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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 in Mary 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 smiled pleasantly 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.’

‘I never thought of him as my boss. We were partners.’

‘I was sorry to hear about what happened.’ I waited for what was coming next and Jonathan didn’t disappoint me. ‘I find it quite hard to believe the accusations that were made against him.’

‘They weren’t accusations, Jonathan. Charles killed Alan Conway and tried to kill me. He left me unconscious in his office, which he then set on fire. I’m lucky to be alive.’

‘Nothing like the man I knew! I’m lost for words.’

‘I’m glad he helped with the books, though,’ I said.

We were interrupted – at exactly the right time – by the return of Olivia with a tray and a porcelain cup of coffee. She had also brought a plate with two iced gingerbread figures that must have come from the same tin as the ones served at Marble Hall. These ones were both cut in the shape of Little Biscuits, the dog.

‘So, how is Eliot?’ Jonathan asked after the assistant had left. He already sounded wary, as if the very mention of Eliot’s name was enough to spoil his day.

‘When did you last see him?’ I countered.

‘I don’t see him as often as I would like, although I’m hoping he’ll be at the party next week. Tuesday the twenty-seventh.’

The date obviously meant something, but it was lost on me.

‘It’s the anniversary of my mother’s death. We have a tradition. The whole family gets together – or as many of us as are in the country. We also invite business partners and friends. This anniversary is important because it’s been exactly twenty years. I’ll ask my assistant to send you an invitation.’

‘Thank you.’ I kicked myself for missing the significance.

‘I’ll be glad to catch up with Eliot,’ he went on. ‘As you can imagine, I have quite a full-time job here, keeping things afloat, and he never lifts a finger to help the family. I did of course know about this book he was writing. I feared the worst from the start.’ He paused. ‘Why did you lie to Frederick Turner?’

He had spoken in a way that was quite matter-of-fact, but he could hardly have been more provocative. An invitation one minute, this the next. It was the good-cop-bad-cop routine but played by the same person. I took a sip of my coffee. ‘Was he the one who called you?’ I asked.

‘I’ve spoken to Frederick and to Dr Lambert. It seems that you deceived both of them. You said you were trying to protect Eliot when all you were doing was digging for dirt. As for Eliot, I’ve reached out to him, but he’s not returning my messages. I’m sure it won’t surprise you, Susan, that I take this matter extremely seriously. You come blundering into this family, repeating the most ludicrous – and unsubstantiated – accusations made by a young man with a history of mental illness and substance abuse. If you had any sense of propriety, you would have come straight to me so that we could discuss all this civilly, instead of which you go sneaking into Marble Hall—’

‘Marble Hall is open to the public,’ I reminded him. ‘I had every right to go there.’

‘To visit, yes. But not to go in undercover, like a spy. You tell Fred one thing and Lambert another, but the bottom line is that you seem to think there was something suspicious about my mother’s death. And what’s all this business about a stolen bottle of cough medicine? Are you seriously suggesting that Eliot was involved in some sort of conspiracy to commit murder? He was twelve years old, for heaven’s sake!’

‘It was Dr Lambert who told me about that,’ I said. ‘And as for Eliot, it was because he was twelve years old that your mother was able to terrify him.’

‘I resent that interpretation.’

‘It’s irrelevant, anyway. Eliot is writing a whodunnit set in France in the 1950s. Have you heard of Atticus Pünd? It’s a continuation novel that’s got nothing to do with Marble Hall.’

‘That’s not what I’ve heard.’ Jonathan examined me with something close to distaste. ‘From what I understand, there are characters in this book that are clearly taken from real life …’

‘Eliot has a right to draw inspiration from his childhood.’

‘He can write whatever he wants, but if he – or you – is going to make trouble for the estate, I think I should warn you that I spend a fortune on lawyers and you could both be making a very expensive mistake.’

It was remarkable how he had managed to say all this with a straight face – which is to say, he had shown no emotion at all. He hadn’t raised his voice. He seemed completely relaxed as he sat at the table, perfectly convinced of his superiority over me.

‘Would you really sue your own nephew?’ I asked. ‘You talk about the estate, but isn’t he a part of it? And to be honest, I don’t think it would be a very good look for you to take him to court. You must be aware that he’s had difficulties throughout his life—’

‘Most of them inhaled up his nose, from what I understand.’

‘I would say that’s a rather cold-blooded point of view, Jonathan. I’ve spent some time with Eliot and I’d say most of his problems began at Marble Hall – but you were there, so you probably know that already.’

‘There was nothing wrong with Marble Hall. It was a lovely place, a miniature paradise in some of the most beautiful countryside in England, and most children would have been happy to grow up there.’

He was about to go on, but just then the door opened and Roland Crace came in.

I knew at once it was him, and would have known even if Jonathan hadn’t told me he was joining us. He was physically similar to Eliot but better-looking, more toned, more comfortable in his own skin. He dressed, moved and smiled like someone who took care of themselves and knew that their efforts had paid off. I was struck by his hair, which was darker than his brother’s, thick and well groomed, by the whiteness of his teeth, by his skin, which positively glowed with good health. In his polished shoes and made-to-measure suit, he could have stepped out of the pages of an expensive fashion magazine. I wondered if I was going to like him. He was, after all, working for Jonathan Crace and if he was anything like his uncle, perhaps I should be making my excuses and heading for the door.

‘This is Roland, Eliot’s brother,’ Jonathan exclaimed. ‘We were just talking about Marble Hall, Roland. I’m afraid Susan has a rather dim view of the place.’

Roland ignored this. He strode over to my side of the table and we shook hands. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you,’ he said. ‘Gillian told me she’d had dinner with you. I know Eliot’s writing a book and I’m glad. He needs something to focus on.’

‘That may be your view.’ Jonathan was disconcerted. ‘It certainly isn’t mine.’

‘He said he was writing a mystery story, Uncle Jon. And even if he’s based some of it on Grandma and stuff that happened at Marble Hall, nobody else is going to know.’ Roland pulled out a chair and sat next to me.

It struck me as interesting that he referred to the CEO of the Miriam Crace Estate as ‘Uncle Jon’ and that Miriam Crace was still ‘Grandma’. After all, Roland Crace was in his late thirties and presumably senior within the organisation. It was as if, like Eliot, he hadn’t quite escaped from the shadow of his childhood.

Jonathan glared at me. ‘What exactly were you doing at Marble Hall?’ he asked.

I thought for a moment before answering. ‘I was trying to understand Eliot – and what he’s writing.’

‘By asking personal and intrusive questions? By deliberately misrepresenting your intentions? It seems to me that you have some sort of agenda against the family—’

‘That’s not true.’

‘—and that Eliot’s intention is to peddle a series of untruths about his childhood simply to promote a book which might otherwise pass unnoticed. I can see quite clearly that this would be in your interests too. Nothing sells quite like scandal.’

‘You’ll forgive me, Jonathan, but that’s an utterly false characterisation of me, of Eliot and of the book. The Atticus Pünd novels have sold almost twenty million copies worldwide without any help from Miriam Crace, and there will certainly be huge interest in a tenth outing.’

‘Why do you think Eliot was hired?’

‘Because he’s a good writer. Why else?’

Jonathan sneered. ‘You really don’t know anything, do you!’

I had no idea what he meant by that, but I forged on anyway. ‘I went to Marble Hall because I was worried about Eliot.’

‘Well, let me try and get something into your head, Susan. Nothing happened there. People may have different memories of my mother, but she was a brilliant writer and creator who died from a heart attack at the age of eighty-two. A perfectly natural death with not a whiff of suspicion. That’s all there is to it. And if you or Eliot suggest otherwise – either in your book or in the publicity surrounding it – I can assure you that you will find yourselves in very serious legal hot water.’

He’d already made that threat once. Making it a second time only halved its effectiveness.

‘Perhaps I can step in?’ Roland suggested. He had addressed himself to his uncle, but now he turned to me. ‘Eliot and I grew up together and I probably know him better than anyone in the world. Except Gillian, of course. I’ve said all along that I’m sure he wouldn’t deliberately do anything to damage the estate.

‘At the same time, though, this is a critical moment for us. If you’ve looked in the trade press, you’ll know that we’ve been in discussions with Netflix and that we’re about to sign a major deal that will bring Grandma’s characters, the Little People, to a whole new generation. My job mainly concerns press and public relations – the family image. So I can’t impress upon you enough how important it is right now that we don’t do anything or say anything that could rock the boat.’

‘A deal worth two hundred million dollars,’ Jonathan growled. ‘They’re talking about a feature film followed by five seasons of a television series, just to kick off with. They’re lining up some of the biggest names in Hollywood to perform the characters and I hardly need tell you that they will go to any lengths to protect their interests. We’re not going to sit here and let Eliot put a spanner in the works. I’m not going to let that happen.’

‘I’m sure that’s not Eliot’s intention.’ Roland was doing everything he could to placate his uncle.

‘Eliot needs to be kept under control.’

‘Isn’t that what Susan’s doing? I think we should be working on this together, Uncle Jon. It’s in all our interests to ensure that Eliot’s book is a success. That’s certainly my hope, anyway.’

Was he being completely sincere? I couldn’t be sure, but at least Jonathan Crace seemed to have calmed down. ‘That’s why I wanted you here, Roland. I think, moving forward, you and Ms Ryeland should stay in close communication. Obviously, I wouldn’t want to harm Eliot in any way. He may not have much time for us, but he’s still family.’

I didn’t believe a word of that. Nor, I think, did he.

‘Eliot has been commissioned to write a book and maybe if we’d heard about that earlier, we could have done something about it – but it’s too late now.’ Jonathan’s eyes in their rectangular frames settled on me. ‘But now that you know the stakes, Susan, I’m sure we can rely on you to keep him in line.’

‘I’ll do what I can,’ I promised him.

‘Shall I show you out?’ Roland said.

The two of them stood up. And just like that, the meeting was over.