Page 3 of Marble Hall Murders

‘I see you’ve printed it up for me.’

It was something of a joke between us. I suppose I’m old-fashioned, but Michael knew that I preferred working on paper. These days, everything is done via the computer screen, but I’ve always felt that a manuscript has a closer affinity to the finished book and I enjoy the physical contact when I’m making my changes. Even when I was in Crete, I’d bought a rickety printer that seemed to take half the morning to grind out a hard copy before I felt able to start work.

Michael smiled. ‘Yes. It’s all ready for your red pen.’

‘So are you going to tell me who’s writing it?’

‘Of course, although I’m going to ask you to keep it confidential for the time being. As a matter of fact, you know him.’ He paused for effect. ‘Eliot Crace.’

For a moment, I was lost for words … all thirty thousand of them. It was the last name I would have expected.

‘You published him when you were at Cloverleaf,’ Michael reminded me.

‘That’s not entirely true,’ I said. ‘I saw him twice, but I didn’t deal with him myself. It was Charles who recommended him. Charles worked with him, not me.’

‘Did you like him?’

‘The first time I met him, he was drunk. The second time, he was covered in blood. He said he’d fallen off a bus.’

‘Yes. I have had reason to ask myself if it was a good idea commissioning him, but of course we were buying into the name, and part of your job will be to keep hold of the reins. The book is important to us for a great many reasons and we don’t want him going off-piste. That said, hopefully his bad boy days are behind him. He was only – what? – in his early twenties when you met him. He’s married now. I think you’ll find he’s settled down.’

‘What’s his writing like?’

‘Well, that’s for you to tell me.’ He poured himself more coffee. ‘You know a great deal more about murder mysteries than I do. But from what I’ve read, I’d say Eliot has done a very good job. It certainly feels like the originals.’

‘When is it set?’ There was a reason why I asked this. In the last book, Atticus Pünd had been diagnosed with a braintumour. This was his Reichenbach Falls. Alan had only given him months to live.

‘It follows on fromMagpie Murders.’

‘It would have to follow on very quickly.’

‘It does. Atticus Pünd is not at all well. He runs into an elderly lady he happens to know and she invites him to her home in the South of France. Her name is Lady Chalfont …’

I recognised the name. She was a character inGin & Cyanide, the sixth book in the series.

‘She tells him she’s overheard something and makes it sound as if she’s afraid for her life, and sure enough she’s killed. She has a rather ghastly family, but it’s her husband – her second husband – who’s the main suspect. I was hoping you’d have a read of it and then help Eliot finish the rest of the manuscript. We want to publish early next year.’

It’s one of the strange rules of publishing that deadlines are always too close and there never seems to be enough time to get everything done. I made the necessary calculations. ‘That’s tight,’ I said.

‘Eliot was slow getting started.’ Michael must have seen my face fall because he moved straight on. ‘It wasn’t his fault. We wanted to get the story right and he spent ages structuring.’ He smiled at me a second time. I felt he was turning it on and off like an electric light. ‘The moment I heard you were coming back to the UK, I thought it was a match made in heaven, Susan. After all, you discovered Alan Conway. You were intimate with his prose style, the various tricks he used. I’m not saying this is perfect, but with your input it could be very commercial. Everyone loves Atticus Pünd and Eliot’sname is well known to the public … his surname, anyway. I really think we could have a bestseller on our hands.’

‘The two books Eliot wrote for us at Cloverleaf didn’t do too well,’ I remarked. I wouldn’t normally have been so negative, but I had plenty of reasons to keep away from this project. And what I said was true. It was the reason why there hadn’t been a third book in his series.

‘I’ve read them,’ Michael said. ‘I enjoyed them. It may be that they weren’t properly marketed.’

‘We did the best we could.’ His criticism irritated me, but I tried not to show it. ‘All right,’ I went on. ‘I’ll read it and get back to you. Where is Eliot living now?’

‘West London … Notting Hill Gate. For what it’s worth, I mentioned I was seeing you and he was very excited. He remembers you from Cloverleaf and he’s very aware of what you did for Alan Conway.’

‘That’s very nice of him.’ I glanced at the typescript. ‘So do I get to see the title?’ I asked.

‘Of course.’ He swung it round and lifted off the notepad. And there it was in black and white.

PÜND’S LAST CASE

Written by Eliot Crace

The tenth book in a nine-book series.

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