Remember

  ‘Thank you,’ Anne said.

  ‘We watched a lot of the Kate Adie coverage of the student demonstrations on the BBC,’ Philip said. ‘And at the time Anne and I were utterly appalled by the brutality, the bloodbath. China has a very large black mark against it, and the world is already making its disapproval and abhorrence known. The PRC has been pretty short-sighted.’

  ‘Yes, its violation of human rights has been, and still is, horrendous,’ Nicky pointed out.

  Philip nodded, and took a sip of the Pouilly Fumé. Giving Nicky a probing look, he changed the subject when he asked, ‘And why are you in England, Nicky? Holiday or business?’

  ‘A bit of both,’ Nicky answered quickly, and she had to exercise the most enormous control not to blurt something out about Charles. ‘I’m hoping to do an in-depth interview with the Prime Minister,’ she improvised, and rushed on, ‘Next year, not now. And Arch wanted me to start talking to a few people in advance. You know, sort of get the lay of the land.’

  ‘So how can I be of assistance?’ Philip asked.

  ‘I’m not sure yet. I’ll let you know later. Right now I want to formulate my ideas for the special, think about it in visual terms as well as content.’ Nicky sat back, filling with relief that she had not said the wrong thing.

  ‘Well, just give me a shout if you need my help,’ Philip said. ‘You know I’ll do anything I can.’

  ‘Thanks, Philip, I appreciate it. You’re very kind.’

  ‘Shall we have coffee in the drawing room?’ Anne said, pushing back her chair and rising.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Philip agreed.

  Anne slipped her arm through Nicky’s as they left the dining room and walked across the foyer. ‘Your work is very dangerous, Nicky, and yet you’re quite intrepid. At least, so it seems to me. Aren’t you ever afraid, darling?’

  ‘Not when I’m actually reporting, only afterwards,’ Nicky admitted. ‘That’s the way it is for Clee, and a lot of other journalists as well, Anne. I guess we’re so concentrated, so busy doing our jobs during the action, we don’t have time for fear.’

  TWENTY-THREE

  ‘Anne, I’d like to talk to you about something,’ Nicky said, hovering in the doorway of the library on Sunday morning. She had changed her mind after a sleepless night and wanted to talk to Anne now. She couldn’t wait until Monday.

  Anne stood next to a long mahogany table, picking up fallen rose petals; she lifted her head, looked across at Nicky, and with a little frown she said, ‘You sound awfully serious. Is something wrong?’

  ‘Yes, I think so,’ Nicky murmured as she came into the room. ‘Where’s Philip? I’d like him to hear what I have to say.’

  ‘Here I am,’ Philip said from the depths of a leather wing chair positioned at the other end of the room.

  Nicky heard the rustle of newspaper before his head appeared around the side of the chair. He pushed himself to his feet, folded the paper, and dropped it on the floor with the others piled up near the fender.

  Anne deposited the handful of rose petals in an ashtray and walked over to join Philip, who stood in front of the fireplace. The two of them exchanged glances, then sat down together on a Chesterfield sofa; Nicky seated herself on the identical one facing them.

  Anne and Philip both focused their attention on her, their expressions expectant, and Anne said, ‘You look strange, Nicky. What is it?’

  ‘Before I tell you, I’d like to explain something,’ Nicky began. ‘After we ran into each other in Provence, I decided I wanted to come and see you—to make amends really—and I’d planned to do so at the end of August, on my way to join Clee in Paris. Then the other night, in New York, something happened that caused me to change my plans. I decided to come a couple of weeks earlier, because I needed to talk to you urgently, Anne. And to you, Philip.’

  ‘Please tell us what this is all about,’ Anne said.

  Nicky took a deep breath, and plunged in. ‘Four days ago, on Wednesday night, I was at home in my apartment watching the world nightly news on television. Our Rome correspondent was reporting a shooting incident at a political rally outside Rome—’

  ‘I read about that in Thursday’s Daily Telegraph,’ Philip cut in. ‘There was a suggestion that it might have been an assassination attempt… by a member of the opposition party. Isn’t that so?’

  ‘Yes, that’s correct,’ Nicky answered. ‘But to continue, as Tony Johnson, our man in Rome, was finishing his report, the camera moved away from him, and panned around the immediate area. It picked up a face in the crowd.’ Nicky leaned forward, clasping her hands together, and finished quietly but intensely, ‘It was Charles. The face in the crowd was Charles’s face.’

  Startled, Anne drew back, gaping at Nicky. She was aghast, so stunned she was unable to speak.

  Philip exclaimed, ‘How could it possibly be Charles, Nicky? Charles will have been dead for three years in October. We know he drowned off Beachy Head.’

  ‘But did he?’ Nicky gave Philip a probing stare. ‘There never was a body, and that has always troubled me, frankly.’ To her surprise, her voice had sounded perfectly steady, and she continued calmly, ‘I don’t blame you for being disbelieving, I was myself when I saw his face staring out at me from the television set. Nevertheless, I know it—’

  ‘If you believe Charles is alive, then you must think he faked his own death,’ Anne interrupted, her voice rising, her sudden agitation showing. ‘Why would my son do such a thing?’

  Nicky said, ‘I don’t know, Anne.’

  ‘And how would he have done it?’ Anne demanded with a penetrating look.

  ‘I’ve kind of figured that out… it would have been quite easy for him.’

  ‘It would?’ Philip said, eyeing her with some curiosity. ‘Tell us how.’

  ‘Charles could have had an accomplice,’ Nicky said, returning Philip’s direct gaze. ‘Someone who helped him to rig his death, then disappear afterward. That person, whether a man or a woman, could have done one of two things: either he or she followed Charles to Beachy Head; Charles parked the Jaguar where it would be easy to find, and then his accomplice drove him back to London. From there, Charles would have had no problem leaving immediately for Europe, whether by plane or train, using a forged passport,’ Nicky pointed out. ‘Alternatively, the accomplice could have been waiting in a boat just off the coast, near Beachy Head. Charles could quite easily have swum out to the boat, been picked up and ferried across the English Channel to a French port.’

  ‘This sounds a bit far-fetched to me!’ Philip exclaimed. ‘As Anne just said, why on earth would Charles do such a thing?’

  Nicky shook her head, then lifted her shoulders in a small shrug. ‘I’ve racked my brains, and I can’t really come up with a good reason.’ She hesitated fractionally, and volunteered, ‘Well, that’s not strictly true. I have thought of one.’

  ‘What is it?’ Anne leaned forward alertly, her eyes riveted on Nicky.

  ‘That he wanted to start a new life,’ Nicky said.

  ‘That’s ridiculous!’ Anne cried heatedly. ‘He was in love with you, about to marry you, and to all intents and purposes Charles was a happy man, with everything to look forward to.’

  ‘What you say is true,’ Nicky acknowledged, ‘but only on the surface.’ It was her turn to give Anne a long, knowing look, then she said pointedly, after the briefest pause, ‘Because whether Charles killed himself, or did a disappearing act, he wasn’t happy with his life. If he had been, he wouldn’t have done either thing. Therefore, we must assume that he was discontented with everything in his life, including me.’

  Anne looked as if she was about to say something, and then obviously had second thoughts. She pursed her lips, sat staring at Nicky in silence, twisting her hands in her lap nervously.

  ‘Nicky does have a point there, darling.’ Philip turned to Anne, took her hands in his. ‘In fact, we agreed three years ago that Charles must have been excessively troubled and unhappy, even temporarily d
eranged perhaps, for him to take his own life.’ Now Philip glanced across at Nicky, and announced, in a very firm voice, ‘Which is what I believe he did. You know, my dear, it’s often been said that we each have a double, someone who looks exactly like us, living somewhere in the world. Isn’t it just possible you saw a man on television who resembled Charles very closely, but that’s all?’

  ‘Philip is right,’ Anne interjected. ‘He really is, Nicky darling. My son committed suicide whilst the balance of his mind was disturbed… about something.’

  ‘I wish I could truly believe that.’

  ‘You really must, for your own good,’ Anne told her, and leaned forward again. Choosing her words carefully, she went on, ‘It’s a well known fact that young women who are widowed frequently feel guilty when they become involved with another man. Even though you weren’t married to Charles, you were about to be. Perhaps you feel guilty about Clee, and in believing Charles is now alive you’re giving yourself a reason to break off with Clee. Isn’t that a—’

  ‘No, Anne! It’s nothing like that!’ Nicky shot back fiercely. ‘First of all, I don’t feel guilty about my relationship with Clee. Not at all. Secondly, it is not wishful thinking on my part—believing that I’ve seen Charles alive on television. I know what I saw. Or rather, who I saw.’

  ‘People who do disappearing acts, and assume new identities, have to be awfully devious by nature,’ Anne retorted. ‘My son wasn’t like that. Nor would Charles be cruel to me, or to you… why, he loved us both.’

  Nicky fumbled with the flap of her handbag and brought out an envelope. ‘On Wednesday night I was as stunned as you and Philip are now, Anne. But once I’d recovered my equilibrium, I raced down to my network, where I had one of the studio technicians rerun the Rome segment of the nightly world news. He froze the frame with Charles in it. In other words, he stopped the film at that juncture, so that I could study the man’s face for a few minutes. Which I did, and very intently, I might add. And I took a photograph with my Polaroid. Then the technician also took a picture for me with his own camera, which he developed that night and gave to me the following morning. In the meantime, I went back home to my apartment, and I compared my Polaroid shot of the man in the network’s film with a photograph of Charles.’ Nicky opened the envelope and took out several photographs.

  Handing one of them to Anne, she explained, ‘This is my Polaroid of the man who was on television. As you can see, he has darker hair than Charles, and a moustache.’ She immediately passed a second photograph to Anne, continuing, ‘And this is Charles in the south of France the year of his… death, or disappearance. What I did was darken his hair and give him a moustache, like the man on television. Look at the two pictures closely, Anne. I’m convinced they are one and the same man.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Philip said somewhat dismissively, glancing up at Nicky, after looking at the photographs Anne was holding in her hands. ‘Rather flimsy evidence, wouldn’t you say?’

  Anne was silent. She sat studying the pictures, her face thoughtful.

  Nicky said, ‘Here is the other photograph, which the studio technician took for me. It’s much larger than my Polaroid, and a bit clearer. Surely the man in Rome is Charles—Charles with a slightly altered appearance. Look at it closely. There’s no denying it, Anne.’

  ‘There is a resemblance,’ Anne admitted quietly, ‘but I’m still not convinced it’s Charles. How could it be?’

  ‘Why are you telling us this, Nicky? What do you want us to do about it?’ Philip asked, sounding slightly put out, even irritated, all of a sudden.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Nicky confessed. ‘But I had nobody else to talk to except you and Anne. And after all, the two of you knew Charles best.’

  ‘I’m very concerned for you, my dear,’ Philip murmured, shaking his head sadly. ‘And I’m sure Anne is, too.’

  ‘I am,’ Anne agreed.

  Philip went on, ‘It’s obvious to me that this whole incident has truly upset you. Certainly you still seem to think that Charles is alive. I wish you wouldn’t persist in this belief, Nicky, you’re only going to make yourself ill if you do. Once and for all, let me say that I do not believe that Charles Devereaux is alive. And you don’t, do you, Anne darling?’

  ‘Absolutely not. Look here, Nicky,’ Anne said, adopting a loving tone, ‘Charles cannot be anything else but dead. Please take my word for it. I’m his mother… I’d know instinctively, deep down within myself, if he were alive. You mustn’t let Charles haunt you in this way, darling. Please put him to rest again, for your own sake. And for Clee’s. You have a new life to lead with him. Charles is the past. Let him be the past.’

  Nicky looked from Anne to Philip, and she saw their sympathetic expressions, the anxiety reflected in their eyes. It suddenly dawned on her that they thought she was off-the-wall. Therefore, there was nothing else she could say to them about Charles.

  A long sigh trickled out of her. ‘I brought the photographs to you because I thought you would see what I see… I suppose I was looking for corroboration, and neither of you can give me that. I guess I understand… sort of…’

  Anne rose and went and sat next to Nicky on the sofa. She took hold of Nicky’s hand, and her expression was a mixture of love and genuine concern. After a little while, Anne said slowly, in a very gentle voice, ‘Let’s examine the character of the man for a minute. Charles was the kindest, most thoughtful person, and very loving. You know this from your own experience of him, without me having to tell you. And he had such immense integrity. Good Lord, honour was his by-word. Everyone who knew Charles said his word was his bond. He was a true gentleman in the best and most noble sense of that word, and he never did a shoddy thing in his life. That would have been quite alien to his nature.’

  Anne paused, and her light-blue eyes filled with tears as she remembered her son, the qualities he had had, and all the things he had stood for. ‘Charles was such a good man, Nicky, a decent man, and he didn’t have a bad bone in his body. He certainly wasn’t duplicitous, and he couldn’t have dissembled if his life had depended on it. I bore him, brought him up, and I knew my son exceedingly well, especially as a single parent.’ Her voice began to tremble with emotion, as she went on, ‘Nothing, no one, will ever be able to persuade me that Charles contrived his disappearance. Very simply, I know he didn’t. He couldn’t have, not the Charles Devereaux who was my son.’ Anne swallowed hard, blinked back her incipient tears, and took a hold of herself.

  ‘Oh Anne, the last thing I wanted was to cause you pain, please believe that,’ Nicky said with dismay, aware of Anne’s increasing distress. ‘But I had to come and tell you. I suppose you think I’m crazy…’

  ‘No, I don’t,’ Anne replied in a shaky voice. ‘And I know Philip doesn’t.’

  ‘Of course I don’t!’ Philip exclaimed, smiling at Nicky. ‘But I don’t think Charles is alive either. The whole idea is quite far-fetched, Nicky, as I said before. Preposterous, in fact.’

  ‘But people have disappeared, and they have often done so most successfully,’ Nicky pointed out, still unable to let go. ‘There was Lord Lucan for instance, whose body has never been found. For all we know, Lucan could be alive and well and living somewhere in the world. South America. Bora Bora. Darkest Africa. Under a new identity, of course.’

  ‘I doubt it.’ Philip shook his head vehemently. ‘I’m positive Lucan is dead—that he drowned, as was generally believed at the time of his disappearance.’

  ‘What about that British Member of Parliament—John Stonehouse? He did a very clever disappearing act in the seventies,’ Nicky was quick to add.

  ‘Ah, but he was eventually found,’ Philip countered swiftly.

  Anne said in a voice reverberating with sorrow, ‘Nicky, it is not Charles in these photographs. Truly, it isn’t. My son is dead.’

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Nicky went for a walk through the grounds of Pullenbrook on Sunday afternoon.

  Earlier, she and Anne and Phili
p had struggled through lunch, the three of them carefully avoiding the subject of Charles. Only Philip had seemed interested in eating. She and Anne had picked at their food, and she had been glad to escape after the pudding, politely refusing coffee and then excusing herself.

  She had felt the need to be alone. Now that she was outside in the sunlight she breathed a little easier, and she tried to shake off the tension that had held her in its grip for the past few hours.

  Unexpectedly, the past tugged at her, enticed her, drew her toward the rose garden, and she swung around and began to walk in that direction. When she arrived at the ancient wooden door set between the mellow stone walls, she reached for the wrought-iron handle, turned it, and pushed open the door. Six stone steps led down into the garden, and when she got to the bottom she stood marvelling at the loveliness of the scene spread out before her.

  There were a number of gardens at Pullenbrook, but to Nicky this was the most beautiful of them all. Enclosed by high, grey stone walls, the sunken rose garden was large but most effectively laid out, with different sections devoted to individual species of roses and plants and flowers.

  Nicky knew from Anne that its intricate design dated back to the eighteenth century, including the parterres, those ornamental areas where flower beds and paths formed a distinctive pattern. There was a small green lawn in the centre of the garden, and this was bordered by shrub roses; the parterres were laid out on all four sides of the lawn, beyond the shrubs.

  Rambling and climbing roses clad the ancient walls with a melange of pinks, bleeding from palest blush to brightest crimson. Under the walls grew hybrid tea roses and floribunda, including cool white Iceberg roses which Anne had surrounded with lavender. Beds of other old-fashioned plants were set in the parterres, as well as such herbs as hyssop, savory, thyme and rosemary, mingling with pinks, pansies, violas and cistus. The idea of combining herbs in amongst the roses and other flowers was very much in the manner of the Tudor and Stuart gardens of the past, at least this was what Anne had told her once.