‘Naturally, the murder of one of our authors is not the kind of publicity we look for,’ said the senior partner. ‘All the same, we are somewhat disappointed that Colin saw fit to withdraw his second book. We should have been interested to see it. When he had ironed out some rather regrettable mannerisms and pruned an extensive and dictionary-conscious vocabulary, he might have shown considerable promise. We were quite prepared to take a chance on his second book unless it was very bad indeed.’
‘I thought, when I read his two books, that he had talent,’ said Dame Beatrice.
‘Oh, you’ve seen the second one, then?’
‘He sent me a copy in the hope that I would write a preface, I think. Do you know why Mr Palgrave decided to withdraw the book from publication? It seems a mystery to me.’
‘We have no idea. His agents sent us a copy of his letter, but it is very short and offers no explanation of his action.’
‘Did you know him well?’
‘He came here several times. He was a very eager and enthusiastic author, of course, and expected rather more from his first book than was justified by the standard of his work, and by the fact that it was his initial attempt and by no means in the best-seller class, but his attitude was no phenomenon in our experience.’
‘Were you surprised when you knew that he did not wish to publish his second book?’
‘We were more than surprised. He had been in correspondence with us about the book, giving us a synopsis first of all, and in later letters giving us more details of the plot and a great deal of unnecessary information as to the book’s progress in its later stages. He seemed altogether delighted with the work. The very last thing we expected was a complete volte-face. We are at a loss to understand it.’
‘I suppose – I advance the theory with all diffidence – I suppose the letter to his agents postponing, or, as I understand it, forbidding publication, did come from Mr Palgrave himself, and not from some outside source?’
‘Such an idea has never occurred to us, nor, I am sure, to Peterheads. Who would take such a liberty?’
‘Either a practical joker or somebody who had an interest in suppressing the book.’
‘You say you have read the book, Dame Beatrice. Could there be such an interest?’
‘I hardly know. Blackmail is one of the themes explored in the story, and from previous knowledge which I assimilated from his acquaintances, I know that Mr Palgrave was not averse to including real incidents and real personalities in his narrative. I should be interested to see your copy of the letter which was sent to his agents.’
‘I begin to see that there are possibilities we had not considered, but if the law of libel had been infringed, surely it would have paid the objector better, had we published the book, to take us to court rather than to prevent publication altogether?’ He smiled benevolently. ‘Not that we should have published, of course, if we had had any doubts.’
Less inhibited, less dignified and perhaps less cautious than the senior partner of Kent and Weald, young Mr Peterhead put the cards on the table in no uncertain manner.
‘K and W,’ he said, ‘would have published the book. It’s not bad. Palgrave would have shown lots of promise once he could have forgotten that he was a schoolmaster. Apart from that, there would have been the posthumous fame of getting himself murdered. Very sorry about that, of course, but it would have helped sales no end. Still, it cuts both ways. Lost Parenthesis might have sold well on the strength of the author’s violent death, but, with no more books to come — well, t’other or which, I suppose, in the end. Not that I want to sound callous or materialistic, of course.’
‘Did you ever check to find out whether Mr Palgrave’s last letter was genuine?’
‘Genuine? How do you mean, Dame Beatrice? It had his signature on it all right.’
‘Did you not think it strange that he should wish to suppress his novel?’
‘Oh, authors are the queerest lot of people in the world. You’d be amazed at what we and their publishers have to put up with. I talked the letter over with my father and we decided to take no action for a week or two in the hope (and full expectation, I may add) that Palgrave would change his mind. By the time (as we’d heard nothing more) we had decided to write to him regretting his decision, hoping he had changed his mind and would instruct us to go ahead and send the book to Kent and Weald, we had the news that he was dead, so nothing further has been done, of course.’
‘That is very interesting. May I see his last letter to you? As I told you when I asked for this interview, I am accredited to the Home Office and am accustomed to working in co-operation with the police.’
‘Of course you may see his letter. The police have seen it and were surprised not to find an answer to it from us, but all we did was to telephone him. Our call was never answered except by his landlady. He was never at home during our office hours.’
‘He was dead, of course, by the time you wrote to him.’ She took the letter which young Mr Peterhead had extracted from a filing-cabinet. ‘I see that this is not dated. You would not remember what the postmark on the envelope was?’
‘I’m afraid not. I remember that the letter came by second-class post, though.’
‘Was that unusual?’
‘Yes, under the circumstances. That is why I remember it. One would suppose that if he didn’t want us to send his book to Kent and Weald he would either have telephoned or told us by first-class post. There would have been very little time to lose if he really wanted us to suppress the book and not let K and W have it.’
‘He could have written direct to the publishers himself, I suppose, though, asking them to return the book to him when they had received it from you.’
‘It does all seem a bit mysterious, because of course he could have done that.’
‘I would like to submit this letter to a handwriting expert, together with any other signatures of Mr Palgrave’s which you may have. It might also be interesting to find out whether this letter and the others were typed on the same machine.’
‘How about fingerprints?’ asked young Mr Peterhead, entering into the spirit of the thing with interest and considerable zest.
‘Useless, I fear. None of the fingerprints on this letter will be on record, with the exception of my own.’
‘Yours?’ The young man looked astonished and disbelieving. Dame Beatrice spread out a yellow claw.
‘There are times when mine have to be distinguished from those of the felons whose fraudulent documents I am called upon sometimes to handle,’ she explained. ‘I would like to repeat a previous question in slightly different words. I think I may receive a more significant answer from you this time. Now, Mr Peterhead, what was your reaction when you first read this letter? Granted, as you say, that authors are kittle cattle, what did you think of Palgrave’s request?’
‘As you see, it was not so much a request as an order. We were astounded. As a whole, authors are proud of their work and extremely jealous that it shall be appreciated by others to the extent that they appreciate it themselves. The point at which an author begins to think his stuff is no good, and wonders why he ever committed himself to writing it, is about two-thirds of the way through. By the time he’s got over that hurdle and finished the book, he’s convinced that the world has produced another genius and that his book is a masterpiece.’
‘And Palgrave, in that sense, was not noticeably different from the norm?’
‘Definitely not, I would say. We couldn’t understand his reactions. We concluded he was tired, that’s all. We knew he had had trouble, at the beginning, in getting down to the book, and, of course, he was combining authorship with another very demanding job.’