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stood close to Salisbury Plain, surrounded by so much land that even if you climbed to the top of its highest tower you wouldn’t see anything you didn’t own. There were gardens, orchards, great swathes of pasture and broadleaf woodland. The house itself was a mishmash of different styles, mainly Tudor and Jacobean, knocked around by different owners until Miriam Crace bought it. Goodness knows what she must have been thinking at the time. She’d already made a ton of money, but this was a couple of years before her first child was even born. Why did she think she would need nine bedrooms, a dining room, a breakfast room, a library, a conservatory and a ballroom – not to mention the coach house, stables, tennis court, swimming pool, lodge house and gamekeeper’s cottage in the grounds? Did she see herself as the Citizen Kane of children’s authors, building a retreat from the world that would become a world in itself?

Less than half of the property was open to the public, but that was more than enough. It wasn’t the carpets or the chandeliers that drew ten thousand visitors a year, it was the life of its famous occupant. Or, at least, her ghost. Her books, in forty-seven languages, including Latin and Welsh, filled the library. Her shoes, summer dresses, hats, gloves, the mink coat she wore to the premiere of the Little People musical at the London Palladium, were displayed in the bedroom. The twenty-three left-handed fountain pens she’d had specially made for her were laid out on the desk in her office, along with notebooks and manuscripts covered with her almost illegible handwriting.

Here was her CBE, resting on the grand piano she played for an hour every morning. Here was her favourite egg cup and a silver spoon, one of the dozen she had been given for her wedding by Lord Mountbatten, a huge fan of her books. And everywhere you looked there were the Little People themselves: models, photographs, cartoons, toys, framed newspapers and magazines, chocolate bars, dolls, games, jigsaws, key rings, cushions, beer mats and playing cards. After an hour or so, even the most ardent fan must have felt exhausted. It was lucky, then, that the stables had been converted into a café where you could enjoy Grandma Little’s Cream Tea or a glass of Grandpa Little’s Ginger Beer.

I had driven down from London a few days after my dinner with Elaine, although there were plenty of other things I could have been doing. Michael Flynn had surprised me by sending me a second manuscript to edit – another piece of Nordic noir. It was wanted by the end of the month, but it had been horribly translated and almost every line needed work. I couldn’t focus on any of it.

My thoughts were all over the place. It looked as if I was stuck as Eliot’s editor whether I liked it or not; certainly if I was to have any hope of continuing my career at Causton Books. I had also promised Elaine that I would be a friend to him, which went against all my professional instincts. But she’d persuaded me that I owed it to her and, much to my annoyance, I’d decided she was right. And then there was Eliot himself. Every word he had said at the dinner table had come as a hammer blow, smashing all my preconceptions about his famous grandmother. Could Miriam really have been the horror he had described? How could she possibly have created the world’s most lovable family when she’d been so hateful to her own?

I couldn’t walk away, although I was tempted to do exactly that. I was already too committed. It was as if I’d tumbled into a web, only to discover that I was, in fact, the spider. If I was going to hold everything together, I had to be strong, which meant learning as much as I could about the house, the family, Eliot’s childhood and, above all, Miriam Crace herself. I think Elaine was hoping that I would protect him, but in reality I was simply protecting myself.

And so I’d gone back and read as many articles as I could find about Miriam, including her obituaries, and they all told the same story: a major talent, the inspiration for a generation of children, a hugely wealthy, record-breaking British writer loved all over the world, who had devoted her life to charitable causes and had passed away in her early eighties. The queen herself had sent a note of condolence. I scoured the internet, but there wasn’t so much as a whisper that there had been anything suspicious about her death. It had been the inevitable conclusion of many years of declining health.

‘ It’s just as well she died of natural causes. ’

‘ What makes you think that? ’

It would have been easy enough to dismiss Eliot’s insinuations. He was drunk. He’d just argued with his wife. But when I was lying in bed, trying to get to sleep, that last exchange had echoed over and over in my head. Eliot knew exactly what he was doing. He had spent the first twelve years of his life at and he had weaponised that experience. I knew now that Pünd’s Last Case wasn’t just a book. It was an act of revenge.

and the Chateau Belmar. Two old women, both with the initials MC, both with a heart condition, had died. At least one of them had been poisoned. And there were plenty of other parallels. Julia Crace and Judith Lyttleton. The first names of Eliot’s sister and Jeffrey Chalfont’s sister started with the same two letters. Both had an issue with weight, and from schoolteacher to postgraduate doctor wasn’t too far a stretch. Jonathan Crace, married to Leylah, must find a reflection in Jeffrey, married to Lola. Eliot had told me that he had based the character of Cedric on himself and it seemed to me that Elmer Waysmith – who treated his son with such contempt – might well have been inspired by Eliot’s own father.

Even the lemon and ginger tonic that Miriam drank every morning had its counterpart in the lemon and ginger tea that had killed Margaret Chalfont. Was that what Eliot was saying? Was that how he believed his grandmother had died?

I wasn’t sure if I should be editing the book or persuading Eliot not to write it. I knew I was going to have to confront him about all this and it wasn’t going to be pleasant. But when I woke up on a bright Sunday morning, it was clear to me what I had to do. was real. was two and a half hours away. Before I made any decision, I had to see it for myself.

It was an easy drive down and I’d chosen a beautiful day. It gave me a chance to put my old MG through its paces and once I’d come off the M4, I put the roof down and enjoyed the rushing green and the glorious fresh air of the Wiltshire countryside, Adele blasting out of the sound system.

The main car park was already close to full when I pulled in shortly before midday. I walked through the gardens up to the main entrance, looking out for a Michelangelo-inspired fountain and a Corinthian gazebo, and I was glad they weren’t there. Architecturally, the very English house had nothing in common with the Chateau Belmar. It was darker, with smaller rooms – and more of them – connected by creaking corridors or tucked away in hidden annexes.

Miriam Crace had bought the hall in 1955 and over the next forty-odd years it had opened its arms – or perhaps its tentacles – to embrace three generations. First, there had been Miriam and Kenneth, still married but definitely not together. Jonathan and Edward had been born and grew up there. When they had married, their wives – Leylah and Amy – had moved in too. Then there had been four grandchildren: Jasmine, Roland, Julia and Eliot, arriving in that order. And let’s not forget Frederick Turner, adopted in 1961. How had he fitted in to all this?

That was what I was asking myself as I joined the tourists and their children, some of whom were dressed up as their favourite characters from the books, following the arrows from one clutter-filled room to another. What would life have been like for the children here, rubbing shoulders with your uncles and your cousins, always kowtowing to whatever Grandma might demand? At some stage, Jonathan had moved his wife and daughter into a separate building in the grounds. But which room had been Eliot’s? Where had his parents slept? Only Miriam’s bedroom was labelled – with a red cord across the doorway to stop people from entering. I spent a long time looking at the bed with its two cabinets, one on each side. I was fixated by them. I could almost see the servant or a housekeeper placing a glass of lemon and ginger on one of them for Miriam to drink, the bright yellow liquid shimmering like something out of a Hitchcock film.

From what Eliot had told me, his parents couldn’t wait to get out of and had left the moment Miriam died, taking their three children with them. After just one hour in the place, I knew exactly how they felt. There was something incredibly oppressive about the place. So many doors and staircases, so little natural light. And then there were the stuffed animals. Crows, foxes, rabbits, owls, just about every form of wildlife watched me with their incurious glass eyes as I strolled past. I was particularly struck by a kingfisher locked away in a glass cabinet, the glorious colours of its plumage somehow obscene given that it had been dead for perhaps a hundred years. Kenneth’s workshop in one of the towers was open to the public. It was like Frankenstein’s castle: shelves lined with flasks and old bottles, bits of bone and feather, wooden work surfaces still stained with decades-old dried blood. Seen through the eyes of an imaginative ten-year-old, it would have been like living in a bad dream.

And there would have been no escape. The house was so remote that Eliot would have grown up without seeing anyone from the outside world, and if he wanted to go anywhere, even to school, he would have had to be taken in a car. I had paid seventeen pounds fifty to get in. I could imagine that he would have paid a thousand times that to get out.

I bought a history of in the gift shop, mainly because there was a black-and-white photograph of Miriam Crace on the cover and I thought it would be useful to have it with me. Although born in 1920, she had the look of a character out of Sherlock Holmes. The black-and-white photography did her no favours, I thought, and there was something truly ghostlike about her: her head tilted to one side, her hair floating like clouds above her face, her eyes staring at something over the photographer’s shoulder. She was not a beautiful woman, but nor was she ugly. She just looked … dead.

As I took out my credit card, I struck up a conversation with the woman behind the counter. Her name was Brenda. It was written on a tag pinned to her chest. I asked her about the stuffed animals.

‘That was Kenneth Rivers,’ she told me. ‘He was married to Miriam Crace, although she never used his name. They are a bit creepy, I must say. Apparently, there are over two hundred of them scattered through the house. Sometimes they seem to be watching you as you walk down the corridors. All those glass eyes!’

‘When did he die?’

‘Two years after her, in 2005. He was ninety years old by then. He stayed in the house, although at the end he was on his own. A few years ago, they decided to open the property for people to visit. Are you a Miriam Crace fan?’

‘Absolutely.’ The staff at must have come in from Devizes and the surrounding villages. They had all been delightful, huge fans of the Little People, and I didn’t want to say anything that might offend them. ‘I understand the whole family lived here when Miriam was alive,’ I said.

‘That’s right.’

‘I know it’s an odd question, but I’d love to know where everyone slept. Were any of them on the same floor as Miriam Crace?’

Brenda was happy to share her expertise. ‘The three grandchildren all had rooms next to each other on the first-floor corridor, and you’ll have seen Miriam’s bedroom at the far end, next to the bathroom. I love the curtains – and what a view to wake up to! Part of the family was in the Lodge House and Mr Turner was up at the top. He was brought here when he was a boy and he still lives here now. If you’d come in the week, you’d have found him showing people round the house or working behind the ticket desk. He likes to pitch in. Unfortunately, he doesn’t work on Sundays.’

‘I’m sorry? Frederick Turner is still here?’ I had to make sure we were talking about the same person. ‘The boy adopted by Miriam Crace …?’

‘That’s right. It was such a kindness and he tells lots of lovely stories about her.’

‘Is he in the house right now?’

‘He might be. But it’s his day off.’

It was too good an opportunity to miss. ‘I wonder if you could call him for me?’ I went on quickly before she could refuse. ‘I’m working with Eliot Crace, Miriam’s grandson. In fact, it was Eliot who suggested I come down here. He’s writing a book about and I’m his editor.’ She looked doubtful, so I pressed on. ‘It would be hugely helpful if he could spare me a few minutes of his time – and if he’s busy, he can always say no.’

‘Well, I suppose there’s no harm asking.’ She didn’t look happy, but she reached for the telephone and punched in a four-digit number, turning her back on me and speaking in a low voice so that I couldn’t intrude. I heard a few words.

‘… a lady who … she says she’s working with Eliot … writing about the house. No. She didn’t say.’

She turned back to me. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Susan Ryeland. I work for Causton Books. Can you tell him I’ve driven down from London?’

This was transmitted down the line. There was a silence and I thought he must have refused, but then she lowered the phone. ‘He’ll be down in a minute.’

‘That’s wonderful. Thank you, Brenda.’

While I waited, I glanced through the other souvenirs and read a few pages of Little Miracles , which still hit the bestseller charts every Easter. There was something a little depressing about the gifts on offer, but it was only as I was thumbing through the postcards that I realised what it was. Andreas was in Crete. Charles was in prison. Katie was in Suffolk. I realised I couldn’t buy anything because I had nobody to give anything to and that reminded me how much I’d made my work the centre of my life. It was a feeling that passed quickly enough. I had plenty of friends and none of them would have wanted any of this tat anyway, but it was still a reminder of the extent to which I had been cut adrift by the events of the last few years and that there was a definite fragility about the way I was living.

Then a door over to one side opened and Frédéric Voltaire appeared.

Of course it wasn’t the French detective from Eliot’s novel, but there could be no doubt that this was where he had found his inspiration. The man who was approaching me had one eye covered by a patch and moved slowly, as if in pain. I knew that Frederick Turner was Eliot’s adoptive uncle and straight away I wondered what he had done to find himself in the novel, and hoped that this wasn’t going to be another case of old scores being settled.

‘This is the lady here, Mr Turner,’ Brenda cooed. ‘I hope you don’t mind me disturbing you on your day off.’

‘That’s all right, Brenda.’

‘Did you get any asparagus?’

‘No. I’m afraid they’re finished for the season.’ He turned to me and smiled. ‘Ms Ryeland?’

I tried to look past the injuries. The man who was standing in front of me looked to be in his late fifties, casually dressed in a paisley shirt tucked into baggy cords, with leather slippers on his feet. Unlike the character in the book, he was mixed-race, with African and white heritage. He was a handsome man despite the loss of his eye and the scarring on the side of his face. He had a quiet intelligence and a gentleness I found endearing. He spoke softly, as if afraid of giving offence.

‘Susan, please,’ I said.

‘I’m Frederick Turner.’

‘Thank you for coming down. I’m working with Eliot—’

‘Yes. I know who you are. Would you like a coffee? We have quite a good tea room here – the Little Parlour. The ladies make all their own cakes.’

We set off together, leaving the house and heading for the stables. Frederick walked with a limp. ‘You’ll have to forgive my appearance,’ he said. ‘I have an allotment at the back of the house and I’d just finished lifting the early potatoes and was about to jump into the shower when Brenda rang. We had a marvellous crop of asparagus this year, by the way, but sadly the season is all too short.’

‘You manage ?’

‘Yes. I hope you enjoyed your visit. Isn’t it a marvellous place?’ He pointed to a line of casement windows on the second floor. ‘I have a suite of rooms up there. It’s funny to find myself back where I began, but I love living here and there’s absolutely no way I could do this job remotely. I’ve been here so long that probably one day I’ll be part of the guided tour. I might even come back and haunt the place!’ He smiled at his own joke.

The room was crowded, but we found a table and after I had declined both lemon drizzle cake and French fancies, he ordered tea and biscuits. The waitress was called Daphne and she fussed over him as if he was a schoolboy being given a special treat. In that respect, she was just like Brenda in the gift shop. Both were obviously fond of him, perhaps because of his injuries.

‘Who told you about me?’ I asked. I assumed it must have been Eliot. Nobody else in the Crace family knew I was working on the book.

‘I met Charles Clover a few times,’ he explained. ‘He came down here when he was working on the last books written by Miriam Crace and we stayed in touch after he set up Cloverleaf. He often mentioned you. He spoke very highly of you.’

I wasn’t sure if this was a compliment or a rebuke. Frederick must have been aware of what had happened to Charles and his company, but he didn’t make any reference to it so I decided I wouldn’t either. ‘I’m freelance now’ was all I said.

‘I’d heard Eliot was writing a book. Is it set here at ?’

I wasn’t sure how to answer that. I knew I’d struck lucky. Frederick Turner could give me a lot of the background details I needed about Miriam Crace, and the families who had lived here – but it might be difficult to draw information out of him if I said that Eliot was using the family as the template for a murder mystery set in the South of France in 1955. At the same time, he seemed like a nice enough man and I didn’t want to lie to him. ‘He’s writing a mystery story,’ I said, keeping things vague. ‘It’s a work of fiction, but it’s partly inspired by his childhood here.’

He smiled. ‘I always thought Eliot would become a writer. He was an odd little boy, always living in his imagination.’ He paused. ‘Am I in it?’

‘I’ve only read a few chapters. He won’t be delivering until later in the year.’ Both statements were true, but didn’t answer the question. ‘I understand you were adopted by Miriam Crace.’

‘That’s right.’ He paused while the waitress brought over one of those silver pots that make such a business dribbling out a measure of tea, and two gingerbread men on a plate, both based on characters from Miriam’s books, their names – Harry and Rose – written in icing sugar. ‘I first came to in 1961, when I was almost six years old.’

I did a quick calculation. He’d been born in 1955, which made him sixty-eight now, much older than I’d thought.

‘If Eliot’s writing a mystery novel, he should start with me. I never knew either of my parents. My mother died giving birth to me. We know very little about her. We think my father was an agricultural worker and she may have been a Traveller. Mary Turner was the name she gave at the Trowbridge Community Hospital, which is where I was born. Apparently, she said that she wanted me to be called Frederick if I was a boy, and it makes me sad to think she never found out that it happened. I ended up at the St Ambrose Orphanage and Children’s Home …’

‘In Salisbury.’

‘That’s the one. When no relatives stepped forward to claim me, I was put up for adoption, but that didn’t happen. It may have been my ethnicity. Back then, in the fifties, down here in the West Country attitudes were different. Anyway, I was the lucky one. Mrs Crace was a patron of the orphanage. I’m sure you’re aware, she did an enormous amount for children throughout her life and we all knew her. The Little People was the first book I ever read – and the second, and the third, and the fourth. When she came swooping in in that Bentley of hers, I couldn’t believe what was happening. It was like a fairy story.’

‘Were you happy at ?’

‘How could I not be?’

‘Did you fit in with the family?’ He looked puzzled, so I added: ‘Eliot suggested to me that you all had quite separate lives.’

He laughed and poured tea for both of us. ‘Forgive me for saying so, Susan, but if you’re going to work with Eliot, you really mustn’t trust everything he says. I was one hundred per cent happy here and Mrs Crace couldn’t have been kinder to me.’

‘You don’t call her Miriam.’

‘I wouldn’t have dared when she was alive and it still seems wrong now that she’s dead. She was one of the most famous writers in the world. Margaret Thatcher loved her work and invited her to Downing Street. There were Hollywood stars queuing up to meet her. Faye Dunaway, Paul Newman, Meryl Streep. She was a powerhouse of a woman and there were many people who were intimidated by her. I never thought of her as a mother. To me she was simply the person who saved my life.’

‘Did you go to the same school as Edward and Jonathan?’

He frowned. ‘Why are you asking me that?’

‘I’m sorry.’ I backtracked quickly. ‘I don’t mean to be personal, but Eliot has told me very little about his father – about either of his parents – and I suppose I feel a little protective towards him. Publishing a book can be a tough business and it’s part of my job to make sure he’s looked after.’ This seemed to make some sort of sense to Frederick, although I wasn’t sure it made any to me. Yes, I tried to support my writers, but this didn’t usually involve digging into their family history. ‘I’m sure you’re aware that Eliot has had a few problems,’ I added confidentially.

‘I haven’t really spoken to Edward since he went to America,’ Frederick said. ‘And since you ask, Susan, I did not go to the same school as Edward or Jonathan. They were educated privately and I went to a comprehensive in Devizes. That was fine as far as I was concerned. Mrs Crace had done enough for me. Why should she and Kenneth have to pay for my education? Maybe that’s what Eliot meant by separate lives. All three of us were very different. Edward was the quiet one, interested in art and art history. Jonathan couldn’t wait to take over the estate and build on what his mother had created. He’s the one who employs me now. I was the oldest of the three of us, but of course things were different for me. I kept myself to myself. I moved to London in my twenties and qualified as an accountant. Mrs Crace paid for everything. I was thinking of going to America, but then I had my accident.’

‘I’m sorry. What happened?’

‘It was entirely my fault. I was driving to the airport. I had a bad head cold and I wasn’t concentrating. I drove through a red light and my car was hit by a truck.’ He paused and drank tea. ‘I was quite badly injured and I came back to to recuperate.

‘Jonathan was extremely helpful. By now he was running the family business and he suggested I take over the accounts. Once I was back on my feet, I worked in the London office, in Kingston Street. I was there until 2016, when Jonathan decided to open to the public. He asked me if I’d like to manage the house and I leapt at the opportunity.’ He glanced down at his leg, stretched out beside the table. ‘At least in so far as I was able.’

‘So, as far as you were concerned, it was all one big, happy family?’

I’d done my best not to sound sarcastic, but I could see that Frederick was becoming impatient with me. ‘Mrs Crace certainly liked having her children and grandchildren around her,’ he said. ‘There was plenty of space. Jonathan and Leylah were in the Lodge House with their daughter, Jasmine. You can see it as you drive out of here. It’s set back among the trees, past the old swimming pool, on the left. Edward and Amy had a whole suite of rooms at the back of the house. That included a living room and kitchen.’

‘And you?’

‘I was up in the eaves. I loved it there. The roof sloped down over my bed, and lying on my back before I went to sleep, I could see the moon and all the stars. There was an owl in the rafters and sometimes I could hear it hooting. I presume you visited the rooms occupied by Mr Rivers and Mrs Crace on the first and second floors?’

‘They didn’t sleep together …’

‘I’m amazed you’re asking that.’

‘I didn’t mean to be intrusive, Frederick. Eliot told me they weren’t close.’

‘Well, it’s none of my business and certainly none of yours, so I’m not going to make any comment. But I will say this.’ He sighed. ‘Eliot wasn’t completely happy at , but that was his problem. It may be that he resented his grandmother for making him live here, but the truth of the matter is that once he left , his life fell apart.

‘I’m not sure I should be telling you this, but I’m going to take you at your word that you’ve got his interests at heart. Eliot was trouble pretty much from the day he was born. Neither of his parents could control him. He and his father used to have shouting matches when they were here, but once they moved to London, it only got worse. They were at each other’s throats twenty-four seven, and according to Jonathan, Eliot was the main reason Edward Crace and his wife packed their bags and headed off to America. They’d both had enough. Drugs, alcohol, self-harm, theft, vandalism … Eliot even set fire to the house once. It all ended with a big blow-up one Christmas and a few weeks later they left – just like that. Roland tried to sort things out. He was always the peacemaker, a decent soul, but the decision had been made.

‘I’m sorry, Susan. I really hope he manages to find himself with this book of his. Maybe it will act as some sort of therapy. But whatever he tells you about , I think you should take it with a pinch of salt.’

‘He suggested there might have been something unusual about his grandmother’s death.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘He suggested …’ I began.

But I could see I had gone too far. Frederick Turner was looking angry and upset – annoyed with himself for inviting me into the Little Parlour, with its triangular sandwiches and smiling gingerbread men. ‘I don’t know what you’re implying, but it’s complete nonsense,’ he said. ‘I was in the house the night Mrs Crace was taken ill. Actually, it was six o’clock in the morning. She had an alert necklace which she wore all the time and that was when she pressed it. There was a housekeeper living in and she summoned me.’

‘You were the last person to see her alive?’

‘No. We entered her room together. Mrs Crace was lying in bed, clearly in a bad way. She was barely conscious and breathing with difficulty. Mrs Rodwell – the housekeeper – called Dr Lambert. He was her personal physician and lived nearby. He set off immediately, but unfortunately she died before he arrived. He was the one who examined her and pronounced the cause of death: a heart attack. We’d all been expecting it, so it was hardly a surprise.’

‘Was there an autopsy?’

‘There didn’t need to be! I can assure you, Susan, there were no suspicious circumstances surrounding her death, none at all, and I really think you should have a word with Eliot if he is going to suggest otherwise.’

‘Could I talk to Dr Lambert?’ It hadn’t escaped me that, despite the English pronunciation, Miriam’s doctor and Margaret Chalfont’s lawyer had the same name.

‘I really don’t think that would be a good idea.’ Frederick stood up, using the edge of the table for support. ‘I don’t mean to be rude, but I do get the feeling that you’ve been talking to me under false pretences,’ he suggested. ‘You said that Eliot was writing a work of fiction, but everything you have asked seems to be an unpleasant distortion of the truth. Miriam Crace made millions of people very happy. When I was alone in the orphanage, it was her work that gave me hope I might one day have a future, that the Little People would come and rescue me. You really should think very carefully before you allow Eliot to bring a wrecking ball to everything she created.’

‘That’s not what he’s doing,’ I said, also getting to my feet. ‘His book is set in 1955 in France. It’s a detective story.’

‘Then why have you been asking me all these questions?’ He leaned towards me, his hands balled into fists, resting his weight on the table. ‘If you don’t mind, I don’t think it would be appropriate for me to speak to you any more. Do finish your tea. There won’t be any bill. But please don’t upset the ladies with more questions – and when you’ve finished, I really think you should leave.’