Page 57 of Marble Hall Murders

The Miriam Crace Estate

I wasn’t at all surprised when my mobile rang the following morning and an officious-sounding woman asked me to hold while she connected me with the CEO of the Miriam Crace Estate, Mr Jonathan Crace. I wondered who had been first to contact him after my adventures in Wiltshire: Frederick Turner or Dr John Lambert?

There was a brief silence and then a voice came on. ‘Is that Susan Ryeland?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m Jonathan Crace. I understand you’re working with my nephew Eliot.’ He had got straight to the point, though, to be fair, he sounded perfectly pleasant.

‘That’s right,’ I said.

‘I’m sure you’re very busy, but I was wondering if we might have a chat about this book he’s writing.’

‘On the phone?’

‘Actually, if you had time, I’d be grateful if you could look into the office.’

‘And where is that?’

He gave me an address in Kingston Street, which, he said, was close to Trafalgar Square. ‘Would eleven o’clock suit you?’ he asked. ‘Eliot’s brother, Roland, works with me, so it’ll be a chance for you to meet him too.’

‘That would be fine.’

‘Eleven o’clock, then.’ He rang off.

I had a feeling that my reception wasn’t going to be quite as amicable as the call had suggested, but I didn’t hesitate. This was a chance to meet two more members of the family and perhaps to unpick whatever it was that was going on in Eliot’s mind. Anyway, I was in no mood to tackle the Nordic noir manuscript Michael Flynn had sent me, and apart from that I had nothing else to do.

At five to eleven, I found myself outside the office where Frederick Turner had once worked. It was one of those solid Georgian buildings with white pillars and ornate railings from which the war might once have been planned and won. It was a perfect location for the Miriam Crace Estate: expensive but still anonymous, right in the middle of London, but in a long, quiet street, keeping its distance from restaurants and shops. Mr Banks, the banker inMary Poppins, would have enjoyed working here. It would have suited his briefcase and bowler hat.

I rang the doorbell and heard its echoing clang. The door buzzed open and I went into a reception area that had Miriam Crace all over it: books, posters, photographs and awards that had spilled over from Marble Hall. I introduced myself and was given an ID sticker and directions to the third floor. A smartly dressed young woman, perhaps the one who had called me, was waiting when the lift door opened. She smiledpleasantly but said very little and I wondered if she had been warned not to give anything away. This was, after all, the land of the NDA. Perhaps I might be asked to sign one.

I was shown into a conference room with an oval table, eight pens, eight notepads, eight glasses and eight chairs. Sitting in one of them, the CEO of the Miriam Crace Estate was thumbing away at his mobile, writing what had to be a very important text but might have been timed for my arrival. He pressed send and stood up.

‘Susan – thank you for coming in.’

‘Jonathan – it’s a pleasure to meet you.’

‘Please, sit down. Would you like a coffee?’

‘Thank you. White, no sugar.’

‘Can you see to that, Olivia? And tell Roland that Susan is here.’

The assistant slipped out quietly and Jonathan Crace turned his attention to me. His ginger hair was the first thing I noticed, although it wasn’t as wild or as fiery as that of his alter ego, Jeffrey Chalfont. It was cut straight across his forehead, drawing a parallel line with his rectangular spectacles, which sat like two television screens in front of eyes brimming not exactly with hostility but with a warning to keep your distance. He was wearing suit trousers but no jacket, as if to better display his monogrammed cuffs. A chunky gold ring (something else he shared with Jeffrey) weighed heavily on one hand.

‘Good of you to come round at such short notice, Susan,’ he barked, in a way that told me he’d expected nothing less. At the same time, he ushered me to a chair about halfway along the table. ‘I understand you’ve been living in Crete.’

‘Until recently,’ I said.

‘My wife and I were there last year. We stayed in Chania.’

‘That’s the other side of the island.’

‘I understand you ran a hotel – following the collapse of your business.’

‘It didn’t collapse. It burned down.’

‘And now you’re working with Eliot.’ His smile was brief and businesslike, informing me that the small talk was over. ‘I knew your name, of course, because I worked with your boss, Charles Clover. He helped us with my mother’s last books and he did a pretty good job.’