Brought to Book

by Anthea Fraser

  ‘Could you give me the names of any of his friends?’

  ‘Not of the Cambridge crowd, but the two who went on from school were Scott Mackintosh and Michael Pennington. I can’t tell you their addresses; I lost all track of them.’

  Perhaps they’d be on Meriel’s list.

  ‘Did they keep in touch after university?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  Rona made a note and moved on to her next question. ‘Had Theo always been interested in writing?’

  ‘He always had good marks for essays and so on, and he ran the school magazine for a while, but he didn’t give any sign of wanting to make a career of it – or of anything else, for that matter. Which, so the wags have it, is why he became a school master.’

  ‘Teaching English?’

  ‘Yes. And make no mistake, he was good at it; there was no reason to think he’d change course in mid-stream. He married Isobel, in due course the boys were born, and it seemed that at last he’d settled down. Then one day, purely by chance, he saw a literary competition announced in the press, went in for it, and won. And the rest, as they say, is history.’

  Not quite, Rona thought. ‘So he gave up teaching?’

  ‘Yes, apparently without a second thought. It was totally irresponsible, as I warned him at the time; he’d a wife and three young boys to support, and for all he knew, the book could have been a one-hit wonder. But that was Theo all over. Take no thought for the morrow.’

  Reginald Harvey sighed, and drank some more coffee. ‘However,’ he added, ‘it must have been in his blood after all, because he later enrolled as tutor for a correspondence course in creative writing. Kept it up for some years, I believe.’

  There was a pause. ‘The book that won the competition was The Silencer, of course,’ Rona prompted. ‘How old was he when it came out – about forty?’

  ‘That’s right. The fame it brought him was naturally right up his street, and regrettably it brought out his wild streak again. There was talk of other women, drunken escapades, wild parties. How Isobel stood it I’ll never know, but she stuck by him and, at least in our presence, gave no hint that their marriage wasn’t totally happy. Frances told me afterwards that he’d even gone off for a week or two with some woman. I don’t know how she found out, but it wasn’t from Isobel.’

  The old man glanced at her over his spectacles. ‘I feel disloyal, speaking about him like this, but there’s no point in painting over the cracks. If I didn’t tell you, you’d hear it from someone else, and I’d prefer that you got the facts straight. He was my son and I loved him – make no mistake about that – but I didn’t approve of his lifestyle.’

  ‘I understand,’ Rona said gently. ‘How long were he and Isobel married?’

  ‘Eighteen years. I’m still very close to her; she’s like a second daughter.’

  ‘Then, presumably, Meriel came along?’

  His mouth tightened. ‘I might as well admit that I don’t care for her. She set her cap at Theo quite shamelessly, with no compunction whatever about breaking up his marriage. Of course, he was equally to blame. The way he treated Isobel was disgraceful, and I told him so. Not unnaturally he resented my plain speaking, and we didn’t see hair nor hide of him for over a year. To give Meriel her due, it was she who persuaded him to bury the hatchet.’

  ‘Was their marriage happy, do you think?’

  Harvey lifted his shoulders. ‘As far as one could see. I’m not sure how much she knew of his carryings-on, but then she was no saint herself; I heard she was having an affair with that cousin of hers. May still be, for all I know.’

  Rona looked up from her notebook, eyes widening. ‘Justin Grant?’

  ‘I believe that’s the name.’ He looked suddenly embarrassed. ‘I shouldn’t have said that. Forgive an old man’s indiscretion, my dear. Naturally, that piece of information is not for publication.’

  ‘Of course not,’ she reassured him, changing the tape. They hadn’t given the impression of being lovers, she thought, but this was not the time to consider the implications. She adroitly changed the subject. ‘You can probably guess what I’m coming to now.’

  ‘The much-trumpeted block.’

  ‘Right. What interpretation did you put on it?’

  ‘Something happened,’ Reginald Harvey said positively. ‘God knows what, but it was something profound that knocked the stuffing out of him. It wasn’t only that he couldn’t write – and that normally came as easily as breathing. His whole personality changed. It was as if – a light had gone out.’

  He gave a small cough. ‘I’m sorry; that sounded fanciful, but I can think of no other way of putting it. I really believe he went through some kind of breakdown. We all tried to get through to him but it was impossible, and he remained totally unapproachable for the best part of two years. Eventually, as you know, he climbed out of whatever hell he’d been in and started to write again, but he was never the same.’

  ‘Nor were his books,’ Rona said quietly.

  He looked at her sharply. ‘And what do you make of that?’

  ‘You say his personality changed; perhaps his writing reflected that.’

  Reginald Harvey said slowly, ‘They made uncomfortable reading, at least to me. It’s foolish, but I somehow disliked the idea that my son had written them.’

  Rona nodded. ‘I know what you mean. There’d been plenty of fighting and shooting in the earlier books, but there was always an underlying innocence about them, like a Boys’ Own adventure. The later ones were – sadistic, somehow – gratuitous violence and a kind of snide attitude, as though he’d a low opinion of people in general.’

  Harvey slapped the arm of his chair. ‘Exactly! That’s just how they struck me. Nevertheless, as you know, they were widely acclaimed, and I’ve told you how much he craved acceptance and success. Bearing that in mind, you’d have expected him to be overjoyed by all the plaudits, but they seemed to wash right over him. When anyone congratulated him on his awards, he merely nodded his thanks and changed the subject.’

  He smiled ruefully. ‘It made us long for the old, wild Theo. At least you knew where you were with him.’

  Rona hesitated, aware that she was approaching difficult ground. ‘I’m sorry if this is painful for you,’ she began tentatively, ‘but I was wondering about his death – if he was reported missing, and who found him?’

  The gnarled hand twitched, but when he spoke, Harvey’s voice was ready. ‘They were due at the theatre that Friday evening. When he didn’t come home, Meriel phoned the public house up there and asked them to check on him. His car was still at the cottage, so they set up a search party, and eventually discovered him in the stream, between his home and the pub. The police established he’d been there over twenty-four hours.’

  Her last question was even more delicate, but she’d really no option. ‘Have you any theories about his death?’ she asked quietly. ‘It was an open verdict wasn’t it?’

  There was a long silence, and she wondered uncomfortably if she had overstepped the mark. Reginald Harvey was staring down at the carpet, motionless except for the slight tapping of his fingers on one knee. Then he raised his head and met her eyes.

  ‘I haven’t put this into words before, even to myself, but I’m convinced he took his own life. I think it – whatever “it” was – finally became too much for him.’

  In the distance, a gong sounded. They probably both welcomed the distraction, but Reginald Harvey made a face. ‘Lunch. My only complaint about this place is the times they expect you to eat.’

  ‘There’s a communal dining room?’

  ‘Yes; room service is only by special request or if one is too infirm to make it along the corridor.’

  Rona switched off the tape and dropped her notebook and pen into her bag.

  ‘Who else is on your list of interviewees?’ Harvey asked, watching her.

  ‘Oh, members of the family, his publisher and agent, the secretarial firm who typed his manuscripts – anyone
I can track down, really.’

  ‘Does “members of the family” include my sister-in-law?’ At her blank look, he added, ‘Agnes Lethbury, Frances’s sister.’

  ‘Oh; yes, I have a note of her.’

  ‘Take what she says with a pinch of salt,’ he advised. ‘She doted on Theo and tended to blame everyone else for his shortcomings.’

  Rona smiled. ‘I’ll bear that in mind.’ She stood up and held out her hand as he too got to his feet. ‘Thank you so much for seeing me, Mr Harvey. It’s been a real pleasure.’

  ‘And for me, my dear. Do feel free to contact me again, if there’s anything else you’d like to know.’

  In the foyer, Rona dutifully signed herself out, noting the time as twelve-fifteen and surprised by how quickly the time had passed. Reginald Harvey had given her plenty to think about, she mused as she let herself out of the building. She could only hope that other interviews would be as revealing.

  Six

  The smell of lunch as she left Stapleton House made Rona hungry, and she stopped at a Little Chef on the way home. As she ate, her thoughts continued to revolve round Reginald Harvey, and in particular his comment about Meriel and Justin, which had changed her whole perception of them. If it was true they were lovers, when had the affair started? They must have known each other all their lives; was it before her marriage to Theo, and had Theo himself been aware of it?

  Her train of thought was broken by a nudge against her legs as Gus, under the table, changed his position, reminding her that he was due some exercise before she could settle down to work. Briefly, she thought of the episode in the park. Her actions this morning would not have pleased her correspondent – if he were aware of them.

  Her eyes went quickly round her fellow diners; apart from a couple of families with small children, they seemed to be lone men deep in the sports pages of the Mirror or the Sun, no doubt the drivers whose lorries were parked outside. It seemed unlikely in the extreme that she was of interest to any of them. None the less, when she eventually resumed her journey she kept a weather eye on the rear-view mirror, to see if anyone pulled out after her. No one did, and, telling herself not to be neurotic, she continued the drive home.

  Gus’s exercise that afternoon was a quick walk round the block; not, Rona assured herself, in order to avoid the park, but simply because she was anxious to note down all the morning’s impressions before having to prepare for the interview with the Bromsgroves. Perhaps, after all, two in one day was not such a good thing.

  When she reached home, there was a message on her answer-phone from Isobel Harvey. Her voice was cool, light and self-confident; quite unlike Meriel’s increasingly hesitant tones.

  ‘Isobel Harvey replying to your letter,’ it said crisply. ‘I’ll be happy to speak to you, but I’m going away at the end of the week. I could arrange to be free on either Wednesday morning or Thursday afternoon, if either of these are any good. Perhaps you could phone to let me know.’

  Making a note of her number, Rona realized she hadn’t asked the old man what Isobel did, but whatever it was, she was ready to wager she’d do it most efficiently.

  She had already started a database on the information obtained from Meriel, and spent the next two or three hours slotting the facts she’d learned that morning into the relevant sections – Theo’s early life, his marriages, his writing, his death. The more she learned about Theo Harvey, she was finding, the less she liked him, but at least she was beginning to have some inkling of what had made him as he was.

  Tom Parish opened his desk drawer and took out a packet of indigestion tablets. It was almost finished, he noted, and he’d only bought it at the end of last week. He pressed two tablets out of the foil sachet and chewed them reflectively. Avril had commented last night on his increasingly frequent bouts of discomfort. Probably an ulcer, he thought.

  He glanced absent-mindedly at the framed photographs on the desk. The larger one was a picture of his wife taken at their niece’s wedding, looking unusually glamorous in chiffon and picture hat. He sighed, trying to pinpoint when his marriage had sunk into the doldrums, when Avril had stopped wearing make-up except for special occasions, and become listless and discontented. No doubt it was his fault, for failing her in some way. Perhaps he should make more effort to put a spark back into their lives; take her on an exotic holiday or something. He’d look into it.

  The other photograph was of the twins, snapped on a picnic years ago. The twins. He smiled to himself. It was a long time since he’d thought of them as that, but when they were young, it was how he and Avril had always referred to them. He couldn’t remember when they had become merely ‘the girls’.

  He worried about them, too. Bright girls, both of them, though too independent for their own good; it was no use trying to advise either of them – never had been. Yet Lindsey was clearly unhappy, and the reappearance of Hugh was surely the last thing they needed. Tom was very much afraid that in her present state she might well go back to him, which would be disastrous.

  As for Rona, he wished uselessly that she and Max would lead a more conventional life; in his opinion it was asking for trouble, a married couple spending so much time apart. A real feather in her cap, though, to be writing a life of Theo Harvey. He must phone and see how she was getting on with the books he’d lent her.

  Was it hot in here, or just his imagination? He ran a finger round the inside of his collar, and, getting up, went to turn down the thermostat, pausing to stare out into the windswept street. The bank was in Market Street, and this Monday afternoon there was the usual crowd of shoppers and business people hurrying, heads down, about their various pursuits. On Fridays, though, the street underwent a sea-change, becoming a swirling, colourful maelstrom of shouting tradesmen, market stalls laden with fruit and vegetables, racks of clothes, bric-a-brac, and flowers in buckets, and though it was quite a challenge to thread his way through them on his way to work, he found it exhilarating, and actually looked forward to Fridays. Pathetic, he told himself derisively, when the only colour and excitement in his life came from market stalls and Theo Harvey’s novels. No wonder Avril was disillusioned with him.

  He turned from the window, and, still aware of a nagging discomfort in his innards, returned reluctantly to his desk.

  The Bromsgrove interview began badly. Having been delayed by a traffic pile-up that necessitated a ten-minute diversion, Rona arrived at the appointment slightly late, a fact that, despite her apologies, Keith Bromsgrove underlined by frequent glances at his watch and a generally bustling manner.

  He led her, with fairly bad grace, into the front room, and, to her relief, closed the door on the smell of cooking cauliflower. He was a short, self-important man with wiry hair and a small moustache. Rona suspected that he’d dined out for years on having met Theo Harvey. A few minutes into the interview, she guessed they’d not so much ‘met’, as spent an hour or so in the same pub from time to time. However, out of politeness, and with the knowledge that Max would be phoning later for details, she played along with him.

  ‘Was Mr Harvey’s cottage near yours, Mr Bromsgrove?’

  ‘Within a mile or so. Our holiday always coincided with him coming back to start a new book.’

  Rona’s interest quickened. ‘You go up every August? Were you there when his block started, in 1995?’

  ‘Indeed, yes, and the change was remarkable. When he first arrived, he was the same as usual, joking with his friends and glad to be back after his summer break. Then, for about a week, he didn’t come in, which was unusual – everyone commented on it. And when he eventually did appear, he looked – like a ghost.’

  Confirmation of what Meriel had told her. ‘It was as sudden as that?’

  ‘Yes,’ Bromsgrove said with satisfaction, ‘we could date that famous block almost to the day.’

  Delicately, she called his bluff. ‘Did he ever discuss it with you?’

  He shot her a suspicious look from under his eyebrows. ‘Not in so many words,�
� he said cautiously.

  ‘And you say his whole manner changed?’

  ‘Indeed it did; beforehand he was very convivial, buying drinks all round, laughing a lot and telling stories – the life and soul of the party, you might say. Later, he used to sit in a corner by himself, not speaking to anyone.’

  Rona felt her way, anxious not to overlook anything this man might have to offer. ‘When he was being sociable, did he come in with friends, or just talk to whoever was there?’

  Bromsgrove shrugged. ‘I couldn’t really say; quite often he was there when I arrived. As far as I recall, though, he came in alone and joined whoever was standing at the bar.’

  ‘And what about later?’

  He considered, stroking his moustache. ‘Like I said, when he wasn’t writing, he sat alone. Last year, though, there was a man who sat with him once or twice.’ He cleared his throat. ‘That is to say, I myself only saw him a couple of times; but you must remember that apart from our two weeks in August, we only go up on odd weekends. He could have come in regularly, for all I know.’

  ‘Was he one of the usual crowd?’

  ‘No, I’d not seen him before. He was a nervy individual – always seemed on edge – and I had the impression Mr Harvey didn’t care for him.’

  He was an observant witness, at least, Rona thought wryly. ‘How old was he? Roughly the same age?’

  ‘No, quite a bit younger. I wondered at first if it was his son.’

  That would bear checking, she noted, but her thoughts skidded to a halt as Bromsgrove added casually, ‘He was with him the night he died.’

  She felt herself go hot. ‘You saw Theo Harvey the night he died?’

  He looked smug, pleased at having startled her. ‘I did; if you remember, that was also in August.’

  ‘Did he seem – any different?’

  ‘Well, for a start they weren’t in the pub that time. I’d driven into the village for petrol – we were setting off on a picnic early the next morning – and I saw them outside the post office. Having an argument, by the look of it.’