you."
Could it have been Sarah Smyth, discreet emissary of her father, without the attention of the world upon her, whom Lady Imogen had expected? What was it Lady Imogen had said? "Someone's going to come round tonight to see me but it won't be Burgo." Something like that. Jemima would certainly bet on Sarah rather than Archie being chosen for this task: in Jemima's opinion, Archie Smyth was the kind of son sent to plague successful fathers. And if her hunch was right, Sarah Smyth must also have come around on some previous occasion.
Imogen Swain had breathed something about that too. But the actual collection must have been planned for that fateful night; it had not taken place before because Jemima had seen the bulging plastic bag, with her own eyes.
That led to the crucial question: where were all the letters and all the Diaries (save one) at the present time? Jemima decided to ask Millie Swain straight out before she had recovered from what was evidently and understandably a shock about the single missing Diary.
"Naturally I'm quite prepared to hand it over as soon as possible, to join the others. When your mother gave it to me to take away, as a gift, she said I should take the lot, but I didn't." Jemima realised she had injected a righteous note here: she must make it more casual. "Where are they, by the way? Where are the rest of them?"
Millie Swain continued to stare at her.
"A good question," she said finally, in a level voice from which the usual deep thrill was conspicuously missing. "The frank answer is that I haven't the faintest idea. You could try asking Hattie, I suppose." It was Jemima's turn to stare back. Millie added: "Hattie, the ASM, the young woman with the great hair, she showed you in here. Look, have another glass of wine. Randall wants us to go and have a glass of champagne with him, by the way. He says he's a terrific fan of yours, and then we might have supper in the Italian place opposite and talk. But first I'd better fill you in about Hattie."
"Hattie, she who had an awful day?"
"She had an awful day!" Millie exclaimed. "I'm the one who's had the awful day or rather evening." Jemima's wine was by now rather warm. She had a craven desire for Randall Birley's champagne which she instinctively felt would be ice-cool. However... Hattie. What on earth had curly-haired Hattie to do with Imogen Swain's letters?
"Hattie's really let me down," said Millie angrily. "You see we, Olga and I, we took the whole works or rather we thought we took the whole works away from Hippodrome Square. Naturally Olga didn't want to take that ghastly bundle into her precious temple of a family home, high priest Holy Harry Carter-Fox. So I brought it back to the theatre. But I didn't want it here in my dressing-room either. So I gave the bag to Hattie Vickers. She was still here at the time, even though it was quite late because it was her night for locking up. Not her usual night but old Mike at the door had flu, or a hangover from the weekend or whatever. In fact when I got there, Hattie was chatting up rather than locking up. She was chatting up Randall. Everyone knows she's got a crush on Randall, not a secret."
"Not a crime either. Like a good many of us."
"Oh quite. And shortly you shall have that champagne. Fan shall meet fan. But first of all the story, or rather the Hattie version. Our Hattie had access to some kind of safe or secure locked cupboard somewhere in this rabbit warren backstage and she said she'd put the whole thing in that. By this time, I should say, I'd incarcerated everything in yet another bag, an airline travel bag I had here, Air India. Not very appropriate for poor Madre, she never went anywhere near India. Hattie said she'd lock everything away safely and what with the first night, that seemed the ideal solution. The one thing I didn 't do was read them myself. Couldn't face it. I wonder if I will ever face it."
Millie gave a kind of groan. That all seems ages ago now, doesn't it?
Could it have been Sarah Smyth, discreet emissary of her father, without the attention of the world upon her, whom Lady Imogen had expected? What was it Lady Imogen had said? "Someone's going to come round tonight to see me but it won't be Burgo." Something like that. Jemima would certainly bet on Sarah rather than Archie being chosen for this task: in Jemima's opinion, Archie Smyth was the kind of son sent to plague successful fathers. And if her hunch was right, Sarah Smyth must also have come around on some previous occasion.
Imogen Swain had breathed something about that too. But the actual collection must have been planned for that fateful night; it had not taken place before because Jemima had seen the bulging plastic bag, with her own eyes.
That led to the crucial question: where were all the letters and all the Diaries (save one) at the present time? Jemima decided to ask Millie Swain straight out before she had recovered from what was evidently and understandably a shock about the single missing Diary.
"Naturally I'm quite prepared to hand it over as soon as possible, to join the others. When your mother gave it to me to take away, as a gift, she said I should take the lot, but I didn't." Jemima realised she had injected a righteous note here: she must make it more casual. "Where are they, by the way? Where are the rest of them?"
Millie Swain continued to stare at her.
"A good question," she said finally, in a level voice from which the usual deep thrill was conspicuously missing. "The frank answer is that I haven't the faintest idea. You could try asking Hattie, I suppose." It was Jemima's turn to stare back. Millie added: "Hattie, the ASM, the young woman with the great hair, she showed you in here. Look, have another glass of wine. Randall wants us to go and have a glass of champagne with him, by the way. He says he's a terrific fan of yours, and then we might have supper in the Italian place opposite and talk. But first I'd better fill you in about Hattie."
"Hattie, she who had an awful day?"
"She had an awful day!" Millie exclaimed. "I'm the one who's had the awful day or rather evening." Jemima's wine was by now rather warm. She had a craven desire for Randall Birley's champagne which she instinctively felt would be ice-cool. However... Hattie. What on earth had curly-haired Hattie to do with Imogen Swain's letters?
"Hattie's really let me down," said Millie angrily. "You see we, Olga and I, we took the whole works or rather we thought we took the whole works away from Hippodrome Square. Naturally Olga didn't want to take that ghastly bundle into her precious temple of a family home, high priest Holy Harry Carter-Fox. So I brought it back to the theatre. But I didn't want it here in my dressing-room either. So I gave the bag to Hattie Vickers. She was still here at the time, even though it was quite late because it was her night for locking up. Not her usual night but old Mike at the door had flu, or a hangover from the weekend or whatever. In fact when I got there, Hattie was chatting up rather than locking up. She was chatting up Randall. Everyone knows she's got a crush on Randall, not a secret."
"Not a crime either. Like a good many of us."
"Oh quite. And shortly you shall have that champagne. Fan shall meet fan. But first of all the story, or rather the Hattie version. Our Hattie had access to some kind of safe or secure locked cupboard somewhere in this rabbit warren backstage and she said she'd put the whole thing in that. By this time, I should say, I'd incarcerated everything in yet another bag, an airline travel bag I had here, Air India. Not very appropriate for poor Madre, she never went anywhere near India. Hattie said she'd lock everything away safely and what with the first night, that seemed the ideal solution. The one thing I didn 't do was read them myself. Couldn't face it. I wonder if I will ever face it."
Millie gave a kind of groan. That all seems ages ago now, doesn't it?
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