Free A Hovering of Vultures by Robert Barnard Page B

see Susannah Sneddon as a Shakespeare,” commented Lettie dryly, “with scholars arguing over emendations. I think I’ll creep away. That young lady is a bit too inclined to regard me as valuable source material!”
    Charlie was about to move away with her towards the road when he saw that there was another couple waiting impatiently beside the little group, obviously hoping to talk to Gerald Suzman. The man was tall, gangling, with a craggy, misshapen face and hideous teeth which obtruded themselves on the observer by their fang-like shape and discoloured state. His wife was small and dumpy, with a puddingy face and faded hair that she let fall around in an apparently random manner. After a moment or two Gerald Suzman saw them and used them to make his escape.
    â€œSomeone else wants to talk to me. I’m quite happy to discuss the manuscripts any time ,” he said in parting—Charlie thought with particular emphasis to the Scandinavian woman, indeed with a look at her that was almost meaningful. “Yes?” he said, turning towards the couple. “Did you want to see me?”
    The lanky man bent over him. Charlie moved closer.
    â€œMy name is Felix Potter-Hodge.”
    â€œOh yes?”
    â€œMy grandmother was a great friend of Susannah Sneddon’s.”
    â€œReally?”
    Now Mr Suzman’s interest was genuinely aroused. Hisbody took on a new spryness, tense with interest. He gave them his real as opposed to his token attention.
    â€œHow did they know each other? Was it a literary friendship?”
    â€œOh no. They were at school together, first here in Micklewike, then in Batley Bridge.”
    â€œHow fascinating. A Micklewike girl, then. And did your-grandmother talk much about her friend?”
    â€œShe did occasionally, yes. But she married young and moved to Ilkley, so her memories were mostly of their schooldays.”
    â€œThey could be very valuable. We have very few records of that time.”
    â€œShe never wrote anything down, of course.”
    â€œI imagine not. If only the revival of interest had come earlier . . .”
    â€œBut there are letters!”
    â€œLetters? They corresponded?”
    â€œOh yes. Not frequently, but regularly, over a long period. It was a case of maybe two or three letters a year.”
    â€œAnd you said—did you say ‘there are letters’?”
    â€œOh yes. She kept them all.”
    â€œShe’ll be dead by now, of course.”
    â€œYes, she died in 1960. But we inherited them.”
    â€œ Really ?”
    â€œWell, we inherited the house. The letters were in an old suitcase in the attic. We might well have thrown them out, but we’d heard her talk of her friend the novelist, and we thought she wouldn’t want them destroyed. So we just left them up there.”
    â€œThey’re still there?”
    â€œActually we brought them down when there began to beall this talk about Susannah Sneddon. Dusted them off, you know, and read a page or two.”
    â€œTheir place is here!” said Gerald Suzman, emphatically and enthusiastically.
    The man’s craggy face crumbled into a smile. His place in the Susannah Sneddon story had been acknowledged. His part of her was being exhibited in the light of day.
    â€œWe would be quite happy to lend one or two letters for exhibition,” he said.
    â€œNo, no: they should all be here. As an archive. There are very few letters of the Sneddons in existence that we know of. They didn’t have a great many friends. The letters should be here—I would be happy to make you an offer for them.”
    The man turned his stubbled, cavernous face to his wife’s.
    â€œOh, I don’t think we’d want that, would we, Mavis?”
    â€œOh no ,” she said, surprisingly positive. “No, we didn’t think of selling .”
    â€œBut why not? Susannah Sneddon was nothing special to you.”
    â€œWell, but she