Page 18 of The Love Letter

Finally, the front door was pulled centimetres ajar.

‘Who is it?’ It was not the old woman’s voice.

‘I’m here to see the old lady who lives in the downstairs maisonette.’

‘She’s not here any more, I’m afraid.’

‘Really? Has she moved away?’

‘You could say that, yes.’

‘Oh.’ Joanna physically drooped on the doorstep. ‘Do you know where she’s gone? I got a letter from her this morning, telling me to come and see her.’

The door opened a crack wider and a pair of female eyes peered out. ‘Who are you?’ The warm brown eyes swept over Joanna’s navy-blue woollen coat and jeans.

‘I’m . . . her great-niece,’ Joanna improvised. ‘I’ve been away in Australia for months.’

The eyes changed expression immediately and studied Joanna with what appeared to be sympathy. ‘Well then, you’d better come in.’

Joanna stepped into the dark corridor and followed the woman through a door on the right of the entrance hall and into a similarly designed maisonette to that of the old lady’s. Except this one was very much a home.

‘Come inside.’ The woman beckoned her into the overwarm, cluttered sitting room and indicated a pink dralon sofa. ‘Make yourself comfortable.’

‘Thank you.’ Joanna watched the woman as she sat down in the chair by the gas fire. She reckoned her hostess was somewhere in her sixties, with a pleasant, open face.

‘I’m Joanna Haslam, by the way,’ she said with a smile. ‘And you are?’

‘Muriel, Muriel Bateman.’ She stared hard at Joanna. ‘You don’t look nothing like your aunt.’

‘No, well, that’s because . . . she married my blood great-uncle, if you see what I mean. Er, do you know where . . . Auntie is?’

‘Yes, dear, I’m afraid I do.’ Muriel reached forward and patted her hand. ‘It was me that found her, see.’

‘Foundher?’

Muriel nodded. ‘She’s dead, Joanna, I’m really sorry.’

‘Oh. Oh no!’ Joanna did not have to fake her shock. ‘When?’

‘Last Wednesday. A week ago now.’

‘Bu-but, I got a letter from her this morning! How could she possibly be dead and still have sent this?’ She fumbled in her bag and studied the postmark on the old woman’s letter. ‘Look, it was sent on Monday of this week, five days after you said she died.’

‘Oh dear.’ Muriel blushed. ‘I’m afraid that was my fault. You see, Rose gave me the letter to post last Tuesday evening. Then, of course, with the shock of finding her the next day, and the police and all, I quite forgot about it. I didn’t post it until a couple of days ago. I’m really sorry, love. I’ll make some tea, shall I? You’ve just had a nasty shock.’

Muriel came back with a tray bearing a teapot dressed in an orange tea cosy, cups, milk, sugar and a plate of chocolate digestives. She poured the dark liquid into two cups.

‘Thanks.’ Joanna sipped the tea as Muriel eased herself back into her chair. ‘Where did you find her? In bed?’

‘No. At the bottom of the stairs in her entrance hall. All crumpled, like a tiny doll, she was . . .’ Muriel shuddered. ‘I shall never forget the terror in the poor lamb’s eyes . . . Sorry, dear. The whole thing’s kept me awake for the past few nights.’

‘I’m sure it has. Poor, poor Auntie. She must have fallen down the stairs, do you think?’

‘Mebbe.’ Muriel shrugged.

‘Tell me, if you wouldn’t mind, how she seemed in the past few weeks. With me being away and everything, I’m afraid I’ve rather lost touch.’

‘Well . . .’ Muriel reached for a biscuit and bit into it. ‘As I’m sure you know, your aunt had only been here for a few weeks. The maisonette next door had been empty for ages and suddenly, at the end of November, I see this frail little old lady arrive. And then, a few days later, all them tea chests – and she never got round to unpacking them. Personally, I think she knew she was a goner ages before she died . . . I’m ever so sorry, dear.’