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‘Indeed. Though it’s not your fault, is it. Have you found out any more about what my brother’s letter might mean?’ She glanced at the back door as it swung open. ‘Ah, here’s Corey. Is the line fixed?’
‘Yep, it shouldn’t drag all your washing through the dirt again. Oh!’ When he spotted Lettie, a smile spread across his face. Then he glanced at his watch. ‘I didn’t realise how time was getting on. I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, Lettie. Is everything all right in here?’
He looked nervously between the two women, who both nodded.
‘I was just asking Miss Starcross if she’d made any headway with unravelling Cornelius’s letter. He was never straightforward.’
‘Not really.’ Lettie paused, wary of upsetting the fragile peace that now seemed to exist between them, but unable to resist trying one more time to find out what the key might open. Corey had said he thought the desk didn’t have any locks… but what if he’d been wrong? She took a deep breath. ‘Although I did wonder if your brother might have been referring to the desk that he made when he told Iris to “sit where I sat”. The desk that he wanted to leave to my great-aunt.’
‘I know the desk you mean,’ said Florence tartly.
‘But there are no locks,’ said Corey, stepping forward. ‘I checked after what you said at the beach, and the drawers don’t lock. They never have. I’m sorry, Lettie.’
So that was that, then. Lettie tried to smile, to show she was grateful to Corey for checking, but made a pretty bad job of it. She hadn’t realised quite how much she wanted the desk to hold all the answers.
Florence was watching Lettie, and her face softened. ‘The desk is priceless to me but it’s nothing out of the ordinary.’ She looked at Corey, who gave a slight nod, before asking: ‘Would you like to see it?’
There wasn’t much point any more, but this was an olive branch indeed. So Lettie smiled and nodded.
‘That would be wonderful, if you wouldn’t mind.’
‘You’d better follow me upstairs then.’
The stairs were narrow and led to a small landing with four doors leading off. Two were open – one to a bathroom with a white enamel basin and bath, and the other to what Lettie assumed must be Corey’s bedroom. A thick grey jumper was thrown over the back of a chair and a large pair of blue trainers lay on the floor where they’d been kicked off. The duvet was pulled back on the bed and a pair of cotton pyjama bottoms were half-hidden beneath the cover. Lettie had a sudden mental image of Corey lying spread-eagled and half-naked across the mattress, his dark hair fanning out across the pillow. It was so unexpected she felt her cheeks flush and she was grateful that he hadn’t yet followed them upstairs.
‘Come along then,’ urged Florence, opening one of the closed doors. ‘Corey’s waiting for you and it’ll do him good to get out for the afternoon. He works too hard.’
She was still standing in the doorway when Lettie reached her.
‘This was Cornelius’s room, Miss Starcross. It’s our guest bedroom though it’s hardly ever used. It’s much as my brother left it.’
Lettie gasped. The room was a social historian’s delight. The walls were a pale blue and plain brown curtains hung from a metal rail above the window. The single bed had a metal frame with no headboard and was draped in an apricot satin-valanced cover. To the side of the bed, a small rug covered the bare floorboards and there was the model of an aircraft on the bedside table. A small wardrobe stood in the corner of the room, and a dark-wood writing desk was against the wall, opposite the window.
‘Is it all right if I go inside?’ asked Lettie.
When Florence nodded, she stepped over the threshold, feeling as though she was entering a museum or sacred space.
Cornelius’s books were still stacked on top of the desk which was a solid piece of furniture, functional rather than attractive but obviously made with care. Two large drawers were topped by a flat writing area, above which stood wooden cubbyholes filled with stationery.
‘Take a look at the desk if you’d like, Miss Starcross,’ said Florence, who’d followed Lettie into the room. ‘Cornelius spent hours making it and he was very proud of his handiwork. As my grandson said, it has no locks.’
Lettie stepped closer to the desk and ran her fingers across its smooth surface. She suddenly had a sharp mental image of Cornelius, the man her great-aunt had lost her heart to, sitting here writing the letter to Iris. Before he went to war. Before he never came back.
But Corey and Florence were right. There were definitely no keyholes here. His letter to Iris must have been a simple declaration of love. That was all it could be and Lettie really was chasing ghosts. She suddenly had an overwhelming urge to cry and dug her nails into her palms to stop herself.
‘Have you seen enough?’ Florence stepped aside for Lettie to leave her brother’s room.
‘I have. Thank you.’ She took a deep breath before blurting out: ‘What happened to your brother is so sad and I’m so sorry, Mrs Allford. I’m sorry it ever happened and I’m sorry for bringing it all back up again. I know you loved Cornelius. It’s just that I loved Iris too.’
Lettie sniffed as a tear dropped onto Cornelius’s desk and rolled along the grain of the wood.
Florence stepped forward and brushed it away.
‘Love can be painful, child, but it’s far more painful to have never loved at all.’ She moved to the door and waited for Lettie to leave the room.
Downstairs, Corey was pacing the small hallway, his body almost filling the narrow space.
‘Is everything OK?’ he asked, his forehead creased with concern.
‘She’s seen the desk,’ said Florence, carefully minding her step as she came down the stairs. ‘And now I need to leave for Maude’s or I’ll be late. Where exactly are you taking Miss Starcross?’
‘To Granite Tor and then I thought perhaps to Kellen Woods. We’ll see.’
A look passed between Florence and Corey that Lettie couldn’t read. Then the old woman nodded.
‘Whatever you think is best.’
