Page 93 of Marble Hall Murders

And then there’s his extraordinary claim that someone in the family might have murdered her! ‘Piffle and poppycock’, as Grandma Little might have said. (And often did!) She had terminal heart disease. Her private doctor examined her after she had peacefully passed away.

Funny, isn’t it, that nobody has ever had a bad word to say about Miriam before. Just little Eliot – who was only twelve years old himself when his grandmother died.

So here’s the question. Is it a coincidence that Eliot Crace is promoting his own book, a new Atticus Pünd murder mystery that he has – mysteriously – been commissioned to write?

And here’s the answer. Probably not!

Eliot Crace has published two crime novels. Their titles wereGee for GraveyardandGee for Gunfire, about a detective with the unlikely name of Dr Gee.

I’ve never read them myself, but let’s just say that they didn’t exactly set the world on fire. According to the critic of this newspaper at the time, they were ‘poorly written and confused’. It makes you wonder why Causton Books have decided he’s the right man for the job.

Unless, of course, they’re buying into the famous name that it just so happens he’s attempting to drag down.

I quite enjoyed the Atticus Pünd novels, but I’ll tell you this. If you’re thinking of buying meThe Man with White Hairfor Christmas, please don’t bother. I’m sure it will be Gee for garbage.

The Party

JONATHANCRACE AND THEMIRIAMCRACEESTATELTD

REQUEST THE PLEASURE OF THE COMPANY OF

Susan Ryeland

TO CELEBRATE THE LIFE OFMIRIAMCRACE

AT

20 KINGSTONSTREET, WC2 4DN

TUESDAY, 27 JUNE2023

7.00P.M.– 11.00P.M.

RSVP: [email protected]

It had been more than a week since my last encounter with Eliot Crace and I hadn’t heard a word from him. Michael Flynn hadn’t been in touch either. I didn’t know if I was still employed by Causton Books, if Eliot had fired me as his editor or if I’d resigned. The last of these seemed the most likely. After all, I’d walked out on him and told him to drop dead, which could hardly be called a celebration of our working relationship.

I didn’t care. TheFront Rowinterview had been the laststraw as far as I was concerned. In a drunken flurry, Eliot had announced to the whole world that Miriam had been murdered and that he knew who had done it. What exactly was going on in his head? Did he think it would be good for sales? Had he learned nothing from what had happened to Alan Conway?

There had been quite a furore following the broadcast. A lot of newspapers had carried stories similar to the one in theDaily Mail, there had been an item on the six o’clock news and one journalist had even managed to track down my mobile phone number to call and ask me for a comment. I declined. There had barely been a mention of Eliot’s new book in any of the reports. That’s what he should have realised before he opened his mouth. Miriam Crace was the story and she didn’t need the publicity.

Jonathan Crace had telephoned me too. I didn’t answer the phone when I saw his name come up on the screen, but he left me a voicemail message that was as aggressive as I’d expected.

‘Susan – this is Jonathan Crace here. I’m calling you about this absurd interview that Eliot has done on the BBC. You told me he wasn’t writing about his time at Marble Hall and now he comes out with a series of outrageous accusations at the worst possible time as far as the estate is concerned – particularly in light of our dealings with Netflix. You also promised me you would keep him under control, but I very much wonder if this so-called interview wasn’t your idea in the first place. I’d be very grateful if you could call me back as soon as possible – and if you see Eliot, you can tell him from me that he has done himself and his book nothing but damage. I can assure you both that the estate will be pursuing this matter further.’

The one thing he hadn’t done was to uninvite me from the celebration of his mother’s life. Perhaps he’d forgotten that he’d asked me to come in the first place, but there it was on my kitchen table, a thick piece of card with Copperplate lettering inside a gold border and my name on the dotted line. It didn’t take me very long to make up my mind. Everyone would be there: Jonathan, Roland, maybe Eliot and Gillian. I doubted that we would come to blows over champagne and canapés and I was keen to find out whether the book was still going ahead.

Which explains why, at six o’clock in the evening of the following Tuesday, I found myself standing in front of a full-length mirror with a gin and tonic in one hand and a sequinned silk clutch bag in the other. I had chosen a figure-hugging black dress I’d bought in one of the few boutiques in Agios Nikolaos that sold clothes I could imagine myself wearing. It would have worked equally well at a party as at a funeral and since this was the anniversary of Miriam’s death, it seemed appropriate. I wasn’t going to drive. The tube would take me directly from Highgate station and although that meant sacrificing stiletto heels, at least I could have a drink.

The party was being held at the address in Kingston Street where I had met Jonathan Crace. It was a balmy evening when I arrived and the entire street had been taken over by attendants in grey shirts and waistcoats, helping the guests park on both sides, from one end to the other. I wondered how the Crace Estate had managed to arrange this with their neighbours, but then it occurred to me that they were so rich it was possible they owned all the properties. Flaming torcheshad been arranged outside the front door, and given that the building was Georgian and everyone arriving was elegantly dressed, I felt as if I was walking onto a giant film set.

There were two young women with clipboards in the reception area, checking off the guests as they entered, and I did have a moment of doubt as I presented my invitation. Was I about to experience the humiliation of being turned away? But either Roland had been looking out for me or Jonathan had forgotten to press the delete button and I was shown in with no problem.

‘There’s a cloakroom just over there and you can take the lift or the stairs to the reception room on the fourth floor. Have a lovely evening.’

I was wearing a light coat over my dress and I handed it to an attendant and received a numbered tag in return. I slipped it into my bag and had just joined a small crowd of people waiting for the lift when I saw her. ‘Elaine!’

Elaine Clover was standing in front of me, looking down at her mobile phone. She was wearing an off-the-shoulder opal-pink evening dress and a pretty necklace with multicoloured stones. As she turned round and smiled at me, I felt seriously underdressed, but I was still delighted to see her. A friend in the enemy camp.

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