Gin and Daggers

Chapter Two

“Enjoy your stay,” the passport inspector at London ’s Heathrow Airport said as he handed me back my passport.

“Thank you. I certainly hope to.”

I went to the baggage area, where my luggage had already arrived on the carousel. I loaded it onto one of hundreds of available trolleys, the existence of which always confirmed for me London ’s heroic attempt to remain civilized. Because I had nothing to declare, I went through the Customs area marked in green, and immediately spotted Lucas Darling, who was with a crowd of people behind portable barriers.

Lucas was the unpaid secretary of ISMW; a sizable family inheritance allowed him to indulge himself. He was a cherubic little man of fifty, with pink cheeks and gossamer blond-gray hair that he allowed to grow just oh-so-long, giving him what he considered to be a literary look. He was fond of bow ties, and wore a large, floppy red one with white polka dots this day, along with a double-breasted blue blazer with large brass buttons, and gray slacks. A long, slender black umbrella dangled from his wrist. He was virtually hopping up and down as he called, “Jessica, Jessica, over here!”

“Hello, Lucas,” I said.

“Oh, Jessica, how good to see you again,” he said, shaking my hand.

“It’s good to see you, too, Lucas, and wonderful to be back in London.”

“You bought a brolly, I hope. It’s been raining here for days.” Before I could say anything, he added, “No matter, I brought one for you.” He handed me the umbrella he was carrying.

Lucas took over wheeling the baggage trolley and led us to a taxi stand, where a young man graciously loaded my luggage into the space next to him in the front, held open the door for us, and, once we were settled in the spacious rear compartment (more blessed civilization, those London cabs), headed for the city.

“Everything shaping up for the conference?” I asked.

Lucas’s face soured. “I wish that were the case, Jessica, but I’m afraid it’s not.”

I raised my eyebrows.

“So many last minute details. I can’t trust them to anyone else anymore. The members keep promising to do things and then don’t, which means I have to do them myself-although, Lord knows, I don’t mind. Sometimes I think I’m the only one who takes these yearly conferences seriously.”

I laughed and patted his arm. “That isn’t true at all, Lucas. I take them seriously.”

“You’re a pleasant exception, Jessica Fletcher. By the way, have you read Marjorie’s new book, Gin and Daggers?”

“No, I haven’t, but there’s a good reason for it. You do know I’ll be spending the weekend with her before the conference starts.”

He pouted. “Yes, and I was terribly disappointed that you wouldn’t be in London over the weekend. I had some splendid social outings planned for us.”

“I’m sure there’ll be lots of time during the conference for socializing, Lucas. The point I was making was that Marjorie told me in a recent letter that she had a copy of Gin and Daggers waiting for me at the manor, and wanted personally to give it to me. You can imagine the willpower it took for me not to buy a copy back in the States. From everything I hear, it’s her finest work, a masterpiece.”

Lucas shifted on the seat so that he was facing me. He said earnestly, “There’s no debate about that, Jessica. The only question has to do with the book’s authorship.”

My laugh this time was one of dismissal.

“You may laugh, Jessica, but the rumors are getting serious.”

“That’s preposterous,” I said. “If there is one person in this world who does not need a ghostwriter, it’s Marjorie Ainsworth.” As I said it, I realized my protest was probably overblown. Reports of Marjorie’s ill health were consistent and compelling. The letter to me just before I left Cabot Cove gave credence to the fact that she was obviously not well, although the condition of a writer’s body, unless in chronic pain, needn’t influence the quality of writing. Her letter to me was lucid enough. Her mind was sharp. If she had to dictate, that didn’t mean less direct involvement in the book. I said this to Lucas.

“I hope you’re right,” he said. “As you know, ISMW is still carrying the fight to break through that pretentious barrier between genre fiction and what they love to term ‘serious literary works.’ If any book is destined to do that, it’s Gin and Daggers.”

“The more you talk, the harder I have to fight the urge to have the driver stop at the nearest bookstore so I can get a copy. It’s that good, Lucas?”

“Even better than that, Jessica, it’s a tour de force, but it doesn’t read consistently like Marjorie Ainsworth. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not implying that the rumors might be right. It’s just that…”

“Not like her at all?”

He smiled sheepishly. “There I go again, my penchant for overstating things. Of course it’s filled with classic Ainsworth plotting, insight into the human dilemma, things like that, but there’s a philosophical depth that isn’t evident in her previous books. Do you know what I mean?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know; I always found quite a bit of depth to Marjorie’s writing.”

He sighed and looked out though raindrops on his window. We’d entered central London now; sprawling industrial complexes and blue-collar housing had given way to the more genteel architecture of the West End. He turned to me. “Ignore everything I’ve said, Jessica, until you’ve had a chance to read Gin and Daggers. Then we’ll sit down over a long, leisurely dinner and discuss it, like two matrons at a literary luncheon.”

“You have a deal, Lucas. I look forward to it.”

The driver turned off the Strand and into a broad courtyard, at the end of which was the main entrance to the Savoy Hotel. Until the driver made that turn, I’d managed to avoid thinking about previous arrivals at the Savoy with my late husband, Frank. Now, as the splendidly uniformed doorman stood waiting to assist us, those feelings threatened to overflow. I turned away from Lucas in case my eyes had misted.

“Here we are, Jessica,” Lucas said brightly. “I would have opted for a more intimate setting for the conference, but the site selection committee, God bless them, insisted upon the Savoy.” When I didn’t turn to acknowledge his comment, he said, “Jessica, are you all right?”

I drew a breath and smiled at him. “Yes, of course. I’m just overwhelmed at being back in this wonderful city.”

We were graciously whisked through the elegant Thames Foyer, where tea would be served in the afternoon-and where theatergoers would snack before curtain time-and went to the reception desk. I was warmly greeted by name. Then, in the tow of a handsome, gregarious porter dressed in pinstripes, we were led to my room.

Room? It was a magnificent suite, spacious and airy, a fireplace on one wall, fine paintings on another establishing the Victorian panache for which the Savoy was famous.

I went to a window and looked out over the leafy embankment of the river Thames.

“Is everything to your satisfaction, Mrs. Fletcher?” the porter asked.

I turned. “Yes, it’s splendid. I didn’t expect to be in a suite, especially one with such opulence.”

Lucas Darling laughed. “Nothing but the best for the famous Jessica Fletcher. Do you realize, Jessica, that…?”

I cocked my head. “Realize what, Lucas?”

“Well, I hate to sound maudlin, but when Marjorie Ainsworth passes away, Jessica Fletcher will become, without doubt, the world’s most revered writer of the murder mystery.”

I couldn’t help the guffaw that came from me. “Don’t be silly, Lucas. I am firmly entrenched in a wonderful and large group of good writers. Then there are the Marjorie Ainsworths of this world. But thank you. You’ve always had an ability to flatter.”

After the porter left, tipped handsomely by Lucas, he asked if I would join him for a drink downstairs.

“Oh, thank you, Lucas, but I really need some time to straighten out my circadian rhythms. The flight was long.”

“Aha, the plot for the next Jessica Fletcher murder mystery is already developing. Circadian rhythms out of whack, claims of a suspect to have feasted on smoked salmon, caviar, and London broil on her flight when, in fact, our detective hero knows that particular flight served capon, country pate, and vanilla mousse topped with raspberries.”

We laughed. “Get out of here, Lucas, and let me pull myself together. Marjorie’s chauffeur will be here tomorrow at noon to take me to Ainsworth Manor. I want to be rested, don’t want to miss a moment of my time with her.”

“Of course, I understand. Is there anything I can do for you?”

“No, but I would like to see the public room where I’ll be making my speech, get a feel for it, that sort of thing.”

“Whenever you say.”

“Give me three hours of solitude. I’ll meet you in the foyer.”

“I’ll be there. Three hours will give me time to run some errands. There are always so many errands to run in preparation for the conference, and no one seems willing to run them except me.”

Poor suffering Lucas, I thought. Instead, I said, “Yes, but don’t think your dedication isn’t appreciated. I hear all the time from members about how the society would be nothing without Lucas Darling.”

He kissed me on the cheek. “Bless you, Jessica Fletcher, you give Americans a good name.” He went to the door, turned, and added, “A word of caution. London is not what it used to be. The crime rate is dreadful here, and getting worse every day. Rumor has it that the bobbies are carrying concealed weapons, quite a change from their nightsticks-only days. Packs of vile young men are roaming the streets and preying on visitors, particularly…”

I finished his sentence for him: “Particularly older women.”

“I didn’t say that, nor would I ever. Anyway, keep your handbag close to you and, no matter how tempted you might be to taste the less elegant areas of jolly old London, control your temptation. See you at three downstairs.” He bounced jauntily out of the room.

“Thank God,” I said aloud, but not too loud. I quickly unpacked and got out of the clothes I’d been living in since leaving Cabot Cove for Boston ’s Logan Airport and my connecting flight to London. A quick shower in the beautifully appointed bathroom revived my spirits while, at the same time, relaxing me enough to slide in for a nap between fresh sheets on the queen-sized bed.

Damn the mind. I wanted sleep to rescue me from those sad thoughts I’d had in the taxi, but I lost the race. I could hear the music, the happy sounds of men and women enjoying themselves, the delicious and comforting feel of being led around the dance floor downstairs in the River Room Restaurant:

Savoy, the home of sweet romance,

Savoy, it grabs you at a glance,

Savoy, gives happy feet a chance

To dance…

It seemed like only yesterday, but I knew it wasn’t; another mean trick played by the mind.

Now my topsy-turvy circadian rhythms, more commonly known as jet lag, came rushing over the hill to my rescue. The last thing I remember before falling asleep was changing songs from “Stompin’ at the Savoy ” to “Tea for Two,” and smiling at the realization that I whistled more in tune than my mailman.