by Erica James
‘Now start at the beginning and tell me what it is that’s reduced you to this state of . . . ’ he wanted to say paranoia, but settled on, ‘alarm.’
Her voice low, as though she feared Miss Casey was hovering outside with her ear pressed to the door, she said: ‘It was your father who ran Hope over. It was dark and raining and he swears he did no such thing, that what he hit was a deer. But I know what I saw. I was in the car with him.’
Ralph couldn’t believe his ears. His first thought was that Julia was quite mad, that his father had pushed her over the edge. But then he remembered the cold-blooded manner in which his father had informed him of Hope’s accident. He had implied Hope had brought the accident on herself by being careless.
No, thought Ralph, Julia wasn’t mad; she was speaking the truth. If anyone was mad, it was Arthur Devereux.
‘Have you told anyone?’ he asked. ‘Like the police?’
‘Yes. But not the police. I wanted to, to explain it was a terrible accident, but your father said if I so much as breathed a word of it to them, he’d say it was me driving and I’d go to prison and never see Charles again. And who would believe my word against his?’
‘So who have you told?’
‘I caught the bus in the village and went to the hospital, even though she’s still unconscious. I told Hope. If she could hear what I was saying, I wanted her to know the truth.’
‘Bloody hell, of all the people to tell! Why did you do that?’
‘I had to tell someone, the secret was too much for me to keep to myself. And there’s something else you should know; Arthur insisted a doctor from Harley Street came to see me. He claimed I was unwell, that I was suffering with a nervous disposition.’
That much was obvious, Ralph thought. But he kept quiet.
‘The pills the doctor gave me made me feel worse,’ she continued. ‘I felt so awful I couldn’t get out of bed. Which I now think was the plan. But I stopped taking them, although I’ve been pretending that I am still.’ Her words tumbled out of her in a breathless rush, as though she couldn’t contain them a second longer.
Ralph knew his father was capable of many things, but drugging his wife to keep her captive – to keep her from talking to anyone – well, that was beyond anything he might have imagined.
But what was he thinking? If his father was capable of running over his own sister and not stop to help her, drugging his wife was small potatoes!
He was mulling this over when it occurred to Ralph that perhaps the reason his father had been in London for as long as he had was because he was having the car mended.
Another thought came to him. ‘What about Charles in all of this?’ he asked. ‘Does he have any idea what’s going on?’
‘It’s Charles I’m most worried about,’ Julia said. ‘Arthur insisted that I was too unwell to make the journey to fetch him home from school and so he sent Miss Casey to bring him back on the train. She’s trying to keep him away from me, saying I need to rest. But I don’t.’
Swallowing a large swig of whisky, Ralph contemplated everything Julia had told him. ‘We need a plan,’ he said thoughtfully.
‘You believe me, then?’
Frankly he didn’t think Julia had the cunning to come up with such a story. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘But what happens next depends on what you want to happen. If we tell the police the truth, all hell will break out. And worse still, with that scenario, if Hope dies, my father won’t hesitate to insist it was you driving, and you’ll go to prison. But if we’re clever we can find another—’
‘I just want Arthur to love me like he used to,’ she wailed, interrupting him. ‘He did once upon a time. I know he did.’
Ralph stared at her in astonishment. ‘You can’t mean that! You know what he’s capable of, and yet you still want to be married to him?’
‘But he’ll take Charles away from me. I can’t lose my son. He’s all I have.’
‘Julia, he’ll try to do that anyway. He might even have that doctor from Harley Street – if indeed he was any such thing – certify you as being off your rocker, and you’ll never see the light of day again, never mind your son. And to be honest, unless you do perform as though you’re fully in charge of your faculties, nobody will believe your story.’
The sternness of his voice instantly calmed her. ‘You really do believe me,’ she said quietly, more to herself than him.
She was right, he did. But perhaps that was because he was his father’s son and he could see a way to take full advantage of what Julia had shared with him. But he would have to find a way to ensure his stepmother and stepbrother didn’t suffer as a result of what he was prepared to do.
‘Julia, I want you to trust me,’ he said. ‘Can you do that?’
Wiping her eyes with the backs of her hands, she nodded.
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Meadow Lodge, Melstead St Mary
December 1962
Evelyn
In the early hours of Christmas Eve, and unable to sleep, Evelyn was downstairs in the semi-darkness of the kitchen, warming a saucepan of milk on the stove.
It was so cold in the kitchen she stood as close as she dared to the gas flame without running the risk of catching her dressing gown alight. The last time it had been this cold was back in 1947. The country had practically ground to a halt, with snow so deep the army had to be called out to clear it. There were fuel shortages too. It had been a miserable time, coming so soon after the war when rationing was still in place and people had hoped for life to be so much better. Pip and Em, who were only young, had thought it all a big adventure. Even sleeping under a weight of blankets and eiderdowns with a hot water bottle apiece had been a lark for them. ‘Snug as bugs in a rug,’ she would say when tucking them into bed at night.
Sleep, she thought. What wouldn’t she give to sleep the night through? Every night was the same. Including this one when, following a scant few hours of sleep and after listening to Kit gently snoring, and the grandfather clock in the hall striking first two o’clock, then three, she had given in and slipped quietly out of bed.
How much longer would this go on for? Would there ever be an end to the guilt and the gnawing fear that Kit himself would be sent a letter? In the days since they’d had lunch at Island House and she’d admitted to Kit that, along with Hope and Florence, she too had been sent anonymous letters, he had stood guard at the front door in anticipation of the postman’s arrival. With the flying school closed now until mid January, he was able to perform this duty three times a day for each delivery. She knew he was doing it to protect her from any further unpleasantness, but as he methodically sorted through the Christmas post, it terrified her that he would indeed find a third poison pen letter for her. Or worse, one for himself.
She would sooner die than have Kit’s happiness destroyed. Or that of the children. She thought of Pip and Em, home now and sleeping soundly in their beds upstairs, and felt a tremendous surge of protective love for them.
There had to be a way to find out who was behind the letters, and then stop them.
The milk now warm enough, she switched off the gas beneath the pan and filled the mug on the draining board.
‘Any chance of a drink for me too?’
‘Kit!’ she said, so startled the pan nearly slipped from her grasp. ‘I’m sorry, did I disturb you?’
‘Not really, I was having one of those annoying dreams that take you round in ever decreasing circles.’
‘I know exactly what you mean,’ she said, passing him the mug of warm milk she’d made for herself. She went over to the ancient refrigerator that was buzzing like an angry hornet and took out the opened bottle. While she heated more milk, Kit sat at the table.
‘It’s still snowing,’ he remarked.
‘Is it?’ She leaned over the sink, parted the cotton curtains with their pattern of lemons an
d oranges and peered into the darkness, cupping her hands around her eyes to block out what light there was in the kitchen. ‘You’re right,’ she said, turning away from the window. ‘No doubt about it being a white Christmas, then.’
He sipped his drink. ‘It’s not going to be a happy time this year, is it? Not with the way things are with Hope.’
Evelyn knew how desperately upset Kit was about his sister and looking at him in the shadowy light of the kitchen, she could see how his scarred face was ravaged by the gravest of concern.
‘Yes,’ she murmured, ‘it will be a low-key Christmas this time. I doubt anyone will be in the mood to celebrate very much. Are you sure you still want us to spend tomorrow with Romily?’
‘It would be rude to back out now,’ he said. ‘And Pip and Em always enjoy being with Romily. It will mean less work for you, too. Especially as you have so much on your mind.’
His comment brought her up short. ‘What do you mean?’ she asked, switching off the gas again and pouring the warmed milk into another mug. But it wasn’t until she was sitting at the table opposite Kit that he answered her.
‘I know receiving those awful letters must have been a terrible shock for you, but is there anything else troubling you?’
Her heart sank that he felt the need to ask her this. ‘Oh, you know what it’s like at this time of year,’ she said, ‘the end of the school term is always manic and it takes me a while to shake off the madness.’
He put down his mug and slid a hand across the table to her, palm upwards. It was his most badly burned hand, the one which didn’t lie flat and with his little finger melded to the one next to it. Such was the turmoil of her emotions, she could have wept at the sight of that vulnerably upturned palm. She covered it with her own. ‘You don’t need to worry about me,’ she said.
‘But I do. You know I can’t help worrying about you. Is it me? Have I done something?’
‘Why ever would you think that?’
The heartbreaking answer to her question showed in his eye. ‘Oh Kit, why, after all these years, do you have to doubt my love for you? What’s brought all this on? Is it Hope? Has her accident unsettled you?’
He shook his head. ‘It’s not Hope. It’s you, Evelyn. You haven’t been yourself for some time now. You’re awake most nights, aren’t you?’
‘I think I must be going through a phase of wakefulness,’ she said lightly. ‘Perhaps it’s my age.’
He withdrew his hand from hers and placed it around his mug. But clearly he hadn’t given up. ‘You’ve seemed preoccupied ever since the night of the party. Has it anything to do with that old friend of yours showing up?’
‘Which old friend? There were lots there who you’d dug up from way back when.’ Again her tone was light in a bid to hide her reaction to what he was now hinting at.
‘Max Blythe-Jones,’ Kit said flatly.
‘Well, it was certainly a surprise to see him after all this time. But he most assuredly hasn’t been on my mind since that night,’ she lied. ‘Far from it.’
‘He’s a good-looking man,’ Kit said. ‘Charismatic too. And he seemed inordinately pleased to see you again. I wouldn’t be surprised if he still carried a torch for you.’
‘Still?’ she repeated. ‘What makes you think he ever did?’
‘Just something he said to me. In fact, he said it several times at the party.’
‘And what was that?’
‘That I was a lucky man to have won the heart of such an exceptional woman.’
Furious with Max, Evelyn wanted to crash her fist down on the table. Instead she forced a smile to her lips. ‘He always was such a flatterer.’ She could have choked on the levity she was feigning. She hated the pretence, it was so dishonest.
‘I wouldn’t blame you,’ Kit said quietly. ‘I mean, he must have been good company back then when you knew him.’
‘He was. And yes, he’s still charming and handsome, but he’s nothing but a tomcat. He was back then, and he always will be!’ The volume of her voice had risen with exasperation. Just what did she have to do to prove to Kit that she loved him?
‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
His apology only added to her guilt and frustration. ‘Kit, you’ve done nothing wrong. It’s me. I’m just on edge knowing that there’s somebody out there sending people nasty notes accusing them of God knows what. Now drink your milk and let’s go back to bed, if only for a couple of hours.’
Disaster averted, she thought, with her conscience not so much pricked, as shredded. Averted for now, she then corrected herself as she gathered their empty mugs and put them in the sink.
Damn you, Max! she thought angrily. Why did our paths ever have to cross?
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Charing Cross Mansions, London
December 1962
Isabella
It was Christmas Eve morning, the fingers of a cold wintry dawn only just reaching through the curtains. They were both awake early and lying in bed with her head resting on Max’s chest, Isabella let out a long and very contented sigh.
‘I’m so glad our paths crossed that night at Rules,’ she said, dreamily.
‘Me too,’ he murmured. ‘And I’m glad you’re feeling so much better.’
‘I am, thanks to you and your sexy bedside manner.’ She giggled. ‘I shall have to call you Dr Max, from now on.’
His hand on her head, he stroked her hair. He had such gentle hands. ‘You can call me anything you want.’
When Max had deemed her well enough, he had explained what he had meant by wanting to discuss weightier matters with her. His words had both thrilled and scared her. She had never dated anyone too seriously before; her preference was always to keep things as brief and as superficial as possible. The thought of being with someone on a permanent basis who might interfere with her acting career, or put a stop to it, chilled her to the marrow.
When Max had declared his feelings for her, that he didn’t want an inconsequential fling with her, Isabella could not have been more surprised. But perhaps she shouldn’t have been; he had, after all, been so good to her when she’d been ill. Initially, while taking care of her, he had been the perfect gentleman and slept on the sofa at night, rather than leave her on her own. When she was over the worst, he slept in her bed with her. Fortunately her flatmate hadn’t bothered to return once the smog had cleared, claiming that since it was nearly Christmas, she would stay in the country with her parents and return in the new year.
What would Isabella and Max do then with a flatmate playing gooseberry? Would Max invite her to stay at his place?
Of greater concern to Isabella was her extended absence from the theatre, but the doctor who Max had insisted make a house call to see her had said she was in no fit state to work, let alone perform nightly on stage.
‘You may well regard yourself as a trooper, Miss Hartley,’ he’d told her, ‘but you’ll be of no use to anybody if you go down with pneumonia as a result of not following my instructions. Complete bed rest and plenty of fluids.’
After an awkward telephone conversation with the director of the play, it was agreed the understudy would continue standing in for Isabella until the new year.
Yesterday morning she had gone out for the first time in weeks to do her Christmas shopping. She had returned home exhausted, her body limp and clammy, her chest rattling like a battered tin with a couple of coins in it.
Her ear pressed to Max’s chest, Isabella listened to his heart thudding inside his ribcage. She lay like that for some time, thanking providence that they had met. Compared to her previous lovers, he was by far the most experienced and expert. He took his time, teasing her with his fingers and his mouth, keeping her deliciously on the brink before finally bringing her to climax. He seemed to care much more about her pleasure than his own, which heaven knew made a refreshing change.
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In the quiet still of her own company while Max was at work, she was plagued by a small but insistent voice: Was he too good to be true? What was he doing when he wasn’t with her? Who was he with? He rarely spoke of where he worked, or with whom he worked, just that he was a civil servant and worked in an office where nothing of any significance was done. But then come six forty-five, as regular as clockwork, he would appear with food to cook for her, and the doubts would vanish like steam on the bathroom mirror. Be happy for the moment, she would tell herself. And she was happy. Oh, she was blissfully happy! She was also, very much to her astonishment, most definitely in love.
‘What are you thinking?’ Max asked, his hand now stroking the nape of her neck.
‘How happy I am.’
‘What would make you happier?’
She raised her head and looked into his eyes. ‘Right now, I don’t think that’s possible.’
He smiled. ‘There must be something. Something I can do, or something I could give you?’
‘What about you? Could I give you something that would make you happier?’
He breathed in deeply so that his chest rose beneath her. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I want to spend Christmas Day with you.’
She was both pleased and disappointed. ‘But I’m going up to Suffolk this afternoon. It’s all arranged.’
‘I know that. But I don’t like the thought of you travelling alone on the train in this cold weather. You might have a relapse. Or far worse, the train might get stuck in a snowdrift and some heroic young man might come to your rescue and carry you off on his steed.’
She tapped his chin with a finger. ‘And what makes you think I’d allow a complete stranger to carry me off on his steed?’
‘You agreed to have dinner with a complete stranger the night we met.’
‘Hmmm . . . so I did. What could I have been thinking?’
‘And besides, you know perfectly well what I mean.’ He moved his head down and clamped his teeth lightly around her finger.