The Circle (6 page)

'Is that a fact?'

'Probably not, coming from Tudor,' Maurice said. 'He's been known to string us along.'

'Unfair,' Tudor said.

'Come on, sweetie,' Thomasine said. 'All that stuff about being a gigolo. Do you expect us to believe that?'

'It's in my autobiography'

'Wishful thinking.'

'My dear, you didn't know me in my prime. I was only on offer to extremely rich women. Film stars, opera singers, barristers. And they always wanted me back.'

'Bit of a stallion, were you?'

'I find this distasteful,' someone said from the front, probably Jessie, who was published in
The Lady.

'Have you read my autobiography, sir?' Tudor asked the publisher.

'I believe I did.' He started sorting through the remaining scripts. 'Remind me of the title.'

'"Backflash". A humorous reference to the famous sketch Francis Bacon did of me in the nude. That's in Chapter Three.'

'Ah.'

'I want the sketch on the front of the book.'

'The jacket.'

'No, the birthday suit.'

'I think we're at cross purposes. Shall we discuss it afterwards?'

'The jacket?'

'The book. The contents of your book.'

'I don't see why,' Tudor said. 'Everyone else has had a public appraisal, so why not me?'

'Being autobiography, it's more personal.'

'I'm no shrinking violet. I wouldn't have written it down if I'd wanted to keep it quiet. This lot have heard the choice bits.'

'Even so, my remarks will be for your ears only.'

There was a shocked silence. Then: You don't like it? What's the problem? The rumpy-pumpy? I never heard of a publisher who shied away from sex.'

'That's not the point at all.'

'Easy, Tudor,' Thomasine said to calm him down.

'Very well, sir,' Tudor said with mock humility. Til wait till the end if that's what you want.'

Undaunted, Blacker turned to another script. 'There's a story here entitled "Passion Fruit", a romantic novel. May I ask the author to reveal herself? I assume this is a lady, though perhaps I shouldn't.'

Dagmar's hand was raised.

'You are Desiree Eliot?'

There were stifled giggles.

'A pen name,' Dagmar said.

'May I enquire what you are really called?'

'Dagmar Bumstead.'

Two or three people seemed to be having seizures.

Blacker did his best to shame them. 'There's nothing wrong with that, you know. I prefer it to the pen name if I'm honest. Is there a reason why you didn't want to reveal your name?'

'I thought it didn't sound romantic enough.'

'There was a very fine novelist called Phyllis Bottome, and it didn't hamper her in the least.
Passion Fruit,
by Dagmar Bumstead. It sounds just right to me. Of course, if you want to be mysterious and hide behind a pseudonym, we could think of something else.'

'Dolly Bronte?' Tudor said. 'Fifi Austen.'

'Give it a rest, man,' Thomasine said.

'I have to say I'm not a reader of romantic fiction,' Blacker said, 'so I gave this to a colleague to read, and she told me she devoured it at a sitting and would have read another if you'd written one.'

'I have,' Dagmar said. 'I've got eleven more at home.'

Blacker's jaw dropped and his eyes took on a glazed, defensive look. 'Haven't you submitted any of them to publishers?'

'Repeatedly. They keep coming back with rejection letters.'

'I'm rather shocked to hear that. I believe your work is first-rate.'

'Thank you,' Dagmar said in her matter-of-fact manner. 'So will you publish it?'

He cleared his throat. 'Em, as I explained, I'm not wholly familiar with the romantic fiction market. I'll need to consult an expert before I commit myself.'

Dagmar's head dropped a little. In the audience, Thomasine turned to exchange a look with Tudor.

Blacker moved on. 'There's just one script I haven't discussed, and that's "Tips for the Twenty-First Century". As far as I can gather, it's a collection of practical information. What to do with those elastic bands the postman drops on your doorstep, and so on. As a premise for a book, it's not new, but it could be rather clever. Whose is it, may I ask?'

'Mine.' The voice was Jessie's.

'You must have spent some time collecting all the tips.'

'A lifetime,'Jessie said. 'Some were passed down through my family.'

'Such as pinching the tip of one's little finger to prevent a sneeze?'

'Indeed.'

'And the parsley leaves and vinegar to improve one's breath?'

'Absolutely.'

'You don't approve of products one can buy?'

'My tips are all based on natural substances,' she said.

'If I'm right in my instinct, and sometimes we have to follow our noses, there's a gap in the market for a book such as this,' he said, 'but I have to point out that some of the remedies sound rather old-fashioned. In view of the title, I think we should be looking for some tips involving modern technology, mobile phones and so on.'

'It's not that kind of book,' she said.

'But the title.'

'I had to change it. Until 1999 it was "Tips for the Twentieth Century".'

He said, 'I like "Tips for the Twenty-First Century". I like it very much. You've updated the title. All I'm suggesting is that you update the tips. You might have a section on text messaging.'

'I don't think so,'Jessie said.'I don't know the first thing about it.'

'Then you're well placed to find out. By learning the basic principles for yourself you can explain them for your readers.'

'No, thank you.' She wasn't going to move on this.

'What did you say your name is?'

'Warmington-Smith.'

'Let's be friendlier than that, shall we?'

'Mrs Warmington-Smith.'

'Oh, stupid me. It's here on the front of the script. Well, Jessie, any author ought to be open to suggestions. You have a fine idea for a book, but the contents do need some attention.'

'What you are saying is that the title is all right, but you want a completely different book.'

'I wouldn't go that far.'

'What else would you change?'

'It's your book, of course, but you might have a chapter about the internet. There's so much on offer. People can get free advice on planning a car journey, for example.'

'I don't have a computer.'

'Oh.' There was too much disappointment in that 'Oh'. He made an effort to brighten up. 'Well, perhaps you should invest in one and write a chapter about the difference it makes to your life.'

'It would take me years to learn. I suffer from technophobia. My book is meant for people like me who are trying to survive in a world where every other person in the street is holding something to his ear and shouting things nobody wants to hear.'

'Then perhaps this is a "How to Survive" book.'

'Possibly.'

'There are other technophobes out there,' Blacker said. 'Plenty of others. The secret of successful publishing is all about identifying a market. Let me think about this.' He set the typescript on the stack. 'Is there anyone I missed?'

Maurice said, 'I think not. Several of our members chose not to submit anything at this point in time.'

Anton said, 'Chairman, that is one of the most deplorable of all cliches.'

'Thank you, Anton.' Turning to Blacker, Maurice said, 'Anton is our vigilante, ever on the lookout for lapses of speech.'

'You'd make a useful proofreader, then,' Blacker said. 'I didn't notice a script from you, sir.'

'I wasn't ready,' Anton said.

'And the young lady . . . ?'

'Works long hours at a hairdressing salon and finds it difficult to put together anything of any length,' Maurice said with a smile in the direction of Sharon. She looked up, content to stay silent. The camera zoomed in on her notepad. Some of the doodles looked artistic.

'Length is not important,' Blacker said. 'I'd be willing to look at anything, however slight.'

'As the actress said to the bishop,' Thomasine said in an undertone that the mike on the camera picked up but Blacker did not.

'Any questions, then?' he said.

Dagmar was the first to come in. 'When can we expect to see Maurice's book in print?'

'Ah, Maurice's book,' Blacker said and for a moment he was caught off guard. Watching him now, it was obvious there was a problem. 'Yes,
Unsolved.
As soon as I saw it, I thought this is right for us. We must publish it. As to when, I don't have my schedules in front of me.'

'The first Thursday in September,' Maurice reminded him.

'There you are, then,' Blacker said. 'It's in the pipeline. Nearly through the pipeline, in fact. Another question?'

You talked about the tips in Jessie's book,' Anton said. 'Do you have any tips of your own to pass on to the circle?'

'To assist your writing, you mean? The one thing I would recommend is to get the tools for the job. I don't mean expensive computers or reams of paper. I'm talking about a decent dictionary, for example, a modern one, not something handed down by your grandfather, and some basic reference books connected to your topic. Some sort of filing system also helps because you'll be cutting things out of newspapers and magazines. Keep everything you are ever likely to use. I'm a hoarder, and not ashamed to say it. My house is filled with cuttings and photos from years back. Letters, notebooks, videos. I wish I was better organised because I'm starting to write a memoir of my chequered career and I have to keep stopping to look for things, but it's all there somewhere. I expect you have the same problem, Maurice. You must have stacks of material on unsolved murders.'

'Quite a bit,' Maurice said. 'I've only used about a tenth of it.'

'Ah, it's the iceberg principle. What is on view isn't the whole story. There's a huge amount underpinning it.'

Anton said, 'Mixed metaphor.'

'I beg your pardon?'

'Another question,' Maurice said.

'How much do you pay?' This from Tudor, still unhappy that his script hadn't been discussed.

Maurice said at once, 'I don't think that's appropriate.'

'Why?'

You don't ask that sort of question.'

'He's in business. We're the people offering the goods. We're entitled to know what he pays.'

Dagmar said, 'Tudor, we're not selling tins of beans.'

'That's debatable.'

'Tudor, how could you!'

'The whole thing about writers is that if they knew anything about business they wouldn't be writers anyway.'

Maurice said, 'Equally you could say that a genuine writer doesn't do it for the money. You know very well, Tudor, that a publisher and his author come to a private agreement.'

'You mean you don't want to tell us how much you're getting?'

Blacker tried to take some heat out of the exchange. 'What a publisher pays is an advance on the royalties of the book. If it sells well, more is paid to the author. Of course a new writer is an unknown quantity, so the publisher can't be expected to risk a large amount up front, so to speak. We publishers are notoriously bad payers, and it isn't just the writers who suffer. We pay peanuts to our employees. There's a story of Billy Collins, the famous publisher, kneeling to receive his knighthood from the Queen. When she tapped him on the shoulder with the sword and said, "Rise, Sir William," he didn't get up. She tried again. Still no response. Then someone said, "Ma'am, why don't you try, 'Stand up.'
Rise
is not a word he understands."'

The audience enjoyed that. Maurice waited for the laughter to end and said, 'That seems a good note on which to stop. Thank you, Edgar. I think we'll leave it there, but before we do, I believe someone would like to say a few words?' He looked towards Miss Snow. She looked to her left.

Tudor, of all people, had been asked to give the vote of thanks.

He was on his feet. 'This has been very instructive. Let's face it, we're just a bunch of wannabes - with one exception - so the chance to meet a living, breathing publisher doesn't often come our way, and you'll have to forgive some of our dumb questions - if that isn't an oxymoron. You've given us the kid-glove treatment, sir, praised our modest efforts - for the most part - and handed down enough encouragement to keep us dreaming our dreams of rising up the bestseller lists. We wish your publishing venture every success, especially as some of us might have a stake in it. And now someone has a token of appreciation tucked away somewhere.' He glanced towards Miss Snow, who produced a glittery bag containing a bottle. 'Ah. This, then, comes with our thanks, and I invite you all to show your appreciation in the traditional way.'

Bob continued to watch until the image vanished after a few seconds. He switched off. He would run it again some time. Enough had emerged to give him new angles on several of the circle, and the murder victim, Edgar Blacker. The talk wasn't quite the buttering up he'd been led to expect. Tudor's ego had taken some knocks and so had Jessie's. Naomi had seen through the waffle about the witchcraft book. But was there enough to trigger a murder?

The expectations had been high. They'd handed in their best work wanting to hear good things. It wasn't like getting back an essay they'd written at school when they knew their place in the pecking order. These were grown-ups. No one with clout in the publishing world had judged their work in years - except Dagmar's. All those rejection letters must have been tough, but even she hadn't seen her critics face to face until now.

So what did Blacker's verdict amount to? Well, he'd wrapped it up as prettily as he could, but only Zach's science fiction got the nod. Basil's gardening stuff needed expanding, and was going to bring unwanted publicity. The reverse was true of Thomasine's poems. They needed thinning out. Miss Snow's biography had no bite to it. Jessie's tips were old-fashioned. It was obvious he hadn't read Naomi's witchcraft book or Dagmar's latest romance and whatever he thought of Tudor's life story wasn't fit to be heard by everyone else.

A few tears must have been shed that night.

7

It's not the people in prison who worry me. It's the people who aren't.

The Earl of Arran in
The New York Times,
1962

I
n the morning he returned Thomasine's call.

'They've charged Maurice,' she said.

'You told me.'

'He'll be suicidal. We've got to stop it.'

'Bit late for that.' He didn't like being a downer, but when a man is done for murder, the law takes over.

'Not at all. This is the time we can make a difference.'

He soft-pedalled. 'I don't see how.'

'The police think they've got their man and the case is closed. We can have a clear run. Are you listening to me, Bob? It's down to us.'

No more gentle persuasion from Thomasine. Things had gone beyond that.

'We can try,' he said. 'But let's face it. We don't know what the police found out. And we don't have their resources - fingerprinting, DNA, all that stuff.'

Thomasine was unimpressed. 'This was a fire, remember? The house went up in flames. We're not dealing in fingerprints and DNA. This is about people's motives and where they were on the night of the fire.'

'We could find ourselves fingering someone else from the circle.'

'If they're guilty, what the hell?' she said. 'I don't believe Maurice is. Do you?'

He didn't answer that. 'Last night I looked at the video of Blacker's talk to the circle. I borrowed it from Miss Snow.'

'Oh?' There was a pause, and when she spoke again there was a change of tone. She sounded more guarded now. 'What did you make of it?'

'Quite a few of them came out of it with their hopes dashed. I don't know what it must feel like to beaver away for a year or more on a book and then be told it's crap.'

'He didn't tell anyone that.'

'Not exactly. But I think they got the message he didn't want to publish them.'

'Who? Tudor?'

'Tudor stands out, yes. But others were given the thumbs down as well. He didn't think much of Jessie's household hints for the twenty-first century.'

'He told her to get more up-to-date.'

'But she isn't going to, is she? She isn't capable. This is the point, Thomasine. How many of them are going to alter what they've done? Do you think Miss Snow is going to dish the dirt on the people she's writing about? I don't see it. Will the witchcraft lady - what's her name?'

'Naomi.'

'Will Naomi write stuff about spells and black magic, because that's what sells? No chance. And she won't be opening her house and garden to the public to give a puff to Basil's book.'

'In case they catch her riding her broomstick?'

He smiled. 'What I'm saying is that some of you lot were pretty pissed off by Blacker and his advice. I'm not a serious writer like the rest of you, but anyone can see it's a pain to chuck years of hard work in the bin. The question is . . .'

'Whether it's enough to justify murder. Definitely,' she said. 'If you haven't done it, you can't know how strong the feeling is. The book is part of yourself, Bob, the nearest thing I know to child-bearing. To be told it's a failure is horrible.'

'Okay. I can understand that.'

'We were all keyed up that evening, ready to pick up the slightest hint of criticism.'

'Right, so who took the biggest knock?'

They both said, 'Tudor.'

Thomasine added, 'And he's the first to take offence.'

'You want me to talk to him?'

'Would you?'

'Sure.'

'We'd better do this together. When are you free?'

'I work, remember?'

'So do I, and so does he. It'll have to be an evening, won't it?'

Tudor lived above a building society in North Street. He suggested meeting in a pub, but they persuaded him it was too public. They didn't say his voice could be heard across three continents. Just that they owed it to Maurice to be discreet.

Tudor wasn't to be deprived of his libation, as he put it. Two packs of Black Label waited on the table in his living room. The place was roomy enough for three sofas, but it wasn't the furniture that caught the eye. The walls were plastered with photos of the sort you see in celebrity magazines. The fact that Tudor was in every one didn't make the impact he intended. It seemed to Bob like desperation, this urge to be pictured with minor celebs.

Thomasine made a roundabout start. 'Tudor, baby, we're trying to prove Maurice is innocent. Thought you might have some ideas how to go about it.'

Tudor's features relaxed. He picked up a can and opened it. 'Oh, if that's what this is about, I'm your man. I don't mind admitting I had my doubts when he was first taken in for questioning, but I'm like that. I was brought up to believe the police were infallible. It's hard to shake off, that kind of conditioning.'

'You changed your mind?'

'Totally. Maurice hasn't got a ha'p'orth of malice in him.'

'The trouble is,' Bob said, 'he doesn't have an alibi either. He went for a walk on the night of the fire and his partner doesn't know when he got back.'

Thomasine said as if she were speaking only to Bob, 'If you asked most of us where we were that night we wouldn't be able to come up with cast-iron alibis. I live alone and so does Tudor.'

It was neatly done. She and Bob both looked to Tudor for a reaction.

He hesitated. 'Good point. I was at home here in bed, but I can't prove it, if anyone should ask. I wasn't entertaining Miss World.' He winked at Bob. 'Not that night, anyway.'

'And if the cops made some enquiries,' Thomasine said, 'they'd find Edgar Blacker was top of your hate list.'

'Why?'

'Because of the way he treated you at the meeting.'

He sighed, like a chess player in check. 'What - keeping me waiting for an opinion on my book? He did, the bugger. That's true. He got up my nose. Only it hardly makes a motive for murder.'

'Did he see you at the end?' Bob asked.

'A few private words. He didn't want to speak in front of the others, his point being that it was too personal. My book's a memoir, you see, an account of my life so far.'

'Were they encouraging, those few private words?' Thomasine asked.

'Helpful, more than encouraging. After all, we didn't come to be buttered up, did we? Nice to hear, no doubt, but no damned use to serious writers. Constructive criticism was the order of the day.'

'Was it really helpful, Tudor?'

'To a degree, yes. He told me it was a matter of pitching it right. I tend to treat the reader as an old chum with a shared sense of humour, giving him the occasional nudge in the ribs. Edgar Blacker didn't care for that. Wanted a more neutral style, simply telling the story without signposting the funny bits. I could see what he meant.'

'Anything else?'

His eyes flicked left and right. 'Well, he was a little sceptical about some of my adventures, and I had to tell him straight that everything happened just as I describe it. He didn't seem willing to accept that an ordinary fellow like me could have been on friendly terms with so many of the great and good. As you know, Thomasine, I take folk as I find them, never mind if they've climbed Everest or won Wimbledon, and they always respond. They're only men and women like you and me. We all have to go to the bathroom, don't we? When you think of it like that, treating them as equals, you can get along with anyone.'

'Was he interested in publishing you?' Thomasine asked.

'If I was willing to make the changes he suggested I think he'd have jumped at the chance.'

'Is that what he said?'

'Not precisely.'

'What
did
he say?'

'About the book?' Tudor was stalling now. 'He said it needed beefing up, whatever that means.'

'Not enough substance.'

'Something like that. There was a danger the reader might think I was a name-dropper if I couldn't say something more startling about my friends in the public eye.'

This sounded more likely. Bob tried to look mystified by the idea of Tudor as a name-dropper. 'More startling? What - badmouthing them?'

'You've got it. He was after sensation. Well, if this had been a work of fiction I wouldn't have minded, but it's my life story, for pity's sake, and these are my friends. I can't stab them in the back.'

'Out of the question,' Thomasine said.

'I 'm glad you agree.'

'And is that what you told him?'

'More or less. Look, what was said between him and me doesn't matter in the least. We should be turning the spotlight on some of the others.'

Bob kept the spotlight where it was. 'Was that your first meeting with Blacker, that evening at the circle?'

Tudor's eyes gave the answer.

'You knew him already?'

'I wouldn't put it so strongly as that.'

'But . . . ?'

In desperation he started to flannel. 'There are degrees of knowing, aren't there? If you know somebody in the biblical sense, you ought to be married to them. My contact with Blacker was way down the scale. We'd met on one or two occasions, no more.'

This could be the breakthrough. Bob was pleased he'd asked the question. 'When?'

'A few years ago. I sold him some insurance. That's my job.'

'You insured him?'

'My firm did. I'm just a cog in the machinery.'

'What kind of insurance? Life?'

'I can't go into it. Confidentiality.'

'Fire?'

'Good Lord, no,' Tudor said. 'Please respect my position here. I could get into fearful trouble if head office find out I've discussed a client's business.'

'The client is dead,' Thomasine said.

'And my dealings with him have nothing to do with the case.'

'Did he ever make a claim?'

Tudor made a sweeping movement with his open hand. 'If you persist with this, I'm going to have to ask you to leave. Believe me, it has no bearing. End of discussion.'

'But we have established that you and he knew each other before the night he died,' Thomasine said.

'Slightly. Can we leave it there?'

'After the meeting - the circle meeting, I mean,' Bob said, 'did you see him again?'

'Before he died? Not me. Why all this interest in me? Have you spoken to any of the others?'

'You're not the first,' Bob said.

'You should talk to our blonde charmer, Sharon. She's not a writer. She's never read anything out. She just sits and scribbles on her notepad all the time, doodles, not words. What's she doing, coming to a writers' circle and making no contribution whatsoever?'

They left without discussing Sharon.

That same evening, the author of 'The Sussex Witchcraft Trials' called on the next Tolkien and made a bold suggestion. 'I'm looking for a partner,' Naomi told Zach in the converted railway carriage that was his home in Selsey, 'and I can't think of anyone better than you.'

'For what?' Zach said. Confident and able as he was, secure in his own home, he still felt uneasy under the hyperthyroid gaze of those brown eyes.

'For our mutual benefit.' But the tone of her voice didn't make it sound so inviting.

'Oh yeah?'

'You and I have certain things to offer each other, wouldn't you say?'

This hit Zach like a poleaxe.

'How do you mean?' He was stunned, weak at the knees and disbelieving, but to be honest with himself he'd never had an offer like this from a woman. He wasn't every girl's idea of a sexy hunk. As for Naomi, well, she scared most people rigid with her steely looks, but she was probably younger than she appeared and she had the body of a tennis player.

'A way of bringing out the best in each of us.'

His thoughts were racing now. What would Basil say if his wife had a fling? Maybe Basil wasn't giving her what she wanted. He was a pretty old guy, quite a few years her senior. He might be grateful.

Zach heard himself saying, 'You've got me interested.'

'Good. It's obvious you have a good imagination.'

True, and it was working overtime. 'Thanks.'

'Unlike me,' she said. 'I stick to facts.' She gave him a long look.

What fact does she want from me? he thought. The size of my jigger? 'So?'

'There's some risk attached to this, and I must ask you to keep it between the two of us.'

'No problem,' he said. Some risk, huh? Was it outdoor sex she wanted?

She surprised him by saying, 'I had a look inside the burnt-out cottage.'

That
would
be kinky. Thinking about it, he wasn't so sure he wanted to go along with this any more.

'You mean Edgar Blacker's place?'

'Yes.'

'You went inside? What for?'

'For the truth, of course. He was murdered and Maurice McDade has been charged with it. I don't believe for one moment that Maurice is the arsonist. Do you?'

Zach was unequal to this twist in the plot. 'I don't know. Haven't thought about it.'

'Well, it's time you did,' she said. 'This is why I'm confiding in you. I have my own ideas who the murderer might be, and I'm collecting evidence, but I can't see my way to putting it on record without risking a libel action. There's a way round it, and this is where you come in.'

'Oh?'

'We dress it up as fiction using your gift with words.'

She wanted him to collaborate in a book.

'But I'm a fantasy writer. I don't do crime.'

'You have the gift. I'll give you the plot. All you have to do is get into the mind of the killer and make it convincing. Together we can turn out a bestseller.'

'It's not my scene.'

'Rubbish. Where's your sense of adventure?'

'Can't you work with someone else?'

'Who? Basil? He's a gardener, not a writer.'

In desperation, he cast around for another suggestion. 'Dagmar? She does fiction.'

'She does daydreams for sex-starved women. And she's no damned good at it. I want a real writer.'

'But I'm working on a book already.'

'Take a break, Zach. When you come back to it your batteries will be recharged.'

Her intensity was scary, yet it played to Zach's ego. He didn't know how to wriggle out of this and he wasn't certain that he should. He still had the impression that she fancied him. 'What's in it for me?'

'That's better,' she said with the beginning of a smile. 'It's cards on the table time.'