Elizabeth Speller - The Return of Captain John Emmett

Laurence was almost certain she didn't. 'How do you know al this?' he said.

'Because the letter Chilvers was taunting me with was one John had left for me, and not yet posted. Chilvers was almost proud of his daring. He never even let me see it properly, just one paragraph while he kept hold of it, so I don't know if it talked of suicide. On the whole, I think it was just a letter. I'd had others. Because if it was a suicide note, the coroner would have had a right to it and its contents would have become public and there were things that John had written in that paragraph that he wouldn't have wanted revealed publicly. But Chilvers stole it and blackmailed me with the contents. That's the kind of man he is.'

'Blackmail?' Laurence was startled.

'Yes. Plain and simple.'

'But you were supposed to be John's sister—or was he blackmailing you because he'd discovered you weren't?'

She gave him a slightly pitying look. 'Wel, hardly, I don't think it's a crime to claim to be someone's sister.'

'But you hadn't got any money, then,' he said.

'He didn't want money. He wanted me. To take me to his bed. He wasn't put off by my hatred. He was aroused by the idea of my loathing him and stil having to give myself to him. That's how he was. I only agreed to meet him because he led me to understand that he had held back some letters of John's to protect the family.

He thought he could coerce me because there was information in the letter that was potentialy very damaging to someone I love.' She blushed, but not at the revelation that Chilvers desired her, Laurence thought, but with anger.

Laurence frowned. 'Wiliam?' he said, slowly, wondering what on earth John might have known about Wiliam that might be damaging.

'You're dogged but you're not a natural detective, Laurence,' she said. 'If it wasn't for the simultaneous pursuit of true love—I assume you are in love with Mary Emmett?—I'd suggest you gave it up. No. Not Wiliam. Or Wiliam only in part. Nicholas. My son, Nicholas.'

Suddenly he understood. How stupid he had been. But he waited for her to tel him.

'Nicholas isn't Wiliam's son. He's John's. John was acting as a father in providing for a son. He saw him only a couple of times but he did love him. In that paragraph Chilvers was brandishing, John said that loving me and becoming Nicholas's father, even though it had not been intentional, had been the one good thing in his life. Chilvers was jubilant to have that knowledge.'

'Does Wiliam...?'

'Does Wiliam know? Wel, yes, of course he does or I wouldn't be teling you.' She looked amused. 'Nicholas looks pretty much like his father.'

Laurence thought back to his brief glimpse of the child and the photograph on the table. Nicholas was darker haired than Wiliam or Eleanor, certainly, but perhaps you saw what you expected to see. However, his overwhelming feeling was one of happy surprise. She obviously noticed because she looked more relaxed than he'd ever seen her. The fiery intensity faded from her eyes.

'I think there's a picture of him with John's things,' he said. 'I'd assumed it was John himself, but it is probably Nicholas.'

She nodded. 'I gave him that the last time I saw him. I'm glad he had it.' Then she added, 'The discretion is for Wiliam's sake, you see, not mine. That was the mistake George Chilvers made. He thought I'd deceived Wiliam. But Wiliam and I could never have had children. His injury was widespread to his back as wel as his legs. We can never have a marriage in that sense. But in other ways, we are very happy. He has been immensely kind to me. I was pregnant. He was an invalid. We take care of each other and he loves Nicholas as his own. He understood my feelings for John. He is an exceptional man and I am very lucky.' Her face was calm.

'I caled George Chilvers' bluff,' she said. 'Refused point blank. Told him there was no secret there. Threatened to report him to the police, and like al of his sort his threats melted away. I wouldn't have reported him, of course. Wiliam knows, but everyone else believes Nicky to be his own son. I don't imagine Wiliam ever told you I knew John Emmett? He wouldn't have wanted to you to make any connection.'

Laurence thought how open and frank Wiliam had seemed. But now it appeared even he had things to hide.

'You never wrote to the Emmetts after John died, did you?'

'No.' She looked embarrassed. 'Wiliam asked me to but I couldn't risk contact.'

'But if George Chilvers panicked and drove around for hours searching, before caling the police, it does suggest that even though he might have worried that blame for John's death might be laid at his feet, he certainly wasn't directly responsible for his death,' Laurence said.

Then, realising that he had never told her of his suspicions, he explained, as simply as he could, the strange coincidences that he had uncovered while trying to understand John's state of mind. She did not look scornful as he would have feared before today; instead she was obviously concentrating.

'In fact you were the first person to suggest he might not have kiled himself deliberately,' he said. 'An accident, you thought.'

She smiled. 'An accident I hoped, I think. Even murder would, oddly, be a lot better than having to accept that someone at the centre of your world, your son's father, would rather be dead.'

'So you don't see Chilvers as a murderer?'

'Much as I'd like to lay it al at his door, I don't. He's greedy and a buly, not a kiler, though his actions might wel have contributed to John's state of mind.'

'When did you hear from John for the last time?'

She thought for a minute. 'I had a letter from him about this time last year. He sounded better. I think because he was in London, meeting someone who he thought would help him. He'd been moved or disturbed—I'm not sure which realy—by al the hoo-ha in the papers about the Unknown Warrior. He was more open, more reflective. I was surprised he'd got away though.'

'Was that alowed, generaly?'

'Rarely, I think. It must have meant he'd eased himself from George Chilvers' clutches. Dr Chilvers used to encourage patients to walk localy with family or friends who visited, as long as they were wel. We had gone out to walk along the river together on that first visit eighteen months ago. Nicholas was very little. It was lovely. George was away.'

Again, Laurence found this picture of normality comforting.

'But of course they were very careful at Holmwood and I can't think they would have countenanced a trip away unless it was crucial—a family funeral, perhaps

—and, I imagine, accompanied by a trusted family member. I suppose he simply picked his moment and left.'

'Do you know what he was doing in London at al?'

'No. I have a sense that the other person wasn't a close friend but I don't think that's because of anything specific. He thought it would be a turning point. But who knows what of?' She screwed up her eyes, thinking, then jumped to her feet. 'Wait. I've got some letters in the other room.'

She disappeared out of the door but was gone only a short time. She came back carrying a smal box, set it down on the table and began rifling through it. She took out a tied packet of letters, puled out one, then another, read a couple of lines and smiled. Laurence longed to be able to read some but knew he couldn't ask.

They were part of an intimacy she had struggled to maintain. She held one up and he saw the large, slightly childish script.

'He had pretty dreadful writing,' she said. Very quickly she picked one out. 'He went to a hotel, I remember now, though I've no idea if he actualy got there.

The Connaught. That's it. Hotel writing paper.' She looked down. 'He just says he's looking forward to a good tea. He's almost joly. But then I never heard from him again and he kiled himself a few weeks later.'