Remember (22 page)

Philip nodded. “Those demonstrations are going to be on the increase, I think. And I have a strong suspicion we’re going to see any number of Communist regimes come tumbling down this year.

” Nicky was thoughtful for a few seconds, and then she said slowly, with some deliberation, “Only the other day I told Arch Leverson that we’re going to see the tectonic plates of history shifting under our feet in the not too distant future. There’s going to be a lot of movement, a lot of changes, especially in the Iron Curtain countries.”

“Very astute of you to say so, Nicky. You’re right on the button,” Philip exclaimed.

Nicky smiled at him, she was pleased to get his confirmation of her opinions on world affairs. After all, Philip Rawlings was an important man at the Foreign Office.

When they had spent time together in the past, Philip and Nicky had inevitably become embroiled in political discussions, and this afternoon was no exception. They went on chatting about the state of the world for the next ten minutes or so, until Philip finally cut short their conversation. Shaking his head, he said, “Here we go again, Nicky, boring poor Anne with all this dry stuff about politics and politicians, which she couldn’t care less about. Sorry, darling,” he apologized, and looked at Anne affectionately.

“But that’s not true!” Anne spluttered. “I’m not bored. You seem to have forgotten that I grew up with politics, and that my father was quite a statesman in his day.”

“I hadn’t forgotten, but I do know that’s not where your interests lie, not really.” Philip pushed himselfup out of the chair and went to sit with Anne on the sofa. Taking her hand, he said, “And now, on to more important things—have you told Nicky our happy news?”

Anne said, “I haven’t had a chance yet, and in any case I thought it would be much nicer if we told her together.”

“Told me what?” Nicky looked from one to the other, filled with curiosity.

“Philip asked me to marry him today—” “For about the twentieth time,” Philip cut in.

“And I accepted him,” Anne added, her face radiant.

“Finally,” Philip said. “Anne has finally agreed to become my wife and she’s even set the date. We’re going to have a Christmas wedding here in the little church at Pullenbrook.”

“Oh, Anne, Philip, this is wonderful news!” Nicky exclaimed, jumping to her feet to offer congratulations.

Nicky sat in the window seat in her room, staring out across the formal gardens of Pullenbrook. But she was not really looking at them. Her gaze was turned inward.

How she wished now that she had not come down here today, that she had delayed her visit until Monday, as she had originally intended when she had set out from New York yesterday.

When she arrived in London last night, the first thing she had done, after she had checked into her hotel, was telephone Pullenbrook. Anne had been overjoyed to hear from her, and so soon after their chance meeting in France. They had chatted for a few minutes, and then she had more or less invited herself down for the weekend, telling Anne that she was in England for only a few days and would love to see her.

Anxiety had prompted her haste, she had a desperate need to

talk to Anne. Who else was there in whom to confide her terrible suspicions about Charles?

But to her dismay she found she had walked into this house on a very special day in Anne Devereaux’s life. How awful it would be if she ruined it by revealing to her that her only child, the son she had adored, might not have drowned after all, as they believed, but that he might have faked his own death. In doing so, she would be branding Charles dishonorable, duplicitous, a liar and a cheat—and a savagely cruel man who had caused his mother untold suffering and grief, as well as herself, Philip, his uncle Geoffrey, and everyone else who was close to him. Of course, he was all of those things if he was alive and living under a new identity. But she couldn’t drop that bombshell tonight, as she had planned.

Nicky leaned her head against the windowpane, turning things over in her mind. She might not even be able to tell Anne tomorrow either, she might well have to stay over until Monday and talk to her then. It was not that she was afraid to speak out, it was just that she didn’t want to spoil Anne’s weekend. It was going to be very difficult, keeping up a calm front, putting on a good face for the next few days. Still, she must conceal her nervousness and anxiety for Anne’s sake. She was such a wonderful woman, so straightforward and honest, she deserved a little happiness at this stage in her life. No, she couldn’t dump this on her at the moment, she had to let her have this chance to celebrate with Philip.

For another half hour Nicky sat on the window seat, mulling everything over in her mind. Then she let her eyes wander over the vast room.

Full of pale lavender tints, soft pinks and light grays, it was a feminine room with pretty watercolors on the walls and painted-wood pieces that were elegant and graceful.

With her usual tact and thoughtfulness, Anne had chosen a bedroom for her that she had never occupied before, in an effort perhaps to ease the burden of unhappy memories. But every corner of Pullenbrook held memories for hen-yet not all of them were bad.

In fact, some of them were positive and happy.

The four-poster with its lavender silk hangings and matching eiderdown looked inviting all of a sudden, so Nicky took off her shoes and lay down on it. She pulled the eiderdown over her, hoping to have a nap before getting ready for dinner, but her mind kept running.

Not unnaturally, Nicky was thinking of the last time she had been in this house—that particular visit had been heartbreaking, one of the saddest times in her life, and the memories of it were very bad indeed.

October 1986. A Saturday in the middle of the month. She had arrived at Pullenbrook in the morning. She and Anne had talked for hours, and had hardly noticed when Inez had brought the tea into the drawing room promptly at four o’clock, automatically observing that traditional British ritual. They had been far too devastated to care about the tea, and it had gone untouched.

Her own pain had begun the day before, when Philip had shown up in New York unexpectedly, ringing her doorbell just after ten o’clock. He had stepped off the early-morning British Concorde into a waiting limousine, and had ridden into Manhattan to break the bad news to her in person, at Anne’s request, rather than doing so on the telephone from London.

Philip had not wasted any time. He had told her as gently as he could that Charles was believed to be dead, that he had apparently drowned off Beachy Head on the Sussex coast several days earlier. His pale-blue Jaguar had been found parked nearby, late on Wednesday afternoon. In it were his raincoat and a locked briefcase bearing his initials with a leather luggage tag on the

handle. The name on the tag read Charles A. C. Devereaux, and, of course, the local police had known at once whom to contact, his mother, Lady Anne Devereaux of Pullenbrook Manor.

When the locks of the briefcase had been prised open by the police, in front of Anne, the only item they found inside had been a letter addressed to his mother. And that letter had told them everything they needed to know—Charles Devereaux had taken his own life. Everything had been spelled out precisely and explicitly, and he had made his intentions very clear. But there would have to be a police investigation, that was the law.

However, the police had agreed to keep the matter under wraps until Charles Devereaux’s fiancee in New York had been informed.

Again, this had been one of Anne’s requests, which the local police chief, Superintendent Willis, had said they would be willing to accede to, out of deference to her ladyship and her standing in the county.

Philip had recounted all this to her on that horrendous Friday, when her whole world had fallen apart with such abruptness and finality.

She had been shattered, and in shock, when she had phoned Arch at the network, and told him in a shaky voice that she had to fly to England immediately because Charles had committed suicide. She had been trembling so excessively, as the facts had truly begun to sink in, she had been unable to continue and had handed the phone to Philip.

Carefully he had given the pertinent details to Arch and promised to be in touch with more news as soon as possible.

Not long after this she had thrown a few clothes into a bag and packed her toilet articles and makeup, with the help of Gertrude, who had arrived to clean the apartment in the middle of it all.

And then, just before they set off for Kennedy Airport, Philip had attempted to reach her parents, who were staying at the Cipriani in Venice, but they had been out. Philip had left his name and the number at Pullenbrook, along with an urgent message for them to telephone Anne as soon as they could.

By one-thirty she and Philip were on board the French Concorde, taking off for Paris. Philip had pointed out that this was the easiest and fastest route to London. They would be flying for just under four hours, would spend the night in Paris and be on the first plane to London on Saturday.

She had wept for almost the entire journey across the Atlantic.

Philip had done his level best to console her, but with little success.

Yet, from time to time, she had had her moments of calm, during which they had asked each other the same question. Why?

Why had Charles done this terrible thing? There seemed to be no valid reason to either of them, and therefore no explanation.

Upon arrival at Charles de Gaulle Airport they had taken rooms at one of the hotels, and on Saturday they had been on the seven o’clock flight to Heathrow. From there they had driven directly to Pullenbrook, where Anne, grief-stricken, still suffering from shock, was waiting for them.

Later that day Nicky had asked Anne if there had been any mention of her in Charles’s letter. Anne had shaken her head sadly. Nicky had been stunned to hear this. Charles had killed himself without one last word to her. And she couldn’t quite get over that.

Her parents had arrived from Venice via London on Sunday. They were full of compassion and concern for her, and they had both done their best to help her. But in the end it was she and Anne who had helped each other the most, had given each other the most sustenance and support.

She had stayed with Anne for several weeks, the two of them

inseparable and moving between Pullenbrook and Anne’s flat in Eaton Square. And during this difficult and painful time for them both, things had become crystal clear. Charles had been quite deliberate in everything he had done before his suicide. He had meticulously put all his affairs in order. His flat in Knightsbridge had been sold, the shares he held in his privately owned wine-importing company in London had been sold to his partner, his shares in the European end of the business had been bought by his Spanish partner. And, finally, he had made a new will a few weeks before his death. In it he had left everything to his mother.

Ever since then, for almost three years now, Nicky had asked herself why he had killed himself, and she had never been able to come up with an answer. At least, not one that was acceptable.

At one point, anger had replaced her initial grief, and this had troubled her. On several occasions, when she was in New York and not on foreign assignment, she had gone to see a psychiatrist, one who had been recommended by Arch. Her aim had been to understand the anger and to come to grips with it. The psychiatrist, Dr. Alvin Foxgrove, had patiently explained that most people who had been close to, or emotionally involved with, suicides inevitably experienced great anger, and that it was a perfectly normal reaction. This knowledge had helped her somewhat, especially since Dr. Foxgrove had told her that the anger would eventually go away. But in her case it had not fully evaporated. The awful truth was that there were times when the anger blazed again inside.

After a while, Nicky managed to pull her thoughts away from the past and concentrate on the present. It had always bothered her that there was no body, but then Charles had slipped into the English Channel and been washed away to sea. Or had he?

Her plan now was to find out exactly what had happened. After she had spoken to Anne she would return to London, and from there she intended to fly to the Continent. She was going to use her investigative skills as a journalist to solve the mystery of Charles Devereaux’s death, to find out the truth about him.

An hour later, at about seven o’clock, having changed from her tailored safari suit into a navy silk dress and pearls, Nicky went downstairs for drinks before dinner. Neither Anne nor Philip was anywhere in sight when she looked inside the drawing room, but as she glanced toward the windows she spotted Anne outside. Nicky crossed the small foyer and went through the side door that led to the terrace. This ran along the back fac,made of the house, and faced Sweetheart Hill and the South Downs.

Anne half turned and looked over her shoulder at the sound of Nicky’s step, and her face lit up with pleasure. “Ah, there you are, darling, I was just thinking about you, thinking how glad I am that you’re here with us this weekend.”

“It’s wonderful to see you, Anne, to visit with you,” Nicky responded, truly meaning what she said. Ever since running into Anne in France, she had felt guilty about the way she had neglected her, and had planned to stop off to see her en route to Paris and Provence in September. Then when Charles Devereaux’s face had suddenly stared out at her from the television set the other night, she had suddenly had more reason than ever to come to Pullenbrook to talk to Anne. And so she had revised her plans and moved them up by two weeks.

Clearing her throat, Nicky said slowly, “I realize I’ve been rather unkind to you for the past year and a half by not being in touch, and I’m sorry for that, Anne. I’ve no excuse. Of course, it’s true that I’ve been away on foreign assignment consistently, covering some pretty lousy wars and other disasters, but I’m not going to hide behind my work. I often do that, but I won’t now, not with you. The truth is, it was easier not to see you. Easier for me.”