‘The keys of the Bugatti,’ she explained to Letitia with a half smile at the house later. ‘It was a very special present to me and I wanted to give it back to him. No one will ever drive it now.’
She had asked Letitia not to say anything about the baby: ‘I can’t bear to talk about it yet. I can’t bear to be happy about anything. Can you understand that?’
‘I can,’ said Letitia, ‘of course I can. I won’t tell anybody at all. You must do it when you are ready. It is your baby and your secret.’ She looked at Phaedria and smiled gently. ‘I am a very good keeper of secrets, Phaedria. As one day you will learn.’
She herself had wept at the funeral; not at the graveside, but in the church. She had stood very erect, her face composed behind her black veil, but when the congregation was asked to sing the Twenty-Third Psalm, on the words ‘He makes me down to lie’ she had suddenly sunk to her knees and buried her face in her hands. Phaedria, who was on one side of her, and C. J. on the other, had knelt beside her, their arms round her, but she had gently pushed them away, and stayed there, very still, until the psalm was over, and then stood up again, quite calm but with the tears still wet on her face, remembering with a dreadful vividness the small boy who had pinned his party invitations on his wall and ridden his pony with style and grace and the young man who had taken her to live with him in the little house in First Street and taken her about London with him as if she was a pretty young girl.
Afterwards at the house she talked to Susan, who was looking dreadful, white and drawn. ‘I feel so bad, Letitita, I loved him so much, and he never knew.’
‘Oh, much better he didn’t,’ said Letitia briskly, with a touch of a smile. ‘He would only have tried to seduce you again if he had. You were much more value to him as a friend, and to Phaedria too.’
‘I’m afraid I was no value to her at all,’ said Susan, looking at Phaedria who was standing and struggling to talk to a large crowd of people. ‘I was so much on Roz’s side, and of course I still am, somebody has to be, but I think I was wrong about her, she seems genuinely wretched, and I feel bad about that too.’
‘Oh, but she didn’t know,’ said Letitia. ‘She always said how nice you were. Although you frightened her. As you do all of us,’ she added with another half smile. ‘Susan, I think I will go upstairs now and lie down, I’m feeling very tired. Come up and see me later.’
Susan watched her walk out of the room, slowly, very erect, and thought she had never seen courage so simply displayed.
Eliza was very upset too; white and shaken, leaning on Peveril’s arm, very quiet, only speaking when someone asked her a question. David Sassoon, standing apart from the crowd, looking out for Roz’s car, wondering where she had gone and what he could do to help, looked at Eliza thoughtfully. She had obviously felt a great deal for the old bastard, probably without realizing it, for all her protestations of dislike and bitterness; he wondered whether Julian had ever realized it, and how he had really felt about her.
Roz had never returned to Marriotts that day; she had driven back to London and locked herself in her bedroom in the house at Cheyne Walk, only to emerge the following morning, dry-eyed, perfectly dressed, and thrown a tantrum because her driver was not available to take her to the office, being rather fully occupied ferrying the funeral guests to the airport. From then she had acted perfectly normally; someone, she said, had to keep the company going, and it looked as if it was going to be her. If anyone had proffered sympathy she had given them a terse nod, otherwise she had not mentioned her father’s death at all.
Until the reading of the will. That had taken place two weeks after the funeral; it drew the family together in a white heat of emotion and tension, and then tossed them apart again as if they were so many rag dolls.
Remembering the events of that day: of Camilla, arrived so bravely to confront them, summoned by Julian from wherever he might now be, of Roz, so powerfully, fearsomely angry and hurt, of Phaedria, so freshly wounded, so suddenly frail, her quiet secret suddenly, harshly public, half comfort, half added burden fragmented into noise and rage, Letitia wondered with a mixture of horror and fascination at the cruelty of her son. In a way she was almost glad; it eased her grief, gave her something else to focus on, and besides being angry with him, being ashamed of him was oddly healing.
And so she lay pushing her sorrow away; refused to cry; worried instead about Roz and what was to happen to her now, without her father, the only real love of her life, the reason for everything she did; and about Phaedria and how she was going to cope with the new, shocking piece of treachery that was Miles, and wondering, as they all were, who and where Miles Wilburn was, and what he could possibly mean to Julian that he should inflict such pain and trauma on his family.
A few days later she felt a little better; she invited Susan to supper, weary of her own thoughts, anxious to share them and to discuss the situation with her.
‘If Julian were to walk in now,’ she said to her, ‘I would be so angry with him I don’t quite know what I might do.’
‘I wish he would,’ said Susan, smiling at her, encouraged by her return to her old spiritedness, ‘then we could grill him about Miles Wilburn and make him tell us who he is. Oh God, Letitia, trust Julian to manipulate people even when he’s dead. How could he do it? To us all, but to Roz and Phaedria in particular. When he was supposed to love them so much and find their feud so distressing.’
‘Well, he did little to ease it,’ said Letitia briskly. ‘Poor things. I really don’t know which of them I feel more sorry for.’
‘Oh, I do,’ said Susan. ‘Roz of course. Without a doubt. Phaedria never expected to get the company. Roz has spent her entire life waiting, and hoping for it. Now she has to battle it out not only with the woman she hates most in the world, but with some unknown man who her father obviously had a lot of time for. It’s terribly hard.’
‘I suppose so,’ said Letitia. ‘But it must be very hurtful for Phaedria too. She was his wife, she could have been supposed to know everything about him. This is a very public slap in the face for her. Good God, Susan, whatever could have possessed him to do it?’
‘Whatever it was that possessed him to do most things,’ said Susan. ‘Oh, Letitia, don’t look like that. I know what you’re thinking, that it was your fault. It wasn’t, Letitia, it really wasn’t. Please stop blaming yourself about it.’
Letitia sighed. ‘I can’t help it, Susan. I feel to blame.’
‘Well, you’re very silly. Very very silly. And I’m sure there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for all this.’
‘It’s going to be extremely exciting, it must be said,’ said Letitia. ‘Julian has certainly managed to make the last act of his life a very high drama. Poor Henry Winterbourne will never be the same again. I really found it very difficult not to laugh, when he was trying to look as if what was going on was perfectly normal legal procedure. But anyway, not only does Miles have to be found, but either Roz or Phaedria has to win him over. I hope he’s a strong character. For all our sakes.’
‘So do I. Now tell me, Letitia, in your capacity as family sage, who do you think might win that battle? If it ever gets fought?’
‘In my position as family sage,’ said Letitia very slowly, with an odd rather mysterious little smile, ‘I think I’d put my money on Phaedria.’
Chapter Twenty
London, 1985
PHAEDRIA MORELL WAS not behaving quite as a widow should. Well, not a grieving widow, at any rate, as Henry Winterbourne, amused and slightly shocked, remarked to his wife Caroline the day after the will had been read.
He – all of them – had expected a long period of mourning, of grief, a tacit withdrawal from the battleground that Julian had so unequivocally created. Especially in the light of her pregnancy – which she had confirmed to Henry with a cool, even amused look as he inquired after her health: ‘I am indeed, as some of you, I imagine, must have guessed, going to have a baby.’
Nobody had thoug
ht they would see very much of her at all for weeks – had assumed she would stay at home, safe from conflict, from attention, from all the attendant scandal and surmise that the will would surely create – nurturing herself and her child, and coming to terms with her loss.
But at ten o’clock the next morning, there she was in Henry’s office, a little pale to be sure, but beautifully dressed in a stinging pink wool crepe dress, her hair caught back with the seed pearl and coral combs Julian had had made for her as a souvenir of their honeymoon, and a pair of very high-heeled, pink suede shoes that Henry could only categorize to himself as flighty.
She had her briefcase with her, and she had sat down in the big chair opposite Henry’s desk, looked at him with an expression that was cheerful and determined in equal measures, and told him that there was a great deal of talking to be got through and work to be done.
‘I want to find this person, Henry, this Miles Wilburn, and I want to find him quickly. The situation until we do will clearly be intolerable. In fact I would go so far as to say,’ she added, with the hint of a smile and of conspiracy in her eyes, ‘I am anxious to find him before – well, shall we say before anyone else does.’
He returned her look steadily. ‘I do understand exactly what you are saying, Phaedria. Unfortunately, much as I would like to help you, I don’t think I can enter into any kind of an exclusive search on your behalf. I am the Morell family’s solicitor and have been for many years. It would be extremely difficult, unethical even, for me to report solely to you.’
‘Oh, of course,’ said Phaedria, ‘I understand that, Henry; I merely thought that if you could begin to instigate some searches, and report to us all, naturally, on those, you might be able to suggest someone who could work with me a little later on. I know how busy you are, and I wouldn’t dream of making too many demands on your time. Of course confidentiality is essential; we can not, simply cannot, have this thing made public. And it is a pressing matter, as you must agree; there is a large and complex company to run, and trying to do so will be virtually impossible while Roz and I have these absolutely equal shares in it. We don’t always see completely eye to eye, as you may have heard.’
‘Well, yes, I had heard some reports to that effect,’ said Henry, smiling his charmingly benign smile at her, ‘and I can see there would be considerable difficulties. But – well, forgive me, Phaedria, for being so frank – are you actually planning to become involved in the company and its day to day administration straight away?’
‘I am,’ she said, coolly, opening her briefcase. ‘Absolutely straight away. I have a meeting with Freddy Branksome and Richard Brookes this afternoon. There is clearly a great deal I need to learn and know, and the sooner I begin the better. Now I can see all the thoughts racing through your head, Henry, and let me put them into nice neat order for you. First of all, I have no intention of sitting in the house in Regent’s Park in widow’s weeds and grieving over Julian’s death for weeks, months on end. He was the most remarkable man, which was probably the main reason I loved and married him, and I intend to show my appreciation and my respect for that by keeping the company running as successfully and dynamically as it did when he was alive. Of course I won’t succeed altogether, but I am going to have a very good try. That also of course pre-empts any notion anyone might have had that I was going to spend the next six months or so knitting layettes and kitting out a nursery. This baby is going to be part of the Morell empire from day one, and if that means I have to give birth in the boardroom, then I will. I also – and this is in the strictest confidence, Henry, and you can forget I said it, if it makes you uncomfortable – I also intend to get a proper control over the company; it’s the only way I’m going to be able to work. Which means, of course, finding Mr Wilburn and enlisting his support. Quickly. Which is where you came in. Does that make my position clearer? I hope so, it’s important.’
‘It does,’ said Henry, ‘and I am filled with admiration for you. Although not envy.’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Phaedria briskly. ‘I think it’s nice that I’ve got so much to do, and think about. Nothing like a bit of adrenaline surging through the system to keep one going.’
Henry looked at her concernedly. ‘Phaedria, as a friend, rather than a lawyer, don’t take on too much. You really don’t look very well. Do you feel all right?’
‘No, I feel dreadful,’ said Phaedria cheerfully. ‘I feel terrible in the morning and worse still in the afternoon. As for the evenings, well, they don’t bear thinking about. But I don’t think that’s going to improve with sitting about and moping either. Do you? What did Caroline do when she was pregnant?’
‘As little as possible,’ said Henry. ‘And loved every minute of it. I think that’s why we have five children.’
Phaedria smiled. ‘Well, I don’t expect I shall have more than one. So I’ll just have to get it right first time round.’
‘Yes,’ he said, the poignancy of her situation suddenly and sharply brought home to him. ‘Yes, and I’m sure you will.’
She sighed. ‘I hope so. Anyway, until you can find me some private detective or something who can help me, let’s make a start now. What ideas do you have?’
‘Well, obviously we can – indeed have to – run searches. We are obliged to do that by law. In The Times and so on, and also of course in the Law Society Gazette. We can advertise. That will of course provide us with several Miles Wilburns, I would have thought, all claiming to be the true Christ, so to speak. But the trouble is we don’t know what we’re looking for. He might be old, or young, presentable or otherwise, he might live almost anywhere in the English-speaking world, we don’t know if he’s stupid or clever, honest or dishonest, black or white.’
‘I think,’ said Phaedria thoughtfully, ‘he’s unlikely to be stupid, at any rate. Julian wouldn’t leave the controlling share of his precious company to a moron. Quite presentable, I should think, for the same reason. I mean not sleeping under the arches, or on the beach. And I imagine he’d be fairly young. Otherwise his role in this charade would be pretty short lived. I guess he’ll be at least what my editor used to call working honest – honest enough, that means. But I agree after that we’re really in the dark. I suppose he’s most likely to be living either here or in the States. Wilburn sounds a bit more of an American name. ‘Can we advertise these as well, and in the other countries where we have sizeable interests and assets? You’ll have to advise me. Oh Henry, what an extraordinary thing it is. Tell me something, there can be no doubt I presume as to the legality of the will?’
‘Oh none at all.’ said Henry, ‘Witnessed by perfectly bona fide people, no one we know, but nonetheless genuine. Signed, dated last December. He didn’t use me to draw it up, as you know. He may even have done it himself. My first sight of it was when you sent it over. One of the oddest things of course was this insistence on it being read publicly. Specifying that all the beneficiaries had to be there. It’s extremely unusual these days. I really cannot understand it.’
‘Oh well,’ said Phaedria, ‘he always did have a great sense of theatre.’
She sighed and was silent for a moment, her eyes shadowy and distant. He was silent, realizing the pain and the humiliation the whole thing must be causing her, not knowing how to comfort her.
‘Well,’ she said, briskly, hauling herself back to the present and the room with obvious effort. ‘Perhaps the first thing is to try to find out who did draw it up for him. Maybe nobody did. Maybe he did it himself.’
‘He might have done. But it’s been typed. I don’t think he could do that.’
‘Oh,’ said Phaedria with a smile. ‘There is absolutely no knowing what Julian could and couldn’t do. I’m quite serious. Letitia might know. I’ll ask her.’
‘How is she coping with all this? She looked very fragile yesterday, I thought.’
‘Yes, these few weeks have been the first time I’ve seen her looking anything like her proper age. She didn’t have to come, of course,
but she said wild horses wouldn’t have kept her away. I hope I’m even half as splendid at eighty-seven.’
‘Oh, I think you will be,’ said Henry. ‘In fact I have absolutely no doubt about it whatsoever.’
‘Thank you. I need lots of that, Henry, lots of flattery.’
‘Then,’ he said, ‘I shall take you out to lunch at least once a week and flatter you solidly for two hours. How’s that?’
‘Oh,’ she said, smiling, ‘I don’t think I shall be able to spare quite that much time, but certainly a little on a regular basis would be very welcome.’
‘The witnesses don’t help at all, either. Nobody we’ve ever heard of. Mary Unwin and David Potter, indeed. Sounds as if he made them up.’
‘He probably did,’ said Phaedria, laughing, ‘which would make the whole thing null and void, I suppose?’
‘Yes, it would. But that wouldn’t help you at all, would it?’
‘Not really, no. Is it worth trying to track them down, though? They might at least be able to tell us when they signed the bloody thing.’
‘Oh, I think so, yes,’ said Henry, ‘it would be enormously helpful. I will give that some thought, Phaedria, but the more I look at this whole thing, the more I think you need a private detective agency working for you. A really good one. I’ll make a few preliminary inquiries, and you can get things rolling straight away.’
‘Yes,’ said Phaedria, ‘that would be very helpful. Thank you. Although I have a nasty feeling that at least one of the really good ones may already be in the employ of Mrs Emerson.’
‘I want this person found,’ said Roz, fixing Andrew Blackworth with a steely gaze, ‘and I want him found quickly.’
Andrew Blackworth was not too much as she had imagined; he was not sleek and sharp looking, he was about forty-five years old, short, rotund, and rather learned-seeming. She liked everything about him.
Old Sins Page 78