It was 2.00 in the morning when Claire took the call. She was alone in her new flat and, in the middle of the night, it was absolutely silent. As Claire quickly woke, she felt that it was very cold.
‘Is that Claire? Claire Watts?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m sorry to call you at this hour, but I am the homecare nurse looking after Mr Harry Stone in Brighton. He said you were the first person I must call, whatever the time. I’m sad to tell you Harry Stone passed away just an hour ago. I was here; the doctor had called and made him free of pain; and he was peaceful at the end. He’d had a terrible gash to his shoulder that maybe hastened his end, we shall never know. But we did the best for him that we could.’
Claire by now was sitting at the end of her bed, and she was very wide awake.
‘I could see the disease had eaten away at him. When I last saw him, Harry was not in charge of where he was and what he was doing, and he didn’t like that. I’m sure the end has come as a relief,’ Claire said.
‘Please go back to your sleep. I will tidy up here, and I too can then go home for a few hours’ rest. But Harry Stone left a letter. It is addressed to you. He left it in a white envelope on the top of his study desk. He told me you have a key to the house, but would you prefer that I post it to you?’
‘I don’t remember the last time Harry ever wrote a letter. It was not his way. Thank you, but I think leave it just where it is. I’ll come down as soon as I can.’
Carol had a very calming voice, but this was a time, even though expected, that Claire found difficult to think about. With her head in her hands, Claire sat still for many minutes. She then fumbled in her purse and found a small diamond. Holding it up to the kitchen light for a moment, it glittered for her. She had known Harry Stone for at least twenty years. Living in her own flat in Arrow Hall, working for him, she had seen and been part of the ups and downs of his spontaneous and fast-moving business deals. And watching him, Claire had always been quite sure that he was as much interested in the excitement of the chase as the money that might flow afterwards.
But, of course, there was much more to Harry Stone than a small diamond could ever tell.
Harry Stone was Arrow Hall, an Elizabethan manor house deep in the countryside. The two were closely woven together and, for Claire, that could never change. The indelible image of Harry Stone, sitting at his desk in the morning room, surrounded by untidy papers and a glass of whisky in his hand, flashed before her. But in her night-time tiredness, Claire desperately tried to brush that image away as, even now, it stirred tarnished memories for her.
Claire’s eyes felt heavy and watery. The call, coming in the darkness of the night, somehow made the news worse. It heightened her sense of finality to something she had known and been part of. Alone in the kitchen of her meagrely furnished flat, Claire took a sip from a mug of tea. Harry Stone, someone Claire had once shunned for his shady dealing, had died cruelly and quickly. A tear of emotion crept from her eye. After going back to bed and turning the light off, inevitably, her thoughts were running, and Claire had difficulty in keeping her eyes closed for the rest of the night.
What was really keeping her awake was Harry Stone writing her a letter. That was as unlikely as being hit by a thunderbolt of lightning. Curiosity was driving Claire to read it and quickly.