The Circle

meat.'

'Don't!' Dagmar said.

'They identify them from the teeth.'

Miss Snow took in a sharp breath.

'And all his personal papers will have gone up with the cottage,' Anton said. 'They won't have an address book to help them, or bank statements.'

'Are they certain the fire was deliberate?' Miss Snow asked.

'That's beyond doubt. They have fire experts who can tell you where it started. In this case, it was obvious.'

'So have any of you ever thought of writing a whodunnit?' Tudor asked, recovering his bounce. 'This looks like a golden opportunity.'

'Don't,' Dagmar said. 'This is serious.'

'A serious whodunnit.'

'You're trivialising something tragic and disturbing.'

'I sn't that what crime writing is all about?'

'He's winding you up, dear,' Thomasine told Dagmar.

Tudor said,'I was making a fair point. We're always being told that writers should make use of personal experience. Write about what you know. Here we are with a murder on our doorstep — well, on Edgar Blacker's doorstep — and what are we going to do? Pretend it didn't happen? I say we should get creative.'

'You have to be a cold fish to write detective stories,' Miss Snow said. 'I couldn't possibly attempt one.'

'Do a factual piece then. The strange death of a publisher. Write it up and sell it to the Bookseller.'

'I wouldn't dream of doing any such thing.'

'Which is why you'll never make an investigative journalist.'

'I've no desire to be one.'

'Someone else should do it. As a circle we can't let an opportunity like this pass us by. Zach?'

Zach shook his head.

'Too busy with the big novel?' Tudor said. 'What about you, Sharon? Make a name for yourself.'

Tudor seemed to believe he had a mission to draw the pretty blonde girl into the open.

She said, 'You're joking.'

'And has this event done anything for you as a writer?'

'Give me a break,' Sharon said.

Dagmar said, 'She wants to be a fashion writer.'

'You've got me there,' Tudor said. 'Edgar Blacker in his sports coat and cords wasn't exactly the king of the catwalks. Why not stretch a point and do a piece on the two detectives who took Maurice in? They looked — what's the word? — cool.'

Sharon shook her head and went back to her doodling. Tudor's sharp blue eyes swivelled in search of someone else to wind up.

Anton said, 'Murder is too crude a topic for me.'

Tudor looked across at Basil, the gardener. 'And you're going to say it doesn't beat keeping a lawn nice. I give up.'

Dagmar said, 'It's a question of good taste, Tudor. A man we all met has died a horrible death, and we don't wish to exploit it in any way.'

'Pleonasm,' Anton said.

'I beg your pardon.'

'You can't die a death. It's a pleonasm. Either you die, or a death takes place.'

'Somebody strangle that man before I do,' Tudor said. 'Aren't we going to get so much as a pesky poem out of this murder, then?'

Bob, sensing that the spotlight was about to turn his way, acted quickly to deflect it. 'What about you, Tudor? What are you going to write?'

'Me? Oh, I haven't decided yet. It could be another chapter in my memoirs, especially if one of you lot is the killer.'

'That Tudor's a pain in the bum,' Thomasine said to Bob in the car park. 'He'd take over as chair if it wasn't for all the extra work.'

'Takes all sorts,' Bob said. It isn't a good idea to take sides when you're so new.

'Trust me, last night wasn't typical. You didn't see us at our best. I hope you'll come again.'

'I might'

'You didn't give anyone your address or phone number. What if we have to cancel?'

He stalled. He was still in two minds about joining the circle. 'Because of another murder?'

'God forbid — I didn't mean that'

'I'm not sure I'm up for it.'

'Up for what?' She made it sound suggestive.

He wasn't planning to get more friendly with Thomasine. She seemed fun, but he hadn't dated a woman since Maggie died. 'The circle.'

'Don't be like that. Give us another try. It's a great laugh sometimes. A riot. Really it is.'

'If I can make it, then.'

'Give me your number just in case we change the date. It's been known.'

'I'm saying I don't want to make it official.'

'And it won't be. I'm not on the committee.'

With some hesitation he told her his number. 'Sometimes my job keeps me busy at nights. I'll do my best'

'What are you in — security?'

'A bouncer, you mean?' He smiled.

'You're big enough.'

He told her about the driving job. 'And what do you do?'

'Me? I teach. . What's funny about that?'

It was getting on for midnight. Basil was at home making a cocoa prior to retiring and beginning to wonder when his wife Naomi would return. She'd gone out earlier on the bike without telling him her plans. She'd not shown up at the pub. However, he wasn't too concerned. They didn't live in each other's pockets. She was apt to go off 'checking some facts', as she liked to put it, and it was not unusual for her to get home late fulfilled by her researches.

After the session with the circle members, he'd busied himself in his greenhouse whilst trying to remember some of the things that had been said. Naomi was sure to want chapter and verse on every blessed thing. She'd be pleased Maurice was in the clear. They both had a high regard for Maurice.

The phone rang. This would be her, no doubt.

And it was. And she didn't sound fulfilled.

'Where have you been? I've been calling for the past two hours.'

'You know where I was. I went to the pub with the circle.'

'Till midnight?'

'No, I got back early. I've been pottering in the greenhouse pricking out seedlings.'

'While I've been trapped in a deserted building.'

'I had no idea. Where are you now?'

'Still here, you cretin.'

'Trapped inside a building? I got that. Do you need help, my dear?'

Her exasperated sigh was audible down the phone. 'Why else would I be calling? I was afraid I was in a dead spot.'

'Dead spot?'

'Stop parroting my words and listen to me. Do you know the publisher's cottage on the Selsey Road, the one