Page 94 of Marble Hall Murders

‘Susan! I was hoping you’d be here tonight.’ She slid the phone into her bag, a fluffy thing with pink feathers.

We stepped to one side, allowing other guests to go past us and enter the lift.

‘Who invited you?’ I asked.

‘Eliot arranged it for me.’

‘Is he coming?’

‘Yes. At least, he said he was. I was just looking to see if he’d texted me.’ She sighed. ‘It was awful what happened, Susan, but we must try to forgive him. He didn’t know what he was doing and he felt terrible.’

‘You’ve spoken to him?’

‘I stayed with Gillian after you left. She didn’t go to the hospital in the end and I didn’t like to leave her alone. He came in about an hour later, very much the worse for wear. She wouldn’t speak to him, but I sat with him in the kitchen and managed to force some black coffee into him. I must tell you, he broke down. He genuinely loves her and he’s terrified of losing her. She’s the only thing that’s been keeping him sane these last few years.’

‘But she’s expecting someone else’s child.’

‘Well, it’s too soon to say what’s going to happen. But the way he is now, I think he’d even forgive her for that. He doesn’t know what to do with himself – and that radio thing. What was that all about?’

‘Does he know who the father is?’ I asked.

‘No. She hasn’t told him. She hasn’t told me either. I’m not sure it really matters, does it? The whole thing is a mess.’

The lift had come back down again. ‘Let’s join the party,’ Elaine said.

She was right. It was too exhausting trying to keep up with Eliot and Gillian and the world they had created for themselves. It reminded me of a book I’d once edited, written by a woman who’d spent ten years working on a television soap opera. It had been a litany of affairs, betrayals, surprise revelations, confrontations and fist fights until I’d almost dreadedturning the next page. I’d been put in my place when sales reached five figures.

We shared the lift with half a dozen other people so it was impossible to have any further talk. After what felt like far too long a time, we were released into a vestibule with a set of double doors folded back to reveal a party in full swing on the other side. There were about two hundred people gathered there, most of the men in suits, the women in designer dresses and expensive jewellery.

The fourth storey of the building consisted of a single space with a polished ballroom floor, windows on two sides, tall tables covered with pristine white cloths, a scattering of gold chairs, waiters circulating with champagne flutes and glasses, bottles wrapped in serviettes, trays of canapés. Gilt mirrors reflected the light from chandeliers spaced out in two long lines. A classical quartet was playing Vivaldi in one corner.

And at the far end, a huge black-and-white photograph of Miriam Crace covered almost the entire wall, looking at the guests who had gathered in her honour with eyes that, to me, seemed unimpressed, as if she was peeved they were all enjoying themselves at her expense while she was only present as a ghost.

‘If you need me, shout,’ Elaine said and moved further into the room. I saw Jonathan Crace ahead of her, but she swerved to one side as if deliberately avoiding him and disappeared from sight.

I plucked a glass of champagne as soon as I could, not just because I wanted a drink but because it gave me a sense of legitimacy. I’d been invited and the glass in my hand wasproof that I was allowed to be here. I took a sip and noted that it was indeed champagne and not unchilled Prosecco, the curse of so many publishing parties.

Across the room, I noticed Frederick Turner, his black eyepatch making him easy to spot in a crowd. He was holding a champagne flute in his left hand, his right hand deep inside the pocket of his velvet jacket. He was talking to a young woman who had her back to me. I made my way towards them. I would be interested to see how Frederick greeted me. He had been pleasant enough when we met, but he had called Jonathan Crace the moment I left. I really couldn’t work him out. Eliot had suggested that he had been badly treated, sidelined by the family. But here he was at its very epicentre, celebrating the life of the woman who had adopted him.

‘Good evening, Susan,’ he said when he saw me.

‘Hello, Frederick.’

The woman he had been talking to turned round to examine me and I guessed who she was. When he had created the character of Judith Chalfont, Eliot had described her as ‘substantial’, by which he meant overweight. But what struck me more about Julia Crace was her energy, her smile, her beautiful skin and her air of resilience. Everyone I had met in the Crace family – and that included Eliot – had somehow been trapped: by their blood, their shared history, their relationship with Miriam. She alone seemed to have found her independence. She had escaped from Marble Hall and all its associations and I wondered what had brought her here tonight.

‘This is Susan Ryeland,’ Frederick told her. ‘This is Julia Crace,’ he added. ‘Eliot’s sister.’

She looked at me with coolly inquisitive eyes. ‘I’ve heard everything about you,’ she said. ‘You’re working with Eliot on his book.’

‘That’s right. I’m very pleased to meet you.’

‘So you can ask me more questions about Grandma and the family?’

She was putting me in my place, but for some reason I didn’t feel offended. I already liked her. ‘I had no interest at all in your family until I met Eliot,’ I said. ‘Since then, I feel that I’ve been drawn in.’

‘Like a groupie?’

‘More like a fish in a net.’ I turned to Frederick. ‘I’m sorry if you thought I was being intrusive,’ I said. ‘You may not believe it, but I have no interest in digging up dirt on Miriam Crace or anyone else. All I’ve been trying to do is help Eliot.’

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