For Jeremy Trevathan
Author’s Note
I began writing The Love Letter in 1998 – exactly twenty years ago. After a number of successful published novels, I’d decided I wanted to write a thriller, within the setting of a fictional British royal family. At the time, the popularity of the monarchy was at an all-time low following the death of Diana, Princess of Wales. 2000 was also the Queen Mother’s centenary year, with the official nationwide celebration taking place just after the book was to be published. Looking back, perhaps I should have paid more attention when an early trade review suggested that St James’s Palace wouldn’t like the subject matter. In the run-up to publication, in-store promotions, orders and PR events were inexplicably cancelled and subsequently, Seeing Double – as the book was called then – barely saw the light of day.
My publisher then cancelled the contract for my next book, and despite knocking on numerous doors to find another, they were all closed in my face. At the time, it was devastating watching my career go up in smoke overnight. Luckily, I was newly married with a young family, so I concentrated on bringing up my children and wrote three books for my own pleasure. Looking back, the break was a blessing in disguise, but when my youngest started school, I knew I had to dig deep and find the courage to send my latest manuscript to an agent. I changed my surname to be on the safe side and after my years in the wilderness, was ecstatic when a publisher bought it.
A number of novels on, my publisher and I decided it was time Seeing Double was given a second chance. It is important to remember that The Love Letter is, to some extent, a period piece. If I were to set it in today’s world, the plotline would be totally implausible due to the advent of technology, especially in terms of the high-tech gadgetry now used by our security services.
Lastly, I wish to reiterate that The Love Letter IS a work of fiction, bearing no similarity to our beloved Queen and her family’s life. I hope you enjoy the ‘alternative’ version, IF it does manage to reach your hands this time …
Lucinda Riley
February 2018
Contents
King’s Gambit
Prologue: London, 20th November 1995
Besançon, France, 24th November 1995
1: London, 5th January 1996
2
3
4
The White Knight
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
Stalemate
14
15
16
17
18
19
Castling
20
21
22
23
24
The Isolated Pawn
25
26
27
28
29
Capture
30
31
32
33
Check
34: North Yorkshire, April 1996
35
36
37
38
39
Endgame
40
41
42
Pawn to Queen
43: La Paz, Mexico, June 1996
Epilogue: Los Angeles, September 2017
The Seven Sisters
1
2
King’s Gambit
Opening move wherein White offers a pawn to divert a Black pawn
Prologue
London, 20th November 1995
‘James, darling, what are you doing?’
He looked around him, disorientated, then staggered forward.
She caught him just before he fell. ‘You’ve been sleepwalking, haven’t you? Come on, let’s take you back to bed.’
The gentle voice of his granddaughter told him he was still on Earth. He knew he’d been standing here for a reason, that there was something urgent he must do that he’d been leaving right until the last moment …
But now it was gone. Desolate, he let her half carry him to his bed, loathing his wasted, fragile limbs that rendered him as helpless as a baby, and his scattered mind, which had once again betrayed him.
‘There now,’ she said as she made him comfortable. ‘How’s the pain? Would you like a little more morphine?’
‘No. Please, I …’
It was the morphine that was turning his brain to jelly. Tomorrow, he’d have none, and then he’d remember what it was he must do before he died.
‘Okay. You just relax and try to get some sleep,’ she soothed him, her hand stroking his forehead. ‘The doctor will be here soon.’
He knew he mustn’t go to sleep. He closed his eyes, desperately searching, searching … snatches of memories, faces …
Then he saw her, as clear as the day he’d first met her. So beautiful, so gentle …
‘Remember? The letter, my darling,’ she whispered to him. ‘You promised to return it …’
Of course!
He opened his eyes, trying to sit up, and saw the concerned face of his granddaughter hovering above him. And felt a painful prick in the inside of his elbow.
‘The doctor’s giving you something to calm you down, James, darling,’ she said.
No! No!
The words refused to form on his lips, and as the needle slipped into his arm, he knew that he’d left it too late.
‘I’m so sorry, so very sorry,’ he gasped.
His granddaughter watched as his eyelids finally closed and the tension left his body. She pressed her smooth cheek against his and found it wet with tears.
Besançon, France, 24th November 1995
She walked slowly into the drawing room towards the fire. It was cold today, and her cough was worse. Edging her frail body into a chair, she picked up the fresh copy of The Times from the table to read the obituaries with her customary English breakfast tea. She clattered the china cup into its saucer as she saw the headline taking up a third of the front page.
LIVING LEGEND IS DEAD
Sir James Harrison, thought by many to be the greatest actor of his generation, died yesterday at his London home, surrounded by his family. He was ninety-five. A private funeral will take place next week, followed by a memorial service in London in January.
Her heart clenched, and the newspaper shook so violently beneath her fingers she could hardly read the rest. Alongside the article was a picture of him with the Queen, receiving his OBE. Her tears blurring his image, she traced the contours of his strong profile, his thick mane of greying hair …
Could she … dare she return? Just one last time, to say goodbye … ?
As her morning tea cooled, undrunk beside her, she turned over the front page to continue reading, savouring the details of his life and career. Then her attention was caught by another small headline beneath:
RAVENS MISSING FROM TOWER
It was announced last night that the famous Tower of London ravens have vanished. As legend has it, the birds have been in residence for more than five hundred years, keeping guard over the Tower and the royal family, as decreed by Charles II. The raven keeper was alerted to their disappearance yesterday evening and a nationwide search is currently taking place.
‘Heaven help us all,’ she whispered, fear flooding through her old veins. Perhaps it was simply coincidence, but she knew the legend’s meaning all too well …
1
London, 5th January 1996
Joanna Haslam ran full pelt through Covent Garden, her breathing heavy and her lungs rattling with the effort. Dodging past tourists and groups of school children, she narrowly missed knocking over a busker,
her rucksack flying to one side behind her. She emerged onto Bedford Street just as a limousine drew up outside the wrought-iron gates that led to St Paul’s Church. Photographers surrounded the car as a chauffeur stepped out to open the back door.
Damn! Damn!
With her last iota of strength, Joanna sprinted the final few yards to the gates then into the paved courtyard beyond, the clock on the red-brick face of the church confirming she was late. As she neared the entrance, she cast her gaze over the huddle of paparazzi and saw that Steve, her photographer, was in prime position, perched on the steps. She waved at him and he gave her a thumbs-up sign as she squeezed through the crush of photographers who were crowding round the celebrity who had emerged from the limousine. Once inside the church itself, she could see the pews were packed, lit by the soft glow from the chandeliers hanging from the high ceiling. The organ was playing sombre music in the background.
After flashing her press card at the usher and digging for breath, she slipped into the back pew and sat down gratefully. Her shoulders rose and fell with each gasp as she fumbled in her rucksack for her notepad and pen.
Although the church was frosty cold, Joanna could feel beads of sweat on her forehead; the roll-neck of the black lambswool sweater she’d thrown on in her panic was now sticking uncomfortably to her skin. She took out a tissue and blew her streaming nose. Then, sweeping a hand through her tangled mass of long dark hair, she leant back against the pew and closed her eyes to catch her breath.
Just a few days into a new year that had begun with so much promise, Joanna felt as if she’d been not so much as chucked, but hurled off the top of the Empire State Building. At speed. Without warning.
Matthew … the love of her life – or rather, as of yesterday, the ex-love of her life – was the cause.
Joanna bit her bottom lip hard, willing herself not to start crying again, and craned her neck towards the pews at the front near the altar, noting with relief that the family members everyone was waiting for had not yet arrived. Glancing back through the main doors, she could see the paparazzi lighting up cigarettes and fiddling with their camera lenses outside. The mourners in front of her were beginning to shuffle on the uncomfortable wooden pews, whispering to their neighbours. She hastily scanned the crowd and picked out the most noteworthy celebrities to mention in her article, struggling to distinguish them from the backs of their heads, which were mostly grey or white. Scribbling the names down in her notepad, images of yesterday invaded her mind again …
Matthew had turned up unexpectedly on the doorstep of her Crouch End flat in the afternoon. After the heavy shared revelry of Christmas and New Year, the two of them had agreed to adjourn to their separate flats and have a quiet few days before work began again. Unfortunately, Joanna had spent that time nursing the nastiest cold she’d had in years. She’d opened the door to Matthew clutching her Winnie the Pooh hot-water bottle, clad in ancient thermal pyjamas and a pair of stripy bed socks.
She’d known immediately that there was something wrong as he’d hovered near the door, refusing to take his coat off, his eyes darting here and there, looking at anything but her …
He had then informed her that he had been ‘thinking’. That he couldn’t see their relationship going anywhere. And perhaps it was time to call it a day.
‘We’ve been together for six years now, since the end of uni,’ he’d said, fidgeting with the gloves she’d given him for Christmas. ‘I don’t know, I always thought that, with time, I’d want to marry you – you know, tie our lives together officially. But that moment hasn’t happened …’ He’d shrugged limply at her. ‘And if I don’t feel that way now, I can’t see that I ever will.’
Joanna’s hands had clenched around her hot-water bottle as she had regarded his guilty, guarded expression. Digging in her pyjama pocket, she’d found a damp tissue and blown her nose hard. Then she’d looked him straight in the eye.
‘Who is she?’
The blush had spread right across his face and neck. ‘I didn’t mean for it to happen,’ he’d mumbled, ‘but it has and I can’t go on pretending any longer.’
Joanna remembered the New Year’s Eve they’d shared four nights ago. And decided that he’d done a bloody good job of pretending.
She was called Samantha, apparently. Worked at the same advertising agency as he did. An account director, no less. It had begun the night Joanna had been doorstepping a Tory MP on a sleaze story and hadn’t made it in time to Matthew’s agency’s Christmas party. The word ‘cliché’ still whirled round her head. But then she checked herself; where did clichés originate, if not from the common denominators of human behaviour?
‘I promise you, I’ve tried so hard to stop thinking about Sam,’ Matthew had continued. ‘I really did try all throughout Christmas. It was so great to be with your family up in Yorkshire. But then I met her again last week, just for a quick drink and …’
Joanna was out. Samantha was in. It was as simple as that.
She could only stare at him, her eyes burning with shock, anger and fear, as he’d continued.
‘At first I thought it was just an infatuation. But it’s obvious that if I feel like this about another woman now, I simply can’t commit to you. So, I’m only doing what’s right.’ He’d looked at her, almost beseeching her to thank him for being so noble.
‘What’s right …’ she’d repeated, her voice hollow. Then she’d burst into floods of coldy, fever-induced tears. From somewhere far away, she could hear his voice mumbling more excuses. Forcing open her swollen, tear-drenched eyes, she’d regarded him as he’d sunk down, small and ashamed, into her worn leather armchair.
‘Get out,’ she’d finally croaked. ‘You evil, low-down, lying, double-crossing bloody cheat! Get out! Just get out!’
In retrospect, what had really mortified Joanna was that he’d taken no further persuading. He’d stood up, muttering stuff about various possessions that he’d left at her flat, and getting together for a chat once the dust had settled, then he’d virtually charged for the front door.
Joanna had spent the rest of yesterday evening crying down the phone to her mother, her best friend Simon’s voicemail and into the increasingly soggy fur of her Winnie the Pooh hot-water bottle.
Eventually, thanks to copious amounts of Night Nurse and brandy, she’d passed out, only grateful that she had the next couple of days off work in lieu of overtime she’d put in on the news desk before Christmas.
Then her mobile had rung at nine this morning. Joanna had raised herself from her drug-induced slumber and reached for it, praying it might be a devastated, repentant Matthew, realising the enormity of what he’d just done.
‘It’s me,’ a harsh Glaswegian voice had barked.
Joanna had sworn silently at the ceiling. ‘’Lo, Alec,’ she’d snuffled. ‘What do you want? I’m off today.’
‘Sorry, but you’re not. Alice, Richie and Bill have all called in sick. You’ll have to take your days in lieu another time.’
‘They can join the club.’ Joanna had given a loud, exaggerated cough down the line. ‘Sorry, Alec, but I’m dying too.’
‘Look at it this way: work today, then when you’re fit you’ll be able to enjoy the time off owing to you.’
‘No, I really can’t. I’ve got a temperature. I can hardly stand.’
‘Then you’ll be fine. It’s a sitting-down job, at the Actors’ Church in Covent Garden. There’s a memorial service for Sir James Harrison at ten o’clock.’
‘You can’t do this to me, Alec, please. The last thing I need is to sit in a draughty church. I’ve already caught my death. You’ll end up at a memorial service for me.’
‘Sorry, Jo, no choice. I’ll pay for a cab there and back, though. You can go straight home afterwards and email me the piece. Try and talk to Zoe Harrison, will you? I’ve sent Steve to do shots. Should make the front page if she’s all dolled up. Right, speak later.’
‘Damn!’ Joanna had thrown her aching head back onto
the pillow in despair. Then she’d rung a local taxi company, and staggered to her wardrobe to find a suitable black outfit.
Most of the time she loved her job, lived for it, as Matthew had often remarked, but this morning she seriously wondered why. After stints on a couple of regional papers, she’d been taken on as a junior reporter a year ago by the Morning Mail, based in London, and one of the top-selling national dailies in the country. However, her hard-won but lowly spot at the bottom of the pile meant she was hardly in a position to refuse. As Alec, the news-desk editor, never ceased to remind her, there were a thousand hungry young journalists right behind her. Her six weeks in the newsroom had been the hardest posting so far. The hours were unremitting and Alec – by turn a slave-driver and a true dedicated professional – expected nothing less than he was prepared to give himself.
‘Give me the lifestyle pages any day,’ she’d snuffled as she’d pulled on a not-terribly-clean black sweater, a thick pair of woolly tights and a black skirt in deference to the sombre occasion.
The cab had arrived ten minutes late, then had got stuck in a monumental traffic jam on Charing Cross Road. ‘Sorry, love, nothing doing,’ the driver had said. Joanna had looked at her watch, chucked a ten-pound note at him and jumped out of the cab. As she’d hared through the streets towards Covent Garden, her chest labouring and her nose streaming, she’d wondered whether life could get any worse.
Joanna was snapped out of her reverie as the congregation suddenly ceased their chatter. She opened her eyes and turned round as Sir James Harrison’s family members began to file into the church.
Leading the party was Charles Harrison, Sir James’s only child, now well into his sixties. He lived in Los Angeles, and was an acclaimed director of big-budget action films filled with special effects. She vaguely remembered that he had won an Oscar some time ago, but his films weren’t the kind she usually went to see.
The Love Letter Page 1
