Remember

  Not unnaturally, Nicky was thinking of the last time she had been in this house—that particular visit had been heartbreaking, one of the saddest times in her life, and the memories of it were very bad indeed.

  October 1986. A Saturday in the middle of the month. She had arrived at Pullenbrook in the morning. She and Anne had talked for hours, and they had hardly noticed when Inez had brought the tea into the drawing room promptly at four o’clock, automatically observing that traditional British ritual. They had been far too devastated to care about the tea and it had gone untouched.

  Her own pain had begun the day before when Philip had shown up in New York unexpectedly, ringing her doorbell just after ten o’clock. He had stepped off the early morning British Concorde into a waiting limousine, and had ridden into Manhattan to break the bad news to her in person, at Anne’s request, rather than doing so on the telephone from London.

  Philip had not wasted any time. He had told her as gently as he could that Charles was believed to be dead, that he had apparently drowned off Beachy Head on the Sussex coast several days earlier. His pale-blue Jaguar had been found parked nearby, late on Wednesday afternoon. In it were his raincoat and a locked briefcase bearing his initials with a leather luggage tag on the handle. The name on the tag read Charles A.C. Devereaux, and, of course, the local police had known at once who to contact: his mother, Lady Anne Devereaux of Pullenbrook Manor.

  When the locks of the briefcase had been prised open by the police, in front of Anne, the only item they found inside had been a letter addressed to his mother. And that letter had told them everything they needed to know—Charles Devereaux had taken his own life. There were no ifs or buts about it; everything had been spelled out quite precisely and explicitly, and he had made his intentions very clear. But there would have to be a police investigation; that was the law. However, the police had agreed to keep the matter under wraps until Charles Devereaux’s fiancée in New York had been informed. Again, this had been one of Anne’s requests, which the local police chief, Superintendent Willis, had said they would be willing to accede to, out of deference to her ladyship and her standing in the county.

  Philip had recounted all this to her on that horrendous Friday, when her whole world had fallen apart with such abruptness and finality. She had been shattered, in shock, when she had phoned Arch at the network, and told him in a shaky voice that she had to fly to England immediately because Charles had committed suicide. By then she had been trembling so excessively, as the facts had truly begun to sink in, she had been unable to continue, had handed the phone to Philip. Carefully he had given the pertinent details to Arch, and had promised to be in touch with more news as soon as possible.

  Not long after this she had thrown a few clothes into a bag, and packed her toilet articles and makeup, with the help of Gertrude, who had arrived to clean the apartment in the middle of it all. And then, just before they had set off for Kennedy Airport, Philip had attempted to reach her parents, who were staying at the Cipriani in Venice, but they had been out. Philip had left his name and the number at Pullenbrook, along with an urgent message for them to telephone Anne as soon as they could.

  By one thirty she and Philip were on board the French Concorde, taking off for Paris. Philip had pointed out that this was the simplest, easiest and fastest route to London. They would be flying for just under four hours, would spend the night in Paris, and be on the first plane to London on Saturday.

  She had wept for almost the entire journey across the Atlantic. Philip had done his level best to console her, although with little success. Yet, from time to time, she had had her moments of sudden calm, and during those moments they had asked each other the same question. Why? Why had Charles done this terrible thing? There seemed to be no valid reason to either of them, and therefore no explanation.

  Upon arrival at Charles de Gaulle Airport they had taken rooms at one of the hotels, and on Saturday they had been on the seven o’clock flight to Heathrow. From there they had driven directly to Pullenbrook where Anne, still suffering from shock, and grief stricken, was waiting for them.

  Later that day she had asked Anne if there had been any mention of her in Charles’s letter. Anne had shaken her head sadly. She had been stunned to hear this. Charles had killed himself without one last word to her. And she couldn’t quite get over that.

  Her parents had arrived from Venice via London on Sunday. They were full of compassion and concern for her, kind and loving, and they had both done their best to help her. But in the end it was she and Anne who had helped each other the most, had given each other the most sustenance and support.

  She had stayed with Anne for several weeks, the two of them inseparable and moving between Pullenbrook and Anne’s flat in Eaton Square. During this difficult and painful time for them both, things had become crystal clear. Charles had been quite deliberate in everything he had done before his suicide. Very diligently he had put all his affairs in order. His flat in Knightsbridge had been sold; the shares he held in his privately-owned wine importing company in London had been sold to his partner; his shares in the European end of the business had been bought by his Spanish partner. And, finally, he had made a new will a few weeks before his death. In it he had left everything to his mother.

  Ever since then, for almost three years now, she had asked herself why he had killed himself, and she had never been able to come up with an answer. At least, not one that was acceptable.

  At one point, anger had replaced her initial grief, and this had troubled her. On several occasions, when she had been in New York and not on foreign assignment, she had gone to see a psychiatrist, one who had been recommended by Arch. Her aim had been to understand the anger fulminating inside her and to come to grips with it. The psychiatrist, Dr Alvin Foxgrove, had patiently explained that most people who had been close to, or emotionally involved with, suicides inevitably experienced great anger, and that it was a perfectly normal reaction. This knowledge had helped her somewhat, especially since Dr Foxgrove had told her that the anger would go away eventually. But in her case it had not. The awful truth was that she was still angry deep down inside.

  After a while, Nicky managed to pull her thoughts away from the past, and concentrated on the present. It had always bothered her that there was no body… but then Charles had slipped into the English Channel and been washed away to sea. Or had he?

  Her plan now was to find out exactly what had happened. After she had spoken to Anne she would return to London, and from there she intended to fly to the Continent. She was going to use her skills as a journalist to solve the mystery of Charles Devereaux’s death, to find out the truth about him.

  TWENTY-TWO

  An hour later, at about seven o’clock, having changed from her tailored safari suit into a navy silk dress, high-heeled shoes and pearls, Nicky went downstairs for drinks before dinner.

  Neither Anne nor Philip were anywhere in sight when she looked inside the drawing room, but as she glanced toward the windows she spotted Anne outside. Nicky crossed the small foyer and went through the side door which led to the terrace. This ran along the back facade of the house, facing Sweetheart Hill and the South Downs.

  Anne half turned, and looked over her shoulder at the sound of Nicky’s step, and her face instantly lit up with pleasure. ‘Ah, there you are, darling, I was just thinking about you, thinking how glad I am that you’re here with us this weekend.’

  ‘It’s wonderful to see you, Anne,’ Nicky responded, truly meaning what she said. Ever since running into Anne in France, she had felt guilty about the way she had neglected her, and she had planned to stop off to see her en route to Paris and Provence in September. Then when Charles Devereaux had suddenly stared out at her from the television set the other night, she had suddenly had more reason than ever to come to Pullenbrook to talk to Anne. And so she had revised her plans, moved them up by two weeks.

  Clearing her throat, Nicky said slowly, and with genuine sincerity, ‘I realize
I’ve been unkind to you for the past year and a half, by not being in touch, and I’m sorry for that, Anne. I’ve no excuse. Of course, it’s true that I’ve been away on foreign assignments consistently, covering some pretty lousy wars and other disasters, but I’m not going to hide behind my work. I often do that, but I won’t now, not with you. The truth is, it was easier not to see you. Easier for me.’

  ‘I know that,’ Anne replied softly. ‘And I understand perfectly. Seeing me, whether here or in London, or even in New York, would have only prolonged your agony about Charles. Under the circumstances, I think it was wise of you to cut me off the way you did. It enabled you to start afresh.’

  ‘Yes, that’s true. But still, it was selfish of me.’ There was a little pause before Nicky ventured cautiously, ‘How… how did you manage to cope these past couple of years?’

  ‘I had a great deal of support from Philip, and from my brother and his family. And the house helped me—’ Anne broke off, shook her head. ‘Oh dear, here I am, talking about the house in a strange way again. What I meant, actually, is that I got involved with a project to do with the house, and that has kept me very busy. It’s been quite absorbing, and I’m still working on it.’

  ‘What kind of project?’ Nicky asked curiously.

  ‘The library. I decided to make order out of chaos, and to have the thousands of books catalogued. There are some very rare ones, including some special first editions, and naturally I had to engage a professional to help me. Anyway, in the first few months I fell upon the diaries of the Cliffords, which had been kept by the women of the family over the centuries. I’d vaguely heard about them from my grandfather, but I’d never read them. Needless to say, I became fascinated with the diaries. And at my worst moments I would suddenly pull myself up short and remind myself about those generations of Clifford women who had gone before me, who had been through so much themselves, lost so much, and so many loved ones: husbands, sons, fathers, brothers… daughters and mothers and sisters. Just think about it—my ancestors lived through the invasion of the Spanish Armada, the Civil War, the Great Plague, and so much else… ensuing wars, extraordinary changes in England, and family tragedies as well. Yet they went on stoically, and they survived. I suppose I simply refused to give in to my grief, or feel sorry for myself, out of pride. You see, the Clifford women of the past set a great example for me.’

  Nicky nodded, and was about to ask her more about the diaries when Anne sighed heavily, and glanced away. A look of such intense pain crossed her face, Nicky wanted to reach out to her, put her arms around her, but she refrained.

  After a moment, Anne said, ‘Losing a child is a terrible thing… one never expects that, you know, Nicky. You always believe that you’ll the first, for that really is the correct order of things…’ Her voice floated away on the heavy evening air, her sentence remaining unfinished. Again, she stared off into the distance, and then, almost to herself, she finally murmured, ‘I have always believed that a child, that children, are the justification of life… that they make life worthwhile, worth living.’

  Nicky found she could not speak. She felt the other woman’s sudden, overwhelming sadness most acutely, and her eyes filled with tears. Swallowing hard, taking a grip on herself, she impulsively took hold of Anne’s hand, held it tightly in hers, wanting to give her comfort of some sort.

  Eventually, Anne turned her head and looked into Nicky’s face intently. A slight smile quavered on her lips, and then was gone. She said, in the same quiet voice as before, ‘I was so pleased when I saw you with another man in Les Baux, Nicky. It lifted my heart, to tell you the truth. It meant you had recovered from Charles. I hope you won’t think I’m prying too much when I ask whether it’s serious or not?’

  Nicky hesitated only momentarily before saying, ‘I’m not sure. I think it could be. Clee has told me he’s in love with me.’

  ‘And what about you? How do you feel?’

  ‘I’ve known Clee for two years; he’s my best friend, and very dear to me. But it’s only in these past few weeks that we’ve become romantically involved, and nobody was more surprised than me when it happened. And yes, to answer your question, I think I’m falling in love with him.’

  ‘I’m so happy to hear that. There was certainly no doubt in my mind how Clee felt about you. It was patently obvious just from the way he looked at you.’ Anne squeezed her hand and then extracted it. She finished, ‘Nicky, he adores you.’

  ‘But love isn’t always enough to make a relationship work as a marriage, though. A lot of other things are tremendously important… if you’re going to spend the rest of your life with someone.’

  ‘That’s very true,’ Anne agreed. ‘But you appeared to be comfortable with each other, obviously compatible, and, of course, you do share the same kind of work, so that must be quite a plus, surely.’ A blonde brow was raised, and she looked at Nicky questioningly.

  ‘It is. On the other hand, my career might present a few problems in the long run, and I—’

  ‘There’s nothing in the world that can take the place of a good man,’ Anne interjected, and then she laughed quietly, as if to herself. ‘Who am I to talk? I’ve certainly kept a good man dangling on a string for years.’

  Leaning closer to Nicky, she added, ‘Take my advice, don’t do what I did. Instead, take the plunge. I only began to realize today that I should have married Philip years ago.’ She gave Nicky a most piercing stare, and in a much stronger voice, she said, ‘You must reach out for life, Nicky. Grab it with both hands. Live it to its fullest. Because before you know it, years will have slipped away, and you’ll be middle-aged, and then old, and it will be too late. Far, far too late.’

  ‘After the age of thirty time does seem to pass very quickly. I’ve begun to notice that recently.’

  ‘And there’s another thing,’ Anne continued. ‘Don’t sacrifice a good relationship, one that works well, because of your career. You might end up being alone, if you do. And believe me, Nicky, loneliness is the most terrifying thing. It’s another kind of death.’

  Anne leaned her elbow on the balustrade and stared at the South Downs, as though ruminating.

  Watching her, Nicky thought she had never seen her looking lovelier than she did this evening. She wore a deep rose-coloured silk dress that enhanced her fine English complexion, a double strand of pearls and pearl earrings. In Nicky’s opinion, Anne Devereaux could easily pass for a woman in her mid-forties; aside from her beautiful blonde hair, incomparable skin, and lack of wrinkles, she had a slender figure and beautiful legs with finely-turned ankles.

  Suddenly Anne straightened up and glanced at Nicky, and said a little sadly, with a rueful smile, ‘Oh Nicky, I was such a stupid fool years ago. Fairly early on in my widowhood there was a man I loved, and I should have married him. He wanted me to do so, but there were certain obstacles. And so I rejected him, and, in some ways, I lived to regret it. And then about twenty years ago, when I was thirty-eight, another man came into my life. I cared for him deeply, as he did for me, but I rejected him as well, because of—. Well, never mind why, that’s not really important. In both instances I chose to be by myself, and as a result I had some pretty dreadful years of loneliness until I met Philip.’

  ‘Do I hear my name being taken in vain?’ Philip demanded in a jocular manner as he strolled out onto the terrace.

  The two women turned around to face him, and Anne said, ‘Not at all, my darling. I was simply telling Nicky what a lot of lonely and unhappy years I spent before you came into my life.’

  Philip seemed touched by her words, although he did not make any comment. He simply nodded, and put his arm around her waist, held her close to him.

  Anne’s expression was affectionate as she glanced at him and explained, ‘I was talking to Nicky about Cleeland Donovan, telling her how happy I am that she’s involved with him. How happy we both are.’

  ‘And relieved,’ Philip said, offering Nicky a warm smile. ‘We’ve been worried about yo
u, my dear.’ Turning back to Anne, he went on, ‘I have champagne waiting in the drawing room. Shall we go inside?’

  Anne smiled, and nodded, and took hold of his arm. ‘Yes, let’s do that.’

  ***

  Much later, after the champagne had been consumed, the three of them sat down around the circular table in the small family dining room, which Anne used for more intimate dinners.

  Inez served the light supper Pilar had prepared, and between the vichyssoise, the grilled sole and the summer pudding, Philip and Anne plied Nicky with questions about her work.

  Nicky talked about her sojourn in Beijing, and recounted some of the things which had happened there. They seemed particularly moved when she told them about Yoyo and Mai, Mai’s death, and Yoyo’s subsequent disappearance.

  ‘Clee and I, and Arch and the crew, just hope and pray he’s going to show up, and that he used the money we gave him to advantage,’ Nicky confided. ‘Clee thinks he’ll make it to Hong Kong, and so do I.’

  ‘That’s the most likely place,’ Philip remarked, nodding thoughtfully. ‘And there is an underground operating between Beijing and Hong Kong, so I’ve been told. If Yoyo has guanxi, in other words connections, he might slip through.’

  ‘As my father would say, from your mouth to God’s ears, Philip. Yoyo’s pretty smart, if anyone can get out, then he can.’

  ‘How terribly tragic that the young woman was killed,’ Anne murmured. ‘From the way you tell it, Nicky, the Chinese army sounds very harsh.’

  ‘They are brutal, murderous, cruel beyond belief. Clee has much proof of that on film. He was able to take hundreds of photographs, because they were so busy killing their own people, innocent people, they didn’t have time to grab his camera. Mind you, the authorities smashed three of his other cameras in the days before the crackdown. In any case, he’s created an amazing book about Tiananmen with those photographs, and I’ve written the introduction. It’s called Children of the Beijing Spring, and it’ll make your hair stand on end when you see it. I’ll be sending you a copy when it’s published next year.’