The Guilty Secret (11 page)

‘I'm going to have no figure left by the time I leave here.'

‘Nonsense,' he said, apparently concentrating very hard on his salad. ‘ You have a superb figure.'

‘I never thought you'd noticed,' I said banteringly.

He put his fork and spoon down. ‘You would be surprised at some of the things I notice, Jennifer. Perhaps I should have told you before.' And with his cheeks more flushed than usual, he picked up the salad bowl and carried it into the dining-room, leaving me staring with astonishment after him.

Dinner that night was surprisingly relaxed. Aunt Harriet presided, looking much better after her rest, and happy to be playing hostess in her own villa. Mary had said happily:-

‘Tom was so understanding about my wanting to go back to the children. It made me feel so selfish, I said we would stay on until Jonathan arrives and leave then.' Her eyes were sparkling and she had put on a dark green dress that suited her. They sat together at the dinner table, holding hands.

Miles greeted me as if nothing had happened. The intimacy had gone out of his smile, but I didn't regret that.

Phil sat on my other side. He was quiet, but that wasn't unusual when he was in company. I had promised to go back to his villa after dinner and listen while he played a new piece by a young British composer. Even Harold looked more relaxed. Rozalinda, he had explained, had a migraine and wouldn't be joining us. Everyone had murmured appropriate words of sympathy and Harold had sat down beside Mary, leaving Aunt Harriet to preside alone. She looked quite grand that evening, wearing a black silk dress and two heavy ropes of pearls, thick white hair waving back off her face into a high chignon. In the soft candle-light it seemed impossible to believe that she was seventy-two.

‘You're not going to forgive me for this, Jenny,' Miles said suddenly. ‘There was a telephone call about a half hour ago and I'd forgotten all about it. Apparently your fiance will be down a little sooner than you had anticipated.'

‘When? What did he say?'

‘He's coming sometime tomorrow if it's convenient. Naturally I said that it was.'

I felt my cheeks flush and didn't care.

‘Isn't that super!' Mary said enthusiastically, half her happiness for me and the other half for herself and an early reunion with Helen and Timothy.

‘Hope he'll understand … about Rozalinda not being well and all that …' Harold said, worry flickering across his face.

‘Of course he will. Please don't bother about that, Harold. I shall tell him Rozalinda has been overworking and isn't seeing anyone at the moment. Jonathan will understand.'

‘Yes,' Miles said, wiping his mouth on his napkin. ‘I must have a talk with you after dinner, Harold. Can't go on like this for much longer.'

Harold ummed and aahed uncomfortably. Aunt Harriet said:-

‘I think you're right, Miles. It's only fair to tell you that Rozalinda is far more ill than we've let any of you think. I talked with Harold this afternoon and we think it's only fair to the rest of you to know the truth.' She had everybody's undivided attention. ‘ The last couple of years have been nothing but work for her. I'm afraid they've taken their toll and when she came back from France she had a nervous breakdown. Not a serious one. But bad enough for her to need the rest here. I'm afraid there's no way that she could begin filming again in a matter of weeks.'

Miles put his wine glass down. ‘I see. And this was brought on solely by overwork?'

‘Of course.'

Miles drummed his fingers on the table thoughtfully. ‘She wouldn't by any chance have been receiving anonymous letters would she?'

‘I say, old man …' Harold began but Aunt Harriet's voice cut across him.

‘Why should you think that?'

Miles leaned back in his chair. ‘ Only that it's a shame you didn't tell me if she had. There's been a spate of them. Marisa Clavering had months of them, and Danella St John is still getting them.'

‘You mean Rozalinda isn't the only one?' Harold asked unbelievingly.

‘No. They're rife. Though of course the people receiving them don't go out of their way to talk about it. No truth in the vicious things of course. The Claverings employed private detectives and they soon stopped.'

‘You mean they found out who was sending them?'

‘No, but when it was obvious they might do, the letters stopped. My advice to you is hand them all over to a private detective. God knows you can afford the best. That will soon put an end to them.'

Harold looked so relieved it was pathetic. ‘Everyone getting them … unbelievable, eh? Must hurry over and tell Rozalinda …'

Aunt Harriet laid a restraining hand on his arm. ‘ Not just now, Harold. She's fast asleep. Wait till morning.'

Crestfallen, he sank back in his seat and it seemed ludicrous that it was because of his wealth that we were all there at all. He must have been a walk over for Rozalinda.

‘So that's what all the fuss has been about,' Phil said disinterestedly.

‘She's gone through hell,' Mary said with an unusual edge to her voice. ‘I sometimes wonder if you have any feelings, Phil.'

‘Oh, I have. Believe me, I have.' He looked directly at me.

Miles poured himself another glass of wine. ‘Then I think our troubles are over, Harold. I can promise you that there will be no more letters. Not once the writer knows you're all set to flush him out.'

‘I thought anonymous letters were usually written by women,' Mary interrupted.

‘Her then.' Miles amended equably.

Harold was looking flustered again. ‘ Not as easy as that. Rozalinda put them all in the fire.'

‘Best place for them as well.' Tom said with fervour.

‘I shouldn't worry,' Miles smiled reassuringly at his host. ‘The letters themselves aren't important. Whoever wrote them doesn't know Rozalinda has destroyed them, besides I doubt if your private detective would find the culprit. The Claverings didn't. But bring it out in the open and let him or her know you're no longer afraid and they'll soon stop. Takes all the fun out of it for the writer.'

‘You seem to be very experienced in the ways of poison pen writers,' Phil said unpleasantly. It was the first time he had spoken to Miles all evening.

Miles laughed. ‘I am. Rozalinda is the third to be on the receiving end of them. I'm just cursing myself for a fool for not having suspected what was the matter long ago.'

‘Thank God,' Harold said sincerely. ‘ I told her in the beginning we should go to the police, but she wouldn't hear of it.'

‘I'm not surprised. Think of the sort of publicity it could have sparked off. The thought would have been enough to frighten anyone of Rozalinda's temperament.'

‘But I thought you just said Harold should hire a private detective and be quite open about the letters. If he does that it will leak to the press anyway,' I protested.

‘Not quite the same as a police investigation. Besides, when I said be open about it, I didn't mean hold a press conference. The writer will know soon enough without that.'

I looked blank and he said. ‘I don't know what was in the letters Rozalinda received, but I do know what was in Marisa's and Danella's. Whoever wrote them was close enough to have put in details of truth amongst the rest of the garbage. The writer is someone on the inside of the film world who knows the girls well. Just let your friends know, Harold. That will be enough.'

‘
My friends!
Good grief, Miles, you can't imagine for one minute that any of Rozalinda's
friends
would do a foul thing like this?'

‘That's the other thing I read about poison pen letters,' Mary said thoughtfully. ‘ They are nearly always written by someone close to the victim.'

‘How hideous,' Tom looked sick.

‘I don't think we need talk about it any further,' Aunt Harriet said, beginning to pour the coffees. ‘What Miles has said has put our minds at rest and will reassure Rozalinda. Once she knows she isn't the only victim and that Marisa and Danella have received them as well, she will be able to see them in perspective. We must just feel sad that anyone should have such a sick mind as to send them in the first place.'

She led the way into the spacious salon, the subject firmly closed. No-one lingered very long. Harold was itching to get back to Rozalinda, though Aunt Harriet made him promise he wouldn't wake her to tell her the news, but would wait until the morning.

Mary looked only too happy to leave, clutching Tom's arm like a love-sick schoolgirl, and Phil was eager to be off and get back to his piano. Only Miles seemed content to stay, nursing a large brandy and cigar. We left him with Aunt Harriet who seemed only too happy to talk to him and walked in silence back to Phil's villa.

The pine needles were soft underfoot, the moon rising high.

‘You haven't changed your mind about listening to this new work of Tom Calloway's have you?'

‘No, of course not. I can't think of anything nicer. You played a piece of his at your last concert, didn't you?'

‘Yes. The man's a genius. Just listen to this.'

I curled up obediently on the big cushions as Phil sat down at the piano. Whether Tom Calloway was a genius or not I wasn't competent enough to decide. His music was too sharp for my taste and it was hard to find any underlying melody. I would much rather have listened to Chopin or Liszt, but had no intention of admitting it to Phil. Besides, my mind was full of Jonathan, excitement growing in tight knots in my stomach. Tomorrow. Only hours away. I could taste his lips and feel his hands on my body and physically ached with longing.

Phil said exasperatedly:- ‘For the third time, Jennifer. Did you like it or not?'

‘It was a beautiful piece of music, Phil. Would you mind playing Chopin's Waltz in C sharp …'

‘Opus 64, number 2,' Phil mimicked. ‘Have you ever bothered to count the number of times I've played this damn thing for you?'

‘I don't care. It's beautiful.'

For a second I thought he was going to say something else. Something about me. Then he turned abruptly to the piano and played the waltz with far more fervour than was necessary.

I was up and dressed at six-o-clock the next morning. It was a beautiful day. A fishing boat bobbed precariously up and down far out at sea, visible one minute, the next hidden by giant crests of surf. The birds in the woods were in full song as I made my own coffee, leaving the villa before Joanna-Maria arrived. The sun was already bright but without any warmth. I pulled a cardigan around my shoulders and set off for the deserted beach. If he left Vigo after breakfast he could be here for lunch. Or perhaps he wouldn't arrive till dinner.

‘Oh, hurry my love. Hurry!' I said aloud as I stood high on the top of the dunes, flinging my arms wide with happiness. Then I ran down the steep bank and onto the beach, slipping off my sandals and running straight into the icy waves that creamed on the sand. Walking into the breeze, my hair streaming back off my face, sandals slung around my neck, I walked on ankle deep in the swirling foam. Looking behind me I could see no sign of the villas or the hotel. Nothing but sea and sand and blue sky. I was so immersed in my own thoughts that I didn't notice the footprints at once. I turned to see where they had sprung from. Like myself he had run down the sand dunes and into the sea, and then had walked along on the beach leaving deep prints in the sand. There was no sign of him ahead. I left the icy coldness of the Atlantic and padded along beside them, wondering if they belonged to someone from the hotel, or if it was Miles or Tom who had risen early. The sand dunes were thick with waving grass and the bobbing heads of scarlet poppies. I was nearing the headland when he called out—

‘Good morning, Jenny Wren. You're up early.'

‘
Jonathan!
'

He was sitting with his back against the dunes, lazily pulling at a poppy.

‘
Jonathan!
' I hurtled over the beach and into his arms. The poppy dropped from his fingers as he held me, the expression on his face changing. The laughter faded from his eyes to be replaced by a look suddenly serious and intent.

‘You haven't changed, Jenny Wren. You are still as beautiful.'

‘Did you think I would change into an old hag overnight?'

‘No. A lifetime couldn't do that to you,' and he bent his head to mine.

His kiss held all the fire and passion of that first kiss outside the medieval walls of Valenca. It told me what I most wanted to know. That Jonathan loved me and that nothing had changed.

‘I missed you, Jonathan.'

He tilted my face to his. ‘I missed you too, Jenny Wren. I couldn't stay away any longer.'

‘Oh Jonathan,' I clung closer to him, his heart beating against mine. Happy and safe and secure.

‘Will you come back to England with me?' he asked.

‘Yes. England. Africa. Anywhere.'

He smiled. ‘An English wedding will suit me fine. Is May sixteenth too soon?'

‘Three weeks?'

‘I haven't been wasting my time since I last saw you.' His eyes suddenly darkened and he held me away from him. ‘You haven't changed your mind, have you?'

‘No. Three days would not be soon enough,' and I wound my fingers in the thickness of his hair as he drew me into his arms, kissing me with such tenderness I thought I would die of joy.

A long time later, as we began to walk back in the direction of the villas, he said:-

‘I've been married before, Jenny.'

‘I know. It doesn't matter.'

‘It mattered to me,' he said quietly. ‘We weren't divorced. She died.'

‘I'm sorry …' the words were painfully inadequate. He gripped my hand hard.

‘I loved her very much and we were very happy. I thought it meant that I could never love again, but I was wrong. I love you, Jenny. You're no second best and never will be.'