The Royal Secret Page 20

  Joanna yawned. “God, Marcus, I’m so tired of trying to understand what any of it means.”

  “Then let’s leave it now and think some more in the morning. Come to bed?”

  “Yes.”

  He kissed her, then pulled her up to embrace her.

  “Thanks for supper,” she said. “I thought Zoe was lovely, by the way.”

  “Mmm. We weren’t trying a bit too hard for our own selfish reasons, were we? It’d be very convenient for your investigation to get pally with Zoe.”

  “How dare you!” Furious, Joanna disentangled herself from his grasp. “Christ! I make an effort to get on with your sister for your sake, find I genuinely like her, and you accuse me of that! Jesus! You really don’t know me very well, do you?”

  “Simmer down, Jo.” He was taken aback by her sudden anger. “I was joking. It was great to see the two of you getting on. Zoe could do with a female friend. She never opens up to anyone.”

  “I hope you mean that.”

  “I do, I do. And let’s face it, you didn’t exactly have to torture her to spill any beans. She did it without any prompting whatsoever.”

  “Yes.” Joanna walked toward the hall. Marcus followed her.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Home. I’m too cross to stay.”

  “Joanna, please don’t go. I’ve said I’m sorry. I . . .”

  She opened the door and sighed. “Look, I just think we’re going too fast, Marcus. I need some breathing space. Thanks for dinner. Night.”

  Marcus closed the door behind her miserably, pondering the complexity of women, then sat down to work out how he could interrogate William Fielding further without arousing his sister’s suspicion.

  19

  William Fielding sat beside his old gas fire in his favorite armchair. His bones ached and he felt weary. He knew his days as a working actor were numbered, before he had to give in and turn himself over to some ghastly home for the ancient and bewildered. And once he stopped working, he doubted he’d last too long.

  Talking to Zoe Harrison had been one of the pleasures of making Tess. And it had sent his brain skittering rather unwillingly back into the past.

  William looked down at the thick gold signet ring clasped in his gnarled hand. Even now his stomach turned to think of it. After all the kindness Michael had shown him, he’d been low enough to steal from him. Just the once, when he and his mama had been desperate. She had said it was a bad stomach bug that had rendered her unable to work. But in retrospect, William rather suspected an assignation with a back-street butcher and a knitting needle to remove an unwanted tiny human.

  And it had just happened that Michael O’Connell had sent him to his lodgings to pick up a change of clothes. William had let himself in, and there, sitting on the washbasin, had been the ring. He’d taken it straight to the pawnbroker’s and got enough to keep himself and his mum out of penury for a good three months. Tragically, she’d died of septicemia only a couple of weeks later. The odd thing was that Michael had never questioned him about the missing ring, even though he was the obvious candidate to have stolen it. A few months later, having saved hard, William had gone to the pawnbroker’s and bought it back. But by then, Michael had vanished again.

  He had decided he was going to give the ring to Zoe when he saw her down in Norfolk. He knew she thought him an old codger and a storyteller, and who could blame her? But it felt right that she should have it. As William lay in bed that night, the ring on his own finger so he would not forget it in the morning, he pondered whether he should also tell her the secret he’d kept to himself for seventy years. He’d absolutely believed James Harrison’s warnings of danger, because eventually, he had discovered who “Rose” had actually been . . .

  * * *

  “Hi, Simon, having a good week?” Ian clapped him on the shoulder.

  For want of anything better to do, Simon had joined the boys in the pub down the road from Thames House.

  “Honestly? Not great. I got dumped by my girlfriend and I’m still on standby at the palace as an upmarket taxi driver,” he replied.

  “My commiserations on the woman, but you know better than to question the workings of them upstairs. Drink?”

  “Go on then. I’ll have a pint.”

  “You should buy me one, actually. It’s my birthday. I’m bloody forty today and I intend to get absolutely hammered,” said Ian, as he tried and failed to gain the barman’s attention.

  By the looks of Ian, Simon reckoned he’d already achieved his objective. His skin looked gray and sweaty, and his eyes were bloodshot and unfocused.

  “So, in search of new totty then?” Ian sat down opposite him.

  “I think I’ll let the dust settle before I walk back into the lion’s den.” Simon took a gulp of his pint. “Anyway, I’ll get over it, I’m sure.”

  “That’s the spirit.” Ian burped. “I hope it’s taught you a lesson.” He wagged his finger at Simon. “My motto is, don’t get under the thumb, get your leg over.”

  “Not really my style, sorry, Ian.”

  “Speaking of womanizers, I met someone the other night. Now, he could teach us all a thing or two. What a prat! He has girl after girl falling at his feet.”

  “Do I hear the ring of jealousy?”

  “Jealous of Marcus Harrison? Jesus, no! Never done a decent day’s work in his life. Just as I said to Jenkins when he asked me to get Harrison’s help with an inquiry, offer him a few pound notes and he’s yours for the taking. Of course, I was right. We’ve paid the sod to spy on his girlfriend. And from the gist of the conversation he had with her last night, he’s not even realized his apartment has been bugged.”

  “Ian, you’re talking too much.” Simon shot him a warning glance.

  “Virtually every single person in this boozer is from our place and I’m hardly giving away state secrets, am I? Stop being so tight-arsed and buy your mate a birthday pint.”

  Simon wandered to the bar, thinking it wasn’t the first time he’d seen Ian like this. Whether it was his birthday or not, Ian had been hitting the bottle hard for the past few months. He doubted it would be long before a warning shot was passed across his bow. It was drummed into you time and time again during training. Just one slip of the tongue—a single careless comment—could spell disaster.

  Simon paid for the two beers and took them back to the table.

  “Happy birthday, mate.”

  “Thanks. Will you come on with us? We’re going for a curry, then to some club in Soho that Jack says does a great line in busty teenagers. Could be just what you need, Si.”

  “I think I’ll pass, but thanks anyway.”

  “Look, I’m sorry if I’m out of it tonight, but I had a particularly nasty job to organize this morning.” Ian swept a hand through his hair. “Poor old bloke. He actually pissed his pants, he was so terrified. God, they don’t pay us enough for this shit.”

  “Ian, I don’t want to hear this.”

  “No, I’m sure you don’t. It’s just . . . jeez, Si, I’ve been doing this for nearly twenty years now. You just wait; you’re fresh at the moment, but the strain’ll get to you. Being unable to share details of your daily existence with your family and friends . . .”

  “Sure, it gets to me sometimes, but I’m coping okay just now. Why don’t you go and talk to someone about it? Maybe you need a break, a holiday.”

  “You know as well as I do that if you show any signs of cracking, bingo! You’re out on your arse pen-pushing for the local council. No.” Ian drained his pint. “I’ll be fine. I’ve got something else in the works—that’ll pay off well soon. It’s all about contacts, isn’t it?” Ian tapped his nose conspiratorially. “It was just one hell of a way to spend a birthday.”

  Simon clapped Ian on the shoulder as he stood up. “Don’t let it get to you. Have a good night.”

  “Yeah, sure.” Ian forced a smile and waved as Simon left the pub.

  * * *

  The telephone rang
at seven the following morning, just as Zoe was packing her case for the journey to Norfolk.

  “Zoe? It’s Mike here.”

  “Hi, Mike.” Zoe smiled into the receiver at the deep tones of the director. “How’s things up in Norfolk?”

  “Not good, I’m afraid. William Fielding was brutally attacked in his home yesterday morning by a gang of thugs. He’s on the critical list and they’re not sure if he’s going to make it.”

  “Oh God, no! How awful.”

  “I know. You really do start to wonder what the world is coming to. Apparently they burst into his house in London, stole God knows what paltry possessions he owned, and left him for dead.”

  “Oh God.” Zoe choked back a sob. “The poor, poor man.”

  “And—sorry to be practical—but as you can imagine, it’s messed up our filming schedule for this week. By the sound of things, even if he does make it, he’ll be in no fit state to continue with the film. We’re looking through the rushes now to see what we have and haven’t got. With some careful editing, we reckon we’re just about there. Anyway, until we’ve sorted that out, filming’s on hold. So no need to come to Norfolk today.”

  “Of course.” Zoe bit her lip. “Listen, Mike, do you happen to know which hospital William’s in? If I’m going to be in London for the next few days, I’d like to go and see him.”

  “That’s sweet of you, Zoe. He’s in St. Thomas’. Don’t know whether you’ll find him compos mentis or not. If he is, send our love from everyone on the set.”

  “Of course. Okay, Mike, thanks for calling.”

  Zoe put the telephone down, berating herself for making derogatory comments about William to Joanna and Marcus on Monday night. Unable to settle to anything at home and surprised at just how upset she was about his assault, Zoe set off after lunch for St. Thomas’.

  With her unimaginative bunch of flowers, grapes, and fruit juice, Zoe was directed to intensive care. “I’m here to see William Fielding,” she informed a burly nurse.

  “He’s too ill to see any visitors other than close family. Are you close family?”

  “Er, yes, his daughter, actually.” On celluloid, anyway, Zoe thought.

  The nurse took Zoe to a room in the corner of the ward and there was William, his head swathed in bandages, his face covered in lurid blue and purple bruises. He was hooked up to various machines that bleeped intermittently around him.

  Tears sprang to Zoe’s eyes. “How is he?”

  “Very poorly, I’m afraid. He’s slipping in and out of consciousness,” said the nurse. “Now you’ve turned up, I’ll get the doctor along to talk to you about his condition and take some details. We weren’t aware he had any children. I’ll leave you alone with him for a while.”

  Zoe nodded silently, then, when the nurse left, sat down and took William’s hand in hers. “William, can you hear me? It’s Zoe, Zoe Harrison.”

  There was no response. William’s eyes remained closed, his hand limp in hers. Zoe stroked his hand gently. “All the cast and film crew in Norfolk send their love. They hope to see you back soon,” she whispered. “Oh, William, what a terrible thing to happen. I’m so sorry, I really am.”

  The scenario was so reminiscent of sitting by James’s bedside and watching him slip away that further tears fell down Zoe’s cheeks. “I’m sorry we didn’t have a chance to talk more about when you knew my grandfather. It was fascinating, it really was. Some of the things you were telling me . . . well, he must have really trusted you all those years ago.”

  Zoe felt one of William’s fingers twitch inside her palm and his eyelids flickered.

  “William, can you hear me?” One of his fingers was wiggling so strongly that Zoe had to let go of his hand. His index finger lay on the sheet, enclosed by a large signet ring, twitching violently.

  “What is it? Is the ring hurting you?” Zoe noticed William’s fingers did look swollen. “Do you want me to take it off?”

  The finger waggled again.

  “Okay.” Zoe struggled to remove the ring, which seemed far too tight a fit.

  “I’ll put it in your locker for safekeeping.”

  Then she noticed his head was shaking slowly from side to side.

  “No?”

  His index finger was pointing at her.

  “You want me to look after it for you?”

  He managed a pathetic thumbs-up.

  “Okay, of course I will.” Zoe stowed the ring away in her pocket. “William, do you know who did this to you?”

  He nodded, slowly but definitely.

  “Can you tell me?”

  Again, a nod.

  Zoe put her ear close to his lips as he struggled to form a word.

  The first attempt came out as a hoarse, unrecognizable whisper.

  “William, can you try again?” she urged him.

  “Ask . . . Rose.”

  “You said ‘Rose,’ is that right?”

  He squeezed her fingers, then spoke again.

  “Lady in . . .”

  “Lady in where?” urged Zoe, hearing William’s breathing becoming more ragged.

  “Wait . . .”

  “I’m here, William, I’m not going anywhere.”

  “. . . Wait . . .”

  “I will wait, I promise.”

  William sighed, his strength gone, then his eyes closed and he slipped away into unconsciousness. Zoe sat there for a while stroking his hand, hoping he’d return to her, but he didn’t. Eventually, Zoe stood up and walked out of the ward, passing quickly by the nurses’ station before anyone accosted her and asked for the personal details on William she could not give.

  She stood outside the hospital, staring blankly at the traffic. Deciding she really didn’t want to go home, she rang Marcus.

  “Hi, are you still at the National?”

  “Yeah, I am. Just finished the meeting,” Marcus replied. “Are you all right? You sound a bit off.”

  “Can I come and meet you? Oh, Marcus, it’s just terrible. I’m at St. Thomas’—”

  “Jesus, are you hurt?”

  “No, don’t worry. It’s a friend . . .”

  “How about you come down to the Royal Festival Hall? It’s closer to you,” he suggested. “I’ll see you in the café there in ten.”

  Zoe crossed the road, then walked along the South Bank, the wind biting at her face and drying the last of her tears. Marcus was standing outside the Festival Hall, concern on his face, and she let him sweep her into a hug, then steer her inside.

  They settled themselves at a table in the café and ordered two steaming cups of tea.

  “So, what’s wrong? What happened?” Marcus asked her.

  “You remember I was telling you about that actor, William Fielding?”

  “Yes?”

  “He was brutally attacked yesterday. I’ve just been to see him in hospital and it looks pretty unlikely that he’ll make it through the night.” Zoe slumped down in her seat, and tears came to her eyes again. “It’s just upset me so much.”

  Not half as much as it’s upset me, thought Marcus with a grimace. He reached out and took her hand. “Come on, sweetheart, he wasn’t family, was he?”

  “I know, but he’s such a sweet old chap.”

  “Was he able to talk?”

  “No, not really. When I asked him if he knew who had done this, he whispered something about Rose, and a lady in somewhere who was waiting for him.” Zoe blew her nose. “I think he was rambling. And there was me telling you about him only last night.”

  Only last night . . . Is it a coincidence? But how could they have known? Unless . . . Marcus swallowed hard as his blood ran cold. “Did you write down what he said?”

  “No. Should I have done?”

  “Yes. It might help the police with their inquiries.” He fumbled in his jacket pocket for a pen and an old receipt. “Write down exactly what he said.”

  “Should I take it to the police?” she asked as she finished scribbling.

  “Tell yo
u what, seeing as you’re so upset, I’ll do it for you.”

  “Okay, Marcus. Thanks.” Zoe nodded gratefully and handed the paper to him. Her mobile rang, the noise startling them both. “Hello? Yes, Michelle, Mike called me this morning. I know, wasn’t it? I went to see him in hospital and . . .”

  When Zoe had finished talking, she put her mobile down on the table, then drained her cup of tea.

  “Marcus, thanks so much for listening to me. I’ve got to head off.”

  “No problem, sis. Call me anytime,” he said as she bent down to kiss him. Then he sat back and gazed out at the tourist boats and barges chugging along the silver River Thames.

  It had dawned on him that perhaps his apartment had been bugged. That builder who had turned up . . . When he’d called his landlord, he’d known nothing about it . . . If so, they had heard him and Joanna talking about William Fielding.

  If they were paying him to find out what he could, then surely they’d want to make sure they would be the first to know? It was the only way he could think of that others could have known about William Fielding and his association with James Harrison so quickly.

  The sound of a mobile ringing shook him out of his thoughts. Puzzled, as it was not the sound of his own phone, he realized it was Zoe’s mobile lying on the table. He picked it up and clicked it on.

  “Zoe? It’s me.” The voice sounded very familiar.

  “Er, Zoe’s not here. Can I take a message?”

  The line went dead at the other end, but not before Marcus had recognized the voice of the caller from Zoe’s film premiere . . .

  CASTLING

  A defensive maneuver by the rook to defend the king. It is the only time that two pieces may be moved at once.

  20

  “Come in, Simpson, and take a seat.”

  Ian’s head throbbed. He only hoped he wouldn’t throw up all over his boss’s expensive leather-topped desk.