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My next stop was Eliot’s home in Notting Hill Gate.

Gillian Crace hadn’t been at the party and I needed to see her. She was one of the only members of the family who was on my side and I was worried about her. I think she still loved Eliot, despite everything that had happened, and I wondered who had told her about his death and who would be with her now. I hoped it would be Elaine. There were questions I wanted to ask her about what had happened after I’d left the night before. How long had she stayed? Had she managed to talk to Eliot? How soon after me had he left and had she seen anyone following him?

But there was a more pressing reason why I’d come to the house. Eliot had spent months working on the structure of his book and he must have left notes, outlines, diagrams … whatever. I wanted them. They might tell me who had poisoned Margaret Chalfont. That same person might have killed Miriam Crace, run over Eliot and gone on to frame me. I knew I was being coldly opportunistic, but what choice did I have? If I was going to persuade the police of my innocence, it would help to know who had actually committed the crimes.

I rang the bell and, after a long pause, the door was opened – but not by Gillian or Elaine. The man who was standing in front of me was someone I had never met, but I recognised him at once. He was in his sixties, bearded, examining me with tired eyes that sat beneath a crop of prematurely white hair – at odds with his charcoal grey eyebrows. These were the exact attributes that Eliot had given Elmer Waysmith, the stepfather in his book. He was casually dressed in jeans, a jersey and trainers – all of which looked American. From the way he stood there, leaning against the doorway, he made it clear that he was the true owner of the house.

Edward Crace.

‘Yes?’ He was a man who had just learned of the loss of his younger son. They might not have been close, but the news had still drained the life out of him.

‘Mr Crace?’

‘I don’t think we’ve met, have we?’

‘No. But I was working with your son. My name is Susan Ryeland.’ I paused for a moment, wondering if he knew who I was. Fortunately, my name didn’t seem to register with him. ‘I am so very sorry for your loss.’

‘Thank you.’ He didn’t move. He didn’t want to invite me in. ‘Working with him in what way?’ he asked.

‘I’m a freelance editor. I was helping him with his book.’

He looked puzzled, as if he had a faint recollection of Eliot working on something but couldn’t remember what it was. ‘Oh, yes. Gillian told me. He was writing a mystery story.’

‘That’s right. I only met Eliot a short time ago, but he was very talented and I couldn’t believe it when I heard about the …’ I couldn’t complete the sentence. What was the missing word? The accident? The murder? ‘… about what happened,’ I concluded lamely. ‘I had dinner with him and I met Gillian for the first time just a few days ago. How is she?’

‘She’s taken it very badly. Right now, she’s resting … upstairs.’

‘Can I come in? If only for a few minutes. I’d love to see her.’

He would have preferred to send me away, but he didn’t have the strength. ‘Of course. I’m not thinking straight. I’m afraid the news hasn’t really sunk in yet. Please …’ He stood aside and I went in.

He led me into the kitchen, where I had met Gillian and Elaine the last time I was there. I remembered my first sight of Gillian on the sofa by the window, her legs bent and her knees together, her face bruised. Edward Crace gestured and I sat at the table.

‘Can I make you a coffee?’ he asked.

‘I can do it, if you like.’

‘No, no. It helps to keep busy.’ He set about loading a capsule into a machine, filling the reservoir with water, taking two mugs out of the cupboard. He knew where everything was kept.

‘Have you come all the way from America?’ I asked. I’d been wondering how he’d arrived so quickly. Surely, he wouldn’t have had time to fly overnight from Miami.

‘I was already here.’ He pressed the button that set a little light blinking, indicating that the water was heating up. ‘I was meeting a number of artists and writers. It’s my job.’

‘You run a gallery in Miami?’

‘It’s more of a foundation … a private club for art collectors and enthusiasts. Every now and then they send me on a fishing expedition to get people to speak. I’ve found that a personal approach works better than emails. I was in London when I heard the news.’

‘Staying here?’

‘No. A hotel in Covent Garden.’ He took a breath. ‘I don’t really feel comfortable coming here. This is my house, but I handed it over to Eliot and Gillian and I don’t like to intrude.’ I wondered if Gillian had told him she was pregnant, but there was no way I could ask him that, not with everything else that was going on. ‘I come to London quite often,’ he continued. ‘I don’t usually see Eliot. I’m sorry I didn’t contact him this time – but how was I to know what was about to happen?’

‘You weren’t at the party,’ I said.

‘No.’

‘You weren’t invited?’

‘I have no idea. It’s possible they tried to get in touch with me, but there’s nothing in this world that would have dragged me to an event celebrating the legacy of my mother.’ He was suddenly cold. ‘I didn’t even want to come to the UK this week because I knew the dates coincided, but I had no choice. I imagine Eliot will have talked to you about Marble Hall.’

‘I know he wasn’t happy there.’

‘None of us were. I should have left years ago, when he was still young. If I had, he might have grown up in a normal environment and made something of his life. He might still be alive. My wife, Amy, and I hated it there and she was always urging me to break away. But my mother pulled all the strings. The puppet strings. The purse strings. At the end of the day, we wouldn’t have had this house if I’d disobeyed her and gone my own way. But I’d still have my son.’

He broke down, covering his face with his hands. I wasn’t sure what to do, but I couldn’t just leave him there, standing against the counter. I went over to him and put a hand on his arm. ‘Please, Edward, sit down. I’ll make the coffee.’

He let me lead him to a chair and he sat there, sobbing, while I made two cups of coffee and carried them over. More than ever, I wished that I hadn’t taken on the book, that I hadn’t allowed myself to get involved in all this.

‘Forgive me,’ he said eventually. ‘I’m sure Eliot will have told you that we weren’t close. I’m sure he blamed me for keeping him at Marble Hall as much as I blame myself. I was weak. I was so weak. And yet, sometimes …’ There was a box of tissues on the table. He took one and wiped his eyes. ‘Sometimes I think we were like the royals … the royal family. All that wealth and comfort. My mother was famous the world over and her books were our crown jewels. The Little People . We’d all been born into it. Jonathan and me … even Freddy. None of it was our own choice. And even if we had walked out, those books would have followed us wherever we went. Jasmine tried and it didn’t do her any good.’

He drank some of the coffee, took a deep breath.

‘Would you mind leaving, Susan?’ he said. ‘I don’t think Gillian is going to come down and if she does, she won’t want to talk to anyone. Did you know that she’s expecting Eliot’s child?’

He was deluding himself even now. Or perhaps Gillian had lied to him. I might have done the same in her position. She had told me the truth when she was angry, just after Eliot had hit her. But now that he was dead and she was alone, everything had changed. She had decided to bring up the baby as his, keeping herself inside the family and ensuring their financial support. Edward was right about one thing. I was the last person she would want to see when she came down.

But I wasn’t ready to leave yet.

‘There’s something I need, Edward. Can you help me? I told you I was working with Eliot, helping him with his book. I’ve come here because I need his notes, his work in progress. They’re terribly important to me.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s difficult to explain.’ I decided to tell him the truth. ‘In his Atticus Pünd novel, Eliot was writing about his time at Marble Hall. He believed that your mother’s death might not have been natural. That someone might have poisoned her. Did he ever talk to you about that?’

‘Eliot was twelve years old when my mother died and thirteen when we left Marble Hall. He was always a fantasist and if he had said anything like that, I would have dismissed it. But he never did – not to me.’

Not to me. There was something about the way he spoke, a wistful look in his eyes, that alerted me to another possibility. ‘Could there have been someone else?’ I asked.

He hesitated. ‘There was a man who used to come down from London. He was working with my mother, overseeing the last two books she wrote. Eliot latched on to him because he was already thinking of becoming a writer and the two of them were close.’

‘Are you talking about Charles Clover?’

‘That was his name. Yes.’ He paused. ‘I should tell you that even before we left Marble Hall, Eliot and I had fallen out. He was such a wilful child, always looking for someone to blame. And it only got worse after Miriam died. I don’t know why. I thought that once we were free, we would come together as a family, but the complete opposite happened. Anyway, Charles Clover stepped in and to be fair to him, he was very kind to Eliot. The two of them spent a lot of time together and if Eliot had any secrets – imagined or otherwise – he wanted to share with anyone, I suppose it could well have been with him. But before you ask, you won’t be able to meet him. At least, it won’t be easy. He’s in prison.’

That was the moment when the fog cleared and Edward Crace finally realised who I was. ‘Wait a minute,’ he said. ‘Susan Ryeland! You were responsible …!’

‘Charles Clover tried to kill me—’ I began.

‘You burned down the office! You destroyed his life.’

‘It wasn’t quite like that.’

‘I can’t believe you’ve come here like this. Lying to me and pretending you were trying to help Eliot. If it wasn’t for you, he would never have started this bloody book.’

‘I didn’t ask him to write it. I tried to protect him.’

‘You seem to bring death and misery wherever you go. Please will you leave?’

There was no point arguing. I felt hollowed out by the way the conversation had turned and close to tears myself. I got up. ‘I just need the notes,’ I said.

‘What?’

‘Eliot’s pages. The work we were doing together. Somebody killed him, Edward. They may have the answer.’

He might have let me look for them. Or he might have grabbed me and dragged me out into the street. I never found out because just then, I heard someone unlock the front door and, a moment later, Roland Crace came into the room. He didn’t notice me to begin with. I had my back to him and his eyes were fixed on his father.

‘Dad! What are you doing here?’

‘Roland …’

‘I need to see Gillian. Where is she?’

Edward Crace was staring at me, exasperated that I was still there, and that was when Roland saw me. ‘Susan!’

‘I came to see Gillian too,’ I explained hastily.

‘Why?’

‘I was worried about her.’

‘She wants Eliot’s notes.’ Edward had been in tears just moments ago. Now he was utterly cold. ‘That’s why she came here.’

Roland frowned. ‘Is that true?’

‘I want to know who killed Eliot.’

‘Eliot was knocked down by a hit-and-run driver. The police are looking for them now.’ He came to a decision. ‘You shouldn’t be here.’

‘I was just going anyway.’ The whole thing had been a disaster. They weren’t going to give me anything Eliot had written.

Roland came with me to the door. As he opened it, he was apologetic. ‘Susan … I’m sorry about what’s happened. It’s all been horrible. I really wish I didn’t have to say this, but I’ve spoken to my uncle Jon and he’d much prefer it if you stayed away from now on. The Atticus Pünd book isn’t going to happen. You ought to know that. I’m sorry you’ve wasted your time.’

I took a breath. ‘It was you, wasn’t it,’ I said. ‘You’re the father of Gillian’s child.’

He stared at me and the colour drained out of his face. That’s not hyperbole, a line written for effect. It really did.

How did I know? Well, his arrival at the house should have told me: the desperation in his voice, the fact that he had a key to the front door. But there had been other clues. Roland had been the hero of Marble Hall and the best man at his brother’s wedding, but then something had happened and the two of them hadn’t just fallen out, they were no longer speaking. Even so, when I’d first met him, Roland had known all about Eliot’s state of mind – he’d mentioned that Gillian had texted him. That should have told me they were close. More than that, she had been afraid, terrified even, to tell Elaine and me the name of her lover. She knew how we’d react. And finally, there was her behaviour now, pretending that Eliot was the true father. She was confident that the baby would have a family resemblance.

Roland didn’t deny it. He must have known it was too late. ‘Just go …’ he said, and for all his good looks there was an extraordinary ugliness in his face.

‘Roland—’

‘You should never have got involved with my family. Just piss off out of here.’ He pushed me out, slamming the door behind me. Quite honestly, I was glad to leave.