CHAPTER SIXThe Doctor, the proprietor, furious that anyone should die in his hotel, curious femmes de chambre, valets eager to see if there were any pickings to be made amongst the deceased’s clothes, telegrams to be sent to relations.
Fiona could never remember afterwards whom she had seen and whom she had not, what she had done and what she had not done.
All she could understand was that Andrew, her dear Andrew who loved her, was dead, dead in a strange hotel where only she knew him well.
He had died with a smile on his lips and Fiona was glad that their last night together had been such a happy one.
‘The last month of his life was one of happiness,’ she told herself. ‘I have nothing at all to regret.’
The Doctor, who was French, was very kind and understanding. It was he who took m
