Page 42 of Marble Hall Murders

‘Do you think I will too?’

‘I think there’s a good chance.’ I had poured two cups of coffee. I brought them over to the table and sat down opposite Eliot. My copy of his manuscript was in my bag, but I didn’t bring it out. I didn’t want him to see the comments and the underlining. ‘How far have you got?’ I asked.

‘I’ve done about another ten thousand words.’

‘Are you enjoying writing it?’

He gave me a peculiar smile. ‘Very much.’

‘It shows. You’ve got a lovely lightness of touch and I liked some of the jokes. Fraser mistranslating things, for example. I think if Alan were alive, he’d be impressed.’

‘If Alan were alive, I wouldn’t have been given the gig.’

‘That’s true.’ I paused for a moment. ‘You were the one who asked to see me, Eliot. And I’m very happy that we’re meeting face-to-face. I like to get to know all my authors. Have you shown the pages to anyone else?’

‘Gillian has seen them.’ I looked at him enquiringly. ‘My wife.’

Michael Flynn had suggested marriage had helped Eliot settle down, but there was something about the way he spoke those two words, and the cold smile that accompanied them, that made me wonder how close the two of them were.

‘She doesn’t really read murder mysteries,’ he went on. ‘But she said it was good.’

‘It is good and I’m looking forward to reading the rest of it.’

‘Do you have any notes?’

‘Notes?’

‘Is there anything you want me to change?’ He was completely good-humoured, sitting there, cradling his coffee cup, but still I wondered if he wasn’t challenging me in some way.

‘I’m not sure I really want to give you notes right now,’ I countered. ‘Of course, I have some thoughts, but I wouldn’t want to interrupt your flow. Wouldn’t you prefer to get to the end? Then we can look at everything in context.’

‘Actually, I’d like to hear them now.’ He paused. ‘They’d really help.’

Again, there was something in that smile of his I found unsettling. It was on the edge of insolence, and remembering how long I had been sitting there, waiting for him, I was tempted to get up and walk out. But I wasn’t the sort to throw in the towel and I decided that I wasn’t going to be mucked around by a writer half my age, especially one who had never written a novel that had come anywhere near success. I remembered what Michael Flynn had told me when he gave me the job. He wanted me to hold on to the reins. Like it or not, we’d already reached the defining moment in whatwould be our working relationship. This was where I took control.

‘All right,’ I said. ‘I’ll give you my thoughts if you really want them – but they are only thoughts. You have to trust your instincts, Eliot. This is your book. I’m only here to support you.’

‘Go on.’

‘Well, let’s start with the title.’ I felt on safe ground here. ‘Pünd’s Last Case. Are you sure you’re happy with that?’

He shrugged. ‘I don’t see anything wrong with it.’

‘I wonder if you’ve thought it through. You must know that Causton have signed a three-book deal with Alan Conway’s estate. How are you going to write two more books if Atticus Pünd dies?’

‘I thought he might get better.’

‘Then why is this his last case?’

‘He thinks it’s his last case. That’s all that matters.’

‘OK. But I don’t think you should break faith with your readers and I’m sure you can come up with something better. Also,’ I quickly moved on, ‘I did find the opening chapter a little depressing, if I’m going to be honest with you. Atticus is seeing his doctor about a fatal brain tumour. He meets a woman who has a fatal heart condition. They both have weeks to live. It’s not exactly a barrel of laughs.’ I smiled, trying to make light of it.

‘That’s the story, Susan. It’s how they meet. If I take that out, I’ve got nothing left.’

‘I’m not asking you to take it out, but there are plenty of other ways they could meet. You need to think of someone reading the first page in a bookshop. Do you want to depressthem or do you want them to buy the book? All that rain! You mention the rain six times in the first two paragraphs. This is meant to be an entertainment. It isn’tBleak House.’

Eliot reached into his back pocket and drew out a notebook and a biro. He laid them on the table and wrote the single word: RAIN. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘What else?’