Dear Ms Green
Thank you for sharing with me your MS, THE BELLS OF HELL GO BLING-A-LING-A-LING, or as much of it as you can be arsed to write.
There is, as you probably know, much good advice on the Internet for writers. There is also a great deal of crap. I think I know which you have chosen to read.
First, it is not my job to (as you put it) sort out the spelling and grammar ‘and stuff’. If you were a brainless celeb with a wish to have your name on the cover of the book, then you would of course find many people willing to do just that. But (and I have googled you, Ms Green) you are not. So the spelling and grammar are down to you. All of it. These are basic skills for anyone who (for reasons I will never quite fathom) wishes to be a writer. Would you employ a plumber who said that he’d never quite got the hang of pipework? No, I thought not. I need writers who have all their tools on the van.
Second, you say that you have only written the first three chapters and will write the rest once you get your advance. Again, I have googled you and you are not JK Rowling or Hilary Mantel. I ask for three chapters because that’s as far as I’m going to read with most submissions. If I like it I will ask to see more, but I won’t want to wait another six months before I get it. You don’t get any money until you finish the job. (See note on plumbers.)
Third, you ask for a meeting so that you can explain the book to me. Is that the only way that I will understand it? Will you offer to do the same for everyone who buys a copy? Having read the first three chapters, I think that you really might have time to meet each of your readers personally, but readers are busy people and they conversely may not have time to meet you.
Fourth, if you are going to express admiration for the writers I already represent, do try to spell their names correctly. You might also try looking at Amazon rather than making a wild guess about the sort of thing that they write. And of course, you should not assume that because I represent writer X I really want somebody else exactly like him.
Fifth …
‘Sorry – are you writing to accept an author?’
‘Why would you think that?’
‘It was just that you looked quite happy.’
‘There is always satisfaction in a job well done. As you may discover yourself one day. As for accepting Ms Green, I would rather be stranded on a desert island with nothing to read but that manuscript we enjoyed so much yesterday.’
‘The one I had to go to the post office to collect because the author hadn’t put any stamps on the envelope?’
‘That’s right.’
‘The egg and chips diet book?’
‘Precisely. Three hundred and sixty-five variants on egg and chips, one for each day of the year. And with no trace of irony. So he may not quite understand my reply saying that it was well worth paying for.’
‘I could do you a standard rejection letter. It would save you so much time. We used to have them at Francis and Novak. The letter just said that we loved the book but that we didn’t think we were the right agency to represent it. Sometimes we added a nice PS.’
‘Wouldn’t that just give the writers encouragement?’
‘Yes.’
‘So … why would you want to do that exactly?’
‘Because it’s a nice thing to do.’
‘Nice?’
‘Yes.’
‘You think you should be nice to writers?’
‘Yes, don’t you?’
Sometimes you know it’s going to be just too much effort to explain something properly.
‘Yes, of course,’ I said. ‘But only if all else fails. I’m off now, anyway. Ethelred is expecting me, and I don’t want to disappoint him, poor agentless little lamb. A few days by the sea await me.’
‘Wrap up warm,’ said Tuesday. ‘The weather forecast is for wind and rain. Are you planning wintery walks on the beach? I always think you need a dog for that.’
‘I’ve got a writer,’ I said. ‘That’s almost as good.’
‘It’s quite a big house,’ I said. ‘I’d forgotten.’
Ethelred put my tea on the table in front of me, next to the biscuits. ‘Not as big as some,’ he said.
‘Lucky you inherited that money a few years ago,’ I said. ‘I doubt that your royalties would have paid for that conservatory. Not with your last agent. What was her name – Janet something …?’
‘My royalties are fine,’ he said.
‘The two books that she placed have sold well, then?’
‘You can look them up on Nielsen.’
‘I have. I just wondered if you were planning to lie about it. It was a bit of a mistake switching to her, wasn’t it?’
‘My earlier books didn’t sell that well either,’ he said.
‘As I know to my cost,’ I said. ‘You wouldn’t believe how many times I’ve had to calculate fifteen per cent of nothing. I meant more from the point of view of mixing business with pleasure. Sleeping with your agent. I doubt if there actually was that much pleasure, of course.’
‘I have no complaints,’ he said, trying to look daggers, a thing that he has never done that well.
‘I didn’t mean from your point of view,’ I said. I took a ladylike sip of tea and selected another Jammy Dodger.
‘Elsie, have you come here just to insult me? And there’s no need to pretend to be thinking deeply about that question. When you were my agent I had to put up with all of your snide remarks, but I don’t any more.’
‘Not even in return for my assistance in solving a murder for you?’
‘There is no murder to be solved. And if there were, which there isn’t, I wouldn’t be asking for your help.’
‘But you did ask.’
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘Tuesday said that you’d told her about this friend of yours – Robin Pagham – who may have been bumped off. I think his so-called fiancée with big tits is the most likely suspect. Tuesday said there was a lot of money involved. Does the fiancée get any of it?’
‘All of it,’ he said.
‘Then we probably don’t need to look much further. Case solved. You see how useful I am?’
‘Catarina wants me to investigate. She can’t be the murderer.’
‘I beg to differ. Oldest trick in the book, that one.’
‘The coroner has already said it’s an accident. If she does nothing then she’s completely in the clear. She’s got the money. Nobody is accusing her of anything. If she killed him, then reopening the case is the last thing she’d want.’
‘Is she blonde?’
‘No. Why?’
‘I’ve just noticed that, in the past, a sachet of hair dye seems to cloud your judgement.’
‘Well, she’s got black hair. Brown eyes. I think she’s eastern European.’
‘You are still putty in women’s hands, Ethelred. Not all women, of course, because not all women like handling putty. But merely because she has brown eyes doesn’t mean you’re safe. Far from it. Who are the other suspects?’
‘There aren’t any. It’s not a murder case. You don’t get suspects when it’s accidental death.’
‘Who does Catarina think did it?’
‘She thinks it was somebody who wanted to stop her marrying Robin and inheriting the money.’
‘But Robin’s death means she does inherit,’ I said.
‘Yes,’ said Ethelred. ‘So there was no point in killing him. While Robin was alive he might have called the whole thing off. But killing him made it certain Catarina would get the cash. Her premise is fatally flawed.’
‘Did Robin have enemies?’
‘Not really. He was one of these rather idle but amiable people who have no need to make enemies. I think some people – the police for example – disapproved of his drug habit. And others felt that he didn’t treat his girlfriends that well – but there’s only the one proven case of actual physical violence. Plenty of people would disapprove of the way he behaved, but not so much as to contemplate killing him.’ Then he added: ‘One of his ex-girlfriends was at the funeral – Sophie Tate.’
‘Did she dance on his grave?’
‘I think she was quite upset that he had died. She happened to be staying in the village when she heard about it.’
‘Pure coincidence?’
‘Yes. Of course.’
‘Yeah right.’
‘I believe her. And don’t ask if she’s blonde.’
‘But she is?’
Ethelred pulled a face. He seemed not to subscribe to my putty theories, but he clearly did not believe everything that Sophie had said either. ‘Tom thought she was a bit of a fantasist. She told me that she’d been engaged to Robin, but Tom reckoned not.’
‘Why did she and Robin break it off? If they were engaged.’
‘She didn’t say,’ said Ethelred. ‘Just that they were.’
I thought about that for a bit, then said: ‘So what did Robin do for a living? When he wasn’t sailing or beating up his girlfriends?’
‘Not much. He was supposed to be an actor – I mean he studied at Bristol Old Vic or somewhere. He was on television quite a lot fifteen or twenty years ago. He was in a series with Richard Briers or Tim Brooke-Taylor or somebody. He played the son of a neighbour. It wasn’t a big part, but it was regular work. Then he was in a Bond picture as a British agent who gets killed ten minutes into the film. He did a short stint in EastEnders as somebody’s posh cousin, who turned out to be a conman. Finally there was a toothpaste ad that ran for quite a long time. After that the work dried up a bit. Thinking about it, the rector didn’t even mention his acting at the funeral. A lot of people here possibly don’t remember it at all. Even Robin brushing his teeth and spotting blood on the bristles is now a forgotten masterpiece. He was still asked to open the occasional village fete, when all else failed. But the hurdle you have to jump to be a celebrity is a low one these days. He’d have been a natural for Celebrity Big Brother.’
Ethelred grinned smugly, like he was a candidate for celebrity anything.
‘So, do you ever get asked to open fetes?’ I asked.
The smile faded. ‘I haven’t lived here very long,’ he said, guardedly.
‘But, thinking about it, you didn’t get asked in the other place you lived either, did you? You were there for ages and ages. And, correct me if I’m wrong, you also didn’t get asked in Islington before that, and you must have been there for quite a while too. And before that—’
‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘I suppose Robin’s father kept him while the father was still alive. After that Robin inherited the Pagham estate, but there would have been death duties to pay. Catarina said he claimed to be short of cash. He was apparently expecting to inherit some money soon.’
‘From …?’
‘That’s not clear. He talked to Catarina about getting the cash when the “old man” died. It meant nothing to her. Catarina even asked the lawyer about who that might be.’
‘And …?’
‘The lawyer said there was no more money from that source.’
‘No more money?’
‘Yes, that’s what he said. That was finished.’
‘So there must have been money from there before?’
‘Clearly. But Law Society rules prevented him saying any more than that.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Client confidentiality or something. Catarina was as persuasive as she reasonably could be.’
‘So, a nice regular source of income that cannot now be revealed. Could Robin have been blackmailing somebody?’ I asked.
‘I did wonder about that. But he was to get the money when the old man died. Dead men pay no blackmail. And you’d hardly do it through your family solicitor, anyway. It has to be legit, but the lawyer still wouldn’t tell Catarina anything about it.’
‘Maybe if I had a word with him?’
‘I don’t think you could come up with any threats Catarina hasn’t tried,’ he said. ‘The lawyer also asked Catarina if she was pregnant.’
The answer to this last puzzle seemed fairly obvious, to me at least. ‘A clause in the will leaving money to a purely theoretical and as yet unconceived heir of his body? Or a family trust?’ I suggested.
‘Again, that’s precisely what I thought,’ said Ethelred. ‘But you’d have expected the lawyer to say that up front, wouldn’t you? Anyway, Catarina would have seen the will and would know if that was an issue, so to speak.’
‘Just a thought, but could Robin have had heirs of his body that he didn’t know about?’ I said. ‘I mean, you say he was a bit of a lad. There could be all sorts of Pagham offspring out there. Would they have a claim on the estate?’
‘I suppose they might. But surely they would just pitch up and make their claim? Catarina hasn’t mentioned anyone who has done that. This is getting a bit hypothetical, isn’t it?’
‘It’s called lateral thinking. What about the two teacups thing?’
‘Coffee cups. Tuesday mentioned that to you as well, did she? It’s no more than that, unfortunately. A visitor on the day he died. Again, I don’t think it goes anywhere.’
‘OK – so, what are your theories then, Lord Peter?’
‘I don’t have any theories, Elsie, because this isn’t murder and I’m not investigating it. I do realise that one of the many clichés of crime fiction is the amateur detective who says they won’t investigate a case and then does just that. But that isn’t going to happen here. I am not Lord Peter or Miss Marple or Albert Campion. I am a mid-list writer, trying to produce another book with as few distractions as I can manage.’
‘This is the historical miscarriage of justice thing?’
‘Yes, an ancestor of Robin’s, coincidentally, was hanged in 1848 for a murder that I am almost certain he did not commit.’
‘True crime or fictionalised?’
‘I was thinking of turning it into a novel, but now I’m not so sure. It’s an interesting story as it stands.’
‘So, who did it?’
‘It may have been the murdered man’s brother, George Gittings. Actually that seems very likely. He was certainly the one who benefitted most. I still need to do more research.’
‘And it has no bearing on Robin’s death?’
‘How could it? It was more than a century and a half ago. It marked some sort of low point in the Pagham family history. They were down to owning just one small field that nobody else wanted – except to drive cattle from one plot of land to another.’
‘And after that they got richer?’
‘Not immediately. The Paghams gained nothing directly or indirectly from the murder. It was later they built up their fortunes by hard work and diligence and so on – though if Robin had lived I can see that he might have blown it all again on drugs and booze, given time. Strangely, I think Catarina might have saved him from that. For all her claims to having links with the Mafia, she seems remarkably down to earth. She might just have turned things around.’
‘Does she really have links with the Mafia?’ I asked.
‘I’ve noticed a lot of people are quite wary of her …’ Ethelred began. Then he shook his head. ‘But it’s not very likely, is it?’
‘If she really had links with the Mafia, she’d hardly be asking you to investigate, would she?’
‘People apparently trust me,’ said Ethelred. ‘Well, more than they trust the Mafia.’
‘People dump on you,’ I said. ‘Women especially.’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Ethelred. ‘The rain’s stopped. Do you fancy a walk?’
‘Why not?’ I said.
Well, as I’d said to Tuesday, if you don’t have a dog with you …