Page 136 of Marble Hall Murders

‘Adieu,’ Voltaire replied.

The Third Anagram

After I had finished reading Blakeney’s manuscript, I sat in silence for a long time.

My immediate reaction was that he had written the pages incredibly quickly, but then again, Conan Doyle famously created Sherlock Holmes and wrote the whole ofA Study in Scarletin three weeks, so twenty-eight pages in two days was hardly a world record. The main thing was that it didn’t show. From the moment I had re-entered the world of Atticus Pünd, I had been impressed by Blakeney’s writing ability. There were one or two moments when the language of a lifelong police officer had intruded into the text, but otherwise it seemed to me that he had almost perfectly captured the voice of Alan Conway – or perhaps the voice of Eliot Crace imitating Alan Conway. The first continuation continuation novel? If the book ever did see the light of day, that wouldn’t look great on the cover. More importantly, he had his own perspective. There was a sensitivity in his writing, particularly in that last farewell, that had taken me by surprise.

As to the solution itself, there was a part of me that wasannoyed. He had managed to see so many things that I hadn’t. It should have been obvious to me that Elmer Waysmith had never been anywhere near that blasted pharmacy or that all those clues – the teapot lid, the book of matches, etc. – had been planted on purpose. Why hadn’t I seen it? Perhaps I hadn’t trusted Eliot enough. I mean, it had occurred to me that the matches with the name of the hotel printed on the cover had been placed there all too conveniently. But I had attributed it to his authorship without seeing it for what it really was: another piece of trickery by Robert Waysmith.

The most important thing was that I was quite sure Blakeney had got it right, which wasn’t surprising, given both his experience and his liking for crime fiction. I read the pages a second time, searching for any flaws in his narrative, but could find none. Robert Waysmith had killed Lady Chalfont to take revenge on his father. He had persuaded the family to help him and they had agreed because they wanted control of the money. It was as simple as that.

I was tempted to telephone Blakeney to thank him and to congratulate him, but I couldn’t do it. I was thinking of what Emma Wardlaw had said when she handed over the manuscript. Should I believe her? She’d had it in for me from the beginning. Did she have a personal reason for breaking any connection between Ian Blakeney and me? Perhaps. But what she had told me sounded horribly plausible.He’s getting close to you … pretending to be your friend.Blakeney had come to the house and we’d spent more than an hour talking about Eliot’s book before he’d mentioned that he had new evidence against me: the Rolex watch. Everything he had done had been carefully calculated. He’d said straight out that hedidn’t believe I had killed anyone, but at the same time he had made it clear that I was still under investigation. He hadn’t returned my MG! Nothing about him was straightforward.

He had also said – in his letter – that he had found the third anagram that Eliot had concealed in the book, along with Belmar and Alice Carling. I was determined to find it for myself rather than hear it from him. It was all well and good to have solved Eliot’s mystery novel, but the whole point was that it had to unlock the truth about who had killed Miriam Crace – and, perhaps, Eliot himself. That was what I needed to know.

All along, I had suspected Elmer Waysmith and in idle moments I had fiddled around with his name. Surely any character with Elmer as a Christian name would have to be an anagram! But I hadn’t found it. If his middle initial had been H, he could have made HEALTHY SWIMMER, which would have been fun, if irrelevant. Otherwise, he yielded nothing and I was glad to turn to his son, Robert Waysmith. I remembered what Eliot had said on the radio. ‘I’ve put in a secret message.’ So I wasn’t looking for a name. It had to be an announcement.

ROBERT WAYSMITH.

It took me ten minutes to find it and I had to kick myself because I should have got it in seconds. But then I’ve never liked anagrams, which I’ve always found (like golf, bridge and home baking) to be a complete waste of time. But there it was, and – really – his great reveal was no surprise at all. I wrote the four words in block capitals and stared at them: Eliot’s last message.

IT WAS MY BROTHER.

Friendly Advice

The doorbell rang. I looked through the peephole and saw Elaine Clover standing outside.

She was the person I most wanted to see, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to let her in right now. This wasn’t the right time. But I knew I had no choice. She might well have seen me through the window and I needed to talk to her. So I called out – ‘One minute!’ – hastily gathered up Blakeney’s pages and tucked them away in a drawer. I slid a couple of dirty dishes into the dishwasher, grabbed my glasses and phone, and took one quick look around the room. I was still in the house in Muswell Hill and I’d been doing my best to keep it tidy in case Rob and Steve happened to come back. It was much roomier than my flat, with high ceilings, cornices and lots of original features, but its main showpiece was a kitchen that might have been delivered by a spaceship. I’d never seen so many knobs and buttons, blenders and processors, multiple ovens, cupboards and drawers. Practically the only device I’d used in the week I’d been there had been the kettle.

I opened the door. ‘Elaine!’ I said. ‘I’m glad to see you.’

‘I’ve just been to your flat. There were decorators there. They told me you’d moved out and I had to persuade them to give me this address. What’s happened?’

‘I was burgled.’ I didn’t want to go into it all, not with her.

‘Oh my God! One thing after another! Are you all right?’

‘Not really. Do you want to come in?’

We embraced and I showed her into the kitchen. It’s funny how that’s always the room of choice. Nobody actually lives in a living room any more – if they ever did. I noticed that Hugo had sprinted out of sight the moment he heard the bell and realised that he would be doing that for the rest of his life.

‘I should have called ahead,’ she said. ‘But there are things I’ve got to tell you and I didn’t want to do it over the phone.’

‘Have you driven all the way here?’

‘No. I’ve got a lunch in Hampstead and I thought I’d take a chance that you were in. If I’d missed you, I could have browsed in the bookshops or something. Did you know that Charles and I met in Hampstead?’

‘I didn’t.’

‘I was living in a shared house in Frognal Lane.’ She looked at me wistfully. ‘That was a long time ago.’

‘Would you like a coffee?’ I asked.

‘Please. White – no sugar.’

I found the percolator and made coffee for both of us as we talked around the subject that had brought her here. She looked as immaculate as ever – her clothes, her jewellery, hair that looked fresh from the hairdresser’s. She really was a lady who lunched. I knew that, by contrast, I was a wreck. But I was entitled to be.

Finally, we were sitting together. I’d carried over a box of tissues and placed them between us, as if one or both of us might need them. ‘So what’s happened?’ I asked.

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