The Royal Secret

by Lucinda Riley

“No, no,” she muttered to herself. “Just get the letter. Nearly there now, nearly there.”

  Her hands shaking so hard that the beam of the flashlight wavered erratically in front of her, Joanna located the kitchen door, opened it, and found herself in an entrance hall with the stairs before her. She mounted them slowly, hearing the storm reach its zenith outside. Each stair creaked and groaned beneath her weight. At the top, Joanna paused, her sense of direction paralyzed by fear, uncertain of which way to turn.

  “Think, Joanna, think . . . She said it was the room directly overlooking the cottage.” Getting her bearings, she turned left, walked down the corridor, and opened the door at the end of the passage.

  * * *

  “Damn it, Simon! Can you tell me what the hell is going on?” Marcus followed him to the car, parked outside, and slumped into the passenger seat.

  “We believed an . . . unsavory character named Ian Simpson had come across here after Joanna. We presumed you were him.”

  “For crying out loud, Simon, I know about Ian and I knew he was on her tail, that’s why I flew over here too! But don’t worry, Joanna’s gone home, she’s safe. Margaret at the hotel told me. I was just about to check out and follow her back to London when the officers picked me up.”

  “She didn’t depart from Cork Airport. I waited for her there and she never showed up for her flight.”

  “Christ!” Fear was written on Marcus’s face. “Do you know where she is? What if that bastard’s got her— Jesus, Simon, he’s an animal!”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll track her down. Look, I’ll drive you back to the hotel. I want to check Joanna’s room anyway.”

  “I’ve wasted all this time locked in the bloody police station, when I could have been looking for her! Those idiots had an entire cache of credit cards with my name on them and they still wouldn’t believe I was me!”

  “You also had Ian Simpson’s pen with his initials engraved on it by your bed.”

  “Jo left the pen at my apartment and all I did was pick it up! What a bloody mess.”

  “Apologies for the misunderstanding, Marcus. The most important thing now is to locate the real Ian Simpson, and Joanna.”

  Marcus shook his head in anguish as Simon parked in front of the hotel. “Christ knows where she is, but we have to find her before he does,” he said as the two of them entered the hotel.

  Panic crossed Margaret’s face as she saw Marcus. “Is he . . . safe?”

  “Perfectly.” Simon nodded. “A case of mistaken identity, nothing more. Could I have the keys to Miss Haslam’s room? We’re concerned for her. She didn’t get on the flight at Cork Airport this evening.”

  “Of course. I haven’t touched it yet, so. It’s been too busy in here.” Margaret handed Simon the key.

  “Thanks.”

  “I’ll come up with you,” Marcus said, as he bounded ahead of Simon up the stairs.

  Simon unlocked Joanna’s room and went about methodically checking the usual places, while Marcus began sweeping up objects haphazardly. Finding nothing, Marcus sat on the bed and put his head in his hands. “Come on, Jo, where are you?”

  Simon’s eyes caught the wastepaper basket. He emptied the contents onto the floor and fished out a tightly balled piece of paper. Flattening it out, he deciphered the text.

  “She’s gone to meet a woman,” Simon said, “in a pink cottage opposite the house in the bay.”

  “Who . . . where . . . ?”

  “Marcus, I’ll sort this out. You stay here, keep out of trouble, and I’ll see you later.”

  “Wait—” But before Marcus could finish, Simon was through the door and gone.

  Simon drove along the causeway to the estuary as Margaret had instructed, and found Ciara Deasy’s cottage, standing alone overlooking the sandbanks and the ominous black shape of the house in the bay. He jumped out of the car and walked toward the door.

  33

  Joanna stood in the room, as still as the walls around her. The room was bare, stripped by unknown hands of everything it had ever contained.

  She shone the flashlight onto the ground, looking at the thick wooden floorboards, and walked toward the window facing Ciara’s cottage. She crouched down, pulling at a floorboard with her hands. It crunched, then came free easily. Joanna gulped as she heard a sudden scratching, a patter of small paws scurrying away.

  Settling herself down on the floor, her fingers numb with cold, she pulled at another rotten board, which put up little resistance as the damp air filled with dust and wood splinters. As she shone her flashlight into the gap beneath, she saw the gleam of a rusted tin. She snatched it up, her shaking fingers straining to prise open the lid.

  Then she heard the footsteps outside the door. They were slow and measured, as if the owner of the feet was commanding them to move forward as quietly as they could. On instinct, Joanna dropped the tin back into its hiding place, switched off her flashlight, and froze. There was nowhere to hide, nowhere to run to. Her hands reached for a broken floorboard, her breathing coming in short, sharp gasps as she heard the door creak open.

  * * *

  Simon stepped inside the pink cottage and saw the sitting room was empty. The fire had died, leaving only a pile of glowing embers. He opened the latch door into the kitchen. There was an enamel sink with a pump above it and a pantry containing a collection of tinned vegetables, half a loaf of soda bread, some butter, and cheese.

  The back door took him outside to a lavatory. Simon walked back through the sitting room and mounted the stairs. The door at the top was shut. He tapped on it gently, fearful of frightening the old lady out of her wits if she was asleep. He tapped louder, considering she might be deaf. Still there was no reply. Simon pulled up the latch and opened the door. The room was in darkness.

  “Miss Deasy?” he whispered into the ether. He felt for the flashlight in his pocket and switched it on. Seeing there was a shape in the bed, Simon walked toward it, leaned over, and shone the flashlight onto the face. The mouth was open and slack, and a pair of green eyes stared unblinkingly back at him.

  Simon found a light switch and turned it on, his heart heavy with dread. Checking for signs of bruising or a wound on the body, he found none, but the terror—fixed for eternity in the eyes—told Simon its own story. This was not death by natural causes, but the work of an expert.

  * * *

  Joanna heard the feet enter the room. It was pitch-black, but by the heaviness of the tread, she knew it was a man who was approaching her. A beam of light shone suddenly and brightly into her eyes. She raised the floorboard and swung at the air in front of her.

  “Whoa! Lucy?”

  The feet came toward her, the flashlight burning into her retinas. She swung again.

  “Please! Stop! Stop! Lucy, it’s me, it’s Kurt. Calm down, I won’t hurt you, honest.”

  It took a while for her brain to break through the blinding fear and recognize that, yes, this was a voice she knew. Her hands shaking violently, she dropped the floorboard, and lifted her own flashlight to shine the light on his face.

  “Wh-what are you doing . . . h-here?” She was shivering, her teeth chattering from fear and cold.

  “I’m sorry to have startled you, honey. I was just concerned about you, that’s all. You seemed . . . a little jumpy when I saw you earlier. So I followed you down here to make sure you were okay.”

  “You followed me?”

  “Jeez, Lu, you’re soaked. You’re gonna catch your death. Here.” Kurt placed his flashlight on the floor, then reached into a pocket and took out a flask. “Drink some of this.” He stepped forward, then seized the back of her head suddenly and forced the flask to her lips. She pursed her mouth to stop the disgusting liquid from entering, and it splashed down her shirt.

  “Come on, Lu,” Kurt encouraged. “It’s just a little poteen. It’ll warm you.”

  With his flashlight now on the floor, and her own lowered by her side, her eyes adjusted to the shadows and traced a path to the do
or. “Sorry, I’m not good with hard liquor.” She forced a shaky laugh, and angled her body to where the door stood open, but he had her cornered. “What are you doing here?”

  He retrieved his flashlight and his teeth looked suddenly sharp and white as the beam flashed briefly across his face. “I told you—I was real worried about you. And I could ask you the same question. Just what are you doing in an abandoned house in the middle of the night?”

  “It’s a long story. Why don’t we head back outside and I’ll explain when we get to the hotel?”

  “You’re searching for something you think is here, right?” Kurt shone his flashlight across the uprooted floorboards. “Buried treasure?”

  “Yes, that’s it, but I haven’t found any yet. It could be under any of them.” Joanna indicated the floorboards.

  “Fine, then why don’t I help you? And then we’re out of here and back to the nearest fire before you catch your death.”

  Joanna turned exit strategies over in her mind. He was too tall, too broad, for her to physically take him on. All she had on her side was that he wouldn’t see it coming. “Okay . . . I’ll continue at my end, you can start over there.” She nodded to the far end of the room, away from where the rusted tin lay in its hiding place close to her feet.

  “Then we’ll meet in the goddamned middle,” he laughed.

  As he bent down to pull up floorboards, she bent too and surreptitiously nudged the tin further under the still-remaining boards.

  “I have zip so far. You find anything yet?” he called.

  “No. Let’s leave it and head back,” she shouted to him, trying to make herself heard above the screaming wind. The house felt as though it was being shaken at its very foundations by the battering it was taking.

  “Nah, we’re here now, might as well see it through. I’m done on my side, I’ll help you on yours.”

  “No, I’m almost done too—”

  But he was already at her side, rummaging among the broken floorboards. He emerged with the tin, his eyes slanted in a knowing look.

  “Well, looky here, Jo,” he crowed. His large hands gripped the tin and popped open the lid with little effort. An envelope fluttered out and onto the floor.

  “Wait . . . ,” she said.

  “I’ll keep it safe for you, Jo.”

  “No, I . . .”

  With mounting horror, she realized that he had used her real name. She watched as Kurt tucked the letter into a pocket of his waterproof, zipping it shut.

  “Well, that was easier than expected.” He smirked and moved toward her. She stumbled back, struggling not to trip over the holes in the floor. “Let’s stop playing, Jo,” he said, his voice holding no trace of its former American warmth.

  In the near darkness, his features were carved in shadow, his body solid and forbidding. She found her footing, her body tense, her heart beating rapidly.

  “What game is it?” She smiled at him as confidently as she could. “Here, I found something else too. Look down there.” She pointed her flashlight into the space beneath the floorboards. As he turned from her to follow the beam, Joanna launched her full weight onto him, her hands shoving him forward.

  With a grunt of surprise, he lost his footing and stumbled, but his fall was broken by the wall. Recovering himself, he turned back to her, and she rammed a punishing knee into his crotch.

  “Aargh! You bitch!” he groaned, doubling over.

  She was running toward the door, realizing she’d dropped her flashlight and was unable to see anything, when he caught her ankle and sent her down. As she hesitated to recover her bearings, a pair of arms grabbed her from behind, tightening in a viselike grip around her waist. Kicking and screaming, she was dragged along until one hard shove sent her toppling down some stairs into the darkness below.

  * * *

  Simon stood outside the cottage, still nauseated from what he’d discovered upstairs. The wind was wailing like a banshee in his ears, the rain driving into his face.

  “Joanna, for God’s sake, where are you?” he screamed into the wind.

  Above its wailing came another sound. A woman was screaming in terror or agony, he couldn’t decipher which. As the moon appeared from behind a fast-scudding cloud, Simon glanced at the big house out alone in the estuary, the tops of waves around it frothing and dancing with wind-whipped foam. The screaming was coming from inside the house. Seeing that the water in front of him was too deep to wade across, he raced back to his car and turned on the engine.

  * * *

  Joanna came to with a moan of pain, revived by the rain splattering on her face. Her brain felt wrapped in thick fog and through her blurred vision the moon above her was a shifting, snowy sky-island. She raised herself up, forcing her brain to recover her bearings. She realized she was lying outside the front door of the house. She breathed in and felt an excruciating pain in her left-hand side as she did so. A cry escaped her as she fell back on the rough gravel, another dizzy spell threatening to rob her of consciousness. Immediately, hands grabbed her under the shoulders and someone began to drag her across the gravel.

  “What . . . ? Stop . . . please . . .” She fought and kicked against the ground, but she had little strength left and the iron grip was unbreakable.

  “You silly little girl! Thought you were so damned clever, didn’t you?!”

  Ahead of her, she could see the rough steps leading down into the estuary. The water was already lapping against the top stair.

  “Who are you? Let me go!”

  “No can do, babe,” Kurt laughed.

  He dropped her on the cold, hard stone slabs by the water’s edge. Turning her facedown and pinning her arms roughly behind her back, he pushed her down and angled her so her head and shoulders hung over the water. Her terrified eyes looked straight down into the angry waves just below her. The tide had risen, and the water rippled with the strong current.

  “Do you know how much trouble you’ve caused everyone? Do you?” He yanked her head back by her hair until she felt her neck might break.

  “Who are you working for?” she gasped. “What do you—”

  She barely managed to snatch in a painful breath before her face was submerged in the icy-cold water. She fought to release her arms, but her lungs had nothing left. Bright lights exploded in front of her vision as she had no further energy to struggle.

  Then, just as her last shred of consciousness was about to leave her, the grip on her head was removed abruptly. Joanna came up for air, gasping and spluttering as she rolled away unhindered from the water’s edge. As she sucked in huge gulps of air, she saw Kurt staring up at the house behind them as if in a trance.

  “Who is it?” he shouted. “Who’s there?”

  Joanna’s brain vaguely registered a distant high-pitched sound alongside that of her own ragged breathing and the water swirling beneath her in the gale.

  Kurt put his hands to his ears and began shaking his head. “Stop the noise! Stop it!” He keeled over to one side, screaming in agony, his hands still over his ears.

  This was her chance for escape. But the letter . . .

  Leave it, a voice told her, leave it and run.

  Staggering upright on the wet, slippery stone, the agonizing pain in her side ripping through her, Joanna realized her only path to safety was through the water beneath her. If she could swim to the estuary wall and climb over it, she had a chance. With her lungs still screaming for oxygen, and every breath excruciating, she plunged into the icy-cold water. She went under from shock and to her relief found a solid base beneath her. The water was up to her neck, but at least she could wade across, rather than swim.

  Come on, Jo, come on! You can do it, she told herself as further dizziness and nausea heralded a blackout. She turned round to check whether Kurt had noticed her leaving, and it was then she saw the figure, in the upstairs bedroom of the house, arms outstretched, as if beckoning Joanna to her. She blinked and shook her head, sure it was just another trick of her oxygen-starve
d brain. But the figure was still there when she opened her eyes. The figure nodded, then turned and receded from the window.

  As Joanna forced her legs forward, she noticed that the storm’s ferocity had suddenly died down. The water around her had calmed and in place of the howling wind, there was an eerie silence. She dragged herself through the water, heartened that the estuary wall was getting closer.

  Come on, Jo, nearly there now, nearly there . . .

  A sudden splash behind her alerted her to company and she forced her body to wade forward faster.

  A few feet now, just a few feet . . .

  “JOANNA!”

  There was a familiar voice shouting her name. She stopped for an instant, listening. Then a body launched itself on top of her and she went under once more. Her lungs took in cold, salty water as she struggled for air.

  I have nothing left . . .

  Under the water, her body jerked and shuddered, then she struggled no more.

  * * *

  When Simon had left fifteen minutes ago, Marcus had made his way down to the bar. He’d necked a double whiskey and glanced at his mobile for the umpteenth time, willing it to ring.

  He should have forced Simon to take him along. If anything happened to Jo, he’d wring Simon’s neck with his own bare hands.

  The barmaid glanced at him sympathetically, indicating the windows, completely obscured by pounding rain. “Your man’s mad to go out on a night like this. ’Twas only a month ago that someone ended up in the estuary in a storm.” She shook her head. “Fancy another?”

  “Make it a double. Thanks.”

  “And what business has your man got with crazy Ciara?” came a voice from a table behind him.

  “Excuse me?” Marcus turned to look at the old man, who was nursing his stout beneath a thick moustache.

  “Saw his car going off down the causeway toward the Deasy girl’s cottage—what’s he want with her? She’s best left alone.”