Brought to Book

by Anthea Fraser

  ‘Of course, madame. May I take your coat? If you would care to come this way . . .?’

  Rona followed her across a large square hall, waited while she tapped on a door, and, as she stepped aside, went forward into the room. She had time only to register that it was long and low-ceilinged and extended the length of the house, before her attention was claimed by the woman who had risen to greet her and was now coming forward with outstretched hand.

  ‘Ms Parish, I’m Meriel Harvey. Thank you so much for coming.’

  ‘Thanks for inviting me.’

  Mrs Harvey waved her to a chair and reseated herself. She looked to be in her late forties, tall, thin and fair, with a network of fine lines round eyes and mouth. Her fingers, long and liberally bedecked with rings, repeatedly smoothed her skirt as though she were nervous.

  ‘Cecile will bring coffee in a moment.’ There was a pause, then she said a little abruptly, ‘I’ve read several of your biographies, and enjoyed them very much. I had the feeling you also enjoyed writing them?’

  ‘Yes, I – find people’s lives fascinating.’ Rona broke off, wondering if this was the right thing to say in the circumstances.

  ‘You don’t shirk your subjects’ faults and failings,’ Mrs Harvey went on, ‘yet you seem to have a deep understanding of them, which is communicated to your readers.’

  ‘It’s kind of you to say so; that’s certainly my aim.’

  A tap on the door brought an end to this somewhat stilted conversation, and the young French woman came in with a tray of coffee, which she set on a table. She waited while Meriel poured it, brought Rona’s across to her, together with the cream and sugar, which she declined, then, with a smile, left the room.

  Rona sipped the hot liquid gratefully, waiting for the next move. It came at once.

  ‘How much do you know about my husband, Ms Parish?’

  ‘Only what’s common knowledge, I’m afraid: that he was a successful thriller writer, that he had a couple of unproductive years, and then produced two outstanding and highly acclaimed novels.’

  ‘Before dying in unexplained circumstances,’ Meriel Harvey finished expressionlessly.

  ‘Yes.’ Rona hesitated, then went on diffidently, ‘Could I ask why you want a biography so soon after his death? Surely it will be painful for you?’

  The other woman held her eyes for a long moment before looking away, into the heart of the fire. ‘I want it,’ she said quietly, ‘because I’m beginning to wonder if I ever really knew him at all. I want to find out if there were reasons why – certain things happened. Most of all, I suppose, I need to know why he died.’

  ‘But surely the police—’

  ‘I don’t mean the actual mechanics of it, but how it came about. More specifically’ – her voice wavered – ‘if he killed himself. All the police discovered was that he’d been drinking, which is neither here nor there, and once the inquest was over, they lost interest.’

  ‘I doubt if I could help you on that,’ Rona said. ‘You’d probably do better employing—’

  Meriel leaned forward suddenly, hands clasped together. ‘Don’t turn me down, please! I can’t go on like this, torturing myself, wondering if I was in any way responsible. If I could understand the reasons for his hang-ups and inconsistencies, I might be able to come to terms with his death. Obviously I’d help you all I could, and he had many friends and acquaintances you could interview.’

  ‘There’s no guarantee I’d find the answers,’ Rona said gently. ‘I should warn you, though, that on occasion I’ve gone deeper into a subject’s life than the family had anticipated.’

  ‘I’m prepared to risk that.’

  The ambivalence she’d felt about this request had been well founded, Rona acknowledged; this would be no ordinary biography. At the same time, she was aware of growing excitement. ‘And as I explained on the phone,’ she added, taking refuge in practicalities, ‘nothing can be settled today. If I decide to go ahead, I’d need to find a publisher willing to commission the book, which would then have to be cleared with your husband’s literary executor.’

  Meriel dismissed this with a wave of her hand. ‘I’m his executor, so that’s no problem, and I’m sure your publishers would snap it up.’

  Before Rona could reply, the door opened and a boy of about sixteen came quickly into the room, stopping short on seeing them. Then he flushed, mumbled ‘Sorry!’ and went hastily out again.

  ‘My son, Sebastian,’ Meriel said, ‘home for half-term. From my first marriage,’ she added, seeing the question in Rona’s eyes. ‘Theo had three sons, but we’d no children together.’

  ‘How long were you married?’ Rona asked.

  ‘Twelve years, but we’d been together for fifteen. The divorce took a while.’

  ‘How does his other family feel about this? His first wife, or her sons? Have you mentioned it to them?’

  Meriel gave a brief laugh. ‘We’re not on speaking terms, but I’m sure they’d talk to you.’ She stood up quickly. ‘Let me show you his study.’

  She led Rona back across the hall to a room overlooking the garden. It was not large – some twelve feet square – and every inch of wall space was filled with bookshelves, many of them packed with different editions of Harvey’s own books. The furniture consisted of a leather armchair, two filing cabinets, and a desk on which, to Rona’s surprise, stood an electric typewriter. Catching her glance, Meriel smiled.

  ‘Theo was a computer Luddite. Not that he did much work here anyway; he retreated to his cottage in the country for months on end, writing everything out in longhand. Then he’d come home with a pile of folders, read them all through again, and send them off to a secretarial agency. It was only the last two he laboriously typed himself.’

  ‘Why was that?’

  She shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘Are his manuscripts here?’ Rona enquired, despite herself.

  ‘Apart from those he donated to an American university. My cousin brought the last one back from the cottage.’

  ‘You still have the cottage?’

  Meriel nodded. ‘I haven’t got round to dealing with it yet.’ She smiled. ‘You are interested, aren’t you?’

  Rona smiled back. ‘I admit I’m curious,’ she said, ‘which is often the first step to becoming hooked. But there are several things to consider; for one, I hadn’t planned on doing a biography this year.’

  ‘Are you working on something else?’

  ‘I’m doing a series of articles for a magazine, and I have several other ideas in the pipeline.’

  ‘How soon can you give me an answer?’

  ‘Well, I’d like to discuss it with my husband, and there won’t be a chance till the weekend. I don’t always take his advice, but talking it over helps crystallize my thoughts, and he usually has valid points to make. If I decide to go ahead, I’ll get on to my agent and he’ll start on the groundwork, but either way, I’ll let you know as soon as I reach a decision.’

  ‘Which will be – when?’

  ‘In a week or so?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘If I say no, have you anyone else in mind?’

  ‘Let’s just say you’re top of the list.’

  Rona laughed. ‘I’m flattered.’

  The chime of the doorbell reached them, and then voices in the hall.

  Meriel Harvey moved to the door. ‘That sounds like my cousin. He’s been my rock since Theo died. Come and meet him.’

  The man who turned towards them was tall and broad-shouldered. Having disposed of his jacket, now draped over a chair, he was dressed in a rust cable-knit sweater and brown cords. His dark hair was thick and unruly, his hands and face deeply tanned – which, since it was February, suggested that he’d recently been abroad.

  ‘Meriel!’

  As Rona took her inventory, he was coming towards them. He gave her a quick smile as he put his hands on Mrs Harvey’s shoulders and kissed both her cheeks. Then he turned to Rona.

  ‘
And this must be the proposed biographer?’ Her hand was swallowed up in his large brown one. ‘I’ve been talking to your dog through the car window. Lovely animal.’

  ‘Oh, I didn’t realize!’ Meriel exclaimed. ‘Is he all right, or would you like to bring him in?’

  ‘He’s fine,’ Rona assured her quickly. ‘He goes everywhere with me, and is quite used to waiting in the car.’

  ‘Then let me introduce you properly: Rona Parish – my cousin, Justin Grant.’

  They smiled at each other, and fell in behind Meriel as she led the way back to the drawing room. Rona returned to her previous seat while Justin Grant stood, male-like, in front of the fire.

  ‘So,’ he began, his sharp brown eyes studying her, ‘what has been decided?’

  ‘Nothing, really,’ Meriel replied. ‘Ms Parish is going to think it over and let me know whether or not she’s interested.’

  Justin Grant raised an eyebrow. ‘You have reservations?’

  To her annoyance, Rona felt herself flush. ‘I’d promised myself a break from biographies.’

  ‘Well, Theo’s a challenge, I’ll give you that. He was a chameleon, constantly changing to fit the circumstances he found himself in. It was a question of, “Will the real Theo Harvey stand up?”’

  ‘But surely we all do that, to a greater or lesser degree,’ Rona argued. ‘If, for instance, I wrote to several friends giving exactly the same news, all the letters would have a different slant, because I’d automatically adapt to the person I was writing to.’

  ‘Believe me, Theo could “adapt” like no other!’

  There was a tap on the door, and the French girl brought in fresh coffee. Rona, who’d been on the point of leaving, yielded to persuasion to stay for another cup.

  Justin Grant intrigued her; on the surface he appeared bluff and hearty, but there was shrewdness in his gaze and she had the impression that little escaped him. It was also clear that, at least for the moment, Meriel Harvey was very dependent on him. Was he married, Rona wondered, and if so, how did his wife feel about the claims being made on him?

  After a few minutes’ light conversation, she stood up, and the others with her. ‘It’s been good to meet you,’ she said, ‘and thank you for inviting me to do the biography. I promise to let you know as soon as I can.’

  Her car coat lay under Grant’s jacket, and he helped her on with it, then came out to the car with her, bending to talk to Gus as she unlocked it, while Meriel watched from the doorway.

  ‘I don’t blame you for not rushing into this,’ he said in a low voice. ‘It’s not something to take on lightly. Don’t feel pressured – Meriel will understand if you decide not to go ahead.’

  She straightened and met his eye, bland but watchful. ‘Thanks,’ she said briefly, ‘I’ll bear that in mind.’

  As she drove out of the gateway and turned to drive back through the village, she pondered that final exchange. Was he warning her off? And if so, why? What was it to Grant whether or not she wrote Theo Harvey’s biography?

  Having stopped on the way back to allow Gus a romp, it was lunch time when Rona reached home. She made herself a toasted sandwich, which she ate walking restlessly round the kitchen. On the patio, a blackbird was finishing the last of the breakfast crumbs. Soon, she thought, it would be time to refresh the containers with spring flowers.

  During the interview, her notebook had remained in her handbag. Now, laying aside the half-eaten sandwich, she took it out and jotted down a few impressions. It would be interesting to know her motive, Max had said of Meriel’s approach.

  Had this morning’s interview provided an answer? Her overriding concern had seemed centred on her husband’s death rather than his life, and whether any blame for it attached to her. If this was her motive for requesting the biography, it was one with which Rona felt less than comfortable.

  Both Meriel and Grant had referred to Harvey’s inconsistencies; how had they manifested themselves? And had Grant’s farewell been merely solicitous, or was he seriously advising her not to go ahead?

  Rona glanced at her watch. It was just before two; with luck, Max would still be on his lunch break. She picked up the phone, and when he answered, enquired, ‘Time for a quick chat?’ On Thursdays he taught at the local art school, with the evening, as usual, given over to his private students.

  ‘As long as it really is quick. How was the interview?’

  ‘Interesting. Meriel Harvey’s decidedly jumpy, but she’s anxious for me to take it on.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘I still don’t know. Pity you’re not free this evening, so we could discuss it.’

  ‘Not a hope, sweetie.’

  ‘She’s his second wife and not on speaking terms with his other family, so whether they’ll co-operate is anyone’s guess.’

  ‘Well, it won’t be the first time you’ve come across that hurdle. I’m sure you can charm them out of any objections.’

  ‘I also met her cousin,’ Rona continued, doodling on her notebook. ‘He told me privately that he wouldn’t blame me for turning it down, and not to feel pressured.’

  ‘As in, forget it?’

  ‘That was my impression.’

  ‘Look, I’ll have to go. We can thrash out the pros and cons tomorrow evening.’

  Regretfully she put down the phone, consigned the cold sandwich to the bin and helped herself to some fruit. She had an article to deliver that afternoon, and was grateful that a change in mindset was called for. Theo Harvey had occupied most of her waking thoughts in the last twenty-four hours.

  The dog, asleep in his basket, opened one eye as she took his lead off its hook, and was at her heels before she reached the foot of the stairs.

  The offices of Chiltern Life, an illustrious monthly magazine, were at the top end of Dean’s Crescent, just short of Guild Street. As she passed the Italian restaurant, Rona glanced through the windows, noting that their lunch trade seemed as brisk as their evening one. Two business men were seated in what she thought of as ‘our alcove’, engaged in earnest discussion. Her thoughts went back to the previous evening, and Max’s reservations about the Harvey prospect. She doubted if what she had to report would change his mind.

  She followed the curve of the crescent, still deep in thought, until she could see the traffic on Guild Street streaming past the end of the road, and the imposing offices of Chiltern Life on her left. She crossed the road and went through the swing doors into the foyer, where the receptionist greeted her with a smile.

  ‘Hi, Rona. If you’re on your way to Barnie, why not leave Gus with me? I’ll look after him.’

  ‘Thanks, Poll.’ Rona handed over his lead. The feature editor’s office was small, and the dog’s waving tail constantly threatened the files and papers piled all around it. ‘Is he free, do you know?’

  ‘As a bird,’ Polly replied, and turned her attention to Gus, who was trying to lick her face. Rona, leaving them to it, took the stairs to the first floor and made her way through the busy open-plan office to the cubicle assigned to Barnie Trent. She tapped on the door, and, at his shout, went in.

  ‘Rona! I was just thinking about you.’

  ‘I’m not late with this, am I? I thought the deadline was next week?’

  ‘It is – my thoughts were of a social nature. Dinah was saying it’s a long time since she’s seen you.’

  Barnie Trent was in his early fifties, over six feet and with a high domed forehead from which such hair as he had was rapidly retreating. His temper was legendary at Chiltern Life, though it had never been directed at Rona. They’d known each other since she first joined the magazine, and when she’d met his wife at an early office party, a friendship had developed which, before her marriage, had involved frequent invitations to supper at their home.

  ‘Still not co-habiting with that husband of yours?’ Barnie asked, looking up at her under bushy eyebrows.

  ‘Still semi-habiting,’ she corrected.

  ‘Free this evening?’

/>   ‘Yes, as it happens.’

  He reached for his phone, punched out a number, and said into it, ‘Rona’s here, hon. OK for supper tonight?’

  Dinah’s enthusiastic response reached Rona at the other side of the desk.

  ‘Seven thirty?’ Barnie asked her.

  ‘Wonderful.’

  ‘Seven thirty,’ he confirmed into the phone. ‘See you.’ And he replaced it. ‘That’s settled then,’ he announced with satisfaction.

  ‘Short notice for poor Dinah,’ Rona commented.

  ‘She’ll just put another pea in the soup.’ He looked about him. ‘Where’s the hound?’

  ‘Being petted by Polly.’

  ‘He’s included in the invitation.’

  ‘Thanks, Barnie.’ Gus was always made welcome at the Trents’, and Dinah usually had a bone for him to take home – his doggie-bag, she called it. Surprisingly, he was even on amicable terms with the couple’s three cats, who either tolerated or ignored him.

  Barnie was slitting open the large envelope she had laid on his desk. He flicked his eyes down the first page and nodded in satisfaction. ‘How many of these are there still to do?’

  ‘Three, I think.’

  ‘Won’t last you long. Anything else in mind?’

  Rona hesitated. If she’d decided on the biography, this would have been the time to tell him; in fact, it had been Barnie who first suggested she try her hand in that field, commenting as he did so that he was doing himself out of a first-class contributor. But she hadn’t decided, so she merely said, ‘Nothing definite.’

  Barnie grunted. ‘Well, thanks for this. As you know, there’s been a lot of favourable comment on the series. I hope we can come up with something equally good.’

  Rona nodded noncommittally and turned to the door. ‘See you later, then. Thanks for the invitation.’

  ‘We’ll be looking forward to it.’

  Back home, Rona embarked on a more thorough Internet search on Theo Harvey, finally striking gold with a profile she hadn’t come across before, and having printed it out, sat back to study it. It was headed ‘Theo Harvey – 1944–2001’, and underneath was a photograph of Harvey seated at the typewriter in, recognizably, his study at Cricklehurst, with shelves of books to his left. Her eyes skimmed down the page: