'Did you?' She lifted his head between her two hands and looked right into his eyes. 'Then why did you blot out everything with drugs? Wasn't it because without them you felt exactly as you did after your mother died, alone and frightened? You have to learn to be a man now, Nick, to take responsibility for your own life.'
Kate was right about so many things. She knew nothing about the drug scene – the wildness of the sixties had passed her by – but she knew all about people's frailties.
Nick got a job as a barman in a pub in Barnes and Kate introduced him to a retired drama teacher who coached him for a couple of hours each afternoon. Every week they studied The Stage together and decided which auditions Nick should go to.
Seven months later in November that year, Nick finally came home to tell Kate he had a part in a television play about the army.
'It's only very small,' he said, throwing his arms around her and bouncing her up and down in her kitchen. 'I'm just one of the squaddies, not the hero, and I'll have to get my hair cut short. But it's a start, isn't it?'
'A whole new beginning,' she smiled. 'I'm so very proud of you, Nick. Now get on the phone and tell your Dad and make him proud too.'
Nick gave up the struggle to sleep and sat up to light a cigarette. He wondered how Kate was, the last time he heard from her she was getting married again and moving to Suffolk. If she had still been living out at Chiswick he could have gone to visit her tomorrow before going home. He could bet she'd have had some suggestions about finding Mel.
There was only Sir Miles Hamilton left to see now. Would such an old man be able to remember anything about an event twenty years earlier?
An elderly man with stooped shoulders and wire-rimmed spectacles answered the door at Sir Miles's house in Holland Park.
'Do come in,' he said and ushered Nick across a wide hall with a polished wooden floor and into a library at the back of the house. 'Sir Miles will be with you in a few minutes, Mr Osbourne.'
The library was warm and impressive. A large coal fire crackled away in the hearth and the entire wall space right up to the ceiling was filled with books. Nick was too nervous to sit down in one of the winged armchairs by the fire so he stayed standing, quickly running his eyes over the books to try and get an insight into the taste of the man whose name was so often in The Stage.
There were the inevitable leather-bound classics, collections of poetry and legal books, but more interesting to Nick's mind was the enormous number of paperback thrillers. Somehow he had never imagined anyone with a title reading such books, let alone displaying them openly.
Nick braced himself at the sound of approaching feet, but as the door opened he was thrown. The black-and-white press photographs he had seen in the past hadn't prepared him for such a big or striking man.
Sir Miles wore a dark blue smoking jacket over grey flannel trousers, and a lighter blue cravat tucked into an open-necked shirt. He had several chins, a fat stomach and a somewhat bulbous red nose. Nick knew he was over eighty but he looked closer to sixty-five.
'Thank you for seeing me, sir,' Nick said holding out his hand.
Sir Miles gripped it firmly. 'I must confess to being a trifle intrigued by your phone call,' he said in a deep, almost growl. His eyes were almost hidden by folds of skin, showing only the dark pupils. 'You said it was a delicate matter.'
'Yes it is, sir. I'm still not quite sure how I should approach it.'
'It's quite private here.' Sir Miles motioned for Nick to sit down and took the other armchair himself. 'So fire away.'
If he knew Sir Miles better, Nick might have remarked how like W. C. Fields he looked. Instead he took out Sir Miles's letter to Bonny and handed it to him. 'This is the reason I wanted to talk to you, sir,' he said. 'This and some other letters from other men, including my father, were found by Camellia Norton on her mother's death.'
'Bonny's dead?' To Nick's surprise Sir Miles chuckled. 'What a relief for mankind.'
Nick had to smile. He liked irreverent people.
Sir Miles merely glanced at the letter, then tossed it back to Nick. 'Such a silly, empty-headed woman,' he said. 'Goodness only knows why Norton married her. She managed to charm my wife, but I never had any time for her.'
The old man's attitude was so indifferent that Nick felt his visit would prove to be a waste of time. But just in case he might get a little more background, he quickly launched into a brief explanation as to how he came by the letter.
'My father, Magnus, would have preferred to see you himself, but he isn't well enough,' he finished off.
'So you are Magnus Osbourne's son,' Sir Miles looked hard at him and frowned. 'I haven't seen him in years. We didn't know each other well, as I expect he's told you, but we ran into each other occasionally at social functions. A good man I believe.'
Nick wasn't sure that Miles had fully understood him; there was absolutely no reaction to hearing John Norton might not be Camellia's father. But then it was a complicated story, and he was very old.
'I believe you were a guest at the Nortons' wedding,' he said. 'Did you have any reason to doubt John was Camellia's father?'
'None what so ever!' Miles exclaimed. 'I felt a great deal of sympathy for John that he was so besotted with that woman, but I saw him many times right up until a few months before his untimely death and everything he ever said about the child, pointed to her being his flesh and blood.'
'Would you mind telling me what Bonny said in her letter to you?' Nick said warily. 'You used the word "scandal" in your reply, and you sounded angry. I don't wish to pry into your affairs, I'm just trying to build up a picture of what happened back then.'
'It was clap-trap. She made up a ridiculous, vicious story which I have no intention of divulging. But you can take it from me that Magnus is not the girl's father.'
Sir Miles raised his voice as he spoke. It sounded as if Nick had annoyed him, and that those were his final words on the subject. But Nick wasn't about to give up that easily. 'Has Camellia ever called on you, sir?' He hoped he might be able to come back to the letter from a different angle.
'I'm told a girl did come here a couple of years ago. It may have been her. I was abroad at the time.'
'Then you've never met her?'
'I saw her, of course, when she was a small child. But not since.'
'Not since the letter from Bonny?' Nick prompted.
'Certainly not.' His face flushed an even darker red and his voice was full of indignation. 'And after that dreadful business in Chelsea!' He stopped suddenly.
'So you knew about that then?' Nick couldn't help smiling. 'Then you must have known Bonny was dead too?'
'Now look here, young man,' Sir Miles blustered. 'How dare you come into my house and question me? I don't like your tone at all.'
I'm sorry, sir, I didn't mean to be offensive,' Nick said ingratiatingly. 'But you see I'm just trying to piece together a puzzle. While doing so I have found out a great many things, and one thing is perfectly plain: Camellia is a victim of events which started before her birth. Even that business in Chelsea, as you called it, wasn't her fault – and neither was she guilty of any wrong-doing.'
'Rubbish, she was a prostitute.'
Nick smarted, but he was determined to charm something out of this old man at all costs. 'Sir Miles,' he said quietly. 'You are a man of great experience. I'm sure you know as well as I do that not everything in the papers is strictly true. Camellia was a nightclub hostess; she was never a prostitute. Please consider for a moment what Camellia had been through. She lost her father at six, her mother at fifteen and during the years in-between not only did all the old friends of her parents who might have given her life a little more balance jump ship, but she saw a parade of men pass through her home, and all her father's money squandered. She came to London without any friends, family or qualifications. Becoming a nightclub hostess may not have been the smartest thing to do, but then she had no one to guide her. She learned her lesson the hard way.'
'She was a prostitute,' the old man said belligerently.
'She wasn't. I spent an evening two days ago with a policeman who knew everything about the case. She was just a hostess.'
'Same thing,' Sir Miles said stubbornly.
'You know it isn't. I'm sure you've been to clubs often and met hostesses. Are you saying every single one of those was a prostitute?'
'Yes, loose women the lot of them.'
Nick could see black humour in this situation. Sir Miles was sitting there dressed like a playboy, a lifetime of the theatre behind him, yet staunchly pretending he thought all nightclubs were dens of vice.
Sir Miles pulled a large handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow. 'Look at the rest of the evidence against her? She'd hardly recovered from her injuries and her girlfriend dies of a drug overdose. The police found endless pornographic pictures of the girl.'
'Not Camellia,' Nick said firmly. He wanted to comment on what a remarkable memory the man had, but he didn't dare. 'She wasn't even called as a witness when the photographer was on trial.'
Sir Miles snorted and lapsed into silence.
Nick waited for a moment or two before pressing him again. 'Let's put all that business aside now,' he suggested. 'You see it's not really relevant anyway. For two years now Camellia has worked hard for my father. He has become very fond of her and she practically ran the hotel. Look at this picture, sir?' Nick reached into his pocket and pulled out the photograph of himself and Camellia taken in Weston-super-Mare.
'That's what she's like now,' he urged him. 'Does she look like some cheap hooker? Isn't she entitled to have made a few mistakes along the way and be forgiven for them?'
The strangest expression passed over the old man's face as he looked at the picture. Nick couldn't read it at all. There was an element of surprise, but there was more to it than that. The length of time he took to study the photograph was odd too: most people would have glanced at it and then handed it straight back.
'No, she doesn't look like a hooker.' Sir Miles's voice had lost its growl. 'But I can't help you, Nicholas. I know Magnus isn't her father, surely that is enough for you.'
'How can you be so certain?' Nick was studying the man. He was ruffled; he did know more.
'The eyes,' Sir Miles snapped. 'Your father's are blue, as I remember, and so were Bonny's. I believe it's impossible for two blue-eyed people to produce a brown-eyed child.'
Nick felt a surge of wild elation. 'We never thought of that,' he managed to say. To his shame a tear rolled down his cheek.
'Come now,' Sir Miles said, leaning from his seat and patting Nick's arm. There's no need to get emotional about it.'
Nick wiped the back of his hand across his eyes and began to laugh. This whole interview was so strange.
'That's better,' Sir Miles chuckled. 'If I'd known that was all it would take to get rid of you I would've said it straight away.'
It was then that Nick saw the old man's eyes properly. In laughter they opened wider and despite the bags of flesh beneath them, he saw they were darkest brown and almond-shaped. Just like Mel's.
'What we both need is a brandy.' Sir Miles's tone was jocular now and his eyes retreated back into the flesh again. 'Now let's get off this subject. What production are you in at the moment.'
Nick told him his situation and mentioned things he'd done recently. Rather shame-facedly he also added Hunnicroft Estate. He'd discovered this now interested agents and producers. Enough time had passed for it to have become almost a cult series.
'So you were the thug?' Sir Miles poured the brandy and passed it over to Nick. 'I remember it well. The script was appalling, but you played a good part.'
'You watched it?' Nick gulped at the brandy, amazed at this turn of events.
1 always make a point of watching new series, especially when they claim to be controversial. That one certainly was, such awful language! Had I known you were Magnus's son then, I might have been able to help you. As it is I'll drop your name in a few likely places, maybe something will come of it.'
Nick was suddenly on his guard. It felt as if he was being offered a carrot to go away and ask no more questions. He finished his drink. 'I think I'd better be off now,' he said, standing up. 'I've taken up enough of your time. There's only one more thing I'd like to ask, if you don't mind. As you were a guest at the Nortons' wedding, do you have a photograph? Call it nosiness if you like, but I've never seen a picture of John Norton.'
Nick saw relief flood across the man's face.
'Yes, there's one here somewhere,' he said with a smile. 'I'm sorry if I've been a little churlish with you, Nicholas. It was just that dreadful woman. I don't mean her child any harm and I hope you find her.'
He opened a drawer and pulled out three fat albums. Leafing through the first one quickly, he moved onto the second. 'Ah! Here we are.' He handed over a glossy picture of the bride and groom with other people around them. "This was my wife's favourite one.'
Nick could see exactly why men fell for Bonny. She was breathtakingly lovely in white satin. In this picture she was laughing, brushing confetti from John's jacket, her veil thrown back. John Norton was much as Nick had imagined, tall, slim with a rather aristocratic nose and a small moustache. Yet apart from his colouring there was no real resemblance to Mel.
'Who are the other people,' Nick asked. There were three women, one tall and slender, around forty or so and very attractive, the other two older, all three in fancy wide-brimmed hats. Beside Bonny was Sir Miles, still stout but without the sagging skin round his eyes. Nick saw Mel's eyes staring back at him. He felt faint and looked again, but he wasn't mistaken. They were identical to Mel's.
'That one was a charming lady, Linda, Lorna, something like that,' Sir Miles said, pointing out the younger of the three women in the picture. "This one is my late wife, Mary. The other was John's godmother, Lady Penelope Beauchamp. She died a year or so after John from a brain tumour.'
'Would that be Lydia Wynter?' Nick asked going back to the attractive younger woman. Magnus would be pleased to know Bonny hadn't lied about her; she did look rather grand and extremely photogenic.
'Yes, that was her name, a dancing teacher. She was a second mother to Bonny, poor woman. Have you met her?'
'She died too,' Nick said quietly, suddenly aware that Sir Miles was the oldest in the group and the only survivor.
Sir Miles took back the photograph and slipped it into the album again. Nick knew this time he really must go. 'Thank you for seeing me,' he said. 'You've been a great help.'
'Chin up.' The older man smiled, with a hint of smugness. 'I don't doubt she'll turn up again. As for your career maybe that'll brighten up too. Now go on home and stop worrying about things past. Get your father to have a blood test – that will give you both peace of mind.'
Nick paused for a moment at the door. 'One more question and I'll be off. Do you know why Bonny fell out with Helena Forester?'
Sir Miles was busy placing the albums back in the drawer, but his head jerked up sharply. 'Helena had nothing to do with any of this.' A red flush flooded his face. 'She is a serious actress. All there was between the two of them was a stage act.'
After leaving Sir Miles's house Nick went into Holland Park gardens and sat on a bench. He wasn't absolutely sure Miles was right about two blue-eyed people being unable to produce a brown-eyed child. In any case Magnus's eyes weren't a true blue – they were speckled with green and amber. But he'd check that out.
For some reason that last retort of Sir Miles's seemed the most important thing he'd said. Why should he say Helena had nothing to do with anything? She hadn't been mentioned in the entire conversation until then. Wouldn't any normal person say something like, 'I don't know, perhaps Bonny was jealous', or 'they grew out of one another'.
Suppose Sir Miles had been having an affair with Helena? Suppose Bonny lured him away for a while, perhaps thinking he would further her career too, and got pregnant by him?
That could have caused
the girls to fall out and finished their friendship – especially if Helena had a close relationship with Miles. Perhaps Bonny had written to him out of pure spite, threatening to tell his wife about their child.
Although Nick couldn't imagine two such young pretty women squabbling over an old man's affections, it was the most likely answer yet. It would also explain Miles's animosity towards Bonny, and why he'd read every last word about Mel in the papers. Why else would a man keep such close tabs on a child?
Chapter Twenty
Mel got off the bus in Wandsworth Bridge Road, Fulham and walked disconsolately towards Steven-dale Road and her bedsitter. It was six months since she fled from Oaklands, and she'd just been turned down for a job with the Grand Metropolitan group of hotels, because she couldn't give references from her previous employment. The personnel manager had treated her as if he suspected she'd just come out of prison. She wished now she hadn't put herself through such an embarrassing ordeal.
She wondered what had possessed her to return to a part of London which evoked so many painful memories. She'd taken the room because it was cheap and accepted a job as a cook in a World's End café, purely because Peggy and Arthur, her employers, weren't concerned about insurance cards, tax codes, or even what she'd done before. But now she regretted both decisions.
At first she'd been glad to work from eight in the morning until six in the busy café since by the time she got home in the evening she was too exhausted to dwell on all she had lost. But now the ever present stink of fried food, the mountains of washing up, and the lack of appreciation from her employers were wearing her down.
On the bus ride home from Kensington, she'd been close to tears – not just because she hadn't got the job, or that she'd have to stick Peggy's café a little longer, but because she still missed Oaklands so much. If she was back in her old room she'd see a green haze on the trees, lambs in the fields and a golden sea of daffodils out on the lawn. In London the seasons weren't as clearly defined as they were in the countryside. There was the odd window box bright with spring flowers, and suits in pastel colours in every shop window, but there wasn't anything like the thrill of seeing green shoots thrusting out of the soil, or finding clumps of primroses in the hedgerows. Every day now she found herself hating the drab grey streets more. She longed to feel the wind in her hair, to hear birdsong instead of traffic, to stand on a hill and gaze at a beautiful view, to feel she was part of a bigger scheme of things, to have some purpose in life other than mere survival.