The Royal Secret Read online

  My darling Sam . . .

  She searched the space between the top right-hand corner of the “S,” and the left-hand corner of the “A.” Yes! Joanna studied the dot again, aware it could be ink or a mark of some kind from the photocopier. No. There was absolutely, definitely, a small dot between the “S” and the “A.” Joanna took a pen and copied, as exactly as she could, the flowing writing of the word. And then she was sure: there was an unnecessary upward stroke after the capital “S” and before the “A.” Putting a dot directly above the stroke, the word instantly changed: Siam.

  Joanna gulped, a tingle of excitement running up her spine. She knew now who the love letter had been written to.

  11

  Joanna had decided to strike while the iron was hot and utilize Alec’s sympathy and current good humor to her advantage. That afternoon, she went up to Alec’s desk, which was piled high with every edition of their rival dailies—as well as not one but three overflowing ashtrays—perched atop stacks of copy. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, the perennial Rothmans hanging out of a corner of his mouth, sweat on his brow as he cursed the computer screen in front of him.

  “Alec.” She leaned over the desk and put on a winning smile.

  “Not now, love. We’re behind deadline and Sebastian hasn’t rung in from New York with his report on the Redhead. I can’t hold the front page for much longer. The ed’s wetting himself as it is.”

  “Oh. How long before you’re finished? I’ve got something I want to talk through with you.”

  “Midnight do, will it?” he said, not removing his eyes from the screen.

  “I see.”

  Alec glanced up. “Is it important? Like world-threateningly, ‘we’re gonna sell another hundred thousand copies of the paper’–type thing?”

  “It might be a previously uncovered sex scandal, yes.” She knew these were the magic words.

  Alec’s expression changed. “Okay. If it’s sex, you get ten minutes. Six o’clock in the local.”

  “Thanks.”

  Joanna went back to her desk and spent the next couple of hours dealing with the correspondence in her in-tray. At five to six, she walked round the corner to the pub, favored by journalists only because of its proximity to the office. It certainly had nothing else to its credit. She sat on a stained bar stool and ordered herself a gin and tonic, careful not to lean against the sticky bar top.

  Alec strolled in at a quarter past seven, still in his shirtsleeves, even though the night was bitterly cold. “Hi, Phil. The usual,” he called to the barman. “Okay, Jo, shoot.”

  So Joanna went right back to the beginning, to the day of the funeral. Alec drained his glass of Famous Grouse in one gulp and listened intently until she had finished.

  “To be honest, I was going to give up on the whole episode. I was getting nowhere and then suddenly, today, out of sheer coincidence, I discovered who the letter was written to.”

  Alec ordered another whiskey. His tired, red eyes appraised her. “There might be something there. What interests me is that someone has obviously gone to great lengths to make your old dear disappear, along with her tea chests. That screams cover-up. Bodies don’t just vanish into thin air.” He lit another cigarette. “Joanna, just out of interest, did you have the letter on you that night your apartment was turned over?”

  “Yes. It was in my rucksack.”

  “It hasn’t struck you that it may not have been a chance burglary? From what your mate said, there was a high degree of needless destruction. They knifed your sofa and your bed, didn’t they?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Maybe someone was looking for something they thought you might have hidden?”

  “Even the police seemed shocked at the devastation,” Joanna murmured quietly. She looked up at Alec, realization dawning. “Oh God, you might be right.”

  “Christ, Jo, you’ve some way to go before you become a suspicious old cynic like me. In other words, a great newshound.” He grinned, showing his nicotine-stained teeth, and patted her hand. “You’ll learn. Where’s the letter now?”

  “Simon took it to work to have his forensic lab run some tests on it.”

  “Who’s Simon? Is he a copper?”

  “No, he’s something in the civil service.”

  “Damn it, Jo! Grow up!” Alec slammed his glass onto the bar. “I’ll bet a pound to a piece of pig shit you’ll never see that letter again.”

  “You’re wrong, Alec.” Joanna’s eyes flashed with anger. “I trust Simon implicitly. He’s my oldest and best friend. He was only trying to help, and I know he’d never deceive me.”

  Alec shook his head condescendingly. “What am I always saying to you? Trust no bugger. Especially in this business.” He ran a hand over his eyes and sighed. “All right, so the love letter’s gone, but you say you have a photocopy?”

  “Yes. And I made another one for you to keep.” Joanna handed it over.

  “Thanks.” Alec unfolded it. “Let’s have a look-see, then.” He read it quickly, then studied the name at the top. “Could definitely be ‘Siam.’ Yep. The initial at the bottom is illegible. But it doesn’t look like an ‘R’ to me.”

  “Maybe Rose changed her name, or maybe the letter isn’t from her. There’s definitely some kind of theater connection, but neither Rose nor Sir James is listed anywhere in that program.”

  Alec checked his watch and ordered another whiskey. “Five minutes and I’ll have to scoot. Look, Jo, I honestly can’t say whether you’re onto something or not. When I’ve been in these situations, you know I’ve followed my gut. What is your gut telling you?”

  “That this is big.”

  “And how do you intend to progress from here?”

  “I need to speak to the Harrison family, learn what I can about Sir James’s life. It may be as simple as James having an affair with Rose. But why would she send me that letter? I don’t know.” Joanna sighed. “If my apartment was turned over because they thought I’d got it, then surely it’s quite a big deal to someone.”

  “Yeah. Look, I can’t give you company time to investigate this—”

  “I could do a profile on a British theatrical dynasty,” she cut in. “Starting with Sir James, and Charles, his son, then looking at Zoe and Marcus. I’d have the perfect excuse to get as much information out of them as possible.”

  “Bit light for the news desk, Jo.”

  “It wouldn’t be if I discovered some kind of huge scandal. A few days, please, Alec,” she begged. “I’ll do any extra research in my own time, I swear.”

  “Go on then,” Alec capitulated. “On one condition.”

  “What?”

  “I want to be kept informed every step of the way. Not because I can’t keep my big red nose out of it, but for your own protection.” He looked at her hard. “You’re young and inexperienced. I don’t want you getting yourself in so deep you can’t get out. No heroics, okay?”

  “I promise. Thanks, Alec. I’m off then. See you tomorrow.” Impulsively, Joanna kissed him on the cheek and left the bar.

  Alec watched Joanna leave. Nine times out of ten when a cub reporter came to him with a “great” lead, he’d shoot it down in flames within a few seconds, send them away with their tail between their legs. But just now, his famous gut had twitched like billy-oh. She was onto something. Christ knew what, but it was something.

  * * *

  Even Marcus had been surprised at how quickly Joanna had called him after their lunch. She’d claimed her editor wanted some kind of feature on the entire Harrison family to back up the memorial fund piece, but he was hoping his charm had swayed her too. He had, of course, complied with her request to visit him at his apartment the following evening. In honor of her visit, he’d spent the day clearing the detritus of his disorganized, bachelor existence. He’d swept what lurked under his bed straight into a bin bag and even changed the sheets. Then he’d pulled his thickest books out from where they had been propping up a chair with a leg missin
g, and displayed them prominently on the coffee table. It was a long time since a woman’s imminent presence had stirred something in him other than simple lust. Joanna had been one of the few people who had actually listened when he had talked about his film project, and now he was determined to convince her that there was more to him than most people gave him credit for.

  The bell rang at half past seven. He opened the door and saw Joanna had made very little effort to dress up and was still in her work clothes of jeans and a sweater. He felt a twinge of disappointment.

  He kissed her on both cheeks, deliberately lingering. “Joanna. Lovely to see you again. Come in.”

  She followed Marcus along the narrow corridor and into a small and basically furnished sitting room. She’d expected something much more luxurious.

  “Wine?”

  “Er, I’d prefer a cup of coffee, if you wouldn’t mind,” Joanna replied. She felt exhausted. She’d been up most of the previous night making notes on the biographies and a list of questions about Sir James.

  “Spoilsport.” Marcus grinned. “Well, I’m going to have a drink, anyway.”

  “Oh, all right then. Just a small glass.”

  Marcus came back into the sitting room with a whiskey for him and a full glass of wine for her, and sat down very close to her on the sofa. As she turned her head away, he gently tucked a curl of hair behind her ear. “Been a long day then, Jo?”

  Joanna could feel the heat of his thigh next to hers, and edged away from him. She had to concentrate. “Yes, it has.”

  “Well, you just relax. Hungry? I have some pasta that I could knock together for us.”

  “No, please don’t go to any trouble.” She set up her tape recorder and placed it on the coffee table in front of them.

  “It’s no trouble at all, really.”

  “Could we get started and see how we go?”

  “Of course, whatever you want.”

  She noticed the musky scent of his aftershave, the cute way his hair curled on his collar . . . No, no, no, Joanna!

  “Right, as I told you on the phone, I’m going to be writing a big retrospective on Sir James and your family to back up the launch of the memorial fund.”

  “Wow. I’m truly grateful, Jo, I really am. The more publicity, the better.”

  “Absolutely, but I’m going to need your help. I want to discover what your grandfather was really like, where he came from and how his rise to fame affected and changed him.”

  “Blimey, Jo, surely you can go and get any one of the biographies on him, can’t you?”

  “Oh, I have those from the library already. I admit I’ve only leafed through them so far, but to be honest, anybody could do that.” She looked at him earnestly. “I want to see him from the family’s perspective, get to know the little details. For example, ‘Siam,’ that pet name you say his old acting friends used. Where did that come from?”

  Marcus shrugged. “I’ve absolutely no idea.”

  “He had no connections with Southeast Asia, for example?”

  “No, I don’t think so.” Marcus emptied his glass and poured himself another. “Come on, Jo. You’ve hardly touched your drink.” He put his hand on her thigh. “You’re awfully tense.”

  “Yes, I am, a bit.” Joanna swiftly removed the hand, then picked up her wineglass to take a sip. “It’s been a funny few weeks, one way and another.”

  “Tell me all about it.”

  The hand went back onto her thigh. She removed it again and turned to him, an eyebrow raised. “No. I have to get this article buttoned under by the middle of next week and you’re not exactly helping, Marcus. It’s in your interests, too, you know.”

  “Yes.” Marcus hung his head like a chastened schoolboy. “I’m sorry, I just can’t stop finding you attractive, Jo.”

  “Look, help me out, half an hour is all I’m asking for, okay?”

  “I’ll concentrate, I promise.”

  “Good. Now, what do you know about Sir James? Maybe start right from the beginning with his childhood?”

  “Well . . .” Marcus had never really taken much interest in his grandfather’s life, but he racked his brains to try to remember anything he could. “It’s Zoe you need to speak to really. She knew him far better than I did, because she lived with him.”

  “Speaking to her would be great, but it’s always interesting getting different perspectives on the same person. Did you, by any chance, ever hear your grandfather talk of someone called Rose?”

  Marcus shook his head. “No. Why?”

  “Oh, her name came up in one of the biographies I read, that’s all,” she replied casually.

  “I’m sure James had lots of lady loves in his time.”

  “Did you know your grandmother? Her name was Grace, wasn’t it?”

  “I never met her. She died abroad before Zoe and I were born. My dad was only a few years old, if I remember rightly.”

  “Were they happily married?”

  “Very, so legend has it.”

  “By any chance, did your grandfather keep his memorabilia? You know, old programs, newspaper cuttings, that kind of thing?”

  “Did he ever!” Marcus chuckled. “There’s an entire attic-full in his house in Dorset. They were all bequeathed to Zoe.”

  Joanna’s ears pricked up. “Really? Wow, I’d love to look through that.”

  “Yeah. Zo’s been saying for ages she’s going to go down for the weekend and sort it all out. Most of it’s probably rubbish, but there might be a few programs and photos that are quite valuable now. Sir James kept them all, he was a real hoarder.” Marcus had a brain wave. “How about I give Zoe a call and organize for you to come to Dorset this weekend? Then we could have a look through what’s up there. I’m sure she’d be grateful for any help sorting it out.”

  “Er . . . right.” Joanna knew exactly why Marcus looked so thrilled with his idea and she only hoped the bedroom doors had secure locks. Yet the chance to get her hands on boxfuls of Sir James’s past was too tempting, so she’d have to run the gauntlet.

  “We could drive down on Saturday morning and spend the night there.” Marcus looked like an eager little boy. “We’ll need a good couple of days at it.”

  “Well, if you’re sure,” said Joanna uncertainly. “You’ll ask Zoe then?”

  “Of course I will. She’s also short of cash to renovate the house Sir Jim left her. Maybe the sale of the stuff in the attic could raise some money to help her,” Marcus improvised, knowing that Zoe would never sell anything of her beloved grandfather’s for profit.

  “Super. I really am grateful.” Joanna packed her tape recorder into her rucksack and stood up.

  “You’re not going, are you? What about the food?”

  “It’s really sweet of you to offer,” she said as she walked toward the door, “but really, if I don’t get some sleep tonight, I’ll be fit for nothing tomorrow.”

  “Okay,” sighed Marcus. “Spurn me and my spaghetti. I don’t care.”

  Joanna handed him a card. “There’s my number at work. Would you call me tomorrow and let me know what Zoe said?” She pecked him on the cheek. “Thanks, Marcus. I appreciate it. Bye.”

  Marcus watched her as she left the apartment. There really was something about Joanna that set his heart pumping. And it wasn’t just lust. He really liked her lack of guile, her openness and honesty, which were such refreshing traits after the pretty but self-obsessed actresses he usually went for.

  As he went into the kitchen to cook some pasta for one, Marcus topped up his glass, put it to his lips, then paused. And with effort, threw the liquid down the sink.

  “Enough,” he said.

  He wanted to be a better man for Joanna.

  * * *

  As Joanna walked through the frosty night toward Holland Park tube station, she finally accepted that, whatever reputation he may rightly have had, she was deeply attracted to Marcus. His flattery had boosted her flattened, bruised ego, and his obvious desire for her made h
er feel sexy again. It had been years since she’d even glanced at another man and the feelings Marcus had stirred in her were exciting yet troubling. She was determined not to be another notch on his bedpost. A quick fling might be physically satisfying, but wouldn’t fill the emptiness that Matthew had left behind.

  Despite this, a flush of pleasure went through her as she got onto the tube and thought about the weekend: being with Marcus and, at the same time, maybe—just maybe—discovering further clues to the mystery. And Alec—cynic that he was—thinking there might be something in it had given her the confidence to take this story seriously.

  As she passed through the turnstile at Archway tube station, she pulled her scarf up against the draft that rushed through the station from the exit. As she emerged into the darkness of Highgate Hill, almost deserted this time of night, her boots echoed dully on the frozen pavement, and she looked forward to curling up in her makeshift bed at Simon’s.

  Perhaps it was the cold air inching steadily down her neck, but her steps slowed as she began to sense that someone was following her. Turning slightly, she tried to see if it was the shadow of a person or simply of the swaying tree branches that was playing off the ground. Finally, she came to a halt and listened.

  In the distance, she heard shouts of laughter flying out into the night air from the pub down the road, the steady rumble of cars and buses shaking up the leaves and litter in whirls. Making up her mind, she dashed across the street and into a corner shop, where she bought a packet of chewing gum. Standing at the entrance, her head darted left and right, but the only figure she could see was a man in an overcoat at the bus stop opposite, smoking casually.

  Walking along at a deliberately calm pace, she glanced behind at the bus stop. The man had disappeared, even though no bus had arrived. Her heart thumped against her chest, and on instinct, she flagged down a passing black cab and slipped inside, managing to gasp out Simon’s address. The cabbie looked irritated as it was only a three-minute drive away.