Brought to Book

by Anthea Fraser

  ‘Max Allerdyce.’

  ‘You can carry martyrdom too far, you know,’ she said lightly.

  ‘Oh – hi.’ His voice sounded jerky, unconnected, and her anxiety sharpened.

  ‘Max? Is anything wrong?’

  ‘No – at least, not really. It’s just that Gus has run off, blast him.’

  ‘Run off? You mean you can’t find him?’

  ‘I suppose that’s what it boils down to. I’ve been whistling and calling for the last half hour, with no response.’

  ‘But – where did he go?’ she stammered.

  ‘If I knew that,’ he began irritably, then broke off. ‘Sorry. The answer is, I’ve no idea.’ Then, with a surge of hope, ‘He hasn’t come back home, has he?’

  ‘He never has before. Hold on, I’ll go and see.’

  Still clutching the phone, she ran down the stairs and along the hall to the door, a silent little prayer repeating itself in her head. Please let him be there, please let him be there.

  She pulled open the door, to be faced with a gleaming wet step devoid of any familiar, furry figure. Leaning forward, she craned to look up and down the deserted street. No sign.

  She closed the door and leant against it. ‘He’s not here,’ she said into the phone.

  ‘I didn’t really think he would be.’ Max’s voice was flat. ‘The hell of it is I don’t know what else to do. I’ve retraced our steps, looked in all the clumps of trees. I even walked right over to the other gateway on Park Rise, to no avail, added to which I’m pretty cold and wet, I can tell you.’

  There was a small knot of fear in her stomach. ‘Max, do you think the man who wrote the note might have him?’ To punish her for not heeding his warning, and driving up to Theo’s cottage?

  ‘God knows. I haven’t seen anyone, except the odd couple walking their own dog.’ A pause; then: ‘He’ll no doubt come home when he’s hungry.’

  ‘He couldn’t be lying hurt anywhere?’

  ‘I tell you I’ve searched every bloody blade of grass.’

  She knew he was waiting for her to suggest he come home, but the words stuck in her throat. It felt like deserting Gus in his hour of need.

  ‘Look, love, I’m not doing any good out here. We’ll ring the police and report him missing.’

  The police. But this was not the time to tell him about Archie Duncan.

  ‘One last look?’ she suggested in a small voice.

  ‘OK. See you shortly.’ He ended the call.

  She prised herself away from the door and with a heavy heart went back upstairs. No longer in the mood for work, she saved what she had done, backed up the disk, and switched off the computer.

  Once more the phone interrupted her, and she caught it up. ‘Max? Have you found him?’

  But it was her sister’s voice that replied. ‘Found who?’

  ‘Oh, hello Linz. Gus; he’s gone missing on a walk with Max.’

  ‘He’ll turn up, don’t worry. Did you have a good weekend up in the wilds?’

  Rona forced her mind away from the dog. ‘Yes, thanks, several things came up that might be useful.’

  There was a pause, then Lindsey said, ‘Aren’t you going to ask about my weekend?’

  Oh God! Rona thought, on a wave of irritation. She forced herself to say, ‘How was it?’

  ‘Out of this world!’

  ‘On the same cloud as Rob, I presume?’

  Lindsey laughed. ‘Indeed yes. He’s wonderful, Ro! I can’t believe my luck.’

  ‘How’s Pops?’

  There was a silence.

  ‘Linz, you did go to see him?’

  ‘Well, no, actually. I was tied up with Rob all yesterday. Anyway, you went in my place, if you remember.’

  ‘But aren’t you the slightest bit worried about him?’

  ‘He’s OK. You know how Mum fusses.’

  ‘Well, since you’re no help, I’m going to phone home right now. See you.’ And she hung up. She took a deep breath before pressing the requisite button. She’d no right to have taken that self-righteous tone with Lindsey; she herself hadn’t spared a thought for their father all the time she’d been away, not until this moment, in fact. She’d ring back and apologize.

  ‘Hello, yes?’ It was Avril’s voice.

  ‘Hello, Mum. Just reporting back and wondering how Pops is?’

  ‘Oh, hello, dear. He seems a bit better, actually. It perked him up, seeing you on Friday.’

  ‘Has he agreed to go to the doctor?’

  ‘Not yet, but I’m working on it. Did you have a nice time in Spindlebury?’

  ‘Interesting would be a better way of putting it. Grist to the mill, anyway.’

  ‘That’s good. Look, I must go, the kettle’s boiling. See you soon. ‘Bye.’

  Slowly Rona pressed her sister’s button, but was met with the engaged tone. A mechanical voice enquired if she wanted the ring-back service, but she switched off. Time enough later. Downstairs, the front door opened and banged shut. She ran out on to the landing and leaned over the banisters, but Max was standing alone in the hall. Slowly she went down to meet him and put her arms round him, feeling the wetness of his coat against her.

  ‘He’ll come back,’ she said.

  ‘I shouldn’t have let him out of my sight,’ Max said miserably. ‘Especially after last weekend.’

  ‘He probably set off after a rabbit or something. Take these wet things off, and I’ll make some tea.’

  It was the most miserable afternoon of their lives. They took the car and patrolled the streets round the house and up towards the park. Rona, in boots and raincoat, made her own despairing search of its grounds, hoping against hope she might find a corner Max had overlooked, where Gus would be waiting.

  On their return home, Max phoned the police and the local RSPCA, but no one had reported finding a large golden retriever.

  ‘Talking of the police,’ Rona said, when he came back from ringing them, ‘Archie Duncan phoned.’

  He looked at her quickly. ‘Oh?’

  ‘He said you’d been asking about the Harvey case.’

  ‘I – thought he might be able to help.’

  ‘He said to tell you both murder and suicide were suspected, but there was no evidence of either. The police didn’t trust Myers, but he had no form and they could prove nothing against him. As we know, he was miles away when Theo died, and Theo’s injuries were consistent with hitting his head when he fell.’

  She paused. ‘So nothing new there. Why did you phone him, Max?’

  ‘It was after the midnight shenanigans; I hoped he could arrange for someone to watch the house.’

  ‘And when he couldn’t, you decided I should sleep at Farthings.’

  ‘It seemed the safer option.’

  ‘We’ll have to stay here tonight, though, in case Gus comes home.’ Her voice cracked and he pulled her gently against him.

  ‘We’ll get him back, sweetie,’ he said.

  The evening dragged on. Every now and then, one of them would open the front door and look outside. Max heated up some soup, which they ate on trays in front of the television that neither of them was watching. Finally, trying not to think of the empty basket downstairs, they went to bed, and, somehow, the night passed. At one point, Max went downstairs and returned with two glasses of whisky in hot water. It might have worked as a sleeping draught, because towards dawn they both fell into an uneasy but dreamless sleep, and it was full daylight when they awoke.

  Max slid his feet to the ground and went to draw back the curtains. His exclamation brought Rona upright. ‘God, Rona, he’s there! On the path!’

  He caught up his robe and together they ran down the stairs. The wild, thankful joy that had flooded her faded sickly as they pulled open the door. Gus was indeed on the path, but not the Gus she expected. Fur dull and bedraggled, eyes shut, he lay motionless on his side, and for a heart-stopping moment she thought he was dead. Then Max, kneeling beside him, looked up, meeting her horrified eyes.


  ‘There’s a faint pulse,’ he said. ‘I’ll stay with him while you get some clothes on, then you take over. We’ll have to get him to the vet pronto.’

  She fled up the stairs, pulled on sweater and jeans, and dragged a comb through her hair. Then she knelt beside Gus, murmuring his name and stroking the unaccustomedly harsh fur, while Max dressed. Fortunately his car was at the gate and between them, they managed to lift the dog on to the back seat, and Rona crouched beside him, still murmuring comfort, throughout the short drive.

  The veterinary practice was, in fact, only a few doors up from Farthings, in Dean’s Crescent North. It was not yet surgery hours, but Max had phoned ahead to give notice of their arrival and Bob Standing, the senior vet, met them at the door. He knew Gus from his regular injections, and Max as a neighbour.

  ‘Looks bad,’ he said tersely. ‘Bring him through.’

  Max and Rona waited while he examined the dog, lifting his lids to display the whites of his eyes, checking on his heart, wiping his mouth of the yellow scum that caked it.

  ‘What’s wrong with him?’ Rona whispered, when she could keep quiet no longer.

  ‘There’s no sign of injury; I’d say he’s been poisoned.’ The vet glanced at them over his shoulder. ‘Could he have eaten anything suspicious in the last few hours? Something put down for rats, perhaps?’

  Briefly, Max explained the dog’s disappearance and their desperate search for him.

  ‘Will he – be all right?’ Rona asked.

  ‘It’s too early to say. If we knew what he’d eaten, and how much, we’d have a clearer idea how to treat him. However, he’s a healthy animal, and pretty tough. I’d say he has a fighting chance. We’ll start working on him right away, and of course we’ll let you know when there’s any news.’

  ‘Can’t we stay with him?’

  ‘No point; he doesn’t know you’re there. Go home and try to keep busy, that’s my advice. There’s nothing you can do here.’

  Rona moistened her lips. ‘How soon will you – know?’

  ‘You can telephone at lunchtime.’

  They walked the few yards down the road to Farthings, and Max put his key in the door. ‘Coffee and toast coming up. We’ve not eaten properly since we were at the pub.’

  ‘“Keep busy”, he said,’ Rona remarked bitterly.

  ‘It’s good advice. You need to immerse yourself in something that will keep your mind off Gus. What were you planning to do today?’

  ‘Finish off the weekend’s notes,’ she said listlessly, ‘then chase up Theo’s publisher and agent, neither of whom has replied to my letter.’

  ‘It’s probably in a slush pile somewhere,’ Max said, with a tired smile.

  ‘What were you going to do?’

  ‘Plough on with the Ingledew commission. I’m slightly behind with it, though they’re not pressuring me, thank God. I’d been hoping to make a significant inroad before the evening class.’

  They ate breakfast in silence.

  ‘I suppose I might as well go home,’ Rona said at last. ‘You can get on with your work, and at least I’ll have something to do there.’

  ‘I’ll run you home, but come back well before dark,’ he reminded her.

  She nodded. Under the present circumstances, there was no way she could stay overnight in the house, without even Gus for company.

  As he dropped her off, Max pulled her briefly against him. ‘I feel responsible for this,’ he said into her hair. ‘I’m so very, very sorry, darling.’

  ‘Don’t blame yourself. If anything, it’s my fault, for getting involved with Theo Harvey.’

  ‘You think that’s what it’s all about?’

  ‘As you pointed out yourself, it only started when I embarked on the bio. And there was the note, remember, warning me off. He’s just – upped the ante. But if anything happens to Gus – anything worse, I mean . . .’

  ‘He’s in the best hands,’ Max said quietly, ‘and as Bob said, he’s pretty tough. He’ll survive.’

  ‘He’d better,’ Rona replied, and, getting out of the car, she went up the path to the front door. Behind her, she heard Max drive away.

  Eleven

  The post lay on the mat as Rona pushed open the door and she flicked quickly through it. Still nothing from Theo’s agent or publisher, but there was a reply from the secretarial agency that had typed his books, and she sat down on the stairs to read it.

  It seemed that no one at the agency had ever met Theo, nor had they had any significant correspondence with him. Once a year, his manuscript had arrived by post, was transcribed, and two copies sent back to him; his cheque was received by return of post. There was then no further communication until the arrival of the next book the following year. This had been the procedure from receipt of his first novel, The Silencer, published in 1984, to Game for Fools, which came out in ’95. A gap of three years then ensued, during which they’d read in the press of his much-publicized ‘block’.

  Consequently, they’d been considerably surprised when, in 1998, Dark Moon Rising appeared without his having called on their services. Their managing director wrote to Mr Harvey, expressing the hope that they might have the opportunity of preparing his next novel, but had received no reply.

  The letter ended by saying that Ms Parish was welcome to call on them if she felt it would achieve any purpose, but in view of the lack of personal contact, she might feel it was not worth while.

  ‘Too right!’ Rona muttered to herself, getting up from the stair. She looked at her watch. Still only a quarter to ten; lunchtime, when a phone call could legitimately be made, seemed aeons away. She went upstairs, stripped off the hastily donned sweater and jeans, and had a shower. Then, feeling better equipped to face what the day might bring, she searched her files for the phone number of Theo’s publishers.

  It took a while for them to locate his editor, a man called Darren Peters, who then informed her that nearly all their contact with Theo had been through his literary agent, Elizabeth Franklyn at Bliss, Bowles and Charleston.

  ‘You must have found his block worrying,’ Rona probed, ‘specially when it lasted so long.’

  ‘We were most concerned, of course. He was one of our top authors.’

  ‘Did you see him at all during that period?’

  ‘Yes, I invited him to lunch to see if we could come up with a solution.’ Meriel had mentioned this.

  ‘How did he seem?’

  ‘Distraught. Not his usual self at all. In fact, he was never the same as before, even when he got back to writing. In the early years, for instance, he’d actively enjoyed the publicity we arranged for him – attending bookshops, television and radio appearances, book tours. But after the gap, he made it clear he wouldn’t attend any more events in person.’

  ‘Why do you think that was?’

  ‘We put it down to loss of self-confidence. It was frustrating, of course, but as both books proved to be best-sellers, sales weren’t adversely affected.’

  Which seemed to be all he could tell her. Rona thanked him, and jotted down a few quick notes before contacting Theo’s agent and once again going through the explanation of her interest in him.

  ‘What was your impression of his last two books?’ she asked curiously, after the pleasantries had been observed.

  ‘Outstanding,’ Elizabeth Franklyn replied promptly. ‘They—’

  ‘Yes,’ Rona interrupted impatiently, ‘but I meant in comparison with the previous ones?’

  There was a pause. ‘Well, they were totally different, of course. He’d matured a lot as a writer in those three years.’

  Rona glanced at the agency’s letter on the desk beside her. ‘Do you know why he didn’t have them professionally typed, like the others?’

  ‘He explained that he was rewriting almost to the last minute, and it made more sense to do them himself. I have to say they made more difficult reading, with all the insertions and deletions.’

  ‘Did he ever hint at what had cau
sed the block?’

  ‘No, but it isn’t that unusual, you know. Quite a few of our authors have suffered something similar over the years.’

  ‘Did you know him well, as a person?’

  ‘That’s hard to say. Outwardly, Theo was very hail-fellow-well-met. I’m speaking about before the block, of course. You’d have had him down as an extrovert, someone who enjoyed company and had an almost childish need to be liked. But in point of fact, as I later discovered, he was a very private person. I was astonished, when he died, to find out how little I had known him.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘Well, I would never in a million years have believed he could kill himself.’

  ‘And you think he did?’

  ‘Oh, definitely. A gloss was put on it, of course, and admittedly no one could prove anything, one way or the other, but that was the general agreement. All the same, if he was that way inclined, you’d expect him to have done it during his block, rather than when everything he wrote received such paeans of praise.’

  ‘Perhaps he had other problems,’ Rona suggested. ‘Did you know anything of his personal life?’

  ‘We never discussed it, if that’s what you mean. All I knew was what I read in the gossip columns, like everyone else.’ She paused. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Just that there’s a possibility there was another woman.’

  Ms Franklyn gave an inelegant snort. ‘Dozens, by all accounts.’

  Rona didn’t pursue it. ‘Is there anything else you can tell me about him?’

  ‘Not that I can think of, but I’ll contact you if anything comes to mind. Apologies for not replying to your letter, by the way; I was off for two weeks with ‘flu and my correspondence tray is overflowing.’

  ‘Thanks for your help,’ Rona said.

  For the next half hour she transcribed the gist of both phone calls into the relevant sections of the database. A glance at her watch showed it was still only ten forty. Had a morning ever passed so slowly?