217 Babel Street | Apartment 7
A few days ago Detector-man had unpacked a bundle of variously sized trowels. Yet who was she to laugh? An ageing invalid who read murder mysteries for that same thrill he sought on the beach; a devotee who had even on occasion cheated by reading the last page first - what would Harry say if he knew? She was a lonely fan who scoured the papers and internet for details of her favourite author, because S.J. Simmonds lived, it seemed, as reclusively as she herself did.
The Elizabeth Young case still rankled. Margaret remembered it well, or at least the two inches The Sunday Times had allotted it in '92. Young had embarked on the infamous Simmonds impersonation with beguiling ease. She had simply walked into bookshops, collected the stack of The One-Horned Goddess, and informed the sales clerk through a gracious smile that she'd be happy to sign. Margaret herself owned one of the fraudulent hardbacks. The signature was strong, defined, with a swift-flowing flourish in black ink - too open an autograph to come from the hand of a cryptic mystery writer. She really should have known better. When the news broke, she had never felt so duped. Except perhaps for the time Sophie had lied to them about that boy. But few others seemed to care as she did. The defaced copies went for a small fortune on eBay.
She opened the bedside drawer and lifted out Harry's bird-watching binoculars.
Still no sign.