Page 17 of The Love Letter
The signature beneath the writing was illegible.
Joanna read then reread the letter, chewing thoughtfully on the apple. Throwing the core into the bin, she opened the smaller brown envelope and drew out a piece of cream vellum notepaper that crackled with age as she unfolded it. She scanned the page. It was a letter, written in ink in a flowing, old-fashioned hand. There was no date or address at the top.
My darling Sam,
I sit here, pen in hand, and wonder how I can begin to describe how I am feeling. A few months ago, I did not know you, did not know how my life would be changed, altered beyond recognition when I met you. Even though I accept we have no future – in fact, no past that any other can discover – I yearn for your touch. I need you beside me, sheltering me, loving me the way that only you can.
I live a lie and that lie will last for eternity.
I don’t know for how much longer it is safe to write, but I put my trust in the loyal hands that will deliver my words of love to you.
Reply in the usual way.
Your true, true love.
The letter was signed with an initial. It could have been a ‘B’, or an ‘E’, an ‘R’ or an ‘F’ – Joanna could not decide. She breathed out, feeling the intensity of the words. Who was it to? Who was it from? There seemed to be no clues, other than that it was obviously a clandestine love affair. Joanna then opened the other envelope and drew out an old programme.
The Hackney Empire is proud to present
THE GRAND AGE OF MUSIC HALL
The date was 4th October 1923. She opened the programme and scanned through the acts, looking for names she recognised. Sir James Harrison, possibly, as his memorial was where she’d first met the old lady, or perhaps the old lady herself was one of the young actresses. She studied the faded black-and-white photographs of the performers, but there was no name or face that caught her eye.
She picked up the love letter again and reread it. She could only surmise she was looking at a letter written by someone who was, at the time, well known enough for the affair to cause a scandal.
As the old lady had presumed, it had whetted her journalist’s appetite. Joanna rose from her desk and photocopied both letters several times then tucked them, along with the originals and the programme, safely back into the innocuous brown envelope, which she slid into her rucksack before heading for the lift.
‘Jo! Over here!’
Alec caught her just as she was escaping to freedom through the door. She hesitated before walking back towards his desk.
‘Where you off to? Got a job for you, doorstepping The Redhead and her lover. And don’t think I didn’t see you slink in here late.’
‘Sorry, Alec. I’m going to check out a story.’
‘Yeah? What?’
‘It’s a tip-off, could be good.’
He looked at her, his eyes barely cleared from last night’s hangover. ‘You got contacts already?’
‘No, not really, but my gut tells me I have to go.’
‘Your gut, eh?’ He patted his substantial belly. ‘One day, if you’re lucky, yours’ll be the same size as mine.’
‘Please, Alec? I did cover for you at the memorial service when I was dying.’
‘Okay, bugger off then. Be back by two, though. I’ll send Alice to doorstep The Redhead until then.’
‘Thanks.’
Outside, Joanna hailed a cab and directed it to Marylebone High Street. Forty minutes later, she arrived outside the front door of the old lady’s flat.I could have run here faster, Joanna thought as she paid the driver, making sure to get a receipt for expenses, then she jumped out and went to study the bells by the door. She had a choice of two, both unnamed. She pressed the lower bell and waited for a response. No sound of footsteps came, so she tried again.
Nothing.
Joanna tried the top bell. Again her call went unheeded.
Once more, for luck . . .
