The Liar in the Library. Simon BrettЧитать онлайн книгу.
at the works of—’
‘I’m not sneering. Far be it from me to—’
‘John Banville, for instance,’ his interlocutor went on implacably, ‘is well known for writing his crime novels as Benjamin Black and referring to them as “cheap fiction”, when compared to his literary novels. And the CV of Booker Prize-winning Julian Barnes doesn’t draw attention to the Duffy novels he published under the name of Dan Kavan—’
‘I don’t think any of this is really relevant to this evening’s discussion.’
‘Oh, but it is,’ the questioner persisted. His manner was not aggressive, it was infinitely reasonable. He argued with the skill of an experienced debater, someone who had always dealt with words. ‘We’re here to talk about your work and I am particularly interested in the books published – self-published – under the name of Seth Marston which—’
Burton St Clair was clearly rattled now. ‘I’m going to have to cut you off there,’ he interrupted.
‘Are you saying you don’t know the works of Seth Marston?’
‘I’ve never heard the name. We’re here this evening to talk about my novel Stray Leaves in Autumn.’ The author appealed to his audience. ‘Do we have another question on that subject?’
The woman whose raised hand was favoured this time was inordinately tall and expensively blonde, dressed in a slightly fussy pink jacket over an extremely fussy cream blouse. ‘I don’t think we should leave the subject of mystery fiction.’ Her voice had the relaxed refinement of an East Coast American intellectual. ‘The gentleman who spoke before mentioned the Golden Age, and that is a topic on which I have done considerable research, and indeed on which I teach a college course. I’m very interested in the relationship between classic mystery fiction and its so-called “literary” counterparts. I wondered if you, as a—’
‘I’m sorry to interrupt you there,’ said Burton St Clair, who clearly wasn’t sorry at all, ‘but without wishing to sound egotistical, I thought this evening we were meant to be talking about my books rather than those of the Golden Age, however classic they may be.’ Quickly, before the American could come back at him, he pleaded, ‘Now do we have another relevant question?’
One of his worshipful company of ladies came to the rescue. ‘From my reading of Stray Leaves in Autumn, I get the impression that you believe some level of adversity actually strengthens the bonds of love. Is that true?’
‘Oh yes, certainly. And it’s very perceptive of you to pick up on that. Shakespeare tells us “the course of true love never did run smooth”, and I think that there, as in many other areas of life, experience – and not always happy experience – can intensify the emotional reaction to …’
And Burton St Clair was off again, laying bare the depths of his sincerity to the good people of Fethering.
Jude was less convinced by his oratory than most of them. She remembered Megan telling her that, in his years as an aspiring but rejected writer, Al Sinclair had scraped up enough money to have three crime novels vanity-published. She didn’t know that they’d been written under the name of Seth Marston, but it wouldn’t have surprised her. It would have been in character for Burton St Clair to have lied about his early history as a writer.
THREE
Tickets for the Burton St Clair Author evening had cost five pounds, but that included a glass of wine. So as soon as she had finished her speech of thanks to the author, Di Thompson busied herself and her helpers with moving the furniture to make room for the less formal part of the evening. There was limited space in Fethering Library and the drink-dispensing table could not be set up until the chairs had been folded away.
Most of the audience stood patiently while this process took place. A few public-spirited souls helped with the chair-folding. Maybe they were just being helpful, or perhaps volunteers had been delegated to the task. There was a purpose-built trolley with prongs on to which the chairs had to be hung. Jude noticed that the man in pink trousers was one of those doing his duty. The more infirm audience members stayed resolutely in place. They were not going to risk losing their chairs.
One elderly woman, in a trouser suit from a different era, was doughtily helping, however. Though it looked as if she needed the chair she was moving to support her frail body. Jude moved forward to assist.
‘It’s all right,’ said the woman in a reedy but cultured voice. ‘I can manage.’
‘Well, if you’re sure …’
‘Oh yes. I’ve been moving chairs at this library since long before you moved here, Jude.’
She was unsurprised that the woman knew her name. Even if they’d never actually met, most residents of Fethering knew the names and personal histories (true and embellished) of everyone else in the village. ‘I’m sorry, I’ve seen you around, but I don’t know your name.’
‘Eveline Ollerenshaw, but everyone calls me “Evvie”.’ It was clear she regarded this conversational opening as an opportunity for a break in her strenuous task. Propping herself up on the chair, she continued, ‘I live right next door to the library.’ She gestured through the wall. ‘Been here since I moved down when my husband Gerald retired, and he passed on in 1997. I’ve been volunteering here ever since then. I do love books, you see. They’ve been such a comfort to me. I was a volunteer here before Di Thompson took over. She often says she couldn’t manage without me.’
Jude recognized the type, the woman whose motive for offering her services as a volunteer was loneliness. Evvie worked at Fethering Library because it offered her the opportunity to talk to people. She probably was useful at times, but as she grew older became more of a liability. People like Evvie would create a problem for someone in Di Thompson’s position. At some point, she would have to suggest that the woman’s infirmity meant that her helpful volunteering days were over. Yet she would know that, when she spoke those words, she would be destroying what remained of the woman’s life. And, since Eveline Ollerenshaw lived right next door to the library, the old lady would be constantly reminded of what she had lost.
Jude saw this all in a flash, and what happened next illustrated the situation perfectly. The chair Evvie leant on in the middle of the room was now the only one unstacked. Di Thompson came across, saying, ‘Can I give you a hand with that?’
‘No, I can manage,’ the old lady repeated with dignity. And, dragging the chair behind her, she tottered across towards the trolley.
Jude took advantage of the lull to find the Ladies. It was through the staff room which, compared to the chilly space of the main library, was almost excessively hot.
Jude was not to know it, but a library staff room would have been a very familiar sight to Burton St Clair – or indeed any other author. A career in literature involves many library talks and, before each one, the staff room is where the visiting writer is invariably ensconced. There he or she will be offered sandwiches, cakes and something to drink. This last may sometimes be a glass of wine. More often it’s tea or coffee and, occasionally, the minimum hospitality of a glass of water.
Conversation would be manufactured during this pre-talk hiatus by a senior librarian, who would keep having to rush off to check that the chairs are set out properly or that relevant volunteers have arrived and know what to do. The librarian might also double-check with the author the text of the introduction that she (it usually is a she) is planning to make. She is almost always more nervous about delivering these two minutes than the writer is about spouting for the three-quarters of an hour of all the old rubbish that he or she has delivered many times before.
The staff room of Fethering Library was almost identical to all the others around the country. There was a sink, over which hung a row of mugs (whose ownership was a carefully respected issue of protocol). There was a fridge, and lockers in which the staff would stow their valuables. Shelves were piled with books and files. Pinned