burn to a cinder before morning came – growing as she racked her brains to find the right words to use.

As the dawn rose, Joanna typed up the advert, then deleted it immediately after it had printed. When she arrived at work, she used the office fax machine to send it through, with a note to both newspapers to place the ad as soon as possible. The ads would appear in two days’ time. It was a long shot, she knew, and all she could do now was to wait.

Lunchtime found her in the local library in Hornton Street to work, the table full of books on the history of the royal family. She studied yet another photograph of the young Duke of York and his bride. Then, casting her eyes down, she noticed a ring on a finger of his left hand. Even though it was partly in shadow, the shape and the insignia looked familiar.

Joanna closed her eyes and scoured her brain. Where had she seen that ring before? Cursing out loud because the answer would not come to her, Joanna looked at the clock and realised her lunch break was over.

At four o’clock, as she drank a cup of tea, she thumped her desk in exhilaration.

‘Of course!’

She picked up the receiver and dialled Zoe’s number.

‘How are you?’ Zoe opened the door to the Welbeck Street house that evening, made a fast check of the street, then ushered Joanna inside and embraced her warmly.

‘I’m . . . okay.’

‘Sure? You look very thin, Jo.’

‘I guess. How are you?’

‘Yes, well . . . you know, the same. Tea? Coffee? Wine? I’m opting for the latter, as the sun has long passed the yardarm.’

‘I’ll join you,’ Joanna said as she followed Zoe into the kitchen. She grabbed a half-drunk bottle and sloshed the wine into two glasses.

‘You don’t look that great either,’ Joanna said.

‘To be honest, I feel like crap.’

‘Me too.’

‘Cheers.’ They clinked glasses in mock celebration and sat down at the kitchen table.

‘How’s it been, coming back to London?’ Zoe asked her.

‘Difficult,’ Joanna admitted. ‘And I found this last night in my post,’ she said quietly, handing Zoe the letter. ‘It’s from Marcus. He must have written it to me after our fight . . . I thought you’d . . . well, I thought you might want to read it.’

‘Thanks.’ Zoe opened the envelope. Joanna watched her read it and could see the tears sparkling in her blue eyes. ‘Thank you for showing me this.’ She took Joanna’s hand. ‘It means a lot to me that Marcus loved you so deeply. I didn’t think he would ever experience it, and I’m so happy he did, even if it was only for a short time.’

‘I just wish I’d believed he loved me, but it was very difficult, given his behaviour and past reputation. We also had an argument. I feel so dreadful. I accused him of shopping you and Art to the papers.’ At least it was a half-truth.

‘I see. I thought it might have been you, but Simon swore it wouldn’t be.’

‘That’s nice of him. Anyway, as it happens, it wasn’t either of us.’

‘Then who was it?’

‘Who knows? A neighbour maybe, who saw Art coming in and out of your house? God, Zoe, I’m so ashamed I accused Marcus.’

‘Well, at least you two made up in Ireland.’

‘Yes, we did,’ Joanna lied, hating the fact she could never tell his sister that Marcus had saved her life. ‘And I miss him terribly.’

‘So do I. Even though he was irritating, self-indulgent and useless with money, he was so passionate. And alive. Now, let’s change the subject before we both end up having another sob-fest. You said you wanted to see William Fielding’s ring?’

‘Yes.’

Zoe reached into her handbag, pulled out a small leather box and passed it to Joanna, who opened the box and studied the ring inside it.

‘Well? Is it the one you saw in the catalogue you mentioned on the phone earlier? A lost heirloom from Tsarist Russia? A priceless ring stolen directly from the finger of some murdered archbishop during the Reformation?’

‘I’m not absolutely sure, but it certainly might be valuable . . . Would you let me borrow it for a few days so I can check if it is the same one? I promise not to let it out of my sight.’

‘Of course you can. It’s not even mine to keep anyway. Poor old William had no living relatives. I did ask at the funeral, but all the people there were either old actor friends or others who knew him from the business. Maybe, if the ring is worth something, he’d like the money to go to the Actors’ Benevolent Fund.’

‘That’s a nice idea.’ Joanna closed the box and stowed it away in her rucksack. ‘I’ll let you know as soon as I find out for sure. Now, tell me all about your prince.’

‘He’s fine.’ Zoe took a large slug of wine.

‘Only “fine”? Not an apt word for the love of your life, the fairy-tale relationship of the decade, the—’

‘I’ve not seen him in a while. I’ve been spending some time with Jamie over the Easter holidays. He’s still shaken after what happened and he’s nervous about going back to school and being ribbed about his mum.’

‘Poor Jamie. Sorry, Zoe. I’ve been away for weeks, so I’ve rather lost touch.’

‘Well, he got teased at school about my relationship with Art. I hadn’t told him about it and whilst Art and I were away in Spain together, he ran away from school. It was Simon who found him, actually, lying asleep on his great-grandfather’s grave.’ Zoe’s face softened. ‘I’m still amazed Simon knew Jamie well enough to know where to look. He’s such a kind man, Joanna. Jamie adores him.’

‘But you and Art, you’re still okay, aren’t you?’

‘If I’m truthful, I was very angry with him when I left Spain. He just didn’t seem to understand how frightened I was, or, to be honest, care that Jamie was missing. Although when he flew back to London, he did the bouquet thing, apologised profusely for his insensitivity and promised to make sure Jamie was better protected in the future.’

‘So, everything’s fine again now?’

‘Supposedly, yes. Art’s moving heaven and earth to have his parents and the rest of the family accept me. But –’ Zoe twirled a finger around the base of her wine glass – ‘between you and me, I’m seriously beginning to question my own feelings for him. I’m desperate to believe that what I’ve felt for so long is real. Art is all I’ve wanted for years, and now I’ve got him . . . well –’ Zoe shook her head – ‘I’m beginning to find fault with him.’

‘Personally, I think that’s understandable, Zoe. No one could live up to the imaginary prince of your dreams.’

‘I keep telling myself that, but the truth is, Jo, I don’t know how much we have in common. He never finds things that I find funny even vaguely amusing. In fact, to be honest, he rarely laughs. And he’s so –’ Zoe searched for the word – ‘rigid. There’s no spontaneity at all.’

‘Surely that’s more to do with his position rather than his personality?’

‘Perhaps. But you know how with some men you don’t feel you’re your true self? How you feel you’re always acting? That you can never really relax?’

‘Totally. I had one like that for five years, although I didn’t realise it until he dumped me. Matthew – my ex – just didn’t bring out the best in me. We rarely had fun.’

‘That’s just it, Jo. Art and I spend our lives having intense conversations about the future and we never just enjoy the moment. And I still haven’t got up the courage to introduce him to Jamie. I just have this awful feeling that my son won’t like him much. He’s so . . . stiff. Besides all that –’ Zoe sighed – ‘it’s the thought of the scrutiny I’ll be placed under for the rest of my life. Having the media analysing my every move, having a camera lens pointed up my nostrils everywhere I turn.’

‘I’m sure if you love Art enough, he can help you through all that. It’s your feelings for him that you must get straight in your mind.’

‘Love conquers all, you mean?’

‘Exactly.’

‘Well, that’s the bottom line, I suppose. I feel a bit like Pooh Bear stuck in Rabbit’s hole; I’m so far in that I’m wondering how on earth I can get out. God, it’s times like this when I really wish my grandfather was still alive. He’d be bound to have some sane, wise words to throw on the subject.’

‘You really were close, weren’t you?’

‘Absolutely. I wish you could have met him, Jo. You’d have loved him and he’d have loved you. He adored feisty women.’

‘Was your grandmother feisty?’ Joanna probed.

‘I’m not really sure. I do know she came from a wealthy English background. The White family were awfully grand – she was a “lady”. Of course she lost her title when she married my grandfather. Quite a catch for an actor, especially one with supposed Irish origins.’

Joanna’s heart skipped a beat.

Talk to the White Knight’s Lady . . .

‘Grace’s maiden name was White?’

‘Yes. She was really pretty . . . petite and dainty.’

‘Like you.’

‘Maybe. Perhaps that’s why James was so fond of me. Talking of dead wives, there’s something else I wanted to tell you. I’ve been asked to play one.’

‘Sorry?’ Joanna forced herself to concentrate on what Zoe was saying.

‘Paramount are doing a major, multimillion pound remake of Blithe Spirit. They want me for Elvira.’

‘Blimey, Zoe, are we talking Hollywood here?’

‘We sure are, and the part’s mine if I want it. They saw a rough-cut of Tess, called me in for a quick read-through, then came through to my agent yesterday with an offer that borders on the obscene.’

‘Zoe, that’s fantastic! Well done, you! You totally deserve it.’

‘Come on, Jo.’ Zoe rolled her eyes. ‘They probably think their American audiences will flock to see it, being the girlfriend of an English prince. I don’t wish to be cynical, but I hardly believe the offer would have come through if my face hadn’t been plastered all over the US papers with Art next to me.’

‘Zoe, don’t belittle yourself,’ Joanna urged her. ‘You’re an extremely talented actress. Hollywood would have come calling eventually, with or without Arthur.’

‘Yes. But I can’t do it, can I?’

‘Why not?’

‘Jo, get real. If I marry Art, the most I’m going to be doing is chomping my way through canapés and shaking endless hands at charity functions, if they can’t get one of my higher profile prospective in-laws to do it.’

‘Times are changing, Zoe, and you could be just what the royal family needs to bring them kicking and screaming into the new millennium. Women have careers these days. End of story.’

‘Perhaps, but not careers where they may have to take their clothes off, or kiss their leading man.’

‘I don’t recall any nudity in Blithe Spirit,’ Joanna chuckled.

‘There isn’t, but you get my drift. No,’ sighed Zoe. ‘If I go ahead and marry him, I’d have to kiss my career goodbye. I mean, look at Grace Kelly.’

‘That was in the 1950s, Zoe! Have you discussed it with Art?’

‘Er, no, not yet.’

‘Then I suggest you do. Fast, or someone’ll leak it to the press.’

‘That’s exactly my point!’ Zoe’s blue eyes flashed. ‘My life’s not my own anymore. I get papped walking down the street to buy a pint of milk. Anyway, I have two weeks to decide if I want the part. I’m taking Jamie back to school this Sunday, and then I’m going to go down to Dorset for a couple of days to try to get my head straight.’

‘Alone?’

‘Of course not.’ Zoe raised an eyebrow. ‘Those days are long gone. Simon is joining me, not that I mind him being around. He’s a great cook actually. And a great listener.’

Joanna looked at Zoe’s eyes and how the expression in them had suddenly softened.

‘You know, I think this comes down to whether you love Art enough to give up everything for him. Whether your life would be meaningless if he wasn’t by your side.’

‘I know. And that’s the decision I’ve got to make. Jo, did you love Marcus?’

‘I think I was definitely falling in love with him, yes. The problem was that by the time I managed to trust him, ignore his reputation and believe he really did have feelings for me, it was too late. I just wish we’d had longer together . . . he was a very special man.’

‘Oh Jo.’ Zoe reached a hand across the table. ‘It’s so, so sad. You brought out the best in him.’

‘He made me laugh, never took things too seriously, except his precious films, of course. I was completely myself with him and I miss him dreadfully,’ Joanna admitted. ‘Anyway, I’d better be off. I have some . . . work to do back at the office.’

‘Okay. And I’m sorry I even thought for one minute it was you that gave me and Art away to your paper.’

‘Don’t worry about it. To be honest, I thought about doing it for at least one minute!’ She smiled as she stood up and kissed Zoe. ‘You know where I am if you need to talk.’

‘I do. And you. Can you come to the launch of the memorial fund at the end of the week? I’m speaking in Marcus’s place.’ Zoe handed her an invitation from a pile on the worktop.

‘Of course.’

‘And also, would you come to dinner here next weekend when I’m back from Dorset? I think it’s about time Art met some of my friends. Then you can judge for yourself. I could do with a second opinion.’

‘Okay. Give me a buzz during the week. You take care.’

Joanna left the house, and seeing a bus pulling into the stop opposite, she dodged through the traffic and jumped aboard. Finding a seat at the back of the top deck, she sat down and opened her rucksack. Pulling out the photograph she had been studying so hard last night, her fingers shook as she opened the box containing the ring.

There was absolutely no doubt. The ring she held in her palm matched the one that the Duke of York once wore on his little finger.

Joanna stared out of the window as the bus wended its way along Oxford Street. Was this the proof she needed? Was this ring enough to guarantee that what her dear old granny had so innocently pointed out was the truth? That Michael O’Connell had been used as a double for the ailing Duke of York?

And there was something else too . . .

Tucking the ring safely back into its box and into her rucksack, Joanna removed Rose’s letter and read it again.

If I am gone, talk to the White Knight’s Lady . . .

James had been knighted. Grace, his wife, was not only a ‘lady’ but a ‘White’.

Joanna felt her stomach flip. It seemed Alec had been spot on.