Free The Lying Tongue by Andrew Wilson Page B

died. Even though he was not yet seventy, from my own eyes I could tell he was not in good health. He was as frail as an old, starved dog. I would do the research, get as close to him as I possibly could, and then publish as soon as reasonably possible after his death. And although Crace had said he loathed the idea of biography and biographers—nothing but “publishing scoundrels” he called them—I was sure that he would appreciate such a tribute to his life. It was only fitting that it should be done by someone who understood him, someone who cared.
    In search of more letters from Lavinia Maddon, I tackled the pile of correspondence once again. But now, inspired by my new plan, I looked for anything of interest—snippets of biographical detail, postcards from old acquaintances, publishing returns. If a letter intrigued me, I either set it to one side to read later or copied it down into a new notebook I had bought for the purpose. To Crace, who sometimes walked in as I worked, it looked as though I was doing a particularly thorough job. He stood behind me, laying a hand lightly on my shoulder, uttered a couple of approving phrases and then shuffled out.
    One of the first letters I came across in my quest for the heart and soul of Crace was the original approach from Lavinia Maddon, dated 12 February. My God, she was good. You had to admire her determination, her seductive way with words. No wonder she had attracted so much praise. The note was charm itself, shrouding her real intention—to expose and exploit her subject—with fancy phrasing and elegant expressions. She did not want to cause offense; she had Crace’s best interests at heart; if he agreed, she promised to show him his quotes for approval; she was not concerned so much with biographical fact as with literary form. Reading it almost persuaded me that she was the best person for the job. I slipped the letter into the sleeve at the back of my notebook; I would deal with her later.
    That morning I also finally came across a couple of royalty checks. It was incredible that Crace’s novel was not only still in print, but that it sold in more than respectable quantities. I thought I’d present Crace with the checks over lunch. It would be interesting to see his reaction. After all, everything now was research.
    Just after preparing a lunch of bread, Parma ham, figs and cheese, I told Crace to close his eyes.
    “For what purpose, may I ask?”
    “I’ve got something to show you”
    “What?”
    “Wait and see,” I said.
    “It seems extremely tiresome. Why can’t you show me now?”
    He pretended to be irritated, but I could tell he was as excited as a schoolboy faced with the prospect of an unexpected gift.
    “Come on now.”
    “Oh, very well.”
    As the thinning skin drooped down over his lids, I imagined him dead and placing two coins on his eyes.
    “Hold out your hands.”
    He reached toward me, his hands cupped like a supplicant. I placed the two statements from his publishers into his palms.
    “You can open up now.”
    Crace blinked and looked down, his weak eyes first twinkling in anticipation and then recoiling in horror. He dropped the statements. His throat quivered, a gobbet of spit appeared at the corner of his mouth.
    “What? What’s wrong?”
    He was so perplexed he couldn’t talk.
    “I thought you’d be pleased to see them—they’re your checks. You’re still selling quite well.”
    Crace struggled to catch his breath as he reached out for his glass of water.
    “The title—” he spat out. “Get rid of the name.”
    “Sorry?”
    “On that statement…I don’t want to see it. I can’t bear to. I thought I’d told you—no mention, no mention at all.”
    I picked up the pieces of paper, ripped off the checks and then threw the accompanying statements, which bore the name of the offending novel, into the bin.
    “Look—they’re gone now.”
    “What were you trying to do? Kill me?”
    “I’m sorry, Gordon. I just