by Alex Pavesi
Francis stumbled forward, his lungs full of black dust, and came to a stop in front of the empty pair of shoes that he’d left there earlier. They were still where he’d dropped them: in perfect formation, side by side on the sand. Francis felt that he could almost see Grant’s ghost standing there, waiting to greet him.
‘Grant,’ he said, reaching out to grasp the invisible hand, then falling forward onto his knees, ‘so you really did kill her?’
He took the photograph from his trouser pocket and examined it once again in the daylight. The glue had melted in the heat of the fire and the printed picture was coming away from its cardboard base. There was a handwritten letter concealed between the two layers. Francis slipped it from its hiding place and started to read.
‘Dear Professor McAllister.’
The writing was neat but so small that he had to squint.
‘My name is Elizabeth White.’ Francis held his breath. ‘We haven’t met, but perhaps you’ve seen me on stage or you’ve seen one of my plays? I was lucky enough to attend the lecture that you gave on detective fiction in London last year, at the Royal Society of Literature. I found it to be a very inspiring talk. And I hope you will forgive the audacity, but I’m sending you the fruits of that inspiration, in case you’d like to read them. I’ve written seven murder mystery stories, based on your ideas: they cover a variety of characters and settings, but each one demonstrates a different permutation of detective fiction, to use your term. I’m hoping to publish them as a collection. The White Murders, by Elizabeth White. Forgive the egocentric title – I couldn’t think of a better one. But I wondered if you might read them and give me your thoughts? It’s my first attempt at writing this kind of thing. Perhaps we could meet and discuss them, if you’d be willing to let me buy you a drink? Be gentle, though; you’re the first and only person I’ve shown them to. Gratefully yours, Elizabeth White.’
The last two words matched the signature on the photograph.
Francis crumpled the letter into a ball and threw it into the sea. He reached for the shoes, taking one in each hand, and cried out in despair. ‘Grant, how could you?’ He put his head in his hands; the two shoes became a comical pair of horns. ‘You killed her, just to steal those stories?’
He imagined Grant, his vanity punctured by her success; he must have convinced her somehow to bring the original manuscript along to their meeting, then he’d killed her and taken it away with him. The inconsistencies in the stories, pointing to the details of the crime, must have been put in later; it would have amused him endlessly, Francis knew, to add those clues to the stories, knowing that no one would understand them except for himself. Had he kept the original title for the same unpalatable reason?
The tide was moving further inland with every minute that passed. Francis looked out to sea and saw that a substantial wave was heading towards him. It broke a few yards before it reached the shore and splashed him all the way to the elbows. The water was freezing cold.
‘How could you?’
The fire behind him had finished burning. But in his soaked white suit he looked like a snowman, already starting to melt.
Acknowledgements
Thanks to James Wills, my agent, and my editors Joel Richardson and James Melia, without whom the book wouldn’t be what it is.
Thanks are due also to Rachel Richardson, Ciara McEllin, Maggie Pavesi, Maxine Hitchcock, Kit Shepherd, Grace Long, Jen Breslin, Jess Hart, Ellie Hughes, Nick Lowndes, Clare Parker, Vicky Photiou, Tom Robson, Clare Bogen, Amy Einhorn, Kerry Cullen, Kenn Russell, Patricia Eisemann, Caitlin O’Shaughnessy, Maggie Richards, Christopher Sergio and Georgina Hulland Brown.
THIS IS JUST THE BEGINNING
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First published by Michael Joseph in 2020
Copyright © Alex Pavesi, 2020
The moral right of the author has been asserted
ISBN: 978-1-405-94498-4
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