Gin and Daggers

Chapter Seven

I woke early, threw back the drapes, and allowed a burst of sunshine to enter the suite, hoping it was symbolic of what the day would be like.

The early morning news on BBC Radio brought me back to reality. Funeral plans had been announced for Marjorie Ainsworth. The service would be. held on Tuesday in a small church in Crumpsworth, at Marjorie’s request. The announcement was made by Janet Portelaine. I was to give my keynote address to ISMW the night of the funeral.

I took a long, leisurely shower, enjoyed the toast and coffee I’d ordered through room service, and dressed in a camel’s-hair skirt, white button-down blouse, heather sweater, and brown tweed sport jacket and made sure I wore sensible walking shoes.

I was about to leave the room when I remembered that the press was laying siege. I called my assistant manager friend, and was assured that he could spirit me from the hotel through a rear entrance that few people, including veteran members of the London press, knew about. Ten minutes later he had me two blocks away and was helping me into a taxi.

I was pleased that Maria Giacona had suggested Hyde Park instead of breakfast in the hotel. I’d wanted to spend Sunday morning at Speakers’ Corner anyway, and this would allow me to indulge that plan, while also hearing what Ms. Giacona had to say. Frank and I had spent two Sunday mornings at Speakers’ Corner and had not only found the experience fascinating, but were both struck with the real meaning of free speech it represented.

My driver let me off at Marble Arch, which was built originally as the main gateway to Buckingham Palace but, because it wasn’t broad enough for royal coaches to pass through, was moved in 1851 to its current site. I stood for a few minutes after he drove away, and took in the broader scene in front of me. Again, as would happen countless times during this post-Frank trip to London, I was bombarded with memories that, while pleasant, carried with them a parallel sadness because they could never be repeated.

It wasn’t difficult to find the South African rally that Maria had mentioned. It dominated the corner and, as opposed to most of the other speakers who had to shout over competing noise, featured a fiery young black man with a microphone and amplification system.

I stood at the rear of the crowd and looked for Maria. I didn’t see her. As I started to wonder whether I was the victim of a time-consuming practical joke, a voice behind me said, “Mrs. Fletcher.”

I turned and looked into Maria’s dark eyes. No wonder I hadn’t seen her; she was dressed very differently from last night. This morning she wore jeans and an army surplus camouflage jacket over a black turtleneck, and her hair was pulled into a French braid. No makeup.

“I was beginning to wonder whether you’d be here,” I said.

“I’ve been here for a while. I was watching you.”

“You were? Why didn’t you just come over to me?”

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s because I wanted to gain a better sense of the person I was going to confide in this morning. I certainly know you by reputation, and I’ve read some of your books, but dealing on a personal level is another matter. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Yes, I would.”

She suggested we walk to the Serpentine. As we walked, and talked, I was increasingly impressed with her. I liked her, which would make things easier, no matter how startling or unpleasant her message.

We chose a bench in the shade of a huge sycamore tree. She sat hunched over, and peered with intensity out over the lake. Whatever it was she was about to tell me meant a great deal to her. She was taut, coiled, and evidently going through an internal debate either about whether to tell me anything at all, or about how to word it.

I tried to help her. “Ms. Giacona, you wanted to talk to me about Marjorie Ainsworth’s murder, as well as Jason Harris.”

She slowly turned her head and narrowed her eyes. “Mrs. Fletcher, I must first say that I do not wish to offend you or your friend, Marjorie Ainsworth. I know you were close to her, and that her death must be a shock to you, especially the circumstances of it.”

“Very true.”

“I do not share that closeness with her, but I do share such a closeness with another person who is being hurt by this.”

“Jason Harris?”

“Yes.”

“I can imagine. From what I understand, Marjorie had taken him in as a pupil of sorts. He certainly couldn’t have had a better teacher, and losing such a mentor must be difficult.”

Now her soft brown eyes were tempered with a discernible anger. It was almost frightening, so abrupt was the change. She said in measured tones, “It is not losing Marjorie Ainsworth as a teacher that is upsetting to Jason, Mrs. Fletcher. It is losing credit for his wonderful work that is so painful to him, and to me.”

I processed what she had said, then asked, “What is your relationship to Jason Harris?”

“We are lovers.”

“I see.” I asked what she meant by his having lost credit for work he’d done.

“I suppose there is no sense in trying to say this gently, Mrs. Fletcher. The fact is that Jason wrote Gin and Daggers.”

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.