“It’s when the pancreas becomes inflamed and permanently damaged, meaning it stops working properly. It can be terribly unpleasant, causing weight loss, and severe abdominal pain.”

Liv felt a flush circle her neck. She wished she’d asked Essie about her weight loss, or mentioned the hidden gin bottles, even if the author might have accused her of prying.

Liv searched on her phone for the condition, and read her findings aloud. “‘The most common cause of pancreatitis is by drinking excessive amounts of alcohol over the years. It can cause repeated episodes of acute pancreatitis which results in increasing damage to the organ, so surgery might be needed...’” She stopped and considered her findings. Maybe Essie’s condition was yet another reason why she shut herself away in her writing room.

“It can be a risky operation. Afterward, the doctor was honest and told her things could go either way,” Anthony said, toying with his pin badge. “Essie called me that night, groggy and worried about the outcome. When I visited her the next day, she’d taken a turn for the worse.”

Liv pressed her lips together. “What happened?” she said.

“She’d developed an infection that was spreading throughout her body. The doctor said nothing could be done. They’d try to keep her comfortable, but...” Anthony shook his head in disbelief. “Essie managed to write a few things down in her notebook, before...”

Liv’s stomach knotted as she thought about Essie being given this terrible news. She held a hand to her throat. “Were you with her when...?”

“Yes.” His jaw clenched.

“What about a partner, or boyfriend?” Liv said, thinking about the bouquets of white roses again. “Essie’s ex-PA Matilda said she was in love with someone.”

Something imperceptible fell across Anthony’s face. He adjusted his jacket. “Then Matilda must know more than I do,” he said. “Let’s not turn Essie’s passing into one of her romance novels.”

“I wasn’t trying to. And her books are adventures.” She wondered if Anthony had even read any of them. “I just think someone should tell this guy. He’ll wonder where Essie is and we can’t just leave him hanging. Are you sure there’s nothing else in her yellow notebook?”

Anthony’s mouth became a straight line, and he didn’t speak.

The air had tensed between them so Liv focused on her blank piece of paper and attempted to write a sonnet. She made it about a writer and her mystery lover, to connect Essie with someone on paper, if not in person.

Anthony did the same and sighed at his own writing efforts. “It’s rather a huge task she left you,” he said eventually. “How long did you work for Essie? Three years?”

Liv heard suspicion in his voice. She supposed a bestselling author thinking of her cleaner on her deathbed was unusual. “I met her twice before then,” she said.

“Ah, really. Twice?”