Page 99 of Marble Hall Murders

‘How can I possibly answer that?’ I replied. ‘Eliot arrived at the party late and he’d obviously been drinking. He was on his own. I’m afraid he’d been going through a rough time with his wife and I suppose that didn’t help.’ I paused, trying to find the right words. ‘When did he leave?’ I asked.

‘About five minutes after you,’ Wardlaw said, nastily.

‘Why did you leave so suddenly?’ Blakeney asked.

He knew the answer, obviously. It was still early, but he must have spoken to a few people before he had come round to see me. ‘Eliot was quite offensive,’ I explained. ‘I’d been helping him write a book. I was his editor. He decided he wasn’t happy with the relationship and he asked me to leave, although it was his uncle, Jonathan Crace, who told me to go.’ I cradled my coffee cup, needing its warmth. ‘They didn’t give me any choice. They would have preferred not to have invited me in the first place.’

‘What was the book Eliot was writing?’

‘It was a continuation novel. Have you heard of a character called Atticus Pünd?’

DI Blakeney surprised me. ‘Oh yes. I’ve read all the AlanConway novels. I very much enjoyed them. You worked on them?’

‘Yes. I was Alan’s editor.’

‘Atticus Pünd was a good character, although I have to say that I was a little disappointed by the last one.Magpie Murders.’

‘Why was that?’

‘He was killed off. I never think it’s fair – when you’ve been following a character for eight or nine books and the author kills him off. It seems unnecessary.’

‘Agatha Christie killed Hercule Poirot.’

‘But the book wasn’t published until the very end of her life.’ I got the feeling that Blakeney could have talked all morning, but then he remembered why he was here. ‘You commissioned Eliot Crace to write a new story,’ he said.

‘Actually, that was Michael Flynn at Causton Books. He brought me in to help Eliot with the writing.’ It was only then that I realised the implications of what had happened. It was as if the universe was playing some huge practical joke on me. History was repeating itself. ‘He’d written about fifty thousand words,’ I said. ‘But he hadn’t finished it.’

I desperately wanted a cigarette. The pang had hit me before I knew it, even though I hadn’t smoked for three years.

‘He hid something in the book,’ I went on. ‘It may sound crazy, but he believed that somebody had murdered his grandmother, Miriam Crace, twenty years ago and that he’d seen them going into her room. Last night he announced in front of everyone that he was going to reveal who it was in his new book. I’d told him this was a bad idea. He didn’t listen to me.’

DC Wardlaw sneered at me, not hiding her contempt. Blakeney was a little more reasonable. ‘So what you’re saying is that you think the person who murdered Miriam Crace may have taken action to prevent Eliot Crace finishing his book.’

‘That’s exactly what I’m saying. Yes.’

‘Do you know how unlikely that sounds?’ Wardlaw sounded almost pitying.

‘No more unlikely than the accusation that I ran him over because he had insulted me in public – which is where the two of you seem to be heading. You’ve obviously spoken to people about what happened last night. That’s why you’re here. But for what it’s worth, I didn’t drive to the party, I took the tube.’ I drew a breath. ‘And since you ask, this has happened before. You should check out the murder of a man called Frank Parris at Branlow Hall in Suffolk. Alan Conway went there and recognised the killer as someone he knew, but instead of calling the police, he strung a whole lot of clues through the novel he was writing at the time.’

‘Atticus Pünd Takes the Case,’ Blakeney said.

‘Yes. He liked playing games with his readers. His books were full of secrets and none of them were ever very pleasant ones. Eliot was writing a continuation novel and the first time I met him, he told me he was planning to do the same thing. His book was set in 1955 in the South of France – at a place called the Chateau Belmar.’

Blakeney thought for a moment. ‘That’s an anagram of marble.’

‘Got it in one, Detective Inspector.’ Despite everything, I was impressed. ‘His whole family was in there, disguised as characters. He was doing it quite deliberately because thatwas what Alan Conway did, even though, in the end, that was what got him killed.’

‘That’s all very interesting,’ Wardlaw cut in. ‘But there are a few problems with this version of events. The first one is that Miriam Crace died twenty years ago from natural causes, and even if Eliot had thought he’d seen something, he was only twelve years old at the time, so what would he know?’

The two police officers must have been working non-stop through the night. They had visited the crime scene, talked to some of the witnesses, done background research and, without even stopping for a bacon sandwich, had called in on me. And yet looking at them now, they both seemed wide awake.

‘Eliot made the threat,’ I insisted. ‘He knew that the killer was listening. “They’re in this room right now.” Those were his exact words. And from what you say, less than half an hour later, he was dead.’

‘That’s one interpretation,’ Wardlaw said. ‘But here’s another. He humiliated you in public. He said you were completely useless and he sent you packing. That can’t have been very pleasant for you.’

‘So I sat outside in my MG – even though it was parked in Crouch End – and waited for him to come out?’

‘I wonder if we could take a look at your car, Ms Ryeland?’

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