The Love Letter (45 page)

Legs fished for another tissue and handed it over before putting a comforting arm around the redhead’s shoulders, eager for the tears to end. ‘Do you mind terribly if I make a quick call? I’m supposed to be somewhere.’

If she hoped Kizzy would take the hint and leave, she was mistaken. In the throes of the sort of lovelorn agony that’s entirely blinkered to the everyday lives of others, Kizzy wandered around the garden smoking a roll-up while Legs lurked by the shed and made a whispered call to Conrad. The midges were starting to bite with a vengeance now. She swatted great clouds of them away as she spoke to him.

‘Can’t you reschedule her?’ he asked, as though Kizzy was an inconvenient appointment that had run late.

‘She’s in floods of tears. I’m sure the restaurant will put the booking back. Just give me another half hour or so.’

He rung off irritably saying he’d see what he could do.

Legs jumped to find Kizzy leaning against the shed door just around the corner finishing her cigarette, Byron panting at her feet.

At least the frantic sobbing seemed to have abated.

‘Would you mind if I used your loo?’ she asked.

Reluctantly, Legs took her down to the flat, pulling an apologetic face as they passed the kitchen window where Ros was mouthing ‘No dogs! No smoking!’

Byron settled straight on the striped settee while his mistress spent an inordinate amount of time in the bathroom. Just as Legs was starting to panic that Kizzy might have slit her wrists in there, she re-emerged looking puffy-eyed but calm.

‘You have such lovely things here. It’s a gorgeous flat.’

‘It’s my sister’s place.’

‘But these are the possessions you had when you lived with Francis?’ she asked, looking at the shelves cluttered with souvenirs from their travels together.

‘Some.’

She picked up a little carved wooden box from Nepal. ‘You were together
such
a long time.’

‘Yes. Ages. Kizzy, I’m afraid I have a dinner da—’

‘Do you possibly think I could let Byron have a drink of water in a bowl or something?’

‘Of course. Sorry. It’s so hot, he must be dehydrated.’ Legs shot hurriedly into the kitchen, Kizzy let out a little dry cough then another.

Legs felt a needle prick at her conscience. ‘Would you like some water too? I can stretch to a glass instead of a bowl. Or something stronger? Wine, maybe?’ She closed her eyes as soon as she said it, already certain she was making a big mistake.

‘Oh yes please!’ Kizzy settled down on the sofa, staring around her, eager to memorise everything. Something about her reminded Legs of a beautiful sea anemone bedded firmly into a sandy bed, with a deadly sting at the ready.

‘I thought you left the dog at Farcombe?’ She regarded Byron warily as he limped around the flat inspecting everything with his nose.

‘Édith brought him back to London.’ Her blotchy face coloured. ‘We had a terrible argument.’ The tears were threatening again. ‘It’s the reason I’m here. I have to make things better. I shouldn’t have run away like that. I should have stayed and let Francis do it his way.’

‘Do what precisely?’ She headed to the sink to fill a bowl of water for panting Byron.

‘All that stuff about pretending to get back together with you to split up your parents was just a smoke screen. It was obvious Francis was still mad about you. But he didn’t want to frighten you off or alarm Poppy, who is incredibly fragile right now, what with Hector behaving so badly and the festival coming up.’

‘How considerate of him,’ Legs muttered, putting the brimming bowl down on the kitchen floor. ‘It would have helped to let me know what he was planning. In fact, what
was
he planning?’

‘Actually it was my idea. Francis told me that you’d feel impossibly guilty if he dropped me like a stone the moment you came back.’

Legs closed her eyes. He knew her far too well.

‘So we were going to have an argument over supper and I’d tell him it was over,’ Kizzy went on, ‘but of course Poppy’s son turned up and stole all the limelight.’

‘I was under the impression Poppy kept that firmly on herself,’ Legs muttered, eyeing her curiously. ‘Were you really prepared to do that for Francis?’

‘Oh yes, I was looking forward to it.’ Her damp eyes glittered. ‘I was spoiling for a fight that night.’

‘So why run away?’

‘I didn’t like the company at supper. One too many guests.’ She looked at her hands, not offering any more detail.

She must be referring to Byrne. Legs realised uneasily. If Kizzy knew a secret that could bring down the family, then it could well involve Byrne. Detective nose twitching, she was avid to get to the truth, but knew better than to give away how much she already knew.

She went in search of wine. Then she span back round, remembering: ‘You
did
have an argument, though. Before supper, in the back lobby; I heard it. You told Francis that you refused to be humiliated.’

The blotchy colour on Kizzy’s cheeks deepened from salami to bresaola. ‘I wasn’t talking to Francis.’

‘Then who was it?’

‘I’d rather not say, but I promise it wasn’t him.’

Legs looked at her red face, suspicions now on high alert as she added together more clues. She’d spotted Kizzy outside the family solicitors in Farcombe that day just minutes after Byrne, then there
had been the angry confrontation she’d interrupted between them when first arriving at supper. Could the hushed, unseen conversation she’d heard taking place behind the green baize door have been Kizzy talking to Poppy’s long-lost son? The thought made her feel sick.

Eager to change the subject, Kizzy had picked up the copy of
Ptolemy Finch and the Topaz Eagle
which Legs had abandoned on the coffee table. ‘D’you know Poppy has read all the Ptolemy books at least twice?’

Legs gaped at her.
‘Poppy
is a Gordon Lapis fan?’

‘She wraps old Faber and Faber dust jackets around them so nobody knows. It’s so sweet, and so typical of her – like wrapping Francis and me up in Farcombe Hall and thinking it makes us a power couple. It really is true,’ Kizzy intoned in her strange Scottish lisp, giggling at Legs’ astonished face. ‘It’s her guilty secret. She’s read them all several times, each one tucked up in
Mrs Dalloway’s
dust jacket like a stolen baby in a shawl.’

Half an hour later, Legs phoned Conrad from the privacy of the bathroom, leaving a tap running to avoid being overheard. ‘I don’t think I’ll make it.’

‘I’ve given them hell changing that booking.’

‘I can still come to the house later, maybe?’ she offered.

‘Don’t bother,’ he hung up.

Still no pillow talk to counter all the office chat, Legs thought sadly as she splashed her face before turning off the tap. But a part of her was very relieved to be let off the sexual hook again. Her body felt drained and aching, and her headache wouldn’t budge despite painkillers. She was also guiltily eager to know more about
the connection between Kizzy de la Mere and Farcombe, most especially Poppy. The detective in her was back on the case; Julie Ocean had clocked onto the night shift, grateful to be back in her familiar west London patch.

The wine bottle was already half empty. Kizzy, who had no head for alcohol, was looking increasingly glazed, but she certainly loved to talk, giving a five-minute monologue on the wonders of Poppy that could have been scripted by the be-turbanned one herself: ‘She is so supportive and nurturing, so full of love and empathy and just the most energising and maternal person to be around, don’t you find?’

Try telling that to Byrne, Legs wanted to say, but she could feel Julie Ocean at her side now, reminding her that the truth had to be teased out: ‘She must be an amazing godmother.’

‘She is very special.’ There followed another long homily on Poppy’s magnificent talents, kindness and general saintliness. ‘Although I’m not strictly speaking her god-daughter at all,’ Kizzy reached for her wine glass. ‘Legally I’m her ward, I suppose, or at least I was before I went to live with Howard and Yolande.’

‘How old were you when they adopted you?’

‘They’re actually my foster parents. Private adoptions aren’t legal in this country, but my mother didn’t want me taken into care. I was three when they took me.’

Lying contentedly between the two women on the sofa, Byron was quietly working through the trimming on one of Ros’s Laura Ashley brocade cushions.

Legs was far too fascinated by the story at hand to notice. And before that you lived with your mother?’

‘On and off. She was never a very capable parent, I’m afraid. She has lots of – difficulties. Poppy looked after me sometimes, but her life was hardly easy.’

‘How did they know each other?’

Kizzy looked at her for a long time, weighing up her trustworthiness. ‘It’s a long story.’

Legs said nothing, even though her curiosity was now completely ignited. She kept finding her mind returning to Byrne, convinced that there had to be a link between them both.

‘My birth mother is called Liz Delamere,’ Kizzy told her, watching her face for reaction.

Legs knew the family name. The Delameres were big North Devon movers and shakers. But she had never heard of Liz.

‘She used to help Poppy out at Nevermore Cottage, caring for Brooke and Jamie when Poppy was out working,’ Kizzy explained.

Legs’ eyes widened. ‘So you’ve known Byrne, I mean Jamie, since childhood?’

She shook her head, ‘I don’t really remember him at all. I was too young.’

Byron had now tired of chewing the piping off the cushion and started a thorough ablution of his private parts, snorting vociferously.

‘Do you still see Liz?’

Kizzy’s face grew even warier. ‘She moved around a lot; we lost contact until quite recently.’

‘And now?’

‘We did meet up again once, not long ago. She lives in a sheltered community near Torquay now. It’s very tranquil. Her great passion is writing.’

‘Perhaps that’s where you got your talent from?’

‘My spelling’s better.’

‘And your father?’

‘What’s this, an SAS interrogation?’ Kizzy giggled nervously, eyes crossing as she reached for her wine glass and missed.

‘Sorry – I’m incurably nosy,’ Legs blushed, realising she’d been hammering out the questions like Julie Ocean putting together a criminal profile. ‘Your life has been so unusual, and you’re so clever and pretty, it’s just fascinating to get to know you better,’ she enthused, wincing at her sycophancy.

But Kizzy lapped up the compliments. She was thoroughly enjoying all the focus being on her.

‘And you are
sho
much nicer than everyone shays,’ she slurred as she managed to grasp her wine glass and raise it to Legs before carrying on with her life story. ‘Dad was a Highland laird. I spent holidays with him, but he drank and womanised away his fortune and died when I was fourteen.’

‘Really?’ Legs was staggered, but it made sense of the incongruous Scottish accent.

‘No!’ Kizzy shrieked with laughter. ‘I can’t believe that story still works. I made it up when I was at school – I was sent to this awful hell-hole in the Borders. I hated it there. It was hugely academic with breakthough teaching techniques based on the Chinese system; one of Howard’s friends was the headmaster, and it was thought I’d be better off there than London because Mum was working twenty-four seven. Ironic given the school worked its pupils pretty much twenty-four seven too.’ The laughter wobbled towards tears once more. ‘I survived by making up stories about my real dad and his amazing adventures around the Ballachnaughty Estate.’

She looked at her hands. ‘The truth is I have no idea who my birth father is, some village stud from the Hartland Peninsula, I think. Mum was very young and a bit capricious.’ She smiled ruefully, tears still wet on her freckled cheeks. ‘They’d probably call it ADHD now, but in those days it was just seen as waywardness, and a family like the Delameres could still brush such things under the Axminster – or keep it in the nursery wing. Liz is incredibly bright, over-bright really, but she didn’t finish her education; she had no social skills by the time she reached adulthood, and was hopelessly naive, just living at home in their big country pile like a neglected pet, which is probably why she loves animals and lame ducks more than anything. Poppy’s family and the Delameres were close friends, and it was Goblin Granny who suggested Liz become a mother’s help at Nevermore to give her something to do.

‘Liz was probably nineteen or twenty by then, but acted like a
little girl playing house. She clucked around Poppy’s brood like a little mother hen, living in her own fantasy world, which is what she does a lot of the time. She loved caring for all the horses, and it meant Poppy could get out of the house. Brooke used to get Liz to wheel him to the local pubs – his alcoholism was legend – and it gave her her first taste of a social life. She was terribly pretty back then and men found her charming, even though she was wild as celandine with no grasp of social mores whatsoever. She was also far too kind-hearted to say no.

‘But then she got pregnant. She was so innocent it’s easy to see how some local letch took advantage. She was almost six months gone by the time anybody found out. She wouldn’t say who the father was, but a few discreet enquiries made it pretty obvious that by then she was thought of as little more than the village bicycle. The Delameres disowned her, and so it was left to Poppy and Goblin Granny to pick up the pieces.’