Robyn Hogan

Del is given a clue as to her father’s identity. 

 

It was late by the time Del arrived home. She had been caught behind a slow moving semi-trailer coming out of Lithgow and, when she made a break at Katoomba for coffee and a sandwich, being served seemed to take forever. Then the traffic down the mountains had been banked up due to an accident at Springwood and the trip had taken her nearly three hours longer than she had expected. And all the while, like some ghastly Musak, the thought, am I black sheep or cuckoo? kept drumming behind her eyes.

She was weary and wonderfully relieved to open her door, enter her apartment and close the world out.

It was hot and stuffy inside and, although the air conditioner came on when she switched the light on, she put her bag down and, crossing the room, unlocked the patio doors. Fresh harbour air flowed in and began to circulate. Ferry lights twinkled against the dark harbour waters, the Balmain shore glowed and shafts of moonlight picked out the tops of the taller trees on the dark mound that was Berry Island. Kicking her shoes off, she padded to the kitchen and, taking a beer from the refrigerator, collected a glass and walked out onto the balcony. From there, she could see the blinking red light of her answering machine reflected in the glass. Nothing that can’t wait, she thought. The beer was cool and soothing as she let the Sydney night sounds float towards her, a complete contrast to the mysterious little murmurs, twitters and crunchings of last evening’s bush noises. Then the telephone clicked in and the loud voice of a man interrupted her reverie.

‘Aren’t you home yet? Whatever do you do between here and the city to take so long? I’ll call again in half an hour.’ The machine clicked out.

Barry. She felt annoyed yet embarrassed. The frequency of his calls was beginning to have a real influence on her thoughts. Perhaps she should have contacted him when she was so close. She shook her head. No. She had needed to focus all her ideas on, first, her work and, second, the visit with Hazel and George. Barry would be the very last person with whom she could discuss her dilemma. She wasn’t even sure she could talk about Jean Bellette and that woman’s influence in the art world with him. In fact, she wasn’t sure she had anything in common with him but, perhaps, she should try to find out yea or nay. She shrugged her shoulders, finished her beer and, selecting a couple of lamb chops, began grilling them and preparing a Greek salad to accompany them. She opened a fresh bottle of wine, poured a glass and took it and cutlery out to the balcony. Did she really want to talk to Barry tonight? Perhaps she should; he might be on his way to visit. It would be better to know what he wanted. She flicked the telephone back on even as she resented the implication that she should be there when he called.

She had almost finished her meal when the telephone rang. It was on the fifth or sixth ring by the time she came out of her reverie. A good reverie; the scales had tipped in favour of the black sheep theory. Sitting alone in the dark and peace of her own home, Del had ticked off the pros and cons. Held the evidence up to positive thought. There were those who remembered the old Fidelma who had accepted her as the throw back. George’s mother, who had been an old gossip if ever there was one had, apparently, never suggested anything but legitimacy to George and Hazel. Del smiled at a sudden memory, that of Sarah, in her oblique manner, once, correctly as it now turned out, declaring old Mrs Watts put a circle round each bride’s wedding day so, when the first baby arrived, she would know when it had been conceived. Sarah, who had never had a baby had found it highly amusing, particularly as she was sure Del’s twins arrived rather promptly in her marriage. Del had been well away from Mrs Watts’ sphere of influence by then and only Sarah mean enough to count the days up. But, yes, Annie and Carol were barley-children. Then, there was the undertaker, who knew more than anyone about everyone, had sized her up as being a Dunne off-shoot. Hazel, too, had, albeit unknowingly, offered comfort in describing her mother’s extreme care of her father and Maggie’s ‘too precious’ attitude to life. That she had repeated George’s first reaction to his sight of Margaret Dunne’s baby was also neatly turned by George’s own black sheep story. If only the prisoners had been Japanese, Del was thinking as she became conscious of the telephone ringing. Suddenly her spirits soared; the evidence was just too flimsy. She was positive she was Irish with a dash of Spanish blood and no cuckoo.

‘Hello.’

‘At last!’ Barry’s voice boomed into her ear. ‘Where have you been?’

‘Oh, hello, Barry. I heard your message. You cut off before I could intercept.’ She hated the casual sweetness of her tone and pulled a face.

‘I was worried about you. You take so long to get back to the city. You left old George’s at ten.’

‘Really? And how do you know that?’

‘I was having a beer with George this arvo. In the pub. He said you’d been staying with them. Why didn’t I know?’

‘Why would you?’

‘Pretty unfriendly, I reckon.’ There was a wistful, hurt note in his voice and she felt a sudden compassion. After all, he was going through a break up or divorce, so he said; men could be very vulnerable at such times.

‘It was only a flying visit, squeezed in between some research work. I had an evening there.’

‘You still coulda let me know.’

‘Not really, Barry. Aunty Haze wanted to talk about Mummy. It wasn’t a social deal.’

‘Well, I’ll let you off this time. I remember old Maggie and Hazel were pretty thick.’

Del felt her temper flaring; sarcasm crept into her voice. ‘Thank you, Barry.’

‘Yeah, well. Brings me to the matter at hand.’

‘Yes?’

‘Thought I’d hit the big smoke next week. Tuesday, maybe.’

‘Yes?’

‘Thought you and me might hit the bright spots.’

Del drew her breath in, closed her eyes. Before Kevin, she had hardly ever dated; she certainly had not had what could be called a steady boyfriend. Gala occasions, like the Paul’s College Formal, called for nervous boy-girl dates and delicious dresses. But no commitment. Otherwise, there were just parties and fun but not much pairing off. She doubted if earnest, bespectacled Laura had ever had a date; attractive, efficient Susan, the occasional one until she had paired up with Alan. Barbara was the exception, had had a turnover of boyfriends that quite shocked them all at the time. But Barbara had been funny, vulnerable and just trying too hard. So many of us, Del realised now, were country youngsters, nurtured by boarding schools, the first in their families to experience tertiary education; some, perhaps most, escaping the constraints of a country town. She wondered whether, after the interesting, bordering on cosmopolitan life she had led with Kevin, she was ready to try the game again or not.

‘I’ve quite a lot of work to do.’ Silence. ‘I mean I don’t have an awful lot of spare time.’

‘You must have evenings.’ The wistfulness had faded, the cockiness back in his tone.

‘Not when you are self-employed. You just keep going until the job is finished. Then, with a bit of luck, you move onto the next one.’ Her mind suddenly diverted to the fact she would complete the current assignment tomorrow and there was nothing else in the pipeline. She missed his reply. Had to ask him to repeat it.

‘I’ll be there Tuesday,’ he said and she heard again the little boy taking control, baiting her fishing line for the fish she wanted to catch for her father’s birthday. Maybe an evening or two out with him could be refreshing.

‘Where are you staying?’

‘With you.’

‘Really?’ She could feel the line stretching between them and spoke slowly. ‘I’m not sure about that.’

‘Why not?’ The hurt was back in his voice and she felt cruel.

‘I suppose I can make up the spare room.’ She froze at the thought of all the junk stored there; the idea of having to clear some space.

‘Spare room? Look, Del, if you don’t want to see me then just come out and say so. Stop all this teasing, leading a man on.’

‘When have I led you on?’ She snapped, hearing her mother’s voice in hers.

‘Look, okay. I’ll take the spare room. It’ll do for starters anyway. Sleep tight. See you Tuesday.’

She replaced the handset slowly, not knowing whether to laugh or swear. She was sure she didn’t want a heavy relationship just yet — with Barry or anyone. Picking up the pieces of her life, building a new, independent one, was of far more importance and relevance. Weariness poured over her, drenching her like sweat, as she made her way to the patio, picked up her plate and glass which she took to the kitchen and, against all her normal practice, left on the bench. Locking the outside door, she entered the bedroom and, in a trance, undressed and got into bed.

She forgot to adjust the air conditioning and woke, freezing, several hours later. Rising, she padded out to the lounge room, adjusted the machine and entered the kitchen. A faint light coloured the angle of eastern sky visible from there and the dirty crockery rather surprised her. She scraped the bones into the waste disposal and, pulling out its bottom drawer, slid the plate into the dishwasher. The glass she rinsed thoroughly then filled it with grapefruit juice from the refrigerator. By now her mind had shifted into gear and, going to the telephone, she sipped her juice while she played the messages. Anne. She and Sarah would be calling in on their way back from tennis. They’d found something of interest among Mummy’s things. Del felt bad, briefly, that she was letting them do all the estate work, then rationalised that they were no doubt enjoying themselves. A Debbie selling art union tickets. Barry. Sam from the Art Gallery confirming JB’s death. Barry. Barry. She pressed ‘start’ and cleared the machine. She collected her briefcase from where she had left it near the front door and went to her desk. Soon she was rounding off the Jean Bellett article, adding the extra touches like highlights in hair, pleased with the way it looked.

She had finished the final check of facts, typed up the memorandum of fees, and was about to have a shower, dress and deliver the papers to Susie when the doorbell chimed. It interrupted her thought that she and Susie might have early lunch; she had forgotten to have anything since the fruit juice and was suddenly aware of her empty stomach. And she didn’t want to be delayed. It was too early for Anne and Sarah so she decided to ignore it and closed herself in the bathroom.

Dressed and about to leave she realised it was raining and wondered when it had begun. Maybe Anne and Sarah had called, their tennis cancelled. She shrugged, wondering whether she should check by telephoning Anne before deciding that her day was hers. She collected her papers, locked the door and took the elevator to the basement for her car. There was plenty of parking space at the publishers and she’d pick up some groceries on the way home.

Susie flipped through the sheets of paper casting her critical eye over the content. Del sat on the other side of the desk, her hands beneath it, fingers pleating, re-pleating, the loose thigh fabric of her slacks, and waited. ‘Not bad,’ Susan looked up, smiling, ‘you don’t seem to have lost your touch through your lay-off.’

Del released the breath she hadn’t realised she was holding and grinned back, absurdly proud. Susan pressed a button on her desk, the door opened and her personal assistant entered. ‘Jodie, I think you’ve met Ms Dunne.’ The teenager, skin firm, eyes bright, nodded in Del’s direction and smiled.

‘Hello, Jodie,’ Del smiled back.

‘Here is the manuscript on Jean Bellett, work on it next, will you please. And for now, I’m taking this author to lunch.’ She rose, patted her hair and reached down for the handbag which leant against her desk.

‘That’s nice,’ Del commented, ‘but can you spare the time?’

‘Of course. We’ll be round at Marco’s,’ Susan advised Jodie as she took Del’s arm, ‘come on, I’ll shout you the best barbequed octopus you’ve ever eaten.’

‘da Marco’s ’ was a little, unprepossessing place a few doors down the street. It boasted a take-away counter in front and Susan pushed her way past the milling, vaguely queued, young office workers and behind a screen into a small restaurant, Del following. Red checked gingham cloths covered the tables, a white carnation with green fernery in a vase on each one, glassware sparkled and a dark haired man swayed towards them. ‘Good afternoon, Susan.’

‘Hello, Marco. This is my friend, Delma. Have you a table for two?’

‘For you, I always have a table.’ His white teeth flashed in a smile which became broader as he turned to greet Del. ‘You are most welcome,’ and his brown eyes danced, almost making Del blush with the admiration in them. ‘This way, ladies.’ The table he took them to was tucked in a corner but well enough lit and, as they sat, he placed a serviette on Del’s lap with a flourish. ‘You will have wine, Susan?’ but his eyes were on Del.

‘Yes please Marco. Two house white – that all right with you, Del?’

Del nodded, noting the amusement on Susie’s face as Marco continued to fuss and she was aware he did not take his eyes off her as he moved round to place Susan’s serviette.

‘You’ve made a conquest,’ Susie whispered when he left to fetch the wine.

‘He certainly came on a bit strong,’ Del giggled.

‘And why not?’ Susan stretched back in the chair. ‘You’re very attractive; you’ve worn awfully well.’

Del looked down then back at her friend. ‘You giving me work has helped a lot.’ She wondered, briefly, if she should tell Susan that lectureships were not exactly leaping out of the sandstone but decided to keep her counsel at this stage.

Marco returned, humming softly as he placed the glasses of wine. ‘We’ll both have the polpi,’ Susan waved the proffered menu away. ‘That was a bit mean, I suppose,’ she said when he had left the table, ‘he would have loved to go through the dishes with you. But we have business.’

‘Have we?’

‘Don’t you want to know your next assignment?’

‘Sounds like “Charlie’s Angels!”.’ A warm glow spread through Del, a soft pinkness washed over her pale olive cheeks and her amber eyes glittered. ‘I was hoping.’

‘Illicit love affairs. Down through history. Royals and commoners. Thought you might be able to manage a couple of stories.’

‘Sounds as if it could be fascinating.’

‘I think so. I hope so. People seem to be looking for a shorter, episodic sort of writing. They don’t have the time for long, involved histories. None of us has the time.’

The plates of steaming, barbecued octopus arrived, the delicious aroma bringing saliva swilling into their mouths. They ate in silence for a few minutes, leaning over their plates, concentrating. ‘Mmm. Magic,’ Del glanced up at Susan, ‘and who have you in mind. Which royals?’

Susan swallowed, dabbed her lips, took a sip of wine. ‘Well. Barb’s bagsed the Duke of Windsor and Mrs Simpson and Laura has been carrying on about Catherine the Great for simply ages so she must take that tale.’

Del nodded, her smile knowing. Kevin had once told her he had dubbed them ‘The Formidable Four’ and it seemed the network was as strong as ever. Barbara, despite all her degrees and the powerful academic positions she managed to achieve for herself, was light in research techniques. She had made her career by cornering the easy option. A piece on Windsor and Wallis would be a cinch to put together and a draw card as well. The whole idea was obviously Laura’s; she’d been obsessed with eighteenth century Russian history even as a student but had never managed to have anything published on the subject. Probably because she had not had the time, teaching in a high school in Perth as she was. Del did not know whether Susan knew but she, Del, was prepared to take a bet that Laura was working on a full history and this piece would be the preamble. And when the anthology was launched it would be Laura who would capitalise on it. She would be a household name by the time her definitive biography, if that was what she was writing, was ready. Obviously, she had found some juicy titbits in Catherine’s lifestyle; it would be good, easy reading among the dirge that was Russian history.

‘What are you smiling at?’

‘Laura and her Russian history. Remember how she could recite a litany of the assassinations and murders?’

‘I do now.’ She forked crisp octopus tentacles into her mouth. ‘I had forgotten’, she added when she finished chewing.

Del took a risk. ‘And are you publishing the biography?’

Susie pulled herself together, still, alert, her fork poised, steady as a gun dog’s paw, above her plate. ‘What biography?’ she snapped.

‘Isn’t Laura writing one?’

‘Not that I know of.’ Head down, Susie ate furiously, chewing and swallowing quickly. Del felt a pang of meanness; Susan was no longer enjoying the meal. Instead, Del knew from experience, her mind would be racing too, weighing up the chances of such a work being commercial. Susan was successful because she seemed to sense the publication that would be the next ‘in’ read; her antennae always alert for a fresh opportunity.

Del sat back, watching her friend. Marco cruised across the room and, fingering the white cloth draped over his arm asked, ‘Is everything all right, ladies?’ his eyes on Del’s face.

‘Perfectly, thanks Marco,’ Del murmured, bowing her head in a gentle, dismissive gesture while Susie nodded quickly. ‘What do you have in mind for my assignment?’

Finished eating, Susan pushed her plate a little aside and moved her wine glass closer.

‘Frederick II, Holy Roman Emperor.’

‘Hohenstaufen.’

‘Yes.’ She sat poised, calculating Del’s interest.

‘Stupor Mundi. The Golden Boy of Apulia. Sired a range of illegitimate children but the name of only one mistress has come down to us. Bianca Lancia. We also know his horse’s name!’

‘How do you do it? Name someone and you always know something!’

‘Interesting and unnecessary facts, mostly’, Del laughed, then sobered.

‘Barbara’s going to a conference in Frederick territory, next week I think, maybe she’d prefer that assignment.’

‘Oh, Del,’ Susan leant back, sighing, ‘I deal in the public market place; it’s competitive. You don’t give anyone else an even break. And certainly not Barbara because she would take it. You could, of course,’ she leant forward, smiling into Del’s eyes, ‘join her for a few days in Italy. Could be a nice holiday for both of you.’

‘Would it? I mean, Barbara’s been a wonderfully loyal friend over the years and, particularly, these last years when I’ve needed support. You have been too, Suse,’ Del touched Susan’s hand lightly, ‘but you’ve been on the spot. Even at a distance Barb has kept contact, settled the twins in, is there for them if they need her. But…’ She shook her head.

‘She’s an earnest old thing is Barbara, I agree, but mostly fun when you are with her.’

‘Except for her penchant for men.’

‘Yes, there is that. But would it matter?’ Susan shrugged, placed her serviette on the table. ‘Think about it. Check out Bianca on her home turf, as it were.’

‘Yes…well…maybe. And the second one?’ she pushed tentatively.

‘I’d like you to do the more obscure work, you have such an easy, readable style, but I haven’t yet hooked onto something else for you. Have you any suggestions?’

‘Mmm. Royals and commoners. Is that the title?’

‘Not sure yet.’

‘Royals can be women as well as men, hence Catherine. How about,’ Del’s fingers rested on her lips and chin, ‘Zoe?’

‘Fabulous! Inspired! We’ll go with Zoe.’

Del could not hide her surprise at Susan’s reaction. ‘Do you know of whom I speak?’ she asked, doubt sharpening her tone.

‘Del, you are talking “Zed”. That means depth in the lay-out to me. Shape.’

‘Oh.’

‘And, no, I can’t recall a Zoe. Tell me.’

‘Eleventh century, Byzantine. A cute mosaic portrait survives in Sancta Sophia, in Istanbul. An apt illustration if you are looking for such.’

‘Good. Good.’

‘Married at about our age, killed emperor hubby, made her lover emperor. There’s more.’

‘Better and better. Why do you remember her?’

Del laughed softly. ‘She’s always mentioned as the last of the Macedonian dynasty. She was supposedly near fifty when she married, was married to the last three emperors and everyone seems to sound surprised there were no heirs!’

‘Yes, well. Sounds ideal, though, for content and design. Which will you tackle first?’

‘Don’t know. Probably Bianca. Particularly if I were to go to Italy. Frederick was such a doll.’

Susan finished her wine, as did Del, and she beckoned for the tab. ‘By the way, this one comes with an advance.’

‘It does! Better and better. I think I like working for you, friend Susan.’

Susie smiled wryly, and both rose, ready to leave. ‘We’ll go back to the office and sign the contract.’ Del strolled ahead, out of the restaurant, hoping to avoid another encounter with Marco. She could hear him, behind her, loudly singing her praises as Susie paid the bill. She wasn’t sure it was anything more than plain flattery; he had probably seen her as a regular customer. If so, wrong tactics, Del thought. She worked her way through those waiting for take-away and paused at the door. The rain had returned, it was fairly bucketing down. Cars squished past. Del decided that, if it continued to rain, she would give the shopping a miss. She also decided she should check if and when Anne and Sarah were planning to call. Susie joined her. She had acquired an umbrella from Marco and the two, sharing, launched themselves onto the footpath, half-running towards the office building and the publishing office.

The rain was a slight drizzle as Del manoeuvred her small vehicle out of the underground car park and onto the road. She called into the Greenwich Road shops for a few supplies and was barely home when Anne and Sarah arrived.

‘Tennis was cancelled,’ Anne told her as Del ushered her sister and sister-in-law into the apartment.

‘After we arrived at the court, of course,’ Sarah added. ‘We were scheduled on a Roseville court and it was sunning when I left home.’

‘Anyway, we called here, taking a punt you’d be in, but you weren’t. A pity because it meant we had to interrupt this part of our day.’

Del looked away, hiding the quick bubble of anger, biting back a retort. ‘Tea or coffee?’ What was so urgent that they had to see her anyway? How could she get through to them that she was working again; that she was just not available for social calls at any time of the day. But, she had to admit that was not quite so, she wrote at all hours or she would if she was buried under a heap of demanding assignments. So she said nothing as she filled the electric jug, switched it on to boil.

‘Coffee would be great, thanks Del.’

‘Yes, I’ll have coffee too.’ Anne seated herself at the table, motioning Sarah, who was sinking into a lounge chair, to join her there.

By the time Del backed through the swing doors carrying the tray of coffee cups and plunger, Anne was organised with objects neatly stacked in front of her. Del set the tray down at the other end of the table; away from the little wooden and china boxes in which her mother had kept her precious objects. Precious to her, anyway. Slowly, she pressed the plunger down, thinking about her mother’s pieces and knowing she did not covet any of them.

‘Now, there’s several ways to go about this,’ said Anne, accepting her coffee and setting it down well to her right. ‘But I think the best and fairest method would be to take a pick each then, after round one, round two.’

Fidelma suppressed a sigh but had to smile when Sarah winked at her.

‘I’ve been trying to work out the best way to apportion the items but it’s all a bit biased. I mean, you have two daughters, Del, and Sarah has no children. Do you get three choices to her one? Do I include George and the grand-kiddies in my choice. I’ve briefly discussed this with Sarah but I need your opinion too. What do you think?’

‘What if we don’t want anything? Don’t want any items?’

‘Oh but we do! These are Mummy’s finest treasures.’

‘Yes. Exactly. Mummy’s treasures. But are they ours?’

‘Really, Del, you’ve been so contrary since poor Mummy died.’ She fiddled with the containers, shifting them slightly.

‘Anne. I do not want any of Mummy’s treasures. Thank you. And that goes for the twins too.’

‘You would disinherit them on your whim?’

‘Hardly disinheritance,’ Del muttered and bowed her head as she became aware of Sarah’s narrowed eyes studying her.

Silently they sipped their coffees. Del felt uncomfortable, could sense Anne’s growing anger and Sarah’s curious detachment. Why couldn’t Anne realise their mother’s treasures were just trinkets, not worth bickering over? Sarah rubbed her fingers lightly against her lips, her eyes concentrated on Del, and Anne continued her fiddling.

‘Mummy’s Will left all her assets split evenly between the three of us. That’s why I’m trying to do the fair thing for us all.’

Petulance, Del thought, twisting the corner of her handkerchief out of sight under the table, wondering what Anne’s real agenda was. Trying to think of which piece of jewellery Anne must be after. There was nothing of value that she could think of. Except, perhaps, the diamond engagement ring. And it was sensible that Anne have that; it wouldn’t fit on Del’s finger anyway. Del’s suppressed sigh escaped; there were tears on Anne’s cheeks and Sarah glowed with amusement. Peace. There was nothing worth fighting over.

‘All right, Anne. You go first.’

Anne wriggled a bit in her chair then lifted the lid off a small, blue Wedgwood bowl. ‘I think, as the eldest, I should have the engagement ring.’ She picked it out, holding it between index and thumb, displaying it to them. ‘It should fit me.’

‘Yes, Anne, put it on.’ Sarah encouraged. Anne slid it smoothly onto her ring finger, right hand and stretched her arm out, admiring it. ‘Nice.’

‘Thank you.’ Anne was perky again, satisfied. ‘Now, Sarah, it’s your turn.’ She pushed the boxes towards her.

Slowly, Sarah lifted one lid, replaced it, lifted a second, replaced it, then the third. ‘There’s not much call for brooches these days. Chains, yes, but brooches. Perhaps the pearls.’ She slid a small beaded, single strand necklace onto her palm and, with the other hand, lifted the catch, examining it coolly. Several little diamantines were missing.

‘You could always get them replaced.’ Anne snapped.

‘But do I want to?’ Sarah answered sweetly, curling the string back into a sandalwood box before stretching to reach for a small, brown suede bag. She pulled the drawstring and shook the contents onto her palm. ‘Aha. Pearls again. But methinks these might be worth having.’ Spreading the three strand necklace out on the table, she gently stroked the beads, lifted and checked the catch. ‘Did you know you can tell the quality of pearls by the catch? These are quite a creamy colour; maybe its age.’

‘They were Mummy’s twenty-first birthday present from her parents. I think Del should have them.’

‘Ah, but I had second choice. Del must choose after me.’ Sarah oozed wicked amusement.

‘And they would suit Del’s skin colouring.’

‘But I don’t want them.’

‘You must, Del. Mummy would have wanted you to have them.’

Del leaned back in her chair. ‘It’s interesting, isn’t it, what happens to things, such as jewellery.’ She smiled at the two puzzled faces looking at her. ‘I mean, I would have loved something from the old Fidelma. Where is her stuff?’ She almost added, to tease them further, that she was the black sheep, the little throw-back, but decided against it. Thinking it, though, brought a brightness to her eyes, a happy smile on her face.

‘Lord knows. And that is beside the point. Are you going to take these pearls?’ Why, if she was so determined that Del have the pearls, had she allowed Sarah second choice? It seemed Anne was out to cross Sarah.

‘They’re Sarah’s.’ Del flicked her sister-in-law a sly glance. Sarah needed no further encouragement. She lifted the pearls, dropped them back into their bag and, drawing the string firmly closed, smiled smugly. Together, they had outwitted Anne and her mischievous plans to control the distribution.

‘I see.’ Anne sniffed her disapproval. ‘Then, what do you want?’

‘Nothing, I’ve told you. Nothing at all — unless it belonged to the old Fidelma.’

‘I suppose we can always revisit the items if you change your mind.’ She gathered the containers together, replaced them in the paper carry bag, a pretty bag decorated with a motif of bright red cherries, and lifted her handbag onto her lap. She leant forward, changing the subject. ‘Did you know you get your flair for languages from Mummy, Del?’

Del shook her head slowly, her thoughts trying to second guess Anne again.

‘Yes. She was learning a foreign language. I found a letter from her pen-friend in England who must have been learning too.’ She flashed a full smile at them both. ‘Isn’t that fascinating? No wonder she encouraged you so much, Del.’

‘We think it’s from a pen friend. It’s rather difficult to understand. We thought you would like to look at it.’

‘Sure thing.’ Anne had pulled an envelope from her bag; Sarah took it from her and passed it to Del.

‘It’s post marked Liverpool. That’s how we know it came from England. And her name is Sally Brennan. Wouldn’t it be good if we could trace her?’

Del removed the single sheet of poor quality paper from its envelope. Smoothing the letter out her practised eye realised immediately that English was not the writer’s first language. Nor was the writer’s name Sally. It was Sal Brenna. ‘Cuckoo!’ screamed inside her head, the writing blurred and the sudden memory of the horrid, deathbed scene threatened to swamp her.

‘What is it, Pet?’ Anne barked. Sarah stretched her hand onto Del’s. With bowed head, feigning concentration, Del fought for the strength to face them, the strength to appear normal, as if nothing was amiss.

Gaining self-control, she chose to ignore their concern. ‘It is difficult to read. And the ink is not the greatest,’ she murmured.

‘But you are able to read it? Understand it?’ Again, Del was aware of Sarah’s intense scrutiny as Anne quizzed her.

‘In time, yes.’

‘In time? Why can’t you read it now?’

‘It’s rather complicated. It’s in at least three languages,’ she lied. ‘I’ll look at it tonight, let you have a translation tomorrow.’

‘All right. But I just thought —’ Anne shrugged.

Del took another risk. ‘And I’ve changed my mind about selecting something from Mummy’s treasures. I select this.’

‘But, Del, the letter is of interest to us all.’

‘Yes. But it is my choice to have it.’

‘Is that letter more than just a pen-pal thing?’ Sarah was sharp.

‘No. I don’t think so.’ She began to fold the paper and slide it back into its envelope. Even if Anne insisted on having it back, she had bought herself time to photocopy it. But she didn’t want Anne to have it back. And much less allow Sarah further access. Sarah was quite capable of paying for a translation.

Even at a confused glance, Del knew the letter was dynamite; the writer surely a Salvatore, not a Sally. And probably her father.