Page 1 of Marble Hall Murders

The Crace Family Tree

A New Start

Is there really such a thing as a happy ending?

When I think about the books I’ve loved throughout my life, it’s always the final chapter that has left me with a sense of completeness, that has made the whole story worthwhile. I can still remember the relief I felt as a very young girl when Black Beauty found comfort and safety at Birtwick Park, or when Mary and Colin were discovered playing together in their perfect secret garden. Later on, I was feverishly turning the pages when Emma finally realised she was in love with Mr Knightley, and again when Jane Eyre gave birth to her first son with Mr Rochester.

Happy ever after? Of course they were! How could there be any question that they would be otherwise? It was a certainty that nurtured my love of literature and it never occurred to me that Mary and Colin would grow up, bicker and go their separate ways, or that Black Beauty would inevitably share the same fate – at the knacker’s yard – as Boxer inAnimal Farm, another book I devoured in my teens. How long would it be before Emma went back to herold ways or Mr Rochester came to resent being an invalid, in Jane’s care?

The great joy of fiction is that no matter how problematic the journey, the resolution is somehow inevitable. Even when the main character dies – think of Sydney Carton’s sacrifice inA Tale of Two Citiesor Michael Henchard’s pitiful departure at the end ofThe Mayor of Casterbridge– you realise it’s exactly how it was meant to be and in that you find comfort. ‘But there’s no altering – so it must be,’ as Hardy said.

Real life, with all its nuances and complexities, isn’t the same, and this is especially true in the twenty-first century. Bad people prosper. Good people go bust. Read the newspapers or social media and it’s easy to believe that there is no justice in the world and nobody is happy at all.

I had thought that Andreas and I were going to be together for ever. I loved him and although there were occasions when we wanted to strangle each other, I really believed I’d come to terms with Crete and had surrendered myself to the Aegean Sea, olive groves, the hollow tinkle of goats’ bells, perfect sunsets and dinners with friends on long trestle tables beneath the bougainvillea. It was my own happy ending – or it would have been if my life had been a book.

But Crete never worked for me. I could have stayed there for a week, a month, even a year … but my whole life? I saw the very old ladies sitting outside their houses dressed head to toe in black and I thought, is that what I’m going to become? The Wednesday market, the olive harvest at the end of October, name days with cakes and biscuits, weddings and baptisms, always with the same box of fireworks. It just wasn’t me. There were times when I almost resented the beauty ofthe landscape for keeping me its prisoner, and I found myself wondering just how much life I was missing on the other side of the mountains. I was, after all, on an island. Every morning, I went swimming in the dazzling blue water and came back with a vague sense that I hadn’t swum far enough.

Against all the odds, the Hotel Polydorus, which Andreas had bought and I had helped to get running, was doing extremely well. We were booked out the entire season, the seafront terrace was jammed day and night and Andreas was even considering the purchase of a second property on the other side of Agios Nikolaos, near Ammoudi beach. This had brought his cousin and business partner, Yannis, back into the fold and the two of them never seemed to be out of each other’s company … which only left me feeling more and more like an outsider. I was now working as an associate editor (freelance) with a new publisher, Causton Books, finishing the third in a series of very good Nordic noir mysteries. Did it really make sense to be doing the work on my bedroom’s balcony, sending my notes via email and meeting on Zoom? What was I doing? My head was in London while my heart was no longer in Crete.

Oh dear. This all sounds like a long moan, which is not what I intend it to be. I’m just trying to explain why it was I’d decided that enough was enough and it was time to go home. Andreas drove me to Heraklion airport and although we had a last, fond embrace outside the departures lounge, we both knew it was the right decision and that although we would always be friends, we were no longer in love. At least, not with each other. Even as the plane climbed to thirty thousand feet, I thought about all the wonderful times we’d hadtogether and there was an almost physical pain as the memories were swept away in the airstream behind me. But I knew I was doing the right thing. I was fifty-five years old and I was starting all over again.

I went back to Crouch End, in the north of London. That was where I’d been living when Andreas and I first met and I felt comfortable there. I knew lots of people in the area and it was convenient for Suffolk if I wanted to drive up and see my sister, Katie. I’d sold my old flat to buy the hotel, but I hadn’t done too badly out of it. Andreas paid back my initial investment with interest and once I’d thrown in my savings and persuaded the bank to provide me with a mortgage I could just about handle, I had enough to buy a flat a few streets further down the hill from where I had been before. My basement flat was spread over a single floor with two bedrooms (one of which I would use as an office), a decent-sized kitchen/living room and a small bathroom tucked under the staircase that led to the two flats above me. The joy of the place was the patio garden on the other side of a pair of French windows, with flagstones, an ivy-covered wall and enough greenery to give the illusion that I was living in a tiny part of the countryside. A rickety door closed it off from the street, making it my own secret garden. There was even a murky pond with two goldfish. I named them Hero and Leander.

The next three months whizzed past. I’d arrived in time for the spring sales and threw myself into a shopping spree that included furniture and furnishings, kitchen equipment – pots, pans, glasses … everything including the sink. I found a team of local builders to put in a new bathroom and repaint some of the rooms. As for myself, I had to buy a completelynew wardrobe as nothing I’d been wearing in Crete was any good in London, and then I went out and bought a completely unnecessary antique wardrobe to put it all in. I tussled with plumbers and electricians and spent hours on the phone waiting to speak to internet providers and insurance brokers. Best of all, I rescued my old MGB Roadster, which I’d never got round to selling, perhaps because I knew I would need it one day. It was only as I drove it out of its absurdly expensive home in King’s Cross, cheerfully overtaking a police car on Highgate Hill, that I realised how sensible I’d been to hang on to it and how much it had become a part of my life.

I revisited friends and went to a couple of book launches, announcing to the world that I was back for good. I drove up to Suffolk and stayed with Katie, who was now divorced and, like me, living in a new home. She was going out with someone from the garden centre where she worked and I had never seen her happier or more self-confident. She persuaded me to adopt an adult cat I didn’t want and which I only took when the rescue centre promised me it wouldn’t eat the goldfish. I started reading James Joyce, something I had been trying to do since I left university. And I finished the edit I was working on, rearranging a few pieces of information in what was otherwise a perfect triumph for Politisjefinspectør Heidi Gundersen of the Norwegian Police Service.

I woke up on a Monday morning in June with the sun blazing in and Hugo (the cat) watching me from the small armchair that he had made his permanent home. I read twenty pages ofDubliners, glanced at the newspaper on my iPad, then showered and ate some breakfast. That was the time when I always missed Andreas. It was strange but forsome reason getting out of bed alone was always more dispiriting than getting into it. I put the kettle on and was just reaching for the coffee beans when my mobile rang.

It was Michael Flynn, the publisher of Causton Books and effectively my boss. I knew him only from Zoom and could easily visualise his round face, thinning hair and glasses hanging on a cord because, he told me, he was always losing them. He usually wore a jacket and tie, but for all I knew he could have been naked below the waist when we spoke online. I didn’t even know if he had legs.

‘How are things going?’ he asked. I’d told him I was back in London, but we’d only spoken a couple of times since I’d arrived.

‘I’m fine, thank you,’ I said.

‘And the new house?’

‘Well, it’s a flat. But I’m very happy here. It suits me perfectly.’

‘I’m glad to hear it. Look – I know this is a bit sudden, but could you come in today?’

‘You’ve got the Gundersen book I sent you?’

‘Yes. It’s fine. But something else has come up and I have to say, you’re perfect for it.’

‘Can you send it to me?’

There was a pause at the other end of the line. ‘It’s not as easy as that. I think we should have a talk. If you come in at midday, we could have lunch.’

‘I’m intrigued, Michael. I can be with you at twelve. But aren’t you going to give me an idea what it’s about?’

Another pause.

‘Atticus Pünd,’ he said, and rang off.

To Be Continued

Causton Books had offices on the edge of Victoria, not an area known for its literary associations. It occupied a modern office block, spread over four floors with an airport-style entrance, a cafeteria on the ground floor and lifts that demanded an electronic pass. As I walked into the reception area with book covers flashing up on television screens but no actual books in sight, I was reminded how much of my career was behind me. Gone were the days of the independent publisher tucked away in a quiet mews with a solid front door and bay windows. I’d spent eleven years at Cloverleaf and had grown used to the narrow corridors with bad lighting and offices that seemed to have been built deliberately so the more senior you were, the more difficult you were to find. On the other hand, when I’d been lying half-conscious with the flames leaping up and devouring everything in sight, it had dawned on me that the wooden panelling, dusty carpets and curtains that had been so much the character of the place, and which I had always liked, were now going to be, quite literally, the death of me and if I survived, it might be timeto have another think. Open-plan areas with line after line of desks separated by glass dividers, identikit furniture and lighting designed to enhance employee well-being may not be quite in the spirit of T. S. Eliot or Somerset Maugham, but at least they won’t kill you.

---