The Circle

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

In 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.'