London, 1985
PHAEDRIA MORELL WAS not behaving quite as a widow should. Well, not a grieving widow, at any rate, as Henry Winterbourne, amused and slightly shocked, remarked to his wife Caroline the day after the will had been read.
He – all of them – had expected a long period of mourning, of grief, a tacit withdrawal from the battleground that Julian had so unequivocally created. Especially in the light of her pregnancy – which she had confirmed to Henry with a cool, even amused look as he inquired after her health: ‘I am indeed, as some of you, I imagine, must have guessed, going to have a baby.’
Nobody had thought they would see very much of her at all for weeks – had assumed she would stay at home, safe from conflict, from attention, from all the attendant scandal and surmise that the will would surely create – nurturing herself and her child, and coming to terms with her loss.
But at ten o’clock the next morning, there she was in Henry’s office, a little pale to be sure, but beautifully dressed in a stinging pink wool crepe dress, her hair caught back with the seed pearl and coral combs Julian had had made for her as a souvenir of their honeymoon, and a pair of very high-heeled, pink suede shoes that Henry could only categorize to himself as flighty.
She had her briefcase with her, and she had sat down in the big chair opposite Henry’s desk, looked at him with an expression that was cheerful and determined in equal measures, and told him that there was a great deal of talking to be got through and work to be done.
‘I want to find this person, Henry, this Miles Wilburn, and I want to find him quickly. The situation until we do will clearly be intolerable. In fact I would go so far as to say,’ she added, with the hint of a smile and of conspiracy in her eyes, ‘I am anxious to find him before – well, shall we say before anyone else does.’
He returned her look steadily. ‘I do understand exactly what you are saying, Phaedria. Unfortunately, much as I would like to help you, I don’t think I can enter into any kind of an exclusive search on your behalf. I am the Morell family’s solicitor and have been for many years. It would be extremely difficult, unethical even, for me to report solely to you.’
‘Oh, of course,’ said Phaedria, ‘I understand that, Henry; I merely thought that if you could begin to instigate some searches, and report to us all, naturally, on those, you might be able to suggest someone who could work with me a little later on. I know how busy you are, and I wouldn’t dream of making too many demands on your time. Of course confidentiality is essential; we can not, simply cannot, have this thing made public. And it is a pressing matter, as you must agree; there is a large and complex company to run, and trying to do so will be virtually impossible while Roz and I have these absolutely equal shares in it. We don’t always see completely eye to eye, as you may have heard.’
‘Well, yes, I had heard some reports to that effect,’ said Henry, smiling his charmingly benign smile at her, ‘and I can see there would be considerable difficulties. But – well, forgive me, Phaedria, for being so frank – are you actually planning to become involved in the company and its day to day administration straight away?’
‘I am,’ she said, coolly, opening her briefcase. ‘Absolutely straight away. I have a meeting with Freddy Branksome and Richard Brookes this afternoon. There is clearly a great deal I need to learn and know, and the sooner I begin the better. Now I can see all the thoughts racing through your head, Henry, and let me put them into nice neat order for you. First of all, I have no intention of sitting in the house in Regent’s Park in widow’s weeds and grieving over Julian’s death for weeks, months on end. He was the most remarkable man, which was probably the main reason I loved and married him, and I intend to show my appreciation and my respect for that by keeping the company running as successfully and dynamically as it did when he was alive. Of course I won’t succeed altogether, but I am going to have a very good try. That also of course pre-empts any notion anyone might have had that I was going to spend the next six months or so knitting layettes and kitting out a nursery. This baby is going to be part of the Morell empire from day one, and if that means I have to give birth in the boardroom, then I will. I also – and this is in the strictest confidence, Henry, and you can forget I said it, if it makes you uncomfortable – I also intend to get a proper control over the company; it’s the only way I’m going to be able to work. Which means, of course, finding Mr Wilburn and enlisting his support. Quickly. Which is where you came in. Does that make my position clearer? I hope so, it’s important.’
‘It does,’ said Henry, ‘and I am filled with admiration for you. Although not envy.’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Phaedria briskly. ‘I think it’s nice that I’ve got so much to do, and think about. Nothing like a bit of adrenaline surging through the system to keep one going.’
Henry looked at her concernedly. ‘Phaedria, as a friend, rather than a lawyer, don’t take on too much. You really don’t look very well. Do you feel all right?’
‘No, I feel dreadful,’ said Phaedria cheerfully. ‘I feel terrible in the morning and worse still in the afternoon. As for the evenings, well, they don’t bear thinking about. But I don’t think that’s going to improve with sitting about and moping either. Do you? What did Caroline do when she was pregnant?’
‘As little as possible,’ said Henry. ‘And loved every minute of it. I think that’s why we have five children.’
Phaedria smiled. ‘Well, I don’t expect I shall have more than one. So I’ll just have to get it right first time round.’
‘Yes,’ he said, the poignancy of her situation suddenly and sharply brought home to him. ‘Yes, and I’m sure you will.’
She sighed. ‘I hope so. Anyway, until you can find me some private detective or something who can help me, let’s make a start now. What ideas do you have?’
‘Well, obviously we can – indeed have to – run searches. We are obliged to do that by law. In The Times and so on, and also of course in the Law Society Gazette. We can advertise. That will of course provide us with several Miles Wilburns, I would have thought, all claiming to be the true Christ, so to speak. But the trouble is we don’t know what we’re looking for. He might be old, or young, presentable or otherwise, he might live almost anywhere in the English-speaking world, we don’t know if he’s stupid or clever, honest or dishonest, black or white.’
‘I think,’ said Phaedria thoughtfully, ‘he’s unlikely to be stupid, at any rate. Julian wouldn’t leave the controlling share of his precious company to a moron. Quite presentable, I should think, for the same reason. I mean not sleeping under the arches, or on the beach. And I imagine he’d be fairly young. Otherwise his role in this charade would be pretty short lived. I guess he’ll be at least what my editor used to call working honest – honest enough, that means. But I agree after that we’re really in the dark. I suppose he’s most likely to be living either here or in the States. Wilburn sounds a bit more of an American name. ‘Can we advertise these as well, and in the other countries where we have sizeable interests and assets? You’ll have to advise me. Oh Henry, what an extraordinary thing it is. Tell me something, there can be no doubt I presume as to the legality of the will?’
‘Oh none at all.’ said Henry, ‘Witnessed by perfectly bona fide people, no one we know, but nonetheless genuine. Signed, dated last December. He didn’t use me to draw it up, as you know. He may even have done it himself. My first sight of it was when you sent it over. One of the oddest things of course was this insistence on it being read publicly. Specifying that all the beneficiaries had to be there. It’s extremely unusual these days. I really cannot understand it.’
‘Oh well,’ said Phaedria, ‘he always did have a great sense of theatre.’
She sighed and was silent for a moment, her eyes shadowy and distant. He was silent, realizing the pain and the humiliation the whole thing must be causing her, not knowing how to comfort her.
‘Well,’ she said, briskly, hauling herself back to the present and the room with obvious effort. ‘Perhaps the first thing is to try to find out who did draw it up for him. Maybe nobody did. Maybe he did it himself.’
‘He might have done. But it’s been typed. I don’t think he could do that.’
‘Oh,’ said Phaedria with a smile. ‘There is absolutely no knowing what Julian could and couldn’t do. I’m quite serious. Letitia might know. I’ll ask her.’
‘How is she coping with all this? She looked very fragile yesterday, I thought.’
‘Yes, these few weeks have been the first time I’ve seen her looking anything like her proper age. She didn’t have to come, of course, but she said wild horses wouldn’t have kept her away. I hope I’m even half as splendid at eighty-seven.’
‘Oh, I think you will be,’ said Henry. ‘In fact I have absolutely no doubt about it whatsoever.’
‘Thank you. I need lots of that, Henry, lots of flattery.’
‘Then,’ he said, ‘I shall take you out to lunch at least once a week and flatter you solidly for two hours. How’s that?’
‘Oh,’ she said, smiling, ‘I don’t think I shall be able to spare quite that much time, but certainly a little on a regular basis would be very welcome.’
‘The witnesses don’t help at all, either. Nobody we’ve ever heard of. Mary Unwin and David Potter, indeed. Sounds as if he made them up.’
‘He probably did,’ said Phaedria, laughing, ‘which would make the whole thing null and void, I suppose?’
‘Yes, it would. But that wouldn’t help you at all, would it?’
‘Not really, no. Is it worth trying to track them down, though? They might at least be able to tell us when they signed the bloody thing.’
‘Oh, I think so, yes,’ said Henry, ‘it would be enormously helpful. I will give that some thought, Phaedria, but the more I look at this whole thing, the more I think you need a private detective agency working for you. A really good one. I’ll make a few preliminary inquiries, and you can get things rolling straight away.’
‘Yes,’ said Phaedria, ‘that would be very helpful. Thank you. Although I have a nasty feeling that at least one of the really good ones may already be in the employ of Mrs Emerson.’
‘I want this person found,’ said Roz, fixing Andrew Blackworth with a steely gaze, ‘and I want him found quickly.’
Andrew Blackworth was not too much as she had imagined; he was not sleek and sharp looking, he was about forty-five years old, short, rotund, and rather learned-seeming. She liked everything about him.
‘We have a long way to travel,’ he said, ‘perhaps literally.’
‘Yes,’ she said abandoning reluctantly her vision of finding and coercing Miles Wilburn on to her side within the space of seven days, ‘yes, I suppose so. But then again, given some luck, we might do better.’
‘We might indeed. And of course, in working with us you have considerable skills working for you as well as luck. Skills and contacts. Are you prepared to put your trust in those?’
‘Yes,’ said Roz, ‘yes, I think so. Yes, I am.’
‘Good. Now then, in order to utilize them, I need all the information you can possibly give me.’
‘You’re welcome to it. But there really isn’t any. None at all.’
‘Could I talk to the widow?’
‘No,’ said Roz. It was a flat, final sound; it brooked no further discussion.
‘Right. Well, could I ask you a few questions?’
‘Of course.’
‘You are quite quite sure you have never heard your father mention this name?’
‘Well of course, he may have done. I can’t remember every name that ever passed his lips. But in the context of someone to whom he was going to leave what amounts to the controlling share in his company, someone he knew well and presumably trusted, no.’
‘Right. And you have no idea when the will was made?’
‘None. Other than clearly it was since his marriage to Miss Blenheim.’
Blackworth’s lips twitched at the interesting demotion of Lady Morell to her unmarried state.
‘Which was June of 1983?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can I have a copy of the will?’
‘Yes. I’ll ask the solicitor today.’
‘And he did not draw it up?’
‘No. He says he knew nothing about it until it was delivered into his hands by – by the widow.’
‘Interesting, that. Not to leave it in the keeping of his solicitor.’
‘Yes, well, my father was an interesting man.’ She sounded sad; he looked at her sharply. He was a kind and discerning person; he felt sure that beneath the hardness, the carefully cultivated tough talk, was someone very different.
‘Is there anyone else in the family who might be able to help me?’
‘Well, I daresay there might be, but they won’t want to talk. His mother might know something of this person, but she was quite sure yesterday that she didn’t. Same goes for his first wife. Then there are the mistresses. More of them. You might get something there, if you sifted through them. It might take a year or two.’
He looked at her in amusement.
‘I understood we did not have a year or two. Is there any particular friend, associate, who might be able to help? Someone who has known him, let us say, for a considerable time?’
‘Well, you could try. They might not want to talk. There’s Mrs Susan Brookes, she is just about his oldest friend. Most assuredly not his mistress though,’ she added with a warning look in her eyes. ‘I can give you her address, she lives in London.’
‘I shall certainly talk to her if you think she will agree.’
‘Oh, she certainly will. And then there’s Camilla North. She certainly won’t want to talk if she knows you’re acting for me.’
‘I see. Where is Miss – Ms North?’
‘Miss,’ said Roz ferociously. ‘Back in New York as from today, but again, I can give you her address.’
‘Excellent. Now where did your father spend most of his time?’
‘Well, here latterly. In New York a great deal in the sixties and seventies. He had a home there. He also had business interests in many European cities and of course in places like Tokyo, Sydney, other American cities and states.’
‘I think we should look initially more intensely at places where he had homes. Which are?’
‘Well, apart from London and New York and a house in Sussex, of course, there’s a place near Nice and a flat in Sydney, and a house on one of the Bahamian islands, Eleuthera.’
‘I see. What a fortunate man he was.’
‘Yes and no,’ said Roz with a sigh. ‘I don’t think he was really very successful with human relationships.’
‘Few rich and powerful men are,’ said Andrew Blackworth gravely. ‘Now if you can get me a copy of the will, Mrs Emerson, I will begin instigating inquiries immediately. And I think we should find ourselves getting somewhere fairly fast.’
‘Thank you Mr Blackworth. I certainly hope so.’ She stood up, looking at him, a touch of humour in her face. ‘What about rich and powerful women? Any better?’
‘Oh, I’m afraid not,’ he said, ‘in my experience, infinitely worse.’
Phaedria was sitting at the huge desk that had been Julian’s, a neat pile of papers and files at her left elbow, a large foolscap pad in front of her, which she was covering rapidly with notes. Richard Brookes and Freddy Branksome, who had both been expecting to spend most of the afternoon humouring her and dispensing sympathy, were slightly disconcerted by the turn events were taking.
‘What I’d like,’ she said, looking at them composedly, ‘is a complete breakdown of the structure of the company, the relative value of its different components, its assets, its liabilities, and perhaps, from both of you, an assessment of its strengths and weaknesses. Nothing too technical –’ she smiled briefly – ‘but a kind of gut reaction, with obviously facts and figures to support it, where necessary. For instance, I have a hunch, just a hunch, that the hotels are not really making us a great deal of money. And are costing us dear in terms of personnel, hassle, and investment generally. On the other hand, they obviously provide a high-profile visible asset. I’m also not really very sure about this new communications company. I imagine that’s an investment in the future, satellite TV and so on. Could you clarify that a little for me please?’ She looked at them both and smiled. ‘I must seem very ignorant, foolish even. But I am desperately anxious to familiarize myself with this company, and assess what my future role might be. I want to keep it running successfully. For Julian’s sake.’
‘Of course,’ said Richard, ‘and we will do everything in our power to assist you. Won’t we, Freddy?’
‘Absolutely,’ said Freddy, ‘everything. But, Lady Morell, there is one thing – oh, it’s a little delicate, but it has to be broached –’
‘Oh,’ she said, ‘I know what you mean. Roz Emerson. She has at the moment an equal share in the company, equal say in its future, equal power. I understand and appreciate that. Clearly she and I will have to establish a modus operandi. But she has the advantage of me at the moment in knowing rather more about it than I do. Of its structure and so on. She’s worked in it for years. I’ve only been involved for a very short time.’
‘Right,’ said Freddy uncertainly. ‘Er – right. But will you – that is –’ His round red face was perspiring, his bright blue eyes were anxious.
Richard looked at him and smiled, then turned to Phaedria, stretching his long legs out in front of him, looking at her with frank appreciation and a certain degree of wariness at the same time. She was going to take some dealing with, this lady. Lucky old sod, Julian had been; how had he done it? And how could he have perpetrated an act of such wanton cruelty on her as he had done with that will? And on his daughter, for that matter. She might be a tough nut (although Susan was extremely fond of her and always claiming that she was not in the least as she seemed), but he suspected in any case that Phaedria Morell could and would match her, blow for blow. God in Heaven, what a bloody mess.
‘What my learned friend is trying to say, Lady Morell,’ he said, with his careful, lazy smile, ‘is that we will need to know quite how you intend to work here. How involved you plan to be. How often you will be in the office. Where. That kind of thing. We have to work with both of you, you see, and we have to be – well, tactful, to put it mildly. Indeed we are statutorily obliged, I would say, to deal with both of you on all matters of policy, finance, the whole damn thing, as the current saying goes.’
‘Of course,’ said Phaedria, ‘I understand. I am not trying to coerce either of you into anything. I give you my word that after today there will be no meetings at board level that will not involve Mrs Emerson as well as myself. I will copy her in on everything, as I would expect her to do me. As to your question about how often I intend to be here, the answer is all the time, every day. Possibly including the weekends. After all,’ she said, flicking a brief glance down her own body, meeting their eyes with frank amusement, ‘I cannot ride or hunt for the next few months, I may as well work. And I shall base myself here, in this office. Someone has to use it.’
‘Really?’ It was Roz’s voice; she was standing in the open doorway. ‘I don’t quite see that, Phaedria. Nobody has to use it. It can be locked up. It was my father’s office and you have no more claim on it than I do. We are absolutely equal partners in this company at present, and I fail to see why you should make assumptions, and indeed implications by taking your place at his desk.’
Phaedria looked at Roz; she was quite white, her green eyes blazing. She was dressed in black, and looked fierce, dramatic, almost frightening. Richard and Freddy shifted awkwardly in their chairs. There was a long silence; then Phaedria spoke.
‘Freddy, Richard, perhaps you would leave us for now. We have matters of policy to sort out, as you were saying earlier. We can continue this meeting tomorrow morning if you’re free. Any time – to suit you.’
‘Fine,’ said Freddy, gathering up his files. ‘We’ll sort out something between us.’
‘Absolutely,’ said Richard, rising to his full, gangling height, ‘and as you were saying, Lady Morell, it is essential that both you and Mrs Emerson should be present at all major meetings in future.’
It was a graceful, diplomatic remark; Phaedria gave him a grateful look.
‘Indeed. So shall we fix a time now?’
‘I’m afraid,’ said Roz, tapping lightly on the desk, where she had sat down, in a clear piece of territorial reclamation, ‘I shall be out of the office tomorrow. All day. This meeting, whatever it’s about, will have to wait.’
‘As you wish,’ said Richard, bowing to her ever so slightly. ‘We are at your service, Mr Branksome and I. Are we not, Freddy?’
‘Oh, we are, we are indeed,’ said Freddy, hastily leading the way to the door. ‘Good afternoon, Lady Morell, Mrs Emerson.’
The door closed behind them; Phaedria faced Roz, her eyes contemptuous. ‘Roz, whatever you may feel about me – and I can hazard a very clear guess – we do have to work together and I see no future whatever in holding public brawls. Please can’t we confine any emotional discussions to occasions when we are on our own?’
‘My God,’ said Roz, ‘my God, Phaedria, you have a lot of gall. You’ve known my father just over two years, and yet you’ve inveigled your way into his company, and now within days of his death you’re trying to step into his shoes. You have no right to sit at this desk, in this office, no right at all, nor to hold meetings with the executives of his company in it; the only rights you have here are mine as well, and I intend to see I don’t lose any of them.’
Phaedria looked at her in silence for a while. Then she stood and picked up her files, her notes, her briefcase. ‘You’re absolutely right, Roz,’ she said finally, ‘and I’m sorry. I was making assumptions which were quite wrong. Either we should share this office, which frankly I don’t see working, or I should have one of my own. This one, as you say, can be locked up. For the time being. One of us can move into it in the fullness of time.’
Roz stared at her. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t quite follow you.’
‘Don’t you?’ Phaedria met her glance with a clear disbelief. ‘I’m surprised. One of us is going to have to win this war, Roz, sooner or later, and at that time, the victor can move in and claim the throne. Meanwhile I will speak to Sarah about an office for myself. I’m going home now, I’ll see this room is locked before I go.’ She buzzed on the intercom. ‘Sarah,’ she said, ‘could you please speak to whoever is in charge of such things, and organize me an office. As near to Mrs Emerson’s as possible. Oh, and Sarah –’ she looked very straight at Roz for a moment – ‘make sure it’s at least no smaller than Mrs Emerson’s office, will you? I don’t want to be working under unfavourable conditions.’
Richard and Freddy had escaped thankfully to the sanctuary of the Palm Court at the Ritz and were drowning their anxieties and discomfort in extremely large whiskies.
‘I really hate to say this,’ said Freddy, ‘but I think we’ve seen the best of it.’
‘Oh, nonsense,’ said Richard, ‘where is your spirit of adventure, of prospecting, Freddy? Enormous, immense fun lies ahead. I can’t wait, personally.’
Freddy looked into his glass mournfully. ‘I think you should remind yourself, Richard, old man, that we are not in this for fun. The company needs good housekeeping. If we are to have to sit by and listen while two harpies fight over every inch of it, then I see the property becoming extremely squalid and devalued very quickly.’
‘Oh, I don’t agree,’ said Richard. ‘I think they will both be devoting themselves very painstakingly to the housekeeping. I see every corner gleaming quite beautifully, myself. Just so that neither of them can come along and wipe an elegant finger over any of the surfaces, looking for dust left by the other.’
Freddy looked at him. ‘And who do you think is going to win the war?’ he said. ‘Roz, I suppose. She has the advantage that she has years of experience and she is an arch bitch.’
Richard raised his shaggy eyebrows. ‘How naïve you are, my dear old chap. I couldn’t agree less. I would back the charmingly gentle Phaedria Morell against her stepdaughter any day. Tough as all her elegant new boots, that lady, much as I like her. And she has charm on her side, and certain – what shall we say – personnel skills.’
‘Good heavens,’ said Freddy, ‘well, you may be right.’
‘Well, we shall see,’ said Richard. ‘She is very beautiful, is she not? Under other circumstances perhaps – but no. I am after all scarcely out of my own wedding bed. Don’t look like that, I am merely jesting. Of course all heiresses are beautiful,’ he added. ‘Another drink, Freddy?’
‘What are you talking about? She’s not exactly an heiress. And I’m surprised at you. I thought you had a higher mind than that.’
‘How ignorant you are,’ said Richard. ‘Quotation, my dear old thing. Dryden. King Arthur. Just a passing comment. A great many most virulent little germs of truth in it, though. I’ll tell you one thing, Freddy. I see more and greater signs of grief in the daughter than the widow. Do you?’
‘God, I don’t know. You could be right. Yes, please, another drink. Oh, God, what a mess. Come back, Julian, all is forgiven.’
‘I don’t think it would be now,’ said Richard cheerfully. ‘Not by those two at any rate. Come on, Freddy, drink up. Then we’d better go and get on with those reports our new commandant has requested.’
Roz felt as if there was a great raw hole at the heart of her, that was bleeding endlessly; she thought she had not known what misery was until now. Had she not been propelled into this bitter battle with Phaedria, she thought that for the first time in her life she would have given in, lain down and let the world take care of itself. She felt weary, sickened, by her father’s treachery, and totally wretched at her loss. He had enraged her, fought her, and manipulated her ever since she could remember, and most of the misery she had ever felt could be lain at his door; nevertheless she had loved him deeply, helplessly. She had little of the comfort afforded to Phaedria, the tide of sympathy, love, concern that was flowing her way from every direction; she had not been with him at the end, there had been no reconciliation, he had died thinking she hated him, he had never known, would never know how much she had loved him, admired him, longed for his approval, how he had always, since she had been a tiny child, occupied the prime, the most important, the most tender place in her tough, hurt little heart.
During the long sleepless nights now, she lay and relived the happy times with him, the weeks they had spent together, at Marriotts, riding beside him on Miss Madam, looking up at him, trying to do as well as he, braving wide ditches, long, long, fast gallops, anxious to earn his look of approval, his praise; walking the downs, talking endlessly, her small hand in his, dining with him alone in the huge dining room, while he solemnly had her glass refilled with wine and water and consulted her on whether he should buy this horse, that car; sitting beside him, driving some of those wonderful machines, long before she was legally old enough, up and down the drive and tracks of Marriotts, seeing his surprise and pleasure at her skill with them; the visits to New York, dizzier and more exciting all the time as she grew older; the intense pleasure and joy she had felt at his acceptance of her into the company, at his recognition of her skills, his delight at her success; even her wedding day she relived, most of it a panicky blurr, the happiest, the best moment being his face looking up at her as she came down the stairs at Marriotts in her dress, naked of everything but love, and his voice saying, ‘Rosamund, you are the joy of my life.’ And all through the years, the fear, the terror, the nightmare, that someone would come along, young enough to give him another child, who he would love as much, more, than he had loved her.
And now he was gone, and he had never known any of it; he had thought she hated him, despised him, that she wanted to see him hurt and wounded, when all she had really longed for was his unequivocal love.
In her anguish, all pride gone, lonely, fearful, she had phoned Michael in New York; he was polite, kind even, sympathetic over Julian’s death, but distant, declining her invitation to come to England. He had said very little but she knew what the refusal meant; I was not good enough while your father was alive, it meant, and I am not prepared to come running to you now that he is dead.
She even turned to C. J., but he was remote, withdrawn; he too had loved Julian, who had been a second father to him, and he was saddened by his death, he could not pretend feelings that did not even exist for a woman who had shown him nothing but coldness and distaste for so long.
She reflected too, in these long sleepless nights, on Phaedria, and her hatred for her; on how she was going to win the battle that lay ahead, and what was to become of them all. And now there was the child; the child she had feared and dreaded for so long. Well, at least her father had never known about it. Or so Letitia had told her. That seemed to Roz something to be grateful for. Briefly she had pondered on another scenario: that the baby was not in fact Julian’s and he had known; could that have been the possible explanation of her father’s behaviour, the answer to the riddle? But in the end she had rejected that, it did not explain his equal cruelty – for cruelty it had to be seen to be – to her. On the other hand, she deserved cruelty; tossing and turning on the huge banks of pillows with which she tried to tempt sleep, Roz heard again and again her voice as she taunted her father into giving her the store: ‘You’re a liar, a liar and a cheat . . . how is Camilla . . . I want the store, I want it . . . I want . . .’ She seemed to have ended up with very little.
Next morning at breakfast she dispatched Miranda upstairs with Nanny, and turned to C. J. who was reading the Financial Times.
‘C. J., I want to talk to you.’
‘Really?’ His face was blank, his voice pleasantly polite. ‘About what?’
‘I think we should get divorced.’
He looked at her, grave, detached. ‘You’re probably right. All right.’ He turned back to his paper.
‘C. J. –’
‘Yes?’
‘C. J., is that all you have to say?’
‘Oh, I think so,’ he said, with a calm smile. ‘What else could there be? My usefulness to you is over now. Your father is not here to punish you for divorcing me. Why keep me hanging around?’
‘Oh, C. J., don’t be so ridiculous. It’s not like that.’
‘Isn’t it? I think it is.’ He slammed the paper down and looked at her, his face white, his eyes blazing with fury. ‘For years, Roz, you’ve used me, simply to get what you wanted. A household. Status. Your father’s approval. Sex, I think, originally. I forget. Now you can’t quite think what I can do for you, I irritate you, so you are going to send me packing. Well that’s fine, I’ll go. But I’m actually not in a hurry. I rather like this house. I love London. I have been commissioned to write a book about it. I would find it easier to do that from here. I have my study, and I don’t want to spend a lot of time looking for another place to live.’
‘C. J., you didn’t tell me about the book. What’s it about?’
‘Well,’ he said, ‘there was no point. I knew you wouldn’t give a fuck about it.’ C. J. never used bad language; it was a measure of his despair about her. ‘It’s about the shifting location of fashionable London. Some very respectable publishers have commissioned it.’
‘I see.’
‘So I think I’ll stay for a while, if you don’t mind. Or even if you do. Besides, I don’t want to leave Miranda. I’m surprised at you, Roz, after all your endless horror stories about your own childhood, exposing your daughter to divorce.’
‘I think,’ she said, wincing within herself with pain, ‘we can handle it a bit better than that.’
‘Do you? So far I haven’t seen much proof of it, from your side. Anyway, I shall be leaving the company. You’d better have a board meeting about it. The hotels will need a new president. I’m going upstairs now to get Miranda. We go for walks every morning and look at the boats. I don’t suppose you realized that, did you?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘No, I didn’t.’
As he walked out of the door, she felt suddenly utterly alone.
‘C. J. is leaving the company,’ she said, walking into Phaedria’s office without knocking later that morning. ‘We had better discuss the consequences.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Phaedria, ‘really sorry. Glad for him, because I always felt he hated it, but sorry for us. He was so good at it.’
‘I don’t really think you have much idea what being good at running hotels implies,’ said Roz, ‘but yes, you do happen to be right, he was. Quite good, anyway.’
Phaedria looked at her. ‘Roz,’ she said, ‘we have to work together. Given that, don’t you think we should at least attempt to observe the formalities and be polite to one another? Apart from anything else, it’s so counter productive if we squabble all the time.’
Roz walked over to the window and looked out. She was silent for quite a long time. Then she turned, and looked at Phaedria slightly oddly.
‘All right,’ she said, ‘let’s attempt it. As long as you appreciate that it is only a formality.’
‘Oh, I do,’ said Phaedria, ‘I certainly do.’
She was dressed in brilliant red that day, her hair piled high on her head in a tumbled waterfall of curls; she was carefully made up, she wore the Cartier necklace that matched her rings, and a dazzling pair of diamond and emerald clips in her ears. Roz stood for a moment, skimming her eyes contemptuously over her.
‘You dress rather strangely,’ was all she said, ‘for a pregnant widow.’
‘Lady Morell, I have Mrs Morell on the phone. Can I put her through?’
‘Please do.’
‘Phaedria?’
‘Yes, hallo Letitia. Are you all right?’
‘I’m fine. Feeling much better. How are you?’
‘Perfectly filthy, thank you. Were you sick when you were pregnant?’
‘No, I was very good at being pregnant. Just bad at giving birth.’
‘God, it’s awful,’ said Phaedria, ‘I don’t know whether it’s worth eating and actually being sick, or not eating, and just feeling even worse.’
‘Oh, I’d eat,’ said Letitia emphatically. ‘Every time. Do you feel hungry?’
‘Not really. Well, a bit. I do want certain things. Spicy things. Brown sauce. Did you ever hear of anything so unchic?’
‘Not really, darling, no. Well, I wondered if you’d like to have dinner with me tonight? I’ll have a big bottle of brown sauce on the table for you, I’ll send Nancy out to Harrod’s for it now. I presume they’ll have it?’
‘I expect so,’ said Phaedria, laughing. ‘It sounds lovely. Thank you, Letitia. I’d love to come.’
‘All right then, darling. About eight. There’s something I want to talk to you about. Apart from just wanting to see you.’
‘I hope I won’t be late. Roz has found herself called out of the office all day and can only begin an absolutely crucial meeting at five.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Letitia. ‘She obviously isn’t making things easy for either of you.’
‘Lady Morell, I have Mr Emerson on the line. Can I put him through?’
‘You certainly can. C. J., hallo. This is sad news about your resignation.’
‘Not for me.’
‘No, I suppose not.’
‘Phaedria, I wondered if you could possibly have lunch with me?’
‘Well, I’d love to, but I don’t know if it would be very wise. I don’t think Roz would be very pleased.’
‘I don’t think I care.’
‘No, but I do.’
‘Well anyway, you really don’t have to. She’s just taken the helicopter up to Manchester. Says she has to see the guy at the communications company. We don’t have to go anywhere, I’ll come to the office.’
‘How very cloak and dagger. All right, yes, I’ll get Sarah to organize something. I have a new office, by the way. Immediately beneath Roz’s. I thought tactically beneath was better than above. See you here at one.’
‘Fine.’
He arrived with a bunch of white freesias and a bottle of white burgundy.
‘C. J., you are naughty, you can’t give me flowers.’
‘I can do what I like. Roz wants a divorce.’
‘Yes,’ said Phaedria, looking at him sadly. ‘I thought she might.’
‘Don’t look like that. I don’t really mind at all. I feel a bit – well, discarded, you know? But otherwise, it’s a great relief.’
‘Will you go back to New York?’
‘No, I don’t think so. I don’t want to leave Miranda, and I have a book to write about London.’
‘C. J., how marvellous. I’m so pleased. Tell me about it.’ She pressed the buzzer. ‘Sarah, could we have those sandwiches, and also could you bring a vase in?’
She started arranging the flowers while he talked; he looked at her and thought what a remarkable person she was, and wondered how Julian could possibly have done to her what he had. There must somewhere be an explanation; if only to provide it to the world, he was determined to help her to find it.
‘Phaedria, I’d like to help.’
She looked at him over her glass. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I’d like to help you find Miles Wilburn.’
‘C. J., that’s sweet, but why?’
‘Because –’ He paused, trying to find exactly the right words. ‘Because I think you deserve it.’
‘Well, I could certainly do with it. But have you got the time? With your book and everything?’
‘Oh, I have at least a year to do that. The thing is, I shall have access to papers and things, I can come and go, talking to people as much as I like. I know everyone in the company, here and in New York. I just think I have a flying start on any detective agency or whatever.’
She looked at him doubtfully. She was touched by the offer, but she couldn’t help feeling an agency might do better. C. J. was hardly sharp. Clever, cultured, interesting but not sharp.
‘What about Roz? Don’t you think she might put ground glass in your coffee?’
‘Oh, she won’t have the opportunity. I’m moving out of the house in Cheyne Walk quite shortly. I’ve been looking at flats all morning.’
‘I see. Well, it certainly would be lovely to have your help. Don’t you think it’s a bit unethical, though, you helping me to win the race to get control, when you’re still married to the other horse, so to speak?’
He looked at her and smiled. ‘Look at it as adjusting the odds,’ he said.
‘And how do you think the odds look at the moment?’ she asked with a heavy sigh.
‘Fairly even. But I’ll tell you one thing. You’re the favourite.’
‘Oh, good. You’ll have to excuse me a minute, C. J. I don’t think I should have drunk that wine . . .’
She arrived at First Street that night well after nine.
‘Letitia, I’m so sorry. The meeting went on and on, and then I had letters to sign. Please forgive me.’
‘Of course I do. It couldn’t matter less. Drink?’
Phaedria shuddered. ‘No thank you. I had some at lunch time, and it was extremely unwise. Could I have some Perrier?’
‘Of course. What does your doctor say about all this?’
‘I haven’t seen her since –’ Her face clouded, drained of colour; she sat down and looked at Letitia, suddenly very white and shaken.
‘Darling, what is it? Are you all right?’
Phaedria tried to smile, and failed; she shook her head, unable to speak. Letitia crossed over to her and took her hand.
‘Tell me. What is it?’
‘Oh – I don’t know. I’m sorry. It’s stupid really. It’s just that – well I haven’t seen my doctor since the day before Julian died. I haven’t even thought about it. You asking made time telescope suddenly, if you know what I mean, I felt I was back in her room. It was a sort of ghostly feeling.’
Letitia looked at her keenly. ‘It isn’t easy, is it?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Being alone in a pregnancy.’
‘No, no it isn’t. How do you know though, Letitia? I didn’t think you ever were.’
‘Well, I was in a way, my darling. In a way. Let me tell you about it. It might make you able to feel you can talk to me, turn to me. That I’ll understand.’
‘I do anyway. But yes, please do. I’m intrigued.’
‘Well,’ said Letitia, ‘it’s a long story. I’ll try not to make it too long. When I was only seventeen years old, I was engaged to someone called Harry Whigham. He was a captain in the Guards. He was terribly handsome and charming, and I loved him very much. Very much. Well, he went away to France, in the war, and he was killed. I was – distraught. Of course. And lonely and lost and terrified that I would never find anyone else. All the boys I knew were going to France, and most of them were not coming back. I had a horror of being a spinster. Like most young girls then. Well, I met Edward Morell – Julian’s father – and he was kind and good, and he adored me, and I thought – well, I suppose I managed to think I loved him. And he wasn’t going to go away to France because he was a farmer. So I married him. That was in 1916. James, Julian’s brother, was born a year later. And we were perfectly happy. Well, perfectly content.
‘Anyway, in 1919, after the war, I went to stay in London for a few days with my grandmother. She had always been very opposed to the marriage with Edward. She thought he was –’ her lips twitched – ‘very middle class. I suppose I inherit my dreadful snobbery from her. Anyway, we went out to the theatre one night, and when we came out, we were waiting for a cab when someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned round, and it was Harry Whigham. Only of course it wasn’t, it was his younger brother, Christian, but he was just terribly terribly like him. It was the most dreadful appalling shock, I felt absolutely ill, fainted in fact; I came round lying on the pavement, with everybody fussing and Christian fanning my face. He was just looking at me very very intently and I was in his arms, his coat over me. I remember it all so clearly, he had on a black evening coat over his dinner jacket, he looked so handsome, so unbelievably handsome and – well, that was it, really.’
Phaedria sat absolutely motionless, her eyes fixed on Letitia’s face. She hardly dared to breathe for fear of interrupting her.
‘Well, anyway, my grandmother, who had always liked Harry, asked Christian back for supper. It all seemed like a dream, all I could think of was that I was with Harry again. Or nearly. And before he left he asked if he could come to call the next day. My grandmother not only encouraged him, she arranged to be out and for half the staff to be out as well. She was very wicked, I’m afraid. And so was I.’
‘So – so what happened?’
‘Well, darling, I’m afraid a great deal. It was all very disgraceful. Of course everybody nowadays thinks affairs and adultery are the invention of the late twentieth century, but I do assure you, they have always gone on. And so Christian and I had a wild affair. Oh, it was wonderful. Aided and abetted by my grandmother. I stayed in London for another week. And was with him every day. Very often alone. He begged me to leave Edward and run away with him. But of course I couldn’t. I said it was impossible, that we must never meet again, that Edward was a good, kind man, that I did love him, and that Christian must go away and never ever see me again. I remember my words still. I said, “There is nothing for us, absolutely nothing at all.” Only I was wrong, of course.’ She was silent for a moment just looking at Phaedria. ‘There was Julian.’
Phaedria said nothing for a while; then she put her arms round Letitia. ‘How did you bear it a second time?’ she asked.
‘Oh, you bear what you have to,’ said Letitia. ‘There was nothing else to be done, nothing at all. When I found I was pregnant, I did think of trying to tell him, but what would have been the point? It would only have made trouble, caused pain. So I kept silent. Edward had no cause to suspect. He was over the moon at the thought of another baby. I found my comfort and happiness in Julian. But then – well, he did look very different from James and Edward. And nobody in Wiltshire, in Edward’s circle of friends, liked me very much. I didn’t fit in. Someone had seen us in London, there was talk. Of course I tried to laugh it off, when people made remarks about Julian and his brown eyes and so on, when Edward and I were both fair, and had blue eyes. But it was – difficult. Then when he was about nine or ten weeks old, I was still frail, Edward came in, sat down at the table and burst into tears. It was dreadful. He said someone had been drunk and come out with it, said Julian was not his son. He clung to me, and begged me to tell him that he was, that it was a lie; he was sobbing, he was drunk himself. So of course I said that it was a filthy lie, that people were jealous of him, of both of us, that Julian was his son, that there was no truth in any of it; and he was still crying, still so unhappy, and so – well, to comfort him, to reassure him, to show how very much I loved him, and I did Phaedria, in my own way, I did, I seduced him, there and then on the floor by the fire. I knew what a risk it was, to myself, but I had to do it, there could be no pause for sense or – well, for precautions, and of course the poor little twins were conceived that night, and I was simply too weak to bear them. They were born prematurely, and they only lived a few days. But it worked, it made him believe, and even when I was so unhappy, I was comforted, because those dead babies had healed Edward’s heart.’
She was silent then for a long time, her eyes filled with tears; Phaedria sat utterly still, her eyes fixed on Letitia’s face.
‘But that is just extraordinary,’ she said. ‘How awful for you, how sad, and how brave you had to be. How did you do it? How did you get through?”
‘Oh, very much as you are,’ said Letitia briskly. ‘By just getting on with life. It’s the only thing to do.’
‘I suppose so.’ Phaedria was pale, almost awed. ‘So Julian was actually illegitimate. Did he know?’
‘Yes, he was and yes, he did. Not until he was grown up. When he came back from France. I told him then. I’m not sure that I should have done, in a way.’
‘Why?’
‘Oh, I don’t know that it served any useful purpose. And I think in a way it encouraged his extraordinary instinct for intrigue. And for deceit. I don’t know.’ She sighed. ‘One makes a lot of mistakes in one’s life. And they become clearer as you get older. There’s an old Irish saying, you know, which my father used to quote. “Old sins cast long shadows.” It’s true. You think something is far far away, buried in the past, and it isn’t at all, it travels with you always, ahead of you even, into the future. I feel that sin of mine certainly did that. And now, you see, some sin of Julian’s is casting its own very long, dark shadow.’
‘But Letitia, why does it have to be a sin? Why shouldn’t this Miles person be someone Julian wanted to help, to benefit?’
‘Well, darling, if he is, why didn’t we all know about him? Why all this mystery and cloak and dagger nonsense? It really is quite extraordinary. So unnecessary. Oh, I could shake him.’ She smiled suddenly. ‘It helps me to get cross with him. I don’t hurt so much.’
‘You must hurt terribly,’ said Phaedria, reaching out her hand and taking Letitia’s.
‘Yes, I do. Terribly. There is nothing, no pain, like losing a child. And now I’ve lost four. Take care of that baby, Phaedria. I still ache with the death of those twins, over sixty years later. Not a day passes but I think of them, see their faces, feel them in my arms. There is no love, nothing, that has the strength, the power of the one a woman feels for her child.’
‘I will,’ said Phaedria, looking at the sad suddenly old face before her. ‘I will. For your sake, I will. And thank you for telling me. It helps, I don’t know quite why.’
‘I hoped it might; and I thought you ought to know now. Tell me, darling, how do you feel? Apart from physically? Any better at all?’
‘No. Not really. But I feel so rejected, somehow. As if Julian has just – oh, I don’t know, thrown everything in my face. And I can never, ever, have the comfort of thinking he trusted me, loved me at all. And nobody else could think that either. It’s awful. Letitia, I don’t know what to do. I simply don’t know how to bear it.’
Letitia looked at her. ‘I don’t know either,’ she said, ‘I just wish I could help you. What I do know, though, which might comfort you, is that Julian did love you. Very much. I know it’s very hard to believe, but it is true.’
Phaedria sighed. ‘Well, he had a strange way of showing it.’
‘Yes . . .’
‘Oh Letitia,’ said Phaedria suddenly. ‘If only I’d been able to tell Julian about the baby. I did tell him, of course, when he was unconscious, in intensive care, I told him over and over again, and they say people can hear you, know what you’re saying, but I really don’t think he did. It’s so sad to think he never knew, so terribly sad.’
Letitia looked at her. ‘I think actually it makes it all better somehow,’ she said, suddenly brisk, handing Phaedria a glass of wine.
‘How?’
‘Well, if he’d known about the baby, then it would have seemed much much more dreadful and cruel, all this. But given that the will was drawn up, or whatever, while you were estranged, then it isn’t quite such a rejection. Not quite.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘No, it isn’t. And you do have the comfort of knowing you had – well, made things up before he died.’
‘Yes,’ said Phaedria, with a weak, watery smile. ‘Yes, we had. For a bit anyway.’
‘So you can hang on to that. It’s more than poor Roz has. As far as I can make out she and Julian had had some dreadful argument weeks before he died and never really made it up.’
‘I did say she should come to the hospital. I kept saying it. She wouldn’t come.’
‘No, I know.’
Phaedria was silent. Then she said, ‘You know, Letitia, all the time, all those three days before he died, I kept feeling he was trying, struggling to tell me something. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t speak, he couldn’t write, he couldn’t do anything. They kept saying I shouldn’t worry, that it was normal, but I did feel he was desperate. Perhaps that was about the will, about what he had done.’
‘Poor Julian,’ said Letitia quietly. ‘If that is what it was, how dreadful. Now then, let’s have something to eat, it’s terribly late, you must be starving. Nancy’s made something I really think you’ll like, it’s chicken marengo, and you can drown it in your brown sauce if you want to.’
‘Sounds wonderful.’
‘Good. Come on, then.’
‘Incidentally,’ she said carefully, watching Phaedria as she picked rather half-heartedly at her food. ‘I have to tell you a private detective has been on to me. From Roz. Did you know about this?’
‘No, but I’m not surprised.’
‘Well, that’s something. I didn’t want to commit myself to talking to him until I’d seen you. Of course I shall help in every way I can. But I just wanted you to know.’
Phaedria looked at her and smiled. ‘Thank you. What was he like? Awful?’
‘No, he sounded rather nice. Quite civilized and gentle. Not like the ones on television at all. A bit like an English Hercule Poirot.’
‘Goodness. And what sort of things does he want to know?’
‘I’m not too sure. I don’t think he knows. I imagine he just wants to hear everything I can tell him about Julian. To see it he can pick up any clues.’
‘And do you think he will?’
‘No, I don’t, I really have never heard Julian mention anyone called Miles, or Wilburn. But he may unearth something from the depths of my mind. I hope so. The only thing I do feel, and it’s only partly hunch, but there is some basis of sense in it, this person, whoever he is, is more likely to be in America than here. I really think it would have been rather difficult for Julian to have established what must have been some kind of very strong link with him or his family without one of us picking up some hint of it. And he did spend such a lot of time over there, especially in the sixties and seventies. I do think also, darling, you should talk to Eliza. She says she doesn’t know anything, but she’s so scatty, careful prompting might help.’
‘Yes, but I don’t know what to prompt. And I don’t feel well enough to go haring up to Scotland. But I suppose she’ll come down here, if I ask her.’
‘Of course she will. Any excuse to come to London. And just let her run on. That’s all you need to do in the way of prompting.’
‘All right. Oh, by the way, Letitia, this must sound a funny question, but could Julian type, do you happen to know?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Letitia. ‘He typed rather well. He learnt during his Resistance training during the war. Why?’
‘Oh, just a query over the will. Whether he could have drawn it up himself. It seems he could. Incidentally, I have a detective working for me too,’ said Phaedria with a smile.
‘You don’t! How intriguing, darling. What’s his name?’
‘He’s an amateur. His name is Emerson. C. J.’
‘Phaedria, that sounds very unwise to me.’
‘Oh, not really. I don’t think so. Roz wants a divorce. He’s moving out. He offered his help, and I was doubtful at first, but actually I think he might do rather well. He has a very kind of investigative mind, he likes little odd facts and things, he remembers them, stores them away. He really wanted to be an archaeologist, you know.’
‘How sad that he wasn’t. That he had to get mixed up with Roz, I mean. Two unhappy people.’
‘Yes.’
Letitia looked at her. ‘I hope he’s not falling in love with you,’ she said, ‘I’ve always thought he had a very soft spot for you. Do you think he is?’
‘Absolutely not,’ said Phaedria firmly. ‘But even if he was, it wouldn’t matter too terribly, I daresay. Roz doesn’t give a toss about what C. J. does. My God –’ She stopped eating and shuddered, looked at Letitia stricken at her own thoughts. ‘Can you imagine anything more dreadful, though, than if someone Roz did give a toss about was in love with me. That really would see me in the morgue . . .’
Michael Browning arrived at Heathrow three days later.
He had been feeling increasingly remorseful ever since Roz’s cry for help, and his refusal to answer it. God alone, he thought (and perhaps Michael Browning) knew what it must have cost her in terms of setting aside her pride; and near psychotic fixation apart, she really had genuinely loved her father. He reckoned she must be feeling pretty wretched. He owed it to her to give her a bit of support. He had absolutely no intention of starting their relationship up yet again; some old-time’s-sake friendship seemed to him to be about the most he should offer. Even with her father gone, he had no illusions as to where he would come in her order of priorities. Especially if all these rumours about the will and the company were true. Intriguing, that. He wondered what on earth the old bastard had been playing at. He wasn’t too sure of the facts of the case; the New York Times and the Wall Street Journal had both carried bald announcements about ‘certain complexities’ in Julian Morell’s will. But the copy of People magazine he had been handed on the plane had got hold of the story this week, and although they were clearly having trouble getting enough detail, and had only run a paragraph, they still managed to make it intensely fascinating reading. ‘Wills and Wonts’ it was headed:
Billionaire tycoon Julian Morell, who died of a coronary three weeks ago, has reportedly left a bizarre will, bequeathing two equal forty-nine per cent shares in his company to wife Phaedria and daughter Roz, and the remaining two per cent to a so far unnamed party. The famously feuding women now find themselves put in a neat corner by Big Daddy, neither able to claim control and forced to work together in close disharmony. Neither of them was available for comment, but the racy Countess of Garrylaig, Eliza, first wife of Sir Julian, mother to Roz, and guardian angel to Phaedria (rumoured to be pregnant, although estranged from her husband for the weeks prior to his sudden death) predicts a speedy discovery and recovery of the missing heir.
‘Holy shit,’ said Michael Browning under his breath. He signalled to the hostess. ‘Honey, could you get me a whisky, please? I suddenly have a dreadful thirst.’
He stood in the reception area at Dover Street, dripping wet. He had as always lost his raincoat. Just as well he was in London. Although of course nowhere else would be tipping down the rain in the middle of June.
‘Can you tell me where to find Mrs Emerson?’
‘Certainly. Second floor, turn right at the lift, and it’s the big office on the left. But can I have your name, please? And I’ll tell her you’re here.’
‘Oh, I’d hate you to do that. I want to surprise her.’
‘But Mrs Emerson doesn’t like visitors unannounced.’
‘She’ll like me.’
‘No, I really can’t . . .’
‘Honey –’ he looked at her with his mournful face, his spaniel-like brown eyes – ‘I really want to surprise her. Can you deprive a drowning man of his last wish?’
‘Well . . .’
‘Thank you. I swear to you, if she fires you I’ll give you a job.’
He decided to walk up the stairs; he hated elevators. It was only one flight. Being an American, the second floor to Michael Browning was actually the first. He ran up the stairs, pushed through the swing doors, waited momentarily outside the office and then opened the door.
‘Hi, darling.’
But the face at the desk, looking at him, was not what he had been looking for, seeking – even, he realized with some surprise, longing for. It was not Roz’s face. It was nevertheless a rather beautiful face, very, very pale, with large dark eyes, and a massing cloud of dark hair; Michael Browning did not take a great interest in clothes, but he could see that the brilliant red dress with the wide shoulders added greatly to its owner’s striking appearance.
‘Yes?’ she said, slightly shortly.
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘I was looking for someone else.’
‘So I gathered.’
‘I’d like to say you’ll do,’ he said, sounding rather morose about the idea, ‘only that would sound kind of corny. And I’m afraid it wouldn’t be absolutely true. Although as substitutes go, you set a pretty high standard.’
The substitute stood up, whiter than ever, and rushed towards him. ‘Excuse me,’ she said, ‘I have to come past. I’m going to be sick.’
When she came back, shaky and a little dizzy, he was still there.
‘Hey,’ he said, ‘you look terrible. Here, come on and sit down.’ He took her hand, led her gently to a chair. ‘I don’t usually have that bad an effect on people. I obviously have a problem. Can I get you a drink of water?’
‘Oh, yes please. There’s a fridge in that cupboard there. Thank you. I’m really sorry. Horrid for you. Nothing personal. It’s just that I’m going to have a baby. And it doesn’t seem to like me.’
‘Now that’s really bad,’ he said, looking at her concernedly. ‘Are you sick a lot?’
‘An awful lot.’
‘All day? Or just in the morning.’
‘All day.’
‘You really shouldn’t let that go on, you know. It’s bad for you, and not too good for the unfriendly baby. What have you tried?’
‘Nothing, really.’
‘OK, well here’s an idea. My first wife had terrible sickness, and in the end she licked it. Now you take a lemon, and you just lop the top off it. Think of it as an egg. Get a little glucose – do you have that here?’
‘I believe we do,’ said Phaedria, her lips twitching.
‘Right, you sprinkle just a smidgen on to the egg.’
‘You mean the lemon?’
‘Yeah, the lemon. And then when you feel sick, or every ten minutes or so, you suck it. Try it. It can’t do any harm.’
‘Thank you, I will. It sounds awful, but I will.’
‘And when is this ungrateful monster due?’
‘Not for an eternity. November.’
‘I would say you should have finished being sick by now. What does your doctor say?’
‘I haven’t asked her. I’m seeing her tomorrow.’
‘Well, you should have seen her a long time before tomorrow. This certainly is a rather primitive society. In the States you’d be having your twenty-fifth check-up by now. Do you plan to give birth to this child in a ditch or something?’
‘No. Well, hopefully not.’ She looked at him and smiled. He smiled back.
Phaedria felt some very odd sensation; a small, meek, but very determined lurch somewhere deep within her. A slight shifting of her solar plexus. An illusion that it was warmer, brighter. She stifled all of them and looked at him again, taking in the deeply solemn face, the lugubrious dark eyes, the thick floppy hair – and the indisputably damp suit.
‘You’re very wet.’
‘I certainly am. Are you surprised? This is London, I do believe, and it is June.’
‘Yes, but most people wear a raincoat.’
‘I’ve lost mine.’
‘Ah.’
‘In fact I plan to go and buy a new one this afternoon. In Harrods.’
‘You could get one nearer than that. Simpson’s. Austin Reed.’
‘I know. But they know me in Harrods.’
‘Do you buy raincoats there very often?’
‘Oh, all the time. I only have to show my face in the department, and hordes of women rush at me, bearing Burberries.’
She laughed. ‘All right. Now then, who is this darling you’re looking for?’
‘I beg your pardon? Oh – sorry,’ he smiled again. ‘I’d forgotten. Too interested in you and your baby.’ The shift again; the brightening. ‘Yeah, well, you probably know her. It’s Roz. Roz Emerson.’
‘Yes,’ said Phaedria, ‘yes, I do. Slightly. I’d ask my secretary to take you up only she’s not very near at the moment. It’s the next floor. Directly above this room. Shall I let her know you’re here?’
‘Oh, no,’ he said, ‘I want to surprise her.’
‘I hope she likes your sort of surprises,’ said Phaedria briskly.
‘I think she will. Thank you. Miss – er Mrs –’
‘Morell. Phaedria.’
‘You! You’re her! My God, I didn’t expect you to be quite so good-looking.’ He studied her in silence, drinking her in; then he smiled again. ‘Well, you really are a nice surprise.’
‘Well, thank you.’ Another slightly bigger shift. (For God’s sake, Phaedria Morell, you’re a grieving widow, four months pregnant.)
‘And you are?’
‘Browning. Michael Browning.’
‘Oh, my God,’ said Phaedria. ‘My God. I think I’m going to be sick again.’
‘I’ll bring you some lemons,’ he called to her departing back. But she was gone.
‘Michael, Michael I love you. I love you so so much. It’s so good to see you.’ Roz was more than slightly drunk; they were lunching in the Caprice. Michael, most of his good resolutions gone, was sitting back looking at her thoughtfully.
‘Do I get to spend the rest of the day with you? As you love me so much?’
‘Michael, I can’t. I just can’t.’
‘Ah.’
‘Michael, do be fair. I had no idea you were coming. I have three major meetings this afternoon. I have half the company resting on my shoulders these days you know, it’s serious work.’
‘Not half, darling. Forty-nine per cent.’
‘You’ve been reading the papers.’
‘I certainly have.’
‘Well, what do you make of it?’
‘Very odd. I told you he was a devious old buzzard.’
‘Yes, well, so you always said.’ Her face darkened. ‘Do you know the whole story? Or at least the half of it that we know?’
‘Not really.’
‘Well, he left forty-nine per cent to me, forty-nine per cent to the wife – the widow.’
‘And who holds the key?’
‘I don’t know. Nobody knows.’
‘You’re kidding.’
‘I wish I was. Some man called Miles Wilburn. Who none of us have ever heard of.’
‘None of you? Not even the old lady? Or that frosty bit with the red hair?’
‘No. None of us.’
He was silent for a while. ‘Weird.’
‘So what are you going to do?’
‘Find him,’ said Roz. There was an expression of absolute determination on her face.
‘And then?’
‘Get him on my side.’
‘Exactly how?’
‘I’ll find a way.’
‘Poor fucker.’
‘I beg your pardon.’
‘You heard. I certainly don’t rate his chances. How are you going to find him?’
‘The lawyers are on to it. I have a detective agency working on it too.’
‘I guess Lady Morell is also trying to find him.’
‘No doubt she is.’
‘Some contest.’
‘I intend to win.’
‘I bet you do.’
‘Michael, you’re not being terribly nice to me.’
‘You haven’t been terribly nice to me.’
She looked at him, held his gaze, and took his hand; and for that moment all her toughness, her selfishness, her greed had left her eyes, and they were filled quite simply with longing and love.
‘I know. And I’m truly, truly sorry.’
‘Well,’ he said, fighting to retain some semblance of judgement, ‘I shall wait to see. Can you really not come back to the hotel with me now?’
‘No,’ she said, and he could see the immensity of what that cost her. ‘No, I’m sorry, I can’t.’
‘Ah.’ He was silent for a moment; she looked down, fearing she might crack, weaken, even cry. Then he smiled, kissed her cheek.
‘It’s all right, that was unfair. I shouldn’t have asked. I wouldn’t cancel three vital meetings either, just on the off-chance of a glorious afternoon in the sack. Can I see you tonight?’
‘Oh, yes, most certainly tonight. This evening. I’ll be there at seven.’
‘I’m divorcing Hubby.’
‘Just like that?’
‘Just like that. Well, I suppose he’ll be divorcing me. He has enough grounds.’
‘Well, that’s sad.’
‘Is it?’
‘Of course it is. Jesus, Roz, you’re a tough cookie. It’s always sad when a marriage ends. You have to think that.’
‘Well,’ she said. ‘Maybe. But we never really had a marriage, C. J. and I. Just an arrangement.’
‘Of your making. Rosamund, much as I love you, dearly as I like to be with you, desperately as I long to have you in my bed again, I want to make it very plain that I will not play some minor part in any convenient arrangement of yours. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, Michael. Quite clear. I promise.’
He looked at her warily. He had learnt not to trust her promises.
Phaedria and C. J. began their detective work that night. Phaedria unlocked the huge desk in Julian’s study and they sifted patiently hour after hour through papers, letters, documents. It was meticulously filed, perfectly ordered; most of it was administrative stuff, deeds of houses, details of staff, invoices for work done, letters from lawyers in America, France, the Bahamas, about property, cars, horses, planes. Some of it was personal; there were letters from Roz at boarding school, brief, harsh, dutiful, and earlier ones which she had written to him when he had been away in New York, when she had been a little girl, loving, sad, brave little notes asking him to come home, to take Mummy back to Regent’s Park, telling him of her successes at dancing, at riding, at school; there were snapshots of her on her pony, in her ballet dress, in her first school uniform, and several of her with Julian, holding his hand, sitting on his knee, sitting on her pony beside him. Phaedria studied them in silence; her eyes filled with tears.
‘This is awful, C. J. It makes me feel so sad. He really really loved her. And she must have loved him so much. I don’t think I can take much more of this. I shall end up giving her my share and just retiring to the country.’
‘Yes, I know,’ said C. J. ‘I used to feel sorry for her too. But I don’t any more. Other people have tough childhoods. You did. But they survive. They don’t turn out psychopaths.’
Phaedria laughed shakily. ‘She’s not exactly a psychopath. But I suppose you’re right. Oh, look, here are the wedding pictures, with Eliza. Goodness, she was beautiful. And oh, C. J., look at Letitia. What a marvellous-looking woman she was. Is.’
‘She is such a very old lady suddenly,’ said C. J.
‘Yes, I’m afraid she is. But she’s amazingly brave. She’s an example to us all. Well, there’s nothing here, C. J., is there? We may as well call it a day.’
‘I guess so. You look tired. Why don’t I fix you a drink before I go?’
‘That would be lovely. I am tired. It’s not exactly easy, what I’m doing at the moment.’
‘Roz giving you a hard time?’
‘Very. The thing is I could easily give in, and just let her carry on for a bit. I still hold forty-nine per cent, so she can’t do anything much without me. But I just know she’d start politicking in earnest if my back was turned. I have to show my mettle.’
‘She certainly seems much happier,’ said C. J. with a sigh. ‘Browning’s been over.’
‘Yes. I know. I met him.’
‘Really? How on earth did that happen?’
‘Oh, he came to my office by mistake.’
‘I – I – hear he’s quite charming.’
‘Yes,’ said Phaedria briefly. ‘He seemed quite nice.’
‘I guess she’ll marry him now. In the fullness of time.’
‘I guess she will.’ She looked at him, but his face was blank.
‘How’s the flat-hunting?’
‘It’s good. I have a nice place, I think, just off Sloane Street. I’ve made an offer. Now what would you like to drink?’
‘Hot milk, with honey in it. A real nursery bedtime drink. Can you manage that?’
‘Sure. Now I think the next thing we have to do is repeat this same operation in New York. In Sutton Place.’
‘God,’ said Phaedria, ‘I don’t think I could possibly find the strength to fly over there just now. And my memories of Sutton Place are not the happiest.
‘You really have had a tough time, Phaedria. I suppose you’ve considered not doing all this? Just letting things go. You could settle down happily with your baby, probably marry again, spare yourself all this pain.’
‘No,’ said Phaedria firmly. ‘I haven’t considered it for a moment. Not one. The company matters desperately to me, it’s the most important thing I have left of Julian, apart from the baby, and I intend to keep it alive, in my own way. And I feel, in doing what he did, he made it clear he wanted me to remain involved in it, caring for it. Otherwise he would have left it all to Roz. No, C. J., I have to carry on.’
‘Well, I just thought I’d check it out. Phaedria, would you like me to go to Sutton Place? And the offices in New York? I wouldn’t mind. I know where everything is. I have the time. And besides –’ he smiled at her suddenly – ‘I’m not pregnant.’
‘Well, that’s true. Oh, C. J., I’d love it. But are you sure it won’t upset your book schedule?’
‘It will,’ he said cheerfully. ‘But I don’t mind. Now I’m going to get your drink. You just wait there.’
When he came back with it she was asleep, her face peaceful, childlike, her hair tumbled on the cushions.
Eliza proved no more able to help than anyone else. Phaedria asked C. J. to contact Camilla while he was in New York – unable to bear to talk to her herself. The only other person Phaedria decided worth talking to was Sarah Brownsmith. Sarah, she felt, probably knew more about Julian than anyone in the world; both his public and his private life. And she was also clearly anxious to help. She had even moved her office down from the penthouse in order to act as Phaedria’s private secretary, and to prevent Roz from claiming any kind of injustice. Phaedria asked her to organize lunch for them both one day, and said she wanted to grill her. ‘I really need any help I can get. Anything at all you can think of. However small.’
‘Well,’ said Sarah, ‘I certainly have no notes, no addresses, no names that are going to do you any good. I have been through everything, and this Mr Blackworth of Mrs Emerson’s has already been to see me, as you know.’
‘Hmm. Let’s go at it a different way. Sarah, you knew him a very long time. Can you think of any time he might have behaved differently?’
‘Not really. He was, considering how – spoilt he was, very balanced, I always thought. Although –’ She looked at Phaedria quizzically. ‘There was something.’
‘Yes?’
‘Well, it was quite soon after I came to work for him. Right at the beginning of the seventies. In 1971 to be precise. He became very depressed. Very depressed indeed. In fact one morning, I did actually find him in tears. I’ve never told anyone this, of course, there was no reason for me to, but I suppose it might be relevant now, he did at that time see a doctor quite regularly.’
‘Goodness,’ said Phaedria, ‘this is intriguing. What sort of a doctor?’
‘Well – a psychiatrist.’
‘My God. How regularly?’
‘Oh, twice a week, for nearly a year. I had the impression he was very troubled.’
‘This is truly extraordinary. Nobody, nobody at all has ever mentioned anything about this. That he was so unhappy or anything. Do you by any chance have a note of this doctor’s name?’
‘I can find it. Just a minute.’
She came back with her address file. ‘Doctor Friedman. Doctor Margaret Friedman. She practised in the Marylebone Road. I have her number. Would you like it?’
‘I certainly would. Sarah, you’re an angel. Thank you.’
‘It’s a pleasure, Lady Morell. Would you like your nap now?’
‘No, I’m much too excited to sleep. Try this number straight away, will you? I can’t wait to talk to her.’
Doctor Friedman, said the receptionist, was away for a fortnight. She was quite happy to make an appointment for Lady Morell on her return. Would an early morning be convenient? And yes, quite convenient, said Lady Morell, just as early as Doctor Friedman liked.
‘Very well,’ said the brisk voice on the other end of the phone. ‘Eight thirty on Monday, August first.’
With which Lady Morell had to force herself to be content.
She was sitting in her office quite early one morning in July while C. J. was away in the States, when the phone rang. It was Henry Winterbourne.
‘Phaedria! I have some news.’
‘Oh, my God,’ said Phaedria, leaning back in her chair, closing her eyes, ‘What, Henry, what is it?’
‘Well, it’s quite a big lead actually. I have been advertising in all the major cities in the States, as you know; I got a letter a few days ago from a lawyer called Bill Wilburn in San Francisco, saying his nephew was Miles Wilburn. I didn’t tell you, I’ve had dozens of the things, all saying they were Miles Wilburn, they were his mother, his son, his second cousin’s stepgrandmother . . .’
‘Oh, go on, go on,’ said Phaedria, ‘do get to the point, Henry.’
‘Well, I wrote the standard letter, saying could he ask Mr Wilburn to contact us direct, and saying that the news we had for him was to his advantage. And he phoned. This morning.’
‘And?’
‘And, well, it was a most extraordinary, intriguing phone call. He wanted to know naturally if there was money involved. And then he said he presumed I was acting for Hugo Dashwood.’
‘Who?’
‘Exactly. I thought you’d be interested. Hugo Dashwood.’
‘And then what?’
‘Well, then I said no, I was acting for the Morell family. Bill Wilburn just didn’t understand why I didn’t know who Hugo Dashwood was. He did sound rather drunk. He said he knew Hugo Dashwood, that he was English, and he’d assumed that he’d left his nephew, Miles Wilburn, some money. He said he hoped so, because Miles had just borrowed some money from him. I said was this Hugo Dashwood related to his nephew and he said, yes, he believed he might be.’
‘Oh,’ said Phaedria, ‘this is just too exciting for words. And baffling. Then what?’
‘Well, then I decided this chap had to be genuine, and so I said we’d pay his fare to come over to England and see us.’
‘Why didn’t you ask him to give us Miles’ address?’
‘I did. He said he’d rather come and talk to us first. He said what he had to say was highly confidential and delicate, and he didn’t want Miles involved until he was satisfied it was really going to benefit him.’
‘How extraordinary. So when is he coming?’
‘Very soon. I’ve asked Jane to book a flight in the next day or so. She’ll ring him when it’s fixed.’
‘Henry, you’re a genius.’
‘No, just lucky. I think.’
‘Er – Henry, have you told anyone else in the family yet?’
‘No, as a matter of fact I haven’t. Roz is away, I understand, for a few days in Washington, so I can’t get hold of her, and I didn’t want to trouble her with what might prove to be a false lead.’
‘Of course not. And she is extremely busy, just now, getting down to her new post as acting president of the hotels.’
‘Quite.’
‘Let me know the minute you can when he’s coming, won’t you?’
‘Of course.’
Next morning, Jane Gould came in to Henry’s office looking upset.
‘What is it, Jane? Having trouble with your new word processor?’
‘No, Mr Winterbourne. I’ve just phoned Mr Wilburn’s office in San Francisco. There’s some hysterical girl on the phone who says he’s dead. Apparently he had a car crash last night. And before you ask, there’s no family at all that we can talk to. What on earth do we do now?’