Page 153 of The Love Letter

Again, I love you.

Marcus

P.S. I didn’t tell the papers about Zoe, by the way. She’s my sister. I’d never do that to her.

‘Oh God, oh God, Marcus . . .’ Tears spilt out of Joanna’s eyes. ‘But you did show me, darling,you did!’

She cried some more, the awful finality of death – the fact she could never thank him for what he had done for her – hitting her acutely as she reread his last words to her. She realised that, despite his flaws, never in her life had she been loved as much as she had been by Marcus. And now he was gone.

‘I’m not strong, or brave,’ she muttered, as she wandered into the bedroom and looked in her rucksack for the sleeping pills the doctor had given her when she’d left the hospital. She would definitely need them tonight.

Pulling out the old newspaper cuttings and the envelope containing all her ‘evidence’, Joanna climbed into bed and looked at the pile. Yet again she was compelled to compare the photographs, and yet again her mind reached for answers.

‘This wasyourgrandfather, Marcus,’ she whispered into the silent room as she swallowed a pill and tried to get comfortable on the new mattress.

‘Whowashe?’ she asked the ether.

An hour later, still unable to sleep despite the pill, Joanna sat up. Surely . . .surelyshe owed it to Marcus, who had lost his life on the search, to find out?

Following Alec’s advice about posting an advert in the small ads, Joanna set to work on her computer. Over a dozen national French newspapers were listed, plus numerous local papers. She decided she’d start withLe MondeandThe Times, which, being of English origin, Grace might buy to keep in touch. If she received no joy from adverts in those, she’d move on to the next two, and so on. After all, there was no guarantee that Grace was still living in France. She might well have left soon after her faked ‘death’ all those years ago.

But how to word the advert so that Grace would know it was safe to reveal herself? And, by the same token, not alert anyone who might be watching and waiting? Joanna sat cross-legged on her bed far into the night, the pile of discarded scraps of paper – each one of which she knew she must burn to a cinder before morning came – growing as she racked her brains to find the right words to use.

As the dawn rose, Joanna typed up the advert, then deleted it immediately after it had printed. When she arrived at work, she used the office fax machine to send it through, with a note to both newspapers to place the ad as soon as possible. The ads would appear in two days’ time. It was a long shot, she knew, and all she could do now was to wait.

Lunchtime found her in the local library in Hornton Street to work, the table full of books on the history of the royal family. She studied yet another photograph of the young Duke of York and his bride. Then, casting her eyes down, she noticed a ring on a finger of his left hand. Even though it was partly in shadow, the shape and the insignia looked familiar.

Joanna closed her eyes and scoured her brain. Where had she seen that ring before? Cursing out loud because the answer would not come to her, Joanna looked at the clock and realised her lunch break was over.

At four o’clock, as she drank a cup of tea, she thumped her desk in exhilaration.

‘Of course!’

She picked up the receiver and dialled Zoe’s number.

‘How are you?’ Zoe opened the door to the Welbeck Street house that evening, made a fast check of the street, then ushered Joanna inside and embraced her warmly.

‘I’m . . . okay.’

‘Sure? You look very thin, Jo.’

‘I guess. How are you?’

‘Yes, well . . . you know, the same. Tea? Coffee? Wine? I’m opting for the latter, as the sun has long passed the yardarm.’

‘I’ll join you,’ Joanna said as she followed Zoe into the kitchen. She grabbed a half-drunk bottle and sloshed the wine into two glasses.

‘You don’t look that great either,’ Joanna said.

‘To be honest, I feel like crap.’

‘Me too.’

‘Cheers.’ They clinked glasses in mock celebration and sat down at the kitchen table.

‘How’s it been, coming back to London?’ Zoe asked her.

‘Difficult,’ Joanna admitted. ‘And I found this last night in my post,’ she said quietly, handing Zoe the letter. ‘It’s from Marcus. He must have written it to me after our fight . . . I thought you’d . . . well, I thought you might want to read it.’