Joan put her good arm out to send him back. ‘No! I need to go.’
‘You really can’t! You won’t last ten minutes. Honestly, Joan, trust me. I wish you would.’
She sat there, pink in the face from the effort and regarding him fiercely.
‘I have to get to my desk. There are things I need to do. I may not have much time . . .’
That knock to her head was worse than he thought. She was being silly. He folded his arms. ‘Don’t be so dramatic. I won’t let you go.’
‘You can’t keep me here!’
‘I will if I have to.’
‘Look!’ she said, rising to stand, swaying, and sitting back down, hard. ‘I was nearly killed. Maybe you don’t take it seriously, but don’t tell me not to be dramatic.’
He put his hands up. ‘I know. You’ve been through a lot. I’m sorry. But someone needs to take care of you at the moment. I . . . What?’
Joan’s glare had become a puzzled frown. There was a spark of suspicion in her lovely, intelligent hazel eyes. Hector realised he’d made a rare mistake, but these were emotional times. He hadn’t slept much recently.
‘I told you I was nearly killed,’ she said slowly, ‘and you said, “I know.”’
‘Well, of course you were!’ he expostulated. ‘A van nearly ran you over.’
‘You said it was an accident.’
‘Exactly.’
She shook her head. ‘It wasn’t . . .’ She was staring at him again. ‘And I don’t think you think so, either.’
Her lips were tight. He should have told her not to be silly. The trouble was, he agreed with her and he hadn’t thought she’d work it out so quickly, if at all. She had caught him off guard.
The frown line between her eyebrows deepened.
‘What do you know, Hector?’
‘Nothing!’ he protested, with a well-practised look of innocence that didn’t seem to assuage her at all.
‘Were you there? No. Did someone call in? Were you having me followed?’
‘Of course not! I’m not some sort of mad obsessive, Joan. I’m just your concerned landlord, that’s all. And I’m worried about those pills of yours. Perhaps you ought to halve the dose.’
Her voice was cold.
‘What do you know?’ she repeated.
‘What is there to know?’
She shook her head and winced at the pain of it, and it was worse than the coldness because now there were tears in her eyes.
Her voice broke as she said, ‘Stop lying, please. I don’t have the energy. Someone’s trying to kill me, and you know it. And you know about the suitcase. I saw you glance at it just now. And I know about the Secret Service. Or, what do you call it?’ She frowned, trying to remember the official name that was rarely spoken. ‘MI5. So cut the bullshit, Hector. Did you have me followed?’
He sighed. This hadn’t gone the way he expected at all. He should be the one asking questions.
‘I’ll bring you a tray,’ he offered. ‘I’ve been warming up some soup.’
Chapter 44
There was more than soup. To Hector’s frank amazement, a footman had delivered a hamper from the palace that morning, containing two large Thermos flasks of cock-a-leekie, a loaf of fresh bread, a glass jar filled with handmade chocolates and a box of heather-scented shortbread. There was also a large bouquet of tasteful white flowers from the Queen’s favoured florist, and a handwritten note in calligraphic script, saying ‘Get well soon’.
Hector showed Joan the message and put the flowers, roughly arranged in a water jug, among the scattered kirby grips and photograph frames on her nightstand. He plumped her pillows and put the soup tray on her lap. She seemed somewhat mollified, but not as much as he had hoped.
‘Somebody is concerned about you,’ he observed. ‘Do you recognise the handwriting?’
She looked at the note blankly and shook her head. ‘No.’
‘Not Sir Hugh, then? I wondered.’
She raised half an eyebrow. ‘Not him. A clerk, I think.’
She knew he was fishing, and she wasn’t giving anything away, this girl. Hmm. He badly needed information from her, but even in her weakened state, it wasn’t going to be easy to get her to talk.
‘Come on, girl, eat.’
Joan did as she was told. He had tried the soup and knew it was perfectly seasoned and quite delicious. Goodness knew, she needed it. In a brief pause between spoonfuls, she looked up at where he stood between the nightstand and the doorway and said flatly, ‘So, you had me followed.’
She was understandably miffed.
‘You may think that,’ he said, ‘but you’ve been in a serious accident. I’m not surprised your brain’s all over the place. And perhaps you’re right. Perhaps it wasn’t an accident. But who on earth would want to hurt you? I don’t understand.’
Joan didn’t even look at him. She finished the soup, ate some of the bread, put the tray to one side, and said, ‘No.’
‘No, what?’
‘No, I’m not answering your questions until you answer mine.’
‘I’m only trying to help.’
Joan closed her eyes and settled back against her pillows.
‘Shut the door on your way out.’
Dammit. If only her brain was all over the place. He needed to know who had targeted her. It mattered for her own safety as much as anything else. And yet she wouldn’t cooperate. Hector could understand why not: she didn’t approve of being tailed.
‘Even if you were followed, I could never admit it,’ he offered. It was the best he could do. Surely she could understand?
Joan opened one eye.
‘Why?’
‘Why can’t I admit it?’
‘Why did you have me followed?’
This was very delicate. ‘You have to trust me. There’s only so much I can say.’
He saw her hackles rise as the other eye opened.
‘Trust you?’ she retorted. ‘You’re spying on me. You think I’m some sort of enemy agent . . .’
‘I promise you, it’s not—’
There were practically sparks coming off her now. ‘You had no right to do this, Major Ross!’
‘I assure you, it was for your own g—’
‘Get out!’
She found a small, embroidered cushion on the bed and flung it at him with force.
Hector withstood the cushion, but not her fury and refusal to cooperate. It was obvious he wasn’t going to get anything out of her if he kept feigning innocence. Besides, the whole situation was so odd he really didn’t know quite how to handle it. Hostile forces and deep-cover sleeper agents he could manage, but complicated women in sensitive positions who suddenly started dressing up . . .
‘I don’t think you’re an enemy agent,’ he said quietly. ‘You were seen somewhere you weren’t supposed to be. Questions were raised. The simplest thing was to get someone to check what you were up to. He had no idea he’d end up saving your life.’
Joan glared at him furiously. ‘He was tracking me! Don’t make it sound as if I should be grateful!’
Hector shrugged. ‘When he started following you, it was more out of curiosity than anything. But you must admit, a junior secretary at the palace who hides wigs in a suitcase and dresses up as a little old lady in the ladies’ lavatories at Victoria Station . . .’
‘What do you mean, “junior secretary”?’ Joan cut in. ‘I’m Her Majesty’s assistant private secretary! It’s a totally different thing!’
Hector sighed. This perhaps hadn’t been the moment for a throwaway remark. It wasn’t at all relevant to what they were talking about.