‘Well, it’s just not a very satisfying ending. He was always the most obvious suspect, so it’s not much of a surprise, and he was a thoroughly unpleasant man, so who’s going to care? Worse than that, Hawthorne didn’t really solve the murder. I mean, he did – but most of the information was handed to him on a plate.’

‘What do you want me to do?’

‘I thought you might have a word with Random House. Maybe I can write something else.’

She sighed. ‘I did warn you against starting this series of books,’ she said. ‘I always said it was bad idea.’

‘It wasn’t my idea!’

‘And you’ve got a problem now. Everyone at Random House loved meeting Hawthorne. Graham sent me a note to say how impressed he was. If you don’t want to write the third book, I’m afraid they’ll look for someone else who will.’

‘They can’t do that, can they?’

‘You don’t own Hawthorne, Anthony. If anything, he owns you.’

I sat there gloomily while she let this sink in.

‘Anyway, you shouldn’t be worrying about the third book,’ she continued, eventually. ‘You haven’t finished the second one yet. Have you got a title, by the way?’

‘Yes. I want to call it Another Word for Murder.’ She made no response so I added: ‘After all, it is a sequel to The Word Is Murder.’

She nodded. ‘That’s the problem,’ she said. ‘It sounds like a sequel. People will think they have to read the first one. If I were you, I’d think of something else.’

‘But I like it,’ I protested.

‘I don’t.’

A few minutes later, I was back in the street. It hadn’t been a brilliant meeting. I’d been told my publishers preferred my main character to me. I’d lost the title of my second book. And Hilda wasn’t going to offer me any help with the third one.

My telephone rang. I looked at the screen. It was Hawthorne.

‘Yes?’

‘Tony, are you around?’

‘I’m in town.’

‘Do you fancy coming to Oxford? I’m taking that pen back to Anne Cleary and she’s invited me to lunch.’

‘Did she invite me?’

‘No. But she likes you. She’ll be glad to see you.’

‘What time are you leaving?’

‘There’s a train at eleven fifteen.’

It was ten fifteen now – but that was typical of Hawthorne. He had a sort of myopia that possibly extended to the entire world, but certainly to me. I would be available when he needed me, although of course it didn’t work the other way round. I was tempted to say no, to tell him I was busy – but what was the point? I was only twenty minutes from Paddington Station and I had nothing much to do.

‘I’ll meet you on the train,’ I said.