Chapter 1.
Thorne Castle was somewhat theatrical when viewed from the gravel forecourt. The long front façade rose in dark stone and pale mullioned windows, flags stirred on the turrets, and everything seemed designed to make visitors feel very small and very impressed before they had even stepped out of their cars.
I was trying to decide whether it worked on me. I suspected it did.
I watched as the first sleek black car took the bend too fast, spat gravel, and slid to a halt far closer to Lord Alistair’s front steps than any of the other guests were ever brave enough to attempt. The second, identical car followed and stopped at a more respectful distance. I saw Lord Alistair’s shoulders shift as if he had bitten back a comment.
Bridget had shooed me, Percival, and Mirabella out of the entrance hall as soon as someone spotted the cars from one of the upstairs windows. Apparently the presence of more guests interfered with her plan to hover in the background pretending not to look at them whilst seeing everything.
So the four of us stood on the wide stone steps like a slightly mismatched welcoming committee.
The first car door opened and Julian Marchmont unfolded himself from the back seat as if the entire performance was being filmed. He wore a beautifully tailored dark coat over an even darker jacket, a scarf knotted just so, and a faint expression of expectation, as though he was accustomed to applause.
Nobody applauded. Percival cleared his throat instead.
Marchmont paused, taking in the castle, then Lord Alistair. His mouth curled in a way that probably counted as polite in certain publishing circles. “This is tolerable,” he said. “I suppose it will do.”
Lord Alistair gave a small nod. “I had feared we might not meet your standards. I’m relieved to hear it will do.”
If Marchmont detected the sarcasm in that, he gave no sign. He was already scanning the front of the castle again, his hand flattening an imaginary crease in his scarf.
The driver of the second car had gone round to open the rear door. A woman climbed out, a laptop bag swinging from one shoulder and a small suitcase being dragged behind her. She had practical trousers, flat shoes, and the kind of brisk posture that suggested she did all the actual work while someone else took the credit.
“Felicity,” Marchmont said. “Do keep up.”
“I’m right here,” she said.
The front passenger door of the same car opened and a man stepped out, straightening the lapels of his jacket as if checking an invisible mirror. He had a folder tucked under one arm and a phone already in his hand.
“Peregrine,” Marchmont said, barely glancing over. “Make sure they’ve wireless. I can’t think without access to my mail.”
Peregrine looked at the bulk of the castle, then at Lord Alistair. “We can sort that,” he said.
“You already have wireless,” I murmured to Lord Alistair.
He gave the smallest of sighs. “Apparently we now have to prove it.”
Lord Alistair stepped down one stair so he stood at the same level as Marchmont when he reached us. It made for a more balanced picture, though I doubted that entered his thinking.
“Julian Marchmont,” he said. “Welcome to Thorne Castle. I’m Alistair Ashcombe-Thorne.”
“Yes, yes, the castle person,” Marchmont said. “My publisher was very excited about you. Something about heritage.” He waved an absent hand in a vague circle that happened, by chance, to sweep past me.
I smiled anyway. “It’s lovely to meet you,” I said. “I’m Harriet Hedgerow. We’re all looking forward to your reading at The Final Chapter.”
“Of course you are,” Marchmont said. “You have a bookshop in a village of umbrella makers. A visit from me is hardly an everyday event.”
“It isn’t,” I said. “We mostly get field trips from primary schools.”
Mirabella suppressed a cough that sounded suspiciously like a laugh. Percival straightened his scarf in the same way he did whenever a student said something that did not align with his notes.
Lord Alistair inclined his head again. “May I introduce Professor Percival Bramwell and his wife, Mirabella. They’re staying at the castle and will be at your event.”
Percival stepped forward. It was not so much a step as a formal presentation. I could almost see him mentally rehearsing the opening sentence. “I’ve read your last three novels,” he said by way of greeting.
Marchmont brightened. “There. You see. This is the sort of thing I like to hear upon arrival. People taking my work seriously.”
Percival nodded. “Indeed. I was particularly interested in your treatment of classical sources in the one set in Athens. The scenes in the Assembly were vivid. However, I found the research sadly wanting.”
Silence spread across the steps like a dropped blanket. Felicity’s hand froze halfway through extracting a folder from her bag. Peregrine looked up from his phone for the first time.
Marchmont stared at Percival. Then he tipped his head back and laughed, a quick sharp sound.
“I adore academics,” he said. “You all imagine readers are turning the pages to admire your footnotes. Nobody buys my books for the research. They buy them to be entertained. If a few facts are a little flexible, it hardly matters.”
Percival did not look entertained. He folded his arms. “Accuracy matters,” he said. “Particularly when you set a novel in ancient Athens. You had an archon chosen by lot decades before that system was introduced, and one of your characters casually walked into the Assembly and voted despite having no right to do so. Those are fairly fundamental errors.”
Marchmont waved a hand. “If I confined myself to the precise layout of every ancient assembly, I wouldn’t have a career. The book sells. The publisher is delighted. The readers write me letters about the emotional truth. Not one person has ever contacted my publicist to complain about something nobody cares about.”
Peregrine cleared his throat.
“Strictly speaking, we do get the occasional email from readers who are very keen on pointing out tiny things. We had that person who was upset about the wrong kind of coin in Rome. And the one who maintained you had used the wrong type of wine glass in Paris,” he said.
Felicity shifted the folder to her other hand.
“And the man who counted the carriages in the train scene and said the journey would take longer,” she said.
Marchmont gave them both a look. “None of this contributes to my sales figures,” he said.
Mirabella stepped in. “I thought the parts with the food were lovely,” she said. “I liked the way the main character always noticed the desserts. It felt very real.”
Marchmont considered her. “Yes,” he said. “A great many readers respond to that. They appreciate the detail. If one doesn’t know how to write about a pastry properly, one shouldn’t be in this business.”
Mirabella beamed. Percival looked as if he had bitten into something unexpectedly sour.
Lord Alistair shifted the conversation with the ease of someone used to steering guests away from the furniture they were about to lean on.
“You must be tired from the drive,” he said. “Thomas will show you to your rooms. Your assistant and the publicist are in the east wing. You’re in the blue suite.”
“The blue one,” Marchmont repeated. “I suppose there’s a bath.”
“There is,” Lord Alistair said. “There’s also a shower, if that is preferable.”
“No,” Marchmont said. “A bath is essential. Inspiration doesn’t come in showers.”
Felicity rolled her shoulders back, picked up her suitcase, and followed as Lord Alistair led them inside. Peregrine walked beside her, already asking about the strength of the castle’s wireless signal and whether the stone walls interfered with streaming.
Percival leant towards me as we trailed after them. “I was quite restrained,” he whispered.
“I know,” I said. “You didn’t even get to your notes on how he used the wrong term for ostracism.”
“I will, though,” he said. “At dinner.”
Mirabella nudged him with her elbow. “Let the man enjoy his bath first,” she said with a sigh.
Inside, the entrance hall opened off the front door in a sweep of stone floor and tall ceilings. Lord Alistair’s additions, like the unobtrusive radiator covers and softly upholstered benches, managed to make it feel welcoming without losing the history.
Bridget had retreated to the far end of the hall with a feather duster in her hand. The feather duster was not moving. I guessed she was assessing exactly how many extra servings of dinner would be required and whether any of them looked like the sort of person who would try to carry plates into the kitchen.
Thomas was trying to take Felicity’s suitcase.
“I can carry my own,” she said. “I do it all the time. There are a lot of trains in my life.”
Lord Alistair nodded at the young man. The suitcase changed hands.
Marchmont gave the staircase an assessing look. “No lift?”
“It’s a castle,” Lord Alistair said. “They were regrettably short-sighted about lifts in the fourteenth century. Stairs were considered quite advanced enough.”
“I suppose that’s some sort of excuse,” Marchmont said. “Felicity, make a note to specify lifts for all future venues.”
Felicity looked at him with narrowed eyes. “I’ll remember.”
Mirabella’s phone made a small noise as she took a photo of Marchmont halfway up the stairs. I caught a glimpse of the screen. She had framed the shot so the carved balustrade curved around him.
Percival was still muttering about the political arrangements.
“They had people conducting civic business in entirely the wrong place,” he said. “The whole scene was historically impossible.”
“I know,” I said. “Perhaps you can draw him a diagram later.”
