The Royal Secret

by Lucinda Riley

  Joanna arrived wheezing at the front of the Morning Mail building. She stumbled through the glass doors and flashed her pass at Barry, the security guard, seated behind the desk.

  “Hi, Jo. Cutting it fine, aren’t you?”

  She gave him a grimace and leapt into the open elevator, hoping that she wasn’t sweating too much. At last, at ten past the hour, she collapsed at her overflowing desk and searched among the paperwork for her keyboard. She glanced up—no one seemed to have noticed her late appearance. Switching on her computer, she dumped the newspapers, magazines, old copy, unanswered letters, and photos in her in-tray. Telling herself she’d stay late one night this week to clear things up, she took an apple out of her bag and began to open her post.

  Dear Miss Haslem . . .

  “Spelled wrongly,” she muttered.

  I wanted to write and thank you for the nice piece you did about my son who had his Airfix model plane glued to his cheek. I was wondering whether I could ask you for a copy of the photograph that appeared with the article . . .

  Joanna put the letter in the in-tray, bit into her apple, and opened the next one, an invitation to the launch of a “revolutionary” kind of sanitary towel. “Pass,” she murmured, throwing that into the in-tray too.

  The next was a large, creased brown envelope, addressed in spidery writing so indecipherable she was amazed it had even reached her. She tore it open and took out its contents. There were two further envelopes inside, with a piece of notepaper clipped to them.

  Dear Miss Haslam,

  I am the lady you helped home from the church a few days ago. I would like you to come to my apartment urgently as I don’t have long now. I have enclosed two envelopes for you in the meantime, just in case. Keep them close to you at all times until we meet again. I’ll have more for you when you come.

  I am warning you, this is dangerous, but I feel you are a young woman of integrity, and the story must be told. If I have already gone, then you must talk to the White Knight’s Lady. It’s all I can tell you now. I pray you are in time.

  I am waiting for you here.

  I trust you, Joanna.

  The signature beneath the writing was illegible.

  Joanna read, then reread the letter, chewing thoughtfully on the apple. Throwing the core into the bin, she opened the smaller brown envelope and drew out a piece of cream vellum notepaper that crackled with age as she unfolded it. She scanned the page. It was a letter, written in ink in a flowing, old-fashioned hand. There was no date or address at the top.

  My darling Sam,

  I sit here, pen in hand, and wonder how I can begin to describe how I am feeling. A few months ago, I did not know you, did not know how my life would be changed, altered beyond recognition when I met you. Even though I accept we have no future—in fact, no past that any other can discover—I yearn for your touch. I need you beside me, sheltering me, loving me the way that only you can.

  I live a lie and that lie will last for eternity.

  I don’t know for how much longer it is safe to write, but I put my trust in the loyal hands that will deliver my words of love to you.

  Reply in the usual way.

  Your true, true love.

  The letter was signed with an initial. It could have been a “B,” or an “E,” an “R” or an “F”—Joanna could not decide. She breathed out, feeling the intensity of the words. Who was it to? Who was it from? There seemed to be no clues, other than that it was obviously a clandestine love affair. Joanna then opened the other envelope and drew out an old program.

  The Hackney Empire is proud to present

  THE GRAND AGE OF MUSIC HALL

  The date was October 4, 1923. She opened the program and scanned through the acts, looking for names she recognized. Sir James Harrison, possibly, as his memorial was where she’d first met the old lady, or perhaps the old lady herself was one of the young actresses. She studied the faded black-and-white photographs of the performers, but there was no name or face that caught her eye.

  She picked up the love letter again and reread it. She could only surmise she was looking at a letter written by someone who was, at the time, well-known enough for the affair to cause a scandal.

  As the old lady had presumed, it had whetted her journalist’s appetite. Joanna rose from her desk and photocopied both letters several times, then tucked them, along with the originals and the program, safely back into the innocuous brown envelope, which she slid into her rucksack before heading for the elevator.

  “Jo! Over here!”

  Alec caught her just as she was escaping to freedom through the door. She hesitated before walking back toward his desk.

  “Where you off to? Got a job for you, doorstepping the Redhead and her lover. And don’t think I didn’t see you slink in here late.”

  “Sorry, Alec. I’m going to check out a story.”

  “Yeah? What?”

  “It’s a tip-off, could be good.”

  He looked at her, his eyes barely cleared from last night’s hangover. “You got contacts already?”

  “No, not really, but my gut tells me I have to go.”

  “Your gut, eh?” He patted his substantial belly. “One day, if you’re lucky, yours’ll be the same size as mine.”

  “Please, Alec? I did cover for you at the memorial service when I was dying.”

  “Okay, bugger off then. Be back by two, though. I’ll send Alice to doorstep the Redhead until then.”

  “Thanks.”

  Outside, Joanna hailed a cab and directed it to Marylebone High Street. Forty minutes later, she arrived outside the front door of the old lady’s apartment. I could have run here faster, Joanna thought as she paid the driver, making sure to get a receipt for expenses, then she jumped out and went to study the bells by the door. She had a choice of two, both unnamed. She pressed the lower bell and waited for a response. No sound of footsteps came, so she tried again.

  Nothing.

  Joanna tried the top bell. Again her call went unheeded.

  Once more, for luck . . .

  Finally, the front door was pulled centimeters ajar.

  “Who is it?” It was not the old woman’s voice.

  “I’m here to see the old lady who lives in the downstairs maisonette.”

  “She’s not here anymore, I’m afraid.”

  “Really? Has she moved away?”

  “You could say that, yes.”

  “Oh.” Joanna physically drooped on the doorstep. “Do you know where she’s gone? I got a letter from her this morning, telling me to come and see her.”

  The door opened a crack wider and a pair of female eyes peered out. “Who are you?” The warm brown eyes swept over Joanna’s navy-blue woolen coat and jeans.

  “I’m . . . her great-niece,” Joanna improvised. “I’ve been away in Australia for months.”

  The eyes changed expression immediately and studied Joanna with what appeared to be sympathy. “Well then, you’d better come in.”

  Joanna stepped into the dark corridor and followed the woman through a door on the right of the entrance hall and into a similarly designed maisonette to that of the old lady’s. Except this one was very much a home.

  “Come inside.” The woman beckoned her into the overwarm, cluttered sitting room and indicated a pink dralon sofa. “Make yourself comfortable.”

  “Thank you.” Joanna watched the woman as she sat down in the chair by the gas fire. She reckoned her hostess was somewhere in her sixties, with a pleasant, open face.

  “I’m Joanna Haslam, by the way,” she said with a smile. “And you are?”

  “Muriel, Muriel Bateman.” She stared hard at Joanna. “You don’t look nothing like your aunt.”

  “No, well, that’s because . . . she married my blood great-uncle, if you see what I mean. Er, do you know where . . . Auntie is?”

  “Yes, dear, I’m afraid I do.” Muriel reached forward and patted her hand. “It was me that found her, see.”

  “Found her
?”

  Muriel nodded. “She’s dead, Joanna, I’m really sorry.”

  “Oh. Oh no!” Joanna did not have to fake her shock. “When?”

  “Last Wednesday. A week ago now.”

  “Bu-but, I got a letter from her this morning! How could she possibly be dead and still have sent this?” She fumbled in her bag and studied the postmark on the old woman’s letter. “Look, it was sent on Monday of this week, five days after you said she died.”

  “Oh dear.” Muriel blushed. “I’m afraid that was my fault. You see, Rose gave me the letter to post last Tuesday evening. Then, of course, with the shock of finding her the next day, and the police and all, I quite forgot about it. I didn’t post it until a couple of days ago. I’m really sorry, love. I’ll make some tea, shall I? You’ve just had a nasty shock.”

  Muriel came back with a tray bearing a teapot dressed in an orange tea cozy, cups, milk, sugar, and a plate of chocolate digestives. She poured the dark liquid into two cups.

  “Thanks.” Joanna sipped the tea as Muriel eased herself back into her chair. “Where did you find her? In bed?”

  “No. At the bottom of the stairs in her entrance hall. All crumpled, like a tiny doll, she was . . .” Muriel shuddered. “I shall never forget the terror in the poor lamb’s eyes . . . Sorry, dear. The whole thing’s kept me awake for the past few nights.”

  “I’m sure it has. Poor, poor Auntie. She must have fallen down the stairs, do you think?”

  “Mebbe.” Muriel shrugged.

  “Tell me, if you wouldn’t mind, how she seemed in the past few weeks. With me being away and everything, I’m afraid I’ve rather lost touch.”

  “Well . . .” Muriel reached for a cookie and bit into it. “As I’m sure you know, your aunt had only been here for a few weeks. The maisonette next door had been empty for ages and suddenly, at the end of November, I see this frail little old lady arrive. And then, a few days later, all them tea chests—and she never got round to unpacking them. Personally, I think she knew she was a goner ages before she died . . . I’m ever so sorry, dear.”

  Joanna bit her lip, feeling genuine grief for the old lady, and waited for Muriel to continue.

  “I didn’t bother her for a few days, thought I’d let her settle in before I made myself known to her as her neighbor. But she never seemed to leave the house, so one day I knocked on the door. I was worried, see, with her being so frail and no one coming in or out of that awful, damp old place, but I got no reply. It must have been the middle of December when I heard a cry from the passage. Like a kitten it was, so weak and small. And there she was, on the floor of the passageway, in her coat an’ all. She’d stumbled over her doorstep and couldn’t get up. Naturally, I helped her, brought her in here, sat her down, and made her a strong cup of tea, just like I’ve made you today.”

  “If only I’d known just how frail she was,” Joanna said, the lie slipping uneasily from her lips. “She always sounded so bright in her letters to me.”

  “If it’s any comfort, we all say that after the event, dear. I had a bloomin’ great big row with my Stanley and he went and dropped down dead of a heart attack the next day. Anyway, I asked your aunt where she’d moved from. She said she’d been abroad for many, many years and had only come back recently. I asked if she had relatives here and she shook her head, saying most of them were still abroad. She must have meant you, dear. Then I told her if she wanted bits of shopping done or medicines fetched for her, she only had to ask. I remember her thanking me very polite-like for my offer and asking if I’d get her some tins of soup. That’s where she’d been going when she fell, see.” Muriel shook her head. “I asked her whether she wanted me to call the doctor to see about her fall, but she refused. When it was time to take her back to her apartment, the poor old girl could hardly stand. I had to help her every inch of the way. Well, when I saw that miserable, miserable room that she lived in, with all them tea chests and that awful smell, I tell you, I was shocked.”

  “Auntie always was eccentric,” Joanna threw in lamely.

  “Yeah, well, excuse me for saying, but I’d reckon unhygienic, too, poor old biddy. Of course, I suggested I call social services, see if they could send someone in, get meals on wheels and a district nurse to bathe her, but she got so upset I thought she’d peg out then and there. So I left it at that, but I insisted I should have a key to her front door. I said to her, what if you was to fall again and the door was locked and I couldn’t get in to help you? So she finally agreed. I promised that all I’d do was to pop in once in a while and check on her. She went on an’ on about the key and keeping it safe and telling no one I had a spare.” Muriel sighed and shook her head. “She was a funny old buzzard all round. More tea?”

  “Yes, please. Auntie always did value her independence.” Joanna gave in and reached for a chocolate digestive.

  “Yeah, and look where it left her.” Muriel sniffed as she topped up Joanna’s cup. “Well now, I did pop in to check on her once a day from then on in. She was usually in bed, propped up with cushions, writing letters that I’d pop in the postbox for her, or sometimes dozing. I got into the habit of taking her some tea, or a Cup-a-Soup and a piece of toast. I didn’t stay very long, I admit. The smell made me queasy. And then Christmas arrived. I went to see my daughter down in Southend, but I came back on Boxing Day. And sitting on the table in the passage was a card. I took it inside to open it.”

  Joanna leaned forward. “Was it from Auntie?”

  “Yes. A beautiful Christmas card it was, you know, one of them expensive ones you buy separately and not in a pack. She’d written inside in ink, in that beautiful old-fashioned style of hers. ‘Muriel, thank you for your friendship. I will treasure it always, Rose.’ ” Muriel wiped a tear away from her eye. “Made me cry, that card did. Your auntie must have been a lady—well educated. And to see her brought to that . . .” Muriel shook her head. “I went to knock on her door to say thank you for the card and persuaded her to come in to warm up by the fire with a mince pie.”

  “Thank you. You’ve been so kind to her.”

  “Least I could do. She was no bother. We had a nice chat, actually. I asked her about her family again, if she’d had kids. She turned dead pale, then shook her head and changed the subject. I didn’t press her. I could see that over Christmas she’d got even weaker. There was nothing of her, just skin and bone. An’ that terrible cough had got worse. Then, just after Christmas, my sister in Epping took ill and asked me if I could go and stay with her for a week to look after her. I went, of course, and got back only a couple of days before the poor old thing died.”

  “And she gave you the letter to post?”

  “Yes. I went in to check on her the evening I arrived back. In a shocking state she was, shaking, jumpy as a cat on a hot tin roof. And her eyes . . . they had this look . . . I dunno.” Muriel shivered. “Anyway, she handed me the letter, begged me to post it for her urgently. I said of course I would. Then she grabbed my hand and squeezed it, really tight, and handed me a small box. She asked me to open it, and there inside was a beautiful gold locket. Not my style, of course, too delicate for me, but you could see the workmanship was good and the gold was solid. Obviously, I said immediately I couldn’t accept such an expensive gift, but she insisted I keep the locket, got really upset when I tried to give it back to her. Quite affected me it did. I went back to my own place and decided then and there that I was getting a doctor to her the next day, whatever she said. But the next day, it was too late.”

  “Oh, Muriel, if only I’d known . . .”

  “Don’t go blaming yourself. It’s me that should have posted the letter immediately like she’d asked me to. But if it’s any comfort to you, she passed away before it would have arrived. I found her at ten the next morning, lying at the bottom of her stairs, like I told you. Do you want a brandy? I could do with one, I tell you.”

  “No thanks, but you go ahead.” While Muriel went into the kitchen to fix herself the drink, Joann
a pondered what she had learned so far.

  “I wonder what Auntie was doing at the foot of the stairs?” mused Joanna as Muriel came back. “If she was that frail, there was surely no way she could have climbed them alone?”

  “That’s what I told the ambulance man when he arrived,” Muriel said. “He reckoned she’d broken her neck, and the big bruises on her head and her arms and legs said to him that she had fallen right the way down. I said then and there that Rose could never have got up the stairs alone. Besides”—Muriel shrugged—“why would she want to? The upstairs was deserted.” She blushed slightly. “I went and had a peek once, just out of curiosity, like.”

  Joanna frowned. “That really is very odd.”

  “Isn’t it just! Of course, the police had to be called and they all trooped in and started asking me lots of questions, like who she was and how long she’d lived there and stuff. The whole thing really upset me, it did. When they’d taken her away, I packed a case, called my daughter, and went to stay with her for a couple of days . . .” Muriel reached for her brandy. “I was only trying to do my best.”

  “Of course. Do you know where they took her?”

  “To the morgue, I s’pose, to wait for someone to claim her, poor old thing.”

  The two women sat silently, gazing into the fire. Joanna was tempted to ask more, but could see how upset Muriel was. Eventually, she said, “I suppose I’d better go and see the apartment, decide what to do with Auntie’s things.”

  “They’ve gone,” said Muriel abruptly.

  “What? Where?”

  “I dunno. I told you I stayed down at my daughter’s for a couple of days afterward. When I came back I let myself into her apartment, to lay the ghost as much as anything else, and the whole place had been emptied. There’s nothing in there now, nothing at all.”

  “But . . . who would have taken everything? All those tea chests!”