THE WOMAN IN ROOM 218 TOOK THE HARMLESS-LOOKING WHITE ENVELOPE FROM THE BELLBOY AND OPENED IT WITH ONLY MECHANICAL INTEREST. THEN, STUPID WITH SHOCK, SHE READ THE PRINTED, UNSIGNED MESSAGE: “I’VE BEEN WAITING FOR THIS. IF YOU DON’T CALL OFF THE WEDDING, I WILL.”

SURELY, THE WOMAN THOUGHT, SHE COULD IDENTIFY WHO...? AND SHE COULD DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT.

BUT WHO WAS THE BRIDE? WHO HAD THREATENED HER? AND WHAT WAS CELIA’S ROLE IN THIS? CELIA, WHO WAS AS SLEEKLY STRIKING AS A LEOPARD—AND AS DANGEROUS. SHE HAD BEEN A HEAVY, DOWDY, INARTICULATE GIRL OF EIGHTEEN WHEN SHE HAD LEFT THE TENEMENT IN A NEW ENGLAND SLUM TO WORK FOR THE RICH, PLEASANT STEVENSONS. IF IT HAD NOT BEEN FOR AN UNFORTUNATE EPISODE WITH THE STEVENSONS’ SON, SHE WOULD NEVER HAVE BECOME OLD MR. TOMLINSON’S HOUSEKEEPER. HERE, BEHIND A MASK OF INNOCENCE, SHE MANEUVERED THE FIRST SHOCKING TRAGEDY THAT WAS TO START HER ON THE PRECARIOUS CLIMB TO A WORLD SHE WAS DETERMINED TO ENTER, A WORLD SHE HAD KNOWN ONLY AS AN OUTSIDER.

LETTER OF INTENT IS A CHILLING PSYCHOLOGICAL DRAMA ABOUT A WOMAN, DRIVEN BY AMBITION, WHO WOULD USE ANY WEAPON AGAINST HER ADVERSARIES. THE TENSION MOUNTS UNTIL THE ACTION REACHES AN UNEXPECTED SHATTERING CLIMAX.

Copyright © 1971 by Ursula Curtiss

All rights reserved

ISBN 0-396-06356-X

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 70-145394

THE harmless-looking white envelope with her name and room number printed on it in pencil was delivered by a bellboy at six o’clock on that cold January evening. He was a new and very conscientious bellboy, and volunteered that the envelope had just been discovered at the desk; he didn’t think it could have been there long.

The woman in 218 opened it with only mechanical interest, because the two little flourishes with which her name had been underlined did not, so far, carry either mockery or menace. Face grown stupid with shock as the years fell away, she read the brief printed message: “I’ve been waiting for this. If you don’t call off the wedding, I will.”

There was no signature; her world was to be blown to pieces by a gloved hand. No, she thought, almost crystal with rage. No.

It was a convulsive reaction that made her tear the envelope and the single sheet of paper into small pieces and burn them in the generous bedside ashtray before she flushed them away. Then, automatically, she wiped the smoky glass until it shone again. The very activity, the fact of having sent this dreadful thing into permanent oblivion, helped to slow her racing heart and collect her wits.

A warning implied a grace period. Surely, if she thought hard enough, she could identify who . . . ?

And do something about it. Tonight.

One

MRS. JAMES STEVENSON was a woman of poise and experience, and did not at all dread the breaking-in of a new young maid; if anything, she felt it a challenge. “You’ll be Celia,” she said briskly, welcoming the girl on a dark and dripping winter morning. “Goodness, you’re wet! If you had called half an hour ago Mr. Stevenson could have met you at the station.”

There was no response in the rather square face under the heavily braided pale-blonde hair, although the word “wet” seemed to have registered; the girl began to unbutton her brown coat with uncertain fingers.

“That’s it,” said Mrs. Stevenson encouragingly, making a lightning assessment of the figure that emerged. Tall, big-boned, obviously healthy; probably younger than the eighteen she was purported to be. Her apparent bewilderment must be a language difficulty, compounded by Mrs. Stevenson’s English accent, because there was nothing slow about the dark eyes—indeed, they were making an almost disconcerting assessment in return.

The impression of—was intelligence the proper word?— was quickly borne out. Celia, whose consonant-laden last name Mrs. Stevenson never mastered, was an apt and even anxious pupil. Within a week she had breakfast on the table exactly as the Stevensons liked it, in three weeks she could serve dinner without an air of painful concentration. And, an attribute her employer found rarer than rubies, she did not break things. Her hands were so deft and sure that for the first time in years Mrs. Stevenson relinquished the care of the Coalport china and the good wine glasses.

The weeks became months, and Celia still did not demand extra time off or complain because there was no television set in her room. Mrs. Stevenson might almost have thought her too good to be true if she were not matter-of-factly aware that the working conditions were pleasant; in fact, she never had to seek the offices of employment agencies, as maids who departed because of marital or other family problems always had a relative to volunteer. As an employer, she herself was firm but good-tempered, and took a genuine interest in the well-being of anyone who worked for her. For most of the time, although their married daughter came for an occasional visit with her children, and their son was periodically home from college, the household consisted of Mr. and Mrs. Stevenson and a very well-behaved French poodle.

For her part, Celia was more than content. The fact of a bedroom not shared with two younger sisters was a luxury in itself, and for a long time she was amazed that there were never any shouted quarrels, let alone physical abuse, under the Stevenson roof; for the first few days she supposed that her employers were simply not speaking to each other. Far from resenting Mrs. Stevenson’s brisk suggestions as to her appearance, she seized upon them. She did not even mind parting with a good deal of her heavy hair, and she stopped eating potatoes and bread and attacked raw carrots and apples.

Most of all, hardly aware that she did so, she observed.