The Search for Anne Perry

by Joanne Drayton

  How extraordinary — and terrible. I do not always like myself completely — but to lose yourself! I cannot imagine having nothing at all left of all your past — all your experiences, and the reason why you love or hate things.

  Hester is the light side to Monk’s darkness. If Great-Aunt Vespasia is the older Anne, then tall, slender Hester is her personification of young female goodness. Perhaps in that respect she is rather too ideal, but she does possess a challenging, perceptive quality that Anne admires. With a heartfelt contempt for hypocrisy and incompetence, she will not suffer fools. ‘She was highly intelligent, with a gift for logical thought which many people found disturbing — especially men, who did not expect it or like it in a woman.’

  Hester is among the first women to join Florence Nightingale at a Scutari troop hospital in Turkey, close to the carnage of the Crimean War. Her fine brain makes her ‘invaluable in the administration of the hospitals for the critically injured or desperately ill’. It also makes her a darn good sleuth. She discovers her special snooping talents when her brother Charles, along with Monk, becomes a prime suspect in the murder of Major Joscelin Grey.

  Grey is a seemingly righteous Crimean military campaigner who engineers Hester’s father’s bankruptcy and begins a tragic series of events that culminate in her father’s suicide and the subsequent death of her mother from a broken heart. During this investigation, Monk becomes besotted with the desirable Imogen, wife of Charles and sister-in-law of Hester. Like Charlotte Ellison’s crush on her brother-in-law Dominic, it will be some time before Monk sees the light. Poor judgement of character and superficial infatuation are themes to which Anne often returns.

  For Anne, amnesia is just a convenient means of revealing things retrospectively, a perfect device for the detective fiction writer because it leaves tracts of information obscure and suspenseful. It is not the matter of forgetting that you have murdered someone, either, that ignites her interest: that is short-lived and sensational. What matters to her in The Face of a Stranger is Monk’s loss of self, the absence of an identity, the lack of a voice to explain — and the horror of seeing himself through others’ eyes as brutal and cruel when he has to believe that this is only part of the picture.

  In the autumn of 1989, Anne loaded up her car and moved all she owned to the fishing village of Portmahomack in Scotland. The two-bedroom cottage that Meg had chosen for her was on the outskirts of the village, tucked down a narrow road that divides rolling fields. In the hum and buzz of summer, the fields glow golden yellow with hay that is cut and coiled in huge circular bales. The rows made by the harvester stripe the soil and the stubble so rhythmically that it looks like patterned fabric. In winter, the fields sit fallow in frozen stillness. When the snows come, they are a white carpet punctured at the edges by low vegetation, fences, and stark, black trees. Night sometimes falls at three o’ clock on a winter afternoon, but in summer the sun never seems to sleep.

  The cottages of Portmahomack edge a gentle bay that sweeps around to a rocky peninsula ending with the Tarbat Ness lighthouse, painted red and white like a stick of rock candy. Until the early decades of the twentieth century, the seas around Portmahomack ran with whitefish, and in the harbour the fishing boats were so closely moored it was rumoured that a fisherman could go from one end of the bay to the other without wetting his feet. Romans, Picts and Vikings have visited or settled there, and it was a holy site for the early Christian Church. In excavations below Tarbat Old Church are the remains of a human body that belong to a member of a Pictish monastery, and in the graveyard there are crosses more than 1,000 years old.

  Anne found Portmahomack beautiful — the gentle, golden northern light, and the drama of the dawns and sunsets across clear, vaulted skies. But every move has its losses, and in this case it was her cat, Poppy. ‘I’m sorry to hear you sounding so down when you phoned,’ Meg Davis counselled her in November 1989.

  I wish I could tell you that everything will be fine and that Poppy will reappear, but we both know that as time passes it seems more and more likely that she’s having some wild feline adventure somewhere. I wonder if it’s not time to let go now. I know perfectly well that she was absolutely the most wonderful cat in the world; but don’t forget that the world is full of people who love you, too. And God needs to be trusted.10

  Anne, who had spent days calling for Poppy, was now staying with friends in the United States, promoting her books and fretting over her lost cat. Meg explained in her letter that the contract had been agreed with Leona at Ballantine and she was expecting it to arrive in the post any day.

  Meg had been working so hard she had thought of almost nothing else. One Friday she woke up to the shock realization that she had not been near a hairdresser’s for months and could hardly see through her fringe. At the last minute she went locally in Tottenham Court, she explained to Anne:

  The manageress, who was wearing a lurid jumper of some shiny stuff and loads of bangles, started to cut away. ‘Certainly needs doing,’ she remarked. ‘Wot you want round the ears, then?’ I tried to explain what my usual bloke does … She picked at various strands round my ears, and obviously couldn’t figure out the way he’d done it. ‘Wot he done ’ere, then?’ she said, leaning on the back of the chair to guffaw. I escaped with an all right cut; but it certainly takes one down a peg or two to be laughed at by a hairdresser.11

  One of the things absorbing her attention was a plan to help sell the religious fantasy ‘My Eagle Comes’, which had undergone a welcome metamorphosis in structure and title in its intervening months with Anne. It was now called ‘Tathyr’ after its central female protagonist. The manuscript was massively long, but Meg held out new hope for it. She told Anne she liked the way it had opened up to make ‘room for various issues, and presented different points of view’.12 This, she felt, made the whole high-minded venture more human and accessible. Anne’s evoking of new countries and their strange ‘cultures, customs, and clothes’ was also clever. Meg’s problem was to sell it. She believed there were readers out there, but that they would only narrowly overlap with Anne’s crime fiction audience.

  ‘Tathyr’ would have to find a new readership and probably a new publisher, and Meg would need all her guile to move it from manuscript to print. She settled on the idea of acquiring a New York-based sub-agent specifically for that title. Don Maass, a slim, immaculate man of medium build, came with an excellent reputation, which Meg had researched; she had also met him at publishing events. His intelligence and proficient but potentially hard-nosed approach to publishing would suit Anne’s needs perfectly.

  In November 1989, Meg sent Don a chunk of ‘Tathyr’, along with a letter setting out the background. She explained that Anne had just delivered Highgate Rise, her eleventh Pitt book, to St Martin’s, and that they were beginning a new series with Ballantine Fawcett. ‘Each book seems to be better than the one before,’ she wrote.

  Anne is currently no. 6 on Dalton’s bestseller list for mysteries … [and] she is starting to see success abroad, with multi-book deals with Mondadori in Italy and Dumont in Germany. At last, also, we have got her started in England; Souvenir publish her second book in March next year … And I am now working on an option deal … for a television series, with a definite eye to the US market. A Prominent Commercial Writer is very keen to adopt them.13

  She pitched the difficult bit towards the end. Anne wanted to write more ‘serious’ books, and Meg outlined the progress to date of the history and religious fantasy manuscripts before explaining that:

  After several ‘dry runs’, she has now delivered TATHYR. A large amount of work on both our parts has gone into it. Anne’s strengths are, I think, a keen interest in human problems, and a vivid visual imagination, and this is an ambitious, powerful novel. Anne feels strongly that she would like it to be launched in the States.14

  If Don could find a publisher for ‘Tathyr’, he could handle the book. Meg knew she was giving him the ugly baby in a rather better-looking family o
f commercial sellers, but the agent who had been representing Anne in the United States was as reluctant as Leona to tackle the problem of selling it and was relieved when told that Meg was planning to approach Don Maass. So, this suited everyone. The question was, would the manuscript suit him?

  Don countered brilliantly. If he was going to take the baby, then he wanted the rest of the family as well. He got back to her at the beginning of January 1990. ‘I also love TATHYR,’ he wrote.

  Now I must ask a blunt question: In representing Anne here, will I gain control of US rights to her detective series? My sources in the retail area tell me that Anne sells extremely well. She is clearly the leading author of the new wave of period mysteries. I like the new Ballantine editions, but I am positive that much more can be done for her on the hardcover side, if not by St. Martin’s then by another house. I would love to move her up the ladder, both in advances and in visibility.15

  As soon as Meg received Don’s letter, she rang him in New York. The next day she was still buzzing from their conversation. ‘I can’t tell you how much it means to me that you’re also enthusiastic about Anne’s work,’ she wrote in a quick follow-up note. ‘I’m very fond of the woman, & think she really deserves fortune and popularity.’16 Don spoke to Anne on the phone and she was equally excited by his ideas. Meg sent Don copies of Anne’s previous contracts and royalty statements, and less than a week later she sent a letter formalizing their agreement along with the rest of the ‘Tathyr’ manuscript: ‘I hope you enjoy it as much as the first section.’17

  One of the major things Meg was discussing with Don was a move from St Martin’s Press. Leona had recently made it clear that Ballantine was now happy to become Anne’s principal publisher, putting out the Pitts as well as the new Monk series in both hard and soft covers. This was a green light to begin negotiations with Ballantine, but there were three other interested parties as well. In the meantime Highgate Rise was awaiting approval from St Martin’s. Don explained the strategy to Anne. ‘Once the option period is up, or once I have declined an offer, we shall be off and running … Meanwhile, after several minutes of squinting at the Times atlas, I have finally located Portmahomack. It is a pity that you must live in such a congested urban centre.’18

  The offer Ballantine made was undeniably generous. It was to be a three-book deal for the ‘Charlottes’ with a royalties advance of $125,000 — that was $35,000 for the first book and $40,000 and $50,000 for the second and third. Ballantine also offered a signing tour in the United States at their own expense. Meg sent the news to Anne with a caution: ‘Now, please keep this “officially” under your hat! St Martin’s still have some time to run on their option, and Ballantine are sending undated contracts to Don because as you can imagine all hell will break loose if Don is seen to be breaking the option. It’ll all be academic by the time we receive the contract here … CONGRATULATIONS!’19

  By the time the Ballantine contract arrived in the MBA office the relationship with St Martin’s was already over. Their option time was up and they had not responded. ‘Thanks again, too, for your mighty support during the [Ballantine] negotiations — you were beyond helpful — you were magnificent,’ Meg wrote to Don.20 To Anne she exclaimed: ‘Hooray — the new Ballantine contracts! … Of course, if you’ve got any queries, just ring. Congratulations! Much love Meg.’21

  The news of Anne’s departure hit Hope Dellon at St Martin’s like an incendiary device. ‘I wanted to let you know how shocked and dismayed I was at the way in which your new US agent, Don Maass, went about ending an association of more than a dozen years,’ she wrote to Anne in April 1990.22 She was affronted by Don’s refusal to negotiate, and said that if Anne and her agents were not happy with the arrangement they should have said so and St Martin’s would have discussed something better. She mentioned the idea of taking legal action, but knew in the long run that this would only delay rather than stop the deal, so she finished by wishing them well in their new venture.

  Responding on Anne’s behalf, Meg sent her a long list of the issues that had plagued their relationship over the years: the length between publishing dates; the fact that St Martin’s always needed to be chased; the proofs that had to be checked and returned in a ‘cripplingly short space of time’; the fact that Anne had financed her own author tours without much publicity support or bookshop liaison; and, finally, the chronic royalty payment history.23 It was like a troubled marriage that had ended, but, since they shared financial custody of the books they had created together, it was best that they parted amicably — and, more or less, they did.

  In May 1990 Don sent Meg the counter-signed Ballantine contracts along with a cheque for Anne. Meg told him: ‘Anne’s first act with the money has been to replace her disabled friend’s coal-fired heating system, so her friend doesn’t have to hump coal any more. This deal is almost turning into a scene from “It’s a Wonderful Life”!’24 Anne’s new contractual arrangements with Ballantine meant quite a radical shift in gear. She had nearly always worked on two manuscripts a year, but they had rarely been published within 12 months. The work involved in originating two sustainable plots for two separate books series, writing the manuscripts, and checking and returning the proofs was monumental. Her days now became even more focused on writing, and extended sometimes from early morning to late evening.

  The germ of many of her ideas came from either watching television or reading the newspaper. Some aspect of a dramatized programme such as Babylon Five or a current event would coalesce with other ideas floating in her head to create something unique that interested her. She loved classical music, especially Liszt, Verdi and Puccini, but television was her main release. She still worked her usual six days a week, and then, in accordance with Mormon practice, spent Sunday at rest, though this included a three-hour church service in Invergordon.

  The local Mormon Church had welcomed Anne with enthusiasm. First Meg became a parishioner, then Anne, closely followed by other family members, who began a steady migration north. Initially it was Meg’s son Simon and his wife with their baby Jonathan. They stayed in a caravan parked on the grass at Milton village, but as autumn approached Anne suggested they move into Meg’s house and Meg stay at her place while she herself was away on her 1990–91 Christmas – New Year tour of the United States. Meg could look after Pansy and the cottage.

  Anne’s mother, Marion, also moved to Portmahomack, buying a cottage with a glorious view over the bay and a terraced back garden. When Anne returned from the United States, Simon and his wife remained in Meg’s place at Milton, while Meg continued living at Portmahomack. In the meantime, Anne stayed a kilometre or so away with her mother at Arn Gate Cottage until she could shift into her new home — a restored barn that had been part of an old piggery on the land next to her cottage. Her purchase of that property had been triggered by the overflow of her septic tank: to make the system work again she had to buy the adjoining field, and the old piggery barn was part of the property. So Meg, who stayed on in Anne’s cottage, got a new septic tank, while Anne, with the help of Simon, embarked on an ambitious restoration.

  The barn had spectacular views of Dornoch Firth on one side and Moray Firth on the other, and out over the highland of Sutherland. Because the Tarbat Ness Peninsula is long and narrow, the sea is just a few kilometres away on either side of the barn. There had been no horizon for Anne in prison, just snatches of blue or grey glimpsed from a window above her head. At Portmahomack the line between sea and sky seems to stretch to infinity.

  It was Henry Hulme’s death, on 8 January 1990, that helped Anne pay the £26,000 for the property. Although the money she inherited from her father was helpful, his departure from her life brought a flood of regret. He had not seen her mature into a young woman, nor had he been a substantial part of her life since she was 15 years old.

  It was a relationship changed on both sides by catastrophe and guilt. She had helped to bring down the world as they knew it; he felt he had betrayed his daughter at he
r most vulnerable time. ‘I will go down in history as the world’s worst father,’ he had told media as he left New Zealand in July 1954. But his was a dilemma no father would want to face: a difficult choice between his children. For these reasons Anne’s grief was private, tucked away like Henry’s photograph in her drawer. It made her sad to see it. She loved him, and his face was a reminder of what was missing and now irretrievable.

  Anne never really explained to Meg Davis exactly what the problems were with her father — that he was one of the few people whose public office and profile, not to mention surname, could link her back to New Zealand and the murder. She always carried with her a sense of grief, but no one in her professional life really knew why. ‘Dear Meg,’ Anne wrote in an undated note, ‘I’ve been keeping this card for something worth saying with it. Thank you for being my friend. Love Anne.’25

  Things Anne did sometimes seemed quaintly out of step. Unexpected things were significant to her. For instance, a beam of light from a watery grey sky on the sea that she pointed out rapturously to Meg Davis on her visits — now to Scotland rather than Suffolk. Anne might miss the importance of some major ‘plotting’ discussion she was having with Meg because she was transfixed by something she had seen, and she could be traumatized by events that seemed unimportant to others. She was terrified after getting a traffic infringement notice when she failed to stop on black ice in the snow and ploughed into the back of the car in front. Her anxiety appeared disproportionate even though a court appearance was involved. Meg tried to calm her down. ‘It was just a formality. After all it isn’t as if you’ve killed someone.’26 But Anne would not be reassured.