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J ONATHAN C RACE AND THE M IRIAM C RACE E STATE L TD

REQUEST THE PLEASURE OF THE COMPANY OF

Susan Ryeland

TO CELEbrATE THE LIFE OF M IRIAM C RACE

AT

20 K INGSTON S TREET , WC2 4DN

T UESDAY , 27 J UNE 2023

7.00 P.M. – 11.00 P.M.

RSVP: [email protected]

It had been more than a week since my last encounter with Eliot Crace and I hadn’t heard a word from him. Michael Flynn hadn’t been in touch either. I didn’t know if I was still employed by Causton Books, if Eliot had fired me as his editor or if I’d resigned. The last of these seemed the most likely. After all, I’d walked out on him and told him to drop dead, which could hardly be called a celebration of our working relationship.

I didn’t care. The Front Row interview had been the last straw as far as I was concerned. In a drunken flurry, Eliot had announced to the whole world that Miriam had been murdered and that he knew who had done it. What exactly was going on in his head? Did he think it would be good for sales? Had he learned nothing from what had happened to Alan Conway?

There had been quite a furore following the broadcast. A lot of newspapers had carried stories similar to the one in the Daily Mail , there had been an item on the six o’clock news and one journalist had even managed to track down my mobile phone number to call and ask me for a comment. I declined. There had barely been a mention of Eliot’s new book in any of the reports. That’s what he should have realised before he opened his mouth. Miriam Crace was the story and she didn’t need the publicity.

Jonathan Crace had telephoned me too. I didn’t answer the phone when I saw his name come up on the screen, but he left me a voicemail message that was as aggressive as I’d expected.

‘ Susan – this is Jonathan Crace here. I’m calling you about this absurd interview that Eliot has done on the BBC. You told me he wasn’t writing about his time at Marble Hall and now he comes out with a series of outrageous accusations at the worst possible time as far as the estate is concerned – particularly in light of our dealings with Netflix. You also promised me you would keep him under control, but I very much wonder if this so-called interview wasn’t your idea in the first place. I’d be very grateful if you could call me back as soon as possible – and if you see Eliot, you can tell him from me that he has done himself and his book nothing but damage. I can assure you both that the estate will be pursuing this matter further. ’

The one thing he hadn’t done was to uninvite me from the celebration of his mother’s life. Perhaps he’d forgotten that he’d asked me to come in the first place, but there it was on my kitchen table, a thick piece of card with Copperplate lettering inside a gold border and my name on the dotted line. It didn’t take me very long to make up my mind. Everyone would be there: Jonathan, Roland, maybe Eliot and Gillian. I doubted that we would come to blows over champagne and canapés and I was keen to find out whether the book was still going ahead.

Which explains why, at six o’clock in the evening of the following Tuesday, I found myself standing in front of a full-length mirror with a gin and tonic in one hand and a sequinned silk clutch bag in the other. I had chosen a figure-hugging black dress I’d bought in one of the few boutiques in Agios Nikolaos that sold clothes I could imagine myself wearing. It would have worked equally well at a party as at a funeral and since this was the anniversary of Miriam’s death, it seemed appropriate. I wasn’t going to drive. The tube would take me directly from Highgate station and although that meant sacrificing stiletto heels, at least I could have a drink.

The party was being held at the address in Kingston Street where I had met Jonathan Crace. It was a balmy evening when I arrived and the entire street had been taken over by attendants in grey shirts and waistcoats, helping the guests park on both sides, from one end to the other. I wondered how the Crace Estate had managed to arrange this with their neighbours, but then it occurred to me that they were so rich it was possible they owned all the properties. Flaming torches had been arranged outside the front door, and given that the building was Georgian and everyone arriving was elegantly dressed, I felt as if I was walking onto a giant film set.

There were two young women with clipboards in the reception area, checking off the guests as they entered, and I did have a moment of doubt as I presented my invitation. Was I about to experience the humiliation of being turned away? But either Roland had been looking out for me or Jonathan had forgotten to press the delete button and I was shown in with no problem.

‘There’s a cloakroom just over there and you can take the lift or the stairs to the reception room on the fourth floor. Have a lovely evening.’

I was wearing a light coat over my dress and I handed it to an attendant and received a numbered tag in return. I slipped it into my bag and had just joined a small crowd of people waiting for the lift when I saw her. ‘Elaine!’

Elaine Clover was standing in front of me, looking down at her mobile phone. She was wearing an off-the-shoulder opal-pink evening dress and a pretty necklace with multicoloured stones. As she turned round and smiled at me, I felt seriously underdressed, but I was still delighted to see her. A friend in the enemy camp.

‘Susan! I was hoping you’d be here tonight.’ She slid the phone into her bag, a fluffy thing with pink feathers.

We stepped to one side, allowing other guests to go past us and enter the lift.

‘Who invited you?’ I asked.

‘Eliot arranged it for me.’

‘Is he coming?’

‘Yes. At least, he said he was. I was just looking to see if he’d texted me.’ She sighed. ‘It was awful what happened, Susan, but we must try to forgive him. He didn’t know what he was doing and he felt terrible.’

‘You’ve spoken to him?’

‘I stayed with Gillian after you left. She didn’t go to the hospital in the end and I didn’t like to leave her alone. He came in about an hour later, very much the worse for wear. She wouldn’t speak to him, but I sat with him in the kitchen and managed to force some black coffee into him. I must tell you, he broke down. He genuinely loves her and he’s terrified of losing her. She’s the only thing that’s been keeping him sane these last few years.’

‘But she’s expecting someone else’s child.’

‘Well, it’s too soon to say what’s going to happen. But the way he is now, I think he’d even forgive her for that. He doesn’t know what to do with himself – and that radio thing. What was that all about?’

‘Does he know who the father is?’ I asked.

‘No. She hasn’t told him. She hasn’t told me either. I’m not sure it really matters, does it? The whole thing is a mess.’

The lift had come back down again. ‘Let’s join the party,’ Elaine said.

She was right. It was too exhausting trying to keep up with Eliot and Gillian and the world they had created for themselves. It reminded me of a book I’d once edited, written by a woman who’d spent ten years working on a television soap opera. It had been a litany of affairs, betrayals, surprise revelations, confrontations and fist fights until I’d almost dreaded turning the next page. I’d been put in my place when sales reached five figures.

We shared the lift with half a dozen other people so it was impossible to have any further talk. After what felt like far too long a time, we were released into a vestibule with a set of double doors folded back to reveal a party in full swing on the other side. There were about two hundred people gathered there, most of the men in suits, the women in designer dresses and expensive jewellery.

The fourth storey of the building consisted of a single space with a polished ballroom floor, windows on two sides, tall tables covered with pristine white cloths, a scattering of gold chairs, waiters circulating with champagne flutes and glasses, bottles wrapped in serviettes, trays of canapés. Gilt mirrors reflected the light from chandeliers spaced out in two long lines. A classical quartet was playing Vivaldi in one corner.

And at the far end, a huge black-and-white photograph of Miriam Crace covered almost the entire wall, looking at the guests who had gathered in her honour with eyes that, to me, seemed unimpressed, as if she was peeved they were all enjoying themselves at her expense while she was only present as a ghost.

‘If you need me, shout,’ Elaine said and moved further into the room. I saw Jonathan Crace ahead of her, but she swerved to one side as if deliberately avoiding him and disappeared from sight.

I plucked a glass of champagne as soon as I could, not just because I wanted a drink but because it gave me a sense of legitimacy. I’d been invited and the glass in my hand was proof that I was allowed to be here. I took a sip and noted that it was indeed champagne and not unchilled Prosecco, the curse of so many publishing parties.

Across the room, I noticed Frederick Turner, his black eyepatch making him easy to spot in a crowd. He was holding a champagne flute in his left hand, his right hand deep inside the pocket of his velvet jacket. He was talking to a young woman who had her back to me. I made my way towards them. I would be interested to see how Frederick greeted me. He had been pleasant enough when we met, but he had called Jonathan Crace the moment I left. I really couldn’t work him out. Eliot had suggested that he had been badly treated, sidelined by the family. But here he was at its very epicentre, celebrating the life of the woman who had adopted him.

‘Good evening, Susan,’ he said when he saw me.

‘Hello, Frederick.’

The woman he had been talking to turned round to examine me and I guessed who she was. When he had created the character of Judith Chalfont, Eliot had described her as ‘substantial’, by which he meant overweight. But what struck me more about Julia Crace was her energy, her smile, her beautiful skin and her air of resilience. Everyone I had met in the Crace family – and that included Eliot – had somehow been trapped: by their blood, their shared history, their relationship with Miriam. She alone seemed to have found her independence. She had escaped from Marble Hall and all its associations and I wondered what had brought her here tonight.

‘This is Susan Ryeland,’ Frederick told her. ‘This is Julia Crace,’ he added. ‘Eliot’s sister.’

She looked at me with coolly inquisitive eyes. ‘I’ve heard everything about you,’ she said. ‘You’re working with Eliot on his book.’

‘That’s right. I’m very pleased to meet you.’

‘So you can ask me more questions about Grandma and the family?’

She was putting me in my place, but for some reason I didn’t feel offended. I already liked her. ‘I had no interest at all in your family until I met Eliot,’ I said. ‘Since then, I feel that I’ve been drawn in.’

‘Like a groupie?’

‘More like a fish in a net.’ I turned to Frederick. ‘I’m sorry if you thought I was being intrusive,’ I said. ‘You may not believe it, but I have no interest in digging up dirt on Miriam Crace or anyone else. All I’ve been trying to do is help Eliot.’

‘I appreciate that, Susan. And perhaps I was a bit hard on you when we met at Marble Hall. But whatever you may think about me or Miriam Crace, or the entire family, for that matter, you must admit that she was a force for good and that’s what this is all about.’ He looked around the room, taking in the huge photograph at the far end. ‘How many people devote their whole lives to making the world a happier place? Isn’t that what we’re celebrating tonight? It’s what I told you when we first met. I’m sure you can find all sorts of bad things to say about Mrs Crace, but it’s not relevant. It’s her brilliant creations that matter, the joy that they bring.’ He smiled. ‘I’m sorry. We don’t need to have this conversation right now, so I’ll leave the two of you together. Have a nice evening.’

He walked away.

‘Do you really think that Grandma was murdered?’ Julia asked me the moment he was gone.

I was taken aback. I hadn’t expected her to be so blunt.

‘I’d have imagined you’d know better than me,’ I retorted. ‘Have you spoken to Eliot since he went on the radio?’

‘No. He emailed me a couple of weeks ago. He had nice things to say about you.’

That was then, I thought. ‘So what can you tell me about Marble Hall?’ I asked.

‘Susan, I’ll tell you something straight away. You’re not going to upset the apple cart. The Miriam Crace Estate is too big. We learned that when we were kids. I’m sure Eliot’s told you … we hated Marble Hall. We hated everything about it. But there was nothing we could do – not until we grew up and got the hell out.

‘But you have to remember – it’s not as if the Crace Estate is selling oil or weapons or health insurance. Everyone loves the Little People. Do you know, at St Hugh’s – the prep school where I teach – they have every single one of Miriam’s books? They draw pictures of the characters in art class. On Book Day, half the kids still come as Littles. If they found out I was part of the family, I think they’d die of shock.’

‘You changed your name?’

‘I changed it the day I left. The kids know me as Miss Wilson and that suits me fine. I don’t want anything to do with my family – and that’s why I didn’t get in touch with you when Roland contacted me. I hope you’re not offended.’

‘I completely understand, Julia. It was never my intention to take on the Crace Estate, and for what it’s worth, I’m not even sure that I’m working with Eliot any more. I advised him not to do the radio broadcast, but he didn’t listen to me. There is one thing I’d like to ask you, though.’

‘Go ahead.’

‘If you hate your family so much, what are you doing here?’

She smiled. ‘I don’t hate the family, Susan. Well, my uncle Jonathan is a bit of a shit and Freddy is sad, but the main reason I come to these anniversaries is to remind myself of what I left behind. It’s a chance to see Roland and Eliot. You have no idea how close we were, growing up. I’m staying in London until the weekend and we’ll have dinner together – if Eliot decides to show his face. The one thing we’re not allowed to do, ever, is to go public about life with Grandma. I was left money in her will, but I had to sign a privacy clause before I got it.’

‘You too?’

‘It’s the only time I can ever talk about it,’ Julia went on. ‘At family gatherings like this one. And sometimes I need to get my feelings out there. We’re survivors, you see. Roland, me and Eliot, we stuck together and that made us strong. You heard about Jasmine?’

‘She killed herself.’

‘The official story is that she slipped and fell. I feel bad about her, although we were never that close. She lived in a separate house with Jonathan and his wife, Leylah, and so she wasn’t part of our group.’

‘Tell me about the three of you,’ I said. ‘You, Roland and Eliot. What exactly was your “group”?’

‘We had a sort of secret society. We called ourselves the Rogue Troopers, which came out of one of Eliot’s comics. We asked Jasmine if she wanted to join, but she wasn’t interested. At the end of the day, when we were meant to be doing our homework, we’d slip away and meet up in an empty cottage in the grounds. It was a horrible place – most of the rooms were damp and full of spiders – but we had a table and chairs and we stole bottles of lemonade. We could be alone together and could say anything we wanted there. Roland used to smoke cigarettes, even though they made him feel sick.’

‘Is that where you plotted to kill your grandmother?’ I asked.

Julia laughed. ‘We were children, Susan. We talked about lots of things. We plotted to run away, to join a circus, to set fire to the house, to stow away on a ship sailing to Argentina – but do you really think we would have done any of those things?’ She looked at me disdainfully. ‘Roland would never have let us do anything stupid. And he was the one who saved my life. I mean that quite literally. He was my knight in shining armour at a time when I really needed one. He looked after Eliot, too. He was older than both of us and he wasn’t afraid.’

She had been looking across the room as she spoke and, following her eyes, I saw Roland in animated conversation with another guest. He was wearing a Savile Row suit and I had to admit that he looked remarkably handsome. It wasn’t just his dark, wavy hair and film star looks. It was the way he carried himself. I’ve met one or two famous actors in my time and it’s something I’ve often noticed. They can introduce themselves and draw you in with their body language long before they open their mouth.

The man he was talking to turned his head briefly and I started. Surely it couldn’t be possible. Roland was talking to Michael Flynn, my boss at Causton Books. But there was no reason he would have been invited here. On the contrary, he had commissioned Eliot’s book. He was, theoretically, the enemy. What possible connection could he have with Miriam Crace?

I wanted to go over to him, but Julia was still talking.

‘I did want to kill her,’ Julia said, talking about her grandmother. ‘Miriam Crace died a few days after my birthday. I’ll never forget – it was almost the last time I saw her. My mother took me out so I could buy a dress for the party. There weren’t going to be many of us there – just the family and a few friends from school. Miriam asked me to put it on to show her and I should have known better, but Mummy persuaded me. So I dressed up and came down after lunch.’

She stopped and for a moment the anger and humiliation of twenty years ago welled up in her.

‘I walked into the living room wearing this pink and white thing, and maybe it was a bit tight-fitting. I don’t know. Anyway, Miriam laughed at me. She laughed and she laughed and she laughed. She said I looked like Miss Piggy in that television show The Muppets . She made a joke. She said that if I had too much birthday cake it would explode … something like that. The whole family was there and I was standing in front of her, just wanting to cry and forcing myself not to. In the end, I ran out of the room and when the day of the party came I just wore jeans.’

‘How could she do that?’ I exclaimed. ‘I mean, nobody in their right mind behaves like that. Especially not to a child.’

‘Do you know what, Susan? I don’t think it really matters.’ Julia became reflective and it was as if the party that was happening all around us had somehow faded away, as if we had been removed from it. ‘I often ask myself what was wrong with Miriam Crace, but that’s a big step forward. You see, because of what happened to me in my childhood, I spent half my life wondering what was wrong with me . I’m not sure I’d have got through it without Roland. He was the barrier between Miriam and me. Without him, maybe I would have killed her. Or myself … like poor Jasmine.

‘I’m a survivor. I know that sounds dramatic, but it’s true. I’ve been in therapy for a long time now, but finally I understand. None of it was my fault. Every child expects their mother to love them. It’s human nature. But the mother – or grandmother, in my case – who deliberately withdraws that love is doing it for the sense of power it gives her. Maybe Miriam had been abused herself as a child. She had money. She had success. But at the end of the day, she was trapped in some sort of misery of her own making and she took it out on us as some sort of revenge.’

The black-and-white photograph was right in front of us. It was as if Miriam Crace was listening to every word. The matriarch. The monster.

‘Couldn’t your parents have protected you from her?’

‘They didn’t dare. They’d grown up with her all their lives and they were too scared of her.’

‘And I suppose there was the money.’

‘That was part of it. But you don’t know what it’s like being part of a literary estate. How can you hate someone who is loved by every single person on the planet? How can you have any life of your own when your very name is defined by her genius and everything you do will be compared to it? That was what killed Jasmine, her realisation that she would spend her whole life unable to escape from its shadow. It nearly killed me too. Eliot hid himself in his books and his stories, but Roland was the only one who wasn’t afraid to fight back. When Grandma was going on about my size and my weight, or when she was telling Eliot that he was stupid and he’d never have any success as a writer, Roland was the one who stood up to her. He wasn’t afraid of her. If anything, I think she was a little bit afraid of him!’

‘You must have been surprised when he chose to work for the estate.’

‘If you want the truth, I was bloody angry and upset. But I’ve got used to it. We’re grown up now and we’ve all gone our separate ways. Roland needed something to do. But he’s not like Uncle Jonathan. He’s dealing with the books and the business and the legacy. It’s just a job for him. He’s not a high priest in the Church of Saint Miriam.’

‘Thank you for talking to me, Julia. I still can’t get my head around how horrible it must have been for all of you.’

‘Take care of Eliot, Susan. I sometimes think he’s the only one who hasn’t managed to put it behind him and I do worry about him.’

‘I will. I promise.’

I said that, but after everything that had happened, I wasn’t certain it was a promise I could keep. I turned back to look for Michael Flynn, but he had moved away and Roland was talking to someone else. I was about to search for him when there was a stir in the room and I saw the other guests around me turning towards the double doors. Coincidentally, the quartet had just reached the end of a piece and their sudden silence only made the change in atmosphere more noticeable. Eliot had arrived. He was standing in the doorway, trying to keep his balance, wearing a thigh-length velvet jacket, black trousers and a crumpled white shirt open at the neck and exposing much of his chest. His fair hair was even more tangled than usual, falling in knots down his neck. He could almost have stepped out of an opera. All that was missing was the sword.

He looked around the crowd, then stumbled forward, knocking into people, pushing them out of his way. Crossing one foot over the other, he diverted briefly towards a waiter, snatched a flute of champagne and threw back the contents without seeming to know what he was drinking. I’d never seen him as bad as this. I’d never dreamed this was how bad he could be. I wondered how he had got to the building. Public transport would have been impossible and it was unlikely a taxi driver would have considered slowing down to pick him up.

Jonathan Crace appeared, blocking his way, and suddenly Roland was there too. They closed in on him just as the quartet started up again: more Vivaldi.

‘That’s what you call making an entrance,’ Julia said cheerfully. ‘Shall we go and say hello?’

She was already moving towards her brothers and I followed. The three people I most wanted to meet were all together in one place and whatever they were going to say to each other, I wanted to hear it.

‘What do you think you’re doing, Eliot?’ That was Jonathan Crace. ‘ Front Row . Have you gone mad?’

‘I didn’t do any harm,’ Eliot protested.

‘I suppose you think this sort of publicity is going to help us, just when we’re trying to get the Netflix deal over the line! You talk to him, Roland.’

Roland glanced uncertainly at his uncle. ‘It wasn’t great timing, Eliot,’ he muttered, none too convincingly.

‘Go to Hell, Roland.’

Listening to Eliot speak, I realised I had underestimated the hatred that had developed between him and his brother. And what a tableau they all made! Eliot beyond redemption, Jonathan as coldly unlikeable as he had been when we first met, Roland helpless, no longer the leader of the Rogue Troopers, and Julia watching from the sideline, not saying anything.

And then a second woman swept in, taking control of the situation. ‘Eliot, darling! You should have told us you were coming. Have you been drinking? You look ghastly! Where’s Gillian? Hasn’t she come?’

‘Leylah …’ Jonathan Crace reached out for his wife’s arm. ‘I’m handling this. There’s no need to get involved.’

‘I am involved, Jonathan.’ She shook herself free.

Leylah Crace. If I hadn’t heard her name, I’d have known at once it was her. Her skin colour, her jet-black hair and both the shape and the colour of her eyes signalled her North African origins. She was wearing a gorgeous caftan dress, a blaze of colours sweeping down to the floor, and long gold earrings. She spoke with the faintest trace of a foreign accent, like a character in a classic movie. But there was also an inexpressible sadness about her that reminded me of the loss of her daughter and made me wonder how anyone in this family had managed to survive their own lives.

‘Hello, Leylah.’ Just for a moment, Eliot was crestfallen, apologetic. It occurred to me that when he was talking about his family, he had never said anything bad about her.

She put her arm around him. ‘Why don’t you go downstairs and lie down, Eliot, darling? You don’t want to be here. It isn’t going to do you any good.’

Julia stepped forward, moving in on the other side. ‘Leylah’s right. Why don’t we go somewhere a bit quieter and have a chat?’

Eliot turned towards his sister and everything might have been well, but that was when he saw me. He looked straight past her. ‘What are you doing here?’ he demanded.

‘I was invited, Eliot.’

Jonathan Crace had also noticed me. Those hard eyes of his in their rectangular frames zeroed in on me. ‘I’m afraid that was a mistake, Susan. You’re not welcome here.’

‘Hold on—’ Roland began, coming to my defence.

But Eliot had broken free. He lunged towards me, out of control. ‘You’re not working on the book any more!’ Even with the Vivaldi still playing, his voice could be heard around the room. ‘You’re nothing to do with me, Susan. I shouldn’t have trusted you. You lied to me. You’re not on my side. Nobody is!’

Eliot spun round. The alcohol on his breath was days old and repellent. The music had finally stuttered to a halt.

‘I’m sorry, everyone,’ he shouted. ‘This is Susan Ryeland, my completely useless editor.’ He pointed towards the photograph. ‘And that’s my grandmother, Miriam Crace, who was murdered by one of the people who hated her. Actually, everyone who knew her hated her! But I saw one of them tiptoe into her room the night she died and one day, quite soon, I’m going to tell the whole world who it was.’ He grinned madly. ‘They’re in this room right now! So you all go on enjoying yourselves. Celebrate her life and then, when you buy my book, you can read about her death.’

Jonathan signalled and two security guards hurried towards us. I assumed that they had come for Eliot and was shocked when they stopped on either side of me.

‘This is your fault,’ Jonathan exclaimed. ‘You started this. Now get out of here and don’t come back.’

The guards placed a hand on each of my arms. They were careful not to hurt me, but there was no room for argument. With everyone in the room watching me, I found myself being led out. It was one of the most mortifying experiences of my life. As we reached the double doors, I saw Elaine in front of me, watching what was happening with a look of complete horror. I was afraid she was going to intercede and shook my head to warn her to stay away. I just wanted this to be over.

It took a whole minute for the lift to arrive and we stood in the outer hallway in an awkward silence. Two burly security men and a guest they were forcibly ejecting. What were we going to talk about? The weather? I was still trying to make sense of the situation when I heard the swish of fabric accompanied by the scent of a strong floral perfume. Leylah Crace had followed us out.

‘Susan,’ she began. She wasn’t allowed near me. The guards were forming a barrier between us. ‘I need to talk to you. Can we meet?’

‘Where? When?’

I heard the lift doors slide open.

‘Tomorrow evening. Seven o’clock. The Savoy.’

‘All right. I’ll be there.’ I just had time to say the words before I was bundled into the lift. Leylah was cut off by the closing doors.

When we reached the ground floor, one of the attendants was already waiting for me with my coat. It was pushed into my hands, the front door was opened and all at once I was outside in the street. I walked away, dazed by what had happened. I didn’t look back.