Brought to Book (17 page)

‘This pork is delicious,' she said involuntarily.

‘Good.'

‘There was one other thing I wanted to ask you; Meriel says you went up to the cottage after Theo's death, to bring back his personal things.'

‘That's right.'

‘Was there a partly written manuscript among them?'

‘I wouldn't call it a manuscript, but there was a folder he'd started to write in.'

‘Meriel can't find it.'

‘I know; she phoned me about it.'

‘You are sure you brought it back?'

‘Positive. I can see it clearly in my mind's eye.'

‘Did you read any of it?'

He shook his head. ‘I was in a hurry, and anyway Theo's writing took a lot of deciphering – even when he wasn't using code,' he added with a smile.

‘I wonder what could have happened to it.'

He shrugged, refilling their glasses.

‘We're going to the cottage this weekend.'

He looked up quickly. ‘We?'

‘My husband and I.'

So he was still on the scene. Pity. ‘Really? Why?'

‘To speak to the people up there, the barman at the pub, and so on.'

‘Well, it's a pretty God-forsaken place. Lord knows how Theo could spend such a lot of time up there, but he loved it.'

Conversation had veered seamlessly into less contentious fields, and for the rest of the meal they discussed general topics. It was almost three o'clock by the time they emerged on to the pavement outside the Connaught Hotel, and Rona felt a twinge of guilt about Gus, not to mention Justin's waiting patients.

‘Thank you,' she said, holding out her hand, ‘for a really delicious lunch and for answering very nearly all my questions.'

He laughed. ‘You're a most persuasive young lady.'

And one day, she vowed to herself as she hurried to the car park, I'll get answers to the rest of them.

‘Lindsey?'

‘Yes?'

‘Rob Stuart here. I'm phoning to confirm that I've booked seats for next Tuesday. I think you said you were free?'

‘Yes, that'll be fine, thanks.' To her own ears, her voice sounded breathless, and she hoped he wouldn't notice. ‘I'll look forward to it,' she added.

‘Only one problem,' he said.

‘What's that?'

‘Tuesday's nearly a week away.'

‘Not much we can do about that.'

‘We could meet before then; tomorrow, for instance?'

‘Oh, I—'

‘Please? Dinner, a film, something like that?'

Her mouth was dry. She'd been thinking about him all day, and it seemed she'd been in his thoughts, too. God, she thought on an upsurge of excitement, they weren't teenagers; why beat about the bush?

‘I'd love to,' she said.

R
ona was at the computer by eight thirty the next morning, intent on recording all that she'd learned from both Isobel and Justin, and the sudden shrilling of the phone was an unwelcome interruption. It was still not nine o'clock.

‘Rona?' Meriel's voice, high and shaky.

‘Hello, Meriel. Thanks for the directions to the cottage – they've just arrived.'

‘What?' She sounded distracted. ‘Look, I'm sorry – I don't know how to say this, but – we'll have to scrap it.'

Rona, her eyes still on the computer screen, frowned. ‘Scrap what?'

‘The book. I've decided not to go ahead after all.'

Rona's attention snapped into focus. ‘What's happened.'

‘I want you to stop, that's all. Well, you haven't really started, have you? Not actually writing, I mean, and I'm sure you won't have any difficulty finding another subject. If you're out of pocket at all, I'll be glad to put it right, because it's my fault for asking you in the first place. I just didn't realize – well, anyway, I've changed my mind. So please cancel the rest of the interviews and forget the whole thing.'

Rona forced her voice to remain steady. ‘Unfortunately, it's not quite as easy as that. It was my publishers who commissioned the book, Meriel, and I agreed to write it. There's a contract between us, and I'm afraid it can't be broken just because you've changed your mind. I'm sorry. If you tell me what's worrying you, perhaps—'

‘But you
have
to stop!' Her voice rose hysterically. ‘God, how can I convince you? It's – it's
dangerous
to go on with it!'

Rona went suddenly cold. ‘What are you talking about?'

There was a brief pause. ‘I – didn't want to tell you this, but I had an anonymous phone call, late last night.'

Oh, God! Rona thought numbly. ‘Saying what?'

‘That the book mustn't go ahead, or there'd be trouble.'

‘What kind of trouble?'

‘He didn't say. But you do see now that we can't do it?'

‘I see that you're badly frightened, and I'm sorry.'

‘I don't want your sympathy,' Meriel said sharply, ‘I want the book dropped. At once. In fact, I insist. It's my husband you're writing about – surely I have the right—'

‘Meriel, of
course
I want to do this with your blessing, but if the worst comes to the worst, the biography would have to be unauthorized.'

‘Then I'd sue you!' she cried wildly. ‘You and your publishers and your agent and everyone connected with it!'

‘You could only sue if it was libellous,' Rona pointed out, trying to speak calmly, ‘and I promise you it won't be. Please, Meriel, don't let's—'

‘But I'm
frightened,
don't you see?' Despairingly, she began to weep down the phone.

‘Is anyone with you?'

‘In the house, you mean? Only Cecile. Why?'

‘Phone Justin and tell him what's happened; he'll be able to advise you. And report the call to the police – they might be able to trace it. In the meantime, try not to worry; people who make anonymous calls seldom put their threats into effect.' So Max had assured her about the note.

Meriel started crying again and, casting around for something to distract her, Rona cut in.

‘I meant to ask you – Theo's father said he'd done some tutoring for a creative writing course. When was that?'

‘What? I . . .' Meriel's sobs gradually hiccupped to a stop.

‘Tutoring? For a correspondence course?'

‘Yes. Yes, he did.'

‘When did that start?'

‘Oh, years ago.' Her voice steadied. ‘He began to miss teaching, and decided to keep his hand in that way. Under a pseudonym, of course; none of his students knew who he was, and he never met any of them. They submitted their work to a box number at Stokely post office.'

‘What was his pseudonym?'

‘Ben Abbott. But look, I've told you . . .' Her voice started to rise again.

‘Did he continue with it when he had his block?' Rona interrupted.

‘No,' Meriel replied after a minute, ‘but then it was never full-time. He'd take a couple of students through the twelve-week course, then have a break until he felt like doing some more.' Her breathing, Rona noticed, was returning to normal. ‘I tried to persuade him to go on with it, as a way of getting back to writing, but he wouldn't.'

‘What was the name of the writing school?'

‘God, I don't know! I—'

‘Please try to think.'

‘It doesn't matter what it was, because nothing's going to come of this. Rona, you've got to believe me! I'm not prepared to put myself or Sebastian in danger for the sake of a book. As far as I'm concerned, that's the end of the matter.' And she put down the phone.

After a few seconds, Rona replaced hers, her thoughts seesawing between anger and unease. Clearly her correspondent was flexing his muscles; unable to scare her off, he'd turned – with more success – to Meriel. She gave an involuntary shiver as her eyes moved round the room in a primitive need for reassurance.

The cream chintz chair still stood in the corner, a sheaf of papers on one arm. The shelves still held her reference books from previous biographies, the computer still hummed like a friendly bee. Nothing had changed, she assured herself.

She lifted the phone again and pressed Max's button. ‘Meriel's had a threatening phone call,' she said without preamble.

‘And good morning to you, too.'

‘Max – this is serious. Did you hear what I said?'

‘How threatening?'

‘Drop the book, or else.'

‘Obviously you're treading heavily on someone's toes.'

‘But whose? And why should anyone care whether or not there's a biography of Theo Harvey?'

‘If you remember, there were several question marks in his life.' A pause. ‘What's Meriel's view on this?'

‘She wants to comply.'

‘Ah! And you don't?'

‘You know very well that I can't,' she replied with asperity.

‘But you'd like to?'

‘No! I'm not going to be scared off by bully-boy tactics. I'm bound by the contract, but in any case it would start a precedent; anyone would think if they didn't agree with what I was doing, they could shout “Boo!” and I'd scuttle off with my tail between my legs.'

‘That, I'd like to see! Seriously, why don't you have a word with Eddie? See what he thinks about it?'

‘He'll think the same as I do.'

Max was silent for a minute. ‘What are your plans today?'

‘This morning I'm catching up with yesterday's interviews, and this afternoon I've an appointment with Theo's aunt.'

‘Will the park figure in your programme?'

‘Probably,' she said defiantly. ‘Gus will need a run, and I've no intention of letting this nonsense interfere with our routine.'

He sighed. ‘As you know, I'm tied up on Thursdays, otherwise I'd come with you.'

‘Max, I'm perfectly capable—'

‘I know, I know. Any other news? We've not spoken for a couple of days.'

‘Just that Lindsey has a new man.'

‘Indeed? That'll put paid to Hugh. Anyone I know?'

‘I doubt it – Rob Stuart? We met at the theatre, and they hit it off straight away. She phoned last night to say they're going out for dinner.'

‘What's he like?'

‘Pleasant enough. An attractive smile.'

‘Well, good luck to her. I must go, or I'll be late for Art School. Take care, my independent one.'

‘I will.'

Rona drew a deep breath and, squaring her shoulders, returned to her work.

She was a little disconcerted that afternoon when Miss Agnes Lethbury opened the door to her in a wheelchair. However, the old lady greeted her cheerfully and welcomed her inside. Her iron-grey hair was cropped short, her face a network of lines, and the blue eyes behind her spectacles were frankly inquisitive. She wore a cream silk shirt under a lavender cardigan, and a skirt of heather tweed which covered most of her legs.

As she bowled ahead of Rona down the hall, it was apparent that the bungalow was tailor-made for her needs; a glance through the open kitchen door revealed low-level equipment that could be operated from a sitting position, and the doorways were wide enough for the chair to pass through.

Miss Lethbury led the way into a sitting-room overlooking a neat if uninspired back garden. The room was comfortably furnished, with low tables and bookcases on which were arranged a selection of family photographs, which Rona hoped to sneak a look at later. There was a trolley beside the coffee table, laid with sandwiches covered in cling film, a cherry cake, and cups and saucers.

‘Excuse me while I bring in the tea,' her hostess said, ‘then we can settle to our chat.'

‘May I—?' Rona started, and broke off at a brisk shake of the head.

‘You're punctual, my dear – I appreciate that – so the kettle is just coming to the boil. I shan't be a moment.'

She bowled out again, and Rona, feeling slightly guilty, moved over to examine the photographs. One was a family group comprising a young Reginald Harvey, a woman holding a baby – Theo, no doubt – and two children sprawled on the grass in front of them. All were smiling at the camera. The woman's hair was done in a ‘victory roll' with a ‘bang' at the front – a hideous style, Rona thought – and her cotton dress was short and plain. Reginald was in plus-fours, the boy's shorts came down to his knees, and the girl's dress had puff sleeves. Circa mid-1940s, she surmised.

‘Ah, you're inspecting the family!' said a voice behind and below her, and she turned as Miss Lethbury, a teapot perched perilously on the tray of her chair, came wheeling back into the room.

‘You've met my brother-in-law, I believe,' she continued, pouring the tea. ‘He told me you were a charming gel.'

Rona smiled at her. ‘That's nice of him.'

‘And no doubt you want to pump me about dear Theo?' she went on, handing Rona a china cup and saucer. ‘Sit down, my dear, and help yourself to a sandwich. They're tomato and cheese – a weakness of mine.'

Rona did as she was told, and went through the performance of asking about the recorder. Permission was granted with an airy wave of the hand.

‘I lived with them all for some years,' Miss Lethbury began. ‘Did he tell you that? At the school, I mean. Frances and I were both teachers, though she was the brainier one.'

‘You taught at Netherby House? Where Mr Harvey was headmaster?'

‘No, I
taught
at a girls' school down the road, but I lived at Netherby; Reginald and Frances had a large apartment, and offered me the top floor. It was kind of them. I tried not to impose, but they insisted on my joining them at weekends and so on. And, of course, I had the joy of watching my nephews and niece grow up. Have you met Tristan and Phoebe?'

‘Not yet,' Rona replied, wondering when she would get a word in. Not that it mattered; this was all relevant and interesting.