G Malliet - Death of a Cozy Writer

“And the manuscript? What was that about?”

“I wouldn’t know, would I? I reckon the old man trusted me with it because he figured I wouldn’t bother reading the thing. Even if I could of made it out, which I couldn’t.”

“You did try, then?”

“Well, sure, all right. I was curious. But there was no hope. I’m what they nowadays call dyslexic anyway, but a genius couldn’t read that scratch. So I just did like he told me. Every day or so, I’d collect more pages, and take them down there to hide. If they’re missing I don’t know bollocks about it. But you’d do well to ask that Albert. Or that Jeffrey bloke. He’d know, you mark my words.”

“Thank you, Paulo,” he said, putting aside his glass and rising. “What excellent advice I am getting on this case. I think I’ll do just that.”

“I HAVEN’T SEEN THE current manuscript in several weeks, Inspector. I’ve just kept busy updating files, answering correspondence, and so on. I did rather start to wonder…”

He spoke in a flat American accent reminiscent of a young Jimmy Stewart talking to his horse, but with twice the animation. St. Just found himself leaning forward as he listened, wishing for sub-titles, as he often did during American films. Fear, who had caught up with St. Just in the garden after his interview with Paulo, edged his chair closer.

Looking around Jeffrey’s flat, St. Just said, “This is quite a nice arrangement. Self-contained, I see, and separate from the house, so you have some privacy.”

“Yes, I must say, I’m pleased as punch about the arrangements.” He hesitated, unsure whether “pleased as punch” were a British or American saying. Was it perhaps, “pleased as Punch?” It was important that the Inspector understand him completely. Hands across the water, and all that.

“I’m very pleased with the arrangements,” he amended. “Very, very pleased indeed.”

“Good. Now, about this latest book of his…”

“I only saw the very early chapters, you understand. But I can tell you that it was different from the others.”

“How, different?”

Jeffrey squinted, diving into deep thought. After a moment he said:

“Better, for one thing. His books tended to be very plot-driven, low on characterization. He was often accused by the critics of using cardboard figures. They were right about that. Stick figures. You know, the absent-minded cleric-often the murderer-the sharp-eyed but sympathetic parson’s wife, the horsy county matron, the pukka sahib Colonel, all the rest. They were quite interchangeable, these characters, from book to book. This time was… different. It was almost as if he were describing real people. Which he wouldn’t have done,” Jeffrey added hastily. “Much too careful about being sued, was Sir Adrian.”

“Did you mention any of this to him?”

“Good heavens, no. He’d have taken my head off and had it for stew. I rather got the impression sometimes he thought I was stupid. But then, he held most Americans in the lowest possible regard.”

But Jeffrey’s analysis had St. Just wondering whether Jeffrey was anywhere near as silly as he appeared. Take away the ridiculous attempt at an English accent and the puppylike exuberance-the man couldn’t seem to sit still, but St. Just wasn’t certain whether this was nervousness or just an excess of energy-and you might just find a high degree of intelligence operating behind those guileless calf ’s eyes.

“What seemed to be the plot?”

“Well, the title was A Death in Scotland , but the beginning chapters are about an ambitious, talented, sensitive young boy from a mining town in Wales who longs for fame and pines for acceptance into the upper classes. At first I thought he was borrowing from the life and times of Richard Burton, and he may well have been. Anyway, this boy hares off to London, leaving a curt farewell note for his mother, and on the strength of a few short stories published in the newspapers, finds himself taken under the wing of a society matron who sees herself as heading up a salon in eighteenth-century fashion. He-Sir Adrian-devotes quite a few pages to a mercilessly cruel portrait of this woman, while it is evident, reading between the lines, that she was the soul of kindness to a penniless-penceless-young writer. That part, or at least the spirit of it, you can bet your last dollar-pound-is true.

Then, one day, said penceless writer is invited to a house party in Scotland by someone he’s met at one of this lady’s salons. He realizes he hasn’t the clothes for it, and has no idea how to comport himself in such a setting, and he winges on about that for a few pages. Finally, he convinces this salon lady-the one he holds in such contempt-to sponsor a new wardrobe. That’s about it.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s as much of it as I saw. When last spotted, our hero was on the overnight train to Scotland, new wardrobe tucked away in new luggage, courtesy of his sponsor, whom one strongly suspects he dropped like a rock as soon as her usefulness had been served. Now he’s worried that he doesn’t have a valet, and spends the journey thinking of a story to cover for this embarrassing state of valetlessness in which he finds himself. He’s also frightfully worried because he’s never been on top of a horse and to get out of the hunt he’s wrapped one of his ankles in a bandage. Read on one level, it’s rather amusing, but I don’t think Sir Adrian intended that. How it would have gone over as a book, I’ve no idea, but the fact is he could get away with printing the deed to this house and it would fly off the shelves.”

Jeffrey now sat forward on his typist’s chair, regarding them both eagerly.

“I must say: I’m finding it quite, well, intriguing, Inspector, to be in the middle of a murder investigation. Not exciting, exactly-well, yes, ok, I have to admit: It is exciting in a way. I’ve been bored silly the past few weeks-one can only write fictitious replies to fan mail for so long, you know. ‘I am delighted by your comments and will certainly take them under consideration for my next book.’ Baloney. Or as you might say: fish and chips. He never read the things-the man couldn’t stand the slightest hint of criticism. His books were loaded with factual errors and gross improbabilities; as a result, he got quite a lot of mail. I winnowed out the flattering letters and reviews and hid the rest from him. God knows, he wasn’t willing to learn anything from anyone; his success had taught him not to bother.

“Now,” and here finally he took a pause for a breath. “Now, I’ve given this whole situation quite a lot of thought. For example, have you thoroughly investigated the triangle angle?”

“The what?”

“Just a thought. I wouldn’t want to presume. But, well, Sir Adrian was known to have bits on the side, wasn’t he?”

“You mean to say, women friends?”

“Isn’t that what I said?”

“I do wish, Sir, you’d stick with American expressions, and let us translate,” said St. Just. “But yes, to answer your question, I gather there were affairs here and there. But more so in the past, and Violet apparently prevailed in the end. Why do you ask?”

But Jeffrey was now off on a new train of thought.

“Then there’s that Paulo. His mother is a nice woman but I’d trust him as far as I could throw him. Always skulking about. Up to no good whatsoever. By the way, you might want to have a look in the shed back there.” He pointed out his small window in the general vicinity of the back gardens. “Unless they’ve suddenly started storing trash-rubbish-there for no reason, he’s up to something with that.”

As they walked away from the stables, having firmly refused Jeffrey’s offer to “get to the bottom of the rubbish situation,” St. Just said to Fear: