Brought to Book (8 page)

Rona smiled diplomatically. ‘He mentioned the NHS; is he a doctor?'

‘A consultant, actually. Ear, nose and throat, and highly regarded, so they tell me.'

‘Where's his practice?'

‘In Stokely, but one day a week he sees NHS patients at the hospital. I must say he's cutting it a bit fine, to be back there for two. He's a poppet really,' she added, as though regretting any implied criticism. ‘He and Vivian have been wonderfully supportive since Theo's death.'

They took their chairs again, Rona retrieving her notebook and switching on the recorder. ‘You were saying part of Theo's diaries are in code. Why was that?'

Meriel shrugged. ‘He needed one for a book, and became interested in them.'

Damn! She'd have known that, if she'd finished reading Harvey's books as she'd intended, instead of letting Meriel rush her. ‘Do you know which book it came in?'

‘Game for Fools,'
Meriel answered promptly. ‘The last one he wrote before his block.'

Rona felt a tweak of excitement.

‘He'd a great time working it out,' Meriel was continuing, ‘studying books on ciphers and so on. He wanted one that wasn't too obscure, so readers could crack it if they tried.' She looked up, meeting Rona's eyes. ‘I don't know if you realized, but he made a point of having a new subject to research in every book. He said it improved his general knowledge, and he enjoyed the research as much as the writing. For instance, when he first started writing he joined a gun club, to learn all he could about firearms.' She smiled bleakly. ‘There were shootings in most of the books.'

Rona nodded. ‘When was
Game for Fools
published?'

Meriel pursed her lips thoughtfully. ‘Working back, it must have been November '95, but he started it the previous year. He worked to a strict schedule, always beginning a new book in August, a few months before the previous one came out, and posting it off to his publishers in May. He used to joke that the period of gestation was nine months. Then, from May to August, we had time to ourselves – went on holiday, visited friends, and generally enjoyed ourselves before the cycle started again.'

‘But from what you said, he went on using a code in his diaries?'

‘From time to time, yes. I only found out because one day when I took in his coffee, the diary was open on his desk.'

‘This was during his block?'

‘I suppose it must have been. I made some comment, but he got quite edgy so I let it drop. I didn't think any more about it until a couple of years later, when he phoned from London and asked me to check something in his desk diary. I took it out of the drawer, and his personal diary was lying underneath.'

She flushed. ‘Normally I wouldn't have dreamed of looking in it, but I remembered the code and wondered if he was still using it. I told myself the diary wasn't really private, because he was going to publish it one day. So I flicked through it, and at first I thought he'd abandoned it, because there were pages and pages of ordinary entries. Then, when I was about to give up, I came across a coded passage, and after that several others, slotted among his ordinary script.'

It seemed that was all she knew, and since she was clearly embarrassed, Rona steered the conversation to another topic. ‘You mentioned his block: was there any explanation for it, when he'd been writing so fluently for years?'

‘None that I know of; he was under the weather for much of the time, but which was cause and which effect, I couldn't say.'

‘In what way under the weather?'

‘Oh, generally depressed – loss of appetite, not sleeping well. As I say, it was a vicious circle, specially when his publishers started asking about the next book. I wanted him to see a doctor, but he wouldn't.'

‘When did you first notice the change in him?'

‘In August '95, when he was due to start writing again. The routine was that he'd go up to the cottage on Monday morning, stay all week, and come home at the weekend – unless he was in full flow and didn't want the interruption, which occasionally happened. So he went off as usual, eager to get back to work after the break. But when he came home that weekend he was a different person, moody and depressed, and when I asked what was wrong, he swore at me. I was really upset – it was so unlike him.'

She sat for a moment, gazing into the fire, and the tape machine registered the minutes of silence. ‘It couldn't have been the block at that stage,' she went on eventually. ‘It was too soon; it often took him a week or two before things started to fall into place. But
something
must have happened. He shut himself in the study and hardly spoke to me all weekend, and for the first time I wasn't sorry to see him leave again on Monday. I hoped whatever it was would have blown over by the end of the week, but he didn't come home for a month. There's no phone at the cottage and he'd switched off his mobile, so I couldn't contact him. I thought he must be immersed in writing, and tried not to worry.

‘Then, one Friday, he just turned up, and I was shocked by his appearance. He'd lost weight and looked positively haggard, and it seemed he hadn't been writing at all, and had no idea whatever for his next book. I tried to convince him that it didn't matter; we were comfortably off and he'd no
need
to write ever again, but he wouldn't accept that. He said it was like being only half alive.'

‘Did he go back to the cottage?'

‘Yes, every week; he walked for miles in the countryside, which had always helped before when he struck a sticky patch, but with no luck. It went on all through that autumn and winter, and into the spring. By that time, I almost dreaded his coming home; I used to pray each week that by the weekend he'd have started writing, but I could tell the minute he got out of the car that he hadn't. And of course when May came and went, the publishers started asking for the next manuscript, and he was invited to London to see his editor. He was very sympathetic and suggested various remedies, but none of them worked. Then, when a new book didn't appear that November, the fans began writing and the pressure became even worse. Theo had always answered his fan mail, but now he didn't know what to say.

‘Eventually, I insisted on a round-the-world cruise. I thought the complete relaxation and change of scene might help. He did put on a bit of weight and looked less drawn, but no new plot materialized.'

She bent to throw another log on the fire. It must have been damp, because it hissed and sputtered, causing Gus, asleep on the rug, to twitch his ears. Rona waited, pen poised and tape silently turning.

‘So we came home,' Meriel resumed, leaning back in her chair. ‘And in August Theo went back to the cottage as usual, and I dreaded the old routine starting again. But one weekend there was a marked change in him, a kind of – febrile excitement. He wouldn't commit himself, but I couldn't help hoping, and after staying away over several weekends, he at last told me he'd started on another book. I was ecstatic – I remember opening a bottle of champagne, thinking it was the end of all our problems.'

‘But it wasn't?' Rona prompted, when she came to a halt.

Meriel shook her head. ‘If anything, he was even worse, flying off the handle at the slightest thing. I was at my wits' end to know what to do with him.'

She stood up suddenly, rubbing a hand across her forehead. ‘Would you mind if we stopped there? It's – been more of a strain than I thought, talking about it, and I'm developing a headache.'

‘Of course. I'm sorry, you should have told me.' Rona switched off the tape.

‘No,
I'm
sorry. It's my own fault; you warned me it would be difficult. I'll be all right by tomorrow, though, if you'd like to come back?'

‘I think I'll give you a little more breathing space,' Rona replied. ‘In the meantime, I'll try to make appointments with some of the people whose names you've given me. And you mentioned a Christmas card list; it would be an enormous help if you could let me have it, together with a note of any other people who knew Theo and might be willing to talk to me.'

‘Of course; I'll get it for you now.'

Rona followed her to the door of the study, watching while she extracted a sheet of names and addresses from a desk drawer.

‘I should concentrate on those with a star against them,' she said, handing it over. ‘It indicates that a letter's to be enclosed with the card – i.e. they're closer friends, and therefore more likely to be of help to you. You'll recognize some names from what I've been saying, but give me a ring if you're not sure who anyone is.'

‘Thanks.' Rona hesitated. ‘Would it be all right if I took the diaries?'

Meriel frowned fleetingly. ‘I'd rather assumed you'd be working on them here?'

‘I could, if that's what you'd prefer, but it will take quite a time to go through them.'

‘May I think about it, then?'

‘Of course; I've plenty to be going on with.'

Meriel walked with her to the car, patting Gus as he jumped up on to his blanket.

‘Thanks for the delicious lunch,' Rona said, ‘and I hope your headache clears.'

‘It will. You'll be in touch, then?'

‘In a week or two, yes.'

Meriel nodded and stepped back as Rona started the car. By the time she reached the gate, the front door had closed behind her.

The writer's block Harvey had suffered and the marked change of style that followed it were what had interested Rona from the start, and her mood as she drove along the country lanes was one of frustration. She'd been depending on Meriel to supply if not an explanation, at least a clue as to what had caused it, and felt badly let down.
Something must have happened,
she had said. It seemed unbelievable that in the remaining six years of his life, Harvey had offered no explanation.

In the back seat, Gus whined softly. They were approaching the open land where, on their previous visit, they had stopped for his run and Rona, signalling to the vehicle behind her, drove up on to the verge and stopped the car.

‘You're quite right,' she told the dog. ‘It's time we both had some fresh air and exercise.'

They climbed a small hillock and walked for a mile or so along a ridge, the wind lifting Rona's hair and ruffling the dog's fur as he ran excitedly ahead, sniffing at rabbit holes. Her thoughts turned from Harvey to Justin Grant, who, though he had appointments in Stokely at two o'clock, had driven more than ten miles in the opposite direction in order to sit in on their discussion. Call her cynical, she told herself, but it seemed much more likely that he wanted to monitor both her questions and Meriel's replies, than merely to offer support to his cousin.

It was nearly four o'clock by the time they returned to the car, and the air had turned chilly. The clear skies could well presage a frost. As she put the key in the ignition, her mobile began to ring and she fumbled it out of her bag.

‘Ro?' It was Lindsey's voice.

‘Hi there.'

‘I've been trying your home number. Where are you?'

‘On the way home from Cricklehurst. What did you want?'

‘To see you; could you call at the flat on your way back?'

‘Hardly on my way,' Rona pointed out, ‘I'll be coming in from the west. In any case, I'd be there by four thirty – you'll still be at the office.'

‘I'm working from home today. It wouldn't be much further, surely, if you use the ring road?'

Rona sighed. She'd been looking forward to relaxing at home and starting to sort out her notes. No doubt Lindsey had belatedly decided to tell her about Hugh, and she'd heard enough marital problems for one day.

‘Please, Ro? Stay for supper, if you like; it would save you having to send for a take-away!'

Rona smiled. ‘All right, you've talked me into it. See you in about half an hour.'

It was a few minutes later, as she passed a school spilling its pupils on to the pavement, that she noticed the car behind her – the same blue Honda, surely, that had passed her when she drew off the road; she recognized the macabre little skull and crossbones dangling behind the windscreen. He must have stopped off somewhere too, she thought idly; odd that they should have caught up with each other.

The car stayed on her tail all the way to Marsborough, following her on to the ring road rather than turning towards the town centre, and even taking the same exit. Ten minutes later, she was tempted to toot in farewell as she turned into Fairhaven, the cul-de-sac where Lindsey had her flat.

The short road contained four detached houses on either side. The original intention had been to build more, together with a school and a parade of shops, but money ran out and the plans fell through. Designed to appeal to all members of the community, the houses were of different sizes and styles, and the one where Lindsey lived had been built as two flats. As Rona drew into the drive, she appeared at a first-floor window, waved briefly, and ran down to let her in.

‘You knew I'd fall for the supper bait, didn't you?' Rona commented, letting Gus out of the car.

‘It usually works. Chilli OK?'

‘Excellent. I'm doing well today; I had lunch out, too.'

‘At the Harveys'?' Lindsey was following her up the stairs.

‘Yes, provided by the efficient au pair. I could do with one myself.'

They emerged on to the small, square landing, and Lindsey gestured her towards the sitting room. It was an attractive room at the front of the house, with bow windows that gave a view beyond the cul-de-sac to the surrounding countryside. The furniture – sofa, chairs, bookcase and coffee table – came from the home Lindsey had shared with Hugh, as did the clock and several of the ornaments. They had split the contents when they separated, and she'd been happy for him to have the dining suite, which in any case was too large to fit into the flat. In its place, a small table stood in one corner, as though trying to appear inconspicuous.