The Circle

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.'

'Was that any use?' Bob asked Thomasine in the main bar at the Feathers. They'd left Tudor in his flat looking like a frog in a dried-out pond.

Thomasine was on Martinis. 'His ego was bruised, for sure.'

'Because of what Blacker thought of his book?'

'You want to hear him reading it out. It's all "my good friend the Duke" and "my old chum Ringo". Makes you want to puke.'

'Hasn't anyone told him this before?'

'That's one of the problems in the circle. We're too damned polite to each other. It takes an outsider like Blacker to speak the truth, and even he was pussyfooting really.'

'Except he was a publisher, and you knew he wasn't bullshitting if he took one of you on.'

'Which he didn't'

'He seemed to think Zach was all right. And he liked your stuff.'

'He wanted to get out without being lynched. Would he have published us? Would he, heck. He dropped poor old Maurice, didn't he?'

'Has anyone found out why?'

Her eyes widened. 'You were there when Maurice told us. Blacker's costs had spiralled, he said.'

'But there must have been something else. He must have had second thoughts.'

'If he did, Maurice didn't share that with us.'

'But he probably told his partner Fran.'

'Hey, smart thinking!' Thomasine said.

She made swift work of her third Martini, and they took a taxi out to Lavant.

When Fran opened the door and saw them, she said with disappointment, 'You again? I was hoping it was Maurice.'

'They charged him,' Bob said. 'They're keeping him there.'

Yes, but I was hoping they'd realise the mistake they made.'

He didn't comment. 'This is Thomasine.'

Fran managed a faint smile for Thomasine. 'I've heard about you from Maurice.'

'Like I said, we're trying to find out what really happened,' Bob said.

You'd better come in.'

Even on this second visit she still looked too old to be Maurice's lover. She dressed old, as well. Tonight she was wearing a white lace blouse with a cameo brooch at her neck. She offered tea and went to the kitchen to make it.

Thomasine glanced about her, at the Alpine scene above the fireplace and the willow pattern tea service in the china cabinet. 'Can't picture Maurice in this set-up.'

'Researching his unsolved crimes?'

She crossed to the bookcase. 'Even these are in a time warp. Nevil Shute. Hammond Innes.'

'They're bookclub titles. My old man had a set.'

'But what's in it for Maurice?'

'Wait till you try the fruit cake.'

In fact, it was Victoria sponge, and it came on a tray with a cloth and was placed on one of the nest of tables. Fran's hand was not too steady as she poured out the tea.

'We use this room for visitors,' she said, as if she'd overheard them. 'Maurice and I like to relax and spread ourselves out in the back room with our newspapers and magazines and my sewing. Then he has his study upstairs with his filing cabinet and all his crime books.'

'Do you help him?'

'Whenever I can. I know a fair bit about crimes that don't get cleared up. My first husband was one of the Richardson gang.'

Bob almost choked on his first sip of tea. She could not have amazed him any more if she had flapped her arms and flown around the room. This from a white-haired lady with a willow pattern tea service and a cameo brooch. Who would have thought it? The Richardson brothers ruled south London in the sixties, hard men notorious for torturing those who crossed them.

He tried to keep this as a normal conversation. 'You saw it on the inside, then?'

'He did. Women kept their distance.'

'What happened? Did you separate?'

'No. He died in prison — which is why I don't want Maurice going there.'

'It wouldn't be the first time, would it?' Seeing her reaction he added, 'It's all right, Fran. We know he's got form.'

She had gone deathly white. 'Who told you?'

'It was bound to come out.'

'He's no villain,' she said. 'Believe me. I was married to one.'

Thomasine said, 'We all know he's a lovely guy.'

'The police don't. To them he's a convicted fire-raiser.'

'It wasn't like that, was it?' Bob said. 'We're trying to find out who really should be banged up for this.'

'I wish I knew,' Fran said.

'But you know why Maurice's book deal with Blacker fell through?'

Her voice took on a different note, harder and more angry. 'Because Blacker was a low-down, conniving shyster, that's why.'

'The five-grand demand?'

Fran rolled her eyes upwards.

Thomasine said, 'The man was a tosser.'

Fran said, 'You bet he planned it all along. It wouldn't surprise me if he'd played the same trick on other writers he published. They got so close to seeing themselves in print that they paid up. It's called vanity publishing in the trade, except it's worse than that because real vanity publishers tell the writers from the start that they're expected to meet the costs. He wasn't even honest about that.'

'No wonder he was touting for business at the circle,' Thomasine said. 'I could have been caught. I was over the moon when he said my poems were good enough to publish.'

'You'd have paid the printing costs, but you wouldn't have owned the book. You'd get six free copies, and that's all.'

'I'd have murdered the bastard,' Thomasine said.

'Someone did,' Bob said.

'One of his authors?'

'We'll find out. Do you have a copy of his catalogue?' he asked Fran.

'I think so. I'll look in the office if you don't mind helping yourselves to more tea and cake.'

While Fran was out of the room, Thomasine said, 'I'll be so relieved if someone outside the circle is the killer.'

Bob had been here already. 'If they are, there's not much we can do.'

'Why? Maurice is still our chair. We've got to help him.' No one was going to duck out while Thomasine was on the case.

Bob offered her a slice of cake and she pointed out that it must have been made for Maurice. 'We can't eat his cake and walk away.'

Fran returned with the Blacker List catalogue. It was modest in size, more of a leaflet than a brochure.

'Not a lot here,' Bob said when he'd leafed through the few pages. Two of the books were by the same author, memories of Chichester in the Second World War by an old lady who lived in Pennsylvania. She'd married a GI and never returned to England. Another was the illustrated book Blacker had mentioned, showing dog owners who resembled their pets. A note on the back cover stated that the author had died shortly before publication. And the only other Blacker List title was Shinty, Bandy and Hurling, by a former Bishop of Chichester now living in a retirement home in Scotland.

'Strong stuff for a bishop,' Thomasine said.

'Says here they're ball games,' Bob said, '"akin to hockey". I wouldn't think any of these are bestsellers. My guess is that Blacker conned the authors into paying for publication.'

'But it doesn't look as if we have a suspect among them,' Thomasine said. 'One deceased, one retired bishop and one old lady in Pennsylvania.'

The focus of guilt shifted back to the circle. No one said a word, but it was in their minds.

The phone was ringing when Bob got in around eleven.

'Thank goodness you're back. I've been trying on and off since nine. I didn't want to leave a message.'

He couldn't place the voice yet. 'Sorry. Who is this?'

'Amelia.'

Well, it was late, and it had been a long, taxing day. 'Come again?'

'Miss Snow.'

'Ah.'