Carole just had time to register the ex-librarian’s use of the Professor’s first name before Graham began his predictable tirade. ‘Oh yes, it’s all my fault, isn’t it? You have no idea how much work is involved in just looking after Esmond’s literary estate. I have to go out and do talks in schools, I’m editing an edition of the letters, I have to try and persuade publishers to reissue the books. If there’s any reason why the biography is late—’
‘It’s because,’ George Ferris cut in, ‘the job has been put in the hands of an idle dilettante!’
‘How dare you call me a—!’
‘Gentlemen! Squabbling is not going to help anyone. Can we please be quiet!’
Gina Locke sounded surprisingly masterful. A grudging stillness fell. ‘Well done, girl,’ murmured Belinda Chadleigh.
But Gina wasn’t allowed to take advantage of the silence she had won. It was immediately hijacked by Sheila Cartwright. ‘You’re absolutely right, George,’ she said unexpectedly. ‘Previously the delay on Graham’s biography didn’t matter. Keeping it back to coincide with the centenary of Esmond’s death made sense. But that was before we’d got the odious Professor Teischbaum snapping round our heels. Now it’s of paramount importance that the authorized biography is published before hers.’
‘It won’t be easy for me,’ whinged Graham Chadleigh-Bewes. ‘There’s still lots of research to do and—’
‘I know it won’t be easy for you,’ said Sheila. ‘In fact, I don’t think there’s a chance of your delivering a manuscript in the timescale that is now essential to us.’
‘Well, I could try, but—’
‘Which is why,’ she steamrollered over him, ‘you are no longer writing the biography, Graham.’
‘What?’ The word came from more mouths than just his.
‘We should have made the change a long time ago,’ said Sheila coolly, ‘but it’s not too late. I spoke today to Jonathan Venables.’
Graham Chadleigh-Bewes was appalled. ‘You mean the one who did that tatty scissors-and-paste job on George Orwell, and Hilaire Belloc. His research never goes beyond the clippings file.’
‘It will in this case,’ Sheila Cartwright continued relentlessly, ‘because you are going to hand over all your research to him.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of doing such a thing.’
‘You will do it, Graham!’ The would-be biographer quailed under her implacable eye. ‘I’ve talked to Jonathan Venables’ agent, and he’s drawing up a contract. The book will be delivered by the end of the year.’
Now George Ferris joined the protest. ‘But he can’t do a decent book in two months.’
‘He can, and will. More importantly, Jonathan Ven-ables’ book will be published long before Marla Teischbaum’s.’
Graham Chadleigh-Bewes had risen from the table. Tears were pouring unchecked down his baby face. ‘You can’t do this to me, Sheila.’
‘I’m sorry. It’s done. This is an emergency. Someone had to take the initiative.’
‘Maybe,’ Gina intervened. ‘But if anyone should have taken the initiative, it should have been—’
‘Be quiet,’ Sheila Cartwright commanded. ‘This is important. Bracketts is under threat, and I’m the only person who can save it.’
The messianic light burning in her eyes made everyone round the table uncomfortable. After a moment’s silence, Graham Chadleigh-Bewes pushed his chair back so fiercely that it crashed down on the wooden floor.
‘You won’t get away with this, Sheila,’ he muttered through his tears, as he stumbled out of the room.
Belinda Chadleigh looked up in bemused surprise. ‘Well, that was a short meeting,’ she said, and tottered off after her nephew.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The Emergency Trustees’ Meeting rather ran out of steam after that. The announcement that Sheila Cartwright had taken the decision to commission a new biography of Esmond Chadleigh without even the illusion of consultation had knocked the stuffing out of Gina Locke. She had the look of a woman who’d contemplated throwing in the towel many times before, and had now been floored by the final body-blow. On her small dark face was an expression of resignation, and it looked as though a matching letter would soon follow.
She no longer maintained even the pretence that she was chairing the meeting, and listened while Sheila outlined her orders to the others for dealing with the press. The Old Guard had won. Sheila Cartwright was as much in charge of Bracketts as she had ever been.
The only resistance she encountered was from George Ferris, who echoed the doubts Graham Chadleigh-Bewes had expressed about the likely quality of a biography written by Jonathan Venables.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ Sheila responded tersely. ‘The important thing is that it’s published as soon as possible, and spikes the guns of Professor Marla Teischbaum.’
‘We can’t be sure it’ll even do that,’ said the ex-librarian slyly. ‘I heard a rumour that the good Professor is pretty well advanced in her researches. It could be a race to the line.’
Carole would have put money on the fact that the rumour came from Marla Teischbaum herself.
‘She can’t complete it before the end of the year,’ said Sheila, countenancing no possible argument. ‘She’s still got requests in to the Estate for permission to quote from Esmond’s works. We can spend a good while toing and froing over that.’
‘Before finally saying no.’
‘Exactly.’ The word was accompanied by a thin, complacent smile. ‘Don’t worry. We can delay Professor Teischbaum for quite a long time.’
There was a flash of lightning from outside. The rain that had been threatening on and off all afternoon came down with sudden force. Recalcitrant thunder groaned distantly.
Gina Locke and George Ferris had left the house as soon as Sheila Cartwright pronounced the meeting closed, hurrying out in a break between the thunderstorms. Gina looked pale, in shock, and walked like an automaton towards the Administrative Office. George turned towards the car park. Carole felt sure he would be seeing or telephoning Marla Teischbaum before the night was out.
She found herself lingering with Sheila at the open front door by the gift shop. Outside the darkness was now total, heavy with the threat of another inundation. Remembering the suicide masquerade she had witnessed, she asked, ‘Do you think Graham will be all right?’
‘Yes,’ came the curt reply. ‘His pride’s hurt, that’s all. He’s no one but himself to blame. He’s been promising that biography for years, and there’s no sign of it.’
‘How near do you think he is to completion?’
Sheila Cartwright snorted. ‘No idea. Not very far advanced, I imagine. He’s just gone round in circles doing research. I should think the amount of actual writing he’s done could be measured in tens of pages.’
‘Why was he given the job in the first place?’
‘Because he was the obvious person. A relative, obsessed with Esmond, with easy access to all the papers – and a good Catholic.’
‘Is Jonathan Venables Catholic?’
‘No, but that doesn’t matter. He’ll do a workmanlike job.’
‘I still don’t quite understand why Graham was appointed to write the biography . . .?’
‘Because it flattered his vanity . . . mostly. Also, I thought it would give him a big project, something to do . . .’
‘Keep him out of your hair?’
‘Yes. That was another reason.’
‘You sound as if you didn’t much care whether his book ever got completed or not.’
The tall woman looked down at Carole. There was an uncompromising honesty in her eyes. ‘All right. To be quite honest, I didn’t. I was keen on anything that might raise the profile of Esmond and Bracketts, but I wasn’t convinced the biography would make that much difference. Maybe, coinciding with the centenary in 2004, but . . . I wasn’t really that bothered . . . until Marla Teischbaum came on the scene.’