"An autobiography?" I echoed, sitting bolt upright in surprise.

"Yes," he confirmed, "And I was acting as her agent. It's great stuff. Would you like to see?"

"I most certainly would."

Methven prised himself from the comfortable davenport and made his way across the expensive carpet to the expensive desk. He pressed a button on the intercom and was answered by a sharp squawk.

"The manuscript for Strowan Westwood's autobiography, please," he instructed.

The response was another, longer burst of noise within which could just be detected the sounds of confirmation. It was all for effect, of course: the entrance from the outer office was marginally closer than the desk and it would have been less effort to open the door and just speak. But that wouldn't have allowed him to demonstrate his expensive toys.

Methven returned to the davenport and watched the door impatiently. The Guardian of the Office appeared a few moments later, clutching in a fat file which she deposited on the corner of the coffee table and then left without a word being spoken.

Methven twisted the folder towards him and flipped open the cover. There were two kinds of paper in there: modern white paper of the kind which would work nicely with the typewriters I had observed in furious operation outside, which contrasted with a heavy cream vellum. I could almost hear the scratch of an old-fashioned fountain pen, or maybe a even a feather quill, as the nib progress over the uneven surface.

"This is great stuff," Methven said, sounding suddenly gleeful, "And all actually written by Lady Strowan herself. No ghost writers for her."

"What?" I exclaimed, "You mean, written in her own hand?"

I couldn't believe that. Strowan Westwood's fingers had been too old and arthritic to be able to do more that sign a cheque. Even the amount and payee she had relied on others to fill in at her instruction.

"No, of course not," Methven smiled, "She dictated the chapters and they get delivered here every week or so, written out longhand. Then I get them typed up."

I picked up a sheet of the creamy manuscript and studied the handwriting. I thought I recognised the loops and whorls of the old-fashioned hand.

"This is Tibbermore's writing, isn't it?" I queried.

"Yes, of course," Methven confirmed, "Who else would she trust with such a task?"

I nodded. In my mind's eye, I could just see the old butler, sitting ramrod-straight at a desk with his pen hurrying over the surface of the paper, while the sharp mind and keen wit of Lady Strowan imparted yet another tale from her own exciting and adventurous existence: people she had met, parties she had attended, places she had been - all the pleasures and vicissitudes of a long and charmed life.

"These memoirs are like gold dust," Methven rattled on, "There are stories in here which I've never heard before. And I've heard a lot of stories, from Lady Strowan and others, from years long past. Now, of course they'll remain incomplete, but still very much publishable. In fact, with Lady Strowan now dead, it'll sell even more copies. It'll be in print in a few weeks."

Methven suddenly leaned forward over the low table, his eyes narrowing in determination and greed.

"I have to say, Gask," he growled, showing more of his numerous small sharp teeth, "Nobody, but nobody, is going to stop me from publishing this book. Not you, not the police, and certainly not anyody else."

It was like being savaged by a small plump spaniel. I'm sure it all made business sense and I doubted that Almon Methven maintained the family firm without a smidgeon of acumen. I knew from my own experience that Lady Strowan was a formidable and highly entertaining teller of tales, and I could imagine it being an instant bestseller.

I stared at Methven for a long moment.

"Let me offer you some advice," I said seriously, "Free, gratis and for nothing. Keep those manuscripts safe. Make sure they get published. Get some copies made, leave them with trusted associates or even your lawyer if you can afford it. That might just save your life."

Methven looked shocked, frightened. I wasn't going to explain, not to him. Perhaps I didn’t need to. There could be secrets revealed in the memoirs or, more likely, secrets which would no longer be revealed now that Lady Strowan was dead. Secrets which somebody wanted to protect, perhaps even a secret which Strowan Westwood didn't even realise was a secret; well, that secret might just be worth killing her for.

Part 37

Part 39