Remember

  ‘You rushed off, you were in such a hurry to escape, I’ve been worried about you. I hope you’re not angry with me, or with Philip?’

  ‘Of course not, just the opposite.’ Nicky cleared her throat, before continuing, ‘I’ve been thinking about Charles, remembering things this afternoon, and I’ve come to a conclusion. You’re right, Anne, I don’t think he faked his death. Very simply, he wasn’t capable of being devious. I recognize that now. I agree with you and Philip that the man my network filmed in Rome merely bears a likeness to Charles.’

  Anne appeared startled, but quickly recovering herself she said, ‘This is quite a volte-face… you’re not just agreeing with us to make me feel better, are you?’

  ‘No, I’m not. Surely you know me better than that. I’m my parents’ daughter and a stickler for the truth, just as they are. Not only in my work but in my private life. In all things, in fact.’

  Anne began to walk towards the door leading to the private quarters of the house without answering. Nicky caught up with her, and slipped her arm through Anne’s. She said, ‘I’m sorry if I’ve upset you, truly, truly, sorry. It was never my intention to cause you pain by coming here… with my story and the photographs.’

  ‘I know that, and you did the only thing you could, under the circumstances.’

  ‘I hadn’t meant to blurt it out today,’ Nicky explained, shaking her head. ‘I really hadn’t. I was going to tell you tomorrow, because I didn’t want to spoil your engagement. But I was so terribly worried this morning, and unfortunately the words came out before I could stop them.’

  ‘No harm has been done, and I’m glad you had the confidence to come to me…’ Anne smiled. Her face was full of love and warmth. ‘At least it’s brought you back into my life, Nicky.’

  ‘Yes, that’s true.’

  Now Anne said softly, ‘I feel absolutely certain Charles committed suicide. Why he did we will never know. He had everything to live for. Over these past few years I’ve come to believe that he must have been ill. Physically ill, I mean, with some sort of fatal disease—cancer, a brain tumour, leukaemia, something dreadful like that, which he never told us about, of course. I think he took his life in order to save us the pain of his eventual suffering and death from that fatal disease. To me, this is the only possible explanation.’

  ‘Charles’s death will always be a mystery,’ Nicky murmured, almost to herself.

  ***

  After Nicky had gone upstairs to rest before supper, Anne returned to the Great Hall, where she locked and bolted the front door. Retracing her steps across the hall, she hurried through into her own wing of the house.

  Earlier, she and Philip had had tea in the drawing room, and she had left him there when she had gone in search of Nicky. Glancing through the open door she now saw that he was no longer sitting there.

  Perhaps he’s also gone to his room to rest, she thought, and headed down the corridor. She was making for the library, wanting to rescue the magazine sections of the Sunday newspapers before Inez scooped them up and threw them out.

  The door was ajar, and faintly she heard Philip’s voice. He was obviously speaking on the telephone, and she increased her pace, anxious to tell him about Nicky’s unexpected about-face.

  Pushing open the door, she saw that Philip sat on the edge of the desk with his back to her. Before she could announce herself, she heard him say, ‘… and won’t let go. Like a dog with a bone…’ There was a short pause as he listened, and then he exclaimed, ‘No, no! Rome.’

  Anne went into the room, exclaiming, as she did, ‘Philip, I’ve something to tell you.’

  Startled, he swung around, and she knew from the expression on his face that she had caught him unawares.

  He gave her a little nod of acknowledgement, and said into the receiver, ‘Look I’ve got to go now. I’ll talk to you tomorrow; better still, I’ll see you tomorrow,’ then he hastily hung up.

  Anne walked over to the desk, her clear blue eyes full of questions. She frowned slightly. ‘You were obviously talking about Nicky, Philip. Who were you speaking to?’

  ‘My son. I was speaking to Timothy, my dear,’ Philip said with a smile, without missing a beat.

  ‘About Nicky?’ Anne sounded incredulous.

  ‘Yes. When I was on the phone with Tim the other evening, just after he’d returned from Leipzig, I sort of half promised I’d go back to town tonight. To have supper with him. I just begged off. He wanted to know why I wasn’t coming up, and I was simply explaining about Nicky, and her weird story about the man in Rome.’

  ‘Why did you beg off? You didn’t have to, you know. You could have gone up, I wouldn’t have minded.’

  ‘Darling, don’t you see? I didn’t want to leave you alone this evening,’ Philip said. ‘You’ve been somewhat upset by all this… fuss. I felt I ought to be here with you, wanted to be with you. I can see Tim tomorrow.’

  ‘I see,’ she murmured, and gave him an odd look.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  On Monday night Nicky caught the last flight to Rome.

  Once the plane was airborne and she was well settled in her seat, she took out her notebook and scanned the notes she had made in her suite at Claridge’s Hotel, earlier in the day.

  After a couple of seconds of studying them, she slipped the notebook back into her handbag, then reached for the glass of white wine which the flight attendant had brought to her a short while before. She took a few sips, trying to relax, but her mind continued to turn as rapidly as it had for the last few days.

  Despite her discussion with Anne and Philip at Pullenbrook this past weekend, and their opinions, her gut instinct told her that the man accidentally captured on the ATN news footage was no one else but Charles Devereaux. And because her father had always said she should rely on her gut instinct, this was exactly what she was doing now.

  Putting her wine glass down on the flat section of the armrest, she reached into her bag again. This time she pulled out the photograph taken from the news footage by Dave, the studio technician. She gazed at it intently, as she had done quite frequently since last Wednesday, frowning to herself. However many times she tried to convince herself she was wrong, she always came back to her first conclusion: the man was Charles Devereaux.

  Yesterday, at Pullenbrook, she had begun to waver in this belief, no doubt influenced by the house and the history it represented, by the prestige of the family and, not unnaturally, by Anne Devereaux herself. If Anne said that the man in the picture was definitely not her son, then who was to argue otherwise with her? And so on Sunday afternoon she had done that sudden and unexpected volte-face, had agreed with Anne, somewhat to her own surprise, as well as the other woman’s.

  But then this morning, when she had arrived back at Claridge’s, she had come back to her original opinion.

  I suppose there’s nothing quite like the cold light of a drizzly Monday morning in London to bring one to one’s senses, Nicky now thought, putting the picture away. Anne and Philip had said that the man in Rome merely had a look of Charles. She could not agree; the resemblance was much stronger than that. If the man in the picture was not Charles after all, then he was his identical twin.

  This morning at the hotel in London, as she had sat ruminating on everything that had happened, she had asked herself how his partner would react if she showed him the photograph. Christopher Neald and Charles had been friends for years, as well as being in business together, and they had always been exceptionally close—since their twenties, in fact.

  On the spur of the moment, she had picked up the phone and called Chris at Vintage Wines, only to be informed by his new secretary, Michael Cronin, that he was away on holiday. She had pressed for more information, had been told that Mr Neald was ‘island hopping in Polynesia,’ and was therefore quite unreachable, and would not be back in England until the middle of September. Disappointed, she had said she would phone again next month before hanging up.

  It was then that she had decided t
o go to the source of the film footage—the ATN Bureau in Rome. Maybe Tony Johnson, the Rome bureau chief, could help her in some way; perhaps there was additional footage, which had not been transmitted by satellite to New York, footage which might give her some leads.

  In any case, here she was on a plane en route to Rome, and she could not help wondering if she was on a wild goose chase. How did you go about finding a man who had so cleverly and effectively disappeared three years ago? A man who obviously did not want to be found, and whose presence in Rome was only known to her now because of a fluke, an accident, chance, fate, call it what you will. If the ATN cameraman covering the story with Tony that night hadn’t picked up a face in the crowd on film, and if she hadn’t been watching the news intently at that precise moment, she would have been none the wiser. A million to one chance, she thought, remembering how that face was on and off the screen in a flash, in a matter of seconds. How easily she could have missed it if she had gone to the kitchen for a glass of water, or if she had been on the phone and not paying strict attention. But then life was like that… full of flukes and coincidences. It was meant to be, she said under her breath, and shivered involuntarily. But looking for Charles Devereaux would be like looking for a needle in a haystack.

  Nicky shifted in her seat, glanced out of the window at the dark night sky, and wondered why she was continuing to pursue this matter, why she was persisting with it? Naturally, she came up with the answer immediately: given who and what she was as a person, as well as a journalist, she simply had to know the truth, needed to know it. That trait had been nurtured in her since childhood. Also, there was another thing… she wanted finally to close that chapter of her life which had once been centred around Charles Devereaux. It was not that she harboured any emotional feelings for him; those had been well and truly killed off long ago. But she certainly had no desire whatsoever to be haunted by the spectre of him.

  After all there was Cleeland Donovan now, a very special man, one who had grown more and more important to her in the last couple of months. Clee represented a new beginning for her. There was the most wonderful chance to make a life with him, if they could work it out, given all the logistics involved. Lately she had come to believe that they probably could, with a little give and take on both sides.

  Clee was the future. Her future. Therefore, she must not permit any shadows from the past to hang over her or them. The fact was, she wanted and needed to be truly free in her heart and mind and soul… to be free for Clee, with no encumbrances from the past.

  As often happened these days, her thoughts now settled on him, and as always she felt a lovely warmth spreading through her. Having Clee in her life, knowing he loved her, made her feel good, even when he wasn’t with her. Fortunately, she had managed to reach him at the Kempinski in West Berlin late this afternoon, before setting out for the airport. She had wanted to tell him she was off to Rome on business for a few days.

  Because of the nature of their work, he had not been unduly surprised, nor had he found it unusual that she was suddenly flying off somewhere.

  ‘What’s cooking, Cookie?’ he had asked, laughing, and had then added, ‘I guess you’ve just had a brainstorm, Nick, dreamed up some sort of exotic special.’

  Quickly, concisely, she had explained that it was not one bit exotic, that she was considering doing a piece on the European Common Market, and the changes which would take place when all the frontiers came down. ‘Later I’ll have to interview politicians in every country, but right now I want to poke around, get a feeling for things in Rome, since I’ve done that in London,’ she had said.

  He had understood; they had gone on to chat about his impending trip to Leipzig, and arranged to stay in touch by phone, or through the Image office in Paris, if necessary. And they had agreed they would still meet in Paris in a week’s time, as they had originally planned to do.

  ‘Ciao, babe,’ Clee had said. ‘I can’t wait to see you on the twenty-eighth.’ And she had answered, ‘Neither can I, darling,’ before breaking the connection.

  I wish Clee were here with me, Nicky thought, closing her eyes, feeling unexpectedly drowsy and blaming the wine. She missed him very much, more than she had ever missed anybody. It suddenly struck her that he might be rather annoyed with her, if he knew the reason why she was really going to Rome, and she sat up with a start at the prospect of incurring his anger. Then she asked herself whether she would tell him when she saw him. She wasn’t sure. But by next Monday she was bound to have all the answers about Charles Devereaux. Or none at all, perhaps. The decision about confiding in Clee would be made then, and not before. And she would only tell him in person, not on the telephone.

  ***

  Two and a half hours after the flight had left Heathrow it was landing at Rome’s Fiumicino Airport exactly on time. When Nicky had cleared customs, she went through into the terminal, and within the space of a few minutes she spotted the limousine driver holding up a card with her name printed on it.

  Forty-five minutes later the car was pulling up outside the Hassler Hotel on the Trinita dei Monti atop the famous and very beautiful Spanish Steps. Her parents had first brought her here as a child, and whenever she came to Rome she invariably stayed at the Hassler. The night manager recognized both her name and her face, and, after she had registered, he escorted her to her suite, chatting amiably and being as helpful as he could.

  Once she was alone, Nicky went to the windows, parted the curtains and looked out. The view of Rome was spectacular, a sea of flickering lights under a star-strewn inky sky. Was Charles Devereaux living somewhere out there in the Eternal City? And if so, what were her chances of finding him? With a little stab of dismay, she had to admit that the odds were against her.

  ***

  The following morning, as soon as she had had her simple breakfast of tea and toast, Nicky telephoned the ATN Bureau. After asking for Tony she sat back, waiting.

  The woman who had answered had not bothered to ask her name, and she had not given it. When the bureau chief came in he said, Tony Johnson here. Who is this?’

  ‘It’s Nick, Tony. How’re you doing?’

  There was a startled silence, and then he exclaimed, ‘Nicky Wells? Is this that Nick?’

  ‘Of course it is! What other woman do you know called Nick?’

  Tony chuckled, obviously delighted to hear her voice. ‘Hey, Nicky, how are you? And more importantly, where are you?’

  ‘Around the corner.’

  ‘You mean here? In Rome?’

  ‘I most certainly do.’

  ‘Good God! The entire network seems to be descending on me today.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘A friend of yours just arrived, Nicky. Now he’s trying to grab the phone from me, itching to talk to you, it seems. But before I pass it over, let’s make a date. For lunch. Today. Is that okay?’

  ‘More than okay, it’s wonderful, Tony. But who wants to speak to me?’

  Again Tony’s deep chuckle echoed down the wire. He said, ‘Ciao, Nick.’

  ‘Hi, Nicky, what the hell are you doing in Rome?’ Arch Leverson asked, his tone jocular but curious.

  ‘I could ask the same of you, Arch,’ she said, completely taken aback, but keeping a cool head as usual.

  ‘You’re slipping, honey. Or rather, your memory is. I told you last week that I was going on vacation to Capri. I just stopped off here for a couple of days, to break the journey and see my old buddy Tony.’

  It was true, Arch had told her, but somehow she had not associated Capri with Rome. Anyway, she had been so preoccupied last week. Now she said swiftly, ‘Yes, you’re right, I did forget.’

  ‘Last I heard from you, Nicky, you were off to London to investigate the possibilities of doing a special on Margaret Thatcher. So why are you in Rome?’

  ‘To buy shoes,’ she said, improvising, not knowing how to answer him at this moment.

  Arch guffawed. ‘Hey, come on, it’s me you’re talking to, k
id! You’re about as much into shopping as I’m into fly fishing. Come on, Nicky, what gives?’

  ‘I can’t go into it now,’ she answered, wanting to buy time. She would come up with a suitable story later.

  Her answer seemed to satisfy Arch, who now said, ‘Fine, fine. Is Clee with you?’

  ‘No, he’s not. He’s in Berlin today, Leipzig tomorrow, Paris on Sunday night. I’m meeting him there on Monday, and we’re going down to Provence some time next week.’

  ‘That’s great, Nick, and I guess I’ll be seeing you for lunch with Tony. Right?’

  ‘It’s the best offer I’ve had all day. Where shall we meet? At the bureau?’

  ‘Good idea. Where are you staying, by the way?’

  ‘At the Hassler, as usual. And you?’

  ‘The Eden. Listen, Nicky, I’ve got another offer for you. Dinner tonight. I’m leaving for Capri very early tomorrow morning, to join Patricia and the Grants at the villa they’ve rented for the season. Hey, wait a minute, here’s a thought. Come with me. You don’t really have anything better to do, do you? And they’d love to have you for a couple of days.’

  ‘Thanks, but I can’t, honestly. However, I will have dinner with you tonight.’

  ‘It’s a date. Now, why don’t you plan on picking us up at the bureau around one thirty?’

  ‘You’ve got a deal.’

  TWENTY-SIX

  After she had hung up, Nicky sat staring at the telephone for a few minutes, a frown lingering on her face.

  Arch Leverson was the last person she had expected to find at the Rome bureau, and she had been taken aback to say the least, although she had quickly recouped. Well aware that Arch did not believe her story, she nonetheless had no idea what she would say to him when she saw him later. She would have to think of something, since she did not want to tell him the truth. He worried and fussed about her far too much at times, and instinctively she knew he would try to dissuade her from her purpose. When she had left for London, she had been able to fob him off with a few words about the Margaret Thatcher special; she doubted he would buy the story she had told Clee about being in Rome to do research for a possible Common Market piece.