Chapter Twenty-One
VALETTA, MALTA
Harold Hapsworth-Cole sat miserably in his small, cramped and sordid second floor apartment. It overlooked one of the narrow car-infested streets in Valetta, the capital of Malta. He was feeling intensely irritable. Since returning from England a couple of weeks’ earlier, he had moved out of his comfortable rooms in Sliema, believing that the police would be interested in locating him. The temperature outside was rising daily and he was sweating profusely. I’ll never get used to this climate he thought as he surveyed his present living conditions and it wasn’t even the hottest season in Malta yet.
The room was poorly furnished and dominated by a large double bed, which took up most of the available living space. An old, scratched wardrobe groaned under the weight of a couple of battered leather suitcases containing books and papers relating to his now defunct boating company: it also contained the history of his whole life. The wardrobe door swung lazily to and fro, the catch having been broken aeons ago.
On the other side of the room and just beyond the narrow, curtain-less windows, was an equally old and dilapidated, dressing table. It was untidy and piled high with papers and other odds and ends that he hadn’t yet found a place for and probably never would. Directly under the small window, stood a circular metal table and two chairs, only one of which was usable, the other one having only three legs. A small electric fan to one side of the table, whirred and droned noisily, but it had little or no effect on the stuffy oppressiveness of the room. The room smelled of decay and extreme age and several flies buzzed around his head, each vying for position. He groaned, feeling that if he had to spend another day hiding in this old and badly furnished hovel, he would go mad. He knew that he would have to do something soon, because the constant noise coming up from street level seemed to give him a permanent headache.
He couldn’t sleep either. Even when he did manage to doze, his subconscious mind seemed to be peppered and populated by demons. Recently his nightmares had become so bad that he found himself incapable of separating his intensely upsetting dream state, from reality. In fact he was now almost too afraid to go to sleep. Instead he stretched out on top of the bed going over and over in his mind, the details of the letter he’d stolen from that stupid girl in the attic at Epton Hall.
Since returning from England, he had read and reread the letter, but for some reason he hadn’t destroyed it. Instead he had placed it in a small metal box which he now kept hidden underneath his bed. He remembered every word that Amy Butler had written. Night after night, he would lie on his bed trying to picture this unknown woman who, through her actions all those years ago, now threatened his future existence and happiness.
How he hated her.
In Harold’s mixed up mind, his uncle Gerald had been an equal partner in the crimes she had committed. He hated him too, with a fervour that grew in intensity every time he allowed his mind to dwell on it. He was glad that both Marjorie and Gerald were now dead. He had been a traitor to his wife, and to the whole family. He was damned if his uncle’s fancy woman and her brat would ever lay their hands on what should rightly belong to him. The evidence of the illegitimate Hapsworth-Cole child’s existence now lay on the floor beneath him, and nobody else should ever know about it. The letter and the birth certificate were now safe from anyone’s prying eyes, especially those of that meddling girl Katie Nicholson. But yet again, Harold’s mind was confusing him. He had the peculiar feeling that he’d left something undone, but he couldn’t work out what it was and frustration was added to his catalogue of problems.
