‘Did the letter actually have your name on it?’
‘Yes, on the envelope.’
‘Was Edmund’s name used?’
She was about to say yes again, when she visualised the letter in her hand, each horrible word jumping out at her. ‘No,’ she replied.
‘So it might merely be an anonymous wild shot in the dark that could have been posted through anybody’s letterbox?’
‘But it had my name on the envelope.’
‘True, but the nasty individual who penned the letter might just as easily picked any woman’s name who lived in the village.’ He shrugged. ‘Evelyn’s name for instance. Can you think of anything more absurd and less likely than for me to be accused of cheating on my wife? Trust me, Hope, throw the letter away and don’t give it another thought. It’s nothing more than villagemischief-making.’
‘Villagemischief-making,’ said a voice from behind them. ‘That sounds interesting.’
As if by magic their brother Arthur had materialised out of thin air. He had an uncanny knack for doing that, in spite of his bulk.
‘How long have you been lurking there listening in on our conversation?’ demanded Hope.
‘Lurking,’ he repeated, his tone as supercilious as the expression on his jowly face. ‘What a thing to accuse me of. I’m hurt to the quick.’
‘I’m quite sure you’re not,’ she muttered, thinking it would take more than a few words to penetrate the layers of blubber Arthur had acquired with each passing year.
‘I must say,’ she went on, arming herself for the inevitable round of sparring that accompanied any exchange with Arthur, and which always resulted in trading insults. ‘I’m surprised to see you here.’
He regarded her with a disdainful look. ‘Why?’
‘You spend so little time at the Hall these days. I wonder you can tear yourself away from the lure of the fleshpots of London. Poor Julia must get dreadfully lonely rattling around in that ghastly mausoleum all on her own.’
‘What a jolly hoot you are, Hope. You know, nothing quite prepares me for seeing you again after an extended time apart. But you should know by now that it’s a fool’s game to bait me.’
‘Come on you two,’ remarked Kit genially, ‘play nicely. I trust you’re well, Arthur?’
‘You find me in fine fettle,’ he replied, lighting up an ostentatiously large cigar.
‘How’s Charles getting on with being away at school?’ asked Kit. ‘Julia must miss him terribly.’
‘Boys need to have the apron strings cut early on,’ asserted Arthur, ‘the last thing they need is to be mollycoddled by anover-protective mother.’ He puffed expansively on his cigar. ‘You look a bit off the pace, little sis,’ he remarked to Hope. ‘Something on your mind? Apart from your husband making a fool of himself on the dance floor. Somebody should tell him that the twist is strictly for the young. There again, how can he resist dancing with two attractive young girls when his wife looks so miserable? Now what was this village mischief you were talking about?’
Suddenly gripped with sickening certainty, Hope stared at Arthur with loathing. It was him! It was her brother who had sent her the letter!
ChapterTwenty-Eight
Meadow Lodge, Melstead St Mary
October 1962
Stanley
‘You seem subdued this evening, Annelise,’ remarked Stanley. He kept his voice light, which wasn’t easy given the volume of the band.
‘Do I?’ she said, turning her gaze away from the dance floor to look at him. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t apologise. I was just concerned that you were feeling unwell.’
What really concerned him was that she might be bored in his company. On social occasions like this, when the great and the good from the county were gathered, he could never quite rid himself of thedeep-seated anxiety that he didn’t belong. Despite all his outward success at having reinvented himself, deep inside he was still Stanley Nettles, the illiterate kid from the East End.
But determined not to give in to those old insecurities of his, and reminding himself how much he had been looking forward to this weekend and seeing Annelise again, he smiled brightly. ‘Would you like to dance?’ he asked.
