ever wondered why your husband
is so popular with the women
in the village?
Whoever had sent it had to be sick in the head. Billy was no philanderer. He would no more betray Florence than she would him. She trusted Billy completely. With her life. With their children’s lives come to that!
The letter had arrived in the post that morning long after Billy had begun kneading the first batch of bread dough in the bakery, and just as Florence was about to set off for work at Island House. She had worked there for Romily since before the war and her job had changed many times over the years, from general housemaid duties, to nanny and now overall housekeeper and personal assistant. ‘You’re indispensable to me,’ Romily often said, ‘my secret weapon in keeping my life on track.’ Florence had always felt honoured that Romily regarded her the way she did, and that she insisted Florence use her Christian name. There had never been any standing on ceremony between them. Now, with Romily currently away in America, Florence was tasked with looking after Island House while Hope and Edmund Flowerday lived there temporarily.
When she had opened the envelope, she had initially stared in confusion at the cut-out letters of newspaper print which had been glued onto the paper. Then slowly, as if word by word, it had dawned on her what she had in her hands – a poison pen letter. She had shaken her head in disbelief.
‘Rubbish!’ she’d declared aloud. ‘Disgusting filth!’ She’d then lifted the lid on the range and tossed the letter in. ‘That’s where rubbish belongs,’ she’d muttered, ever the pragmatist. For good measure she had added the envelope, but not before examining the handwriting to see if she recognised it. She didn’t.
If she had believed burning the letter would put a stop to her thinking about it, she was wrong. All morning at Island House while she went about her duties, she couldn’t stop wondering who could have sent it.
There was only one person who she could believe might want to cause her trouble, and that was Billy’s mother.
Ruby Minton had never thought Florence was good enough for her precious Billy. Maybe the nasty woman was right, but they had been happily married for two decades and had given Ruby two wonderful grandchildren, George and Rosie. Even so, Ruby could still find fault with anything she did or said.
In the early days of their marriage, Florence had hoped the antagonism her mother-in-law displayed towards her would lessen as the years went by, but it didn’t. Since Billy’s dad had passed away, Ruby’s behaviour had escalated, and she brimmed over with venomous resentment for Florence. But would she stoop to this? Did she really hate Florence that much? And if Ruby wasn’t the culprit, who did hate Florence to the extent they wanted to cause trouble between her and Billy? Was it some jealous woman who had designs on Billy for herself?
Oh, if only Romily was back at Island House and not still in America! She was the one person in the world in whom Florence felt she could confide about this. She would know what Florence should do. That was the thing about Romily, she was always so clear-headed and always knew just how to deal with a crisis.
Chapter Four
Casa Santa Rosa, Palm Springs,
October 1962
Romily
Lost in thought, Romily Devereux-Temple stood in her nightclothes on the terrace of the guest house at Casa Santa Rosa. After a restless night, she was pondering the wisdom of her being here. She couldn’t help but think it had been a mistake to extend her time in America by accepting the invitation to spend a week in Palm Springs. But everybody had been so persuasive.
Or was it her flattered ego that had been so persuasive and overruled her common sense?
That was the thing about Hollywood, people there could twist your arm to make you do things you wouldn’t ordinarily do; they could sweet-talk you into believing anything was possible. It was the place where dreams were made, and shattered.
Following a lengthy tour of speaking engagements, Gabe and Melvyn Correll, the brothers who ran Starbright Picture Studios, had approached her to discuss their idea about filming the first in her series of Sister Grace books. Since her debut novel was published almost thirty years ago, and to great acclaim, she had written twenty-five detective novels, all of them widely sold around the world. She had only tried her hand at writing because she had hoped it would help fund her then two big passions in life – motor racing and flying. That was when she’d been in her twenties, and what an age ago that felt!
Sister Grace was a fairly recent addition to her canon of sleuthing detectives and after half a dozen novels the rebellious nun with a twinkle in her eye had become a firm favourite with her readers. Romily was rather fond of her too, which was why, when the idea of a Sister Grace film had first been mentioned, she had dismissed the suggestion out of hand. Apart from her being an author and not a scriptwriter, therefore not suited to the job of adapting the novel for the screen, she had felt protective of her protagonist and hated the thought of her creation being spoiled. But then the persuasion, encouraged by her agent back in London who loved the idea and claimed it was high time one of her books was made into a film, had begun. And before she knew it, following a few too many Manhattan cocktails, she had agreed to delay her flight home to England in order to consider the idea in more depth. Gabe and Melvyn had said they had just the man to help her turn her novel into a film script. ‘His name’s Red St Clair and he’s a terrific scriptwriter,’ Gabe said, ‘a genius for getting to the heart of a thing. The pair of you will get on like a house on fire.’
So here she was, a guest in Gabe and Melvyn’s sprawling Palm Springs home waiting to meet said ‘genius’. Much as it galled her, she had to admit that she was now experiencing a flutter of excitement at the prospect of seeing her novel Sister Grace Falls from Grace turned into a film. Which just went to show, even a grounded fifty-five-year-old woman like her could be seduced by the bright lights of Hollywood.
With a wry smile, she leaned against the stone balustrade of the terrace. In front of her, and fringed with tall palm trees, was a sweep of lush green lawn and a turquoise swimming pool with sunbeds placed invitingly around it. Vibrant flowers of scarlet and fuchsia pink tumbled from stone urns and classical statues stood guard at strategically placed points.
None of which, to Romily’s mind, could compete with the natural beauty of the mountainous backdrop. In the early morning light of dawn, Mount San Jacinto glowed in the roseate blush of the rising sun. High above it was an unbroken sky washed with pale lavender. It was an astonishingly beautiful sight. The arid air was already warm and fragrant with orange blossom. The guest house in which she was accommodated was entirely separate but lacked nothing in the way of comfort or luxury. A maid – a middle-aged Mexican woman called Clara – had shown her from the main house to where she was to sleep and had impressed upon her that if there was anything she wanted, any time of the day or night, she had only to pick up the telephone and ring through her request.