know what I mean.'
Miss Snow said with a sharp look at Tudor, 'Just so long as we're all clear that none of us thinks he's a murderer.'
Thomasine said, 'Maurice? He couldn't murder a plate offish and chips.'
'With the right motivation he could,' Tudor said. 'What do you think, Bob? As a newcomer, what did you make of our chair?'
Difficult. As a newcomer, Bob had hoped to be ignored. 'He made me welcome.' To focus the attention elsewhere, he said, 'This book he nearly got published — what's it about?'
There was a silence that Bob didn't understand, then several sets of eyes widened. Tudor gave a throaty laugh. 'Why didn't any of us think of that? Unsolved murders. It's all about unsolved murders.'
'Straight up?'
'I kid you not. It's a catalogue of crime. Dear old Maurice might play the part of the perfect gent, but there's a dark side to him.'
Dagmar had put her hand to her mouth.
Thomasine said almost to herself, 'I'd forgotten about his book.'
Anton said, 'If it comes to the attention of the police, he'll have some questions to answer.'
But Miss Snow was unmoved. 'It doesn't make him a criminal any more than writing erotic poetry makes Thomasine-' She stopped in mid-sentence and started again. 'Any creative person can take an interest in crime. Think of Dickens.'
'Henry James,' Anton said in a tone that invited anyone to challenge him.
No one did.
Thomasine said, 'Listen, everyone. Naomi is the only one of us who's speaking good sense. Let's stick to the facts. We'd better wait until we know the outcome of this interview. I suggest we all meet here tomorrow at this time and decide on our next step.'
'So how was it, Dad?'
'The circle? Better than I thought.'
'Will you go again?'
'Tomorrow.'
'That's quick.'
'Yeah, but we've got a murder mystery to solve. A real-life one.'
'Get away!'
For someone credited with good sense, Naomi was behaving strangely. It was the next evening and she was cycling out from Chichester in the fading light, pedalling strongly, a strange intensity in her dark eyes.
The burnt-out cottage that had belonged to Edgar Blacker was a sad sight on the Selsey Road, south of the town. Fire investigators from the police, fire service and insurers had sifted through the charred remains and agreed that the seat of the fire had been the hallway. Arson, using some accelerant, was the only explanation. The pattern of burning had been photographed, filmed and mapped. Scene-of-crime officers had collected what evidence they could and council workmen had boarded up the window spaces and doorways. Each means of entry was sealed with police tape. Notices warned that trespassers would be prosecuted. In time, a coroner's jury would be bussed out here to inspect the scene. And if anyone was charged with the crime, teams of lawyers would want to see inside.
None of this was going to stop Naomi. She was the free spirit who had called Blacker a toadying sharpie at the writers' circle. She was wearing her gardening clothes: a light windcheater, jeans and desert boots. In the basket attached to her handlebars was a flashlight, a powerful one. Her backpack contained a pair of gardening gloves, some tools she thought might be helpful and her handbag — which went everywhere with her.
She propped her bike against a tree and moved around the building, using the beam to pick out details of the fire damage. Anything of interest was noted on a small pad. The damage downstairs was extensive. Burn marks above the windows showed where the flames had leapt out after the glass shattered. She wasn't so sure what to expect upstairs. The gabled window of the bedroom where Blacker had died was scorched outside because the thatch around it had ignited, but there was no certainty that the fire had raged so fiercely inside.
After circling the cottage she shone the flashlight into the garden shed at the rear and was pleased to discover a lightweight metal ladder. Typical, she thought, as she went in. The police have been to all this trouble boarding up the place and then forgotten to remove the most obvious aid to an intruder.
She stepped outside and took a long look across the field to pick a moment when there was a gap in the traffic. Then she dragged the ladder up the garden path and propped it against the back of the building where she wouldn't be seen from the road. Although all the windows were boarded up, parts of the roof were covered only by a tarpaulin lashed to what was left of the beams. If she could get up there and loosen the ties she'd have a very good view of the bedroom.
The cottage was constructed with this single room as a kind of attic under the pitch of the roof. There was a small landing and nothing else. The bathroom was downstairs.
She put the flashlight in her backpack. She wasn't used to climbing ladders, so she mounted this one with caution. At the top she gripped the highest rung with one hand and tried loosening the tarpaulin with the other, but she wasn't strong enough. By pressing her knees and thighs against the ladder she made herself more secure, freed both hands and untied the first knot.
In a few minutes she was able to lift a section of the tarpaulin and shine her lamp into the bedroom. The worst of the damage was from water. A mattress was still on the bed and bookshelves beside it, the books now misshapen and stained. The fitted wardrobe stood open and some of the dead man's suits could be seen hanging inside, their shape gone, a green mould growing on the fabric.
She pointed the flashlight down the wall she was looking over. A chair stood against it, directly below her. She came to a quick decision, hooked the lamp over the top of the ladder, climbed up a couple of rungs and got one leg over the tie beam at the top and then the other. It was a short drop to the chair. She managed it without mishap.
Some people might have been spooked by entering a room where someone had been asphyxiated. Not Naomi. Opening drawers and cupboards, she listed what was inside and made diagrams. She felt in the pockets of all the jackets, but the only things she found were a soggy cloakroom ticket, a pack of three condoms, marked 'extra safe', and a toothpick, none of which she kept.
Still attached to the wall facing the wardrobe was a framed photo of a much younger Blacker with a blond man, grinning inanely, their arms draped over each other. They held cans in their hands, so it was probably some lads' night out, but they weren't in the T-shirts that were standard wear on such occasions. They were in suit trousers and the shirts with heavy stripes that were essential wear for young executives at one time. As she was lifting the picture off its hook the cardboard backing fell out and the frame disintegrated. No fault of hers, she decided, slipping out the photo. She popped it into her backpack. It would soon have fallen off the wall anyway.
Nothing else was worth bothering about. The thrillers and science fiction beside the bed were unusable. The socks and underclothes in the chest of drawers were heavy with damp. She opened the bedroom door and looked into a burnt-out ruin black as sin, with only stumps where the stairs had been. To take one step on what remained of the landing would have been madness. The smell of burnt wood was overpowering. She closed the door and prepared to leave.
Leave?
She had not foreseen that the only way out would be by standing on the chair and climbing up the wall to where the ladder was. It had been simple letting herself down, but the reverse was more than she could manage. Standing on top of the chair back she could only just get her fingers over the beam she'd dropped from. An Olympic gymnast would have found it a trial. She looked around for something taller to stand on. The chest of drawers, like the wardrobe, was a built-in fixture. The bed was too heavy to move. She struggled with the mattress and dragged it off the bed, but it was so wet she couldn't shift it to the wall.
'Stupid,' she said. 'Stupid, stupid, stupid woman.'
She was trapped. The window was boarded up and the door led into a black void. The cottage was isolated
