Gin and Daggers

Chapter Eleven

“Unto Almighty God we commend the soul of our sister departed, Marjorie, and we commit her body to the ground…”

Mother Nature had not been kind to Marjorie Ainsworth on the day she formally departed this earth. A heavy rain fell, and a scolding wind whipped it about, giving credence to claims of experiencing “horizontal rain” in Great Britain.

Everyone who’d been at Marjorie’s house the weekend of her murder was present for the funeral, with the exception of Jason Harris. I’d hoped that he would surface, if only to pay his final respects to the woman who’d given him the benefit of her experience and talent. But he hadn’t. As I stood in the downpour wiping tears from my eyes, I wondered whether Maria Giacona had been right, and that her lover had, in fact, met some nasty fate.

The simple wood coffin containing the body of the world’s greatest writer of mysteries was slowly lowered into the soggy earth. The rector of the Crumpsworth church sprinkled clumps of mud over it as it disappeared from the view of the mourners. “The Lord be with you,” he said.

“And with thy spirit,” a few people muttered.

“Let us pray. Lord have mercy upon us.”

“Christ have mercy upon us.”

“Lord have mercy upon us.”

The press had been restricted to a cordoned-off area a hundred feet from the graveside. Young men from the congregation held large black umbrellas over those in attendance, which included not only those who’d been at Ainsworth Manor, but faces that had now become disconcertingly familiar-Crumpsworth Inspector Montgomery Coots, Chief Inspector George Sutherland, and, most surprising to me, the private detective Jimmy Biggers.

I looked up to the road where hundreds of spectators, restrained by uniformed Crumpsworth police, looked on. Were they avid readers of Marjorie’s books, townspeople who’d lost a local celebrity, the curious, the macabre? What did it matter? She was gone.

“Excuse me a moment, Lucas,” I said, heading for Jane Portelaine, who was slogging through deep muck to the road where cars were parked. Lucas and I had shared a limo from London.

“Jane,” I said.

She snapped her head in my direction and looked at me with what I could only read as anger.

“I was wondering if…”

“She would have enjoyed this weather, wouldn’t she?” she said, continuing to move her booted feet through the glop. “She loved the rain, loved darkness.”

“She had the soul of a mystery writer,” I said. “I was surprised not to see your friend Mr. Harris here.”

Jane stopped abruptly. She looked at me with those same tempestuous eyes and said, “Mr. Harris is not a friend of mine, and I don’t know why you would raise his name to me.”

I suppose my face reflected the surprise I felt. I said, “I thought you two were close. At least, it seemed that way on the weekend. I don’t mean to offend but-”

“Mrs. Fletcher, my aunt is dead. That carries with it a certain finality, including the right of those close to her to enjoy their privacy. I am being curt, I know, but consider the circumstances.”

She’d lost the one person who had been a constant in her life for many years, and I admonished myself for being insensitive. Still, I was determined to pursue what I’d been thinking ever since I left the hotel that morning. “Would it be possible for me to visit the manor again while I’m still in London?” I asked.

“What for?”

“Oh, I don’t know, just the need to touch Marjorie’s surroundings once again before going home.”

“I can’t imagine why you would want to do that, but I suppose…”

I took advantage of this apparent weakening. “Could I stop by now?”

“No, that would be quite impossible.”

“Well, perhaps another day?”

“I suppose you could call me, Mrs. Fletcher. I will do what I can to accommodate you.”

I watched her continue walking to the road where Wilfred, their faithful chauffeur, opened the door for her. I assumed he would close it behind her, but Constable Coots climbed in after her, and the door was closed once he was inside. Strange, I thought, that Coots would ride to and from the funeral with someone who was obviously a suspect. Then again, it might represent a certain brilliance on his part. Stay close: that often paid off when investigating murder.

I’d reached the road and was approaching my limo when Sir James Ferguson, the producer of Marjorie’s Who Killed Darby and Joan?, came up behind me.

“Sir James. What a horrible day to bury someone.”

“Yes, Mrs. Fletcher, although I vividly recall a scene in one of Marjorie’s early novels in which the murderer was identified at just such a burial. Do you remember it? It was called Murder and Other Inconveniences.”

“Of course I do, but it hadn’t occurred to me to make the connection. How are you, Sir James?”

“Quite well. I still wish to find quiet time to spend with you while you are here in Loridon. I have some things to discuss with you.”

“Sounds terribly weighty.”

He broke into a smile; he had a wonderfully pleasant face. “Nothing of the sort, although I think we might benefit from a frank discussion about the possibilities of who murdered our dear friend and colleague. No, I just thought that you and I might find some common ground on a personal level, some pleasant dinner conversation, perhaps a spin around the dance floor at the Dorchester or Savoy, whatever would make the world’s most famous mystery writer happy.”

“You’re very flattering,” I said. “Yes, I would enjoy that. Please call.”

“I certainly shall. How long since you’ve seen Who Killed Darby and Joan?”

“A few years.”

“Would you enjoy seeing it again? Somehow I find watching the play puts me in touch with Marjorie. I suppose that will become increasingly important now that she’s no longer physically present.”

His comment touched me.

“Shall we go together? As the producer, I have two of the best seats in the house reserved for me at each performance. I would consider it a great privilege.”

“Sir James, I have no idea of my schedule for the rest of this week. I have responsibilities at the convention, and there are so many people I must see while here. But, of course, I would love to accompany you to the play if I can work it out.”

He swallowed his disappointment and looked up into the gray sky, then back at me. “The gods are not happy that she’s gone.”

As I walked to my car, Inspector Sutherland of Scotland Yard nodded. That was all-a simple, un-smiling nod. I joined Lucas in the backseat and said to the driver, “Please take us into Crumpsworth.”

“Why are we going there?” Lucas asked. “I have to get back to the convention.”

“It won’t take long, Lucas. Indulge me a half hour.” I looked through the rear window as we pulled away and saw Sutherland still standing in the rain, his eyes fixed upon us. A strange change in him, I thought. What could have caused it?

We reached the center of Crumpsworth within a few minutes and circled the small main square until I spotted a shop whose sign read JEWELRY. “Stop here,” I said. Then, to Lucas: “Won’t be a minute.”

He followed me out of the car-of course-and we entered the tiny shop. A wizened little old man wearing a jeweler’s loupe and a green eyeshade looked up. “May I help you?” he asked in a shaky, raspy voice.

“Yes. My name is Jessica Fletcher. I was a close friend of Marjorie Ainsworth.”

“Oh. Just come from the planting, have you?”

“Planting? Yes, she’s been buried. I understand one of her gardeners tried to sell you a watch belonging to her.”

“That’s right. Those bloody foreigners’ll steal the gold from your teeth.”

“Yes… I also understand you turned the watch over to local authorities.”

“Coots. I gave it to Coots.”

“How did you know it belonged to Ms. Ainsworth?”

“I fixed that watch before, I did. Saw whose it was right off.”

“That was very astute of you.”

A smug smile came to his lips.

“Is the man who tried to sell it to you in jail?”

“Should be. You’ll have to ask Coots about that. I told the other bloke this morning the same thing.”

“Other bloke? Who might that have been?”

“Read his name yourself.” He pointed to a business card on top of the glass display case.

JIMMY BIGGERS

PRIVATE INVESTIGATIONS

Discretion Assured.

“He moves fast,” I said to Lucas.

“Let’s get out of here,” Lucas said.

“Yes, I’m ready.” I thanked the jeweler and we headed for London.

My thoughts during the ride were divided between the conversations I’d had that morning at the burial and trying to shake off an intense chill. My raincoat, good as it was, had merely strained the rain. My feet were soaked; all of me was wet, and I looked forward to a hot bath.

“Mrs. Fletcher, we have messages for you,” the desk clerk said as I asked for the key to my suite. I wasn’t surprised; I’d never had so many people trying to reach me at once in my life.

She handed me a pile of telephone message forms, and I skimmed them. There were many familiar names written on the small slips of paper, but one message caught my eye. It was from my dear friends from Cabot Cove, Dr. Seth Hazlitt and Sheriff Morton Metzger. The message read

Arriving by Pan Am World Airways at eleven tonight at Heathrow Airport. Will arrange own transportation to hotel. Please don’t wait up for us.

“I can’t believe this,” I said to Lucas. I handed him the paper.

“Who are these people?”

“Very good friends from home.”

As we rode the elevator to my floor, I suffered mixed emotions. On the one hand, the idea of seeing familiar faces from Cabot Cove was as welcome as roses in May. On the other hand, my life seemed to have become so complicated since arriving in London that having more players involved was overwhelming.

We were no sooner inside the suite than Lucas said, “I found out more about that lunatic who attacked you last night.”

“Really? Tell me.”

“A certifiable madman. He attacked the London postmaster two years ago when he suggested the color of post boxes be changed. They let him go because he was obviously so demented that he couldn’t be held responsible.”

“That sword looked serious enough to me,” I said.

“He’s fruity, that’s all. I consider your friendship with Jimmy Biggers to pose a greater threat.”

“My friendship? I haven’t established a friendship with him. We’ve agreed to meet, that’s all. How did you know about that?”

“I have my sources. Keep your distance from him, Jessica. He’s nothing but trouble.”

I put my hands to my temples and said, “I know, I know, Lucas, and I promised I would heed your advice after what happened to me the other night on the street, but you can’t preclude me from making contact with people.”

“You’re willing to risk your life for that principle?”

“Risk my life? Lucas, I don’t wish to discuss this any further. I would like to attend some of the seminars and displays that are going on in the hotel. What are your plans?”

He sighed and huffed. “My plans were all carefully scheduled weeks ago, and on paper. The funeral has disrupted them. I might as well accompany you to whatever it is you decide to do. Damn, Jessica, things have gotten bloody wimpled. I detest complication.”

“Well, you don’t have any choice, do you? I need a hot bath to get rid of this chill. Shall we meet downstairs in an hour?”

“I suppose so. Why did you want to stop in that shop on Crumpsworth?”

“I was curious, that’s all.”

“I thought since you’d become so chummy with that Scotland Yard inspector, you’d be up on the latest through him.”

I was becoming increasingly annoyed with Lucas, and my face reflected it. He grinned sheepishly and said, “You have that good hot bath, Jessica. See you at the weapons display in Room 707 in an hour.”

I sank into the hot water foaming with bubbles and let out a long sigh, my tensions evaporating as the warm water worked its magic. My body felt instantly better, but I couldn’t shut off my mind. Most of all, I wished Frank were alive. I missed him every day of my life, but there were times when that desire became acute, and this was one of them.

The phone rang. I was glad I wasn’t in the living room to answer it. It rang again. And again. Someone was persistent in trying to reach me.

Fifteen minutes later, wrapped in a luxuriant terry-cloth robe provided by the hotel, I padded barefoot into the living room. The phone rang again.

“Mrs. Fletcher, it’s Maria Giacona.”

I hadn’t left Jason Harris’s flat with especially fond feelings for her, mitigated, of course, by having learned that he was known to have beaten her. “Yes, Ms. Giacona, what can I do for you?”

“Mrs. Fletcher, I’m terribly sorry for the way I acted at Jason’s flat. I was upset and…” Her voice lightened. “No excuses, I was simply rude, and I apologize.”

I sat on the bed. Her apology, sounding sincere, alleviated the annoyance I’d felt. I thanked her for her apology and asked whether she’d heard from Jason.

“No, I haven’t. I know you went to the funeral. He wasn’t there, was he?”

“No, he wasn’t. Are you at his flat now?”

“No, but I’m about to go there. I thought I’d tidy up in anticipation of his return.”

Apparently she’d brought her emotions under control. “You will call me if he comes home?” I said.

“Yes, of course. Mrs. Fletcher, when Jason does come home-and I know he will-I hope you and I can resurrect our plan to sit down together and discuss the work he did on Gin and Daggers.”

“Of course, provided I’m still here in London. I plan to be here only through this week.”

She laughed. “If he isn’t back by then, I will really worry.” Not that she hadn’t already. “Sorry to trouble you, Mrs. Fletcher. You are obviously a good person, and I appreciate the interest you’ve shown.”

“That’s quite all right, Ms. Giacona. Thank you for calling.”

The weapons display was fascinating, although I have always tended to look for less violent methods of doing away with victims in my books. Guns and knives certainly have their place in murder mystery fiction, and I’m sure there is a legion of readers who prefer some gore in their reading, but I’ve always been more comfortable with a more genteel approach. Very much like Marjorie Ainsworth, I thought. Still, there were times when a piece of destructive hardware was much needed, and I browsed the display with interest-and horror at what the real weapons could do to real people.

More interesting to me, however, was an array of methods to do away with someone that had nothing to do with triggers and bullets and blades. A London pharmacist who’d been a member of ISMW for many years, and who’d been a consultant to many British mystery writers, had not only created a remarkable display of poisons but, in conjunction with a leading cookbook author, had developed a series of recipes perfect for delivering these lethal chemicals to intended victims-only in books, of course.

I listened to a heated debate between a German psychologist turned mystery writer and a stout Canadian woman who’d written dozens of novels featuring a disgraced Royal Canadian Mounted Policeman, over the reasons that food often plays such a large role in mystery novels. She: “Having a fascination with, and skill at preparing food gives a hero or heroine a worldly sophistication.” He: “Unsinn! It all has to do with sex. There is no sex in murder mysteries. Food is the substitute. For each missing kiss or embrace, there will be an extra Brathandl!”

I noticed as the day wore on that fewer members of the press hung around the hotel, and I enjoyed an accompanying feeling of freedom. But, as when one jinxes a trip by commenting on how smoothly it’s gone just before a tire blows out, and the engine suddenly seizes, my pleasure was short-lived.

It happened at five o’clock as I sat in the lobby with other American writers attending the conference. I was in the process of retelling the German writer’s analysis of food and murder mysteries when Lucas came up to us. “Jessica, I must speak with you immediately.”

Lucas was always so dramatic, and most times it stemmed from his personality, rather than from an event he was about to report. Still, you never knew. I followed him to a corner.

“You haven’t heard?” he said.

“I suppose not. What haven’t I heard?”

“Marjorie’s last will and testament. It’s to be officially read and released tomorrow, but a few reporters were tipped off about its major provisions.”

“And?”

“She left a fortune, millions of pounds.”

“I don’t wonder.”

“The report didn’t mention specific numbers. Most of her estate, as I understand it, is to be used to establish Ainsworth Manor as an international research facility for mystery writers.”

“How wonderful,” I said.

“Her niece, Jane, gets some.”

“I would certainly hope so.”

“Household staff is in for a share.”

“I wouldn’t expect less of Marjorie than to reward them.”

“And, according to the report, she left a sizable portion to you.”

I was speechless.

“Did you hear me, Jessica?”

“Yes, I think so. Me?”

“You.”

“I can’t imagine why.”

“It doesn’t matter, Jessica. Do you realize what that means?”

“It means… I would never accept it. I don’t need money. I’ll simply donate my share to the study center that obviously meant so much to her.”

“Jessica.”

“What?”

“Her will. Motive. They’ll say you had a motive to kill her.”

I guffawed.

His face was dour. “I’m serious, Jessica.”

“Well, I’m certainly not, and I-”

Six reporters, followed by a camera crew from the BBC, entered the lobby and headed straight for me. “See you later, Lucas,” I said, walking quickly to the elevators while Lucas shouted for calm. Ten minutes after I’d reached my suite, Lucas arrived.

“I took care of them,” he said. “I gave them a statement.”

“What did you say?”

“You’ll see on the telly.”

An hour later, a BBC anchorman said in a deep voice: “The contents of the late Marjorie Ainsworth’s last will and testament were revealed today, twenty-four hours in advance of the formal reading of it.” He went on to say what Lucas had told me downstairs.

Then Lucas’s face filled the screen. “Ladies and gentlemen, it is only fitting that this news be announced on the second day of the annual meeting of the International Society of Mystery Writers.” He’d gotten in the plug; he was beaming as we watched the newscast together.

“The world-famous writer, Jessica Fletcher, who delivered our keynote speech last night, and was the target of a madman’s attack, has no comment at this time about having been named in Marjorie Ainsworth’s will. She is overcome with shock and gratitude to her dear and departed friend and will make a statement later.”

“Lucas,” I said, “this is-”

“Sssssh,” he said, holding his finger to his lips.

Montgomery Coots’s face replaced Lucas on the screen. He’d been videotaped on the road in front of Ainsworth Manor.

“First, I wish to announce that the foreign gardener arrested for attempting to sell a watch belonging to Marjorie Ainsworth has been released. He has an ironclad alibi, which I personally confirmed. Of course, with the release of the deceased’s will, focus must be on those who benefited financially from her death. I make no accusations, but the British people have my word that this heinous crime will be solved.”

“This is dreadful,” I said when the report was over.

“Don’t worry, Jess, I’ll make sure this is handled properly,” said Lucas.

“Lucas.”

“What?”

“Play cribbage with me.”

“Cribbage? At a time like this?”

“Especially at a time like this.” I removed a small cribbage board from my briefcase and set it up.

“Jessica, this is… mad.”

“No, Lucas, what’s going on downstairs and on television is madness. Cribbage is sanity, my kind of sanity. When Frank was alive, and when there was pressure in our lives, we played cribbage, or some other game. I nearly always won, and felt better. Sit down and cut the cards to see who goes first, and not another word about anything except the game.”