The Circle (2 page)

'It's about runner beans this month.'

That was it for the successes. They went on to discuss the next item on the agenda: opportunities. Good psychology on someone's part. Leaflets about poetry competitions for cash prizes were handed round. Bob doubted if his rhyming would qualify.

'The report from the chair is next. I don't have much to report,' Maurice said. 'We've been thinking about the programme for the next six months. We can afford another speaker, I think.'

'Get someone better than Blacker, then. He was a conman,' the man with the sonorous voice said on a rising note. A Welshman, Bob decided.

Basil, the gardening expert, said, 'That isn't very kind. He's only just died.'

'Doesn't mean we have to praise up his talk. I agree with Naomi. It was crap. He spent most of the time talking up his tinpot publishing business and the rest of it telling some of us we could make a fortune.'

'He offered to come back.'

'For another fat fee.'

'Not at all. I'm sure he meant to come for nothing. He saw the potential here. Publishers need writers, you know. We're the creators.'

'The talent,' Jessie the success said.

Bob looked around at the assembled talent. To their credit some of them were grinning. Thomasine winked.

'I wouldn't mind hearing from a literary agent,' said a woman who had been silent up to now.

'Wouldn't we all?' Thomasine said.

'I meant as a speaker.'

'Dagmar, my dear, that's an excellent suggestion,' Maurice said. There was skill as well as tact in his handling of the meeting. 'But it isn't easy to get an agent to come along. We tried before.'

'Can't blame them,' Thomasine said. 'They know they'd leave here with a sackful of scripts. The Bournemouth circle had an editor from Mills and Boon.'

'Waste of time,' the Welshman said. 'How many of us write romance? Two, at a pinch.'

'What's your suggestion, then?'

'Me. I'd save the money and organise an outing.'

'Where to?'

'We could visit Kipling's place, Bateman's.'

'Been there.'

'Not with a bunch of writers, you haven't. We could use it as a topic, something to write about.'

'I'd rather like to visit the Jane Austen house at Chawton,' Miss Snow said.

'Each to his own, my dear. Personally, I've had it up to here with rich young men pursued by virgins on the make. If the rest of you want to go to Chawton, fine. "Ship me somewhere east of Suez.'"

'What?'

'A quote. I was quoting Kipling.'

'What about our youngest member?' Maurice the chair said. 'Do you have a preference, Sharon?'

'Wouldn't he love to know? Dirty old man,' the Welshman murmured.

The blonde shook her head. She had spent the entire time scribbling on a pad. Bob had assumed she was writing, but now she'd moved her arm he could see that all she'd produced was a page of doodles.

Maurice decided on a show of hands and the circle agreed that a visit to Bateman's would be arranged later in the year. If it was successful, he added with diplomacy, they might try the Jane Austen house the following year.

'So we come to the exciting part of the evening, our work in progress.' Maurice turned to Bob and almost brought on a seizure - but only to explain, 'We usually take it in turns to say where we are with our writing. If possible, we read something aloud and invite comments. Honest comment, no holds barred.'

'Cliche.'

'What?'

The man with the bow tie said, 'No holds barred. It's a cliche.'

With restraint, Maurice said, 'Would you care to suggest an alternative, Anton?'

'You said it already. "Honest comment."'

'Thank you for that.' It was spoken in a tone that drained it of gratitude. 'Perhaps, Anton, you would like to open the batting.'

'Cliche.'

Everyone except Anton smiled.

Anton said, 'Since the last meeting, I have not done any writing owing to pressure of work.'

Someone murmured, 'Cliche.'

'If you like I could give you ten or twenty minutes on the curse of the cliche in modern English.'

'Another time, perhaps. I happen to know there are members bursting to read out their latest work and I think they should have their opportunity. How about you, Zach?'

To Bob's right there was a movement. The young man with the earring had sunk low in his chair during the early part of the meeting and seemed to be falling asleep. He braced himself, reached into his rucksack and took out a thick, dog-eared sheaf and placed it on the table. So this was Zach. Without any preamble he began to read with extraordinary intensity. 'Gripping the great, razor-sharp, double-bladed axe forged in fire by the ironmaster of Avalon, Madrigor the fearless strode across the narrow causeway that led to the ancient castle on the mount, ignoring the savage east wind fanning his black velvet cloak and the icy sea-spray whipping his leathery calves. He had one objective and that was to vanquish the stinking hordes within and recover the mazarin stone of his ancestor, Godfric, and put its magical powers to noble employment, arming him for the ordeals to come. Not even the massed ranks of the Querulinda would stand in his way now. He was transformed, invincible, super-strong. His green eyes gleamed and his teeth flashed in the glow of the setting sun. If the gods were with him he would prevail over his enemies. True, the opposition were vastly better equipped than he with their vats of boiling oil and their flaming arrows. What did it matter, the terrifying din they made by beating on their shields and chanting war-songs? The archers stared down gimlet-eyed from the battlements, crossbows at the ready, impatient for him to come within range. They were dressed in chainmail and helmets. Madrigor spurned even a shield, relying on his agility, his innate sense of timing, to avoid whatever the enemy cast in his direction. Within himself, he relished the challenge . . .'

While the tide of words poured over them, Bob glanced around the table. Not everyone was listening. Opposite him, Thomasine rolled her eyes upwards and gave a slight smile. The owner of the bow tie was looking at a competition leaflet. Two, at least, were rehearsing for their turns, scanning their scripts, their lips moving. Maurice leaned back and checked his watch.

I'm having a ball, Bob thought. This is like nothing else, this bunch of strange people united only by their desire to write. I can't wait to hear what each of them will read out. What sort of book has the chairman written and almost got into print? The doodling blonde? Thomasine, with the twinkle in her eye?

'. . . the salt of his own sweat stinging his lips, he hauled himself higher up the rock face without heeding the damage to his bare hands. Another stream of boiling oil hit the outcrop above him and splashed, sizzling behind him. He swayed to one side to avoid a flaming arrow. Having got this far, almost to the great granite wall of the citadel itself, he knew with glorious certainty that the gods had chosen to favour him this day. Without their aid, he would assuredly have been struck down before getting so far. The encroaching darkness, evening's gift to the oppressed, would help him now. He still had to scale the bare wall and surmount the bastion . . .'

Maurice the. chair said, 'Perhaps at this point—'

But the torrent couldn't be halted in mid-flow. '. . . above which his enemy waited to engage him.'

'Thank you, Zach.'

'Lanterns had been lit along the parapet.'

'I'm interrupting you there because we could run out of time. Speaking for myself, I wish we could go on. You've reached an enthralling part of the story.'

Zach's lips were still moving, though his voice had tailed off.

Maurice said, 'Anyone care to comment?'

'I couldn't take much more of it,' the outspoken woman said. She had deep-set, dark eyes that looked as if they could see right through you.

'I'm not sure if that counts as constructive criticism, Naomi.'

'No, I mean I'm not used to such excitement. I was there with him, climbing the castle walls. It's a tour de force.'

'Really? There's a tribute, Zach.'

The Welshman said, 'You could, perhaps, get him over the rocks and up the wall a little quicker. We all know he's going to sock it to the opposition.'

'Tudor, that's not the point,' Thomasine said. 'Zach is writing long. It's fantasy. They're big books. A fantasy writer can't get away with under six hundred pages.'

'There's more if you want,' Zach said, brandishing unread pages like banknotes.

'Unfortunately,' Maurice said, 'we'll have to deny ourselves until next time.'

'I'll be into another chapter by then.'

'Excellent. We can't wait. Thomasine, let's change the mood with something from you, shall we?'

'I can't compete with what we've just heard.'

'We're not in competition. Never were.'

'All right. I've written another erotic poem.'

There was a noticeable raising of the attention level.

'Good on you, Tommy, girl,' Tudor the Welshman said.

She took a small, black notebook from her bag. 'It's called "A Night with Rudolf".' She cleared her throat and began to read.

'Covent Garden, Nureyev alone upon the stage,

The music of
Le Corsair
rising to a great crescendo,

And I know, I know, I know, this is the one, the solo,

The thing he does so well, the reason I am here,

Two months' wages, a small fortune, my holiday in France,

For a seat in the stalls, front row. Close-up view

Of those stallion haunches in all their muscularity stretching the tights,

Gold tights, gold, gleaming, steaming, straining tights.

I watch him circle the stage with leaps as enormous

As the music, giving me sensations I should not have in a public place.

I cannot shift my eyes from his bulging masculinity. Wondering, wishing,

Dreaming, thrilled by the music and the man, in my memory I will hold

This experience for ever.'

'Oh, my word!' Miss Snow said. 'I'm all of a quiver.'

Anton was frowning. 'Was that erotic?'

Tudor said, 'If it was, it went over my head.'

'You men,' Miss Snow said. 'You have no subtlety. If it isn't in four-letter words, you don't respond at all.'

'I loved it,' Maurice said. 'Straight into our next anthology, if I have anything to do with it. Personally I never understood the appeal of Nureyev, but you've just opened my eyes, Tommy. Very telling, that stallion reference. What was it? "Haunches in all their masculinity"?'

'Muscularity.'

'Right. What a striking image. I would almost say rampant.'

'Whoa, boy,' Tudor said.

'I mean it. She promised us an erotic poem, and she delivered.'

'Don't. I'm getting embarrassed,' Thomasine said.

'This might be the right moment to have our break, then. Did anyone put the kettle on?'

It was good to stretch the haunches, muscular or flabby. Bob hadn't appreciated how tense he had got climbing up the castle wall and leaping around the Covent Garden stage. No one else seemed to know what to say to Thomasine after her reading, so he went over. 'That was high-tone. If the rest of this mob are up to your standard, I'm leaving right now.'

'Don't be daft. We're all beginners. You hear what someone else has done and it sounds kind of special because it's different from your own stuff. I bet you've got something really brilliant tucked away in a drawer at home.'

He was about to turn this into a joke about drawers, but decided against it. He was the newcomer. 'Can we light up in here?'

'The corridor. Wouldn't say no to one myself after opening up like that. Worse than a striptease.'

After they'd both taken their first drag he said, 'Will they all read to us?'

'About half of them. Sometimes the excuses are more inventive than the stuff anyone has written. Maurice is very good at helping the timid ones pluck up the necessary. You're not timid, are you?'

'Just ask me to read and see the state of me.'

'You'll get over it.' She gave him a sudden nudge. 'Hello. Looks as if you're not the only new boy.'

Two hunks in leathers and jeans edged past and into the meeting room. They were given the welcome treatment by Maurice.

'Young and beefy,' Thomasine said. 'Nice for our Sharon. Nice for all us girls.'

To Bob's eye, they didn't look like creative writers. He watched from the doorway. Maurice had gone through his welcoming spiel and it hadn't impressed. The newcomers were doing the talking. Maurice made a sweeping movement with his hand as if to show they'd got something wrong.

'They're cops,' Bob said.

'How do you know?'

'Something about the way they're talking to him. And they work in pairs.'

'What would they want with Maurice?'

'You'll have to ask him, but I don't think you'll get the chance.' One of them had grasped Maurice's arm just above the elbow.

Maurice turned and spoke to the little woman called Dagmar.

'Our vice-chair,' Thomasine said. 'He's asking her to take over. He's leaving us.'

She was right. They steered Maurice through the door. It seemed to be voluntary, even though his face was ashen.

Thomasine went straight over to Dagmar. 'What was that about, Dag? What's going on?'

'I've no idea. Maurice asked me to take over after the break.'

Tudor said, 'I heard it all. They're CID. They want to question him about the death of Edgar Blacker.'

3

know no person so perfectly disagreeable and even dangerous
as an author.

King William IV, quoted by Philip Ziegler in
King
William TV
(1971)

T
he members of the circle had clustered around Dagmar.

She said, 'Maurice is no killer. He's got nothing to do with it.'

'How do you know?'

Miss Snow said, 'Oh, come on, Tudor! Edgar Blacker was publishing his book.'

This could have got nasty, but Thomasine steered them in a more positive direction. 'What are we going to do?'

'He asked me to take the chair for the rest of this evening,' Dagmar said.

'We can't go on as if nothing's happened, reading out our work. It won't be the same at all.'

'I second that,' Anton, the cliche-spotter, said. 'It would be unseemly.'

Basil said, 'Why don't we adjourn to the bar and talk things over in a more relaxed atmosphere?'

'Good thinking.'

Jessie, the writer of the letter in
The Lady,
announced that she didn't wish to be seen in a bar and was leaving, but the rest, including Bob, reconvened around two tables. An awkward situation was averted when Basil suggested it was too large a round for anyone to fund, so they bought their own.

'We've got to speak up for Maurice,' Miss Snow said when they were all around the tables again. 'We can't have our chair arrested and do nothing about it.'

'He was not arrested,' Anton said.

'Of course he was arrested if they took him away by force.'

'He went of his own volition.'

'They had him by the arm.'

'They didn't caution him. If they arrest a person, they have to issue an official caution.'

Dagmar said, 'Anton is right. Maurice agreed to go with them.'

Tudor said in an ominous tone, 'We don't know what's behind this. They must have some good reason for taking him in.'

'These days there's enormous pressure to make a quick arrest,' Thomasine said.

Anton said with a click of the tongue, 'He was not arrested.'

'It's a technicality, Anton. They can still charge him.'

Zach said to Thomasine, 'You think they're fitting him up?'

'Who knows? We know he's a good man, but do they?'

'We know sod all, my dear,' Tudor said, continuing to stir things up. 'He's a friend to us, but that doesn't make him safe in the eyes of the law. In my short life I've had a few bombshells from my friends. What do any of us know about him? Is he married?' He looked around for the answer.

'Divorced or separated, I believe,' Dagmar said after a pause. 'But he lives with someone.'

Tudor seized on this as if he was leading for the prosecution. 'Does he, indeed? How many of us knew that? He's a dark horse. Before we all march off to the nick protesting his innocence, let's get the facts straight.'

Dagmar, regretting that she'd spoken, said, 'I don't see what Maurice's private life has to do with it.'

'Everything
in a case like this. Maybe his partner was two-timing him with Edgar Blacker.'

'Oh, how ridiculous!'

'What do the rest of you think? Naomi?' Tudor turned to the woman on his left.

She said with scorn, 'You're reading too much into this, as you always do, Tudor. Let's deal in facts, not speculation.'

'We don't have all the facts.'

'Exactly. So I say leave it for tonight.'

Tudor was reluctant to leave it. 'Let's have another opinion.' He looked across at the youngest member of the circle, still making elaborate patterns on her writing pad. 'Sharon, do you think we should all be rushing to Maurice's defence?'

Sharon looked up and turned a deeper shade of pink. 'Dunno.'

'You must have an opinion.'

'He's always been nice to me.'

'We've seen that for ourselves, my dear.'

'Nothing we can do, is there?'

Now it was Thomasine who spoke up. 'I'm ashamed of you all, if that's the way you think. We wouldn't be here if it wasn't for Maurice. He founded the circle and he runs it. The least we can do is show solidarity.'

'So right!' Dagmar said.

'But in what way?' Basil asked.

Zach said, 'If you want to take on the fuzz, count me in.'

'Please,' Anton said. 'I agree with Naomi. Let's keep this in proportion. Maurice was invited to go for questioning and he went, quite probably because he feels he has something useful to contribute. If he wants our support I'm sure we'll give it, but let's not rush our fences.' He raised his hand at once. 'All right. A cliche. But you know what I mean.'

Miss Snow said with a sharp look at Tudor, 'Just so long as we're all clear that none of us thinks he's a murderer.'

Thomasine said, 'Maurice? He couldn't murder a plate offish and chips.'

'With the right motivation he could,' Tudor said. 'What do you think, Bob? As a newcomer, what did you make of our chair?'

Difficult. As a newcomer, Bob had hoped to be ignored. 'He made me welcome.' To focus the attention elsewhere, he said, 'This book he nearly got published - what's it about?'

There was a silence that Bob didn't understand, then several sets of eyes widened. Tudor gave a throaty laugh. 'Why didn't any of us think of that? Unsolved murders. It's all about unsolved murders.'

'Straight up?'

'I kid you not. It's a catalogue of crime. Dear old Maurice might play the part of the perfect gent, but there's a dark side to him.'

Dagmar had put her hand to her mouth.

Thomasine said almost to herself, 'I'd forgotten about his book.'

Anton said, 'If it comes to the attention of the police, he'll have some questions to answer.'

But Miss Snow was unmoved. 'It doesn't make him a criminal any more than writing erotic poetry makes Thomasine—' She stopped in mid-sentence and started again. 'Any creative person can take an interest in crime. Think of Dickens.'

'Henry James,' Anton said in a tone that invited anyone to challenge him.

No one did.

Thomasine said, 'Listen, everyone. Naomi is the only one of us who's speaking good sense. Let's stick to the facts. We'd better wait until we know the outcome of this interview. I suggest we all meet here tomorrow at this time and decide on our next step.'

'So how was it, Dad?'

'The circle? Better than I thought.'

'Will you go again?'

'Tomorrow.'

'That's quick.'

'Yeah, but we've got a murder mystery to solve. A real-life one.'

'Get away!'

For someone credited with good sense, Naomi was behaving strangely. It was the next evening and she was cycling out from Chichester in the fading light, pedalling strongly, a strange intensity in her dark eyes.

The burnt-out cottage that had belonged to Edgar Blacker was a sad sight on the Selsey Road, south of the town. Fire investigators from the police, fire service and insurers had sifted through the charred remains and agreed that the seat of the fire had been the hallway. Arson, using some accelerant, was the only explanation. The pattern of burning had been photographed, filmed and mapped. Scene-of-crime officers had collected what evidence they could and council workmen had boarded up the window spaces and doorways. Each means of entry was sealed with police tape. Notices warned that trespassers would be prosecuted. In time, a coroner's jury would be bussed out here to inspect the scene. And if anyone was charged with the crime, teams of lawyers would want to see inside.

None of this was going to stop Naomi. She was the free spirit who had called Blacker a toadying sharpie at the writers' circle. She was wearing her gardening clothes: a light windcheater, jeans and desert boots. In the basket attached to her handlebars was a flashlight, a powerful one. Her backpack contained a pair of gardening gloves, some tools she thought might be helpful and her handbag - which went everywhere with her.

She propped her bike against a tree and moved around the building, using the beam to pick out details of the fire damage. Anything of interest was noted on a small pad. The damage downstairs was extensive. Burn marks above the windows showed where the flames had leapt out after the glass shattered. She wasn't so sure what to expect upstairs. The gabled window of the bedroom where Blacker had died was scorched outside because the thatch around it had ignited, but there was no certainty that the fire had raged so fiercely inside.

After circling the cottage she shone the flashlight into the garden shed at the rear and was pleased to discover a lightweight metal ladder. Typical, she thought, as she went in. The police have been to all this trouble boarding up the place and then forgotten to remove the most obvious aid to an intruder.

She stepped outside and took a long look across the field to pick a moment when there was a gap in the traffic. Then she dragged the ladder up the garden path and propped it against the back of the building where she wouldn't be seen from the road. Although all the windows were boarded up, parts of the roof were covered only by a tarpaulin lashed to what was left of the beams. If she could get up there and loosen the ties she'd have a very good view of the bedroom.

The cottage was constructed with this single room as a kind of attic under the pitch of the roof. There was a small landing and nothing else. The bathroom was downstairs.

She put the flashlight in her backpack. She wasn't used to climbing ladders, so she mounted this one with caution. At the top she gripped the highest rung with one hand and tried loosening the tarpaulin with the other, but she wasn't strong enough. By pressing her knees and thighs against the ladder she made herself more secure, freed both hands and untied the first knot.

In a few minutes she was able to lift a section of the tarpaulin and shine her lamp into the bedroom. The worst of the damage was from water. A mattress was still on the bed and bookshelves beside it, the books now misshapen and stained. The fitted wardrobe stood open and some of the dead man's suits could be seen hanging inside, their shape gone, a green mould growing on the fabric.

She pointed the flashlight down the wall she was looking over. A chair stood against it, directly below her. She came to a quick decision, hooked the lamp over the top of the ladder, climbed up a couple of rungs and got one leg over the tie beam at the top and then the other. It was a short drop to the chair. She managed it without mishap.

Some people might have been spooked by entering a room where someone had been asphyxiated. Not Naomi. Opening drawers and cupboards, she listed what was inside and made diagrams. She felt in the pockets of all the jackets, but the only things she found were a soggy cloakroom ticket, a pack of three condoms, marked 'extra safe', and a toothpick, none of which she kept.

Still attached to the wall facing the wardrobe was a framed photo of a much younger Blacker with a blond man, grinning inanely, their arms draped over each other. They held cans in their hands, so it was probably some lads' night out, but they weren't in the T-shirts that were standard wear on such occasions. They were in suit trousers and the shirts with heavy stripes that were essential wear for young executives at one time. As she was lifting the picture off its hook the cardboard backing fell out and the frame disintegrated. No fault of hers, she decided, slipping out the photo. She popped it into her backpack. It would soon have fallen off the wall anyway.

Nothing else was worth bothering about. The thrillers and science fiction beside the bed were unusable. The socks and underclothes in the chest of drawers were heavy with damp. She opened the bedroom door and looked into a burnt-out ruin black as sin, with only stumps where the stairs had been. To take one step on what remained of the landing would have been madness. The smell of burnt wood was overpowering. She closed the door and prepared to leave.

Leave?

She had not foreseen that the only way out would be by standing on the chair and climbing up the wall to where the ladder was. It had been simple letting herself down, but the reverse was more than she could manage. Standing on top of the chair back she could only just get her fingers over the beam she'd dropped from. An Olympic gymnast would have found it a trial. She looked around for something taller to stand on. The chest of drawers, like the wardrobe, was a built-in fixture. The bed was too heavy to move. She struggled with the mattress and dragged it off the bed, but it was so wet she couldn't shift it to the wall.

'Stupid,' she said. 'Stupid, stupid, stupid woman.'

She was trapped. The window was boarded up and the door led into a black void. The cottage was isolated and surrounded with notices telling people to keep out. To shout for help would be useless. Unless she thought of something, there would be a second death in this bedroom.