She flicked open the cover.
A blank page.
She riffled through the exercise book. Blank pages. She seized the second book. Same. Empty. They were both empty!
‘They must be spares. The one Alastair wrote in must be gone.’
‘Let me see!’ said the old man who had arrived at the top of the steep staircase panting. ‘Yes, that’s the right type of exercise book,’ he said. He, too, leafed through the empty pages.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Clémence. ‘I was sure it was here. We’ve wasted our journey!’
The disappointment rested heavily on the old man, adding a further burden on to an already exhausted body.
‘Where can it be?’ said Clémence. ‘Any memory of what you did with it?’
The old man shook his head. ‘I can remember writing it just here. And I did keep it in that drawer on top of those two others. But what I did with it? No idea.’
Clémence fought to control her frustration. She knew it wasn’t true, but sometimes she felt the old man chose what to remember and what to forget just to exasperate her.
‘What are these?’ said Callum. He was holding two opened envelopes. ‘One was on the desk, and I found the other under that bottom exercise book.’
Clémence looked at them. ‘That’s from Madeleine,’ she said, pointing to the one with the United States stamp, which she had noticed on the desk before.
‘And that’s from Stephen,’ said the old man. ‘And yes, I do remember his handwriting somehow.’
Callum handed them to the old man. He stared at the two envelopes, and then passed them on to Clémence. ‘You read them,’ he said.
‘Are you sure?’ said Clémence. ‘They might be private.’
‘They will certainly be private,’ said the old man with a rueful smile. ‘And there will be things in them that are humiliating. But I’ve got used to you reading that kind of thing to me.’ He gave Callum a wry smile. ‘You can listen too. The more the merrier.’
The old man pulled back the desk chair and collapsed into it. Clémence rested against the desk. She hesitated, and picked out the letter from Stephen first. She began to read.
Talbot Road
W11
3 December 1998
Dear Alastair,
I got your letter. I suppose I should thank you for discovering who did kill Sophie. I am sure that now we finally have the answer.
As to your questions, no, I do not want you to go to the police. And I certainly don’t want you to publish another edition of that damned book. It’s caused enough trouble already.
Drop it, Alastair, you interfering old bugger. Do you understand me? Drop it! Just let me live the rest of my shitty life in some peace, will you?
‘Well that’s pretty clear,’ said the old man. ‘Poor chap.’
‘It implies you told him the name of Sophie’s killer,’ said Clémence. ‘I wonder who it was? That means it wasn’t you, doesn’t it?’ She badly hoped the old man wasn’t a killer after all. ‘You’re innocent! Don’t you see?’
‘Maybe Madeleine’s letter will say,’ said Callum.
‘Read it,’ said the old man.
Clémence thought he was very calm, given he had just discovered he was not a murderer. ‘Aren’t you pleased?’
‘I’m not taking anything for granted until I am absolutely sure. Now, tell me what Madeleine has to say.’
Clémence slid a couple of thin blue sheets of paper out of the second envelope, the one with the US stamps.
610 Park Avenue
NY
January 10
Dear Alastair,
Thank you for your sweet letter about Nathan’s death. Despite your last meeting, I know how much Nathan treasured your letters over the years. You were a good friend to him in a life, which although so successful on the surface, encompassed a series of such dreadful tragedies.
I am still in shock from what you told Nathan and me when you last saw us. I suppose it must be true, but I cannot accept it.
As you can imagine, the last couple of months have been very trying for me. The double shock of your visit and Nathan’s death has been difficult for someone of my age — yes, I must admit that I am eighty-five! And although Nathan retiredfrom the board eight years ago, he and I are still the major stockholders in Wakefield Oil, and there is a lot to attend to there. I suppose money helps — we have so much money — but now I come toward the end of my life, it doesn’t seem to matter. Sophie matters still, as do you and Stephen and Nathan.
So please, for my sake, do not republish “Death At Wyvis”. I understood that when the book first came out you wanted to set the record straight. But then Stephen was in prison for a crime he did not commit, and Sophie’s murder was still part of the lives of the rest of us. But now Tony, Elaine and poor Nathan have gone, it’s just you, me and Stephen. My understanding is that Stephen wants to forget the whole thing. I would much rather leave it buried. Sophie’s children never wanted to know, and I don’t think her grandchildren even know she was murdered.
So it’s just you, Alastair, who would like to see the book republished. Please, I beg of you, don’t do it.
Amitiés
‘They are both pretty clear about not wanting to see a second edition,’ said Clémence.
‘I bet I didn’t listen to them,’ said the old man.
‘Maybe you sent the exercise book to a publisher, after all?’ said Clémence. ‘Who published the original book?’
‘Woodrow and Shippe,’ said Callum. ‘I’ve never heard of them.’
‘Perhaps they don’t exist any more,’ said Clémence. ‘What is it, Alastair?’
The old man was thinking. Deeply. Had he remembered something?
‘Madeleine wrote that I spoke to Nathan and her about something that shocked them both in New York last year. Didn’t she?’
‘She did.’
‘Yet at lunch in the pub she said she didn’t know what I had told Nathan.’
‘That’s right,’ said Clémence. ‘And it sounds as if you told both of them who had killed Sophie. And it wasn’t you.’
‘I hope it wasn’t me,’ said the old man. ‘It looks that way, but we can’t be absolutely sure of that yet. What I want to know is, if Madeleine was with Nathan when I told him who killed Sophie last year, why hasn’t she told us any of this? Why did she pretend she knew nothing about it?’
Clémence and the old man exchanged glances. Why indeed? Clémence thought it was pretty clear now that the old man was innocent of her grandmother’s death, but she could understand his reluctance to take anything for granted after the confusion of the last forty years.
They heard a car climbing the hill up to the cottage.
‘God, is that Jerry?’ cried Clémence as she dashed to the window.
It was a taxi. And inside Clémence could dimly make out the figure of a man. An old man. Another old man.
‘It’s Grandpa! What’s he doing here?’
‘Is that Stephen?’ said the old man.
Stephen pulled himself out of the taxi and paid the driver. He was tall with white hair and a stoop, but nevertheless he had presence. He turned to the cottage and then for some reason looked up and saw Clémence and the old man at the window. He had a strong rectangular face, doughty chin and long nose. His forehead and cheeks were ravaged by a warren of wrinkles, like a trench system abandoned after a long war. He held their eyes for a moment, his face expressionless, before turning to the front door as his taxi drove away.