Page 125 of Marble Hall Murders

Housewife syndrome = oppression/cruelty. Elmer Waysmith coercive. Doesn’t return from business trip. ‘He can be a monster at times.’

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And then there were riddles. Eliot didn’t just think about what he was going to write. He put it all down on the page, interrogating himself. There were dozens of questions but unfortunately no answers. Once he’d worked out what he was going to do, there had been no need to make a note of it.

How do we find out thatGabrielleAlice revealed the will?

How does Lady Chalfont overhear the conversation?

Why did they buy poison from French chemist so close to using it?

Why talk about the tea as if it was poisoned? (Jeffrey and Harry could have lied.)

How did Judith know thatGabrielleAlice lived in a village?

Why did Bruno leave?

Perhaps most perplexing of all was a page simply entitled: CLUES. Eliot had used a process known as seeding whereby a seemingly innocent detail in an early chapter will have a pay-off when the reader gets to the end. InMagpie Murders, for example, Alan had mentioned a dog collar left in a drawer in an old house. It had been a perfect piece of deception: seemingly irrelevant but pointing directly at both the identity of the killer and the motive for the murder. But did these clues make any sense? I could feel Blakeney examining me as I searched through the notebook, trying to look as if I was getting somewhere.

CLUES

Judith shocked to see Pünd.

Double crease in letter to Pünd.

Ginger and lemon tea for Margaret.

Why talk about the tea as if it’s poisoned? Why not lie?

Someone goes down servants’ stairs at 4 pm.

Frédéric Voltaire mentions guillotine.

Lola performs as Mata Hari.

Matches.

Tutoyer in pharmacie scene. Surgical spirit.

I would have liked to have examined every single page, but Blakeney looked anxious to leave. I was disappointed. When he’d suggested an alliance, combining our efforts, I’d felt a distinct Tommy and Tuppence vibe and I’d thought it would be fun. But he’d been stiff and formal from the moment he’d arrived at the house. I was wondering if I should call him ‘Detective Inspector’ again.

I handed him back Eliot’s notes. ‘Did you find any of this useful?’ I asked.

‘It gave me some ideas.’

It was the vagueness of his reply, his refusal to share anything of value, that finally did it for me. ‘What’s wrong?’ I snapped. ‘You were kind to me after someone broke into my flat and I thought we’d come to some sort of understanding. You’re still wondering if my car was used to kill Eliot Crace, but you must have twigged by now that I’m hardly Jack the Ripper. Has there been some sort of development in the case that you’re not telling me? Because you’re nothing like the man I met the other night.’

Blakeney looked at me in surprise – not because I was wrong but because I had been able to see through his thin veneer of amicability. We might have been talking about the book, but the last half hour had passed with all the formality of a police interview under caution.

He took a few moments to consider what I had said. Then he nodded. ‘You’re right, Susan. I haven’t played fair with you and I’m sorry. I did wonder whether I should come here at all, but, to be honest, I needed your insights. In return, I’ve treated you badly.’

‘So what’s happened?’

‘I’m sure you’re aware that in a police investigation there are often pieces of information that we hold back from the public. I must ask you to promise me that you won’t share this with anyone else.’

‘If I’m the cold-blooded criminal that you seem to think I am, I wouldn’t have thought my promises would mean anything. But yes. You have my word.’

‘Did you know that Eliot Crace had an expensive watch?’

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