Gin and Daggers

by Donald Bain

  Once a relative calm had returned, I was urged to continue my speech-which I did, reluctantly, and with considerably less enthusiasm and confidence than before.

  When I was finished, Lucas outlined the program for the rest of the conference. There were to be seminars on new forensic techniques, weapons, surveillance apparatus, poisons, police procedure, and everything else of which the working mystery writer likes to keep abreast. There were also to be talks on more esoteric subjects, such as the future of the murder mystery, historical perspectives, and evaluations of new works by a reviewing panel.

  A coffee reception followed the dinner, and a receiving line of sorts was formed, with me at its head. It was an awkward situation, but I did my best to get through it, shaking too many hands, smiling too much, saying too often, “Yes, it was startling.” I was relieved when it was over and I could mingle freely.

  “Excellent speech, Mrs. Fletcher,” Inspector George Sutherland said. It was good to see him, and I told him so.

  “Dreadful incident,” he said. “The city is crawling with daft people like that. Sorry one of them had to decide to do away with you.”

  I laughed nervously. “I’m just pleased that he didn’t accomplish his mission.”

  “So am I. Might I get you a coffee, or would you prefer to slip away from your adoring public for a drink at the bar?”

  The latter sounded appealing, and I graciously accepted, asking, though, for ten minutes before leaving. I walked over to Jimmy Biggers, who was talking with a contingent from the Dutch chapter of ISMW.

  “Mr. Biggers, I owe you a debt of gratitude. I saw how you stopped him.”

  He excused himself from the Dutch writers, and we moved a few feet away. “Mrs. Fletcher, will you give me a half hour of your time?”

  “Now? I’m afraid I’m-”

  “Mrs. Fletcher, I would never think of interfering with your responsibilities tonight. Could we meet tomorrow?”

  “Yes, I suppose so, but what do you wish to meet about?”

  He displayed his yellow teeth and said, “Marjorie Ainsworth, of course. I think you could use the services of someone who knows London as I do, its underbelly, its dark comers. I have some definite ideas on her murder and would like to share them with you.”

  His Cockney accent was charming, and went with his physical appearance, which, I knew, represented stereotyping on my part. Cockneys don’t have a look; they simply happened to be born within hearing distance of Bow Bells, the bells of St. Mary-le-Bow Church in Cheapside.

  “I’d also like to discuss that fellow over there with you,” he said, pointing to Montgomery Coots.

  “Why?”

  “He’s a nasty chap, and he’s fixated on you, Mrs. Fletcher, as a suss.”

  “Suspect,” I said, remembering Lucas’s language lesson. “Preposterous.”

  “Maybe so, but not to be taken lightly.”

  I remembered what Lucas had said about Biggers’s reputation but, at the same time, I was eager to talk with him. We agreed to meet in the Grill for lunch. Then I remembered that Marjorie’s funeral was the next day. “Mr. Biggers, I’m afraid I couldn’t possibly meet with you tomorrow. I’ll be attending Marjorie Ainsworth’s funeral in Crumpsworth.”

  “The day after then?”

  “Call me, Mr. Biggers. I’m sure we can arrange something.”

  “I certainly will, Mrs. Fletcher. Cheerio!”

  I spent the next hour with the same warm feeling I’d had when Inspector Sutherland and I had tea at Brown’s. He was charming, and although I reminded myself on more than one occasion that he was investigating Marjorie’s murder, the ambience he created made it difficult to dwell upon such thoughts. We talked about many things, none of them having to do with crime. He told me his background-born in Wick, on Scotland ’s uppermost shores; father was a commercial fisherman, herring mostly, until the herring virtually disappeared; a harsh life in a harsh place, but a loving family. He’d received a degree in psychology from the University of Edinburgh, joined the Edinburgh police force, married a woman from London, transferred to the London MPD, then moved over to Scotland Yard. His wife had been killed in a car accident some years ago.

  We left the Savoy bar and stood in the lobby. “Good night, Mrs. Fletcher. It is always a pleasure.”

  “I might say the same thing, Inspector.”

  “I saw you speaking with Jimmy Biggers.”

  “Yes.”

  “He’s notorious, you know, definitely aff the fuit.”

  “Pardon?”

  A big smile. “An old Scottish expression for morally unfit. Just be careful, that’s all.”

  “I will. Thank you for the warning, Inspector.”

  “Call me George, please.”

  “If you’ll call me Jessica.”

  “I assume your friends call you Jess.”

  “Yes, my… close friends do.”

  “And I? Shall it be Jessica or Jess?”

  “Whatever pleases you.”

  “One thing, before we end this evening. It seems to me it might be a good idea for me to assign permanent protection for you while you remain in London.”

  “Oh, Inspector… George, I don’t think that’s at all necessary.”

  “May I be the judge of that, Jessica?”

  “Yes, if you wish.”

  “Good. I’ll arrange it. Thank you once again for sharing some time with me. Good night… Jess.”

  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 a
ll. 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.