Original Sin (52 page)

Kate said: “More trouble than she was worth?”

Mrs. Pitt-Cowley turned on her a speculative, then dismissive glance. “I wouldn’t have put it like that myself, but, if you want the truth, it wouldn’t have broken my heart if she’d decided to look for another agent. Look, I hate saying this, but anyone in the office will tell you the same. A lot of it was loneliness, missing Marge, resenting Marge for abandoning her. But Marge was an old toughie. When it came to choosing between her precious nieces and Esmé it was no contest. And I think Esmé knew that her talent was running out. We were in for big trouble. Peverell Press turning down
Death on Paradise Island
was just the beginning.”

“Was that Gerard Etienne?”

“Basically, yes. What Etienne wanted went at Peverell Press. But I doubt whether anyone there really wanted her, except perhaps James de Witt, and he doesn’t cut much ice at Peverells. I rang and made a fuss, of course, as soon as I got Gerard’s letter. I wasn’t getting anywhere. And honestly, the new book really wasn’t up to standard, even her standard. Do you know her work at all?”

Dalgliesh said carefully: “I have heard of her, of course, but never read her.”

“She wasn’t that bad. I mean, she could write literate prose, and that’s rare enough nowadays. Peverell Press wouldn’t have published her otherwise. She wasn’t consistent. Just when you thought: God, I can’t go on with this boring drivel, she’d produce a really good passage and the book would suddenly come alive. And she had an original idea for her detective—detectives, rather. She had a retired married couple, the Mainwarings, Malcolm and Mavis. He was a retired bank manager, and she’d been a teacher. It was quite neat. Went down well with an ageing population. Reader identification and all that. Bored retired couple haring off after the clues, plenty of time to make murder their hobby, using a lifetime of experience to put one over on the police, the wisdom of old age triumphing over the crass immaturity of youth, that sort of thing. A nice change to have a detective with a touch of arthritis. But they were getting a bit tiresome—the Mainwarings I mean. Esmé had the bright idea of involving Malcolm with young female suspects and Mavis having to rescue him from his entanglements. I suppose she was aiming for light relief, but it had become a bore. I mean, geriatric sex is all right if that happens to turn you on, but people don’t want it in popular fiction, and Esmé was getting more explicit with each book. Bodice-rippers with blood. That’s not really her market. It wasn’t in Malcolm Mainwaring’s character. And, of course, she couldn’t plot. God, I hate saying this, but she couldn’t. You did say you wanted the truth. She used to steal ideas from other writers—only dead writers, of course—and add her own twists. It was becoming a bit obvious. That’s what gave Gerard Etienne his chance to turn down
Death on Paradise Island
. He said it was a boring read and the only parts that weren’t
boring were too like Agatha Christie’s
Murder Under the Sun
. I believe he actually uttered the dread word ‘plagiarism.’ Then, of course, there was Esmé’s other trouble which didn’t make her any easier to deal with.”

Velma sketched in the air the outline of St. Paul’s Cathedral complete with dome, and ended with a pantomime of raising a glass to her lips.

“Are you saying that she was an alcoholic?”

“Getting on that way. You didn’t get a hell of a lot of sense out of Esmé after midday. It had got worse in the last six months.”

“So she wasn’t making much money?”

“Never did. Esmé was never in the big league. Still she was doing all right, until the last three years. She could live on her writing, which is more than most authors can. She had quite a faithful following of old aficionados who’d grown up with the Mainwarings, but as they died off she wasn’t attracting younger readers. Last year there was a big slump in paperback sales. I was afraid we were going to lose that contract.”

Kate said: “Which perhaps accounts for this flat. It isn’t exactly a fashionable address.”

“Well it suited her. She was a protected tenant and the rent was low, I mean really low. She’d have been crazy to leave. Actually she told me that she planned to buy a country cottage in the Cotswolds or Herefordshire and was saving her capital for that. Saw herself among the roses and wistaria, I suppose. Personally I think she’d have died of boredom. I’ve seen it happen before.”

Dalgliesh asked: “She wrote crime novels, detective stories. Would she be likely to fancy herself as an amateur detective? Try her hand at solving a crime if one came her way?”

“You mean tangling with a real-life murderer, with whoever it was killed Etienne? She’d be crazy. Esmé wasn’t a great
brain, but she wasn’t stupid either. I’m not saying that she lacked courage, she had plenty of guts—especially after a few whiskies—but that would have been plain stupid.”

“She might not think she was tangling with a murderer. Suppose she got an idea about the murder, would she be likely to bring it to us or be tempted to do a little private investigating?”

“She might, if she thought it was safe and she could get something out of it. It would be quite a triumph, wouldn’t it? Publicity-wise, I mean. ‘Woman crime writer outwits Scotland Yard.’ Yes, I can see her mind working like that. But you’re not suggesting that she tried something like that?”

“I was interested whether you thought it was in character.”

“Let’s say that it wouldn’t surprise me. She was fascinated by real-life crime, detection, murder trials, that sort of thing. Well, you’ve only got to look at her bookcase. And she had a high opinion of her own cleverness. And she might not see the danger. I don’t think she had much imagination, not about real life. OK, I know that sounds odd when I’m talking about a novelist, but she’d lived with fictional murder for so long that I don’t think she realized that real-life murder is different, that it isn’t something you can control and write up into a plot and neatly solve in the last chapter. And she didn’t see Gerard Etienne’s body, did she? I don’t think she ever saw a dead person in real life. She could only imagine it, and death probably seemed no more real or frightening than her other imaginings. Am I being too sophisticated? I mean, do say if I’m talking the most utter nonsense.”

Performing a complicated manoeuvre with her hands, Mrs. Pitt-Cowley cast on Dalgliesh a look of histrionic sincerity which didn’t quite conceal the sharper look of enquiry. Dalgliesh reminded himself not to underestimate her intelligence. He said:
“You’re not talking nonsense. What will happen now about her latest book?”

“Oh I doubt whether Peverell Press will take it. It would be different, of course, if Esmé had been murdered. A double murder, publisher and writer brutally done to death within a fortnight. Still, even suicide has publicity value, particularly if it’s dramatic. I ought to be able to negotiate quite a satisfactory contract with someone.”

Dalgliesh was tempted to say: “It’s a pity we don’t still have the death penalty. You could time publication to coincide with the execution date.”

Mrs. Pitt-Cowley, as if aware of his thought, looked for a moment slightly embarrassed, then shrugged and went on: “Poor Esmé, if she did have the bright idea of getting some free publicity she certainly succeeded. Pity she won’t benefit. Nice for her heirs, though.”

Nice for you too, thought Kate. She asked: “Who does get her money, do you know?”

“No, she never told me that. As I said, Marge was her executor, or one of them. But I’m grateful to say that she never suggested transferring that privilege when I took over the agency. Not that I would have taken it on. I did a lot for Esmé, but there are limits. Honestly, you’ve no idea what some authors expect. Find them commissions, get them on TV chat shows, feed the cat when they’re on holiday, hold their hand through their divorces. For 10 percent of home sales I’m expected to be agent, nurse, confidante, friend, the lot. I do know that she had no family—at least her ex-husband has a daughter and grandchildren somewhere, in Canada I believe. I can’t see Esmé leaving anything to them. But there will be some money, no doubt about that, and my guess is that Marge will get it. I may be able to negotiate a reprint of the early paperbacks.”

Dalgliesh said: “A profitable client after all, in death if not in life.”

“Well, it’s a funny old world, isn’t it?”

And with this echo of a lady with whom she had otherwise little in common, Mrs. Pitt-Cowley glanced at her watch and bent down to pick up her briefcase and bag.

But Dalgliesh wasn’t yet ready to let her go. He said: “I assume Mrs. Carling told you about the cancellation of her Cambridge signing session.”

“Did she not! Actually she rang me from the shop. I tried to phone Gerard Etienne but I imagine he was at lunch. I got through to him later in the afternoon. Esmé was absolutely incoherent with rage. I mean really incoherent. Perfectly justified, of course. Peverell Press have a lot of explaining to do. I was sorry for the people in the shop, she was obviously taking it out on them but it was hardly their fault. At least, I suppose you could argue that they should have rung Peverell Press as soon as the fax was received to check that it wasn’t a hoax, and they probably would have done if the Press had been less secretive about the trouble they were having. The manager was out when the fax came through and the girl who first saw it naturally assumed it was genuine. Well, it was genuine in the sense that it came from Peverell Press. To calm Esmé I told her I would take it up with Gerard myself. I would’ve done too but for the murder. That did rather put Esmé’s grievance into perspective. I still intend to take the matter up with the firm but there is a time and place. Is it all right if I go now? I do have that luncheon appointment.”

Dalgliesh said: “I’ve only a few more questions. What was your relationship with Gerard Etienne?”

“You mean my professional relationship?”

“Your relationship.”

Velma Pitt-Cowley sat for a moment entirely in silence. They saw that she was gently smiling, a look that was lubricious, reminiscent. Then she said: “It was professional. I suppose we spoke on the phone about twice a month on average. I haven’t seen him for the last four months. We did sleep together once. That was nearly a year ago. We’d both been to the same launch party. We both stayed to the bitter end. It was nearly midnight and I was rather drunk. Drink wasn’t his thing, Gerard hated being out of control. He offered to drive me home and the night ended in the usual way. I suppose you’d call it a one-night stand, except that the word ‘stand’ isn’t really appropriate. It never happened again.”

Kate asked: “Did either of you want it to?”

“Not really. He sent me a spectacular bunch of flowers next day. Gerard wasn’t exactly subtle, but I suppose that’s some improvement on leaving fifty quid by the bedside. No, I didn’t want it to go on. I’ve got a healthy sense of self-preservation. I don’t go round inviting heartbreak. But I thought I’d better mention it. There were plenty of people at that party who might just have guessed how the evening ended. God knows how these things get out but they always do. In case you’re wondering, the events of that night and particularly the next morning, which I remember more clearly, left me well-disposed towards him rather than the opposite. But not so well-disposed that I invited a second encounter. I suppose you want to ask me where I was on the night he died.”

Dalgliesh said gravely: “That would be a help, Mrs. Pitt-Cowley.”

“Oddly enough I was at that poetry reading at the Connaught Arms when Gabriel Dauntsey read. I left shortly after he’d done his stint. I was with a poet, or someone who describes himself as a poet, and he wanted to stay on, but I’d
had enough of noise, uncomfortable chairs and cigarette smoke. Everyone was well tanked-up by then and the party showed no signs of breaking up. I suppose I left at about ten and drove home. So I’ve no alibi for the rest of the evening.”

“And last night?”

“When Esmé died? But that was suicide, you said so yourself.”

“However she died it is helpful to know where people were at the time.”

“But I don’t know when she died. I was at the office until six-thirty and then at home. I was at home all evening and I was alone. Is that what you wanted to know? Look, Commander, I really must go.”

Dalgliesh said: “Just two final questions. How many copies of the manuscript of
Death on Paradise Island
were in existence, and was Mrs. Carling’s copy distinctive?”

“I think there were about eight in all. I had to send five to Peverell Press, one for each of the partners. I don’t see why they couldn’t have copied the manuscript themselves, but that’s how they liked it. I only had a couple of copies. Esmé always had her own copy bound with a pale blue cover. A bound copy isn’t much use for editing purposes. In fact it’s a bloody nuisance. Publishers and readers prefer manuscripts to be submitted with the pages tagged together in chapters, or not tagged at all. But Esmé always wanted her own copy bound.”

“And when you called in here to see Mrs. Carling on October fifteenth, the evening after Gerard Etienne died, did you get the impression that she was reluctant to hand over her manuscript, pretending, perhaps, that she couldn’t find it, or that she didn’t in fact any longer have it in her possession?”

As if recognizing the importance of the question, Mrs. Pitt-Cowley took her time in answering. Then she said: “How
can I tell? But I do remember that the request disconcerted her. I think she was flustered. And it’s difficult to see how she can actually have mislaid the manuscript. She wasn’t careless about possessions which were important to her. And it’s not as if there’s a lot of space here in the flat. She didn’t trouble to look for it, either. If you asked me to make a guess, I’d say that the manuscript wasn’t any longer in her possession.”

When they got back to the car Dalgliesh said: “I’ll drive, Kate.”

She took the left-hand seat and buckled her belt in silence. She liked to drive and knew that she did it well, but when, as now, he chose to take over, she was content to sit quietly beside him and occasionally watch the strong sensitive hands lying lightly on the wheel. Now, glancing quickly at him as they crossed Hammersmith Bridge, she saw in his face a look with which she was familiar: a stern withdrawn self-absorption as if he were stoically enduring a private pain. When she was first recruited to his team she thought that the look was one of controlled anger and feared the sudden bite of cold sarcasm which she suspected was one of his defences against lack of control and which his subordinates had come to dread. They had gathered vital evidence during the last two and a half hours and she longed to hear his reaction, but she knew better than to break the silence. He was driving with his usual quiet competence and it was difficult to believe that part of his mind was elsewhere. Was he worrying about the vulnerability of that child as well as mentally reviewing the evidence she
had given? Was he grimly containing his outrage at the planned barbarity of Esmé Carling’s death, a death which they now knew had been murder?