I smiled gamely. The audience applauded.

Finally, Matheson turned to me. ‘So what was it that persuaded you to write Hawthorne Investigates?’ he asked.

I had sat in silence for so long that for a moment I didn’t even know what he was talking about. Then I remembered. ‘Actually, that’s not the title. The book’s going to be called The Word Is Murder.’

‘Oh.’ With that single syllable Matheson let me know that he preferred Hawthorne’s title.

‘I wrote it because I thought it would be interesting,’ I said.

My answer clearly wasn’t interesting enough. Matheson turned back to Hawthorne. ‘I presume you’ve read the book,’ he asked.

‘No. Not yet. Tony hasn’t shown it to me.’

‘Are you nervous about how you may appear? Especially as you’ve put yourself into the hands of a writer known for fiction.’

Hawthorne shook his head. ‘It doesn’t really bother me. It’s only a book.’

‘Two books,’ I said.

‘People can think what they want. I know the truth.’

‘Finally, Anthony, a question for you. What’s it been like, writing about Mr Hawthorne?’

I had to think for a moment before I answered that. ‘Well, it was different—’ I began.

That was only the start of what I was going to say but Matheson assumed that I had finished and cut straight in. ‘You’ve kindly agreed to read a few pages for us,’ he said.

‘Yes . . .’ I had brought the typescript on my iPad and flicked it open.

It had taken me a while to choose a section from the book. Obviously, the audience would want to hear a scene in which Hawthorne actually appeared, but I didn’t want to read out anything that might sound critical of him, certainly not when he was sitting right next to me. Nor did I want to give too much away. I’d finally settled on an extract from Chapter Four: Hawthorne looking over the crime scene. I had to cut a couple of personal observations but otherwise he appeared in a good light and there was a scattering of applause when I finished.

‘Thank you, Anthony.’ Matheson signalled for the house lights to be raised. ‘And now I’m sure there are plenty of things the audience would like to ask . . .’

For the next twenty minutes, we took questions, although almost all of them were directed at Hawthorne and had very little to do with the books. He went through several of the cases he had investigated, including the brothel in Causton Street that he had mentioned at Random House and, more annoyingly, the murder of Diana Cowper, which I had just described. Unlike me, though, he didn’t stop at the scene of the crime. I would have to remind him, before we ever did another talk, not to mention, quite so casually, who had done it.