place to sub/pub events
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As my health improved, I managed to push the dread of what I had done to the back of my mind, and I appeared, at least outwardly, to be happy and carefree.
Soon. I thought. Soon I shall see my home again.
However, one day, when Henry and I were sharing breakfast, a letter came from my father, and the news It contained threw me back into despair.
‘What on earth is it?’ Henry asked anxiously.
‘I must go back to Geneva immediately,’ I said, almost overcome with grief. ‘William is dead.’
‘Dead? But he can’t be . . . ‘
‘He’s dead, Henry! Read it yourself and see.’
My little brother had taken a walk one evening and not returned. The family had searched for him and found him at last, stretched out on the grass with the marks of some cruel hand on his neck.
At length Henry looked up from the letter, pale with shock.
‘Murdered?’ he whispered. ‘I don’t understand. He was such a sweet child, so innocent . . . ‘
‘It’s there in my father’s own hand.’ I said bitterly ‘William was wearing a locket. It bore a portrait of my mother, and when his body was found, the locket was missing. Clearly, he was murdered for it. And now Elizabeth blames herself because she gave him the locket. She weeps all the time and won’t be comforted. Henry, will you help me to pack? I must go to them tonight.’
