unwanted clothes, Iris knew, had been packed away in a trunk upstairs. She started hunting through it for her pullover, coming across, as she did so, various forgotten belongings, a grey coat and skirt, a pile of stockings, her skiing kit and one or two old bathing dresses.
It was then that she came across an old dressing-gown that had belonged to Rosemary and which had somehow or other escaped being given away with the rest of Rosemary’s things. It was a mannish affair of spotted silk with big pockets.
Iris shook it out, noting that it was in perfectly good condition. Then she folded it carefully and returned it to the trunk. As she did so, her hand felt something crackle in one of the pockets. She thrust in her hand and drew out a crumpled-up piece of paper. It was in Rosemary’s handwriting and she smoothed it out and read it.
Leopard darling, you can’t mean it … You can’t—you can’t … We love each other! We belong together! You must know that just as I know it! We can’t just say goodbye and go on coolly with our own lives. You know that’s impossible, darling—quite impossible. You and I belong together—for ever and ever. I’m not a conventional woman—I don’t mind about what people say. Love matters more to me than anything else. We’ll go away together—and be happy—I’ll make you happy. You said to me once that life without me was dust and ashes to you—do you remember, Leopard darling? And now you write calmly that all this had better end—that it’s only fair to me. Fair to me? But I can’t live without you! I’m sorry about George—he’s always been sweet to me—but he’ll understand. He’ll want to give me my freedom. It isn’t right to live together if you don’t love each other any more. God meant us for each other, darling—I know He did. We’re going to be wonderfully happy—but we must be brave. I shall tell George myself—I want to be quite straight about the whole thing—but not until after my birthday.
I know I’m doing what’s right, Leopard darling—and I can’t live without you—can’t, can’t—CAN’T. How stupid it is of me to write all this. Two lines would have done. Just ‘I love you. I’m never going to let you go.’ Oh darling—
The letter broke off.
Iris stood motionless, staring down at it.
How little one knew of one’s own sister!
So Rosemary had had a lover—had written him passionate love letters—had planned to go away with him?
What had happened? Rosemary had never sent the letter after all. What letter had she sent? What had been finally decided between Rosemary and this unknown man?
(‘Leopard!’ What extraordinary fancies people had when they were in love. So silly. Leopard indeed!)
Who was this man? Did he love Rosemary as much as she loved him? Surely he must have done. Rosemary was so unbelievably lovely. And yet, according to Rosemary’s letter, he had suggested ‘ending it all’. That suggested—what? Caution? He had evidently said that the break was for Rosemary’s sake. That it was only fair to her. Yes, but didn’t men say that sort of thing to save their faces? Didn’t it really mean that the man, whoever he was, was tired of it all? Perhaps it had been to him a mere passing distraction. Perhaps he had never really cared. Somehow Iris got the impression that the unknown man had been very determined to break with Rosemary finally …
But Rosemary had thought differently. Rosemary wasn’t going to count the cost. Rosemary had been determined, too …
Iris shivered.
And she, Iris, hadn’t known a thing about it! Hadn’t even guessed! Had taken it for granted that Rosemary was happy and contented and that she and George were quite satisfied with one another. Blind! She must have been blind not to know a thing like that about her own sister.
But who was the man?
She cast her mind back, thinking, remembering. There had been so many men about, admiring Rosemary, taking her out, ringing her up. There had been no one special. But there must have been—the rest of the bunch were mere camouflage for the one, the only one, that mattered. Iris frowned perplexedly, sorting her remembrances carefully.
Two names stood out. It must, yes, positively it must, be one or the other. Stephen Farraday? It must be Stephen Farraday. What could Rosemary have seen in him? A stiff pompous young man—and not so very young either. Of course people did say he was brilliant. A rising politician, an under-secretaryship prophesied in the near future, and all the weight of the influential Kidderminster connection behind him. A possible future Prime Minister! Was that what had given him glamour in Rosemary’s eyes? Surely she couldn’t care so desperately for the man himself—such a cold self-contained creature? But they said that his own wife was passionately in love with him, that she had gone against all the wishes of her powerful family in marrying him—a mere nobody with political ambitions! If one woman felt like that about him, another woman might also. Yes, it must be Stephen Farraday.
Because, if it wasn’t Stephen Farraday, it must be Anthony Browne.
And Iris didn’t want it to be Anthony Browne.
True, he’d been very much Rosemary’s slave, constantly at her beck and call, his dark good-looking face expressing a kind of humorous desperation. But surely that devotion had been too open, too freely declared to go really deep?
Odd the way he had disappeared after Rosemary’s death. They had none of them seen him since.
Still not so odd really—he was a man who travelled a lot. He had talked about the Argentine and Canada and Uganda and the USA. She had an idea that he was actually an American or a Canadian, though he had hardly any accent. No, it wasn’t really strange that they shouldn’t have seen anything of him since.
It was Rosemary who had been his friend. There was no reason why he should go on coming to see the rest of them. He had been Rosemary’s friend. But not Rosemary’s lover! She didn’t want him to have been Rosemary’s lover. That would hurt—that would hurt terribly …
She looked down at the letter in her hand. She crumpled it up. She’d throw it away, burn it …
It was sheer instinct that stopped her.
Some day it might be important to produce that letter …
She smoothed it out, took it down with her and locked it away in her jewel case.
It might be important, some day, to show why Rosemary took her own life.
‘And the next thing, please?’
The ridiculous phrase came unbidden into Iris’s mind and twisted her lips into a wry smile. The glib shop-keeper’s question seemed to represent so exactly her own carefully directed mental processes.
Was not that exactly what she was trying to do in her survey of the past? She had dealt with the surprising discovery in the attic. And now—on to ‘the next thing, please!’ What was the next thing?
Surely the increasingly odd behaviour of George. That dated back for a long time. Little things that had puzzled her became clear now in the light of the surprising interview last night. Disconnected remarks and actions took their proper place in the course of events.
And there was the reappearance of Anthony Browne. Yes, perhaps that ought to come next in sequence, since it had followed the finding of the letter by just one
