by Donald Bain
“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, between 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 kindness 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.”
“I have to admit I’m pleased that you and Scotland Yard are involved, Inspector Sutherland. Frankly, I was dismayed that this brutal murder of a friend and a revered writer would be left in the hands of…”
He took me off the hook. “Mrs. Fletcher, it’s admirable that you don’t wish to be harsh on Crumpsworth’s Inspector Coots, but your unspoken instincts are correct. Inspector Coots… well, how shall I say it?… Inspector Coots is… the inspector of Crumpsworth.”
I laughed. “Your discretion is admirable, too, Inspector Sutherland. I get the picture.”
“Yes, well, with that out of the way, although I must say Coots is not out of the way-he insists upon continuing his investigation and is entitled to do that-let me ask my first helper her thoughts on the murder of Marjorie Ainsworth.”
“I take it, then, that I am your helper, not a suspect.”
“Despite what the papers say, you are not a suspect on my list, Mrs. Fletcher. But, as I told you before, I do need help. You were there and obviously have a trained eye. Tell me, what is your response to the possibility raised by Coots that the murderer might have been an intruder from outside, and not one of the weekend guests?”
I thought for a moment before saying, “Highly unlikely to me. An intruder, unless a bumbling one, would not choose a night when the house was filled with guests to break in. No, I think the killer was someone who was in the house by invitation.”
“Are you ruling out household staff, then?”
“No, by ‘invitation’ I mean someone who was expected to be in the house, either as a guest or because they were employed.”
“Care to venture a guess?”
“No.”
“Surely, Mrs. Fletcher, you must have had some thoughts about people attending the party. Let’s begin with the most basic question. Who would gain from Marjorie Ainsworth’s death?”
I thought of Lucas Darling and his comment about Marjorie’s will. “What about her will?” I asked.
“Aha, a good question. Her solicitor is to deliver it to me in the morning. That might shed some light on motive. Financial gain always heads the list.”
“I’d not put it at the top, although it certainly would rank high.”
“What would be above it?” he asked.
“Pride, I think, possibly followed by lust and, in third place, money.”
“Interesting, Mrs. Fletcher. Let us put the will and the question of money aside for the moment. Whose pride at the party would have been enhanced by having Miss Ainsworth dead?”
Jason Harris immediately came to mind, but I decided not to bring him up. I said, “I don’t know, Inspector Sutherland; perhaps someone who was in trouble and might be bailed out by Marjorie’s death.” He said nothing, but it was plain he was waiting for me to come up with a name. I was caught in an internal debate between wanting very much to be of help to him, yet not wanting to point fingers at anyone. I thought of Clayton Perry, Marjorie’s American publisher, who was rumored to be in serious financial difficulty, but that would be a matter of money, not pride. I said, “I hope you don’t think me uncooperative, Inspector Sutherland, but I think it would be terribly premature for me to speculate on people I met for the first time at Ainsworth Manor. You understand, I’m sure.”
“I must. You said lust ranked second on the list of motives. Somehow I can’t see where that would enter the picture.”
“Because Marjorie was… old?”
He smiled. “I suppose so.”
“You’re right, unless the lust had to do with being free to pursue a lustful venture once she was out of the way.”
“Interesting,” he said. “Was someone there that weekend who would fall into that category?”
I shook my hea
d. “Not that I know of. I’m not being evasive, but I don’t know enough about anyone who was there to make such a judgment.”
Sutherland took a notebook from his breast pocket, flipped to a page he was looking for, and held it away from him. He was farsighted; I wondered why he didn’t put on glasses. Vanity? That would have disappointed me. He did not seem to be a vain man. I was pleased when he reached into his pocket, pulled out a pair of half-glasses, and brought the notebook closer to his eyes. “Tell me about Miss Ainsworth’s niece, Jane Portelaine.”
“I really don’t know what to say about Jane. She’s been devoted to her aunt for many years, and Marjorie always acknowledged that, right up until the end. She’s a seemingly cold and unhappy woman, but that’s a value judgment that I promised years ago not to make about people.” I paused and waited for a reaction. There was none. “There was a certain tension between Jane and her aunt,” I said. “I can’t deny that. Are you looking at Jane as a suspect?”
“No, just curious. She seems so obvious, but that’s because that type of woman, in that sort of situation, is always obvious. A red herring, I think you mystery writers call it.”
“Yes, we do. Every good mystery will have a red herring or two.”
He suddenly sat up in his chair and took on an animation that had not been there before. He asked, “Do you know the origin of the term ‘red herring,’ Mrs. Fletcher?”
“No, I don’t.”
He seemed pleased that he could explain it to me. “It goes back to the seventeenth century, perhaps even earlier. Animal activists who were dismayed by the senseless killing of foxes for sport would smoke herrings, which turned them red, and then drag them through the fields. The smell of the fish was so strong that it disguised the foxes’ scent-making it possible for them to beat a hasty retreat while packs of confused hunting dogs sniffed around in circles. It was a simple and effective ruse.”
“That’s fascinating. I will now inject red herrings into my books with greater respect.”
“The business of your necklace, Mrs. Fletcher, about which so much has been made in the press. You obviously dropped it when you discovered the body.”
