Chapter 2 #2
“Indeed she has,” he said. “She left Australia in the mid-thirties. She’d started doing well with her books there, of course, and was lured to England with the promise of more money and a bigger audience. There aren’t many people in Australia, are there?”
“I suppose not,” she said. “Not many more than in Greater London, so I’m told.”
They drove on in silence, Emma digesting what she had just learned. “So what books did she write when she was still living in Australia?”
He gave a chuckle. “Funnily enough she started writing a couple of Victorian mysteries in the style of Sherlock Holmes, not too successful. Then she created Miss Faversham.”
“Oh Miss Faversham,” Emma exclaimed, smiling. “I read them all when I was growing up. They were exactly how I imagined England.”
“Precisely.” Mr Spencer nodded. “Stroke of genius, of course. They struck a nerve with the Australian population. The classic English village mystery with the thatched cottages, the bell ringers, the blacksmith and the old woman who seems so frail but is sharp as a tack. Of course the audience in Australia snapped them up, since many of them had memories of life in the old country. Even if they were second or third generation they’d been told about it, and Iris created the ideal England in which everything was safe and sweet and the only crimes were committed by naughty people from outside the village. ”
“They were also really clever crimes,” Emma said. “And Miss Faversham and her cat Sparky. Well, who wouldn’t love them?”
“Everyone loved them, apparently,” he said.
“Strangely enough they were an instant hit here, too, even though she was Australian. They did very well through the thirties and forties when times were hard and the audience wanted escape reading. But then she created Inspector Melrose. Quite different in tone and subject matter. I think she had grown tired of Miss Faversham’s sweet and gentle fictional world and she wanted to stretch herself as a writer.
Melrose immediately appealed to both men and women, and the rest is history.
You’ve read some of the books, of course? ”
“I’ve read a couple,” Emma said honestly. “But they aren’t really my cup of tea. A little dark and bleak for me.”
“They are quite dark,” he said. “The writing is very spare. Very good.”
“And we know nothing of Inspector Melrose’s background, apart from the fact that he is Scottish, he likes his whisky and he smokes a pipe,” Emma said. “And he’s very clever at solving crimes. But I’m not sure we care about him as a person.”
Mr Spencer nodded. “Quite true. We know nothing of the family he left behind when he came to Scotland Yard. He’s never been married.
We don’t even know if he’s had love affairs, if he prefers men .
. . He is the true outsider and observer in London.
But the crimes themselves—so complex, so many shades of right and wrong, and her prose is divine. ”
“Have you ever asked Miss Blackburn about him, whether she actually knows about his early life?”
“Not the sort of thing you ask Iris,” he said. “I did once, when I was first her editor, and do you know what she said? She said, ‘He hasn’t revealed that to me yet. We are just getting to know each other.’ As if he was a real person. I was quite shocked.”
“Do you know much about Miss Blackburn’s life before she came here?”
“Very little,” he said. “One gathers she had a harsh childhood in the outback.”
“Gosh,” Emma said. “She certainly writes like someone who is very educated.”
“Indeed she does. A remarkable woman, pretty much self-taught. Iris Blackburn is a pen name, of course.”
“So what’s her real name?”
“I’m not sure I ever knew. She changed it legally before she came to England.”
Emma digested this. “Has anyone ever written a biography of her?”
He chuckled then. “She wouldn’t allow it, I’m sure.
She’d probably say there was nothing worth telling.
I expect there was a lot of pain that she doesn’t want to share.
She never had a real home, she told me. That’s probably why she adores this house so much.
” He broke off. “Ah. Here is where we turn.”
He swung the car sharply to the left down a lane so narrow that only one vehicle would fit.
Hedgerows hemmed them in on either side, cutting out views of the fields beyond.
Emma noted that his eyesight seemed perfectly all right and he hadn’t asked her to help with directions once.
After about a mile down this lane, again overhung with hazelnut bushes ripe with their green-cased treasures, they came upon an imposing gateway.
On either side of wrought iron gates there were tall brick gateposts, each topped by the statue of a lion, it’s paw on a ball (or was it the world?).
The discreet ironwork sign incorporated into the gate read “Whitehaven.”
“So we have arrived,” he said. He got out of the car.
Emma could see no house as yet. But before she could follow him, Mr Spencer went to the gatepost on his left and she saw some kind of metal panel in it.
He pressed buttons and the gates swung silently open.
He got into the car again, looking pleased with himself.
“Luckily I remembered the code,” he said. “Iris keeps out intruders.”
A gravel driveway curved between rhododendron bushes, not in flower at this time of year, then came out to an impressive vista that made Emma gasp again.
Lawns stretched down to a small lake and behind it a long white house with black shutters and a red tiled roof.
On one side was a veranda, reminding Emma of home, and she thought immediately that this was more an Australian house than an English one.
As they approached, a flight of white doves fluttered and dipped ahead of them, and on the lake were white swans.
“It’s like a fairy tale,” Emma said.
“It is rather lovely, I agree,” Mr Spencer replied. “I used to enjoy visiting her more frequently when she was still actively writing. It’s a beautiful setting to wake up to in the mornings.”
“She hasn’t written a book for some time, has she?” Emma asked. “I don’t think I’ve heard about a new Inspector Melrose since I’ve been in the book business.”
“Not for at least five years,” he said. “Of course she doesn’t need to write another word, but I gather she is doing so now.”
“Iris Blackburn is writing a new book?” she asked in wonder.
“So one understands.”
“Which is why she wants to meet with her editor,” Emma said. “But are you sure I won’t be in the way? I wouldn’t want a stranger around if I was going to discuss my writing.”
“I don’t think we’ll actually be doing any work today. More of a social call. I expect she feels a bit cut off out here and she rarely travels any more.”
As they approached the house he turned to Emma.
“I expect there will be other people present. I should fill you in so that you don’t say the wrong thing.
” Emma nodded nervously. “She lives with a secretary/companion, a Miss Cynthia Morton. I don’t think she is anything more than a companion, in case you are wondering.
Iris bosses her around. Doesn’t treat her well at all, I’m afraid, but Cynthia takes it.
And there is a cook/housekeeper, Mrs Fisk.
Very possessive about Iris. Can also be very bossy and rude.
” He glanced across at Emma and grinned.
“And her agent might be there, too. Jeremy Feathers. I expect you’ve come across him during your time at Barlow and Barlow. ”
“I’ve heard his name mentioned,” Emma said.
“He used to be a powerhouse in the business. People trembled when Jeremy came into the room. He doesn’t work much any more,” Mr Spencer said. “Doesn’t have to, of course, with his earnings from Iris. Ah. Here we are. We have arrived safely.”
The car came to a halt outside the house and Mr Spencer went to open the car door, then paused. “Oh, I should also mention that it seems Iris has been having memory problems lately. When I’ve spoken to her she seems quite normal but I gather there are lapses . . . Just so that you are aware.”
With that he opened the car door. Emma took a deep breath before she followed him.