The Circle

'Such as?'

'I don't know. The royal family?'

'Give me strength,' Thomasine said.

'They call them three-six-fours in the library,' Tudor was heard saying out of shot.

'Who — the royals?'

'No, the people who read real crime. Three-six-four: Dewey Decimal System. Got it? Never linger round that section. Give it a wide berth.'

'What nonsense!' Dagmar said.

'I'm only passing it on, for what it's worth,' Tudor said. He was now in shot, and wearing a black velvet jacket and bow tie. 'I'm on familiar terms with the librarians. They all know me.'

'That I can believe.'

Miss Snow crossed in front of the camera. 'He's arrived. We ought to be seated.'

Some blurring of the images followed. A short break in the filming must have happened, because the next thing in focus was Maurice standing out front, addressing the audience. '. . a special pleasure for me as one of his authors — shortly to be, at any rate — and I hope others in this room will be joining his list before long. As you know, he generously invited us to submit our work for consideration and a number of you took him up on the offer. Whilst we all understand the constraints on publishers, we hope very much, Edgar, that you will give us some pointers this evening on what you look for in a script. Members of the circle, please welcome Edgar Blacker.'

Polite applause, and a close shot of the murder victim. Short, with thick, mustard-coloured hair, and a tanned face suggestive of a winter holiday. Dark eyes looking over gold-rimmed specs. Corduroy jacket in dark red, striped shirt and cravat. Image was important to this man. On the table in front of him was a stack of typescripts.

'I'm going to begin,' he said in a high-pitched voice, 'by putting you out of your misery. I'm hugely impressed by everything I've read in this sample of your work. In fact, I will go so far as to say that I could see myself publishing almost all of it. I don't know why the standard of your circle is so high. I confess that when Maurice asked me to look at some scripts I was not over keen. Is that a fair reflection, Maurice?'

Beside him, Maurice gave a little twitch of the shoulders that could mean anything.

'What I was given turned out to be a most exciting collection of scripts ranging from fantasy to family history, from verse to vegetables. No, don't smile. Publishing is a vast, all-inclusive industry and no topic is too humble to get into print. One of my bestselling books is nothing more than photos showing dogs that look exactly like their owners.'

He smiled, trying for a response, and this time didn't get one. If the audience were of the same mind as Bob, they were too busy deciding which breed the speaker was. A Dandie Dinmont?

'Well, I don't own a dog, so I'd better tell you something about myself. I've always been employed in publishing of some description, starting as tea boy at Eyre and Spottiswoode — a fine house no longer in being — and then as a packer in one of the big distributors' warehouses in Birmingham. My first editorial job was with a magazine publisher in Essex, working on several tides. After five or six years of that I got into educational books with Ward Lock. Loved it. I'd really found what I wanted to do. Stayed publishing school books until I'd saved enough to start my own business, the Blacker List, as I called it, and the rest is history.'

History that passed me by, Bob thought.

In the pause, the camera panned across the room. You can tell a lot from the backs of people's heads. The circle were taking in the spiel, but they didn't really want to know about Blacker's career. They couldn't wait to find out if he was going to offer contracts.

He started talking about the stuff he published, reading from a catalogue, and it was clear from the fidgeting in the audience that he was losing them.

Fast forward, Bob decided.

When he pressed play the interesting bit was under way.

'. . an exquisite series of articles on gardening. Is the author here tonight?'

One cautious hand was raised. Basil was checking his hairpiece with the other.

'Well, sir, as you must be aware, gardening is big business. I like your approach. It's informative without being too technical for the average man.'

'Really?' Basil was almost purring.

'We'd need illustrations, of course, full colour on art paper, and you must provide a lot more text, because readers like value for money, but I'm confident we could have a success with your book. Do you have a nice garden of your own?'

'Not bad,' Basil said.

'Has it been on television?'

'Good Lord, no.'

'We can fix that for you. I have some contacts in the media.'

Basil sounded alarmed. 'It isn't up to that standard.'

'But you can make it so. Wonderful publicity. Free advertising, you see. We small publishers can't afford to advertise, so we take every opportunity we can. You'll be surprised how good your garden looks on the screen. We might also link up with the National Gardens Scheme and open it to the public.'

'It's tiny,' Basil said.

'That won't put off the visitors if we give it a good write-up.'

'They'd have to come through the house.' Basil was in danger of being steamrollered. He turned to look at someone else in the audience.

Then Naomi spoke up. 'I'm not having people through my house.'

'And you are …?' Blacker said.

'His partner.'

Which was something Bob had not discovered until now. Basil and Naomi, green fingers linked with gimlet eyes, not a pairing he expected. He could imagine the look she was giving the speaker.

In a clever attempt to divert her, Blacker said, 'And did you submit a script, madam?'

'The Sussex Witchcraft Trials.''

'Oh, I remember. Admirable. Timely, too. Right now there's a blossoming of interest in the occult.'

'Did you read it?'

'Enthralling. Meticulously researched. I was unaware such things happened in this peaceful part of England.'

'What things?'

'Well, the witchcraft.'

'The witchcraft didn't happen. That's the whole point of the book. They were innocent women.'

Blacker made a clucking sound. 'But of course.'

'Are you sure you read it?' Naomi was beginning to sound like a witchfinder herself.

'Absolutely'

'They were the seventeenth-century counterparts of the district nurse and the pharmacist.'

'Thank you for making the point so clearly. I can see splendid opportunities here for television interviews with nurses and pharmacists asking them if they've ever thought of themselves as witches. Oh, I like it. We must speak more about this book,' Blacker said, grabbing another script and turning the pages. 'I thought these poems were highly original. Who is Thomasine?'

A hand waved just in front of him.

'Poetry, to be candid, is not a big seller. However. . these, I thought, may well be worth developing. Wry, thought-provoking, evocative and — if I may be so bold — sometimes sensuous. It's a winning combination. Have you been published before?'

'Only in my school magazine,' Thomasine said, 'and I was up before the head when she read it.'

There was some laughter at this.

'Saucy stuff, then?'

'That wasn't how the head put it.'

'Didn't she spot your potential?'

'No. She thought some boy had.'

More laughter.