Page 41 of Marble Hall Murders

‘No. Thank you. Just let me know when Eliot arrives.’

An hour later, I was still waiting.

Eliot Crace was late. I wasn’t quite sure what to make of this, but all in all I was bloody annoyed. So much for the new, reformed Eliot! He was the one who had asked for this meeting and it was quite a slap in the face to leave me sitting here on my own. I tried to ignore the various staff members passing and glancing in through the glass door, wondering who I was as I sat there twiddling my thumbs. I forced myself to stay calm. I’ll give him another five minutes and then I’ll walk away, I told myself. Five minutes passed. All right – five more minutes and that’s it. I might have sat there like that all day.

But then Sandra appeared at the door. ‘He’s just coming up.’

‘Thanks.’ I hoped my irritation didn’t show.

The lift doors opened and suddenly he was there, moving hurriedly through the open-plan area towards me.

First – his appearance. He’d been in his early twenties when I’d first met him and now he was thirty-two and married. He was still a striking figure, with thick fair hair reaching down to his collar and sculpted features, even if he had lost some of his boyish good looks. He had filled out a bit. I wouldn’t have said he was fat, but he could certainly have done with a bit of time in the gym. He was wearing designer jeans and trainers, a shirt with a grandfather collar, the sleeves half rolled up. He had that mix of innocence and energy that I remembered,reflected in his intense blue eyes. I had to admit it was the sort of face that would look great on a back cover: a son to any mother, a star on social media, a serious thinker for anyone looking for an intelligent read.

‘Oh God, Susan. I’m late. I’m sorry.’ He was talking even before he’d come through the door. ‘Someone’s thrown themselves under a tube and the whole Central line is shut down. I had to get a cab and it took for ever.’

A small part of me wondered if he was telling the truth. After all, I had just read the same thing in the first section of his book: Elmer Waysmith’s first wife had died that way. But Eliot was doing his best to be charming and I didn’t want to set our relationship off on the wrong foot.

‘Please don’t worry about it,’ I said. ‘I’m very glad to see you again. It’s been a while.’

‘Yes. I heard all about Charles and what happened at Cloverleaf. I couldn’t believe it.’ He threw himself into the nearest chair, which swivelled round as it took his weight. ‘Is it really true he tried to kill you?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘And he killed Alan Conway.’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s incredible. Charles was so kind to me when I was writing the Dr Gee books, and when they didn’t work, he couldn’t have been more supportive. He and Elaine were almost like parents to me. I was always in and out of their house. And he was about the gentlest person I ever met. It’s hard to believe he had it in him.’

‘He put me in hospital, Eliot. And he pushed Alan off a tower.’

‘I know. I know. I’m not doubting you. And I’m sorry. It must have been horrible for you. It’s just that when you’ve known someone almost all your life, you think you have an idea about them. And when I heard he was going to prison … it turned my world upside down.’

He was already on the defensive. This wasn’t at all how I’d wanted the meeting to go. ‘I can understand that,’ I said. ‘Charles was kind to me too, and I was probably as shocked as you were. I hope all this past history won’t make it difficult for you and me to work together, because I really liked the pages you sent.’ A thought struck me quite suddenly. ‘I didn’t know you’d already met Charles when we commissioned your novels.’

‘He worked with my grandmother in the last couple of years before she died. He often came to Marble Hall.’

That made sense. Charles had worked at Jonathan Cape, who had originally publishedThe Little People. It was strange that he had never mentioned knowing Eliot Crace. Perhaps he’d been worried that I would question his editorial judgement, commissioning books from someone who was effectively a friend.

‘So you liked what I’ve written so far?’ Eliot went on.

‘I think you’ve done a terrific job and I can’t wait to read more.’ It looked as if we were about to get down to the nuts and bolts, but I wasn’t ready yet. I still hadn’t quite got the measure of him. ‘Would you like some coffee?’ I asked.

‘Yeah. Thanks. Black.’

‘How long have you been working on the story?’

‘Oh God. I started in March. It took me ages to think up the plot.’

‘You’ve got it all worked out now?’

‘I know who did it, if that’s what you mean.’ Eliot took out a vape and sucked on it, but I noticed that his fingernails were yellow, so he must smoke cigarettes too. ‘You never really liked Alan Conway, did you?’ he said, changing the subject.

‘Did Charles tell you that?’

Eliot nodded.

‘I tried to like him, but Alan hated writing murder mysteries and that made him difficult to work with. But I’d say that we got on well enough and that I helped make the books a success. You know he sold eighteen million copies.’

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