“I’ve heard of it, yes.”
“You should check it out. Beyond fabulous,” Nicola said. “Did you know the Germans planned to destroy it during the war but Hitler called them off? Fancied he’d assume residence when the Krauts took over the world. It’s nice to dream big, I suppose. Well, ta-ta! Enjoy your day! Cheers!”
Nicola spun around and toddled off, leaving Annie amused—another Hitler story for the duchess—as well as alone. Alone with a package from Gus.
Fifty-four
15/11/2001
Dear Annie,
Poor timing.
I’ve been called out of town to contend with a family emergency. Don’t worry! Everything is jolly good. For now.
Only as I leave this derelict hamlet do I realize that I want to finish the story. All along I thought I’d tell you only as much as you had the time and tolerance for, and perhaps not even that.
But you should know how things concluded, what happened to Win and to Pru and whether Mrs. Spencer ever revealed herself as the duchess. Of course, titled folks aside, Pru is the true hero of the story, of Win’s biography even, though she’s not mentioned in it once.
Because I cannot enchant you with my winning personality face-to-face I’ve enclosed a set of recordings. These tapes, and the accompanying recorder, are provided gratis. You will not have to commit larceny in order to hear them.
Likewise, your bill has been settled at the clock shop. Ah, you’d not told me about those purloined tapes, had you? A little birdie snitched on you. He said a mysterious American girl arrived in his shop with a stash of someone else’s recordings. The list of suspects was short.
When you put those recordings together with what is in the envelope you now hold, you’ll have a clearer picture of The Missing Duchess. And by that I mean the story behind the story. A book is nothing without the backstory, the through-line holding it all together. I don’t know the full tale myself of course. I’m just one person, one viewpoint, an old bachelor at that. But I’ve shared with you what I can.
Finally, Miss Annie, I will answer one of your more nagging questions. The writer does still live in Paris, on the ?le Saint-Louis, at the address you discovered. Do with that information what you please.
Until I met you, I hadn’t realized what was here. Thank you for showing me, however inadvertently, the narrative’s scope. Thank you for researching and for nosing your way into the lives of Win, Pru, and the duchess. And thank you for asking an old bugger some tough questions. I hope I’ve been of some use to you as well.
Good-bye, for now. Please come see me on your next scholarly expedition.
Cheers and all good things,
Gus
Fifty-five
THE GRANGE
CHACOMBE-AT-BANBURY, OXFORDSHIRE, ENGLAND
JANUARY 1973
The biography was coming along.
Win was getting what he needed, if not what he wanted. Maybe this would turn into a legitimate book yet.
“I think she’s actually into it,” Pru said one night as they went through the library, matching Mrs. Spencer’s stories with the books her friends wrote. “I think she likes how this is going.”
“Of course she does! Look around!” Win said, waving toward the seemingly infinite library. “This woman is an avid reader. She must gaze upon these, tickled that she will eventually star in one herself.”
“Not to mention all the most lauded writers of the day will be only meager players in her story.”
Win chuckled.
“You’re right,” he said. “Conrad. Proust. Mere footnotes. Single entries in the index. ‘Please refer to page ninety-three.’”
“But, a piece of criticism if I may,” Pru said, lifting a John Galsworthy from the shelf. The Skin Game.
“Please, yes. If there’s one thing I lack at the Grange it’s a constant barrage of flak provided by family and friends. It’s like music that’s abruptly gone out.”
“I didn’t realize you were feeling so neglected.” Pru coaxed the book back into place. “I’ll try to step up my game. Anyhow, if you ask me, the phrase ‘avid reader’ is too tepid. You’ve used it at least three times in your book.”
“You’ve a better description, I suppose?”
“Avid is for girls who hide flashlights beneath their pillows so they can finish the latest Nancy Drew after the lights go down.”
“Like our Miss Valentine, I presume.”
“Yes,” she said. “But unlike Lady Marlborough, I never once read so much that I had to spend a week in bed with black bandages over my eyes.”
“Fair enough. I’ll try to be more descriptive.”
Win pivoted around to face her.
“You know, I was thinking,” he said. “That here we are writing the duchess’s story…”
“We’re writing her story?”