Preface to Murder by M Morris (funny books to read txt) 📕

‘Detective Inspector Bridget Hart. I was wondering if you’d be available for a chat? I have some questions to ask you about Diane Gilbert in regard to the murder investigation.’

‘Sure. I’m still in Oxford as it happens. I’ve been attending events at the literary festival. Actually, I was just on my way to grab some lunch. Would you like to join me?’

In her time as a police detective, Bridget had learned never to refuse an offer of lunch. ‘Where are you planning to eat?’

‘The Eagle and Child on St Giles’. Do you know it?’

‘Of course,’ said Bridget. ‘I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.’

The Eagle and Child, sometimes known locally by its affectionate nickname, The Bird and Baby, was one of Oxford’s most famous and historic pubs. Dating back to the seventeenth century, its dark wood panelling and exposed beams exuded the comforting air of a bygone age. The narrow building was always packed, and in the days before smoking was banned in English pubs, a thick pall of smoke had been permanently suspended beneath the low, sloping ceiling. Nowadays it was the cosy fug of conversation that filled the pub’s cramped interior.

Bridget found Jennifer seated at a table by the window, partially secluded from the rest of the bar by a decorative wood screen.

‘I always make a point of coming here when I’m in Oxford,’ said the publisher as Bridget sat down to join her. ‘I love the atmosphere, and of course the literary connection is so fascinating.’

‘J.R.R. Tolkien and C.S. Lewis,’ said Bridget.

The pub was famous for having been the watering hole of The Inklings, an Oxford writers’ group which had included the creators of the fantastical lands of Middle Earth and Narnia.

‘Precisely,’ said Jennifer, beaming her approval. ‘I can just imagine them sitting around a table, smoking their pipes, talking about elves and witches and good and evil. What wouldn’t I give to go back in time and be a fly on the wall during one of their lunchtime gatherings? People like to think of writers as lonesome individuals slaving away over their manuscripts, but as a publisher I can tell you that writing is more of a collaborative process than people think.’

‘I’m sure it is,’ said Bridget, who couldn’t imagine writing a whole book on her own. How long would such a mammoth project take? Months? Years? A lifetime?

They ordered food from the day’s specials chalked on a blackboard behind the bar – fish pie for Bridget and Lancashire hot pot for Jennifer – then took their drinks back to the table.

‘So, do you have other authors promoting books at the festival?’ asked Bridget.

Jennifer glanced around the pub in an exaggerated cloak-and-dagger fashion. ‘Keep this to yourself,’ she whispered, ‘but I’m hoping to poach a few names from rival houses. The festival brings lots of big name authors, agents and publishers together. It may look dignified to the public, but behind the scenes it can be a feeding frenzy.’ Her phone buzzed and she checked it quickly before slipping it back inside in her voluminous tote bag. ‘Sorry, that was just the sales department updating me on the latest figures for A Deadly Race.’

‘Oh?’ said Bridget, curious to find out what effect the news coverage of Diane’s death might be having on book sales.

Jennifer didn’t need much encouragement to divulge her trade secrets. ‘I have to say that volumes are way ahead of what we expected. The publicity for the book has been fabulous. We’ve already ordered a second print run, which is almost unheard of for a book of this type by a new author.’ She bent down and pulled out a copy of the Times Literary Supplement to show to Bridget. ‘A Deadly Race has made the front page of the TLS and it’s going to be featured in the New York Review of Books. It should easily make the Sunday Times top ten, possibly even the New York Times and USA Today bestseller lists. It has a bestseller tag on Amazon for its category too.’

Jennifer’s obvious glee at the book’s sales figures seemed a little callous. ‘I see,’ said Bridget. ‘And you put the book’s success down to the fortuitous murder of its author?’

‘Oh, don’t look at me like that, Inspector,’ said Jennifer. ‘Publishing is a tough business. You might hear about debut writers receiving huge advances for their books, but those people represent a miniscule proportion of the whole. Most of the books we publish from new authors are loss-making. We rely on windfalls like this to keep the industry going.’

‘I’m not sure that everyone would describe a murder as a “windfall”. And don’t you think it’s a shame that Diane won’t be able to write a sequel?’

‘Well, even that isn’t necessarily a problem,’ said Jennifer breezily. ‘With the help of a ghostwriter we could probably turn some of her research papers into a follow-up book. If there’s demand, we can always find a way to meet it.’

The barman brought their food to the table, and they paused their conversation to tuck in. The fish pie was deliciously creamy and topped with the perfect mashed potato.

‘Speaking of money,’ said Bridget once her hunger was at least partially assuaged, ‘we’ve been working through Diane’s bank accounts and found a payment of five thousand pounds from your firm, paid last month.’

‘That would have been the final instalment of the advance,’ said Jennifer, demolishing her Lancashire hot pot. ‘For non-fiction works, we pay one third when we sign the contract, the next third on delivery of the manuscript and the final instalment on publication.’

‘So the total advance was fifteen thousand pounds?’

‘That’s correct.’

‘And how long did the book take her to write?’

Jennifer frowned. ‘By the time you factor in all the research, planning, writing, re-writing and final polishing, around three years, I should say.’

‘So Diane earned fifteen thousand