Page 96 of Marble Hall Murders

‘Do you know what, Susan? I don’t think it really matters.’ Julia became reflective and it was as if the party that was happening all around us had somehow faded away, as if we had been removed from it. ‘I often ask myself what was wrong with Miriam Crace, but that’s a big step forward. You see, because of what happened to me in my childhood, I spent half my life wondering what was wrong withme. I’m not sure I’d have got through it without Roland. He was the barrier between Miriam and me. Without him, maybe I would have killed her. Or myself … like poor Jasmine.

‘I’m a survivor. I know that sounds dramatic, but it’s true. I’ve been in therapy for a long time now, but finally I understand. None of it was my fault. Every child expects their mother to love them. It’s human nature. But the mother – or grandmother, in my case – who deliberately withdraws that love is doing it for the sense of power it gives her. Maybe Miriam had been abused herself as a child. She had money. She had success. But at the end of the day, she was trapped in some sort of misery of her own making and she took it out on us as some sort of revenge.’

The black-and-white photograph was right in front of us. It was as if Miriam Crace was listening to every word. The matriarch. The monster.

‘Couldn’t your parents have protected you from her?’

‘They didn’t dare. They’d grown up with her all their lives and they were too scared of her.’

‘And I suppose there was the money.’

‘That was part of it. But you don’t know what it’s like beingpart of a literary estate. How can you hate someone who is loved by every single person on the planet? How can you have any life of your own when your very name is defined by her genius and everything you do will be compared to it? That was what killed Jasmine, her realisation that she would spend her whole life unable to escape from its shadow. It nearly killed me too. Eliot hid himself in his books and his stories, but Roland was the only one who wasn’t afraid to fight back. When Grandma was going on about my size and my weight, or when she was telling Eliot that he was stupid and he’d never have any success as a writer, Roland was the one who stood up to her. He wasn’t afraid of her. If anything, I think she was a little bit afraid of him!’

‘You must have been surprised when he chose to work for the estate.’

‘If you want the truth, I was bloody angry and upset. But I’ve got used to it. We’re grown up now and we’ve all gone our separate ways. Roland needed something to do. But he’s not like Uncle Jonathan. He’s dealing with the books and the business and the legacy. It’s just a job for him. He’s not a high priest in the Church of Saint Miriam.’

‘Thank you for talking to me, Julia. I still can’t get my head around how horrible it must have been for all of you.’

‘Take care of Eliot, Susan. I sometimes think he’s the only one who hasn’t managed to put it behind him and I do worry about him.’

‘I will. I promise.’

I said that, but after everything that had happened, I wasn’t certain it was a promise I could keep. I turned back to look for Michael Flynn, but he had moved away and Roland was talkingto someone else. I was about to search for him when there was a stir in the room and I saw the other guests around me turning towards the double doors. Coincidentally, the quartet had just reached the end of a piece and their sudden silence only made the change in atmosphere more noticeable. Eliot had arrived. He was standing in the doorway, trying to keep his balance, wearing a thigh-length velvet jacket, black trousers and a crumpled white shirt open at the neck and exposing much of his chest. His fair hair was even more tangled than usual, falling in knots down his neck. He could almost have stepped out of an opera. All that was missing was the sword.

He looked around the crowd, then stumbled forward, knocking into people, pushing them out of his way. Crossing one foot over the other, he diverted briefly towards a waiter, snatched a flute of champagne and threw back the contents without seeming to know what he was drinking. I’d never seen him as bad as this. I’d never dreamed this was how bad he could be. I wondered how he had got to the building. Public transport would have been impossible and it was unlikely a taxi driver would have considered slowing down to pick him up.

Jonathan Crace appeared, blocking his way, and suddenly Roland was there too. They closed in on him just as the quartet started up again: more Vivaldi.

‘That’s what you call making an entrance,’ Julia said cheerfully. ‘Shall we go and say hello?’

She was already moving towards her brothers and I followed. The three people I most wanted to meet were all together in one place and whatever they were going to say to each other, I wanted to hear it.

‘What do you think you’re doing, Eliot?’ That was Jonathan Crace. ‘Front Row. Have you gone mad?’

‘I didn’t do any harm,’ Eliot protested.

‘I suppose you think this sort of publicity is going to help us, just when we’re trying to get the Netflix deal over the line! You talk to him, Roland.’

Roland glanced uncertainly at his uncle. ‘It wasn’t great timing, Eliot,’ he muttered, none too convincingly.

‘Go to Hell, Roland.’

Listening to Eliot speak, I realised I had underestimated the hatred that had developed between him and his brother. And what a tableau they all made! Eliot beyond redemption, Jonathan as coldly unlikeable as he had been when we first met, Roland helpless, no longer the leader of the Rogue Troopers, and Julia watching from the sideline, not saying anything.

And then a second woman swept in, taking control of the situation. ‘Eliot, darling! You should have told us you were coming. Have you been drinking? You look ghastly! Where’s Gillian? Hasn’t she come?’

‘Leylah …’ Jonathan Crace reached out for his wife’s arm. ‘I’m handling this. There’s no need to get involved.’

‘I am involved, Jonathan.’ She shook herself free.

Leylah Crace. If I hadn’t heard her name, I’d have known at once it was her. Her skin colour, her jet-black hair and both the shape and the colour of her eyes signalled her North African origins. She was wearing a gorgeous caftan dress, a blaze of colours sweeping down to the floor, and long gold earrings. She spoke with the faintest trace of a foreign accent, like a character in a classic movie. But there was also aninexpressible sadness about her that reminded me of the loss of her daughter and made me wonder how anyone in this family had managed to survive their own lives.

‘Hello, Leylah.’ Just for a moment, Eliot was crestfallen, apologetic. It occurred to me that when he was talking about his family, he had never said anything bad about her.

She put her arm around him. ‘Why don’t you go downstairs and lie down, Eliot, darling? You don’t want to be here. It isn’t going to do you any good.’

Julia stepped forward, moving in on the other side. ‘Leylah’s right. Why don’t we go somewhere a bit quieter and have a chat?’

---