Brought to Book

by Anthea Fraser

  Table of Contents

  Titles by Anthea Fraser

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Titles by Anthea Fraser

  The Detective Chief Inspector Webb Mysteries

  (in order of appearance)

  A SHROUD FOR DELILAH

  A NECESSARY END

  PRETTY MAIDS ALL IN A ROW

  DEATH SPEAKS SOFTLY

  THE NINE BRIGHT SHINERS

  SIX PROUD WALKERS

  THE APRIL RAINERS

  SYMBOLS AT YOUR DOOR

  THE LILY-WHITE BOYS

  THREE, THREE, THE RIVALS

  THE GOSPEL MAKERS

  THE SEVEN STARS

  ONE IS ONE AND ALL ALONE

  THE TEN COMMANDMENTS

  ELEVEN THAT WENT UP TO HEAVEN

  THE TWELVE APOSTLES

  Other Titles

  PRESENCE OF MIND

  THE MACBETH PROPHECY

  BREATH OF BRIMSTONE

  MOTIVE FOR MURDER

  DANGEROUS DECEPTION

  PAST SHADOWS

  FATHERS AND DAUGHTERS

  BROUGHT TO BOOK

  Anthea Fraser

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First published in Great Britain and the USA 2003 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.

  This eBook edition first published in 2012 by Severn Select an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Copyright © 2003 by Anthea Fraser.

  The right of Anthea Fraser to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  Fraser, Anthea

  Brought to book

  1. Women biographers – Fiction

  2. Authors – Death – Fiction

  3. Detective and mystery stories

  I. Title

  823.9’14 [F]

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0054-9 (epub)

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-5965-5

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.

  One

  Rona Parish stood at her kitchen window, the letter in her hand, gazing out into the small paved patio that served as her garden. Unlike its neighbours with their lawns and flowerbeds, it did not, in this bleak weather, look sad and uncared-for, since the changing seasons were marked only by the succession of plants in the containers. On this February morning they were rampant with evergreens whose leaves, mottled in cream or rose, appeared touched with sunshine on even the greyest day.

  ‘Minimum work, maximum enjoyment,’ Max had said, when they bought the tall, narrow house in this quiet street.

  Rona’s eyes dropped again to the letter forwarded by her publishers as she read it for the third time:

  Dear Ms Parish,

  Having enjoyed your recent biography of Arthur Conan Doyle, I am wondering if I could ask you to undertake one for my late husband, Theo Harvey? As you’ll appreciate, there are a great many papers available and a large number of family and friends willing to be interviewed. If this request is of interest, perhaps you would care to telephone to arrange a meeting to discuss it.

  Sincerely,

  Meriel P. Harvey

  Did she want to delve into another life so soon? Rona asked herself. The Doyle book had been exhausting, and she’d determined to give herself a break from biographies for a while. On the other hand, she might find the answer to questions that had puzzled the reading public for the last two years.

  Turning from the window, she picked up the phone. It rang for several minutes before it was answered.

  ‘Max, it’s me,’ she said quickly. ‘I’ve just had a letter asking me to do Theo Harvey’s bio. What do you think?’

  There was a pause, and she imagined her husband disengaging his attention from whatever had been claiming it, in order to consider her news.

  ‘Bit of a poisoned chalice, isn’t it?’ he commented then.

  She frowned. ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Well, for a start his widow’s unlikely to be forthcoming. It’s barely six months since he died, and in what were at best unusual circumstances. You might be stirring up a hornets’ nest.’

  ‘It’s his widow who contacted me.’

  ‘Ah!’

  ‘What do you mean, “Ah!”?’

  ‘It would be interesting to know her motive.’

  Rona said a little waspishly, ‘She enjoyed my Conan Doyle.’

  ‘Fine, fine. You’re going to do it, then?’

  He was losing interest, damn him. ‘I wanted your opinion.’

  ‘Well, now you have it. I thought you were going to give bios a rest for a time? That last one was pretty gruelling, remember.’

  ‘The point is that Theo Harvey intrigues me. I’d love to know what caused that two-year block, and why he emerged from it with such a totally different style.’

  ‘Then go and see his wife. Talking it over should help you decide one way or the other. OK? Now, I really must—’

  ‘What time will you be over this evening?’ she interrupted.

  ‘Same as usual, if we don’t overrun; as you know, it’s sometimes hard to get rid of them.’ A smile came into his voice. ‘Why do you ask? Are you going to wow me with some haute cuisine?’

  ‘Of course; at Dino’s.’

  He laughed. ‘Right. Well, I’ll have a few things to sort out when they’ve gone, so I’ll meet you there at eight.’

  Rona’s twin sister referred to Max as her ‘semi-detached husband’, which was apposite enough. When they had married four years ago, they’d been in their late thirties, and more settled in their lifestyles than they’d appreciated. The problem stemmed from the fact that both worked from home, Rona writing biographies and freelance articles, Max as an illustrator and part-time art tutor. And while she needed total quiet in which to form and express her ideas, he could only work with music playing at full volume.

  As his studio on the second floor was directly above her study, she had been forced each day to retreat downstairs to the sitting-room with her lap-top and a pile of heavy reference books, all of which – since Max objected to clutter – had to be carried back upstairs each evening. Even then, the sound of his music would echo down the stairwell, and to add to her frustration it was she who had to break off her work to admit his students, since, being at the top of the house, he was unable to hear the bell.

  Tempers had become increasingly frayed, and eventually, aware they could not contin
ue as they were, they’d sat down to try to find a solution.

  ‘It seems to me,’ Max had begun, ‘that if we want our marriage to last, we’ll have to do something about our working arrangements.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Well, you can’t work with me in the house, can you?’

  ‘Are you surprised?’ she’d retorted hotly, refusing to shoulder the blame. ‘You shatter my eardrums for hours on end, added to which I have to keep breaking off to open the door to people from Porlock with sketch-pads. It’s a wonder I can string two sentences together.’

  He’d grinned. ‘Point taken.’

  ‘So?’ she’d challenged him.

  ‘So – we work under different roofs.’

  ‘If you think I’m going to take myself meekly off to the library each morning—’

  He held up a hand. ‘Suppose I leave you in possession of the marital home while I take up residence nearby?’

  ‘Residence? Isn’t that a bit extreme?’

  ‘Not when you think it through; our evenings together are virtually non-existent anyway, with my classes three times a week and you working to deadlines. I’d come back on Wednesdays when there aren’t any classes, and obviously we’d have the weekends together, but the rest of the time we’d each have our own space. The best of both worlds, really. How does it strike you?’

  ‘It’s a little unconventional,’ she’d said slowly.

  ‘But a practical solution, wouldn’t you say?’

  And somewhat reluctantly she’d agreed. So Max had bought a cottage a brisk ten-minute walk away, where his music and the comings and goings of his students disturbed no one. They spoke daily on the phone, usually more than once, but three nights a week they slept in separate beds across the town.

  Her parents, predictably, had been appalled, and regarded the ‘semi-detachment’ as a sure prelude to divorce; but as time passed and the equilibrium was maintained, they relaxed and cautiously came to accept it. Their daughter’s independence had already been demonstrated when, on her marriage, she’d refused to take Max’s name. ‘I’m known professionally as Rona Parish, so that’s how I’ll stay,’ she’d declared.

  Poor Mum and Pops, Rona reflected more than once; their conventions had been flouted by both their offspring. While she and Max pursued their idiosyncratic lifestyle, Lindsey and Hugh had, eighteen months previously, undergone an acrimonious divorce; whereupon Lindsey, who had taken her husband’s name, promptly reverted to her own. ‘Neither of my daughters seems capable of living with anyone,’ their father had remarked at the time.

  A patter of paws on the tiles roused her and she turned to see her golden retriever looking hopefully up at her. She smiled and started to clear the breakfast table.

  ‘Sorry, Gus, I’ve been daydreaming. You’re quite right, it’s more than time for your walk.’

  Minutes later, they were making their way towards the footpath that cut between the houses and led up to Furze Hill Park.

  The park itself was a large open space on the hill above the town, a popular venue for joggers, dog-walkers and young mothers with prams. Quite apart from the need to exercise Gus, Rona enjoyed the daily climb. It gave her a sense of mental as well as physical distance from the problems, personal or professional, that awaited her down in the town. Somehow, looking out from her vantage point over the cluster of roofs and steeples, she was able to put them into perspective, and frequently solutions effortlessly presented themselves.

  Apart from a spell at university, she had lived in the area all her life. Her parents’ house, some five miles from the centre, was the one in which she and Lindsey had been born. She’d attended the local schools, and after obtaining her degree had returned to pursue her chosen career of journalism at the prestigious offices of Chiltern Life before turning freelance and, later still, writing her acclaimed biographies. London was close enough for an evening at the theatre or concert hall, but she had no desire to live there. Consequently she and her sister, though fleeing the parental coop, had flown only as far as Marsborough town centre, where they’d shared a flat until Lindsey’s marriage.

  Emerging from the short-cut opposite the park gates, Rona bent to release Gus from his lead and he bounded joyously ahead. He knew as well as she did the areas forbidden to him, and was making for the stretch of grassland towards the upper end of the park. Briskly she set off after him, welcoming the stiff breeze on her face and hoping it would clarify her thoughts as, narrowing her eyes against the wind, she reviewed what she knew about Theo Harvey.

  He’d made his name in the 1980s with a series of well-plotted thrillers that had reached the best-seller lists and filled several shelves in W. H. Smith. Her father had been a particular fan, and it became a tradition that he should receive the latest Harvey novel for Christmas. Then, six years ago, the annual book had failed to appear, a fact that, among aficionados, caused as much consternation as the sun not rising. Harvey himself retreated from the public eye, steadfastly refusing all requests for interviews, and with the lack of hard fact, rumours abounded. As a second year came and went, it was openly speculated in the literary pages that he’d written himself out and his silence would be permanent.

  Then, in the third year, he confounded his critics by producing what was considered his masterpiece, a novel of such power and depth that, while it won several literary prizes, left his regular readers baffled. The thriller element of his previous books had been replaced by an altogether darker and more questioning theme, and Rona’s father was not impressed.

  ‘He’s gone all high-falutin,’ he’d remarked disgustedly.

  A major film followed, resulting in Oscars for members of its cast, and then another book, a brooding, psychological study that made disturbing reading. Again, critics struggled for superlatives and it, too, was confidently nominated for several awards. But before any judging could take place, Harvey had suddenly and inexplicably died: or rather, been found dead in, as Max had remarked, unusual circumstances. He had owned a cottage in the north of the county to which he retreated to write his novels, and one weekend was discovered floating face downwards in a local stream. Again, rumours were rife and the inquest’s open verdict did nothing to lessen them. The prestigious prizes were awarded posthumously.

  Rona, responding at last to Gus’s frenzied leaps, threw the ball for him before, wrapping her jacket more closely about her, she seated herself on a nearby bench. And that, she reflected, conjuring up the face that appeared on his books – bearded, craggy, with an enigmatic half-smile – was all she knew of the man. She didn’t doubt there was a great deal more.

  Gus skidded to a halt in front of her and dropped the ball at her feet, panting expectantly. She hurled it as far as she could, then extracted her mobile phone and rang her agent.

  ‘Eddie? It’s Rona. I thought you’d like to know that Theo Harvey’s widow has asked me to write his biography.’

  ‘Dear girl! What a plum to fall into your lap!’

  ‘That wasn’t Max’s reaction; he thinks it’s a poisoned chalice.’

  ‘I can’t imagine why; you’d be guaranteed an enormous amount of interest and I’m sure Jennings would jump at it.’

  ‘I had hoped for a breather before another bio. They’re very time-consuming, as you know.’

  ‘But surely you’re tempted?’ he probed, adding, when she didn’t immediately reply, ‘What’s Max’s suggestion for handling this “poisoned chalice”?’

  ‘That I discuss it with his wife, then see how I feel.’

  ‘Precisely what I’d advise. Let me know the outcome, and if you’d like to go ahead, I’ll do the necessary. Must go, love, someone’s waiting to see me. Speak to you soon.’ And he rang off.

  Thoughtfully, Rona slid the phone back in her pocket and sat gazing across the grassy slope ahead of her. In the distance she could see Gus, his attention diverted from his ball, sniffing at some shrubbery. There weren’t many people about. A few faithful dog-walkers like herself, muffled in woolly hats
and scarves; a woman with a child on a tricycle, running clumsily to keep up with him; a couple of elderly men cutting through the park on the way to do their meagre shopping. Yet even though no one was within earshot, this seemed an inappropriate place to make an important call; she’d ring Mrs Harvey when she got home. Standing up, she whistled for Gus, and as he started lolloping obediently towards her, turned and began to walk back down the slope.

  Meriel Harvey replaced the phone and turned to the man by the window.

  ‘She’s coming, then?’ he confirmed.

  ‘Yes. Tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Well, I hope you know what you’re doing.’

  She looked at him beseechingly. ‘Justin, I can’t go on like this. I have to know.’

  ‘And you think this woman will be able to tell you?’

  ‘There’s a chance, that’s all. She’s known to research very thoroughly; she might turn something up.’

  ‘Suppose she does, and it’s something you’d rather not know? Or at least, rather nobody else did?’

  Meriel gave a little shudder. ‘I’ll face that if and when it happens,’ she said.

  Lindsey, too, had received an unexpected letter that morning. It had preyed on her mind ever since, and at lunchtime, reaching a decision, she left her desk in the offices of Chase Mortimer and threaded her way through the crowds of shoppers to her sister’s house. The road where Rona lived was parallel to the main shopping street and only a short walk from it: much more convenient than her own home, which necessitated a fifteen-minute drive to work. As she rang the bell, she hoped belatedly that Rona wasn’t writing.

  ‘Linz! Hi – come in. To what do I owe the pleasure?’

  Lindsey, stepping into the hall, bent to pat Gus, who was delightedly threading himself round her legs.

  ‘You’re not in the middle of lunch, are you?’

  ‘Wouldn’t make much difference if I were!’ Rona retorted. She loathed cooking and almost never indulged in it. When Max was there, he invariably produced the meals; when he wasn’t, she either lived on take-aways and convenience food, or walked round the corner to the Italian restaurant where they’d arranged to meet that evening.