Page 51 of Marble Hall Murders

I couldn’t walk away, although I was tempted to do exactly that. I was already too committed. It was as if I’d tumbled into a web, only to discover that I was, in fact, the spider. If I was going to hold everything together, I had to be strong, which meant learning as much as I could about the house, the family, Eliot’s childhood and, above all, Miriam Crace herself. I think Elaine was hoping that I would protect him, but in reality I was simply protecting myself.

And so I’d gone back and read as many articles as I could find about Miriam, including her obituaries, and they all told the same story: a major talent, the inspiration for a generation of children, a hugely wealthy, record-breaking British writer loved all over the world, who had devoted her life to charitable causes and had passed away in her early eighties. The queen herself had sent a note of condolence. I scoured the internet, but there wasn’t so much as a whisper that there had been anything suspicious about her death. It had been the inevitable conclusion of many years of declining health.

‘It’s just as well she died of natural causes.’

‘What makes you think that?’

It would have been easy enough to dismiss Eliot’s insinuations. He was drunk. He’d just argued with his wife. But when I was lying in bed, trying to get to sleep, that last exchange had echoed over and over in my head. Eliot knew exactly what he was doing. He had spent the first twelve years of his life at Marble Hall and he had weaponised that experience. I knew now thatPünd’s Last Casewasn’t just a book. It was an act of revenge.

Marble Hall and the Chateau Belmar. Two old women, both with the initials MC, both with a heart condition, had died. At least one of them had been poisoned. And there were plenty of other parallels. Julia Crace and Judith Lyttleton. The first names of Eliot’s sister and Jeffrey Chalfont’s sister started with the same two letters. Both had an issue with weight, and from schoolteacher to postgraduate doctor wasn’t too far a stretch. Jonathan Crace, married to Leylah, must find a reflection in Jeffrey, married to Lola. Eliot had told me that he had based the character of Cedric on himself and it seemed to me that Elmer Waysmith – who treated his son with such contempt – might well have been inspired by Eliot’s own father.

Even the lemon and ginger tonic that Miriam drank every morning had its counterpart in the lemon and ginger tea that had killed Margaret Chalfont. Was that what Eliot was saying? Was that how he believed his grandmother had died?

I wasn’t sure if I should be editing the book or persuading Eliot not to write it. I knew I was going to have to confront him about all this and it wasn’t going to be pleasant. But when I woke up on a bright Sunday morning, it was clear tome what I had to do. Marble Hall was real. Marble Hall was two and a half hours away. Before I made any decision, I had to see it for myself.

It was an easy drive down and I’d chosen a beautiful day. It gave me a chance to put my old MG through its paces and once I’d come off the M4, I put the roof down and enjoyed the rushing green and the glorious fresh air of the Wiltshire countryside, Adele blasting out of the sound system.

The main car park was already close to full when I pulled in shortly before midday. I walked through the gardens up to the main entrance, looking out for a Michelangelo-inspired fountain and a Corinthian gazebo, and I was glad they weren’t there. Architecturally, the very English house had nothing in common with the Chateau Belmar. It was darker, with smaller rooms – and more of them – connected by creaking corridors or tucked away in hidden annexes.

Miriam Crace had bought the hall in 1955 and over the next forty-odd years it had opened its arms – or perhaps its tentacles – to embrace three generations. First, there had been Miriam and Kenneth, still married but definitely not together. Jonathan and Edward had been born and grew up there. When they had married, their wives – Leylah and Amy – had moved in too. Then there had been four grandchildren: Jasmine, Roland, Julia and Eliot, arriving in that order. And let’s not forget Frederick Turner, adopted in 1961. How had he fitted in to all this?

That was what I was asking myself as I joined the tourists and their children, some of whom were dressed up as their favourite characters from the books, following the arrows from one clutter-filled room to another. What would lifehave been like for the children here, rubbing shoulders with your uncles and your cousins, always kowtowing to whatever Grandma might demand? At some stage, Jonathan had moved his wife and daughter into a separate building in the grounds. But which room had been Eliot’s? Where had his parents slept? Only Miriam’s bedroom was labelled – with a red cord across the doorway to stop people from entering. I spent a long time looking at the bed with its two cabinets, one on each side. I was fixated by them. I could almost see the servant or a housekeeper placing a glass of lemon and ginger on one of them for Miriam to drink, the bright yellow liquid shimmering like something out of a Hitchcock film.

From what Eliot had told me, his parents couldn’t wait to get out of Marble Hall and had left the moment Miriam died, taking their three children with them. After just one hour in the place, I knew exactly how they felt. There was something incredibly oppressive about the place. So many doors and staircases, so little natural light. And then there were the stuffed animals. Crows, foxes, rabbits, owls, just about every form of wildlife watched me with their incurious glass eyes as I strolled past. I was particularly struck by a kingfisher locked away in a glass cabinet, the glorious colours of its plumage somehow obscene given that it had been dead for perhaps a hundred years. Kenneth’s workshop in one of the towers was open to the public. It was like Frankenstein’s castle: shelves lined with flasks and old bottles, bits of bone and feather, wooden work surfaces still stained with decades-old dried blood. Seen through the eyes of an imaginative ten-year-old, it would have been like living in a bad dream.

And there would have been no escape. The house was so remote that Eliot would have grown up without seeing anyone from the outside world, and if he wanted to go anywhere, even to school, he would have had to be taken in a car. I had paid seventeen pounds fifty to get in. I could imagine that he would have paid a thousand times that to get out.

I bought a history of Marble Hall in the gift shop, mainly because there was a black-and-white photograph of Miriam Crace on the cover and I thought it would be useful to have it with me. Although born in 1920, she had the look of a character out of Sherlock Holmes. The black-and-white photography did her no favours, I thought, and there was something truly ghostlike about her: her head tilted to one side, her hair floating like clouds above her face, her eyes staring at something over the photographer’s shoulder. She was not a beautiful woman, but nor was she ugly. She just looked … dead.

As I took out my credit card, I struck up a conversation with the woman behind the counter. Her name was Brenda. It was written on a tag pinned to her chest. I asked her about the stuffed animals.

‘That was Kenneth Rivers,’ she told me. ‘He was married to Miriam Crace, although she never used his name. They are a bit creepy, I must say. Apparently, there are over two hundred of them scattered through the house. Sometimes they seem to be watching you as you walk down the corridors. All those glass eyes!’

‘When did he die?’

‘Two years after her, in 2005. He was ninety years old by then. He stayed in the house, although at the end he was onhis own. A few years ago, they decided to open the property for people to visit. Are you a Miriam Crace fan?’

‘Absolutely.’ The staff at Marble Hall must have come in from Devizes and the surrounding villages. They had all been delightful, huge fans of the Little People, and I didn’t want to say anything that might offend them. ‘I understand the whole family lived here when Miriam was alive,’ I said.

‘That’s right.’

‘I know it’s an odd question, but I’d love to know where everyone slept. Were any of them on the same floor as Miriam Crace?’

Brenda was happy to share her expertise. ‘The three grandchildren all had rooms next to each other on the first-floor corridor, and you’ll have seen Miriam’s bedroom at the far end, next to the bathroom. I love the curtains – and what a view to wake up to! Part of the family was in the Lodge House and Mr Turner was up at the top. He was brought here when he was a boy and he still lives here now. If you’d come in the week, you’d have found him showing people round the house or working behind the ticket desk. He likes to pitch in. Unfortunately, he doesn’t work on Sundays.’

‘I’m sorry? Frederick Turner is still here?’ I had to make sure we were talking about the same person. ‘The boy adopted by Miriam Crace …?’

‘That’s right. It was such a kindness and he tells lots of lovely stories about her.’

‘Is he in the house right now?’

‘He might be. But it’s his day off.’

It was too good an opportunity to miss. ‘I wonder if you could call him for me?’ I went on quickly before she couldrefuse. ‘I’m working with Eliot Crace, Miriam’s grandson. In fact, it was Eliot who suggested I come down here. He’s writing a book about Marble Hall and I’m his editor.’ She looked doubtful, so I pressed on. ‘It would be hugely helpful if he could spare me a few minutes of his time – and if he’s busy, he can always say no.’

‘Well, I suppose there’s no harm asking.’ She didn’t look happy, but she reached for the telephone and punched in a four-digit number, turning her back on me and speaking in a low voice so that I couldn’t intrude. I heard a few words.

‘… a lady who … she says she’s working with Eliot … writing about the house. No. She didn’t say.’

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