“Am I being reinstated?”
“No.”
Joanna slumped forward and rested her head on her arms. “Then nothing you say can cheer me up.”
“Even if I was to tell you I’ve found out some juicy info on your little old lady?” Alec lit up a Rothmans.
“Nope. I’ve given up on that one. That letter’s ruined my entire life. I’ve had enough.”
“Fine.” He took a drag of his cigarette. “Then I won’t tell you I’m pretty sure I know who she was. That, just before she arrived in England, she’d been living in France for the past sixty years.”
“I still don’t want to know.”
“Or that James Harrison managed to purchase his house in Welbeck Street outright in 1928. It was owned by a senior politician who had been in Lloyd George’s cabinet prior to that. Seems strange a penniless actor could afford a grand house like that, doesn’t it? Unless, of course, he’d just come into a large sum of money.”
“Sorry, Alec, I’m still not there.”
“So finally, I won’t tell you that there was a Rose Alice Fitzgerald working as a lady-in-waiting in a certain royal household in the 1920s.”
Joanna gaped at him. “Sod it! Let’s get a bottle.”
The two of them adjourned to a corner table, and Alec told her what he had discovered.
“So what you’re saying is that my little old lady, Rose, and James Harrison, a.k.a. Michael O’Connell, were in cahoots, blackmailing someone in the royal household?” she said.
“It’s what I’ve surmised, yes. And I think the letter that she sent you was actually a love letter from Rose herself to James, a.k.a. Michael—or, in the letter, ‘Siam’—which had nothing whatsoever to do with the real plot.”
“So why does Rose talk about not being able to see James in the letter?”
“Because the Honorable Rose Fitzgerald was a lady-in-waiting. She came from an upper-crust Scottish family. I hardly think a penniless Irish actor would have made a good match for her. I’m sure they had to keep their liaison secret.”
“Christ! Why have I had so much to drink? My head’s foggy. I can’t think straight.”
“Then I’ll think for you. Put simply, I reckon Rose and Sir James—”
“Michael O’Connell, in those days,” Joanna butted in.
“Michael and Rose were lovers. Rose had discovered something juicy while going about her duty in the royal household, told Michael, a.k.a. James, who then blackmailed the person concerned. The parcels you say William Fielding used to collect for Michael/James, well, I reckon they contained money. Then Michael does a disappearing act, possibly flees the country, dumping poor old Rose along the way. A few months later, he arrives back; adopts a new persona; buys his pile in Welbeck Street with the cash he’s gathered; marries his wife, Grace; and all is tickety-boo.”
“Okay. Let’s work on your premise,” said Joanna. “I might as well face it, it’s as good as any I’ve come up with so far and it does all seem to fit. Why the sudden mass panic when James Harrison dies?”
“Well now, let’s try some lateral thinking. We know for certain that Rose arrived back in the country just after Sir James popped his clogs, having been abroad for many years. Is it possible that Rose planned to reveal all after Sir James’s death? Maybe blacken his name, pay him back for dumping her all those years ago?”
“Then why hadn’t she done it before?”
“Perhaps she was frightened. Maybe James had something on her, had threatened her. And then, when she knew she was ill and time was running out, she decided she had nothing to lose? I dunno, Jo, I’m guessing here.” Alec ground out a cigarette in the ashtray and lit another.
“But would that panic the establishment? MI5 is involved, Alec. All I know is it’s something very, very big,” breathed Joanna. “Big enough for the high-ups to persuade Marcus Harrison to wine, dine, and bed me to see what I knew.”
“Who told you that?”
“My friend Simon.”
“You sure about that?”
“Oh yes.”
Alec swore under his breath. “Blimey, Jo, what is all this?”
“If we follow your idea, then obviously whatever it was Rose and Michael had discovered was major.” She lowered her voice further. “Christ, Alec, two people have already died in odd circumstances . . . I don’t want to be the third.”
They sat in silence, Joanna desperately trying to clear her fuzzy mind. Alec’s old words rang through her: Trust no bugger . . .
“Alec, why this sudden interest after freezing me out?”
He barked out a laugh. “If you think I’m being paid to spy on you, don’t worry, sweetheart. Strikes me you need some help. Because this just won’t go away, will it? Everyone else seems to have screwed you over. I may be an unlikely knight in shining armor, but I’ll have to do.”
“If I decide to continue investigating.”
“Yeah. So, what next?”
“Marcus and I were going on a trip to Ireland next weekend before I found out the truth of why he was seeing me. William Fielding had indicated an Irish connection and Marcus seems to have managed to pinpoint where, if anywhere, Michael O’Connell might have originally hailed from.”
“How?”
“He said that Zoe’s son mentioned a place in Ireland that his grandfather had talked about before he died. He might have got it wrong, but . . .”
“Never dismiss child-talk, Jo. I’ve coerced some of my best scoops out of nippers.”
“Then you are quite without scruples, Alec.”
“That’s what makes a good journalist.” He checked his watch. “I gotta go. We never had this conversation, of course. And I shall not advise you to go to Ireland and sit in the local bar, where any amount of gossip can be overheard, nor shall I suggest you do it quickly before Marcus—or perhaps someone else—gets there before you. And I shall certainly not mention that you do not look well tonight and there’s every possibility that over the next couple of days it will develop into flu and you’ll be too sick to make it into work.” Alec stuffed his cigarettes into his pocket. “Night, Jo. Call me if there’s trouble.”
“Night, Alec.”
She watched him leave the bar, and despite herself, she smiled. If nothing else, Alec, or the wine, or a mixture of both, had managed to lift her spirits. Hailing a taxi, she decided to sleep on it, digest the information before making a plan.
There were eight new messages from Marcus on her answering machine when she got home. That was in addition to the seven on her mobile, plus numerous calls she had asked the receptionist to bar at work.
“They must have paid you one hell of a lot of money, you slimy, double-crossing, rancid, decomposed little toad,” she growled to the machine as she headed for the bathroom and a shower.
The doorbell was ringing when she emerged, dripping, wrapped in a towel. Peeping through the curtains, Joanna saw that the decomposed little toad was standing on her doorstep.
“Oh Christ!” she cried, then switched the TV on, prepared to ignore him for as long as it took.
“Joanna,” he was shouting through the letter box. “It’s me, Marcus. I know you’re in. I saw you behind the curtains. Let me in! What have I done wrong? Joanna!”
“Damn! Damn! Damn!” Joanna growled as she put on her robe and stomped to the door. Marcus was going to wake up half the neighborhood if she didn’t allow him entry. She saw his eyes peering through the letter box at her.
“Hi. Let me in, Jo.”
“Piss off!”
“Charmed, I’m sure. Can you let me know exactly what I’m supposed to have done?”
“If you don’t know, then I’m not bloody telling you. Just get out of my life and stay out, forever.”
“Joanna, I love you.” His voice broke. “If you don’t let me in to discuss whatever crime it is I’m meant to have committed, then I shall have to stay out here all night and . . . sing my love to you.”
“Marcus, if you don’t get off my door
step in the next five seconds, I’m calling the police. They’ll arrest you for harassment.”
“Okay. I don’t mind. Of course, we’ll probably make the front page of tomorrow’s newspaper, with my newfound status as brother of Prince Arthur’s new love, but I’m sure that won’t worry you . . . I—”
Marcus almost toppled through the front door as Joanna opened it.
“Okay. You win.” She was quivering with anger. Marcus went to touch her. She flinched and backed away. “Don’t come near me. I mean it.”
“Okay, okay. Tell me then, what is it I’ve done?”
Joanna crossed her arms. “I have to say, I thought it was odd that you were so caring, so overblown in your affections. I mean, I’d already been told what a rotten, stinking rat you were. And silly me, I decided to take you at face value, thought that maybe you felt differently about me than the rest of the female population of London.”
“I do, really, Jo. I—”
“Shut up, Marcus. I’m talking. Then, I discover that your feelings for me didn’t even come into it. It was your wallet that was enjoying my company.”
“I—”
“I was told a couple of days ago that you were being paid to woo me and bed me.” Joanna saw the hectic red blush rise up into his cheeks. And had an urge to slap him very hard.
“No, Joanna, whoever said that has got it totally wrong. I mean, I was given some money, but not to get information from you. It was to try to find the missing letter. I swear I didn’t know anything about Rose when you told me, or on the first night we went to bed. It happened a couple of days later. I thought of telling you that I’d been approached to help, but I thought you’d get frightened off. And now you don’t believe me, and—”
“Would you believe you?!”
“No, of course I wouldn’t. But . . .” Marcus looked as if he was about to burst into tears. “Please, you have to believe that I’ve never felt like this before, never. It had nothing to do with money, apart from the fact I thought that if we pooled our resources and our knowledge, we might find the answers, and . . . I . . . dammit!” Marcus raked his fingers roughly over his eyelids.
Joanna was genuinely surprised by his reaction. She’d expected him to tough it out, deny it, or callously confirm it when he knew he’d lost. Instead, she seemed to be witnessing genuine confusion and grief. But after Matthew, Simon, and now Marcus, she’d had enough of being betrayed.
“You took that money, Marcus, and kept it a secret from me. I should have believed everyone who told me how selfish you are. And your sister? I bet you were the one who told the Mail about her and the prince, weren’t you? You knew everyone would blame me, but all you cared about was making some fast cash!”
“No!” Marcus said vehemently. “I would never sell out Zoe like that!”
“But you sold me out! So, how could I ever believe you?” She was breathless with anger now.
“I don’t know what to say to make you believe me!”
“There’s nothing left to say. Your five minutes are up. I want you to leave.”
“I just wanted to protect you . . . I know that doesn’t make much sense, but . . . can you give me one last chance?” he begged her.
“Absolutely not. Even if you’re telling the truth now, you still lied to me. For money. You’re a coward, Marcus.”
“You’re right. I didn’t tell you because I thought I might lose you. I’m not lying when I say I love you, Joanna, and I’m going to regret this for the rest of my life.”
“Goodbye.” She closed the door without another word, before he could see the tears in her own eyes. It was tiredness, emotion, and tension, that was all, she reassured herself as she headed for bed. Marcus was a newly acquired habit she could easily break. She lay there, desperate for sleep, turning to what Alec had said earlier to stop her thoughts of Marcus. Her brain was like a newborn hare, springing from one fresh fact to the next, and eventually she gave up, climbed out of bed, and switched on the kettle. After making herself a hot, strong cup of tea, then sitting on the bed cross-legged, Joanna took her “Rose” information folder from her rucksack. She studied the facts, then drew a precise diagram that collated all the information she had gathered so far.
Should she give it one more try? Ireland was meant to be extremely beautiful and the flights and accommodation had all been booked. At the very least, she could use the trip as a much-needed break from London and all that had happened since Christmas.
“Sod it!” she breathed. She owed it to herself to take one step further down the line. Otherwise she’d spend the rest of her life wondering. And she really had nothing left to lose . . .
“Except my life,” she muttered darkly.
* * *
Three days later, having checked in for the flight to Cork, Joanna took out her mobile as she walked toward the departure gate.
“Hello?”
“Alec?”
“Yeah?”
“It’s me. Can you tell the ed I’ve got the most dreadful flu? So bad, in fact, I might not be feeling better until the middle of next week.”
“Bye, Jo. Good luck. And watch your back. You know where I am.”
“Thanks, Alec. Bye.”
It was only once she was up in the air and on the way to her destination across the Irish Sea that she gave a sigh of relief.
26
As Joanna was touching down at Cork Airport, Marcus lay in bed. It was already midday, but he couldn’t see much point in getting up. This had been pretty much the pattern since he’d been booted out of Joanna’s apartment. He was utterly devastated, by both the loss of her and the fact that he had no one to blame but himself.
He hauled himself out of bed and wandered into the sitting room, deciding to put his feelings for her down on paper. Picking up an unfamiliar gold pen from the side table, his heart twisting as he realized it must be Joanna’s, he then began to write her a letter. As he closed his eyes, he saw her appear in front of him, as she had a hundred times since he’d woken up that morning. He’d fallen in love properly for the first time in his life. It wasn’t lust, or obsession, or any of the peripheral feelings he’d had for women before. This went way deeper, down into his gut. His head and heart ached for her like he had an illness—he could think of nothing else. He even hated his precious film project—the reason he had taken the money from that idiot Ian in the first place . . .
Later that evening, he took a bus up to Crouch End and walked to Joanna’s apartment. Seeing it was in darkness, he posted the letter to Joanna through the letter box, praying that she would read it and contact him. Then he went home and back to bed, cradling a bottle of whiskey.
Just before midnight, the doorbell rang.
Marcus jumped out of bed, like a rabbit free of a trap, his hopes high that Joanna had responded to his heartfelt letter. He opened the door expecting to see her. Instead, he recognized the tall, burly frame of Ian Simpson.
“What do you want this time of night?” Marcus asked him.
Ian stepped inside without asking. “Where’s Joanna Haslam?” he demanded, his eyes darting around the living room.
“Not here, that’s for sure.”
“Then where?” Ian walked toward him, his height imposing.
“I really don’t know. I only wish I did.”
Ian stood so close to him that Marcus could hear his uneven breathing and smell the alcohol fumes coming off him. Or perhaps it was his own stench of whiskey, he thought, pushing down an urge to be sick.
“We were paying you to keep tabs on her, remember? Then her mate Simon tipped her off.”
“Si . . . what . . . ?”
“Simon, you idiot! Your sister’s bodyguard.”
Marcus took a step back and passed a hand over his bleary eyes. “Look, I did my best to find you that letter, but Joanna’s left me high and dry, and—”
Ian grabbed Marcus by the collar of his shirt. “You know where she is, don’t you, you lying shit!”
“I really d
on’t. I . . .” Close up, Marcus could see that Ian’s eyes were bloodshot. The man was off his head with anger and booze. “C-can you let me go and we can talk about this rationally?”
A punch in the stomach sent Marcus reeling toward the sofa. His head hit the wall and he saw stars.
“Steady on, mate! We’re on the same side, remember?”
Ian laughed. “I hardly think so.”
Marcus struggled upright and watched as Ian paced around the room.
“She’s gone somewhere, hasn’t she?” Ian demanded. “She’s on the trail.”
“What trail? I—”
Ian advanced toward him and landed a kick in Marcus’s groin, which sent him rolling around on the floor, howling in pain.
“It would be a good idea if you told me. I know you’re covering up for her, protecting her.”
“No! Really. I—”
A kick in the kidneys produced further yells of pain and Marcus vomited copiously.
“What were the two of you planning? Tell me.”
“Nothing. I . . .” Marcus could take no more and he searched his mind desperately for something to tell Ian in order to get rid of him and put him off the scent. Then he had a brain wave. “We were going to Ireland this weekend. I told her that’s where I thought Sir James originally came from.”
“Where in Ireland?”
“County Cork . . .”
“What part?”
Ian crouched down and peered into his face, his fist at the ready. “Just tell me, mate, because I can do a lot worse.”
“I . . .” Marcus struggled to remember the name of the place. “Rosscarbery.”
“I’ll make some calls. If I find out you’re lying, I’ll be back, do you understand?”
“Yes,” Marcus gasped.
Ian made a snorting sound that could have been laughter, pity, or a mixture of both. “You were always a coward at school. You haven’t changed, Marcus, have you?” Ian aimed the tip of his toe at Marcus’s nose. Marcus cringed as the toe swung wide and hit a cheek. “Be seeing you.”
Marcus listened for the door closing behind Ian, then rolled onto his knees, moving his jaw from side to side and cursing with the pain. He managed to heave himself upright and sat slumped against the sofa staring into space, his face, his groin, and his stomach throbbing.
The Royal Secret Page 28