Kenneth Cameron - The Bohemian Girl

She said, ‘Where do writers get their ideas from?’

He chuckled. ‘That’s just what James and I talked about. From everywhere.’

‘From people they know?’

‘Sometimes.’

‘I don’t want you ever to write about me. Even if we. .’ She left it hanging. He knew she meant If we go our separate ways , and he didn’t say that if they did, that would be exactly when he’d be likely to write about her. The truth was, he was wondering if he would ever write again; his mind was empty, as if Jarrold’s bullets had gone through his brain and not his back.

He carried the manuscript of the new book down to the publishers himself. He had pretty well forgotten it while he was in the nursing home, certainly had had no desire to work on it. Once home, he had stared at the pile of typed sheets and felt vaguely repelled by it, but he had at last begun to read. The typewriter had done the final copy; still, it had to be gone through once more. Reading it after so long was actually helpful; the months away freshened his eye.

‘It’s damned good,’ he said to Diapason Lang.

‘It’s months late.’

‘I suppose I should have put a clause in my contract about being shot.’

‘Oh, my dear fellow-’ Lang looked anguished. ‘I didn’t mean it that way. It’s only — Gwen’s so particular-’

‘He got the insurer’s money for the motor car.’

‘Oh, yes. Yes, he did.’ Lang looked at the pile of paper, craned his neck to read the title page, read the title, The Love Child , and murmured, glancing at his picture of the maiden being visited by the nightmare, ‘Title’s a bit risqué.’ He peeled back the top sheet as if to make sure the rest of the pages weren’t blank. ‘When can we expect the next one?’

‘What next one?’

‘We always look forward to your next one! And, of course, there’s the, ah, clause in the contract.’ He seemed to want Denton to help him say what had to be said. ‘The clause that we are to be offered your next book.’

‘You have my next book.’ Lang looked startled. ‘This one is the replacement for the one I couldn’t write a year ago. The Transylvania book was therefore the “next book”.’ He smiled, because he’d been thinking about it. ‘The Transylvania book was written under a letter agreement, you’ll remember, that made no mention of a next book.’

Lang stared at him, said that it couldn’t be so, said that they didn’t do things that way, said excuse me and hurried out of the office and came back, his pale face almost pink, with the letter agreement. ‘Well, yes,’ he said, ‘of course we didn’t mention a next book, but-’ He looked hopeful. ‘It was understood as a gentleman’s agreement.’

Denton had brought with him the letters from other publishers that he’d been getting since he’d returned in September. He began to drop them on Lang’s desk. ‘Longwin and Barnes — Low — Hildesheim — Henry Strath — Osgood-’ They piled on the desk like blown leaves. ‘They all want my next book.’

‘They can’t have it.’ Lang’s voice was a whisper.

‘Lang, maybe being shot in the back has made me testy. I like you personally. But I want more money.’

Lang winced. ‘There isn’t any more money.’

‘Five hundred guineas a book in advance against a ten per cent royalty.’

‘Oh, no, no-’

‘Or perhaps I ought to hire one of these agents that keep pestering me.’

‘Oh, don’t do that!’ Lang’s desiccated face looked to be near tears. ‘They’re not gentlemen!’

Denton heard a heavy footstep in the corridor and then the impressive bulk of Wilfred Gweneth himself filled the doorway. ‘What’s this, then? Ah, Denton-’ Gweneth seemed quite jolly, as if the motor car had never existed. They shook hands. Denton was sure that in fact Lang had sent for Gweneth while he was out of the office.

Gweneth looked at Lang. ‘Anything amiss?’

‘Mr Denton — our friend and valued author, Mr Denton — ah-’

‘Wants more money,’ Denton said.

Gweneth smiled. ‘Ah.’

‘You got your money back for the motor car. The Transylvania book has made you a pot. I’ve delivered the new novel. I want more for my next.’ He didn’t say he didn’t have an idea for a next in his head — not a hint.

Gweneth picked up one of the letters from the desk, read it, picked up another, then another. Lang whispered, ‘He’s talking about an agent.’

Gweneth smiled and shook his head, as if the vagaries of authors were beyond understanding. ‘How much?’ he said.

Denton told him. ‘There’s nothing about a next book in the letter agreement.’

‘I know.’ Gweneth laughed and showed his back teeth. He lifted Denton’s new book as if weighing it, apparently judged it sufficiently heavy. ‘Let’s say pounds not guineas, ten per cent royalty, but the old terms on the Empire and we’ll forget about the next-book clause!’ He pointed a hand at Lang. ‘Draw up a contract that meets the new terms. We don’t want him going to a wretched bunch of thieves like Longwin’s.’ Gweneth hooked a hand through Denton’s arm. ‘Lunch? I want to hear about your being shot. Is there a book in it, do you think-? Perhaps something that might touch on spiritualism — a moment when you saw beings in white robes all about you, a magical light, music-? Do you like fresh-caught salmon?’

At the end of April, Janet Striker handed him a pasteboard box. In it was a folded something of grey wool with blue trim. When he laid it out on his bed, he stared at it and tried to guess what it was and what he was supposed to do with it. The sleeves came, he thought, about to the elbows, the trousers to just below the knee. There was a little hat to match, rather like the caps that Eton boys wore. Surely they weren’t some sort of pyjamas she thought he would wear?

‘Unhhh-’ he said.

‘It’s a rowing costume.’ She was undressing, was wearing an only slightly frilly thing that came halfway down her thighs and had garters to attach to her stockings. ‘Can’t you tell that?’

‘You’re distracting me.’

‘You hate it, don’t you.’

‘In the attic, it’ll be fine.’

‘You’re not going to wear it in the attic! You’re going to wear it at Hammersmith. I’ve bought you a season ticket for a rowing boat. You’ll wear it on the Thames!’

He stared at it. She began to unfasten her stockings. He said, ‘I know I told you I’d do anything for you, but-’ She looked up, bent forward, a foot on the divan, pulling off a stocking. He said, ‘Of course I’ll wear it. It’s just the thing.’

The likely death of Erasmus Himple caused a brief sensation. Journalists came to interview Denton and were turned away. A French detective came with a translator and went over everything that Denton and Janet Striker knew and left without comment.

Denton sat late one evening with her and let the room go almost dark before he lit a lamp. He said, ‘It grieves me that they’ve got away with it.’

‘They?’

‘There had to be two of them. One man alone couldn’t have murdered Heseltine. You can make a man lie down in a bathtub, maybe, but you can’t hold both his arms and slash his wrists for him. He’ll fight you. From Munro’s description, Heseltine didn’t fight and didn’t splash blood around. That means he was unconscious when his wrists were slashed, already in the bath or there’d have been blood all over his flat. One small man couldn’t have dragged him to the bathroom and got him into the tub, even if he was unconscious.’

‘You still think Mary and her brother are different people.’

‘It’s the explanation that takes care of the most questions.’

‘You think a small man and a small woman could have moved Heseltine?’