“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 theatergoers 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 dialed 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 onto 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 afterward. 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 recognize 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 leaned 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 harboring 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 dispatched, it took Joanna almost an hour to tell Rose everything—partly due to discovering her companion was a little deaf, as well as Rose’s 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 convince
d 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 neighbor, 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 wineglass. “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.
39
At Rose’s request, Joanna had taken a couple of small bottles of whiskey from the mini-fridge, poured them into two glasses, and added ice.
“Thank you, my dear.” Rose took a sip. “Far too much excitement for an old lady like me.” She settled back more comfortably in her chair, cradling her whiskey glass in her hands. “As you already know, I was working for a time as a lady-in-waiting for the Duchess of York. Our families had known each other for years and so it was natural that I traveled down from Scotland with her when she married the duke. They were very happy, living between their houses in Sandringham and London. Then the duke’s health began to deteriorate. He had a bronchial condition, which, given the health problems he’d had as a child, was cause for some concern. The doctors advised complete rest and fresh air for a number of months to help him recover. But there was the problem of what to tell the country. In those days, the royal family were in some ways regarded as immortal, you see.”
“So the idea of a double to stand in for him during his absence was put forward?” Joanna confirmed.
“Yes. It used to be quite common among public figures, as I’m sure you know. Coincidentally, a senior adviser at the palace happened to visit the theater one night. And there he saw a young actor who he thought could pass perfectly adequately for the Duke of York at state functions, factory openings, and the like. The young man, one Michael O’Connell, was brought in and given ‘duke lessons’ for a few weeks, as the duchess and I used to giggle. Once he’d passed the ‘test,’ the real duke was shipped off to Switzerland to recover forthwith.”
“He was the image of him,” said Joanna. “I was completely convinced they were one and the same person.”
“Yes. Michael O’Connell was already an extremely talented actor. He had always been good at impersonations—it was his ‘act’ back then. He lost his Irish brogue completely, even perfected the slight stutter.” Rose smiled. “And literally, my dear, he became the duke. He was duly installed in the royal household and it all worked like a charm.”
“How many people knew about this?”
“Only those that absolutely had to. I’m sure some of the servants thought it odd when they heard the ‘duke’ singing Irish ballads while shaving in the morning, but they were paid to be discreet.”
“Was that when you and Michael became friends?”
“Yes. He was such a nice man, so eager to please, and took the whole situation in his stride. Yet I always felt rather sorry for him. I knew he was being used, and once he was no longer needed, he’d be paid off and waved away without so much as a backward glance.”
“But it didn’t quite happen like that, did it?”
“No,” Rose sighed. “The thing was, he had such charisma. He was the duke, with an added dimension. He had a great sense of humor, used to send the duchess into fits just before they were about to attend a function. I was always convinced that he laughed her into bed, if you’ll excuse the tasteless expression.”
“When did you realize they were lovers?”
“Not for a long time afterward. I thought, just like everyone else who knew her, that the duchess was playing her part like the trouper she was. Then the duke came home a few months later, fit and well, and Michael O’Connell was packed off back to his life. And that would have been the end of it if it hadn’t been for the fact that . . .” Rose caught her breath.
“What?”
“The duchess believed that she had fallen head over heels in love with Michael. At the time, I’d left the palace in order to prepare for my wedding to François. I went back to visit her one day and she asked whether I’d be prepared to help her, if I would be a ‘messenger’ for her so she and Michael could keep in contact. She was quite desperate. What else could I do but agree?”
“So you began to meet with William Fielding outside Swan and Edgar?”
“Was that his name? The young boy from the theater, anyway,” Rose clarified.
“He became quite a well-known actor too.”
“Not in France,” Rose said with a sniff of hauteur. “Of course, at the time I was madly in love with François, so the fact that the duchess was so in love too rather gave us a bond. We were both so young.” Rose sighed. “We believed in romance. And because Michael and the duchess had been put together, then torn apart, with no possibility of a future, it made the situation all the more poignant.”
“Did they see each other after he left the employ of the royal household?”
“Only once. The duchess was terribly concerned for him, for his safety, especially when her secret, one might say, exploded into public view.”
“Someone found out about the affair?”
Rose’s eyes twinkled. “Oh yes, my dear. More than one.”
“Was that when they sent Michael O’Connell off to Ireland to stay at the coastguard’s house?”
“Yes. You see?” Rose gave her an approving smile. “You know most of the story already. The duchess came crying to me one day, saying that he’d written to say he was being sent away back to Ireland. He didn’t want to compromise her sensitive position, so he thought it best if he agreed and left the country as they wished him to do. Of course”—she raised her eyebrows—“he was never meant to return.”
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t you see that it was perfect for them? Michael returning to Ireland, bearing a
n extraordinary resemblance to the Duke of York. Remember, Partition had just taken place. The Irish loathed the English. All they had to do was put it about locally that there was a member of the British royal family staying in the area and the rest would happen naturally. It was the perfect ‘scalp’ for the Irish Republican movement at the time.”
“You mean the establishment wanted him dead?”
“Of course. Under the circumstances, it was imperative they put him out of the way permanently. But it needed to be done discreetly, presented to the duchess in a way she couldn’t question. No one quite knew how she’d react, you see, given her”—Rose checked herself—“state of mind at the time.”
“So what happened then?”
“The one who saved Michael from certain death was his Irish lady love—Niamh, I think her name was—whom he’d met when she came to keep house for him there. Apparently, one night, she heard her own—and I might add highly Republican—father plotting and planning to kill Michael. So, between the two of them, Niamh and Michael organized his escape on a cotton boat back to England.”
“I know who she was. I met her sister Ciara in Rosscarbery. Niamh Deasy died. In childbirth, along with her baby,” Joanna added.
“Oh my.” A tear came to Rose’s eye. She reached into her sleeve for a hanky and dabbed her eyes. “Another tragic casualty in this twisted web of deceit. Michael always wondered what had happened to her after he left Ireland. He was expecting her to follow him to England, but of course, he couldn’t write to her to find out when. Or put in writing where he was. But she never came. Now I know why. He was very fond of her, although I doubt it was love. I never heard him mention a child, mind you.”
“Perhaps he didn’t know,” mused Joanna. “Maybe Niamh never told him.”
“And maybe she didn’t realize herself until a bump appeared in her stomach.” Rose sighed. “It was a much more innocent time back then. None of us girls were really taught in any detail about the facts of life. Especially not Catholic girls.”
“Poor Niamh, and her baby. She was so innocent . . . she had no idea of the complex man she had fallen in love with. Please go on,” Joanna urged.
The Royal Secret Page 41