Page 48 of Marble Hall Murders

‘He wasn’t quite being honest with you, Susan. He remembered Eliot from Marble Hall and knew his story. He was still in touch with Jonathan Crace – for business reasons. He felt sorry for Eliot and wanted to give him a chance.’

‘It was good of him.’ That was the vicar talking again. In truth, I’d have been furious if I’d known then what Elaine had just told me. Cloverleaf Books had been a small, independent publishing house fighting in a fiercely competitive market for every single book we produced. Had Charles really diverted some of our limited resources out of a misguided sense of charity?

Elaine must have seen what I was thinking. ‘He believed in the book,’ she added. ‘He showed it to me and I enjoyed it.’

‘It didn’t sell.’ I was short with her, but I couldn’t help myself. ‘We did everything we could,’ I went on. ‘It just didn’t seem to connect.’

‘Eliot was in and out of this house quite often while he was writing both his books,’ Elaine said. ‘He was still a verytroubled young man. He wasn’t looking after himself at all. He didn’t look good. He didn’t shave and he was always smoking. There was one occasion when I told him to take a bath while I put all his clothes in the washing machine. It was hard to believe that he was twenty.’ She paused. ‘But he was also very charming and funny. He was the sort of person it was hard not to like and we became friends very quickly.’

‘So why are you worried about him now?’

‘You’ve seen him, Susan! I don’t know what happened to him as a child at Marble Hall, but he still needs looking after now – and it doesn’t help that his parents have dumped him and gone off to America.’ She noticed that her champagne glass was empty. Mine too. She refilled both, then continued. ‘Throughout the publishing process, Eliot was almost like a son to us. He behaved badly. Sometimes we were expecting him and he didn’t show up. Sometimes he was late or drunk, or both. But we never gave up on him and it was strange how working on the Dr Gee books helped him. He told us that he’d always wanted to be a writer, but that he wasn’t able to get started while his grandmother was still alive and even after she died he struggled to find his self-confidence. This was his big break.

‘When the books failed, we were terrified he would go off the rails again, but by that time he was going out with Gillian and she gave him the one thing he’d never had in his life: stability. I’ll tell you how they met, but you must pretend you don’t know. Eliot took an overdose and ended up in hospital. Gillian was a nurse on the ward. She’s the angel who saved his life, in more ways than one. They started going out together and then they got married – just the two of them anda couple of witnesses at Chelsea registry office. His brother, Roland, was the best man. From that moment, he seemed to change completely. Off the booze, off the drugs. Really trying to hold himself together. I was thrilled when I heard that he’d been asked to write three more books about Atticus Pünd. Maybe Dr Gee was a bad idea, but Eliot’s a good writer and I’m sure you’ll agree that this time he has a real chance of success.’

‘I’ve read the first thirty thousand words and I think it’s very promising,’ I said.

‘I know. He told me.’ She paused. ‘I’m just worried that this could be make or break for him. The last couple of times I’ve seen him, he hasn’t been quite himself. Or rather, he’s been a bit too much like his old self. He’s smoking again, for one thing. I don’t know about the rest of it, but Gillian is as worried as I am. She’s told me.’

‘I’m sorry, Elaine, but what’s this got to do with me? I didn’t commission him. I’m only his editor.’

‘But you worked with the great Alan Conway. You made him into a star and you put Atticus Pünd on the map.’ Elaine lowered her glass. Somehow the two of us had managed to polish off three quarters of the bottle of Moët. ‘Eliot has pinned all his hopes on you and I’m not sure he has the resilience to fail a second time. That was the reason I wanted you to come tonight, Susan. Of course it matters to me that you and I have a relationship again, but this isn’t about us. It’s about Eliot. I want you to promise me that you’ll look after him.’

‘Can I be honest with you, Elaine?’ I knew she was asking me to commit myself, but I wanted her to understand. ‘It’s not my job to “look after” my writers. I admire them. I tryto like them. But I’m not their therapist. I may not be able to help him the way you want.’

‘You don’t have other writers like Eliot. If Charles were here, he could tell you so much more than I can.’

It was the mention of Charles that did it. Whatever my feelings about the past, I felt that I owed her something. I couldn’t refuse. ‘I promise you I’ll be a friend to him,’ I said. ‘And I’ll do everything I can to make this book a success.’

‘That’s all I can ask of you, Susan. And I’m sure—’

She didn’t finish the sentence. The doorbell played its tune a second time. Elaine got to her feet.

Eliot Crace had arrived.

Grandma

I knew it was going to be one of those evenings the moment Eliot and Gillian came through the door. They had been arguing. It was obvious from their body language, the distance between them and the tears still visible in Gillian’s eyes. It was sad because at first sight they made such an attractive couple: so young, so good-looking, smartly dressed, Eliot carrying a bottle of wine for Elaine – or perhaps for himself. He had been drinking. I could see that too. He wasn’t quite drunk, but he was swaying on his feet, making every effort to keep himself steady.

‘Hello again,’ he said, a little too loudly. He was wearing jeans and a velvet jacket with an open-neck white shirt.

‘Hello, Eliot.’

‘Have you been here long?’

‘About an hour.’

‘Have you been talking about me?’

‘Of course, Eliot. What else is there to talk about?’

He gave me a crooked smile. ‘This is my wife, Gillian. Gillian, this is Susan Ryeland. My editor!’

My first impression of Gillian Crace was that she was a strikingly attractive woman, a little younger than Eliot – maybe twenty-eight or twenty-nine – and she could have been born to be a nurse. She had sandy-coloured hair, neatly parted in the middle, blue eyes and freckles. When she smiled, she radiated calm and kindness.

‘It’s lovely to meet you,’ I said.

‘Eliot has told me a lot about you.’

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