The Circle

4

To everyone's relief, Maurice McDade was sitting in the pub, a wide smile across his face, when they arrived that evening. All the members who had been there the previous night turned up except for Naomi; a fine show of solidarity.

Tudor — the one who had practically had Maurice stitched up — was the first to clap a hand on his shoulder and say, 'Good to see you, boyo. We knew you had nothing to hide.'

'So what happened?' Anton asked, when they all had their drinks.

'A few crossed wires, that's all,' Maurice said. 'They thought they had something on me. Well, I might as well tell you, since it's bound to come out. Edgar Blacker and I had a thumping great row on the day of his death. He told me the production costs of my book had spiralled and he needed five thousand pounds. If it wasn't forthcoming he'd be forced to back down on his agreement to publish.'

Miss Snow said, 'Extraordinary.'

Basil said, 'Oh, my hat.'

Zach said, 'What a wanker.'

'Naturally I was devastated,' Maurice went on. 'He was supposed to pay me some money. The advance — and it wasn't much of one anyway — was due to be paid on the day of publication, which was only days away. I'd done a lot of extra work on the script at his request and he hadn't paid me anything. I told him straight that I didn't have that money to spare, and anyway it wasn't in the contract that I'd pay anything. He said if that was my attitude he had no choice but to pull the book. I was speechless. He didn't even say he was sorry.'

'This was the day someone torched his cottage?' Tudor said.

'The morning after he talked to the circle. He called me up and asked me to come and see him without a hint as to what it was about. I've toiled away at this bloody book, if you'll excuse me, ladies, for years. I really believed it was about to get into print at last. I say it myself, and it's true, that book is worthy of publication.'

'We all know that,' Tudor said. 'You've read the best bits to us.'

'Did you stick one on him?' Zach asked.

'We had an exchange of views. There wasn't a fight, if that's what you mean. I'm not a violent person.'

'Lord, no,' Miss Snow said.

'I told him what I thought of him in no uncertain terms. I don't think I've ever been so angry.'

'But you didn't torch the cottage?' Tudor said.

'Of course not!'

'How did the police get onto you?'

'They won't say.'

'Someone must have seen you. Was there anyone around when you were there?'

'At the cottage? No.'

'The cottage?' Anton said. 'He ran the business from a cottage?'

'Yes. We spoke in the living room where he has his desk.' He spread his hands. 'That's about it.'

'You convinced the police you're innocent?'

'I hope so. They gave me quite a grilling. About three hours. It was getting on for midnight when I got home last night. I felt drained.'

'Don't they have any theory as to the killer?' Anton asked.

'I was the theory. I guess the subject of my book made them suspicious.'

'Well, it would.'

Bob spoke up. You'll have to write another chapter now.'

Everyone laughed and it eased the tension.

'Incidentally,' Maurice said, 'some of you may be called in for questioning.'

This announcement went down like garlic bread in Transylvania. Miss Snow knocked over her lemon shandy and there was a short interval while they mopped up.

'Whatever would they want to question us for?' Anton asked.

'Surely they don't regard any of us as suspects?' Dagmar said.

'They're taking a lot of interest in us,' Maurice said.

'In what way?'

'They questioned me closely about the evening he came to speak to us, wanting to know if anyone spoke to him afterwards.'

You could almost hear the memories ratcheting through the events of that evening.

'Several of us did,' Tudor said. 'It was a heaven-sent opportunity. A friendly publisher in our midst, for Christ's sake! You don't let him get away without testing the water. I don't mind telling you I talked to him about my autobiography.'

'Don't tell me. Tell the police,' Maurice said, winding Tudor up a little. His sense of relief was making him mischievous. 'They're the ones who are looking for suspects.'

Tudor fell for it, eyes bulging. 'Telling him about my book doesn't make me a suspect'

'What did he say?'

'Well, if you want to know, he wasn't very encouraging. He said it needed a lot of work.'

'There you are, then. That's your motive.'

'My what?'

'Your motive for killing him. He tells you your life story isn't worth publishing. That's a slap in the face.'

'A kick in the goolies,' Zach said.

'I wasn't pleased, I admit.'

Miss Snow said, 'But it doesn't make Tudor a murderer.'

'We know he wouldn't kill anyone, but do the police?'

Tudor, red-faced, said, 'Why focus on me? Any of you could be a suspect.'

'Except Bob,' Thomasine said. 'He wasn't here.'

'Thanks,' Bob said.

Now Basil was alarmed.'I had no reason to kill Edgar Blacker. He led me to believe my gardening articles might be collected into a book.'

'Couldn't have read them,' Tudor said.

This could get ugly. Maurice slipped into his role as chair. 'Listen, all of you, we're getting a little over-excited and I think the fault is mine. The police didn't actually say they are thinking of any of you as suspects.'

'Witnesses, more like?' Dagmar suggested.

'We witnessed nothing,' Thomasine said. 'We weren't there when his house went up in flames.'

'Nobody was there, apparently.'

'Except the killer.'

Maurice nodded. 'Speaking from all my experience studying unsolved murders, this one is a brute. It was done at night when no one was around. The killer simply stuffed some oily rags through the front door and put a match to them. There's no DNA, no ballistics, no fingerprints. I expect the body was just a charred piece of meat.'

'Don't!' Dagmar said.

'They identify them from the teeth.'

Miss Snow took in a sharp breath.

'And all his personal papers will have gone up with the cottage,' Anton said. 'They won't have an address book to help them, or bank statements.'

'Are they certain the fire was deliberate?' Miss Snow asked.

'That's beyond doubt. They have fire experts who can tell you where it started. In this case, it was obvious.'

'So have any of you ever thought of writing a whodunnit?' Tudor asked, recovering his bounce. 'This looks like a golden opportunity.'

'Don't,' Dagmar said. 'This is serious.'

'A serious whodunnit.'

'You're trivialising something tragic and disturbing.'

'I sn't that what crime writing is all about?'

'He's winding you up, dear,' Thomasine told Dagmar.

Tudor said,'I was making a fair point. We're always being told that writers should make use of personal experience. Write about what you know. Here we are with a murder on our doorstep — well, on Edgar Blacker's doorstep — and what are we going to do? Pretend it didn't happen? I say we should get creative.'

'You have to be a cold fish to write detective stories,' Miss Snow said. 'I couldn't possibly attempt one.'

'Do a factual piece then. The strange death of a publisher. Write it up and sell it to the Bookseller.'

'I wouldn't dream of doing any such thing.'

'Which is why you'll never make an investigative journalist.'

'I've no desire to be one.'

'Someone else should do it. As a circle we can't let an opportunity like this pass us by. Zach?'

Zach shook his head.

'Too busy with the big novel?' Tudor said. 'What about you, Sharon? Make a name for yourself.'

Tudor seemed to believe he had a mission to draw the pretty blonde girl into the open.

She said, 'You're joking.'

'And has this event done anything for you as a writer?'

'Give me a break,' Sharon said.

Dagmar said, 'She wants to be a fashion writer.'

'You've got me there,' Tudor said. 'Edgar Blacker in his sports coat and cords wasn't exactly the king of the catwalks. Why not stretch a point and do a piece on the two detectives who took Maurice in? They looked — what's the word? — cool.'

Sharon shook her head and went back to her doodling. Tudor's sharp blue eyes swivelled in search of someone else to wind up.

Anton said, 'Murder is too crude a topic for me.'

Tudor looked across at Basil, the gardener. 'And you're going to say it doesn't beat keeping a lawn nice. I give up.'

Dagmar said, 'It's a question of good taste, Tudor. A man we all met has died a horrible death, and we don't wish to exploit it in any way.'

'Pleonasm,' Anton said.

'I beg your pardon.'

'You can't die a death. It's a pleonasm. Either you die, or a death takes place.'

'Somebody strangle that man before I do,' Tudor said. 'Aren't we going to get so much as a pesky poem out of this murder, then?'

Bob, sensing that the spotlight was about to turn his way, acted quickly to deflect it. 'What about you, Tudor? What are you going to write?'

'Me? Oh, I haven't decided yet. It could be another chapter in my memoirs, especially if one of you lot is the killer.'

'That Tudor's a pain in the bum,' Thomasine said to Bob in the car park. 'He'd take over as chair if it wasn't for all the extra work.'

'Takes all sorts,' Bob said. It isn't a good idea to take sides when you're so new.

'Trust me, last night wasn't typical. You didn't see us at our best. I hope you'll come again.'

'I might'

'You didn't give anyone your address or phone number. What if we have to cancel?'

He stalled. He was still in two minds about joining the circle. 'Because of another murder?'

'God forbid — I didn't mean that'

'I'm not sure I'm up for it.'

'Up for what?' She made it sound suggestive.

He wasn't planning to get more friendly with Thomasine. She seemed fun, but he hadn't dated a woman since Maggie died. 'The circle.'

'Don't be like that. Give us another try. It's a great laugh sometimes. A riot. Really it is.'

'If I can make it, then.'

'Give me your number just in case we change the date. It's been known.'

'I'm saying I don't want to make it official.'

'And it won't be. I'm not on the committee.'

With some hesitation he told her his number. 'Sometimes my job keeps me busy at nights. I'll do my best'

'What are you in — security?'

'A bouncer, you mean?' He smiled.

'You're big enough.'

He told her about the driving job. 'And what do you do?'

'Me? I teach. . What's funny about that?'

It was getting on for midnight. Basil was at home making a cocoa prior to retiring and beginning to wonder when his wife Naomi would return. She'd gone out earlier on the bike without telling him her plans. She'd not shown up at the pub. However, he wasn't too concerned. They didn't live in each other's pockets. She was apt to go off 'checking some facts', as she liked to put it, and it was not unusual for her to get home late fulfilled by her researches.

After the session with the circle members, he'd busied himself in his greenhouse whilst trying to remember some of the things that had been said. Naomi was sure to want chapter and verse on every blessed thing. She'd be pleased Maurice was in the clear. They both had a high regard for Maurice.

The phone rang. This would be her, no doubt.

And it was. And she didn't sound fulfilled.

'Where have you been? I've been calling for the past two hours.'

'You know where I was. I went to the pub with the circle.'

'Till midnight?'

'No, I got back early. I've been pottering in the greenhouse pricking out seedlings.'

'While I've been trapped in a deserted building.'

'I had no idea. Where are you now?'

'Still here, you cretin.'

'Trapped inside a building? I got that. Do you need help, my dear?'

Her exasperated sigh was audible down the phone. 'Why else would I be calling? I was afraid I was in a dead spot.'

'Dead spot?'

'Stop parroting my words and listen to me. Do you know the publisher's cottage on the Selsey Road, the one that went up in flames? I'm stuck in the bedroom.'

'How on earth. .?'

'It doesn't matter how. Just get here as fast as you can and bring the steps. I can't climb out without them. You'll need a torch. Have you got that? The steps and a torch.'

'Yes.'

'Say it, then.'

'The steps and a torch.'

'As quickly as you can, Basil. I'm cold, uncomfortable and extremely annoyed.'

The drive home in the van added nothing to Basil's understanding. Naomi was treating the episode as if it didn't merit an explanation and Basil knew from experience that it wasn't wise to ask. For his own satisfaction he was damned if he'd tell her Maurice had been at the pub. So nothing was said.

Finally she asked, 'What seedlings?'

'I beg your pardon?'

'You said you were pricking out seedlings. What are you growing from seed this late in the year?'

'Lettuces, dear. Late lettuces. You know how we both enjoy a salad.'

Bob didn't expect a call this quick, lunch time the next day.

'This is Thomasine. Are you working tonight?'

'Depends.'

'Could we meet? Something's happened. Well, it's Maurice. They've pulled him in for questioning again and this time it looks serious.'

She was waiting in the Feathers in South Street, and little Dagmar was with her in a state of shock, sipping an Appletiser as if it was neat whisky.

'He's been held for eight hours already' Thomasine said.

'That's a long time considering they questioned him only the day before.'

Dagmar spoke: 'They can keep him for up to thirty-six hours without charging him. They need a warrant to hold him any longer.'

'Dagmar works for a solicitor,' Thomasine said, seeing Bob's reaction to this legal knowhow. 'What's going on, Bob? Maurice is a pussy cat. He wouldn't commit murder.'

'How did you find out?'

'What, that he's been pulled in again? Don't ask.'

Dagmar turned a shade more pink. The best guess was that she'd overheard something at work.

Bob went to the bar and ordered a beer, wondering how this had become his problem. He hadn't even joined their circle, yet Thomasine seemed to think he could save their precious chair from being stitched up. Ah well, he told himself, it's a change from sitting at home trying not to watch EastEnders.

He returned to the table. As if they'd read his mind, Thomasine said, 'We need a man's help with this. If Dagmar or I go in to bat for Maurice, everyone's going to think we have a thing for him, and it's not like that. We just think he's entitled to some back-up.'

'And if you think about the other men in the circle,' Dagmar said, 'well. .' She smiled and shook her head. 'Tudor, Basil, Zach and Anton. They all mean well, but you wouldn't choose them as ambassadors.'

'Do any of them know the police have got him there again?'

'No, it's inside information,' Thomasine said, and Dagmar blushed again.

Bob felt the weight of their confidence in him. 'I'd like to help, but I'm not sure what I can do. If the worst comes to the worst and they charge him with murder, he'll have a legal team defending him.'

Dagmar said, 'We should be doing something now. Every minute could be important.'

'Doing what?'

'We were thinking his partner may know why the police are giving him such a hard time.'

Dagmar said, 'If anyone knows, she will.'

'What's her name?'

'Fran.'

'Have you met her?'

'No. He doesn't bring her to any of our parties.'

'But they live together?'

'Yes. In Lavant,' Dagmar said. 'We had a meeting at the house once, before the club was formed, just Maurice, Naomi and me, and Fran went out for the evening. It's a nice house facing Goodwood and the racecourse.'

'The thing is, I don't really know him at all.'

'She'll know you're okay if you're from the circle,' Thomasine said. 'It's a big part of his life.'

'I need another beer.'

'Is that a good idea? We thought you might have a cup of peppermint tea to mask what you've drunk already.'

'You want me to go up there tonight?'

Maybe tonight was best. By the morning he might think better of it.

They were right about the house. A paved drive, coach lamps, porticoed Georgian front.

Lights were on inside. Someone had heard the chimes and came to the door and the surprise was that she was a little old lady. Not a day under seventy-five, he thought. Soft permed silver hair, pale skin, thin arms. No one had mentioned an elderly parent.

Bob had forgotten Maurice's surname. A bad start. 'I, em, come from the writers' circle. Is Fran at home?'

'You're looking at her.'

He said, 'Ah,' in a way that was meant to sound calm, and didn't. It was more the strangled 'Ah' of a patient at the dentist's.

'Who are you?' she said.

Her voice was strong. Maybe she's younger than she looks, he thought. However hard he tried, he couldn't make her under seventy. 'Em, Bob Naylor.' Honesty was needed here. 'You may not have heard of me.'

'That's true.'

'I don't look the type, I admit, but I'm the new bloke in the circle. They — we — want to help Maurice if we can. We heard they pulled him in again. Is there any more news?'

'He's still there, as far as I know.'

'We think the Old Bill have cocked up.'

'I beg your pardon?'

'The police, ma'am. They're out of order.'

'I'm sure they are but I don't know what any of us can do. You'd better come in, Mr Naylor.'

She opened the door wider.

'This way.' She showed him into a front room out of the 1950s, with three-piece suite, china cabinet, nest of tables, glass-fronted bookcase and a Swiss mountain scene over the fireplace. What was Maurice's game, moving in here with a woman so many years his senior? Maurice as a middle-aged toy boy? It was hard for Bob to get his head around that.

'Tea or coffee?'

'Thanks, but no. Just a chat. The gang — the circle — are trying to decide the best way to help Maurice, but we don't know what we're up against.'

'You're up against the police. It's good of you to offer, but what can anyone do?' She was twisting an embroidered handkerchief around her fingers.

'He told us how Edgar Blacker shafted him over the book.'

'Yes, er, that's a fair summary.'

'Said there was a thumping great row.'

'I believe there was. He felt terribly let down.'

'We feel for him as fellow writers. He also said he didn't start the fire that night, and we believe him.'

'That's reassuring.'

'Well, I guess you know for certain that he's blameless. You would know if he went out that night.'

Fran twisted the handkerchief tighter and sighed. 'That's one of the difficulties. You see, we sleep in separate rooms. About eleven that evening, I went to bed and Maurice said he was going for a walk. He often does about that time, just to look at the stars and get a little exercise before turning in. I never hear him come in. I'm asleep as soon as my head touches the pillow.'

'Shame,' Bob said, and it was an understatement.

'Yes, it is. They haven't come along to question me yet, and I'll have to be truthful if they do.'

'You said that's one of the difficulties. Is there another?'

She sighed. 'I'm afraid there is, but I couldn't possibly divulge it to you, not without Maurice's permission.'

'Something else happened?'

'A long time ago.'

'What — tied in with Edgar Blacker?'

'No. Quite separate.' She raised her hand. 'That's all I can say.'

'But you believe he's innocent?'

'I have total confidence in him, Mr Naylor. I wouldn't share my life with him if I thought he was evil.'

'I don't want to seem nosy, ma'am-'

'Fran. Call me Fran.'

'Fran. How long have you two been together?'

'Nearly ten years. He had a difficult, unhappy marriage and I only met him after it was over. You'll appreciate that there's an age difference between us and some people find it difficult to understand. If the reverse happens — an older man and a younger woman, nobody seems to think anything of it. I don't believe he regards me as a mother figure, as some people suppose, and I certainly don't treat him that way. We have a loving, relaxed relationship. Are you married?'

'A widower.'

'Perhaps you understand, then.'

'I wasn't trying to judge you, love. We've all got our lives to lead. I only asked because I wanted to know how far you two go back.'

The phone rang — and it really did ring as phones once did. It was the Bakelite model with a dial once supplied to everyone who asked to be connected. She crossed the room and picked up the receiver. 'Yes?'

She listened to the caller, and her face creased in anxiety.

Finally, she said, 'Oh,' and replaced the receiver. To Bob, she said, 'They're keeping him overnight.'