A Novel Encounter

Strangely, when Andy saw the house, he felt a little easier. He’d expected something more grandiose and manorial, but this was something that could belong to a nouveau riche music idol; imposing flashy and tasteless. The edifice clung in gaudy splendour to the verdant sides of the Malvern Hills, beset by neighbours of a more conservative appearance. It seemed that, whether a nouveau riche author or pop star, there were no differences, having simply become wealthy through a different medium.

In his considerable research, Andy  discovered his interviewee had burst forth like a supernova making Anthony Whitby the doyen of the literary world almost overnight. If he were honest, Andy would have to admit to feelings of jealousy and envy. He had struggled for years as a writer with no recognition. He had come close to success only to be suddenly and tragically thwarted. Nevertheless, he persevered, now being the leading writer for a prestigious movie magazine.

Today was something of a coup for Andy. Despite his success, Anthony Whitby was known for his low profile; a reluctance to be interviewed on any form of media. He had appeared only briefly at a dinner to receive his award as the most accomplished writer of the year and, apart from a handful of brief interviews with rag journalists, he remained very much a mystery to his adoring fans.

 It was when he learned the novel was to be turned into a film that Andy saw his opportunity. He was careful not to pester the author but had patiently made several approaches, until mutually acceptable terms for a meeting had been negotiated. This included a list of carefully scripted questions from which Andy was not to deviate.

Although set on an acre of land, there was limited parking space. Andy’s envy being further goaded as he steered his aging Ford next to a gleaming BMW. Adjacent to the main drive was a swimming pool and beyond this an untended tennis court. Andy was about to lock the car when he remembered the package he’d brought, something he hoped would help the afternoon to go smoothly.

An impressive set of marble steps more suited for a palace led to the equally disproportionate mahogany front doors. Each step was bounded by poor quality alabaster statues each depicting a figure from Greek and Roman mythology. Andy arrived at the top step, flanked by Jupiter and Venus. He rang the doorbell. Silence. Two minutes went by and he rang again.

“Alright, give me a bloody minute!” The door was suddenly flung open by a young woman in her mid-twenties. She would have been very attractive if not for the heavily layered make-up. Her mouth was half open as though to continue yelling but, on seeing Andy, she stopped and gave a flirtatious smile. Andy returned the smile.

“I believe Mt. Whitby is expecting me, I’m Andrew Woods from Film Amore.”

“Oh, yeah, forgot. He’s waiting in the sun lounge. Come on.” With this she wandered down a shadowy hallway to a large kitchen containing an impressive array of cooking equipment that would have not looked out of place in a large restaurant. Seeing his interest his guide offered ‘Tone likes his food, so he does, got a cook and everything.’ She pointed, ‘This way.’

Andy walked through the kitchen to what appeared to have been a house extension, the room looked out upon a magnificent garden festooned with roses. Two large sliding doors had been opened onto a patio where sat the object of Andy’s visit.

‘Tone, you’ve got a visitor.’ Giving Andy another dazzling smile, she quickly walked away.

Anthony Whitby did not look like an author. The face did not reflect years of amassed knowledge or experience that are the ingredients for writing gripping stories, certainly not the mystery-drama for which this man had become so famous. Instead, Andy found himself looking down upon a man in his forties, thinning brown hair with mottled skin and rheumy eyes that were difficult to read, flitting between worry, fear and wariness.

“Ah, you must be the journalist from that film mag? Take a seat,’

Andy did as he was instructed, holding out the package he had brought from the car. ‘I really appreciate you seeing me Mr. Whitby. I realise you rarely give interviews. I brought this as a thank you. I thought we might enjoy it during our chat.’ Andy paused, looking in the direction of where the girl with the dazzling smile had retreated. ‘We’re not likely to be interrupted?’

His host seemed irritated, ‘What? Oh no, Gloria is my er, housekeeper. She only works until one on a Friday.’

As he opened the package Anthony Whitby’s eyes lit up. He smiled, ‘Call me Tony, tell me where did you get this? A Montepulciano dell’Abruzzo? I thought they’d all gone?’ Andy smiled inwardly, Whitby’s fondness for expensive red wine was one of the few facts he could discover about the man. The wine was unbelievably expensive, but his host’s horrendous Italian pronunciation had helped to reassure Andy that his purpose in coming here was entirely justified.

‘I have a few friends in the wine trade. I managed to secure a few bottles. I thought we might share a glass during our conversation, eh?’ Tony Whitby nodded enthusiastically as he rose and walked towards a small drinks cabinet in the corner of the conservatory. His rush to open the bottle, and the slight hand tremour as it was poured, suggested more than a fondness for this wine alone. In fact, Tony Whitby was gulping at his glass before returning to his seat, proffering Andy a small glass en route.

Andy raised his glass, ‘To authors, may they continue to enlighten and entertain humanity.’

Tony quickly raised his glass in response, taking a large gulp of the magenta liquid at the same moment, rising once more from his chair to top up the glass before returning to his armchair, this time carrying the bottle almost protectively. It appeared that Andy was expected to eke out the small portion he had received. His research had pointed to his host’s addiction; Andy intended to use this to his advantage. Already there was a relaxation of the facial muscles and the smile had broadened. Now was the moment.

‘Er, before we start Tony, I have a rather unusual request.’ The smile remained fixed.

‘And what would that be?’

‘Well, I usually type up my interviews when I return home, but today, I was wondering if I may type them directly…..using your laptop?’ Andy glanced through the doorway at a nearby coffee table, on which sat the item in question. He didn’t need to ask, he knew this was the machine which contained the literary marvel that had captivated an almost cult following overnight.

Tony’s smile remained fixed for a while as he pondered the request. ‘Why would you want to do that?’

Andy wore his most contrite face. ‘I realise it’s a bit of a cheek but, frankly I feel my own readership,’ he paused, ‘unlike your own, is beginning to dwindle a little.’ This last was added reassuringly. ‘I can still guarantee a worldwide circulation of today’s interview but being able to claim it was created on the same device you used for your masterpiece would go some way to increasing its popularity even further.’

Andy smiled inwardly, a cocktail of flattery with just a dash of obsequity; that was the recipe.

‘That’s a point, wouldn’t do any harm I suppose. Yes, why not?’ Andy quickly retrieved the laptop from the coffee table and offered it to the newly famous author who gave him an inquisitive frown.

‘The password,’ Andy prompted. Dawning realisation spread across Tony’s face.

‘No, never used one.’

‘Never?’ the exclamation was incredulous, ‘But surely you would want to safeguard your work as much as possible.’ Thinking he had overstepped some boundary he quickly added in a more emollient tone, ‘Never can be too careful you know.’

The writer appeared flustered, ‘Well, that is to say, it came with a password which a friend of mine helped to get around, but I never have been any good with remembering codes, so I never bothered.’

‘It came with a password?’ that’s unusual.

‘It wasn’t new, I bought it second hand.’  Tony sounded irritated.

‘Ah,’ Andy seemed satisfied. Tony relaxed.

Andy opened the device and, after pressing a few buttons, looked up with a smile.

‘OK Tony, looks like we’re ready.’ Tony nodded.

‘Now one of the masterstrokes in your book was the poison used to murder the victim. You seem to have created quite a stir. Authorities are now anxious to assure the public that no such toxin exists, yet your impressively thorough research has convinced many that it is indeed possible to create such a potion; completely odourless, tasteless and very, very deadly within a few minutes of ingestion. Would you be willing to allay public fears by stating this is fictional, although entirely credible thanks to your excellent foray into chemical research.’  

Tony swallowed another mouthful of wine.

‘This isn’t on the list, stick to the questions we agreed on.’

Andy smiled, ‘Sorry I was just interested, after all it is one of the story’s main features, a completely untraceable poison would make the perfect murder commonplace. I mean did you do all the research yourself or did you have some help, just as you needed help with the password?’

Tony exploded, ‘Of course I did all the fucking research! Now get back to the questions we agreed on or this interview is over, do you hear me? Over!’

‘Do you have a printer?’

After his sudden eruption the unexpected question undermined Tony’s anger. He made a conscious effort to calm himself.

‘Yes, over there next to the drinks cabinet.’

‘Thanks,’ Andy’s smile was beginning to irritate his host. ‘It’s just that I’d like to print a hard copy as we go along if that’s alright. I sincerely apologise for having deviated from our agreement.’ Andy pressed a few more buttons as the printer purred into life, the sheets of paper falling with a soft sibilance into the tray.

Andy carefully tapped the printed sheets into order and placed them next to his chair. He noticed the level of the wine bottle had quickly gone down; even allowing for his own meagre share, which he had not touched, his host must have drunk at least half by now. It was enough.

‘I don’t want to deviate from our agreed agenda a second time, however I couldn’t help but notice something strange on the header settings.’

Tony looked puzzled. Andy leaned forward as he turned the laptop screen around. ‘Just here, there’s a strange name, Andre’ du Bois yet you had the novel published under your own and not what I assume was to have been your nom de plume.’

The puzzled look was replaced with one of relief, like a man clutching at straws, Tony blurted, ‘Yes, yes, exactly but I changed my mind and used my own name as you say.’

‘See ya Monday Tone!’ the heavy thud from the front door announced the Smile’s departure. Andy continued.

‘Odd that you would publish using your own name yet leave every page of the manuscript settings with a nom de plume?’

‘It’s my bloody book and I’ll do what the hell I like with it. Who are you to question me?’

The irritating smile returned. ‘Who am I? I’m Andy Woods but if I were to use a nom de plume I would probably use the name given to me by my parents. You see, I was born in Paris, as Andre’ du Bois.’

Tony coughed, an expensive splutter speckling his trousers and parts of the white shag pile carpet in crimson droplets.

‘No don’t try to conjure an excuse or a cover story, we both know you’re not capable of that, having no imagination. I mean look at you, a sham living a counterfeit life in an expensive but tastelessly decorated house with a grasping girl to satisfy all your “housekeeping” needs.’

He held up the laptop, ‘You see this scratch on the back? My dog did that not long after I bought it. I spent three years working on an idea I had carried around for almost a decade only to lose it when this was stolen. I was desperate but there was nothing, no clues, until you had my novel published under your own name.’

Tony’s head was shaking vigorously, ‘No, no you’ve no evidence, you can’t prove anything…’he stopped suddenly, ‘even if this was true.’

‘Don’t you mean “even if this were true”? An author of your renown would surely use the subjunctive. And as for evidence, I have more than enough to win a court case but I’m not going to do that.’

‘You’re not?’ the look on Tony’s face was pathetic.

‘No. You see, I daresay you would deny my accusations and a lengthy, expensive prosecution would follow, after which I would emerge with some financial gain but in the meantime public interest would wane. No, I want a sensation. I want to step into the limelight bathed in a glorious redemption of literary justice.’ Andy leaned forward conspiratorially, ‘So, this is what’s going to happen,’ He carefully picked up the sheets of paper he had earlier retrieved from the printer. ‘I’ve typed a confession for you to sign.’

Tony seemed relieved, ‘You’re mad if you think I’m doing that. Take me to court and it’ll cost you, like you said.’ He became conciliatory, ‘Listen, I’m no saint, but who can blame me for taking advantage, I mean if you found a stash of money would you hand it in? There’s no difference really is there? I’m willing to send some of the money your way and no-one need know. What do you say?’

‘You haven’t answered my question about the research. Did you discover that such a deadly concoction could really exist?’

‘Course I didn’t, you know I never wrote the book so why ask me? And what the hell has that to do with anything anyway?’

‘Because I did. I thoroughly researched the poison used in my story and it transpires such a toxin is possible. Completely undetectable and ……..tasteless. How is the wine?’

Anthony Whitby felt as though he was looking at himself from outside his body, that this was happening to someone else. His pulse was racing, and he was dry retching. He tried to reassure himself these were symptoms of nothing more than fear from an unfounded threat but the beads of perspiration running down his face and soaking into his shirt told him otherwise.

‘Don’t stress yourself,’ Andy crooned because I also know of an antidote.’ He took a small phial from his pocket. ‘See this? One sip of this and you live. In exchange you are going to sign this confession typed on the same machine that was stolen over five years ago.’

Desperate, Tony grasped the proffered papers, hardly taking time to read them, only one or two phrases being legible through his panic-stricken state and the sweat now dripping into his eyes. Taken from a café, discovered work, published my name, feel remorseful, real author, no way out, regrets. He reached out in desperation for the phial, but Andy beckoned for the papers only handing over the antidote once he had secured the signed document.

Tony could hardly keep his hands from shaking as he frantically downed the contents of the small glass bottle. His eyes pleading, he looked at Andy, ‘When will….’

‘Don’t worry Tony, you’ll feel the effects soon.’ But Tony was worried, if anything, he felt worse, flushed as though being consumed by an intense heat, instead of dry retching he started to vomit but had no strength to rise from his chair.

‘I’ll be going now Tony. I daresay you’ll be on your own until Monday when your pretty maid returns. She’ll have a shock, eh?’

Tony was unable to speak. ‘You see, you not only signed a confession, but a suicide note. There was no poison in the wine, it was in the phial you drank.’ He got up and walked to the door turning to face the figure now slumped forward, struggling to breathe.

‘And that Anthony Whitby, is how you tell a tale!’