Sunday Morning, September 18, 1937
Heatherwick
Charlotte’s letter was in the hands of the new inspector constable, along with my written statement, and no doubt the revised and complete story would soon be reported in the local paper as well as the London Times. At least as complete as it needed to be. Some details would remain just between Simon and me.
“Well,” Simon said as the three of us finished our breakfast in the morning room, “this has been quite an interesting weekend, to say the least.” He looked tired but content.
“I’m afraid I’m still in the dark about most of it,” Verbina said.
“I’ll fill you in once we’re back in London, Auntie. We have lots of time.”
She looked at her watch. “Yes, but not lots of time to catch our train. We’d better get upstairs and finish packing.”
“I’m nearly done,” I said.
“Of course you are. Men.”
I smiled. “Can’t help it. You go on up, I’ll be along shortly.”
“I’ll send Wigglesworth up in a few moments to get your bags, Mrs. Partridge, and yours when you’re ready.”
“Okay,” I said. “I won’t be long.”
Verbina looked at each of us. “Well, thank you again for everything, Simon,” Auntie said. “I hope we meet again soon.”
“I hope so, too.” The three of us got to our feet and Verbina exited.
“I hate goodbyes,” Simon said to me when she’d gone.
“Me, too. Let’s not, then.”
“All right. What should we say instead?”
“Nothing. Just nothing. No words are needed, I don’t think. And I won’t forget you.”
He smiled then. “I should hope not. You have my underwear to remember me by.”
I laughed. “That’s right, I do. I shall treasure it always. Say, I just realized I never gave you anything in return.”
“But you have. You’ve given me more than I ever dreamed possible. You’ve given me my freedom, my self-worth, and my reputation back.”
“Aw, I just figured out where the letter was and what had really happened, that’s all.”
“Both priceless gifts. But if you mistakenly leave a pair of your underwear in your room so I have something tangible to remember you by in case we never meet again, well…”
I grinned. “Now, that’s a fair trade. But I predict we will meet again, Simon, you’ll see. It’s destiny.”
“Well, destiny is not to be trifled with. What was it Charlotte said in her letter? ‘What is death’s prelude? Is it life?’ To that I say a resounding yes. Yes, Charlotte, life is death’s prelude, it must be. We must live our lives, each of us, to their fullest. And to help others do the same, to realize we are all more alike than different, and that it’s okay to be…”
“Differently normal,” we said together.