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through the miasma of other words.

      ‘I’m sure they do.’ Gina Locke, like everyone else, ignored the old lady and spoke calmly, repeating a response that she had often had to make before. ‘But the fact remains that Naughty Nursie’s Nursery Rhymes are out of print—’

      ‘Though I am in discussion with a publisher who’s considering reprinting them.’

      ‘I know that, Graham. However, since those discussions have already gone on for over a year, and since very few children at the beginning of the twenty-first century actually have “Nursies”, naughty or otherwise, I would think it unlikely that—’

      ‘You don’t know anything about publishing!’

      ‘I admit I’m not an expert, but I do know enough about—’

      ‘What’s more, you don’t know anything about literature!’

      ‘Listen, Graham . . .’

      Ever diplomatic, Lord Beniston intervened. ‘Now, please, can we take things in order? There’ll be time for everyone to raise any points they wish to. Gina, you were talking about legacy income . . .’

      ‘Yes.’ Managing quickly to cover her anger, the Director went on, ‘Basically there’s less of it. Esmond Chadleigh’s contemporaries have mostly died off, and I don’t think we can expect much more from that source. We’ve only had one legacy of two thousand pounds in the last six months.’

      ‘So what else might we hope for?’

      ‘The royalty income from the estate is also going down.’ Gina gave Sheila Cartwright a gracious nod, which clearly cost her quite a lot. ‘Of course, we enormously appreciate the work Sheila did in getting the agreement of Esmond Chadleigh’s heirs to pay twenty-five per cent to Bracketts . . . but Naughty Nursie’s Nursery Rhymes—’

      ‘That’s good,’ murmured Belinda Chadleigh.

      ‘—isn’t the only book that’s out of print . . .’

      ‘I’m in discussion with publishers about a lot of the others, too,’ said Graham Chadleigh-Bewes petulantly.

      Gina Locke gave no reaction to this, as she went on, ‘So I can’t see the royalty income going up much in the future . . . unless there’s a sudden revival of interest in Esmond Chadleigh’s works.’

      ‘Presumably that will be stimulated in 2004 . . . centenary of Esmond’s birth . . . and of course when the biography comes out.’ As he spoke, Lord Beniston looked across to the writer’s grandson.

      Graham Chadleigh-Bewes squirmed. ‘Still a bit behind on that,’ he confessed. ‘You know, new material keeps being unearthed . . . and then I’m kept very busy by my discussions with publishers about getting Esmond’s books back into print and . . .’ The words trickled away into nothing . . . rather as, Carole Seddon began to suspect, the much-discussed biography might.

      ‘What about the opposition?’ asked George Ferris slyly.

      ‘What opposition?’ Lord Beniston sounded testy. He clearly disliked the ex-librarian, though whether this reflected the natural antipathy of the aristocrat to the pen-pusher or had some deeper cause, Carole did not know.

      ‘A letter was read at the last meeting. From an American academic. Don’t you remember?’

      The Chairman resented the implication. ‘Of course I remember, George.’

      ‘Her name was Professor Marla Teischbaum. She wrote asking for the co-operation of the Bracketts Trustees with a biography of Esmond Chadleigh that she was proposing to write.’

      ‘And we very rightly refused such co-operation!’ Graham Chadleigh-Bewes snapped. ‘We don’t want any unauthorized biographies of Esmond. We only want the authorized biography!’

      ‘I agree,’ said George Ferris drily, ‘but how long are we going to have to wait for it?’

      ‘I’m working as hard as I can!’

      ‘Just a minute,’ Josie Freeman interrupted. ‘Was this Professor Marla Teischbaum from the same American university that wanted to buy the Esmond Chadleigh papers?’

      Gina Locke had the facts at her fingertips. ‘No, that was the University of Texas. Marla Teischbaum’s at Berkeley.’

      ‘Wasn’t there a Bishop Berkeley . . .?’ asked Belinda Chadleigh, insubstantial and, as ever, ignored.

      ‘Well, I still think we dismissed that American interest in the papers far too casually.’ Josie Freeman gave a cool look at her perfectly manicured nails. ‘The money they were offering would have guaranteed the financial future of Bracketts for the next five years.’

      ‘But,’ Graham Chadleigh-Bewes spluttered, ‘it would also have removed the reason for Bracketts’ existence! Bracketts without the Esmond Chadleigh papers in its Library is just another country house.’

      For once, Gina Locke found herself in full agreement with him. ‘And if we sold the papers, we’d remove the main exhibit that’s going to be put in the Esmond Chadleigh Museum.’

      ‘Surely, though—?’

      But that was as far as Josie Freeman was allowed to get. With proper deference to her status and money, Lord Beniston silenced her and tried to get the meeting back on track.

      ‘Fellow Trustees, we are rather going over old ground here. We discussed the letter from Professor Marla . . .?’

      ‘Teischbaum,’ Gina supplied.

      ‘Thank you . . . at the last meeting. We put the matter to the vote, and the idea was rejected. So, with respect, Josie, I don’t think there was anything casual about our discussion.’

      ‘She won’t go away, though,’ said George Ferris with gloomy certainty. There was also a smugness in his manner; he had special knowledge which he intended to share with the other Trustees at his own chosen pace.

      ‘What are you talking about?’

      ‘Professor Marla Teischbaum. I’ve heard through colleagues – former colleagues – at West Sussex Libraries, and in the County Records Office . . . on which, incidentally, I am something of an expert. I have even published a modest tome on the subject. It’s called How To Get The Best From The Facilities Of The County Records Office, in case I haven’t mentioned it before.’ (He had mentioned it before, at every opportunity.) ‘Marla Teischbaum’s been making a lot of enquiries. You see, she’s going ahead with her biography, with or without the co-operation of the Bracketts Trustees.’

      ‘Well, good luck to her. She won’t get far,’ said Graham Chadleigh-Bewes with childish satisfaction. ‘The best authorities on Esmond are sitting here in this room as we speak. And so long as none of us agree to speak to this dreadful woman, then we’ll be fine.’

      ‘How do you know she’s a dreadful woman?’ asked Carole, intrigued.

      ‘With a name like that, she’s got to be, hasn’t she?’ There was a playground snigger in his voice. ‘So . . . absolute solidarity, all right? None of us must talk to her.’

      ‘I’m not so sure about that, Graham.’ There was an evil twinkle in George Ferris’s gnome-like eye. ‘A bit of competition might be healthy. Might put a rocket up you to get your bloody biography finished.’

      ‘Now that’s not fair. As a Literary Executor, I’m kept incredibly busy, talking to publishers about new editions of Esmond’s work, getting together a selection of the letters, going round doing readings at schools, lobbying Literary Editors to—’

      ‘Gentlemen, gentlemen!’ Once again Lord Beniston felt the meeting was getting too far out of his control. ‘Could we get back to the agenda, please? We’ve agreed we are not going to co-operate with Professor Marla

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