“The man in the wheelchair . . .” Joanna felt as though her brain was frozen. She searched through the gray mists, knowing there were further questions she must ask.
“The letter . . . does it confirm what . . . we’ve just talked about?” Joanna could not bring herself to voice the words.
“I may have delivered it, but it was already well hidden inside the package when I did. However, if it kept James alive all those years, allowed him to amass fame and fortune right beneath the noses of those who wanted him dead, then yes, I rather believe it does.”
“And why did they never get to you? After all, you delivered the letters.”
“By then, I was engaged to my beloved François and had left the palace. I married and left for the Loire only after the package had been delivered. No one knew I was ever involved.” Rose chuckled softly. “The duchess was awfully clever, until she couldn’t hide her secret any longer.”
Joanna realized with a jolt that she herself had told Simon the name of the “messenger” in Yorkshire only two weeks ago.
“Rose, you really are in terrible danger! I told someone your name recently. Oh God, I’m so very sorry.” Joanna stood up. “So many people have died already. They’ll stop at nothing . . . you have to leave immediately!”
“I’m safe, at least for now, my dear. After all, I am the only person who knows where that letter is. And besides, my old World War Two forged identity papers proved a godsend after all these years. François paid an expert a lot of money to ensure we were known as Madame et Monsieur Levoy—Swiss citizens. He had some Jewish blood on his maternal side, you see. I’ve always kept a passport in that name, just in case. François insisted.” Rose gave a small smile. “And that is how I came into the country and how I am known here at this hotel.”
Joanna looked with admiration at this extraordinary woman, who had kept the secret for so long, and was putting her life at risk out of love for her old friend. “You mentioned earlier you delivered a package, rather than a letter?”
“Correct.”
“What was in that package?”
“Dearie me.” Rose yawned. “I’m getting terribly sleepy. Well now, the thing was that obviously the letters were highly sensitive, and that one in particular. If they had fallen into the wrong hands, it could have been disastrous. So the duchess thought up a very clever way to disguise them.”
“How?”
“You saw the letter that Grace sent you. Even though it was old, there must have been something odd that you noticed about it?”
Joanna racked her brains. “I . . . yes, if I remember, there were tiny holes around the edges.”
Rose gave a slight nod of approval. “Now, as we are running out of time, perhaps I must help you with the final piece of the jigsaw. Remember, I am only doing it for poor Grace’s sake.”
“Of course.” Joanna nodded her head wearily.
“The duchess had two passions in life. One of them was the cultivation of the most marvelous roses in her gardens; the other, exquisite embroidery.” She eyed Joanna, who looked back at her blankly. “Now, I think it’s high time I was in bed. I intend to leave England shortly to stay with some friends in America until all this blows over. I thought it best if I made myself scarce for the next few months, until the dust settles.”
“Rose, please! Don’t do this to me! Tell me where the letter is!” Joanna entreated her.
“My dear, I have just told you. All you must do now is use that quick brain and those pretty eyes of yours.”
Joanna knew there was no point in begging further. “Will I see you again?”
“I doubt it, don’t you?” Rose’s eyes twinkled. “I have every confidence you will find it.”
“I don’t! Roses, embroidery . . .”
“Yes, my dear. Now, the minute you have it, I should leave England tout de suite. Are you really going to publish and be damned, as they say?”
“That’s my intention, yes. So many people have died because of it. And I . . . owe it to someone.” Joanna’s eyes filled with spontaneous tears.
“Someone you loved?”
“I . . . yes,” she sighed, “but he died trying to save my life. And it was all because of the letter.”
“Well then, there we go. Love has us make the most reckless—and often misguided—decisions, as you have already seen.”
“Yes.”
Rose stood up and laid a gentle hand on Joanna’s shoulder. “I leave it to your conscience. And to fate. Goodbye, my dear. If you survive to tell the tale, you’ll leave your mark on the world one way or another, of that there’s no doubt. See yourself out, will you?” Rose walked toward the bedroom and closed the door behind her.
ENDGAME
The stage of the game when few pieces remain on the board
40
“Hi, Simon,” Zoe said as he appeared the following lunchtime in the Welbeck Street kitchen.
“Hi. Everything okay?”
“Yes.” Zoe thought Simon looked tense and strained. “Has Miss Burrows gone now that you’re back?”
“Yes, she left as I arrived. I somehow didn’t fancy sharing quarters with her.”
“Right.” Zoe dipped her finger into the sauce she was stirring on the hob. “She’s an attractive girl.”
“Not my type, I’m afraid,” Simon answered shortly, as he filled a cup with instant coffee granules and hot water. “What are you cooking?”
“What do you cook for a prince?” she sighed. “I’m going for my dinner party staple of Stroganoff. Not exactly lobster thermidor, but it’ll have to do.”
“Oh God, of course! Your supper’s tonight! I’d forgotten all about it.”
“Art called me last night. He said he was expecting you down at Sandringham late afternoon to bring him here. I left a message asking Joanna to arrive at eight, so that should time nicely. Sadly, two of my friends have cried off, so it will just be the three of us.”
Simon’s heart missed a beat. “Joanna’s coming?”
“Yes, but even she hasn’t replied to my message. We’ve become really close and I’d love to know what she thinks of Art.”
“Do you think you should call her again to find out?”
“Yes, I suppose I should.” She wiped her hands on her apron. “Keep stirring, will you?”
Zoe was back a few minutes later. “Straight to the answering machine,” she said as she watched Simon search her cupboards. He turned around with a bottle in his hand. “Add some Tabasco, it gives the sauce that extra zing.”
Later that day, Simon’s mobile rang. “We’ve located O’Farrell. Knew he couldn’t stay without whiskey too long. He signed a credit-card slip to buy supplies at a liquor store in the Docklands.”
“Right.”
“We ran a check on his acquaintances and it seems he has a journalist pal in the States who owns an apartment near the liquor store. My men have checked, and there are signs of life in the apartment. They have it under heavy surveillance at the moment. We’ve got hold of the telephone number of the place. If he’s going online to send the story, we can stop it instantly.”
“And Haslam?”
“Not a sniff.”
“Haslam’s been invited here to supper tonight, although I doubt she’ll turn up. It would be rather like walking into the lion’s den. Do I continue as usual for the present?”
“Yes. If nothing comes to light, collect HRH from Norfolk as planned. Burrows will be in situ while you do so. Just make sure you’re both armed, Warburton. I’ll be in touch.”
Just before five o’clock that afternoon, Simon arrived outside the beautiful secluded house on the Sandringham estate and pulled the car to a halt. He opened the door, got out, and saw the butler was already opening the front door.
“His Royal Highness will be slightly delayed, I’m afraid. As he might be some time, he suggested you might wish to wait inside and take some tea.”
“Thank you.” Simon followed the butler into the house, along the hall, and in
to a small but richly furnished sitting room.
“Earl Grey or Darjeeling?”
“I really don’t mind.”
“Very good, sir.”
The butler left the room and Simon paced around it, wondering why on earth, on today of all days, the duke had to be delayed. Every second he was away from Welbeck Street was making him more and more edgy.
The butler brought his tea and left again. Simon drank it, still pacing distractedly up and down the room. Then something on the wall, sitting innocently amid the myriad of other, probably priceless, paintings, caught his eye. It looked similar to something he’d seen recently. He moved closer to study it, and the hand holding his teacup began to shake.
He was pretty sure it was identical, down to the last detail.
Simon pulled out his mobile phone to make a call, but at that moment, the butler arrived.
“His Royal Highness is ready to leave now.”
The teacup was firmly removed from his hand and he was ushered out of the room.
* * *
From her vantage point inside the telephone box on the opposite side of Welbeck Street, Joanna dialed a mobile number. “Steve? It’s Jo. Don’t ask where I am, but if you want a pretty piccie, get your backside to Zoe Harrison’s house. The duke is about to arrive. Yes, really! Oh, and there’s a back entrance if you want an interior shot, though you’ll have to scale a few walls to get to it. Then wait outside the house until you hear from me. Bye.”
She dialed another number, and another, until she had informed every picture desk of every daily London newspaper of the whereabouts of Prince Arthur, the Duke of York’s supper engagement that evening. Now all she had to do was wait for them to arrive.
One of the photographers spotted the car as soon as Simon turned into Welbeck Street just before eight o’clock.
“Oh Christ!” the duke swore as he saw the barrage of cameras positioned outside Zoe’s house.
“Would you like to move on, Your Royal Highness?”
“Bit late for that now, isn’t it? Come on, let’s get on with it.”
Joanna watched as the door to the Jaguar opened and the photographers clustered round the car. She made a run for it across the road and into the scrum, emerging just in front of the duke and Simon. As she knew it would, the door opened like magic and she stumbled inside.
“Jo! You did manage to make it after all!” Zoe greeted her distractedly, looking anxiously at Art as Simon slammed the door and locked it behind him.
“Yes,” she panted, removing her trilby hat and shaking her hair out. “It’s a scrum out there.”
“What a pretty dress. I’ve only ever seen you in jeans before.”
“That’s ’cause it’s all I ever wear. Thought I’d make an effort for tonight.”
“And those glasses really suit you. You look different.”
“Good,” said Joanna, and she meant it.
Zoe kissed her on the cheek, then turned her attention to Art, who was standing behind her. “Hello, darling. How are you?” she began, then they all jumped as the letter box was prized open and the end of a telephoto lens appeared through it. Simon immediately snapped it shut and there was a satisfying crack of plastic as the camera withdrew.
“I suggest you all move into the drawing room. Give me a few seconds to draw the curtains,” said Simon to the disgruntled prince.
“Thank you, Warburton.” Art followed Simon along the hall, as Zoe put a hand on Joanna’s arm.
“I’ll formally introduce you to Art in a second,” Zoe whispered.
“Do I curtsey? What do I call him?” Joanna asked.
Zoe suppressed a laugh. “Just be yourself. And he’ll let you know what to call him. Although it might be best if you don’t mention you’re a journalist,” she said with a hint of irony.
“Understood. I’ll be a dog handler for the night instead.” Joanna nodded as they walked together toward the drawing room. She turned to Zoe at the door. “Excuse me, I must just go to the loo.” And dashed up the stairs before Zoe could reply.
“Simon, would you mind bringing the champagne through?” Zoe asked him as he emerged from the drawing room. “It’s on ice in the kitchen.”
“Of course.”
Simon zoomed into the kitchen and collected the champagne, depositing it on the drawing-room table. “I’ll leave you to it now.” Then he left and mounted the stairs two at a time.
Monica Burrows was waiting on the second floor of the house. “She’s here. I’ve just seen her, in the boy’s bedroom. She went into the next-door bathroom when she saw me,” she whispered.
“Okay. Leave this to me. Go downstairs and station yourself by the front door.”
“Sure. Shout if you need me.”
Simon watched Monica run down the stairs. Then he settled himself outside the bathroom door to wait for Joanna.
A scream from Zoe echoed up from the kitchen. “Simon!” she yelled. “In the kitchen!”
“Warburton!” The duke’s voice joined hers.
Simon careered down the two flights of stairs, along the hall, and into the kitchen.
“Get him out of here!” Zoe shouted, aghast at the man standing in the back doorway of the kitchen, stoically taking photos even as Simon manhandled him to the ground and removed the camera from his grasp.
“Only doing my job, guv.” He grimaced as Simon shoved the camera back into his grasp, minus the film roll, and marched him through the house to the front door. He pulled the man’s wallet from his jeans pocket and took a note of the name on his driver’s license.
“You’ll be charged with breaking and entering. Now get the hell out.” Simon opened the front door, threw the photographer out, and slammed the door behind him. A shaken Zoe was being comforted by the duke in the kitchen.
“You okay?” he asked her.
“Yes. It’s my own fault. I hadn’t locked the back door.”
“Hardly. It’s Warburton’s job to attend to security matters. Bloody shoddy of you.”
“My apologies, sir.”
“Don’t blame Simon, Art. He’s always reminding me to lock everything. He’s been absolutely wonderful, and I don’t know what I’d do without him,” Zoe said defensively.
“Hear! Hear! He’s a great guy, aren’t you, Simon?” Joanna entered the kitchen behind him.
Simon turned and knew then, in that instant, that she’d found it.
“Well, I’d rather like to settle down and get on with the evening,” the duke remarked irritably. “We’ll call you if we need you, Warburton, okay?”
“Yes, sir.” Simon left the kitchen and made his way upstairs to Jamie’s bedroom. It was as he’d expected. It had vanished. Walking into the bathroom, he saw the empty frame in the wastepaper basket. The exquisitely embroidered nursery rhyme, which had lain inside the glass for all these years, innocently holding its secret, was gone.
“We all fall down,” muttered Simon under his breath as he left the bathroom and went up the stairs to his bedroom. Hastily digging in his pocket for his mobile, he dialed a number.
“She’s here, sir, and she has it.”
“Where is she?”
“Downstairs, enjoying a pleasant dinner party with the third in line to the throne. We can’t touch her and she knows it.”
“We’ve made sure O’Farrell won’t help her. We found the story on his computer. All he was waiting for was the letter. And we have Welbeck Street surrounded. She can’t escape this time.”
“No, but at present, with HRH in the house, there’s very little we can do.”
“Then we must remove him immediately.”
“Yes, sir. And, if you’ll excuse me, I have an idea.”
“Fire away.”
Simon told him.
* * *
“Tonight has only proved to me what I already know. Zoe, you can’t continue to stay here. I’m moving you into the palace immediately, where at least you’ll be safe.” Art put together his knife and fork. “That was delicio
us, by the way. Now, do excuse me, ladies. I must use the facilities.”
Joanna and Zoe watched him leave the dining room.
“So, what do you think?” Zoe asked.
“Of what?”
“Art, of course! You’re awfully jumpy tonight, Jo. You hardly said a word over dinner. Are you okay?”
“Yes, sorry, just tired, that’s all. I think your prince is . . . very nice.”
“Really? You don’t sound convinced,” Zoe said with a frown.
“Well, he’s a bit . . . royal and everything, but that’s not his fault,” Joanna said distractedly.
“He is, isn’t he?” She laughed uncertainly. “I . . . I’m really just not sure anymore,” she whispered.
“Why?”
“Oh, I don’t know.”
“Is there someone else?” Joanna decided to give her hunch a whirl. She had already seen the way Zoe had looked at Simon tonight.
“Yes . . . there might be, but I’m not sure he’s very keen on me.”
“Well, I don’t know who’ll be more disappointed if you end it: Art or your gallant protector,” Joanna said lightly.
“What do you mean?”
Joanna glanced at her watch nervously. “I . . . er, nothing. Simon is very fond of you.”
“Really?” There was a light in Zoe’s eyes.
“Yes, and I think you should follow your heart. I only wish now I’d had more time with Marcus. Don’t waste any of yours,” Joanna whispered in her ear as Art reappeared. “Right, my turn to pop to the bathroom. I’ll be back in a second.”
Joanna’s eyes filled with unprompted tears as she stood up, gave Zoe a last glance, then disappeared from the room.
Monica signaled to Simon, who was stationed behind the dining room door, as Joanna passed her in the hall and went up the stairs. He nodded and picked up his mobile.
The Royal Secret Page 43