Murder, She Wrote: Gin and Daggers Page 7

  If she intended to bring about a physical reaction from me with her bluntness, she’d succeeded. My heart tripped, and I looked away from her.

  “Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “Yes?”

  “What I say is the truth.”

  “I’m not debating whether you’re being truthful for now, although I don’t know what the truth actually is. A much larger question at the moment, Ms. Giacona, is why are you telling me? Do you expect me to do something?”

  The softness in her eyes and face returned. Was it deliberate, a good actress changing emotions on cue? I couldn’t tell. All I knew was that her face was an expressive instrument, and I was responding to its shifts in mood.

  “I want you to speak on Jason’s behalf.”

  “To whom?”

  “To the world.”

  “The world?”

  “Those in publishing, critics, the press.”

  “Ms. Giacona, I could never do that.”

  She sighed and looked at the ground.

  “Let’s say what you’ve told me is true and, I repeat, I don’t know what the truth is. But, let’s say I did know for certain that Jason wrote Gin and Daggers. Marjorie Ainsworth was a dear friend. I would never do anything to sully her reputation.”

  “What about Jason’s reputation, Mrs. Fletcher? Is it fair that his talent goes unrecognized, unrewarded?”

  “I suppose not, but... was he paid to write the book?”

  “A pittance.”

  “Does he share in its success, monetarily, I mean?”

  “No.”

  “He was a writer for hire, then.”

  She looked at me quizzically.

  “It’s a term used in publishing. It means that he performed work, was paid for it, and has no further claim on that work.”

  “In terms of money, yes. In terms of fairness, no. He’s not looking for more money, Mrs. Fletcher. I know he wouldn’t take money if it were offered, and he would be very angry if he even knew I was speaking to you about this. Jason is ... he’s very shy and unsure of his talent. He would be content to have the world never know that he’s written this wonderful book that the critics have acclaimed. I am different. I love Jason very much and am determined that the world know what a fine writer he is.”

  “That’s admirable, Ms. Giacona. Tell me, was there a written agreement between Jason and Marjorie?”

  She shook her head. “I told him he should demand such an agreement, but he didn’t want to upset her.”

  “I don’t think she would have been upset. She was a very fair person.”

  It was more a snort from her than a laugh. “It is good to feel that way about a dead friend. Others do not feel that way about Marjorie Ainsworth.”

  I debated asking how much of Gin and Daggers Jason had actually written, how Jane Portelaine fit into the picture, whether Marjorie’s publishers and agents knew of the arrangement. I decided to, but didn’t have the chance. Maria stood and looked down at me with angry eyes. “I have always heard about Jessica Fletcher being a good person, as well as a talented writer. I know you are a good writer, but as for the other attribute, I—”

  I stood, too, and said, “Ms. Giacona, I think you have now gone a little too far. You expect me to stand up and proclaim that Jason Harris wrote Gin and Daggers when, in fact, I have no idea whether he did or not.”

  “If I prove it to you?”

  “Proof? You said there was no written agreement.”

  “There is another way. Jason saw to that.”

  “I thought he didn’t care.”

  “He doesn’t. What he did was not deliberate but can be used now that she’s dead.”

  I took it that she was glad Marjorie Ainsworth had died. I asked her to explain further.

  “Jason used many things from his own life in Gin and Daggers, such as names of old friends and deceased family members. He gave some characters traits that come directly from himself. No one except Jason would have known those things, certainly not Marjorie Ainsworth.”

  “That’s very interesting. I’ve read Gin and Daggers. Could you point out those things to me?”

  “Not at this moment.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I do not know what they are.”

  “Ms. Giacona—”

  “Please, allow me to finish. I know Jason included those things, because he told me he did, but he never told me exactly what they were.”

  “Then Jason would have to tell me.”

  “He would never do that. He made notes about them on the original manuscript.”

  “Have you seen the manuscript?”

  “No, but I now know where it is. I would never have come to you unless I could show the manuscript to you.”

  “With Jason’s permission, I assume.”

  “Without it. He wouldn’t approve.”

  “That wouldn’t be right.”

  “Is it more right that he goes unrecognized while someone else takes credit for his work?”

  I turned and looked over the lake. A distinguished British couple pushing a baby carriage strolled past us, followed by two punk rockers, the girl’s hair a shocking pink, the boy’s hair orange, the two of them wearing matching black leather jackets with spikes.

  “All right,” I said. “When will you show me the manuscript?”

  “Tonight? I know that Jason will be out. You could come to his flat.”

  “What time?”

  “Eight. He’ll be leaving at seven.” She gave me an address on Pindar Street, near Liverpool Street Station. “It’s on the third floor,” she added. “I’m afraid there’s no lift.”

  “The exercise will do me good, Ms. Giacona. I suppose that’s all we need to talk about this morning.”

  “Except to say that I am sorry for having been... how shall I say it ... for having been harsh in my words.”

  “No apologies necessary. This has been a stressful time for everyone. Shall we share a cab?”

  “No, I am to meet someone and I’m already late. Thank you, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  She walked quickly along the edge of the lake and disappeared around a small building. I lingered at Speakers’ Comer for a half hour before hailing a taxi and returning to the Savoy, where I took the list I’d made the night before and wrote next to Jason Harris’s name

  Obviously will derive tremendous benefit from Marjorie’s death. Now free to take credit for Gin and Daggers, with Marjorie not here to defend herself.

  Chapter Eight

  I called downstairs to the hotel operator and was given six messages that had been left that morning. A few were from media; the others were from Sir James Ferguson, the theatrical producer; Clayton Perry, Marjorie’s American publisher; Count Antonio Zara, Marjorie’s brother-in-law; and George Sutherland, who, the operator said, was a chief inspector from Scotland Yard.

  I returned the call to Sutherland first and was put through immediately.

  “Mrs. Fletcher, it’s good of you to return my call on Sunday.”

  “Well, sir, you called me on Sunday. Besides, I would never hesitate to return a call to a chief inspector from Scotland Yard.”

  “Good of you to say so, Mrs. Fletcher. It won’t come as any surprise that I’m calling about the unfortunate demise of Marjorie Ainsworth.”

  “No, of course not. How may I help you?”

  “I’m not quite sure, but I would appreciate the opportunity to explore some possibilities with you.” His voice was deep and resonant. I assumed he would be English, but a Scottish burr made the point that his roots were farther north.

  “Anything you say,” I said.

  “Would you have some free time this afternoon?”

  “I’ll see to it.”

  “It would be my pleasure to treat the eminent Jessica Fletcher to tea, if you wouldn’t think it too personal.”

  I wasn’t sure whether it was too personal or not, but it really didn’t matter. I accepted his offer, and we agreed to meet at Brown’s Hotel, betwe
en Dover and Albemarle streets, in Mayfair. I’d had tea at Brown’s during one of my previous trips to London and remembered how delightful it had been.

  I next returned Clayton Perry’s call, which was answered by his wife, Renée. She didn’t sound especially pleased to be hearing from me but, I reasoned, she probably wasn’t pleased to be hearing from anyone at that moment. Her husband came on the line and said pleasantly, “How are you holding up, Mrs. Fletcher?”

  “As they say, as well as can be expected. You?”

  “Aside from not liking the feeling of being captive, I suppose things could be worse. The reason I was calling was to invite you to dinner with us this evening.”

  I’d almost forgotten about my eight o’clock meeting with Maria Giacona at Jason Harris’s flat. “That’s very kind of you, Clayton, but I’m afraid I have other plans.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. I think it might make a great deal of sense for us to get together to talk about this terrible incident on two levels.” He paused and then added, “Not only should we put our minds together where the murder of Marjorie Ainsworth is concerned, but I think you and I might find it mutually profitable to talk business.”

  “I hardly think Marjorie’s death should trigger a burst of free enterprise.” I knew it sounded harsh, but it represented what I felt.

  He seemed taken aback at my words, but only for an instant. He changed the subject and, after five minutes of general banter in which I finally agreed to find some time during the coming week to spend with him, we ended the conversation.

  I reached Sir James Ferguson at his home, which, he told me, was in the elegant Belgravia section of London. He sounded nervous, although it might have been nothing more than a hesitant speech pattern. He had trouble getting to the point of his call. Finally, when he did, he said, “I was wondering if you would consider being my dinner companion at a party I am to attend this evening.”

  Unlike the offer of tea from Chief Inspector Sutherland, there was no doubt that Ferguson’s invitation was purely personal. I was flattered by it, and there was a certain appeal in it, but I told him I couldn’t because of previous plans. Ferguson sounded profoundly disappointed, and I quickly soothed him by saying that I would enjoy seeing him another time while in London. He seemed buoyed by my words, thanked me profusely for returning his call, and we ended the conversation by saying how we mutually looked forward to seeing each other at the opening session of the International Society of Mystery Writers.

  My return call to Count Antonio Zara resulted in a succession of unanswered rings, at which I was not disappointed: grateful is more like it.

  Ten minutes later, I heard what sounded like a scuffle outside my door. I looked through the peephole. There was considerable movement, which made it difficult to identify who was involved. Then I saw Lucas Darling’s face; it suddenly blurred into only one of his eyes as he pressed it against the door. “Lucas?” I said in a loud voice.

  “Don’t open the door, Jessica, they’ve followed me.”

  “Who followed you?”

  “The vultures from the press, damn them. They’re parasites, bloodsucking leeches.”

  A female voice shouted, “Please, Mrs. Fletcher, just give us five minutes with you to ask some questions.” Other voices, some male, some female, joined the request.

  I went to the phone and called the assistant manager’s office. He wasn’t there, but I told a young woman that I needed security at my room immediately. Within minutes guards appeared and escorted the intruders away, including Lucas. “Jessica!” he yelled. I quickly opened the door and shouted, “He can stay,” pointing at Lucas. The press threatened to break away from the guards, but Lucas was quicker. He sprinted to my door, and as two reporters made a dash in my direction, I slammed the door and secured the lock.

  “Bastards,” he said.

  “It was inevitable that they would get up here, Lucas,” I said. “I was just thinking before you arrived that I really should hold a press conference and get rid of them once and for all.”

  His look was sheer horror. “Don’t you dare, Jessica. They’ll tear you apart, quote you out of context. You’ll end up portrayed as a vicious, greedy, and insane murderess.”

  I laughed and sat in a chair. “No, Lucas, I’m not afraid of that.” What I didn’t say was that I wasn’t about to spend the rest of my time in London sneaking out back doors wearing black wigs, garish makeup, and an Arab costume rented from a theatrical supply house.

  Lucas sat in a matching chair and said, “We can discuss this later. First, tell me what happened in the park today. What did she have to say?”

  I’d been debating whether or not to tell anyone about my conversation with Maria, and as I sat across from Lucas, I reached a decision—I would not tell anyone, at least not now.

  I made up a story for him: Maria was upset at the possibility that her lover, Jason Harris, might be considered a suspect in Marjorie Ainsworth’s murder, and wanted me to know that Jason had been devoted to Marjorie, not only as a protégé, but personally as well. Lucas’s screwed-up face indicated that he either didn’t believe me or was scornful of the sentiment expressed by Maria about Jason Harris. “Poppycock,” he said with finality.

  “I haven’t made a judgment about Jason Harris or anyone, Lucas; I’m just telling you what we talked about.”

  He narrowed his eyes and cocked his head. “Are you telling me the truth, Jessica? It seemed to me that the young woman had much weightier things to discuss than that.”

  I shrugged. “I’m meeting with a chief inspector from Scotland Yard this afternoon.”

  That took his mind off my meeting in the park. “Who is he? Why does he want to see you? Is he dealing with you as a suspect?”

  “No, I don’t think so. Frankly, I’m pleased that Scotland Yard is involved. I would hate to think of that dreadful little man Coots remaining in charge of the investigation. Don’t you agree?”

  “Yes, of course. You’re going to the Yard?”

  “No, as a matter of fact we’re having tea at Brown’s Hotel.”

  “That’s highly unusual.”

  “I think it’s simply courteous and nice. Besides, I would love a chance to have tea at Brown’s again.”

  “It isn’t what it used to be since Trusthouse Forte took over.”

  “Well, I’ll certainly see, won’t I? What are your plans for the afternoon?”

  “I was going to spend it with you discussing the opening session and going over your speech. I assume you’ve decided to incorporate some comments about Marjorie’s murder.”

  I nodded.

  “It’s very important that what you say reflects the true sentiments of the society as a whole.”

  I looked at him quizzically.

  “Don’t misunderstand, Jessica, but this entire matter is very sensitive.”

  “Everyone seems to have sensitivities that must be reckoned with while, of course, poor Marjorie’s sensitivities are no longer an issue. All right, Lucas, I’ll be happy to go over my speech with you and to discuss the opening session, as long as we leave time for me to meet the inspector for tea.”

  “Would you like me to come with you when you meet him?”

  “No.”

  “Jessica, I know you have a reputation for going things alone, but it isn’t the smartest approach considering the circumstances.”

  “Lucas, I will keep that firmly in mind. Now let me get my speech from my briefcase and we can spend a pleasant hour going over it.”

  I’ve never been one to define handsomeness in men and beauty in women, believing that those things emanate from inside. But, by any standards, Chief Inspector George Sutherland was a handsome man. I judged him to be six feet four inches tall, and pegged his age at fifty, although my second estimate boosted it to fifty-five. He had brown hair with a tinge of red in it, and with a healthy crop of gray at the temples that added distinction. His face was large and lined, but his features were fine. There was an unmistakable kindn
ess in his eyes, which were the color of Granny Smith apples. He wore a dark brown tweed jacket with leather patches at the elbows, a pale yellow V-neck sweater, white shirt, brown tie, and beautifully creased tan pants. Dark brown boots that came up above his ankles looked expensive.

  I sat across a small table from him, sighed, and looked around the beautiful room. “It’s just as I remembered it,” I said. “A friend of mine told me he’d assumed everything had changed since it had been taken over by Trusthouse Forte. I don’t see any changes.” I looked at him. “Do you?”

  “No, I can’t say that I do. I’ve had an affinity for Brown’s since moving here from Edinburgh, and it seems to have stayed a steady course since I first set foot in here fifteen years ago.”

  “That’s comforting.”

  “That’s England.”

  We ordered full tea service and, after some preliminary chitchat, he said, “Well, Mrs. Fletcher, I would be delighted to hear from you about what happened at Ainsworth Manor.”

  My first reaction was that this was the beginning of an interrogation. I was a suspect. But the easy way he said it, and his seemingly sincere interest in what my perceptions were, put me at ease. I quietly, and as concisely as possible, told him the events as I’d witnessed them that fateful night. He was a good listener.

  When I was finished, and we’d selected crustless finger sandwiches from a silver tray, he said, “Mrs. Fletcher, I am well aware of your reputation in the literary field. I have also heard from sources I can’t quite remember that you don’t confine your solving of mysteries to the printed page.”

  I laughed. I blushed, too.

  “Now that the Yard is involved with the murder of Marjorie Ainsworth, and I have been put in charge of the investigation, I’m eager to get to the first step.”

  “Which is?” I asked, biting into a cucumber sandwich.

  “Seek help.”

  I smiled, and it turned into a laugh. “That sounds like a very sensible first step to me.”

  “It’s always worked for me. At least it buys me a few days to think while my ‘help’ gets the ball rolling.”