Page 92 of Marble Hall Murders

EC:

Little and Often.

SA:

Why that one?

EC:

Because it was the last.

SA:

Thank you. That was Eliot Crace, giving a very personal view of his grandmother, Miriam Crace, who died exactly twenty years ago next Tuesday.

*

Story in theDaily Mail, 22 June 2023.

HOW WOULD MIRIAM CRACE FEEL TO BE TRASHED BY HER TALENTLESS GRANDSON?

By Kate Greene

Do you remember the Little People books? I read them as a child and, like so many of my friends, they always seemed to bring the smile back to my face when I was down in the dumps.

There was Grandpa Little with his stopwatch that had stopped permanently at teatime. Jack Little, who dreamed of sailing round the world in a teacup. Mr and Mrs Little, who didn’t have first names, but who loved each other so much that they celebrated their wedding anniversary every day.

Later on they were joined by Karim and Njinga Little, who were colour-blind (like their creator in real life) and who genuinely believed that everyone in the world looked the same. I remember readingLittle League– where Njinga sneaks into the United Nations and gets everyone to join in a song. It made me laugh out loud.

But it also brought tears to my eyes. If only the world could be more like the way the Little People saw it. That was the genius of their creator, Miriam Crace. She never had an unkind word to say about anyone. Her books had none of the spite or vulgarity you find in so many modern offerings. She saw the best in everything.

So what are we to make of Eliot Crace, who appeared on the BBC Radio 4 arts programmeFront Row– with some very questionable opinions about his grandmother?

Let’s ignore for a moment the fact that young Eliot seemed to have felt the need to fortify himself before he went on air. His voice was slurred. Some of his pronouncements were incoherent.

According to him, she was mean and uncaring. She was a control freak. Although she paid for her family to live in the gorgeous surroundings of Marble Hall, deep in the heart of the Wiltshire countryside – and her generosity also extended to Eliot’s private education, by the way – he says all he wanted was to get away from her.

I’m not saying that Miriam Crace was perfect. Nobody is. I remember interviewing her long ago, when she was seventy, and she couldn’t wait to get out of the room. She wouldn’t even talk to me until I had given her £20! But then, a week later, she sent me a charming note and a receipt from the St Ambrose Children’s Home.

But what exactly is the point in laying into her on the twentieth anniversary of her death? What good does he think it will do?