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to elapse between judgement and hanging,’ I said. ‘I think I remember reading that somewhere, anyway. Time for repentance.’
    ‘Very useful if you were actually guilty,’ said Tom. ‘Not so much if you were innocent.’
    ‘True enough. And how exactly are you related to George Gittings, the brother who gave the helpful evidence? Another uncle?’
    Tom frowned and counted on his fingers. ‘He was my great-great-great-great-grandfather.’
    ‘That’s quite a few greats attached to both the grandfather and the uncle. When was the murder? 1850s? 1860s?’
    ‘1848. It’s mentioned in the local guidebooks.’
    I took out my notebook again and jotted down the year and the date of George’s death – 1875. George had had twenty-seven conscience-stricken years, then. Plenty of Sundays for repentance if he had indeed concealed something at the trial.
    ‘So, you think you can use it?’ asked Tom.
    ‘I didn’t think so at first. To be perfectly honest, Tom, I was listening only out of politeness to begin with. But maybe, after all … It’s an interesting case, if it really was a miscarriage of justice. Particularly in view of George’s failed attempt to save the man accused of killing his own brother.And the idea that he knew more than he told the court. But why not just denounce the real killer if he knew what had happened? What was stopping him? And if he was only guessing – that somebody else might have done it – why did he take it so badly that he failed to save Lancelot?’
    ‘There would be more on it in the library in Chichester, of course.’
    ‘Yes, I suppose there would be.’
    I noticed Tom had finished his beer. ‘My round,’ I said. ‘I think I can use that after all.’
    ‘Excellent,’ said Tom. ‘Has Catarina spoken to you again about investigating Robin’s death, by the way?’
    ‘She phoned me,’ I said. ‘I made it clear there was nothing I could do.’
    ‘Quite right,’ said Tom. ‘The coroner’s verdict was very clear. No room for reasonable doubt.’
    ‘Why do you want to know that? Were you expecting her to ask me again? Has she said something to you?’
    ‘No, not at all. It’s just that, from what I’ve seen of her, she seems a bit persistent. She strikes me as the sort of person who usually gets what she wants. A husband, for example. Dad says once she got her claws into Robin he was never going to escape. Anyway, I’ll have a pint of whatever you’re having, since you’re offering. Then I’ll get that manuscript off to your agent.’
    ‘My ex-agent,’ I said. ‘She’s my ex-agent.’

CHAPTER SIX
Elsie
    Dear Mr Jones,
    Thank you for submitting your manuscript. Much of it is every bit as good as Fifty Shades of Grey. Indeed, whole pages appear to have been copied from it word for word.
    As for the part of the book that you may actually have written yourself – it seems to be about an exceptionally attractive author having a great deal of sex. Could that possibly be wishful thinking on your part? Many of the things you describe are, I suspect, not physically possible. They do not happen in real life. More important, they do not happen to writers in real life and your describing them in such detail will not make it any more likely that they will happen to you. I am sorry to be so blunt, but nothing in your manuscript suggests that you understand subtlety.
    You ask for feedback. One of the most often quoted pieces of advice is to write what you know. Clearly you know Fifty Shades of Grey very well indeed, but that is not quite what is meant. And sadly, early nights with a hot-water bottle for company do not make for exciting reading, as I know only too well myself. That is why I do not attempt to write bonkbusters and so my advice to you, Mr Jones, is to take your laptop and stuff it …
    ‘Am I interrupting you?’ asked Tuesday.
    ‘OK,’ I said. ‘Let’s pause and look at the evidence. There is my laptop on the desk and here’s me not using it. There’s