Rosamunde Pilcher - September

He cuffed her gently over the ear. He said, "That's not funny." But he was smiling.

She said, "It was the nicest invitation I've ever had in my life. And you are the dearest man I've ever met. And we've had just the best time ever since that day we met in Paris. And one day I will come to Australia, and I shall expect a huge welcome from you, red carpets, ticker tapes, the full treatment. But right now… and for ever… I can't come."

"Well, if you change your mind, the offer's open…"

He had finished his breakfast, laid the knife and fork together on the plate, and carried it over to the sink. From the dining-room now could be heard the sounds of Hoovering. Jeff crossed the kitchen and closed the pantry door. He returned to the table and sat facing Lucilla.

He said, "I don't like to ask this and it's none of my business, but did Pandora leave any sort of a letter?"

"Yes, she did. For Dad. On the desk in her room."

"Did she say why she was going to kill herself?"

"No. Apparently not."

"What does your mother think?"

"At the moment she's too distressed even to try to think."

"So there's no obvious reason?"

"None."

"How about you?"

"I have no opinion, Jeff." His silence caught her attention. "Why? Have you?"

"I just thought. I was thinking. Remember that guy we met our first day at the villa? Carlos Macaya?"

"Carlos?" That suave and handsome man with his charming manners and his notable wrist-watch. "But of course." She could not imagine why she had not thought of him before. "Jeff. Do you think he might know something?"

"Probably not. But he was obviously very close to Pandora. Perhaps she confided. Told him something that we don't know…"

Lucilla remembered that puzzling remark that Carlos had made to Pandora as he drove away from the villa. … Let me know if you change your mind, he had said. And she had replied, I won't change my mind. And Lucilla and Jeff had discussed the exchange, and decided that Carlos and Pandora had probably been referring to something quite trivial-a cancelled tennis match, or a rejected invitation.

"Yes. You're right. I think they were very close. Lovers, probably. Maybe he does know something…"

"Even if he doesn't, if they were so close, perhaps he should be told what's happened."

"Yes." It was a perfectly viable suggestion. "But how can we tell him?"

"Ring him up."

"We don't know his number."

"Pandora must have had an address book… what's the betting we'll find Carlos Macaya's number in it?"

"Yes. You're right. Of course."

"If we're going to put a call through, we'd better do it now, before your father and Conrad get back, and while your mother's occupied. Is there a telephone where we won't be disturbed?"

"Nowhere. Except, perhaps, Mum's bedroom. We'll use the phone by her bed…"

"Come on then." He got to his feet. "We'll do it now."

Isobel was still Hoovering. They went out of the kitchen and soft-footed up the carpeted stairs. Lucilla led the way along the passage to Pandora's bedroom. They went inside and she closed the door behind them.

The room, with its unmade bed and litter of feminine possessions, was cold. Every window was open, and the curtains ballooned in the breeze. And yet that perfume still hung like a pall; the smell of Poison.

Lucilla said, "I never knew, I could never make up my mind if I loved that scent or if I hated it."

"Why is it so strong?"

"She broke the bottle in her basin." She looked around her, saw the filmy dressing-gown tossed on the bed, Pandora's evening bag, the wardrobe full of her clothes, the brimming waste-paper basket, the crowded dressing-table, the odd shoes that lay about on the carpet.

The shoes, expensive Spanish leather, high-heeled, impractical, were somehow the most personal and poignant of reminders, because they could never have belonged to anybody but Pandora.

Lucilla closed her mind to them.

She said, "Her address book. Where would we find her address book?"

They found it on the desk, alongside the blotter. It was large and leather-bound, with Pandora's initials in gold, and endpapers of Florentine paper. Lucilla sat, ran her finger down the index, and opened it at the letter M.

Mademoiselle, Dress Shop.

Maitland, Lady Letitia.

Mendoza, Philip and Lucia.

Macaya…

Carlos Macaya. She sat very still, staring at the page. She did not speak.

After a bit, Jeff said, "Have you found it?"

"Yes."

"What's wrong?"

"Jeff." She looked up at him. "Jeff, he's a doctor."

"A doctor?" He frowned. "Let's see."

She pointed. "Here. 'Macaya, Dr. Carlos and Lisa.' Lisa must be his wife. Jeff, do you think he was Pandora's doctor?"

"Most probably. We'll find out." He looked at his watch. "It's ten-thirty. It'll be about eight-thirty in Majorca. We'll call him at home. It's a Saturday morning. Most likely we'll get him at home."

With the address book in her hand, Lucilla got to her feet. They went out of Pandora's room and along to her parents' bedroom where, on this unreal and disorientated morning, yet another bed had not been made. The telephone sat on the bedside table. Jeff found the phone book and looked up the international code for Spain, and carefully, digit by digit, Lucilla dialled the long and complicated number.

A wait. Various clickings and buzzings. And then the ringing sound. She thought about the Majorca morning, the Mediterranean sunlight already warm, the sky clear with the promise of yet another hot and cloudless day.

"Hola?" A woman's voice.

"Mrs…" Something had gone wrong with Lucilla's throat. She cleared it and started again. "Mrs. Macaya? Senora Macaya?"

••Sir

"I'm so sorry, but do you speak English?"

"Yes, a little. Who is this?"

"My name is Lucilla Blair." She willed herself to calmness, deliberately spoke slowly and clearly. "I am calling from Scotland. I want to talk to your husband. Is he there?"

"Yes, he is here. Uno momento…"

The phone was put down. Footsteps receded, tapping across a polished tiled floor. From a distance, Lucilla heard her call. "Carlos!" And then a few unintelligible sentences in Spanish.

She waited. She reached out her hand, and Jeff took it in his own. «

He came. "Dr. Macaya."

"Oh, Carlos, this is Lucilla Blair. Pandora Blair's niece. I met you at her house in August. I came with a friend from Palma and you were there drinking tea. Do you remember?"

"But of course I remember you. How are you?"

"I'm all right. I'm calling from my home in Scotland. Carlos, please forgive me, but were you Pandora's doctor?"

"Yes, I was. Why?"

"Because… I'm terribly sorry, but I'm afraid it's very sad news. Because she is dead."

He did not speak immediately. And then he said, "How did she die?"

"She drowned. She drowned herself. She took all her sleeping Pills and then drowned herself. Last night…"

Another pause. And then Carlos Macaya said, "I see." Was that all he had to say?

"You don't seem very surprised."

"Lucilla, I am devastated by your news. But I am not completely surprised. I was very afraid that something like this might happen." "Why?" He told her.

Over the roar of the Hoover, Isobel heard Archie's Land Rover returning from Relkirk, the familiar sound of its old engine grinding up the hill from the village and then turning down into the avenue. She turned off the Hoover, and its din slowly died. Glancing through the tall window, she saw the Land Rover trundle past, with Conrad at the wheel.

She left the Hoover standing in the middle of the floor and went to meet them. Out through the front door, and down the steps onto the gravel. The two men were already alighting from the Land Rover, Archie limping badly, which was never a good sign. She went to him and put her arms around him and kissed him. His face was cadaverous, grey with fatigue, and felt very cold.