The Love Letter

by Fiona Walker

  ‘Poppy says that you two have always been the future of Farcombe and I’ve just brought that down.’ His eyes were bright flares of anguish. ‘It’s true, you were going to go back to him and I stopped you.’

  ‘That,’ she started to kiss him with incredible tenderness – ‘was the bravest act of all your heroics.’ Tears of gratitude stole onto her cheeks. ‘It was the thing that really saved my life.’

  Sliding to the floor, they made love again in front of eight roaring fires and one long-suffering basset hound.

  By the third sunrise, they were both growing faint with hunger, the trendy Versace kitchen plundered of any edible contents. They’d lived off beans on toast and tom yum noodles for three days. Only Fink had eaten well, having discovered an unopened bag of dry dog food left unguarded in one corner, which he’d broken into and been gorging happily upon ever since in between voyeuristically observing all the sex taking place in his master’s tower.

  ‘We’ll go to the main house,’ Byrne told Legs. ‘Zina is a fantastic cook.’

  He went to fetch her bag from the abandoned car at long last, leaving her snoozing on the bed, unable to believe she had stumbled upon a haven of man and place that made her feel as though she was existing in a floating bubble that she never wanted to pop. With Francis it had been a prison; here she was in the clouds – literally. She watched the highest, tuftiest streaks of cirrus float by, shaped like seahorses.

  It vaguely occurred to her that she should call her parents and reply to the many messages on her phone. But Legs was floating in a guilt-free place for once, so the outside world felt unimportant.

  Then Byrne came back, loaded with unfamiliar women’s clothes.

  ‘Whose are those?’ Legs eyed them warily, noting a high percentage of coral.

  ‘Zina’s. Your car is no longer there.’

  ‘My car’s been stolen?’

  ‘Impounded.’

  ‘Since when did the Laois County Council put double yellows on a disused quarry?’

  ‘That’s pronounced “leesh” not “louse”, and it’s nothing to do with illegal parking, although they’re very strict on car dumping round here. That’s a popular beauty spot; I guess a local walker reported your car abandoned there, and when a check was run on the British numberplate, it came up red hot. You are wanted by the police.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘Something to do with a stolen painting?’

  ‘Shit!’ She covered her mouth in anguished recognition. ‘I drove off from Devon with the Protheroes’ Lucian Freud in my car boot.’

  ‘That’ll explain it,’ he said drily, ‘not to mention the family’s sapphire ring in the glove compartment. Dad knows the local Garda well, and managed to persuade them the car left all the way up there was nothing to do with the family here at Coolbaragh, but it won’t take a lot for them to add you and me together. They’ll be back first thing tomorrow at a guess.’

  ‘Technically, it’s Vin Keiller-Myles’ Freud,’ Legs breathed as she realised the full scale of the man hunt she was now unwittingly framed within, ‘or rather his fake Freud, but he obviously doesn’t know that yet. Hector smuggled it to Spywood to avoid the truth getting out; he gave it to my mother as a romantic gesture. He was probably too blootered to remember he did it in the first place. I meant to drop it back in the hall postbox the night I left, but I was so desperate to get away I didn’t stop. I’m guilty as charged.’

  ‘Then you have no choice.’ His dark eyes glowed.

  Legs nodded, terror gripping her. ‘I know. I have to turn myself in and explain exactly what happened.’

  ‘Are you crazy? Hector will frame you like that little painting if you do that. I always knew he was a crook. He didn’t give it to your mother as a love token, Legs. This is an insurance fiddle.’

  She gaped at him, ‘He wouldn’t do that to Mum.’

  ‘He’s a gambler who bets on loyalty. If he loses a wager, the innocent go down in flames.’

  ‘But Francis sold that painting, not his father.’

  ‘Your innocent old flame.’ He wrapped his arms around her. ‘Hector probably acted in a panic, I grant you, but then all the die turned up sixes for him.’

  ‘I don’t understand how you can still hate him so much.’

  ‘Trust me, I’m through with hating him,’ he sighed, resting his forehead against hers, lash-veiled eyes scanning between hers. ‘There’s a bigger gambler in play here, and he’s raised the stakes sky high.’

  ‘Who?’

  He cupped her face in his hand, looking away. ‘When you found that notebook proving that Hector couldn’t have been a part of the ring that brought down my father, I knew there had to be something I’d overlooked. It just didn’t add up. So many trails I followed in the past had led to Farcombe, apparently to Hector and his years as a heavy gambler. Then when I came back here, I looked again at everything I have on file and struck upon the truth. The trails didn’t lead to Hector. They led past him, to Vin Keiller-Myles.’

  ‘Vin?’

  He nodded, eyes on her again. ‘Vin was right at the centre of the most corrupt betting circle operating in the UK for almost a decade, but his businesses were so interwoven with Hector’s money and investments at the time, their lives running so parallel, it’s hard to pull the threads apart. He didn’t care if the finger got pointed at Hector; that was partly the point. Vin’s name was never brought into it. For all their old-poker-cronie camaraderie, they hate one another, as you know. Hector’s never forgiven Vin for taking his club; likewise Vin loathes Hector for stealing the love of his life. They’ve always looked for ways to out-gamble one another. Vin’s been badgering Hector to sell him the Freud for years, but knew Hector would never oblige because both men know it’s fake. But Francis didn’t know that, and he has the authority to sell estate assets. With Hector distracted, Vin finally succeeded in the hustle.’

  ‘What’s he planning to do? Have the painting authenticated and sue the Protheroes for misleading him?’

  ‘Something to that end. He has them in a financial noose. His main goal has always been the hall.’

  ‘Might he get it?’ she gasped.

  ‘Not if he’s threatened with evidence that could reveal him as a key figure in horseracing’s most corrupt years. The police would arrest him like a shot. If convicted, he’d miss at least twenty festivals.’

  ‘What are we waiting for? We must do it!’ She grabbed his arm delightedly.

  He stayed put. ‘You think I want to help Hector and Francis out of this tight spot?’

  ‘No, obviously not them.’ She tugged at his arm, desperate to launch into action like Julie Ocean and Jimmy, ‘but what about Poppy?’

  ‘She’s better off without them.’ He shook away her hand.

  Legs stepped back in shock, gazing anxiously at his lowered brows, that dark expression he wore when thinking and brooding, a portcullis of concentration.

  ‘But they want to arrest me!’ she whimpered, feeling suddenly very vulnerable. ‘What about me?’

  The arms came out again, and this time he enfolded her so tightly she was in no doubt that she was the right side of the defending drawbridge. ‘I’m going to look after you, never you fear.’

  ‘So what do you suggest we do?’

  ‘We’re going on the run, Bonnie.’

  ‘We can’t!’ she yelped. ‘The festival is less than a week away.’

  ‘The perfect excuse for a road trip.’ He kissed her decisively.

  Chapter 50

  ‘I used to drink to forget but I’m damned if I can remember why that was now!’ Brooke cackled in an accent so creamily Irish that he made the old joke sound like a million hit YouTube clip. He was a head-on collision between cliché and joie de vivre that made him a delightful bon vivant. His politics, however, were not for the faint-hearted: ‘I hate the British, I hate the Germans and I especially hate the fecking French, arrogant cowards. But I love their food – that’s why I sent Zina here on a cordon bleu coo
kery course last year.’

  Before they left Coolbaragh, Byrne insisted he and Legs must share a meal with his father and Zina. He clearly didn’t believe in quick getaways when it came to going on the run, and when Legs tasted Zina’s food she hardly blamed him. The soft, sweet chicken bursting with tarragon was almost worth getting arrested for, and she would have willingly served time for a third helping of her chocolate and orange mousse.

  Brooke wasn’t at all as Legs had first thought. She’d seen a jockey-sized, angry malcontent with his son’s darkness, dry wit and his own demons to boot. Instead, Byrne’s father had an unending appetite for life and food. He was Henry the Eighth on wheels, forever calling for more wine, women and song, although in his case it was endless tea, Zina and his fiddle. He had strong opinions on everything and, unlike Byrne, he delighted in expressing his emotions, his accent far thicker and his spoken voice far quicker than his son’s.

  ‘Me oul wan and her fella will be mad to have missed you, Legs,’ he apologised now, slotting his fiddle under his chin, ‘but it’s Tuesday so they’re getting ossified at Shaney’s.’

  ‘Nan and Mal are out at the local pub,’ Byrne translated.

  Brooke fixed Legs with a beady look. ‘Jago needs to settle down with a good wife. We’re all muck savages apart from him. Ignore any shite he gives you about being a typical Oirish farmboy. He’s the black sheep of this family.’ He launched into ‘Rose in the Heather’, bow jigging across the strings.

  And it was a big family, the shelves and mantels of the farmhouse crammed with framed photographs of uncles and aunts, cousins, nephews and nieces. Brooke had been born third of six. Byrne had over twenty first cousins alone. There were many parties held here, Brooke boasted happily, huge Christmas and Easter gatherings, visitors constantly coming and going.

  All her misconceptions were quickly turned on their heads as she re-evaluated Byrne once again. There he was in the photographs, surrounded by his huge close-knit brood, joining in the laughter and merrymaking. Far from being an aloof loner, he was known as a family joker and a daredevil, an unpredictable risk-taker that they all adored, mothered by the aunts and idolised by the younger cousins, forever being set up with ravishing single women he failed to appreciate.

  ‘Sure, we thought he was of the gay persuasion at one time,’ Brooke admitted as he lay down his bow between jigs to take a swig of tea. ‘All those pretty girlfriends and never a hint of a proposal.’ He eyed Legs’ P signet ring beadily. ‘There was the dusky one who ran off with Peter, of course, which came as a relief all round because she was terrified of the horses. Not a natural like you, Allegra. I haven’t seen aul Lapis looking that loving since he shared his summer pasture with a feral goat.’

  ‘That’s enough, Dad.’

  With a wise look, Brooke launched into ‘King of the Fairies’, Zina swaying along adoringly from the sofa behind him, swollen feet propped up on a pile of race cards on an occasional table.

  For all Brooke’s teasing, he clearly doted on his son: ‘I don’t deserve one as loyal and selfless as this man here. Jago was put on this earth by God to do good. His family are everything to him.’

  Seeing them together, it was even more obvious to Legs why Byrne wanted to protect them all from the public world of Gordon Lapis and the media interest his wealth and fame would bring. Exposés about his childhood and his father’s bleakest years would never be welcome here amid such hard-won contentment.

  And Brooke made no secret of the fact that Byrne was responsible for his survival: ‘He’s been my minder since he was knee high to my wheels, always looking out for me, helping me with the horses, driving the wagon as soon as he was old enough, bullying me to clean up my act. He even bribed me into giving up the drink by offering to get As in all his exams. I remember saying to him, “surely it’s supposed to be the other way around, son”?’

  Brooke had great charm and warmth, and Legs saw why a young Poppy would fall for him against her family’s wishes, and why wild-child Liz Delamere had been seduced by his charm. Zina obviously doted on him. And while he refused to be pitied, it was impossible not to feel compassion for a man whose lifelong mission had always been to race horses, and yet who could no longer ride them.

  He seemed to derive pleasure from life itself these days though, and drew delight from those closest to him, sharing in their joys and loves. He took to Legs from the off, telling her she looked like a young Sinéad Cusack, relishing in her sense of humour and even sharing her great love of crime thrillers, ‘Sure I’ve read everything that Dick Francis ever wrote, most so many times they’ve fallen apart. I love a good murder.

  ‘My beloved boy Jago has introduced me to a new girlfriend!’ He raised his fiddle in salute. ‘I never thought I’d see the day the love could shine out of him like this. And what a girl to love!’

  Even her perceived connection with the world of international art theft seemed to enhance her appeal. ‘Byrne likes to live life on the wild side. He comes from a long line of clever scoundrels and brilliant horsemen.’ And he’d not forgotten the fact that bad-tempered, lame Lapis had nuzzled her like a favourite companion. ‘Sure, she has a way with horses, Jago. You’ll have lots of little baby jockeys, although Zina and myself will beat you to the maternity suite.’

  ‘You’re not expecting a baby … ?’ Byrne feigned astonishment as though this was the first he’d heard of it, his jaw swinging open, making his father laugh so much his tyres bounced. On the sofa, Zina snoozed on oblivious, slim fingers cradling her perfect semi-sphere bump.

  Brooke laughed until tears ran, his delight in being a father again clearly a running joke at Coolbaragh.

  Wiping his eyes, he sighed happily, At least God didn’t take the tune from my flute as well as the use of my legs, although whether the instrument’s playing the right music remains to be seen. I’d love a little girl. I’d hoped to have a pretty brood step-dancing to my fiddle by now, not a sean-nós.’

  Byrne cleared his throat. ‘Actually, Dad, I need to talk to you about something which may have a bearing on that.’

  While father and son went outside onto the terrace so that Brooke could smoke a cigar and Byrne could talk, Zina jerked awake and, blinking sleep from her eyes, drew Legs over to one side, her long face guarded.

  Now that Legs had studied her closer, without the jealous demons poking at the backs of her eyes, she could see Zina was not as young as she’d first thought and not as pretty, but she had a fire in her eyes that seemed a prerequisite to being a member of the household.

  ‘You hurt him and you will be covered with Byrnes, you understand? Legs wasn’t sure whether she was using the family name or threatening her with smouldering skin torture, but it was definitely not the moment to ask.

  ‘I’m afraid my family are rather demanding,’ Byrne apologised while they waited in the hall under strict instructions from Zina who was thumping around upstairs gathering yet more clothes for Legs. Fiddle music filled the house as Brooke played ‘Drowsie Maggie’ from the sitting room, shouting out “Is this not bloody good?” between refrains.

  ‘They’re lovely,’ she assured him happily.

  ‘I told you I’d give you plenty of opportunities to run away before I propose. Now is one.’

  ‘I like it here,’ she insisted, knowing she’d be happy to stay indefinitely.

  Byrne’s dark eyes flashed. ‘We’re leaving tonight. It’s too risky to stay.’

  Nodding, she kissed him, toes and fingertips buzzing as they had been all day, as though she was now so infused with love it was trying to fire itself out of her nerve endings.

  ‘How did your father take the news about Kizzy?’ she asked quietly as Brooke launched into ‘Irish Washerwoman’ with such aplomb the thumping feet overhead started tapping.

  ‘I am the daddy of fecking fiddle players!’ came the ecstatic cry from the sitting room.

  ‘I think that answers your question,’ his lips closed over hers and that devastating kiss just got better, as i
t had upon each replay for three days. It also got terribly out of hand if left to its own devices, and they were far too accustomed to being alone. When Zina finally came back downstairs clutching a bulging stack of pastel separates between her bump and her chin, Byrne and Legs were knocking framed photographs of Coolbaragh racehorses past and present into jaunty angles against the pattered wallpaper as they slammed from wall to wall, bodies craving chemical synthesis. They pulled apart as Zina dropped her pile beside them.

  ‘I know you cannot keep your clothes on for more than a few minutes at a time,’ a look of wistful reflection passed through her tired eyes, but then she hugged her bump and smiled broadly, nodding at the pile. ‘These are all unwanted – rip them all off. Please do.’

  From the sitting room, ‘Irish Washerwoman’ was reaching an ecstatic conclusion.

  The first thing Legs noticed about Byrne’s car was its colour.

  ‘It’s red!’

  ‘Burgundy.’

  ‘Red.’

  ‘It’s burgundy, Allegra. I asked for a custom purple one, but the Bentley dealer persuaded me that might attract the wrong attention.’

  Legs looked around at the tan leather and walnut of the high-class convertible. ‘And this doesn’t attract attention?’

  ‘The locals call it “the English car”; I bought it from Belfast. Sure, they think it’s a bit flash, but they covet Paddy Flynn’s new Isuzu pick-up far more.’

  Chapter 51

  The not-quite-red English car weaved its way from Laois to the Wicklow Mountains, its hood up, luxury interior filled with constant flirtation and laughter. Asleep on the back seat, Fink snored loudly, chin propped on a leather armrest.

  Legs loved being a runaway, however irresponsible. She shivered with anticipation at the thought of a five star hotel, signing in as Mr and Mrs Prodygal-Sonne or suchlike, then playing with a four-poster and a marble bathroom all night.

  But as dusk fell, Byrne pulled into a campsite on the banks of a lake glowing like molten copper.