‘I’ve lost her, I’m afraid.’
Monica Burrows sat clicking her biro as if she had a nervous tic across the desk from Jenkins.
‘Where? At what time?’
‘I followed her home last night after work and in Kensington yesterday morning. She went inside her office building and, hey, just hasn’t reappeared.’
‘She might have spent the night working on a story.’
‘Sure, that’s what I thought too, but this morning I went to reception and asked to see her. I was told she wasn’t in the building, but off sick.’
‘Have you tried her flat?’
‘Of course, but it’s deserted. I don’t know how she got out, Mr Jenkins, but she sure slipped the net somehow.’
‘I don’t need to tell you that’s not good enough, Burrows. Write your report and I’ll be down as soon as I’ve spoken to my colleague.’
‘Yes, sir. Sorry, Mr Jenkins.’
Monica left the office and Lawrence Jenkins dialled for the top floor. ‘It’s Jenkins. The Haslam girl’s gone AWOL again. I put Burrows on her, seeing as you said it was a light surveillance job, and she lost her last night. Yes, sir, I’ll be up right away.’
Simon walked to the window of his bedroom under the eaves at Haycroft House and stared out at the garden below. Zoe was sitting in the rose arbour, a straw hat on her head, her lovely face tipped up to catch the sun. They’d arrived back from London late two nights ago and Simon had gone straight up to his bedroom. He sighed heavily. The past few days had been bloody awful. Trapped with her twenty-four hours a day, the very nature of his job precluding any kind of escape or respite from the nearness of the woman he now knew he loved; yet she was untouchable. So, he’d done what he thought best to preserve his sanity and cut himself off, refusing all her kindnesses, loathing himself for the confusion and hurt he saw in her eyes.
His mobile vibrated in his pocket and he pulled it out. ‘Sir?’
‘You heard from Haslam?’
‘No. Why?’
‘She’s on the missing list again. I thought you said she was off the scent.’
‘She was, sir, really. Are you sure she’s missing on purpose? Her absence could be perfectly innocent.’
‘Nothing about this situation is innocent, Warburton. When are you returning to London?’
‘I’m driving Miss Harrison back from Dorset this afternoon.’
‘Contact me as soon as you arrive.’
‘Yes, sir. Any news on the “messenger”?’
‘The house we’d tracked her down to was deserted. Gone away on a long holiday, the neighbours said. Either it’s a coincidence, or she’s on the move. We’re doing our best to locate her, but even these days, the world is a big place.’
‘I see,’ Simon answered, unable to keep the disappointment out of his voice.
‘Haslam’s on to something, I know she is, Warburton. We’d better bloody well find out what it is.’
‘Yes, sir.’
The phone went dead.
Joanna put the menu down and glanced at her watch. The string quartet in the Palm Court tea room began to play the first dance. From the tables around her, elderly ladies and gentlemen, dressed in finery reminiscent of a more graceful age, stood up and took to the floor.
‘Would madam like to order?’
‘Yes. Afternoon tea for two, please.’
‘Very good, madam.’
Joanna fiddled nervously with the locket round her neck, feeling uncomfortable in the summer dress she had bought with cash that morning in order to be allowed into the Waldorf’s famous tea room. She had positioned herself so she had a perfect uninterrupted view of the entrance. It was twenty past three. With every minute that ticked by, her confidence was waning, her heartbeat growing ever faster.
Half an hour later, the Earl Grey tea had grown cool in the shiny silver teapot. The edges of the cucumber-and-cream-cheese sandwiches, untouched on the fine bone-china plate, began to curl. At half past four, nerves and the fact that she’d drunk numerous cups of tea were making a trip to the lavatory an urgent necessity. The tea dance finished in half an hour. She had to hold out until then, just in case.
At five o’clock, after rousing applause for the musicians, the guests began to disperse. Joanna paid the bill, picked up her handbag and headed for the ladies’. She straightened her hair, which she had rather inexpertly piled on top of her head with combs, and reapplied some lipstick.
Of course, she admitted to herself, it had been a ridiculous long shot. Grace Harrison was probably long dead and buried. And even if she wasn’t, the chances of her seeing the advertisement, or responding to it, were minuscule.
She was suddenly aware of a face behind her staring into the mirror. A face that, despite its age, still showed traces of a noble lineage. Grey hair immaculately coifed, make-up carefully applied.
‘I hear tell the Knight once stayed at the Waldorf?’ the woman said.
Joanna turned round slowly, gazed into the faded but intelligent green eyes, and nodded.
‘And his Lady in White came with him.’
The woman led her up several staircases and down a thickly carpeted corridor, until they reached the door to her suite. Joanna unlocked the door with the key the woman offered her, then ushered her through the door, and closed and locked it behind them. She immediately went to the window, with its view of the busy London street below, full of theatregoers and tourists, and shut the curtains.
‘Please, do sit down,’ the woman said.
‘Thank you . . . Er, may I call you Grace?’
‘You may, my dear, of course, if it pleases you to do so.’ The woman gave a short chuckle, then eased herself into one of the comfortable armchairs in the ornate sitting room.
Joanna sat down opposite her. ‘You are Grace Harrison, née White? Wife of Sir James Harrison, who died in France over sixty years ago?’
‘No.’
‘Then who are you?’
The old lady smiled at her. ‘I think, if we are to be friends, which I’m sure we are, you should just call me Rose.’
As soon as Simon arrived with Zoe in London, he ran upstairs to his bedroom, shut the door and checked his mobile. Seeing he had four missed calls, he dialled the number back.
‘I’ve just spoken to the editor of Haslam’s paper,’ Jenkins snapped. ‘It seems it’s not only her that’s missing. It’s the news-desk editor as well – one Alec O’Farrell. He told his boss he had something big and needed a couple of days to follow it up. They’re on to us, Warburton.’
Simon could hear the barely disguised panic in his boss’s voice.
‘I’m putting every available man on this as of now,’ Jenkins continued. ‘If we can find O’Farrell, we’ll make sure he tells us where Haslam has gone.’
‘Surely they won’t be able to break the story, sir? You can control that?’
‘Warburton, there are two or three subversive editors who would clap their hands in joy to get hold of a story like this, not to mention the foreign papers. For God’s sake, it’s the story of the bloody century!’
‘What would you like me to do, sir?’
‘Ask Miss Harrison if she’s heard from Haslam. They met at the memorial fund launch and went for a drink together afterwards. Haslam returned to her office, before Burrows lost her. Hold fast where you are. I’ll be in touch later.’
Joanna stared at the woman.
‘But you can’t be “Rose”. I met Rose at a memorial service for James Harrison. And she wasn’t you. Besides, she’s dead.’
‘Rose is a common enough name, especially for the era in which I was born. You are quite correct, my dear. You did meet a Rose. Except the one you met was Grace Rose Harrison, the long-departed wife of Sir James Harrison.’
‘That little old lady was Grace Harrison? James Harrison’s dead wife?’ Joanna confirmed in amazement.
‘Yes.’
‘Why did she use her middle instead of her first name?’
‘A flimsy attempt at protection. She would insist on going to England after James died. And then, a few weeks later, she wrote to me from London to say she was attending his memorial service. She was terribly sick, you see, had very little time left. She thought it the perfect opportunity to see her son, Charles, for the last time, and view her grandchildren – Marcus and Zoe – for the first. I knew it would stir up trouble, that it was dangerous, but she was determined. She didn’t think anyone would be there to recognise her, that they’d all be dead and buried by now. Of course, she was wrong.’
‘I was sitting next to her in the pew when she saw the man in the wheelchair. Rose . . . I mean, Grace had some form of seizure. She couldn’t breathe and I had to help her out of the church.’
‘I know. She told me all about you in the last letter she wrote to me, and about the clues she had given you. I was expecting to hear from you sooner, although I knew it might take you time to work it all out. Grace couldn’t give you too much, you see, put you or me in danger.’
‘How did you know I was looking for you? I’d written my advertisement especially for Grace.’
‘Because I knew everything, my dear. Right from the beginning. When I saw your advertisement in the paper, asking for the “Lady in White” to join her “Knight” at the Waldorf for tea, I knew it was meant for me.’
‘But the clue in Grace’s letter – “Talk to the White Knight’s Lady” – how did that refer to you?’
‘Because, my dear, I married a French count. His name was Le Blanc and—’
‘“Blanc” is French for “white”. Oh my God! I got it completely wrong.’
‘No, you didn’t. I’m here and all is well,’ Rose said with a smile.
‘Why did Grace choose me to tell?’
‘She said you were a clever and kind girl, and that she didn’t have much time. She knew it was over, you see, the minute he saw her. That he’d find her and kill her.’ Rose sighed. ‘Why she had to stir this up again, I really don’t know. She was so terribly bitter . . . I suppose it was an act of revenge.’
‘I think I know why she was bitter,’ Joanna said quietly.
Rose regarded her quizzically. ‘Do you? You must have been doing some very careful investigation since poor Grace died.’
‘Yes. You could say it’s rather taken over my life.’
Rose laid her small hands neatly in her lap. ‘May I ask you exactly what you’re going to do with the information you’ve gathered?’
This was no time for lies. ‘I’m going to publish it.’
‘I see.’ Rose was silent as she digested this. ‘Of course, it was the reason Grace wrote to you in the first place. It was what she wanted. Retribution, against those who destroyed her life, to blow the establishment sky high. Myself, well, let us say I still have some loyalty, though goodness knows why.’
‘Are you saying you won’t help me fit the pieces together? I think we’re going to be offered an awful lot of money for this story. It would make you rich.’
‘And what would an old woman like me do with money? Buy a sports car?’ Rose chuckled and shook her head. ‘Besides, I’m rich enough already. My late husband left me excellently provided for. My dear, have you not wondered why so many around me have died? And yet here I am, still alive to tell the tale.’ She leant forward. ‘The thing that has kept me alive is discretion. I’ve always been able to keep a secret. Of course, I didn’t expect to be harbouring the best-kept secret of the century, but such is life. What I’m saying is that, for Grace’s sake, I can lead you there, but for mine, I can’t tell you outright.’
‘I see.’
‘However, Grace trusted you and, therefore, so must I, but I absolutely insist on anonymity. If my name, or my visit here, is ever mentioned, then my subsequent death will be on your conscience. Every second I’m here in England with you, we are both in great danger.’
‘Then why did you come?’
Rose sighed. ‘Partly because of James, but mostly because of Grace. I may have been part of the establishment by accident of birth, but that does not mean to say I approve of the things they have done, the way other people’s lives have been destroyed to keep the silence. I know I must meet my maker in the next few years. I’d like Him to know I did the best I could for those I cared for on Earth.’
‘I understand.’
‘Why don’t you order us both a drink? I would like a nice cup of tea. Then you’d better tell me what you know and we’ll take it from there.’
Once room service had arrived and been despatched, it took Joanna almost an hour to tell Rose everything – partly due to discovering her companion was a little deaf, as well as Rose wanting to clarify every fact Joanna had discovered twice.
‘And when the locket arrived at the office and I saw the photograph of the Duchess inside, everything fell into place.’ Joanna sighed, and took a gulp of her white wine, feeling breathless with tension.
Rose nodded sagely. ‘Of course, it was the locket at your neck that convinced me that you were the young lady who had placed the advertisement. You could only have obtained it from Grace herself.’
‘As a matter of fact, she gave it to her next-door neighbour, Muriel, as a gift for being so kind.’
‘Then she must have known they were on their way for her. The locket was mine, you see, a gift from her. Grace always loved it. I gave it to her when she left for London, as a talisman. For some reason, I’d always felt it had protected me. Unfortunately, as we know, it did not work the same magic for her . . .’
Later that evening, Simon wandered down to the kitchen. Zoe was at the table, writing a list and drinking a glass of wine.
‘Hello,’ he said.
‘Hi.’ She didn’t look up.
‘Okay to make myself a coffee?’
‘Of course it is, Simon. You know you don’t have to ask,’ she replied irritably.
‘Sorry.’ Simon went to the kettle.
Zoe put her pen down and stared at Simon’s back. ‘I’m sorry too. I’m tense, that’s all.’
‘You have a lot on your plate.’ He spooned some coffee powder and sugar into a mug. ‘Heard from Joanna recently?’
‘No, not since the memorial fund. Should I have done?’
He shrugged. ‘No.’
‘Are you sure you’re okay, Simon? I mean, I’ve not done anything to upset you, have I?’
‘No, not at all. I’ve just been . . . dealing with some problems, that’s all.’
‘Women problems?’ She tried to keep her voice light.
‘I suppose you could say that, yes.’
‘Oh.’ Zoe disconsolately refilled her wine glass. ‘Love. It makes life so bloody difficult, doesn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
‘I mean . . .’ She looked straight at him. ‘What would you do if you were meant to be in love with one person, then found you were actually in love with someone else?’
‘May I ask who?’ The way she was gazing at him made Simon’s heart begin to thump.
‘Yes.’ She blushed and lowered her eyes. ‘It’s—’
Simon’s mobile rang in his pocket. ‘Sorry, Zoe, I’ll have to take this upstairs.’ He raced from the room and shut the door behind him.
Zoe could have wept.
He was back down ten minutes later, his jacket on. ‘I have to go, I’m afraid. My temporary replacement will be here any second. Monica’s a nice girl, American. I’m sure you’ll get on.’
‘Okay.’ Zoe shrugged. ‘Bye then.’
‘Bye.’ Simon could barely bring himself to look her in the eyes as he left the kitchen.