Page 2 of Marble Hall Murders

Anyway, it’s not the architecture or the furnishings that separate one publisher from another. It’s the people. And as I walked into Causton Books just before midday, it was Jeanette, the receptionist who had never met me but knew I was coming and greeted me like an old friend, who made me feel at home. She provided me with the inevitable lanyard, opened the airport-style security gates and even managed to programme the lift to take me where I needed to go.

Michael Flynn was waiting for me on the fourth floor, minus the tie but, happily, with trousers and legs. Although we’d never actually met, we weren’t exactly strangers and there was a brief hesitation as we hovered between a handshake and a more modern embrace, finally falling into the latter. With this ritual over, he led me along a passageway with shelves of books on one side and, on the other, a crowd of people in jeans and T-shirts hunched over computer screens, little white earbuds plugged into their heads, all of them at least twenty years younger than me.

He had booked a conference room and we sat on opposite sides of a table that was far too big for two people, surrounded by empty chairs. I noticed at once that as well as a coffee flask, milk and biscuits, he had a typescript waiting for me with a notepad resting on top, obscuring the title and the author’s name … deliberately, I assumed. This was the reason he had wanted to see me.

‘It’s good of you to come in, Susan,’ he began. ‘Will you have some coffee?’

‘Thank you.’

The coffee might have been sitting there for an hour, but it came out steaming. I already liked the real Michael Flynn more than his screen image. There was a steely quality to him. After all, he was high up the ladder in a company employing over a hundred people. But at the same time, he was quieter and perhaps more humane than he had seemed in our conversations. That’s the worst part of Zoom. It provides pictures and sound but sucks out pretty much everything else.

‘How does it feel to be back in London?’ he asked. He had the clipped tones of a BBC newscaster sometime around the Second World War.

‘Strange.’

‘Is it a permanent arrangement?’

‘I think so.’

‘Well, that’s good news for us. You’ve been doing a terrific job for us out in Crete, but I think there will be much better opportunities for you, having you closer at hand.’

‘Does that mean I can start working for you full-time?’ I asked. As a freelancer, I was being paid by the hour – or perhaps by the word – and I had no benefits or security.

Michael’s eyes narrowed and I wondered if I’d annoyed him, being so upfront. ‘I’m afraid that’s not possible right now,’ he said. ‘But, as I mentioned on the phone, we do have a project for you – and if it goes well, we could be open to negotiation.’

‘Atticus Pünd,’ I said.

‘Exactly.’ He had made it clear that he was the one callingthe shots – which was how he wanted the relationship to work. ‘As you know, Orion Books picked up the nine novels Alan Conway wrote and republished them. They did surprisingly well, considering it was public knowledge that Alan had no respect for the character he had created – or for his readers.’

‘That’s putting it mildly.’

‘Well … yes.’ He gave me a sympathetic look. ‘I know you didn’t have much fun working with him.’

‘I didn’t have any fun working with him. But I’m still glad the books were a success.’

It was strange to think how a chance meeting almost thirty years ago should have led to what had become, by any standards, a publishing phenomenon. Alan had started life as an English teacher in the private school where my nephew and niece happened to be students. He was unpopular even then, which should have warned me. Ten-year-olds have a way of knowing which way the wind is blowing. I sometimes think that Katie only introduced him to me in the hope that I would persuade him to leave the school.

That was exactly what happened. I read his manuscript and although it needed work,Atticus Pünd Investigateswas an instant bestseller and launched a series that would sell eighteen million copies worldwide, making Alan a fortune in the process. He was translated into about thirty languages and, along with several literary awards, had been presented with a silver medal and the freedom of the city of Heidelberg. He had left Woodbridge School and bought himself a mansion outside Framlingham, changing its name to Abbey Grange, which happens to be the title of a Sherlock Holmes short story and tells you something about his self-image. The BBC hadbeen on the brink of filming an eight-part series they were going to callThe Atticus Adventures, and apparently Mads Mikkelsen had been signed up to play the lead – but that had all gone south when Alan had died, pushed off the tower of his expensive home.

Alan had never invited me to Abbey Grange, but then the two of us hadn’t got on. I’ve met writers who mistrust their editors, but I’ve never come across one so resolutely opposed to them. Every suggestion I ever made, every cut, every question had invariably led to an argument, but it was only later that I realised it wasn’t me he disliked. It was the books he felt he was being forced to write. Put bluntly, he wanted to be Salman Rushdie, not Agatha Christie – but that was never going to happen. He was stuck with himself.

‘Anyway, we’ve stolen a march on Orion,’ Michael went on. ‘Someone here at Causton Books had the bright idea of commissioning a new Atticus Pünd novel.’

‘Without Alan,’ I said.

‘Exactly. A continuation novel.’ He went on quickly before I could interrupt him: ‘It worked out very well for James Bond and Sebastian Faulks. I’m sure you know thatDevil May Carewas the fastest-selling work of fiction after Harry Potter … at least until Richard Osman came along. Then there are the new Hercule Poirot novels, Sherlock Holmes, Jeeves and Wooster,Hitchhiker’s Guide…’ He smiled. ‘The simple truth is that nobody gives a damn about Alan Conway and Atticus Pünd can get along fine without him.’

He may have put it a little coldly, but he was right. It’s strange how characters can become bigger than their authors, but popular fiction is absolutely crowded with them. It wasone of the reasons Conan Doyle threw Sherlock Holmes off the Reichenbach Falls: a sense that his real talents were being overshadowed by his popular hero. Both A. A. Milne and his son Christopher Robin came to hate Winnie-the-Pooh, and Peter Pan left a trail of dead bodies in his wake. What do Mary Poppins, Tarzan, the Wizard of Oz and Dracula all have in common? Half the world knows them but would quite probably be unable to name the authors who created them.

‘We got in touch with James Taylor six months ago,’ Michael told me. ‘I think you know him. He was Alan’s live-in partner and he inherited the house, the money and the literary estate. We made an offer for an option for three new books. I’m amazed the idea hadn’t occurred to Orion, but we persuaded James that we’d do a better job anyway. Have you seen the new covers they put on their reissue? Utterly drab and boring, I must say. Not that James gives a damn about such minor issues as style and presentation. All he’s interested in is the bottom line. We made him a very generous offer and he’s also come on board as a consultant. He couldn’t be happier.’

None of this surprised me. I’d known James well, first when I’d arrived in Suffolk searching for the last chapter ofMagpie Murdersand later when I’d returned to England, trying to find the clue to an eight-year-old murder that had been concealed inAtticus Pünd Takes the Case, the third book in the series. In his twenties, James had been working as a male escort in London. He had been introduced to Alan, who had been married and very much in the closet at the time, and to be fair, James had helped him come to terms with his sexuality and had probably brought out the best in him. Hehad certainly been well rewarded. He had moved into Abbey Grange with Alan and, just as Michael said, had ended up inheriting everything. James was rude, brazen, unfaithful, self-absorbed and licentious – and I couldn’t help liking him. The last time I’d seen him, we’d had lunch at Le Caprice and, as well as picking up the bill, he’d provided me with some of the clues I’d needed to solve the murder of Frank Parris and the disappearance of Cecily Treherne. I’d be happy to meet up with him.

‘We certainly don’t need Alan Conway,’ Michael concluded.

‘That may be true,’ I agreed. ‘I couldn’t have worked with him again anyway. But even so, he’ll be a hard act to follow. His plots were clever. He had a good ear for dialogue and I liked his characters. As much as I hate to admit it, he was a terrific writer … at least, when he wasn’t trying to create the next Penguin Modern Classic.’ I glanced at the typescript. The title and the author’s name were still concealed. ‘I take it that’s the new book,’ I said.

‘It’s the first thirty thousand words. Very much a work in progress.’

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