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That was where the manuscript ended.

The sun had sunk out of sight while I was reading and my little garden was cast in a bluish-green light. I could imagine Hero and Leander circling each other in the shadows. I would have to read the whole thing again before I met Eliot Crace, but already I was wondering if it would be a good idea to meet him at all. I remembered what Michael Flynn had told me. Eliot knew I was being brought in to work on the manuscript and he was ‘very excited’ and wanted to see me as soon as possible – but was he making a mistake?

I poured myself another glass of wine and considered.

Writers aren’t like other people. All those hours spent alone, obsessing about every word, can make them neurotic, nervous, needy or – like Alan Conway – plain nasty. When you think about it, all the odds are stacked against them. There are around two hundred thousand books published in the UK every year (as many as a million in the USA), and how many of them do you really think are going to end up on the front table at Waterstones? According to the Authors’ Licensing and Collecting Society, the average salary earned by a novelist is just seven thousand pounds a year, which makes a nurse or a librarian look rich. I’ve seen it often enough. The excitement of a new writer when they’re told that their book is going to be published, followed by the dawning realisation that it’s not the end of the journey or even the beginning. They’ve just been invited to stand on the platform and wait for a train that may never arrive.

This had been Eliot’s experience. The two books he had written about his Elizabethan detective, Dr Gee, had both misfired. Gee for Gunfire and Gee for Graveyard had been well-enough written, they’d looked good, they had a semi-famous name on the cover and we’d managed to get a bit of advance publicity – but they hadn’t connected with the public. We’d tried to find excuses, but the sales figures had spoken for themselves. Six months after the second book appeared, it was all over. The shelves in the warehouses had been cleared. As for the books themselves, the covers would have been torn off and the pages pulped, chemically cleaned and recycled. This is the humiliating end for so many writers’ dreams – to be turned into somebody else’s. Crace hadn’t written anything since.

My first reaction to what I’d read so far was that he stood a much better chance of success this time round. He’d certainly captured the voice of Alan Conway and there was a lot in the book that I liked. Naturally enough, I had plenty of thoughts – but was this the right time to be sharing them?

An editorial meeting with a young writer is like dancing with someone with three feet. You have to be so careful not to trip them up, not to shatter their confidence, which, like the pages of their manuscript, may be paper-thin. It’s such a strange relationship. Who is in control? In those early days, it’s the editor who offers experience and professionalism, who knows the market and can guide the book to the success it so obviously deserves. The author has dreams, but the editor has plans. And at the end of the day, it’s the editor who chooses the book and who pays for it. If new writers have one thing in common, it’s gratitude.

It’s only when the books become successful that things change – and this was exactly what had happened with Alan Conway. As soon as he started selling in large numbers and had his awards and the freedom of the city of Heidelberg under his belt, he decided that Cloverleaf needed him more than he needed Cloverleaf. And the worst of it was that he had a point. I dreaded meeting him because he was so unpleasant to work with: I disliked him and needed him in equal measure. Charles Clover had to take over, and what good did that do? In the end, the whole business burned down.

I didn’t think it was a good idea to meet Eliot before the book was finished for a whole host of reasons.

First of all, how can you possibly judge a whodunnit before you’ve read the end? Thirty thousand words in, it looked almost certain to me that Lady Chalfont had been murdered by her second husband. Elmer Waysmith wasn’t a particularly pleasant character and he was the one who had the most to lose if she’d gone ahead and changed her will. He’d had to act quickly. His wife had overheard something and had telephoned Jean Lambert, the solicitor, who had turned up at the house on the very day she died.

But if Elmer did turn out to be the killer, I’d be disappointed. It would be too obvious and it really wouldn’t matter how well or badly the book was written. The whole thing would fall flat and that would get it a kicking on Goodreads and the other critical websites. From my experience, I’d say that people who enjoy crime fiction and who form communities all over the internet are the most discerning – and the most unforgiving – of all readers. Do you think Murder on the Orient Express would have become one of the greatest mysteries of all time if the train driver had done it?

That might be an argument for getting in early, before it was too late, but there was a real danger that if I started asking too many questions, I might accidentally tear up everything Eliot had done so far. I remembered the sensitive, unpredictable young man I’d met all those years ago. Michael had said that he’d settled down since then, but I didn’t want to take any chances. There was an extremely tight deadline hanging over us. The book was wanted early in the New Year, which meant getting the proofs out by October at the latest. That was only four months away.

There was another question clouding my mind. Even before I’d accepted the manuscript, I’d had misgivings about editing it. Alan Conway might be dead, but his ghost lived on, as malevolent as ever. Reading Pünd’s Last Case , I’d felt him standing at my shoulder and I’d begun to wonder if Eliot Crace wasn’t playing exactly the same mind games that had got me into so much trouble before.

It had begun with an anagram. I’d spotted it almost immediately – it wasn’t difficult. Eliot Crace’s grandmother, Miriam Crace, had lived at Marble Hall.

Marble Hall.

The Chateau Belmar .

I wondered to what extent Eliot had based the characters living in the South of France on his own family. If I met him, I could ask him, of course, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to know. If my experience with Alan Conway had taught me anything it was that I was better off keeping my distance from writers, especially the ones who wanted to get their revenge on the world.

My mobile rang.

I picked it up and glanced at the screen. It was Michael Flynn, still at work, even though it was after six o’clock.

‘Hello, Susan. I was wondering how you were getting along with the book.’

‘I’ve just finished it.’

‘That’s quick. What do you think?’

‘I think it’s very good. I mean, the characters are believable. It’s great that we get to the murder after just a few chapters. That’s when things start motoring. He’s certainly managed to capture Atticus Pünd. I do have some questions, though …’

‘That’s the reason I’m calling. I just spoke to Eliot. I told him you had the manuscript and he’s very keen to meet you to get your thoughts. He wondered if you’d be around tomorrow? We could give you a room in the office.’

‘Well …’

‘Will eleven o’clock work for you?’

There were so many things I could have said. I’d had enough of Atticus Pünd and never wanted to go near him again. I didn’t even really want to work on murder mysteries. Couldn’t he find a nice, cheerful historical romance set in nineteenth-century England with couples romping in hay wains or dancing the quadrille and nobody being killed? But I needed the job. I wanted to be taken on as a full-time editor. I didn’t really have a choice.

‘I’ll see you then,’ I said. And hung up.