Simon did not reply, but instead busied himself with unpacking his few possessions from his holdall.
“Is it okay if we go down to the house in Dorset tomorrow?” she continued into the silence. “I need a bit of time to think some stuff over. I have to come back to London for the launch of the memorial fund on Thursday, but we could do a day trip, couldn’t we?”
“Of course. Whatever you’d prefer.”
Zoe got the strongest feeling that her presence was not required. “Well, I’ll leave you to it then. Come down for a cup of coffee when you’ve finished your work.”
“Thanks.”
Zoe shut Simon’s door behind her, feeling deflated. She wandered down the stairs toward the yummy aroma wafting from the kitchen. She poured herself a glass of wine out of the bottle she’d chosen earlier from the vintage collection in the cellar and sat down at the table.
She’d been filled with such manic energy all day, running around the house tidying up, shopping at Berwick Street market to get fresh ingredients for supper, and coming home with armfuls of flowers to let spring inside.
She groaned, as realization hit her properly for the first time. Her actions today had been those of a woman excited by the thought of seeing a man she really liked tonight . . .
Simon did not appear downstairs for a cup of coffee later that night. Zoe left most of the moussaka and Greek salad on the plate in front of her, preferring to drown her sorrows with the excellent bottle of wine.
Art called her at ten, telling her he loved her and missed her, reminding her that she was to face her first public outing with him in a week’s time and should do something about a dress—which shouldn’t be all that “revealing,” as he put it—which only aggravated her tension further. She tersely wished him good night and took herself off to bed.
Lying sleepless, she berated herself for allowing her imagination to run riot about Simon, just as she had done with Art for all those years. She’d thought Simon cared for her, thought she’d felt his warmth during all the time they’d spent together. But tonight he’d been cold, distant . . . made it obvious he was here to do his job and nothing more. Tears of frustration fell down her cheeks as she realized for certain that it was not the love of her life she longed for beside her, but the man sleeping only a few feet from her in his upstairs bedroom.
The journey down to Dorset the following day was conducted in virtual silence. Zoe, hungover and tense, sat in the backseat trying to both concentrate on the film script of Blithe Spirit and make a decision.
Having stopped off for supplies at the supermarket in Blandford Forum, they drove to Haycroft House. After Simon had carried in her holdall and the shopping, he asked her curtly if there was anything else she required, then disappeared upstairs to his bedroom.
At seven that evening, as she sat toying with an uninspired pork chop covered in lumpy gravy, Simon wandered into the kitchen.
“Mind if I make myself a coffee?”
“Of course not,” she replied. “There’s a pork chop and potatoes keeping warm in the Aga if you want them.”
“Thanks, Zoe, but there’s no reason for you to cook for me. It’s not your responsibility, so really don’t bother in future.”
“Come on, Simon, you’ve cooked for me. And I was cooking for myself anyway.”
“Well . . . thanks. I’ll take it upstairs, if that’s okay.”
Zoe watched him reach inside the range and retrieve the plate. “Have I done something wrong?” she asked him plaintively.
“No.”
“Are you sure? Because it feels like you’re trying to avoid me.”
He didn’t meet her eyes. “Not at all. I realize that it’s difficult enough having a stranger staying in your house and invading your privacy, without him foisting himself on you when you want some time alone.”
“You’re hardly a stranger, Simon. I regard you as a friend as much as anything. After what you did for Jamie, well . . . how could I not?”
“All in the line of duty, Zoe.” Simon put his coffee and his plate on a tray and headed toward the door. “You know where I am if you need me. Good night.” The kitchen door closed behind him.
Zoe moved her untouched meal to one side and laid her head on her arms. “All in the line of duty,” she muttered sadly.
* * *
“Good news. Our ‘messenger’ is still alive.”
“Have you found her?” Simon asked into his mobile, pacing across his bedroom floor.
“No, but we have located where she used to live. She moved several years ago when her husband died. There have been three owners since and the present ones don’t have a forwarding address. However, I reckon we’ll have tracked her down by tomorrow. Then we might be getting somewhere. I’ll want you to fly across to France, Warburton. I’ll be in touch as soon as we’ve pinpointed her whereabouts.”
“Right, sir.”
“I’ll call you in the morning. Good night.”
* * *
“Get your backside over to the South Bank. It’s the launch of the James Harrison memorial fund in the foyer of the National.”
“I know, Alec. I was going anyway, to support Zoe,” Joanna replied tensely.
“We’re running the interview you did with Marcus Harrison tomorrow, as a follow-up to his obituary. As you wrote the piece, you can cover the launch while you’re there.”
“Alec, please . . . I’d really prefer just to go as a friend. Of . . . both of them.”
“Come on, Jo.”
“Anyway, I thought my interview with Marcus had been canned. Why put it in now?”
“Because, sweetheart, the Harrison family has suddenly become newsworthy again. A shot of Zoe speaking in her dead brother’s place at the launch’ll look good on the front pages.”
“Jesus, Alec! Have you no heart?” Joanna shook her head in despair.
“Sorry, Jo, I know you’re grieving.” Alec softened his tone. “Surely you wouldn’t want anyone who didn’t know him to write this up, would you? Steve’ll come with you for the piccies. See you later.”
* * *
The foyer of the National Theatre was jam-packed with journalists and photographers, plus the odd television camera. It was a huge turnout for an event that would normally have warranted a handful of barely interested cub reporters.
Joanna grabbed a glass of Buck’s Fizz from a passing waiter and took a gulp. After her month in Yorkshire, she was unused to this mass of loud, effusive people. She saw Simon across the foyer. He gave her a small nod of acknowledgment.
“Thank God you’re here,” a voice breathed in her ear.
She turned, startled. It was Zoe, looking elegant in a turquoise dress.
“I didn’t realize this was going to be such a big thing,” Joanna said, after giving Zoe a hug.
“Me neither, and I don’t think any of them are here in Marcus’s or James’s memory—but rather hoping that you-know-who will show up.” Zoe wrinkled her nose in disgust. “Anyway, I’m doing it for my brother and grandfather.”
“Course you are, and at least I can write a lovely piece on Marcus and his passion for the memorial fund.”
“Thanks, Jo. That would be great. Wait for me and we can grab a drink afterward.”
As Zoe spoke to other members of the press, Joanna studied the photographs of Sir James Harrison that had been blown up and placed on boards around the foyer. There he was as Lear, in dramatic pose, hands reaching to the heavens, a heavy gold crown placed on his head.
Art imitating life, or life imitating art? she mused.
Amid the photographs hung a print of Marcus, Sir James, and Zoe standing together, at what must have been a movie premiere. Joanna fought the urge to trace her fingers over Marcus’s carefree expression, his gaze aimed confidently at the camera. She turned and saw an attractive woman of similar age to her standing no more than a few feet away from her. As their eyes met, the woman smiled at her, then moved away.
It was two o’clock before the l
ast journalist left Zoe alone. Joanna was sitting quietly in a corner of the empty foyer scribbling notes on the launch taken from Zoe’s short and emotional speech, and the press statement she’d been issued with.
“Was I okay? I was holding back the tears all the way through that speech.” Zoe sank down beside her on one of the purple seats.
“You were perfect. I reckon you and the memorial fund will get blanket coverage tomorrow.”
Zoe rolled her eyes. “All for a good cause at least.”
As they left the theater, Joanna noticed the woman she had seen earlier reading a pamphlet on forthcoming productions.
“Who is she?” Joanna asked as they strolled into the warm sunlight of a spring afternoon on the South Bank, the Thames sparkling beneath them.
Zoe turned to look. “No idea. A journalist probably.”
“I don’t recognize her. And few newspaper journalists I know wear expensive designer suits.”
“Just because you live in jeans and sweaters doesn’t mean others don’t make fashion a priority,” Zoe teased her. “Come on, let’s go and have a drink.”
Linking arms, they walked along the river and stopped at a wine bar. Zoe turned back to Simon, hovering a few yards behind them. “Girl talk, I’m afraid. We won’t be long.”
“I’ll be over there.” He pointed at a table as they entered.
“Wow,” Joanna murmured as they sat down at a table and ordered two glasses of wine. “Even though it’s Simon, being tailed all the time would drive me nuts.”
“See what I mean?” Zoe picked up a menu and hid behind it.
Joanna saw that every eye in the café had turned to stare at Zoe. She watched Simon walk to the back of the café and then disappear into the kitchen. “Where’s he going?”
“Oh, to check out an escape route just in case. He has a thing for back entrances. I mean . . .”
Both women giggled as two glasses of wine arrived with the attentive waiter.
“Seriously, Jo”—Zoe leaned forward—“I just don’t know whether I can do this. Anyway, cheers.”
“Cheers,” Joanna repeated.
It was past four o’clock by the time Joanna said goodbye to Zoe and took a bus back to the office.
“And what time do you call this?” Alec growled at her as she stepped out of the elevator.
“I got an exclusive with Zoe Harrison, Alec, okay?”
“Attagirl.”
As she sat down and turned on her screen, Alec handed her a small package.
“This arrived at reception for you today.”
“Oh. Thanks.” She took it from him and placed it by her keyboard.
“You going to open it then?” he asked.
“Yes, in a second. I want to get this piece typed up.” Joanna turned her attention to the screen.
“Looks like a small incendiary device to me.”
“What?!” She saw he was smiling, then gave a resigned sigh and handed it to him. “You open it then.”
“Sure?”
“Yes.”
Alec tore the flap of the parcel open, and pulled out a small box and a letter.
“Who’s it from?” Joanna continued typing. “Does it tick?”
“Not so far. The letter says, ‘Dear Joanna, I have been trying to contact you, but I didn’t have an address or telephone number. Then yesterday I saw your name under a story in my daily paper. Inside is the locket that your aunt Rose gave me last Christmas. I was having a bit of a spring clean and found it in a drawer. And I was thinking that this belongs to you rather than me, given as you got nothing from her. Could you let me know you received it safely? Pop round for a cuppa sometime. It would be nice to see you. Hope you found your aunt, God rest her soul. Best, Muriel Bateman.’ ”
Alec handed Joanna the box. “There you go. Want me to open it?”
“No, I can do it, thanks.”
Joanna took the lid off and removed the layer of protective cotton wool, revealing the gold locket with its delicate filigree pattern and thick, heavy rose-gold chain. Joanna took it carefully out of its box and laid the locket on her palm. “It’s beautiful.”
“Victorian, I’d guess.” Alec studied it. “Worth a bomb, especially that chain. So, this belonged to the mysterious Rose.”
“Apparently, yes.” Joanna fiddled with the clasp that would open the locket.
“If it’s anyone, my guess would be that there’s a picture of Sir James in there,” remarked Alec as Joanna’s fingertips finally managed to win the war of attrition.
Alec watched as she stared at whatever was inside. Her eyebrows puckered as her cheeks drained of color.
“Jo, you okay? What is it?”
When she finally raised her head to look at him, her hazel eyes shone in her pale face.
“I . . .” There was a catch in her throat as she tried to steady her voice. “I know, Alec. God help me, I know.”
38
“I’ve lost her, I’m afraid.”
Monica Burrows sat clicking her pen as if she had a nervous tic across the desk from Jenkins.
“Where? At what time?”
“I followed her home last night after work and in Kensington yesterday morning. She went inside her office building and, hey, just hasn’t reappeared.”
“She might have spent the night working on a story.”
“Sure, that’s what I thought, too, but this morning I went to reception and asked to see her. I was told she wasn’t in the building, but off sick.”
“Have you tried her apartment?”
“Of course, but it’s deserted. I don’t know how she got out, Mr. Jenkins, but she sure slipped the net somehow.”
“I don’t need to tell you that’s not good enough, Burrows. Write your report and I’ll be down as soon as I’ve spoken to my colleague.”
“Yes, sir. Sorry, Mr. Jenkins.”
Monica left the office and Lawrence Jenkins dialed for the top floor. “It’s Jenkins. The Haslam girl’s gone AWOL again. I put Burrows on her, seeing as you said it was a light surveillance job, and she lost her last night. Yes, sir, I’ll be up right away.”
* * *
Simon walked to the window of his bedroom under the eaves at Haycroft House and stared out at the garden below. Zoe was sitting in the rose arbor, a straw hat on her head, her lovely face tipped up to catch the sun. They’d arrived back from London late last night and Simon had gone straight up to his bedroom. He sighed heavily. The past few days had been bloody awful. Trapped with her twenty-four hours a day, the very nature of his job precluding any kind of escape or respite from the nearness of the woman he now knew he loved; yet she was untouchable. So, he’d done what he thought best to preserve his sanity and cut himself off, refusing all her kindnesses, loathing himself for the confusion and hurt he saw in her eyes.
His mobile vibrated in his pocket and he pulled it out. “Sir?”
“You heard from Haslam?”
“No. Why?”
“She’s on the missing list again. I thought you said she was off the scent.”
“She was, sir, really. Are you sure she’s missing on purpose? Her absence could be perfectly innocent.”
“Nothing about this situation is innocent, Warburton. When are you returning to London?”
“I’m driving Miss Harrison back from Dorset this afternoon.”
“Contact me as soon as you arrive.”
“Yes, sir. Any news on the ‘messenger’?”
“The house we’d tracked her down to was deserted. Gone away on a long holiday, the neighbors said. Either it’s a coincidence, or she’s on the move. We’re doing our best to locate her, but even these days, the world is a big place.”
“I see,” Simon answered, unable to keep the disappointment out of his voice.
“Haslam’s onto something, I know she is, Warburton. We’d better bloody well find out what it is.”
“Yes, sir.”
The phone went dead.
* * *
Joanna p
ut the menu down and glanced at her watch. The string quartet in the Palm Court tea room began to play the first dance. From the tables around her, elderly ladies and gentlemen, dressed in finery reminiscent of a more graceful age, stood up and took to the floor.
“Would madam like to order?”
“Yes. Afternoon tea for two, please.”
“Very good, madam.”
Joanna fiddled nervously with the locket round her neck, feeling uncomfortable in the summer dress she had bought with cash that morning in order to be allowed into the Waldorf’s famous tea room. She had positioned herself so she had a perfect uninterrupted view of the entrance. It was twenty past three. With every minute that ticked by, her confidence was waning, her heartbeat growing ever faster.
Half an hour later, the Earl Grey tea had grown cool in the shiny silver teapot. The edges of the cucumber-and-cream-cheese sandwiches, untouched on the fine bone-china plate, began to curl. At half past four, nerves and the fact that she’d drunk numerous cups of tea were making a trip to the lavatory an urgent necessity. The tea dance finished in half an hour. She had to hold out until then, just in case.
At five o’clock, after rousing applause for the musicians, the guests began to disperse. Joanna paid the bill, picked up her handbag, and headed for the ladies’. She straightened her hair, which she had rather inexpertly piled on top of her head with combs, and reapplied some lipstick.
Of course, she admitted to herself, it had been a ridiculous long shot. Grace Harrison was probably long dead and buried. And even if she wasn’t, the chances of her seeing the advertisement, or responding to it, were minuscule.
She was suddenly aware of a face behind her staring into the mirror. A face that, despite its age, still showed traces of a noble lineage. Gray hair immaculately coifed, makeup carefully applied.
“I hear tell the Knight once stayed at the Waldorf?” the woman said.
Joanna turned round slowly, gazed into the faded but intelligent green eyes, and nodded.
The Royal Secret Page 40
