Authors: Rosamunde Pilcher
"Who went?"
"Willy. And Dad. And Conrad Tucker. Conrad went with them. He was up and about by then, and he offered to go with Dad. So kind of him, such a kind man, because Archie didn't want me to go, and I couldn't bear the thought of his being on his own."
"So where are they now?"
"They're not yet back from Relkirk. They were going to take her-the body-there, to the Relkirk General. I suppose to the mortuary."
"Will there have to be an inquest?"
"Yes. A fatal-accident inquiry."
A fatal accident. The words had the chilling ring of officialdom about them. Lucilla imagined the courtroom, the cold and objective words of evidence and conclusion. Then newspapers, with accounts of the incident. Some old, blurred photograph of Pandora's lovely face. The headlines. "Death of Lord Balmerino's Sister."
The inevitable publicity, she knew, would be the final horror. "Oh, poor Dad."
Isobel said, "People always tell you, This will pass. Time will heal.' But at times like this one doesn't seem to be able to think more than a moment ahead. This is now. And it feels insupportable. There are no words of comfort."
"I can't take it in. It's all so pointless."
"I know, my darling. I know."
Isobel's voice was soothing, but Lucilla was not soothed. Instead, her distress blew up in an outburst of indignation. "It's all such a waste. Why did she have to? What on earth drove her to take such a step?"
"We don't know. We have no idea."
The little explosion of anger flickered and then died. Lucilla sighed. She said, "Does anybody else know? Has anybody been told?"
"There's really nobody to tell. Except Edmund. And Vi. I expect Dad will ring Edmund when he gets back from Relkirk. But Vi mustn't be told over the telephone. Somebody will have to go and see her and break the news. Too great a shock for an old lady. . . ."
"What about Jeff?"
"Jeffs downstairs in the kitchen. He appeared about five minutes ago. I'm afraid I'd forgotten all about him, and the poor man didn't get much of a welcome. Coming down to breakfast and being faced with such news. And there wasn't even any breakfast, because I hadn't got around to cooking anything. I think he's frying something up for himself right now."
"I must go and be with him."
"Yes. I think he could do with a little company."
"When will Dad and Conrad be back?"
"I suppose about half past ten or eleven. They'll be ravenous too, because there wasn't time to feed them before they left. I'll make them something when they come. And meantime . . ." She got to her feet. "I'm going to start clearing the dining-room. The table's still laden with all the remains of dinner last night."
"It seems a lifetime ago, doesn't it? Why don't you leave it? Jeff and I will do it later, or we'll get Agnes back from the village. ..."
"No, I want something to do. Women are so much luckier than men. At ghastly times like this, they can always find something to occupy their hands, even if it's only scrubbing the kitchen floor. Washing glasses and polishing silver will fit the bill very nicely. . . ."
Lucilla was alone. She got out of bed and dressed, pulling on jeans and a sweater. Brushed her hair, went to the bathroom to clean her teeth and wash her face. A flannel soaked in scalding water, pressed to her eye
s a
nd cheeks. The heat cleansed, refreshed, cleared her head. She ran downstairs.
Jeff sat at one end of the kitchen table, with a mug of coffee and a plateful of bacon and sausages. He looked up as she came in, swallowed his mouthful, laid down his knife and fork, and got to his feet. She went to him, and he took her in his arms, and for a little while they just stood there. It felt warm and safe in his strong embrace, and the thick sheepy wool of his sweater smelt friendly and familiar. From the pantry came the sound of running water, the clink of glass. Isobel was already hard at work.
He didn't say anything. After a little they drew apart. She smiled her gratitude for his comfort, and reached for a chair and sat, leaning her elbows on the scrubbed table.
"Do you want something to eat?" he asked.
"No."
"You'd feel better with something inside you."
"I couldn't eat."
"A cup of coffee then." He went to the Aga and filled a mug, and brought it over and set it down before her. Then he sat down again and went on with his sausages.
She drank a little coffee. She said, "I'm glad we had that time with her."
"Yeah."
"I'm glad she came home with us."
"It was good." He reached over and took her hand. He said, "Lucilla, I think I should go."
"Go?" She stared at him in some dismay. "Go where?"
"Well, this isn't a very good time for your mother and father to have a stranger around the place. . . ."
"But you're not a stranger. . . ."
"You know what I mean. I think I should pack my bag and take myself off. . . ."
"Oh, but you can't. . . ." The very suggestion filled Lucilla with panic. "You can't leave us all. . . ." Her voice rose, and he shushed her gently, aware of Isobel's presence beyond the open door, and not wishing his hostess to overhear the conversation. Lucilla dropped her voice to a furious whisper. "You can't leave me. Not now. I need you, Jeff. I can't cope with everything being so utterly awful. Not on my own." "I feel I'm intruding."
"You're not. You're not. Oh, please, don't go." He looked into her beseeching face and relented: "Okay. If I can be any help, I'll certainly stay around. But whatever happens, I can't stay for long, because the beginning of October I have to go back to Australia."
"Yes. I know. But don't talk about leaving us just yet."
He said, "If you like, you could come with me." "Sorry?"
"I said, if you like you could come with me. To Australia, I mean."
Lucilla's fingers closed around her coffee mug. "What would I do there?"
"We could be together. Go on being together. There's plenty of room in my parents' house. And I know they'd make you very welcome." "Why are you asking me now?" "Seems a good idea." "And what would I do in Australia?" "Whatever you wanted. Get a job. Paint. Be with me. We could find some place of our own."
"Jeff ... I don't quite know what you're asking of me."
"I'm not asking anything. Just extending an invitation."
"But ... it ... it isn't like that, is it? You and me.
Not for ever."
"I thought we could maybe find out."
"Oh, Jeff." A lump grew in her throat, and she felt her eyes swim with tears, which was ridiculous because she hadn't cried for Pandora, but now she was in floods just because Jeff was being so sweet, and asking her to go back to Australia with him, and because she wasn't going to go, because she wasn't in love with him, and knew that he was not in love with her.
"Come on, now, don't cry."
She reached for a tea-towel and unhygienically blew her nose on it.
"It's just that you're being so dear. And I would love to come. But not just now. Just now I have to stay here. Besides, I don't think you really want me hanging around when you go home. You're going to have enough to think about without me under your feet. Going back to work, getting on with your life, settling down. . . ." She blew her nose again and managed a watery smile. ". . . and, somehow, I don't think I'm quite the right person for you. When you do settle down, and you will, it will be with some lovely Australian girl. A sun-tanned sheila with a fat bum and big tits. . . ."
He cuffed her gently over the ear. He said, "That's not funny." But he was smiling.
She said, "It was the nicest invitation I've ever had in my life. And you are the dearest man I've ever met. And we've had just the best time ever since that day we met in Paris. And one day I will come to Australia, and I shall expect a huge welcome from you, red carpets, ticker tapes, the full treatment. But right now . . . and for ever ... I can't come."
"Well, if you change your mind, the offer's open. . . ."
He had finished his breakfast, laid the knife and fork together on the plate, and carried it over to the sink. From the dining-room now could be heard the sounds of Hoovering. Jeff crossed the kitchen and closed th
e p
antry door. He returned to the table and sat facing Lucilla.
He said, "I don't like to ask this and it's none of my business, but did Pandora leave any sort of a letter?"
"Yes, she did. For Dad. On the desk in her room."
"Did she say why she was going to kill herself?"
"No. Apparently not."
"What does your mother think?"
"At the moment she's too distressed even to try to think."
"So there's no obvious reason?"
"None."
"How about you?"
"I have no opinion, Jeff." His silence caught her attention. "Why? Have you?"
"I just thought. I was thinking. Remember that guy we met our first day at the villa? Carlos Macaya?"
"Carlos?" That suave and handsome man with his charming manners and his notable wrist-watch. "But of course." She could not imagine why she had not thought of him before. "Jeff. Do you think he might know something?"
"Probably not. But he was obviously very close to Pandora. Perhaps she confided. Told him something that we don't know. . . ."
Lucilla remembered that puzzling remark that Carlos had made to Pandora as he drove away from the villa. . . . Let me know if you change your mind, he had said. And she had replied, I won't change my mind. And Lucilla and Jeff had discussed the exchange, and decided that Carlos and Pandora had probably been referring to something quite trivial-a cancelled tennis match, or a rejected invitation.
"Yes. You're right. I think they were very close. Lovers, probably. Maybe he does know something. . . ."
"Even if he doesn't, if they were so close, perhaps he should be told what's happened."
"Yes." It was a perfectly viable suggestion. "But how can we tell him?"
"Ring him up."
"We don't know his number."
"Pandora must have had an address book . . . what's the betting we'll find Carlos Macaya's number in it?"
"Yes. You're right. Of course."
"If we're going to put a call through, we'd better do it now, before your father and Conrad get back, and while your mother's occupied. Is there a telephone where we won't be disturbed?"
"Nowhere. Except, perhaps, Mum's bedroom. We'll use the phone by her bed. ..."
"Come on then." He got to his feet. "We'll do it now."
Isobel was still Hoovering. They went out of the kitchen and soft-footed up the carpeted stairs. Lucilla led the way along the passage to Pandora's bedroom. They went inside and she closed the door behind them.
The room, with its unmade bed and litter of feminine possessions, was cold. Every window was open, and the curtains ballooned in the breeze. And yet that perfume still hung like a pall; the smell of Poison.
Lucilla said, "I never knew, I could never make up my mind if I loved that scent or if I hated it."
"Why is it so strong?"
"She broke the bottle in her basin." She looked around her, saw the filmy dressing-gown tossed on the bed, Pandora's evening bag, the wardrobe full of her clothes, the brimming waste-paper basket, the crowded dressing-table, the odd shoes that lay about on the carpet.
The shoes, expensive Spanish leather, high-heeled, impractical, were somehow the most personal and poignant of reminders, because they could never have belonged to anybody but Pandora.
Lucilla closed her mind to them.
She said, "Her address book. Where would we find her address book?"
They found it on the desk, alongside the blotter. It was large and leather-bound, with Pandora's initials in gold, and endpapers of Florentine paper. Lucilla sat, ran her finger down the index, and opened it at the letter M.
Mademoiselle, Dress Shop.
Maitland, Lady Letitia.
Mendoza, Philip and Lucia.
Macaya . . .
Carlos Macaya. She sat very still, staring at the page. She did not speak.
After a bit, Jeff said, "Have you found it?"
"Yes."
"What's wrong?"
"Jeff." She looked up at him. "Jeff, he's a doctor."
"A doctor?" He frowned. "Let's see."
She pointed. "Here. 'Macaya, Dr. Carlos and Lisa.' Lisa must be his wife. Jeff, do you think he was Pandora's doctor?"
"Most probably. We'll find out." He looked at his watch. "It's ten-thirty. It'll be about eight-thirty in Majorca. We'll call him at home. It's a Saturday morning. Most likely we'll get him at home."
With the address book in her hand, Lucilla got to her feet. They went out of Pandora's room and along to her parents' bedroom where, on this unreal and disorientated morning, yet another bed had not been made. The telephone sat on the bedside table. Jeff found the phone book and looked up the international code for Spain, and carefully, digit by digit, Lucilla dialled the long and complicated number.