Old Sins (101 page)

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.’

‘Excuse me.’

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.