Page 97 of Marble Hall Murders

Eliot turned towards his sister and everything might have been well, but that was when he saw me. He looked straight past her. ‘What areyoudoing here?’ he demanded.

‘I was invited, Eliot.’

Jonathan Crace had also noticed me. Those hard eyes of his in their rectangular frames zeroed in on me. ‘I’m afraid that was a mistake, Susan. You’re not welcome here.’

‘Hold on—’ Roland began, coming to my defence.

But Eliot had broken free. He lunged towards me, out of control. ‘You’re not working on the book any more!’ Even with the Vivaldi still playing, his voice could be heard around the room. ‘You’re nothing to do with me, Susan. I shouldn’t have trusted you. You lied to me. You’re not on my side. Nobody is!’

Eliot spun round. The alcohol on his breath was days old and repellent. The music had finally stuttered to a halt.

‘I’m sorry, everyone,’ he shouted. ‘This is Susan Ryeland, my completely useless editor.’ He pointed towards thephotograph. ‘And that’s my grandmother, Miriam Crace, who was murdered by one of the people who hated her. Actually, everyone who knew her hated her! But I saw one of them tiptoe into her room the night she died and one day, quite soon, I’m going to tell the whole world who it was.’ He grinned madly. ‘They’re in this room right now! So you all go on enjoying yourselves. Celebrate her life and then, when you buy my book, you can read about her death.’

Jonathan signalled and two security guards hurried towards us. I assumed that they had come for Eliot and was shocked when they stopped on either side of me.

‘This is your fault,’ Jonathan exclaimed. ‘You started this. Now get out of here and don’t come back.’

The guards placed a hand on each of my arms. They were careful not to hurt me, but there was no room for argument. With everyone in the room watching me, I found myself being led out. It was one of the most mortifying experiences of my life. As we reached the double doors, I saw Elaine in front of me, watching what was happening with a look of complete horror. I was afraid she was going to intercede and shook my head to warn her to stay away. I just wanted this to be over.

It took a whole minute for the lift to arrive and we stood in the outer hallway in an awkward silence. Two burly security men and a guest they were forcibly ejecting. What were we going to talk about? The weather? I was still trying to make sense of the situation when I heard the swish of fabric accompanied by the scent of a strong floral perfume. Leylah Crace had followed us out.

‘Susan,’ she began. She wasn’t allowed near me. The guardswere forming a barrier between us. ‘I need to talk to you. Can we meet?’

‘Where? When?’

I heard the lift doors slide open.

‘Tomorrow evening. Seven o’clock. The Savoy.’

‘All right. I’ll be there.’ I just had time to say the words before I was bundled into the lift. Leylah was cut off by the closing doors.

When we reached the ground floor, one of the attendants was already waiting for me with my coat. It was pushed into my hands, the front door was opened and all at once I was outside in the street. I walked away, dazed by what had happened. I didn’t look back.

The Morning After

I woke up at seven o’clock with a headache and an unpleasant taste in my mouth, a hangover not from the party (I’d only managed one glass of champagne) but from the two hefty measures of whisky I’d drunk once I got home. The first thing I heard was a purring sound and I looked down at the end of the bed. Hugo was on the duvet, lying on his back with his front legs and paws stretched out as if in a gesture of surrender. This was not good. Cats on the bed was one intimacy too far and I gently pushed him onto the carpet with the flat of my foot. As he padded off, I looked around the room and saw my black dress on the chair where I’d thrown it, along with my shoes, tights and bag. The dismembered corpse of my evening out.

I was angry with myself. I knew now that I should never have gone to the party in the first place. What had I been expecting? Hugs and kisses all round and a souvenir edition ofLittle Wonder, Miriam’s first book? I had allowed myself to be humiliated in front of two hundred complete strangers, and although I’d enjoyed meeting Julia Crace – at least sheseemed to have got some of her life back together – she’d hardly told me anything that I didn’t already know. And what was I going to do with myself now? I had the entire day ahead of me and nothing to fill it with. Just for a minute, I wished I was back at the Polydorus. There might be a crisis in the kitchen, a chef who hadn’t shown up, the early risers shouting for their breakfast … but at least I’d have a reason to get out of bed. With Eliot Crace and Atticus Pünd both out of my life, I suddenly felt very alone. Was this the horrible truth about my life? That if you took away work, there would be nothing left?

The doorbell rang.

I looked at my watch, double-checking the time, making sure that it really was seven o’clock, too early even for Amazon. I hauled myself out of bed, put on a tracksuit and slippers, went to the door and glanced through the peephole. A balloon-shaped face, distorted by the lens, looked back at me. It was a middle-aged man, wearing a tie. He looked harmless. I opened the door.

He could have come from the local council. He could have been a local politician asking me which way I intended to vote. At a pinch, he might even have been a Jehovah’s Witness. There was a sort of solemnity about him, something that separated him from everyday life. As well as the tie, he was wearing a suit, which felt weird on a sunny morning in Crouch End. He was in his early fifties, but he’d kept himself in shape. He was clean-shaven with neatly combed hair and intelligent brown eyes. It was strange how someone who looked so ordinary should make such an immediate impression on me. I knew straight away that he was a danger to me.

He was not alone. The peephole had failed to reveal the woman who was standing a few steps away from him. She was considerably less attractive. Twenty years younger than him and about ten inches shorter, she seemed to have got out of bed in too much of a hurry even to look in a mirror. Her carrot-coloured hair was unpleasantly tangled, her lipstick had barely touched her lips, her eyes watched me with sullen indifference. I don’t think I’d ever met anyone so small and hostile.

‘Ms Ryeland?’ the man asked, with a look of enquiry.

‘Yes,’ I said. I braced myself for bad news.

‘I’m Detective Inspector Blakeney.’ He opened a leather holder to show a warrant card with his name, photograph, and the legendMETROPOLITAN POLICEin blue. His first name was Ian. ‘And this is Detective Constable Wardlaw. Can we come in?’

‘What’s this about?’ I asked, although I think I already knew.

‘It would be better to talk inside, if you don’t mind.’

I didn’t want to invite them in. I was in a tracksuit. I hadn’t showered or brushed my hair. I tried to visualise the state of the flat. I didn’t think I’d left any unwashed plates by the sink or crumpled clothes in the corridor. ‘I suppose that’s all right,’ I said, but as the detective constable stepped forward, I stopped her. ‘You didn’t show me your ID,’ I said.

---