of record frosts and snowfalls, and she had had to wait a long time to see the first snowdrops and crocuses bloom.
Someone touched her on her arm and she swung round. The vicar was watching her compassionately.
In those last few months he had called regularly to see Leslie. Neither of them had any deep-founded religious beliefs, but she had been able to see how cheered Leslie was by his visits.
Now she was gone forever, buried deep in the earth of this North London cemetery.
“It’s too cold to stand here. Would you like to come back to the vicarage and have a cup of tea—”
There were no other mourners; Leslie had wanted it that way. She had no family, and the other people who could have been present would have been her friends and colleagues from the publishing world.
Diana started to refuse and then nodded. She didn’t want to be alone. She didn’t think she could face going back to their empty flat.
All the legal details had been seen to already. She had contacted Leslie’s solicitor as her friend had asked her to do. She swallowed the painful lump in her throat. She already knew that her friend had made her her sole legatee. They had argued about it. Diana had suggested that Leslie should donate any money she had to medical research, but Leslie had shaken her head.
“No, I want you to have it,” she had insisted, and because any form of argument, no matter how slight, had wasted her fragile strength deplorably, Diana had given in.
She had an appointment to see the solicitor, Mr. Soames, later in the afternoon, but right now she didn’t want to think about that. She didn’t want to think about anything … anything …
She turned and followed the vicar, pausing to look over her shoulder one last time, and say a painful final goodbye to her friend.
LESLIE’S SOLICITOR, now her solicitor, Diana reminded herself, was a partner in a very old, established city firm who had been recommended to Leslie when her first manuscript was sold.
“Rather old-fashioned, with county connections,” was how Leslie had once described him to Diana. “I get the impression that most of his clients are of the ‘gentleman farmer’ fraternity—good solid yeoman stock. Frightfully British, and very, very honest—that’s Mr. Soames.”
“Miss Johnson, please sit down ….”
Diana suspected that everything Leslie had told her about him was perfectly true, as she studied the plump, middle-aged lawyer, sitting opposite her. He was sensitive enough not to offer any formal condolences, for which she was very grateful.
His office was furnished just as an old-fashioned solicitor’s office ought to be, with a traditional partners’ desk, and a wall full of glass-fronted bookshelves holding fat and no doubt dusty tomes. Even the telephone was the old-fashioned, plain black traditional variety. Diana refused his offer of a cup of tea, and waited as he unfolded the document on his desk, discarding the pink tape which had tied it.
“I know you are already familiar with the contents of Miss Smith’s will. You are the sole legatee.” He mentioned a sum of money that made Diana gasp in shock. “And then there is the flat you shared with her. You each owned half of it, but now, of course, you are the sole owner.”
He put down his papers and studied her over the top of his glasses. “If you will take my advice, Miss Johnson, you will make use of this bequest to make a fresh start in life. This isn’t the advice I normally give newly bereaved clients; the comfort of familiar things, familiar places, is something they need to cling to, but in your case …”
Diana stood up abruptly. She knew what Mr. Soames meant, and part of her knew that he was right. Already she was dreading going back to the empty flat; not solely because Leslie was no longer there, but because its very atmosphere had become imbued with the hopeless misery of those last agonizing weeks; and she could no longer bear to so much as walk inside it.
They shook hands and she left his office, stepping out into the harsh spring sunlight. On impulse she hailed a taxi and gave the name of a prestigious London hotel.
She would spend the night there. That would give her breathing space. Leslie’s doctor had given her a small prescription of sleeping pills which he had advised her to use if need be, but until now she had not bothered to resort to them. There had been too much to do … too much to keep her busy. Sorting out Leslie’s clothes … things like that. But now she longed to sleep, and the blessed anonymity of a hotel bedroom was the ideal place for her right now.
The foyer of the hotel was busy. There was a conference on, the clerk told her when Diana booked in. Perhaps because of this no one seemed to notice that she had no luggage, and she was speedily shown up to a very elegant bedroom, the last one they had empty, according to the clerk.
Once inside, she closed the curtains, and then opened her private minibar with the key provided.
The staff were busy, she reflected, as she noticed that someone had removed some of the stock from the bar, and that it had not been replaced. There was even a glass on the coffee table. Ignoring it, Diana poured herself a generous gin and tonic, and took it through to the bathroom with her.
At another time she would have enjoyed sampling the wide range of exclusive toiletries provided, but now all she wanted to do was to soak in a long hot bath and then to go to sleep.
She took one of the tablets, grimacing wryly as she swallowed it down with a mouthful of her drink. Mixing drink and drugs—hardly a sensible thing to do, but she didn’t feel like being sensible right now.
Diana lay in the bath until she felt the combination of alcohol and drug beginning to take effect, and then she clambered out and pulled on the terry-toweling robe provided, without bothering to dry herself.
The closed curtains gave the bedroom an eerie underwater effect heightened by the muted sunlight coming in through the windows. She lay down on the bed and closed her eyes, letting oblivion sweep over her, gradually carrying her out into its depths.
MARCUS SIMONS grimaced as he glanced at his watch. The conference had dragged on longer than expected, and then he had had a meeting to go to that had extended into dinner. Now it was gone one o’clock, and he was ready to drop.
Whenever he came to London it affected him like this. Funny really—in the days when he had worked in the City he had found it invigorating and stimulating. Now all he wanted was to get back to the farm.
Ten years ago, when he had inherited the farm from his uncle, managing it himself had been the last thing he had intended. It had been the last thing that Sandra had intended as well. His mouth compressed grimly as his taxi deposited him outside his hotel. He tipped the driver generously enough to merit a smile and walked inside.
Sandra had wanted him to sell the farm, and when he had refused she had broken off their engagement. It had hurt at the time, but now he was worldly enough to realize that he had had a lucky escape. There had been more than one woman in his life since Sandra, but no serious relationships. His sister, Ann, was constantly chivying him about it. She wanted him to settle down and get married, and was forever producing a stream of “friends” to that end.
He strode across the foyer; a tall man with a shock of thick black hair, and piercingly direct gray eyes.
He didn’t look like a farmer; his charcoal gray pin-striped suit had come from Savile
