The Circle (9 page)

'Harming the greenfly,' Bob murmured.

Naomi hadn't heard. 'You'd better come in. I'll see if he can break off for a few minutes.'

They were shown into the front room by way of the hall. To Bob's eye it seemed dark and Victorian. There was an upright piano. Old photos in gilt frames, clearly of Naomi's ancestors, stood on top. The women all had eyes like hers that expected hostility and returned it fivefold. Yet someone must have got close, he found himself thinking, or they couldn't have passed on the gene that glared.

Naomi didn't leave them alone for long. 'It's not convenient,' she said, with another of those don't-even-think-about-challenging-me looks. 'He's wearing his spraying clothes.'

'Did you ask him?' Bob said.

'I don't need to ask him. I can see from the kitchen window.'

'We don't mind what he's wearing,' Thomasine said as if it was for them to decide. 'We can talk to him out there. Shall we go through?'

To Bob's surprise, Naomi stepped back to let her pass. Maybe it was all front with her. They moved into the kitchen, another dark room with dinner plates on wooden racks above an old-fashioned dresser.

Out of the window they could see Basil at work, dressed like a racing driver of the twenties in a red overall with goggles and leather helmet. His spray was just as antiquated as the clothes. It worked on the pump-action principle from a bucket. But the small garden looked to be thriving on the treatment. An arch of exquisite pink roses was formed by the weight of the blooms. A daisy on that lawn would have died of shame.

'You see?' Naomi said.

'He won't mind stopping for us.' Without asking, Thomasine opened the back door and stepped across the turf.

'Don't go too close. It's harmful to humans,' Naomi said, following her.

But Basil noticed them and lowered his spray and pushed his goggles above his eyes.

'Don't blame Naomi,' Thomasine said to him. 'She did her best to stop us, but Bob was nearly burnt alive this morning and we need to talk.'

Basil said, 'Oh my word. Are you all right?'

'I'm okay,' Bob said. 'I jumped off the roof and one leg is giving me gyp, but I'll survive.'

'Then you must come and sit in the gazebo.' He led the way up the garden towards a neat wooden structure painted white. Curved bench seats inside faced each other. Bob found himself opposite Naomi, exposed to the stare.

Thomasine gave her account of Bob's misadventure. Apart from another 'Oh my word' from Basil, she was heard in awed silence.

'So we decided to check on the movements of each guy in the circle,' she said. 'No offence, Basil. We've no reason to think you'd want to kill Edgar Blacker or Bob, but in fairness to the others, we must ask where you were about eight this morning.'

Naomi started to say, 'He was—' then stopped as Thomasine raised her hand like a traffic policeman.

'His own words, if you don't mind.'

'Eight?' Basil said, turning to face Naomi as if his memory had gone. 'I would have been taking my shower about that time.'

'So you didn't go out?'

'Yes, I was out.'

'What - taking a shower?'

'I was at the leisure centre. I go for a daily swim. I'm always in the water by seven, winter and summer.'

Unkindly, Bob found himself wondering if the hairpiece stayed on in the water. 'Breaststroke?'

'How did you guess?'

'And you never miss?'

'I can't remember a time when I did.'

'He's fitter than he looks,' Naomi said.

'Is there anyone who can vouch for you?'

'What do you mean - vouch for him?' Naomi said. You said a moment ago you had no reason to think he had anything to do with what happened.'

'But we're treating each of the men just the same,' Thomasine said.

'There are several other regulars like me at the pool,' Basil said, 'but we don't speak to each other. We just do lengths.'

'Don't you speak in the changing room?'

His lips formed a small circle, as if he was trying to whistle. 'It's not the thing to strike up a conversation with a fellow getting dressed. When I'm decent I might pass a few words.'

'They'd know you,' Thomasine said, 'so they ought to be able to give you an alibi.'

He still looked dubious. 'That may be so, but who's going to ask them?'

'You, initially. Then Bob and I would need to confirm it with them.'

'I don't care for that at all. I'd rather you treated me as a suspect if that's what this is about.'

'No, it's about eliminating you as a suspect.'

Basil gripped his gauntlet gloves. 'But I've no reason to harm you, Bob. I scarcely know you.'

'The way we see it,' Thomasine said, 'whoever set light to Edgar Blacker's house has reason to be worried that we're asking awkward questions. We think the arsonist set a trap for Bob.'

'I didn't kill Mr Blacker,' Basil said. 'He was perfectly civil to me.'

'I've seen the video,' Bob said. 'I think he was ready to offer you a contract.'

'Apparently.'

'But it was all a con. You know that, don't you? He'd have built up your hopes and then wanted you to put your hand in your pocket to fund the book, like he did with Maurice.'

'So I heard,' Basil said. 'It's deplorable. But I didn't know this at the time. I'm afraid I'm far too trusting.'

'You can say that again,' Naomi said.

'We didn't care for his ideas about publicising my book, opening our garden to the public,' Basil said. 'You can see the size of the plot. We're not equipped for visitors.'

And you don't even offer them a cup of tea, Bob thought. 'Had you ever met Blacker before he visited the circle?'

'He was a stranger to me.'

Naomi chose to come in again. 'It was obvious to me that he hadn't bothered to read my book on the witch trials. Even if he'd skimmed through the pages he should have realised where I stand on the question of witchcraft.'

You were disappointed?'

'Disgusted.' She pushed a lock of black hair away from her eyes. 'He had the idea I was a believer in occult practices. How anyone could be so mistaken is beyond me.'

'Witchful thinking,' Bob said, and immediately wished he hadn't. He got the fiercest glare yet.

Thomasine nudged the talk in another direction. 'You were one of the founders of the circle, Naomi.'

'What of it?'

'You and Dagmar and Maurice.'

'So?'

'How did you meet?'

Her features relaxed a little. 'On a coach trip to Stratford-on-Avon. Basil gets travel sickness, so he didn't come. I found myself sharing a seat with Maurice. Do you really want to hear this? It's rather gruesome.'

'How?'

'It turned out he was using the trip for research into one of his unsolved murders. He'd arranged with the driver to be dropped at a village called Lower Quinton, a few miles before Stratford. An old man was murdered there towards the end of the war and it was never cleared up. Maurice was visiting the scene.'

'For some local colour?'

Naomi shrugged. 'To be honest, I wasn't all that interested until he mentioned there were black magic associations. Warwickshire is notorious for that sort of thing. The man was found pinned to the ground by a hayfork through his throat, with the sign of the cross hacked into his chest.'

'Ugh!'

'I warned you it was gruesome.' Naomi carried on in a calm tone, 'It's a form of killing associated with the occult that goes back to Anglo-Saxon times. Any unfortunate suspected of having the evil eye was likely to be impaled in this way.'

'Ritual killing?'

'Yes. And there were local legends of a black dog. If the dog was seen, a death followed soon after. The victim himself saw it as a child on nine successive nights, on his way home from working in the fields as a ploughboy. On the tenth night his sister died suddenly - or so the story went.'

'Were there witches in the area?'

'Supposedly. The coven was said to meet at a stone circle nearby. Had done so for about three centuries.'

'And the murder was never solved?'

'Officially, no. But the policeman who investigated was certain he knew who did it. He was Bob Fabian.'

'The killer?'

Naomi's nostrils flared a little. 'The detective. Fabian of the Yard.'

'I've heard of him,' Bob said.

'Fabian believed a local farmer was responsible. Much of the talk of witchcraft originated with him. He was in trouble financially and he'd borrowed a large sum of money from the victim and couldn't repay it. He dressed the murder up to make it look ritualistic'

'Why wasn't he arrested?'

'There wasn't enough proof. He destroyed the receipts. No witnesses. He did everything he could to inflame the superstitions. After the killing, a black dog was found on his land, hanged, close to the scene of the crime. Fabian wrote in his memoirs that the case was unsolved, but he confided later that he was sure the farmer was the killer. The whole thing played to the local fears and legends, just as the persecutors of witches have done from time immemorial.'

'It makes a good chapter in Maurice's book, I reckon,' Bob said.

'I think he used it, yes. You were asking how we formed the circle. Maurice and I got talking about the books we were writing and what a happy discovery it is to find another author. On the drive home from Stratford we picked him back up at Lower Quinton and he sat with me again and the idea emerged of setting up a group. He already knew about Dagmar writing romances, and I said I could probably rope in Basil, so we agreed to meet Dagmar and see if she was interested. She was highly enthusiastic. I expect you noticed she idolises Maurice. The circle came into being over tea and cakes in the Bishop Bell tea rooms.'

'At the cathedral?'

'Yes. We had a table outside. It's easier to talk there without being overheard.'

'Good thinking,' Bob said. 'Mills and Boon, murder and witchcraft. Some ears would prick up.'

Thomasine smiled, but Naomi was unamused. 'Nothing of the sort was discussed. We talked about the practicalities of forming the circle.'

'Was Basil there?' Bob asked, slipping into Naomi's habit of discussing her husband as if he couldn't answer for himself.

'He joined later. There were just the three of us. Basil isn't so committed as I am.'

'The garden comes first,' Basil said. 'On the long summer evenings I don't often get to the circle.'

'And I can understand why,' Thomasine said. 'It's a joy to be here.'

Walking back towards the centre of town, Bob said, 'That's it, then. All the men in the circle except Maurice. I've looked each of them in the eye trying to think, Are you a murderer, chum?'

'And what have you decided?'

'They're all a bit iffy, aren't they? Basil seems the most harmless, but he's got a scary woman pulling his strings.'

'Lady Macbeth?'

'Could be. There's Tudor, as shifty as you like, with something to hide about an insurance deal. Zach, who thinks he's a genius, and Anton, who may
be
a genius, and I don't know which is more dangerous.'

'Writers are funny people.'

'Funny peculiar?'

'That's what I meant.'

He heard himself say, 'Be careful, Thomasine.'

'What?'

'Watch your back. Someone had a go at me. It can only be because I'm asking awkward questions. And if I'm being targeted, then you're at risk too.'

10

Authors are easy to get on with
-
if you are fond of children.

Michael Joseph in the
Observer,
29 May 1949

'I
want you out of the way tonight,' Naomi told Basil. ' I've got someone coming to see me.'

'Who's that, dear?'

'Zach from the circle.'

'Zach? I didn't know you and Zach were seeing each other.'

He received one of her looks. 'Don't make it sound like adultery. We may be collaborating as writers, that's all.'

'And you want me to make myself scarce?'

'Yes. Why don't you prick out some more of those seedlings?'

Basil said with a touch of irritation, 'I finished that job the evening I rescued you from Blacker's house. Don't worry, I'll find something else to do.' He hesitated. You'll probably shoot me down in flames for saying this, but isn't Zach's writing rather far removed from yours?'

She didn't shoot him down. She said in a bored voice, as if it was so obvious he should have thought of it himself, 'We'll each bring a different perspective to the project, and that can be stimulating.'

'May I ask what it's about, this project?'

You may ask, but you won't get an answer from me. This is still at an early stage and we don't want other people stealing our idea.'

Basil accepted this rebuke with philosophy. 'Writing is more competitive than I appreciated before I joined the circle. In my innocence I thought it was just about self-expression.'

'You're not innocent,' she said. 'You're naive.'

Zach's motorbike roared up Whyke Lane a few minutes before eight. He braked and dismounted and marched up to the front door feeling good in his leathers. In an encounter with Naomi you needed all the confidence you could muster, not to mention protection.

She was wearing a purple trouser suit and black silk blouse. She looked him up and down.

'You'll be wanting to get out of that stuff.'

'I'm fine, thanks.'

'Don't be ridiculous. Give me the crash helmet and close the door behind you.'

'Er, yes.'

She put the helmet on the table by the door and said, 'Jacket.'

There was no future in protesting. He began the business of unfastening and unzipping under Naomi's steady gaze.

She said, 'Distinctive smell.'

'The leather?'

'Yes. Motorcycling is another world to me. I've never even ridden pillion.'

Against his better judgement he said, 'You must try some time.'

She gave a slight nod. 'I'll need to if we're going to achieve anything as a writing team. Do you have a spare helmet?'

He hadn't foreseen this as a serious possibility. 'I may have at home.' He removed the boots and stepped out of the trousers. In his T-shirt and denim shorts he felt about six years old. 'Is Basil about this evening?'

'I sent him to the greenhouse. We don't want him watching us like Big Brother.'

Basil as Big Brother was a difficult concept.

She led him into the room with the piano and her ancestors' photographs. 'A glass of wine? Good for the getting of ideas.'

'Just one, then.'

She poured him a large glass of Bulgarian red. 'Did you get a visit from the new man?'

'Bob Naylor? Yes. And Thomasine.'

'So did we. And did they tell you about the fire this morning? Naylor was lucky to get out alive.'

'It's true, then?'

'The boat house burnt down, so it must be true. But I don't think he was the intended victim. Miss Snow was the target, and she would have died. She isn't capable of knocking a hole in the roof and climbing out. We're dealing with a ruthless killer here.'

'You think it's the same person who torched the publisher's cottage?'

'I'd put money on it.'

Zach frowned. 'Why Miss Snow? She hasn't upset anyone.'

'I know,' Naomi said. 'She's Goody Two-Shoes. When she isn't working in the charity shop she's visiting the women's refuge or helping her friends with their accounts. I can't think of anyone who'd want to kill her unless it's because she's so damned saintly. There were girls at school I would cheerfully have murdered because they were like that.'

'Too good to be true?'

'No. So good and so true it made the rest of us feel like trash. At one time we tried to get up a protest about the school dinners, which were vile, unfit for pigs, and one of these little angels said that instead of complaining we ought to think of the starving millions in China. Wouldn't you have strangled someone like that?'

He grinned. 'What did you do?'

'Not much. Changed her knife and fork for a pair of chopsticks. Girls en masse are feeble when it comes to the point. A woman acting alone, or preferably with a man, is another animal altogether.' She raised her glass. 'Here's to you and me.'

'Em, sure.'

'This isn't just about writing, Zach.'

'No?' His leg gave an involuntary jerk.

'We've got to get out and about. What are they up to, those two, Thomasine and the new man?'

'Trying to prove Maurice is innocent?'

'They say.'

'You don't believe them?'

'It could be my suspicious mind, but I wonder if they're doing the same as you and me, trying to get a book out of this.'

Zach weighed this for a moment. 'I wouldn't think so. Thomasine writes poetry and I don't think Bob Naylor has written anything at all.'

'Then why has she teamed up with him?'

'Maybe she fancies him.'

'Is he single?'

'Don't know.'

'We must find out,' she said. 'We must find out everything about him. He may be the arsonist.'

'What - Bob Naylor?' Zach said, making it clear what he thought of that theory. 'Edgar Blacker was already dead before Bob joined the circle.'

'That doesn't mean he's innocent,' Naomi said. 'He could be playing a very clever game.'

'How do you mean?'

'Suppose he has some grudge against Blacker that none of us knows about, and sets his house on fire. Then he comes along to the circle and starts treating all of us as suspects.'

'But he had nothing to do with Maurice being arrested.'

'How do you know? How do you know he didn't tip off the police to raid the circle that night they came for Maurice?'

'He didn't know Maurice.'

'He may have known Blacker had just dumped Maurice and his book. We have to be alert to every angle, Zach. I'm going to get the background on our new member Bob. What's his real motive for joining the circle? He hasn't told us much about his writing.'

'That's true.'

'Can we be certain his story about the fire at the boat house is true?'

'It burned down. You just said so.'

'We've only got his word that he was shut inside.'

'You've got a suspicious mind.'

'No, I just consider every possibility. But that's not why I asked you here.' She went to the piano and started removing the photos of her family from the top, placing them face down on the stool.

Zach watched like a male spider on the edge of a black widow's web. He supposed she didn't want to make the first move while the images of her family were on display.

He crossed his legs.

But Naomi had other things in mind. She took the last of the pictures off the piano lid and opened it and dipped her arm inside. She lifted out something that was hidden in there. It was another photo, unframed. 'This shouldn't be in my possession,' she said, handing it to him. 'I took it from Edgar Blacker's bedroom wall.'

The photo still smelled faintly of smoke. It was of Blacker, much younger than when he came to the circle - in his thirties, probably - standing beside a blond man of about the same age. Zach didn't recognise him. Each had an arm over the other's shoulder. In their spare hands they held cans of lager. They were in trousers and striped shirts, as if they'd arrived in suits and discarded the jackets and ties.

'It was the only picture there, so it must have been important to him,' Naomi said.

'Is it important to us?'

Her eyes narrowed. 'If you can't tell, I must have overestimated you.'

'The other guy? Who is he?'

'I've no idea.'

'Was Edgar Blacker gay?'

'I got that impression, didn't you? That voice. The way he dressed.'

'Haven't thought about it till now,' he said. 'I've been proved wrong making assumptions like that.'

'Look at what's written on the back.'

He turned it over. Someone had written 'Innocents, Christmas 1982'.

'Okay,' he said. 'We know when it was taken.'

'And . . . ?'

'You mean the "innocents" bit? I guess that was written later, when the relationship got more serious.'

'My thought exactly,' Naomi said. 'They meet in 1982, possibly the evening this was taken. The friendship develops into a homosexual relationship. We can only guess at how long it lasts, but the blond young man here is the love of Blacker's life, which is why he keeps the picture on his bedroom wall. Is that assuming too much?'

'Sounds feasible. But does it have anything to do with the fire?'

'That's where your imagination comes in.'

'Does it?'

'We're writing a book, remember?' Naomi said with an edge to her voice. 'You're the creative one. See if you can think of a link between this picture and the fire that killed Blacker.'

'It doesn't have to be true?'

'Of course not. Leave the truth to me. I'll try and get some background on Blacker and I may even get the facts on his friendship with this man.'

'I'm getting confused,' Zach said. 'You want me to use my imagination while you go rooting out the facts?'

'Precisely. Isn't it exciting? We'll set out the two stories side by side, incident by incident, your imaginative version and my discoveries about the actual events. To my knowledge nobody has ever attempted anything like this. It's true that writers have used real crimes as inspiration—'

'Ellroy.'

'Who?'

'James Ellroy,' Zach said. You wouldn't have read him. He's not your kind of writer.'

'What about him?'

'He uses real crimes like the Black Dahlia case as the structure for his imagination to work on. Truman Capote's
In
Cold Blood
is another example, written almost as documentary but with the characters speaking dialogue. It's brilliant.'

'I've read Capote,' she said without enthusiasm. 'But you and I will be going one better. We're adding an extra dimension. I'll be investigating the real facts at the same time as you're doing the fictional version. There'll be tension there. Electricity.'

She leaned forward and put her hand on his arm and he felt the electricity all right. He drew away and smoothed the hairs down, but they sprang up again. 'When do we start?'

'I've already started.'

'What about me?'

'This photo is your starting point. Try to bridge the gap between nineteen eighty-two and the present.'

'Do you want me to do an outline, or what?'

'Good idea. I have high expectations of you, Zach. You have an imagination to die for.'

'Some people find it weird.'

She flapped her hand in a dismissive way. 'Pay no attention. I've been called weird myself and I take it as a compliment. We're achievers, you and I. Who knows what this will lead to? More wine?'

He decided against another glass. Just being with Naomi made him feel heady.

He plucked up the courage to ask, 'Who do you think would publish a book like this?'

'We do,' she said. 'We're in the century of the e-book.'

'The internet?'

'We publish it ourselves and release it into cyberspace. Anyone on the world-wide web can access it.'

'I've heard about e-books. Never seen one.'

'They're tucked away in obscure sites, most of them. My plan is to create a new website called www.ChichesterMurderDetectives.com. Key words, you see, that search engines pick up. All kinds of people wanting to read about murder will find it, and be captivated. It's unique, this collaboration.'

'Well, yes,' he said with a tone of reserve.

'I've already purchased the authoring software. It's so simple to use. Accepts Word and WordPerfect. We don't even have to wait for the book to be finished. We can show it as work in progress.'

'Is that a good idea?'

'A brilliant idea. It's revolutionary. Visitors to our website will see the creative process at work. As it progresses and gets known, I predict that publishers will beat a path to our door. They'll be in competition to sign us up. And I don't just mean British publishers. We'll do deals with America, Japan, China.'

'Do you think so?'

'All of Europe. I know it. Never again will you and I have to submit a script and wait for some high-handed publisher to come to a decision. They'll have to make up their minds on what is out there, or risk being trampled in the stampede.'

'It sounds promising, but—'

'I'm starting straight away and I'll be looking to you to make your contribution, Zach.'

He left soon after, his thoughts in a spin.