Page 1 of The Love Letter
Prologue
London, 20th November 1995
‘James, darling, what are you doing?’
He looked around him, disorientated, then staggered forward.
She caught him just before he fell. ‘You’ve been sleepwalking, haven’t you? Come on, let’s take you back to bed.’
The gentle voice of his granddaughter told him he was still on Earth. He knew he’d been standing here for a reason, that there was something urgent he must do that he’d been leaving right until the last moment . . .
But now it was gone. Desolate, he let her half carry him to his bed, loathing his wasted, fragile limbs that rendered him as helpless as a baby, and his scattered mind, which had once again betrayed him.
‘There now,’ she said as she made him comfortable. ‘How’s the pain? Would you like a little more morphine?’
‘No. Please, I . . .’
It was the morphine that was turning his brain to jelly. Tomorrow, he’d have none, and then he’d remember what it was he must do before he died.
‘Okay. You just relax and try to get some sleep,’ she soothed him, her hand stroking his forehead. ‘The doctor will be here soon.’
He knew he mustn’t go to sleep. He closed his eyes, desperately searching, searching . . . snatches of memories, faces . . .
Then he saw her, as clear as the day he’d first met her. So beautiful, so gentle . . .
‘Remember? The letter, my darling,’ she whispered to him. ‘You promised to return it . . .’
Of course!
He opened his eyes, trying to sit up, and saw the concerned face of his granddaughter hovering above him. And felt a painful prick in the inside of his elbow.
‘The doctor’s giving you something to calm you down, James, darling,’ she said.
No! No!
The words refused to form on his lips, and as the needle slipped into his arm, he knew that he’d left it too late.
‘I’m so sorry, so very sorry,’ he gasped.
His granddaughter watched as his eyelids finally closed and the tension left his body. She pressed her smooth cheek against his and found it wet with tears.
Besançon, France, 24th November 1995
She walked slowly into the drawing room towards the fire. It was cold today, and her cough was worse. Edging her frail body into a chair, she picked up the fresh copy ofThe Timesfrom the table to read the obituaries with her customary English breakfast tea. She clattered the china cup into its saucer as she saw the headline taking up a third of the front page.
LIVING LEGEND IS DEAD
Sir James Harrison, thought by many to be the greatest actor of his generation, died yesterday at his London home, surrounded by his family. He was ninety-five. A private funeral will take place next week, followed by a memorial service in London in January.
Her heart clenched, and the newspaper shook so violently beneath her fingers she could hardly read the rest. Alongside the article was a picture of him with the Queen, receiving his OBE. Her tears blurring his image, she traced the contours of his strong profile, his thick mane of greying hair . . .
Could she . . .dareshe return? Just one last time, to say goodbye . . . ?
As her morning tea cooled, undrunk beside her, she turned over the front page to continue reading, savouring the details of his life and career. Then her attention was caught by another small headline beneath:
RAVENS MISSING FROM TOWER
It was announced last night that the famous Tower of London ravens have vanished. As legend has it, the birds have been in residence for more than five hundred years, keeping guard over the Tower and the royal family, as decreed by Charles II. The raven keeper was alerted to their disappearance yesterday evening and a nationwide search is currently taking place.
