The Carlotta Diamond. Lee Wilkinson

for her. So what year were you born?’

      ‘1980. It appears to have been a difficult birth that she never fully recovered from, and six months later, weak and depressed, she caught flu and died before anyone realised how ill she was.’

      ‘So you were Charlotte Bolton before the Christies adopted you?’ Simon observed casually.

      ‘No. After her husband left her, my mother reverted to her maiden name of Yancey.’

      ‘An unusual name,’ he commented.

      ‘Though my grandparents lived in London, a letter written to my grandfather, Paul Yancey, suggested that he might have been born in Georgia.’

      ‘Any idea where your grandmother originated?’ he asked almost idly.

      ‘None at all. The only thing I know about her is that her name was Mary.’

      With a smile, she added, ‘Unlike the Farringdons, my ancestry is a closed book, and I’m afraid it will have to stay that way.’

      ‘Who said, if ignorance is bliss it’s folly to be wise? The Farringdons are a pretty unconventional bunch to belong to,’ Simon pointed out with a wry smile.

      Then as the orchestra began to play a tango, dismissing the past, he asked, ‘Shall we dance?’

      This time she went into his arms without hesitation, as if she belonged there.

      The rest of the evening passed, on Charlotte’s part at least, in a haze of excitement and pleasure, while they talked and danced.

      Though Simon drank hardly anything, he kept her glass topped up, and when twelve o’clock came and they started for home, she was still on a high and just the slightest bit squiffy.

      By that time the traffic had thinned somewhat, and they made good time back to Bayswater through the midnight streets. When they drew up outside the shop, he unfastened his seat belt and turned towards her.

      Wondering if he was about to kiss her, she felt every nerve in her body tighten, and her lips parted, half in panic, half in anticipation.

      When he just sat and studied her face in the mingled light from the dashboard and street lamp, feeling foolish, she rushed into speech. ‘Thank you, it’s been great fun. What do you want to do about the books? Would you like to take them with you, or shall I send them on?’

      ‘That’s one of the things I meant to talk to you about, but somehow the time has just flown. Perhaps you’d care to read this?’

      He felt in an inner pocket, and, handing her an unsealed envelope, flicked on the interior light.

      She withdrew the single sheet of thick cream notepaper, to find it covered with a laboured scrawl, which read:

      Dear Miss Christie,

      My grandson has informed me that you have succeeded in finding the set of books he contacted you about. I would like the chance to thank you in person, and I would be pleased if you could bring them down yourself and spend the weekend at Farringdon Hall, as my guest.

      Nigel Bell-Farringdon.

      Completely thrown, she stammered, ‘D-does he mean this weekend?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Oh, but I have to be in the shop tomorrow.’

      ‘Didn’t you say your assistant will be back by then? Couldn’t she cope for one day?’

      ‘Well, I suppose so, but…’

      ‘But what?’ Simon asked.

      ‘I’d need to ask her…And it’s such short notice when she’s just come back from her holiday. Perhaps if I made it next weekend?’

      ‘Next weekend might be too late,’ Simon stated abruptly.

      ‘Too late?’

      ‘My grandfather is extremely ill. He could die at any time.’

      ‘Oh.’ She was nonplussed.

      ‘So we’re trying to comply with his every wish.’

      ‘I quite understand, but I—’

      ‘When he expressed a desire to meet you, I offered to write the note for him. But, though he was in great pain at the time, he insisted on writing it himself. It took a great deal of will-power on his part,’ Simon added quietly.

      Moved, she agreed, ‘Very well, I’ll certainly come if Margaret can take care of the shop.’

      ‘He suggested sending a car for you, but I told him I would be delighted to pick you up.’ Then, as if it was all settled, ‘Shall we say ten o’clock?’

      Apparently having achieved what he’d set out to do, he left his seat briskly and came round to open her door and help her out.

      Thrusting the note into her bag, she fumbled for her key. When she finally located it, Simon took it from her and turned it in the lock.

      Then, his head tilted a little to one side, he stood looking down at her, almost as if he was waiting for her to make some move.

      After an awkward pause, she said in a rush, ‘Thank you again for a lovely evening.’

      ‘It was my pleasure.’

      She was wondering if he was expecting to be invited up, when he touched her cheek with a single finger. ‘Goodnight; sleep well.’ Turning on his heel, he walked away.

      That lightest of caresses made her heart beat faster and her legs were unsteady as, closing the door behind her, she made her way up the stairs.

      Without putting on the light, she crossed the living-room and looked out of the window.

      The street was empty. His car had gone. She felt a keen disappointment, a sense of loss, that for one idiotic moment made her want to cry.