Page 103 of Marble Hall Murders

‘He’d already started writing and it would have been very difficult to get rid of him. But I persuaded them that we’d manage the situation.’

‘That’s why you brought me in!’ I stared at him. If there had been a coffee cup or an ink bottle at hand, I might have thrown it at him. ‘You didn’t really want me to edit the book. You wanted me to keep him under control.’

It should have been obvious all along. Even Frederick Turner in far-off Marble Hall had known Eliot was writing a book. Jonathan Crace had admitted it too. ‘I feared the worst from the start.’ At the end of our meeting, he’d gone on to taunt me: ‘You really don’t know anything, do you!’ I’d wondered what he meant at the time, but I could see it now. I’d been brought into all this like some kind of sacrificial lamb.

‘You lied to me,’ I said. ‘Or at least, you didn’t tell me the complete truth. And it’s worse than that. It may be thanks to you that Eliot was killed.’

‘What are you talking about?’ Michael’s eyes widened. ‘It was a drunk driver. A hit and run.’

‘The police are treating it as murder.’ I didn’t mention the fact that right now I was their main suspect. ‘You heard what he said. You were there. He believed that his grandmother was killed deliberately and he was going to name the person who did it in his book.’

‘That was all nonsense. I’ve already spoken to Jonathan Crace—’

‘I’m sure you have. You all think that Miriam Crace died of a heart attack and Eliot was making it all up to promote himself.’

‘You think he wasn’t?’

‘Somebody thought he wasn’t. That’s why he’s dead.’

Michael got to his feet. ‘The trouble with you, Susan, is that you’ve been involved in one real-life murder too many and you’ve lost all sense of proportion. You know, it makes me wonder if Charles Clover really did kill Alan Conway or whether you imagined that too. I knew him for ten years – he was a good friend of mine – and I never thought he had it in him to commit a crime like that. I don’t deny that he attacked you, but maybe he was defending himself against exactly the sort of accusations that I’m hearing now. I really don’t think we’ve got anything more to say to each other.’

I stood up too. ‘Of course, Michael. Charles was a charming man and I’m sure the two of you got on splendidly when he wasn’t pushing people off roofs, something he confessed to, incidentally, and which even his wife has admitted he did. But I agree with you about one thing. When you say we’ve got nothing more to say to each other, you’re absolutely right.’

I walked out of his office, out of a job and – I was beginning to think – fast out of options.

As I made my way towards the station, I thought about what I’d just heard. I’d assumed that it was a secret hidden inside the book that had led to Eliot’s death. That was what I had told Blakeney and Wardlaw and it was what I still believed. But it now occurred to me that the identity of Miriam Crace’s killer might not matter – assuming they even existed. From the very start, Eliot had been an embarrassment. To his uncle Jonathan, to Frederick Turner at Marble Hall, to everyone involved in a deal that was worth hundreds of millions of pounds. In other words, it might not have been what was inside the book that got him killed. Eliot might have been a target before he had even written a word.

The Man with White Hair

My next stop was Eliot’s home in Notting Hill Gate.

Gillian Crace hadn’t been at the party and I needed to see her. She was one of the only members of the family who was on my side and I was worried about her. I think she still loved Eliot, despite everything that had happened, and I wondered who had told her about his death and who would be with her now. I hoped it would be Elaine. There were questions I wanted to ask her about what had happened after I’d left the night before. How long had she stayed? Had she managed to talk to Eliot? How soon after me had he left and had she seen anyone following him?

But there was a more pressing reason why I’d come to the house. Eliot had spent months working on the structure of his book and he must have left notes, outlines, diagrams … whatever. I wanted them. They might tell me who had poisoned Margaret Chalfont. That same person might have killed Miriam Crace, run over Eliot and gone on to frame me. I knew I was being coldly opportunistic, but what choice did I have? If I was going to persuade the police ofmy innocence, it would help to know who had actually committed the crimes.

I rang the bell and, after a long pause, the door was opened – but not by Gillian or Elaine. The man who was standing in front of me was someone I had never met, but I recognised him at once. He was in his sixties, bearded, examining me with tired eyes that sat beneath a crop of prematurely white hair – at odds with his charcoal grey eyebrows. These were the exact attributes that Eliot had given Elmer Waysmith, the stepfather in his book. He was casually dressed in jeans, a jersey and trainers – all of which looked American. From the way he stood there, leaning against the doorway, he made it clear that he was the true owner of the house.

Edward Crace.

‘Yes?’ He was a man who had just learned of the loss of his younger son. They might not have been close, but the news had still drained the life out of him.

‘Mr Crace?’

‘I don’t think we’ve met, have we?’

‘No. But I was working with your son. My name is Susan Ryeland.’ I paused for a moment, wondering if he knew who I was. Fortunately, my name didn’t seem to register with him. ‘I am so very sorry for your loss.’

‘Thank you.’ He didn’t move. He didn’t want to invite me in. ‘Working with him in what way?’ he asked.

‘I’m a freelance editor. I was helping him with his book.’

He looked puzzled, as if he had a faint recollection of Eliot working on something but couldn’t remember what it was. ‘Oh, yes. Gillian told me. He was writing a mystery story.’

‘That’s right. I only met Eliot a short time ago, but he wasvery talented and I couldn’t believe it when I heard about the …’ I couldn’t complete the sentence. What was the missing word? The accident? The murder? ‘… about what happened,’ I concluded lamely. ‘I had dinner with him and I met Gillian for the first time just a few days ago. How is she?’

‘She’s taken it very badly. Right now, she’s resting … upstairs.’

‘Can I come in? If only for a few minutes. I’d love to see her.’

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