The Love Letter (66 page)

‘I guess that will make up for the fact that you don’t have a television in the house,’ she said faintly.

Legs felt weak as she took in the sheer scale of the operation and its total lack of foresight or understanding about Gordon and his readers and their long, loving relationship with Ptolemy. She’d
spent enough time at Fellows Howlett dealing with the cranky post and email – just a tiny fraction of the Lapis phenomena – to know what a demanding lot they were. They would want to be close to him, she was certain, not fobbed off with a glorified webcam screening.

The one person possibly best qualified to judge right now was out in the parkland, counting down the days to the moment he revealed himself as an imposter not only to those fans all around him, but also to the mother with whom he had only just made contact. Legs adored Byrne with an intensity that frightened her, and she loved Gordon’s work with an addict’s passion, but now that she knew one man to be the flipside of the other, she feared for his stability. What had he got planned for Hector? Now that he knew he couldn’t publicly discredit him, would he risk something even more shocking? If it involved a crowd of thousands, no public liability insurance and a live BBC screening, he could bring down Farcombe like the House of Usher.

She was suddenly very angry with all those who had let Byrne down; Conrad with his negligence and cowardice; Francis with his greed; Hector for his bullying selfishness, but mostly angry with herself for playing her part so artlessly, living for the moment as always and now faced with the possibility of truly catastrophic consequences.

‘You’re shivering, Legs darling.’ Mistaking her shaking anger for fatigue, Francis was instantly back in condescending carer mode. ‘You need to get back to bed.’

‘I’m fed up of being in bed.’ She shrugged away the hand on her shoulder. He’d be quoting at her next, she predicted wearily, suddenly realising she was very tired indeed.

As soon as she clambered into bed she conked out, gold signet ring pressed against the tip of her nose for comfort, only to dream that she’d been entombed in the family mausoleum in Farcombe’s graveyard, the festival in full swing in the parkland beyond the walls. Then blinding lights flashed on and she realised she was
facing a television crew with live action being fed to the big screens outside. Alongside her sat Byrne and Fink the basset, both wearing dark glasses. She was interviewing the duo, a producer who sounded like Conrad shouting in her ear. Beside the camera’s all-seeing eye, an autocue starting to roll with questions, the first of which read ALLEGRA: ‘So, Gordon Lapis, tell me, if you were a biscuit which one would it be?’

Legs woke abruptly mid morning to the sound of one of Poppy’s bloodcurdling screams which was clearly distinguishable above the wind, howling wilder than ever now.

She scrambled out of bed and onto the landing, reeled around, coughed a lot and looked for a weapon in case she needed to take on the assailant. Despite her years reading racy detective fiction, she made for a hopeless female lead as she crept downstairs in a short nightie, wheezing consumptively, holding aloft a stone doorstop shaped like a pineapple which was so heavy she was forced to rest it on the banisters halfway down before resuming her mission.

Now wailing in anguish, Poppy was flapping about in the hallway, beaded jewellery rattling like castanets. She was clutching a piece of paper in her hand.

Legs hovered on the bottom step. ‘Is everything OK?’ she asked dumbly, because it plainly wasn’t.

Barely pausing in her lament, Poppy wailed past like a siren, then wailed back again to snap: ‘Put that pineapple down, Allegra. It’s from Goblin Granny’s roof! It’s one of the last th-things we laughed about – and the only things h-a-ave to r-r-remember her by. It almost f-fell on me the d-d-day she d-died.’

Goblin Granny had always possessed a very dark sense of humour. She would no doubt have been highly amused by the note Poppy thrust at Legs now.

‘Isn’t this j-just beastly? The spelling’s di-diabolical.’

The single page of standard cartridge paper was printed out in neat twelve point font:
Once Upon A Time there was a woman who culd never be trusted and used to pathetically hide behind tall walls creating misery in the name of art
… it started.

Legs read on in alarm as the deranged note described the brutal killing of Farcombe’s headline act and most of the festival organisers by a shadowy figure who disembowelled them all before throwing their corpses over a cliff. As she scanned it, she thought she recognised the style, but couldn’t think from where. It was surprisingly readable. Many of Fellows Howlett’s esteemed clients would struggle to get this much action-packed plot into three hundred times the page length.

Then she caught her breath as she read:
and the blonde girl came running through the woods to rapashously meet with her evil lover wearing a long black coat and eating sweets and nobody heard her scream as her throat was cut for stealing …

‘What do you think?’ Poppy asked fearfully.

‘The punctuation is rather reminiscent of the final episode of
Ulysses,’
she joked, her first defence reflex when scared witless. At the bottom of the page, the author had finished with the line
and if I do not get what I want you will ALL die!

‘At least nobody gets to feel left out.’

‘It was delivered in the early hours. I’ve told Francis we
must
install CCTV. Anybody can get close to the house through the graveyard, as you know.’

Legs swallowed uncomfortably, realising that it was quite possible the stalker had hand-delivered it while she and Francis were gazing out of the window at the fields of camping Ptolemy fans. Had she just glanced down, she might have seen a shadow stealing through the cloisters.

‘Are you still thinking about cancelling the festival?’ she asked, suddenly thinking that might be a very good idea after all.

But Poppy had entirely changed heart in the light of the enthrallingly large crowds flocking into her beautiful gardens and grounds. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, darling. It’s far too late for that. I’m thinking of asking Gordon Lapis to unveil my latest sculpture on the live television broadcast. He can hardly refuse given the hospitality we’re extending – and the peril we’re putting ourselves in. I will check with Conrad Knight that it’s all arranged when he dines with us later.’

Legs reeled. ‘Conrad is having dinner
here?’

‘He and his colleagues are here meeting with the festival team now; Francis is kindly sitting in for me because I really have so much to do, what with the press launch and tonight’s party.’ She cleared her throat. The truth was that her terror had now reached such a fever pitch that she couldn’t even bear to cross the courtyard to the festival offices. ‘In fact, I must press on now,’ she reached out to snatch the letter back. ‘Shouldn’t you be in bed? That nightie must be letting in a frightful chill. Isn’t it one of mine?’ She eyed it suspiciously.

Legs hung tightly onto the folded paper with one hand and the hem of her nightie with the other. If she kept hold of the letter, she realised, she could try to get it to Byrne. It suddenly seemed terribly important that he saw it. ‘Don’t you think somebody should tell Gordon about this?’

‘I’m sure Conrad has all that under control,’ Poppy wrenched the letter from her, leaving Legs just clutching the envelope. ‘His author will be escorted everywhere under heavy security, I can assure you, although I may personally finish him off. He’s brutalised Ptolemy. If he gets murdered, he probably deserves it for what he’s done to that poor boy!’

Legs sucked her teeth, realising that Poppy still had no idea that her son was the fêted writer, currently living unguarded and under canvas amongst his most fanatic fans, one of whom might well be hand-delivering highly personalised death threats.

She wondered if she had the physical strength to make another run for it and race through the tent-strewn fields in search of him with a warning, but even if she had been wearing something that fell lower than her buttocks, she was terrified that by doing that she might lead any killer straight to him. She clearly recalled Gordon telling her once that the crankiest Ptolemy fans knew all about his publisher and agent and their staff. Even though she no longer worked for Fellows Howlett, she was clearly in this mad stalker’s scrapbook under ‘blonde girl’ and had been observed in the woods yesterday with Hector’s tailcoat and a Fisherman’s Friend. The thought made her feel faint with fear.

Then it occurred to her that all she had to do was break into her little silver car and get her phone back so that she could message him. Delighted, she hurried past Poppy through the green baize door to the back lobby and out into the main courtyard where several big, glossy cars were now parked, including Conrad’s sleek black Jag. But her little silver Tolly had gone, she realised with a cry of frustration.

The wind was wild, promising more storms. Gusts were threatening to hoist her crotch-length nightie up her torso like a flag. Still clinging onto the hem, she looked around wildly, catching sight of several faces watching her from the big glass windows of the festival offices which had once been a vast arch to the coachhouses.

A moment later, Francis had rushed out carrying a long Mackintosh.

‘For Christ’s sake, darling, get back inside the house!’

‘Where’s my car? I want to break into it.’

‘We had it removed.’ He propelled her back through the door to the hall’s rear passageway, where Poppy was lurking behind a hat stand looking thrilled at the brewing row.

‘Where did you have my car removed to?’ Legs demanded.

‘Just one of the barns.’

‘Take me there.’

‘Not now, darling, I’m in the middle of a meeting.’

She gaped at him, suddenly reminded of Basil Fawlty at his most laconic.

‘Tell me where it is then.’

‘The other side of Home Farm.’ He looked unapologetic. ‘We need all the space here for the festival, and the new security chaps suggested it might be a bomb threat.’

To get to Home Farm would mean crossing in front of the campsite, she realised. It was completely counter-intuitive. She’d still be the Pied Piper to their switched-on stalker, and the mention of bombs was seriously off-putting too.

‘I have to get back – I can’t let this meeting overrun; I’ve an important lunch lined up with Vin Keiller-Myles,’ Francis was already retreating through the door, looking to his stepmother for help. ‘Poppy will keep you company.’

But, patting her turban, Francis’s stepmother announced that she was going down to the cellars to work on her sculpture again, where she must not be disturbed.

Legs felt so trapped and incensed that she was death-rattle deep-breathing again. ‘I must have Tolly!’

Francis faltered. ‘Who?’

‘My Honda. He’s called Tolly!’ She lifted her chin defiantly.

Francis stepped back inside hurriedly, his tone tightly condescending ‘I know you’re bored, darling, but this really is a very tricky day for me, and “Tolly” will have to wait.’ Basil Fawlty was on the verge of exploding into a rage. ‘But I promise as soon as this meeting is through, I’ll call a locksmith to get the bloody thing open. Then you will have everything you need to read a few crime thrillers, redo your nails and text your chums.’

‘And look ravishing for tonight!’ Poppy called over her shoulder as she headed for the cellar doors.

Legs started in horror. ‘What’s tonight got to do with me?’

‘You mean you haven’t told her yet, Francis?’ Poppy doubled
back in consternation. ‘You were the one who insisted I include her in the first place. It’s been arranged for days; I’ve finalised the seating plan.’

Francis gave his stepmother a withering look and drew Legs aside. ‘As you know, there’s a rather dreary formal dinner here to follow the press launch; Poppy and Dad are putting on a united front and hosting an emergency schmooze for the great and the good to try to nail enough private backing to underwrite a small shortfall in liability cover this year,’ his eyes didn’t quite meet hers as he glossed over the true extent of the problem. ‘The family would like us to put on a united front too.’

‘Who’s going to be there?’ she gulped, already aware of at least one guest she preferred not to see, particularly in her current washed-out state, surrounded by Protheroe propaganda.

‘Oh, everybody basically,’ Francis said airily. ‘I know you’re still weak, so you don’t need to come if you feel too ill. It’ll all be too much for you, I think.’ He clearly didn’t trust her recent erratic behaviour.

But Legs saw freedom beckoning. She could surely make a run for it with a big, rowdy dinner going on to divert attention away from her escape. Kizzy had once managed it in similar circumstances after all. This time she’d plan ahead and have money, correctly fitting shoes and – with any luck – car keys. ‘Of course I’ll be there. Count me in!’

‘Well that’s a relief,’ Poppy headed back down into the cellars again, her seating plan safe, along with Hector’s secret plans to announce his son’s re-engagement over a champagne toast.

Francis looked irritated. ‘In that case, I’ll ask Imee to prepare clear soup and plain noodles for you.’

‘Great,’ she smiled a little less enthusiastically. ‘I’ll take a shower and wash my hair.’