Page 49 of Marble Hall Murders

‘We hardly know each other.’

‘Well, he knows all about you. He was buzzing when he came back from your meeting the other day.’

‘Let’s go downstairs to eat,’ Elaine said.

A flight of stairs led down to an open-plan area that ran the full length of the house, the kitchen at the front end and the French rosewood dining table at the back. The twelve chairs that surrounded it were a sad memory of former times. Tonight there would be just four of us to occupy them and, looking at the empty spaces, I was reminded of what life must be like for Elaine now that Charles was ‘away’. There were bottles of wine already laid out, lit candles, serviettes neatly rolled inside silver rings, and as we took our places, Elaine served up the cauliflower soup that was to be our first course, adding a swirl of truffle oil to each bowl. There was something about the ritual, the formality of it all, that made me feel uneasy. It was like having dinner in a lepers’ colony where nobody is allowed to mention the disease.

I had been placed opposite Eliot. Gillian was next to me, with Elaine making up the square on the other side. Eliot poured wine into his glass, not stopping until it had almost reached the brim.

We started off talking aboutPünd’s Last Case. That was what connected us and it was what mattered most. If Elaine was to be believed, Eliot had invested his entire future in its success – and now that I thought about it, the same was true for me too. Michael Flynn had hired me to make the book a bestseller. If it failed, I could kiss goodbye to any long-term employment at Causton Books.

‘Eliot told me you liked the book,’ Gillian said nervously. I could tell that she wanted me to be nice to him to make up for whatever had happened between them before they arrived.

‘I liked it very much,’ I said.

‘I thought about what you suggested.’ Eliot didn’t meet my eye. He was stroking the edge of his wine glass, examining the contents. ‘I’m going to change the title.’

‘That’s good. Do you have any other ideas?’

‘I was thinking ofAnother Man’s Poison.’

‘I like that,’ I said, although I wondered if it was a little too generic. ‘It might be a good idea to have the name – Atticus Pünd – in the title, though.’

‘You could call itAtticus Pünd: Another Man’s Poison,’ Gillian suggested.

Eliot ignored her. ‘I’m going to set it one year beforeMagpie Murders,’ he went on. ‘That way, I can miss out on all that stuff about cancer.’

‘As long as you’re sure about it yourself, Eliot.’ I was surprised he was being so accommodating. ‘I was only making suggestions. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.’

‘I won’t make any changes until the next draft. I’m goingto keep it in the South of France, though. I know there are problems, but if I changed it now, I’d have to go back to the start and I want to keep going.’

‘Eliot’s been working so hard since he saw you,’ Gillian said. ‘He hasn’t stopped!’

‘I’m really pleased. I’m just glad you’re making progress and that you weren’t put off by our discussion.’

‘Actually, I can’t wait to get to the last chapter. To the big reveal.’ As he said that, he glanced at Gillian in an unpleasant way – as if she was the one who was going to be revealed as the killer. He drank half his wine. ‘Isn’t that the only reason to read a murder mystery? To get to the end?’

I didn’t know if he was joking or not. I hoped he was. It was something Alan Conway might have said.

‘Do you think it will be a bestseller?’ Gillian asked me.

‘Of course it will,’ Elaine said. ‘I know Charles would have given his right arm to publish it. It’s going to be huge.’

It was the first time she had mentioned Charles since we had sat down. I realised everyone was waiting for me to speak, so I plunged in. ‘If there’s one thing that’s certain in publishing, it’s that you can’t predict anything,’ I began. ‘Harry Potterwas turned down by a dozen publishers and when it was finally accepted, they only printed five hundred copies. That’s how many they thought they could sell. Stephen King wrote a novel –Carrie– that was rejected thirty times. It’s insane! When we published the first Atticus Pünd novel back in 1995, we had no idea it was going to do so well. Twenty-eight weeks on theSunday TimesBestsellers List! It sold more copies than Nick Hornby or Barack Obama, who were both huge that year. And it just shows that nobody knowsanything. You only realise you have a major success on your hands when the author rings to complain he can’t find any copies in the shops.

‘The most important thing is to get the book written and worry about sales and marketing and all the rest of it later.’ I looked directly at Eliot. ‘Causton Books couldn’t be more behind you, and there’s a huge audience waiting for the next outing for Atticus Pünd. Right now, everything’s on your side … so let’s just hope for the best.’

Eliot smiled and seemed pleased. Some of the tension went out of the air.

After that, the conversation zigzagged from books to theatre, Gillian’s work at Charing Cross Hospital, Crete, politics and Parsons Green gossip. The soup bowls were cleared away and replaced by a bubbling coq au vin. Somehow, we had finished our first bottle of wine and started on a second. Gillian said nothing, although she was embarrassed by Eliot’s heavy drinking and did her best to keep the bottle away from him. Elaine, on the other hand, didn’t seem to notice. As for me, I remained stone-cold sober. I wasn’t hating the evening. I just felt completely unconnected and was counting the minutes until I could make my excuses and leave.

It was as the pudding was being served that I asked the question that changed everything. It was stupid of me. I was trying to flatter Eliot, make him feel good about himself, when really I should have left well enough alone. ‘Elaine told me you always wanted to be a writer,’ I said. ‘Was that because you wanted to be like your grandmother?’

Nearly all the successful authors I’ve worked with have claimed, quite sincerely, that they were born with a pen intheir hand, and that was all I meant. But I knew at once that I should have left Miriam Crace out of it.

His face fell. ‘God, no! I never wanted to be like that sour old bat. I hated her. We all did.’

His venom surprised me, even after all the wine. Elaine had already told me that Miriam was spiteful and domineering, but I hadn’t thought his feelings would run this deep. ‘I was thinking of her sales,’ I said, back-pedalling.

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