The Seventh Secret Read Free

left of themselves for the post-funeral reception at her father's house—her house—several blocks from the university, where her father had lived a lifetime.
    The dreadful news had come in early evening by telephone from the police in West Berlin. Miss Emily Ashcroft? There has been a serious accident. Your father, Sir Harrison Ashcroft, knocked down by a truck and killed. A hit-and-run driver. Your father died immediately. Sorry, so very sorry.
    There had been more, but Emily had been unable to comprehend it. In complete shock, somehow disbelieving, she had managed to phone their old family physician, irrationally thinking he might save her father. But the physician had understood the reality, had come over at once, had given her a sedative, and had then summoned Pamela, who in turn had summoned some of Dr. Ashcroft's closest faculty friends.
    It was a terrible time, the worst of her entire life.
    And she could not turn to Jeremy. That had been another death—not comparable to this, her father's death—but in a way a prelude to misery. That one had been almost six months back, after Jeremy Robinson had been part of her life for a year. It had begun when Emily was summoned to London to write and host a new BBC documentary television film on the rise and fall of the Third Reich. The filming of her scenes had progressed smoothly, professionally, and when her job was done she had eagerly accepted Jeremy's invitation to a farewell dinner for two.
    Jeremy had attracted her from the start. He was a most handsome and charming middle-aged man. True, a married man. With two young children. Jeremy had wanted an affair, but Emily had hesitated. She had been that route before and knew it was a dead end. When Jeremy assured her that he was in the process of divorcing his wife, and wanted to marry her as soon as it was possible, Emily had dropped her resistance and they had become lovers, although she had chosen not to move in with him.
    Their affair at his pied-à-terre near the studio had been exciting and promising. From the beginning Emily had told her father about Jeremy. Sir Harrison had approved immediately. His own wish was for his daughter's happiness. Then, six months ago, Jeremy had phoned to cancel their customary weekend together in the country. He had been assigned to produce a dramatization of Moll Flanders for the BBC, starring the rising young actress, Phoebe Ellsmore. A plum of an assignment, but preparatory work would tie him up on the weekend. After that, he had canceled three more weekends and finally ceased phoning altogether. Then had come the shocking announcement in the press: Jeremy Robinson, having obtained his divorce, was about to marry Phoebe Ellsmore.
    It had been the crudest sort of personal humiliation. For several days, Emily had not been able to face her father, but when she had he had consoled her and said she was better off knowing now what she might have got into.
    Her hurt had remained, yet was gradually diminishing. Realistically she knew her pain had not been caused by the loss of love, but by wounded pride. Soon, looking back, she had been able to see that what she had really wanted was not Jeremy himself but conformity in marriage, a home, children of her own, and, mostly, a change of scenery. The idea of breaking away from lecturing, from confining research and writing, had appealed to her more than Jeremy had. She had been fond of him, of course. But when the air cleared, she had been able to see that an alliance with Jeremy would have been a disaster. After hurt had coagulated into distaste, the memory of him had begun to evaporate into the happier euphoria of good riddance.
    Thank God, she'd had a fallback position. With renewed energy, she'd thrown herself into the completion of the Hitler biography. Increasingly, the book and her father had once more become the most important things in her life.
    And now this, the most devastating loss of all.
    Following the telephone call