by Donald Bain
“And you’re a darling to do it for me. What do you say we find an archetypal British pub and have ourselves a shandy for a nightcap?”
“What’s a shandy?” Seth asked.
“Half a bitter, half lemonade,” Biggers said. “Come on, I’ll drive us to one of my favorites.”
Our vehicle was, of course, the battered white Cadillac.
“We’re on Wapping Wall,” I said after we’d driven for fifteen minutes.
“Right you are, Mrs. Fletcher, my neighborhood. I feel comfortable over here.” We pulled up in front of a pub called the Prospect of Whitby. “The manager’s a chum o’ mine,” Biggers said as he held open the door for me. “I think you’ll enjoy it.”
Because the pub sat directly on the Thames, and because it dated back to the sixteenth century (the area on which it sat was once known as the “hanging dock,” where the infamous Judge Jeffreys would approve of the bodies of his victims hanging in chains, and then enter the tavern to feast), it was dripping with atmosphere and packed with customers, most of them American.
Biggers was greeted warmly and we were led to a scarred table in the darts room. A bouncy, pleasant young waitress, who threatened to burst through her white blouse, gave Biggers a kiss on the cheek and asked what we would be having.
“Friends from America,” Biggers said. “Let’s give ’em a taste of the good stuff, best bitter for everyone.”
“I thought you’d be taking us to the Red Feather,” I said.
“Have to admit I’m partial to it, Mrs. Fletcher. Never see a tourist there, but I thought you’d enjoy this place. Lots of postcards sent back to the States from here.”
Biggers proved to be an amiable and entertaining drinking companion, although Morton Metzger didn’t seem to be enthralled, judging by the perpetual sour expression on his face. Seth, on the other hand, seemed to be enjoying the little Cockney private detective, and they were soon talking, laughing, and slapping each other’s backs like old fraternity brothers.
Eventually, after the third round of best bitter had been served (I’d switched to a shandy because I knew I couldn’t handle another straight beer), I brought up the subject of Jason Harris’s murder.
“Nasty business, that,” Biggers said. “Learn anything startling at the coppers this morning?”
“No, just what I mentioned to you at the Red Feather.”
“What did that sack o’ manure Simpson tell you?”
“Simpson?” I sat back and scrutinized him across the table. “How did you know I saw David Simpson?”
“Me gut told me.”
“You’ve been following me all day, Mr. Biggers.”
“Just the latter part of it,” he said, “after you woke me up and I put me act together. Simpson’s no good, a slimy one, if you catch my drift.”
“Because of the business he’s in? Yes, I would agree.”
“More than that. He’s connected.”
“Connected? You mean with organized crime?”
“That’s what I mean. Tell me, you seem to have become a mother hen of sorts to the Giacona girl.”
“Oh no, but I do feel sorry for her. She’s a nice person.”
“Is she now?”
“Yes… she is.”
Seth and Morton listened closely to our conversation.
“Mrs. Fletcher-can I call you Jessica?-I had a fling with a bird named Jessica once, lovely thing, but mean-spirited when she drank.”
“Yes, call me Jessica.”
“All right then, Jessica, you might ask Miss Giacona about David Simpson.”
“She’s already spoken to me of him. He’s her dead lover’s stepbrother.”
“That may be true, Jessica, but Simpson was also her lover.”
“The two of them?”
“Not at once.” He laughed loudly, and we all smiled. “She did a bit o’ dancin’ for Mr. Simpson and he took a shine to her, sort of a favorite.”
“She was a stripper… exotic dancer?”
“Good, too, real popular. Beautiful bird.”
“Yes, she is.”
“Yup, David Simpson and she had quite a fling. She didn’t mention that to you?”
“No, she didn’t.”
“Probably a bit embarrassed. More bitter?”
“No, I think it’s time we leave.”
I insisted upon paying the check, and Biggers drove us back to the Savoy.
“Thank you for escorting us,” I said. “It’s been a pleasant and educational evening.”
“My pleasure, Jessica.” He said to Seth, “Enjoyed your company, sir.” And to Morton: “I’m really a likable chap once you get to know me.”
“I like you.”
“Yeah, well, good night, everyone. Sleep well. See you soon.”
“I don’t like him,” Morton said as we entered the hotel.
“I do,” said Seth.
I said, “I’m not sure whether I like him or not, but I have a feeling I’m going to learn a lot more from him before this little London escapade is over.”
Chapter Fifteen
I had trouble falling asleep after returning from the evening with Seth, Morton, and Jimmy Biggers, and turned to Gin and Daggers, which I read for nearly two hours before drifting off.
I wasn’t reading for pleasure this time; my first read had provided that. This time I concentrated on characters and events that might possibly link up with people and episodes from Jason Harris’s life. It was an impossible task. How could I know whether the name given to a certain character had relevance where Jason was concerned? I also knew that if Jason had included real names, it would have violated a steadfast principle of Marjorie Ainsworth’s-that real names never be used in any novel. Some authors will inadvertently, or deliberately, name characters after people they know; either because the name comes easily to them, or because they wish to give a friend or family member a special treat while reading the book. Not Marjorie. She considered that practice to be patently amateurish, and it didn’t take much to get her up on her soapbox on the subject.
My meeting with Jason’s stepbrother, David Simpson, had been entirely too cursory, and I decided to contact him again. Had Simpson read either the manuscript or the finished book? If so, he probably had some inkling as to which references Jason used to establish his authorship-provided he had lent a creative hand to it. I still had my doubts about that, although I had to admit to myself that after reading a major portion of Gin and Daggers for the second time, I could certainly discern a change from the Marjorie Ainsworth writing style with which I was so familiar. Yes, it was possible that another hand had played a part in writing the book. That didn’t mean, however, that it was Jason Harris’s.
I thought about Marjorie’s failing health over the past few years, and how she had dictated a great deal of her correspondence to her niece, Jane. I’d once tried dictating one of my own novels and had found the process excruciating. Not only that, what came out in the transcription of the tapes was a markedly different style from when I sat at my trusty typewriter and pecked away word after word, sentence after sentence. I did, of course, heavily edit the transcript of the dictation, which brought the finished manuscript into line with my hunt-and-peck style. Even then there was some change. Could this explain the difference in Gin and Daggers? Perhaps. The only person who might provide insight would be Jane Portelaine, and based upon my brief exchange with her at the cemetery, I doubted whether she would welcome such a conversation with me. But she had suggested I call her if I wished to spend time at Ainsworth Manor before returning to Cabot Cove, and I intended to take her up on it.
My first thought upon awakening the next morning was Maria Giacona. Was Jimmy Biggers telling the truth about her life as an exotic dancer and her affair with Jason’s stepbrother? I suspected he had been truthful, and it perplexed me. I wanted to call Maria, but I had no idea where to reach her. She’d never given me an address or telephone number, aside from Jason’s flat, and I doubted whether she would be st
aying there. But on the chance that she might, I went to the London telephone directory looking for a Jason Harris. No listing; he had either not had a telephone or had requested he be excluded from the book.
I made my usual list of what I intended to accomplish that day: call on David Simpson, and stop by Jason’s flat in the hope that I might catch Maria there.
I received a call after breakfast from Marjorie Ainsworth’s solicitor, a huffy man named Chester Gould-Brayton, who spoke in slow, sonorous tones. He said, “Mrs. Fletcher, it occurred to me that you might wish to be present at the formal reading of Ms. Ainsworth’s last will and testament.”
“I’d wondered whether I’d be invited, considering I’ve been included in it,” I said, “but I certainly wouldn’t be offended if I weren’t. I don’t intend to accept whatever money she’s left me. I prefer to donate it to the study center that I understand is to be established with the majority of the estate.”
“That, of course, is your decision, Mrs. Fletcher, although I have known more than one person who took such an altruistic stance in the beginning, then succumbed to the temptation of large money.”
I was offended at his comment and told him so.
“As you wish, Mrs. Fletcher. The reading will be at four this afternoon in my office.” He gave me the address.
The ISMW panel at which the relative merits of large cities versus small towns as settings for murder mysteries was discussed turned out to be, in my estimation, a monumental bore. The others on the panel tried to outprecious one another, as a certain ilk of writer is prone to do, and I found myself with little to offer. I was delighted when it ended and I could get on with the rest of my day. I was free until a dinner that night sponsored by Marjorie’s British publisher, Archibald Semple. I was glad I’d been able to have dinner with Seth and Morton the previous night because I didn’t see another evening together for the rest of the week.
I had a half-dozen invitations for lunch that day but politely declined all of them. Seth and Morton had left a message that they were off to do some sightseeing and shopping. I knew Seth was eager to explore the possibility of having a suit made on Savile Row. Once he saw the prices, however, I had a suspicion he would shelve the idea in favor of off-the-rack selections back in Bangor. Morton’s hobby was collecting toy soldiers, and he’d heard about a shop called Under Two Flags that specialized in English and Scottish regiments. That was obviously on their agenda, too. It was good they were entertaining themselves because I’d decided that I would indeed attend the reading of Marjorie’s will after taking care of the two other items on my list.
The Liverpool Street Station area was far less ominous in broad daylight. I made a point of walking up the street on which I’d been mugged and stopping on the spot where the young man had stepped out from behind the packing crates. I would probably always stop there on subsequent visits to London. “It happened right here,” I would tell whomever I was with, increasing my attacker’s height each time, and embellishing my fearless defense of my purse.
I entered Jason’s building and went upstairs. The black door to his flat was locked. I looked through the open door into the flat across the tiny landing, and assumed it was where the man lived who had come to the door the night I was in Jason’s flat with Maria. I peered inside. Aside from a few scattered pieces of furniture, it seemed to be uninhabited.
“ ’Ere now, what might you be lookin’ for?” a shrill female voice said from the landing below.
I looked down the stairs and saw an old woman with frizzy hair and thick glasses, wearing a housedress and carpet slippers. “I was looking for…” I couldn’t say Jason Harris. “I was looking for the young lady who was a friend of Mr. Harris.”
“ ’Aven’t seen that bint since ’e got ’is throat slit. Who are you?”
“A friend of the family. The man who lives across the hall. I met him the other night and-”
“God blind me, talkin’ about the likes of him. The bugger scarpered out in the middle of the night, owes me rent, too, he does.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said, coming down a few steps. “What was his name?”
“Maroney, if you believe ‘im. Probably got ’imself a dozen of ‘em. Blokes like ’im usually do. You a family friend of ‘is, too? Maybe you’d like to pay up for ’im.”
“No, I only met him briefly. You say Mr. Harris’s friend, the attractive young woman named Maria, hasn’t been here?”
“Not that I’ve seen, only I don’t spend my day snoopin’ on me tenants.”
I bet you don’t, I thought. I said, “Well, I think I’ll leave a note on Mr. Harris’s door if you don’t mind.”
“Harris owed me rent, too. You say you’re a friend of the family? How about payin’ ’is rent?”
“I’m not that much of a friend. Excuse me.” I wrote a brief note asking Maria to call me, and slipped it under Jason’s door.
I descended to the ground floor, the landlady yelling after me every step that no one had any sense of honor or decency anymore, that all she ended up with in the building was bums, and that she intended only to rent to “proper ladies” from now on. I wasn’t sure how many “proper ladies” would be interested in living in that building, but you never knew. Then again, how did she intend to define “proper ladies”?
I moved on to Soho and David Simpson’s talent agency. The waiting room was filled with young women of varying shades, sizes and dress. Simpson would have no trouble filling openings for exotic dancers that night. Carmela, the receptionist, was in her usual pose behind the desk, reading a magazine and chewing gum. I asked for Mr. Simpson, and she curtly told me he was gone for the day.
“Will he be here tomorrow?” I asked.
She shrugged. “Wouldn’t I like to know that? He owes me pay.”
I left feeling as though I’d touched base with the Debtors’ Society of London. It was three o’clock; an hour to go before Marjorie’s will was read. I hadn’t eaten, and stopped in the Soho Brasserie for a sandwich and soft drink, then headed for Mr. Gould-Brayton’s office on Newgate Street, where the Roman and mediaeval wall dissects it.
As I entered the spacious, richly paneled, and sedate surroundings of Gould-Brayton & Partners office, I expected to see very few people. Certainly Jane Portelaine would be on hand, as might those members of the household staff who were named in the will. Instead, the conference room looked like a re-creation, minus food, of the dinner party at Ainsworth Manor the night Marjorie died. There were some notable exceptions; Jason Harris, of course, wasn’t there, nor was William Strayhorn, the London book reviewer. The other missing personages included Sir James Ferguson, the theatrical producer, and Clayton Perry’s wife, Reneé.
I was seated next to Count Antonio Zara, who held out my chair for me and, I suspect, had intentions of kissing my hand, which I deftly avoided by wrapping both of them around my purse.
Mr. Gould-Brayton looked the way he sounded, terribly overweight, dark three-piece suit with gold chain draped across his large belly, and rimless spectacles, and, I was certain, had bad breath, although I wasn’t close enough to confirm that supposition.
My assumption that Jane Portelaine would be there had been confirmed the moment I entered the reception area. Victorian posy hung heavy in the air and dominated the conference room.
Jane sat across the large mahogany conference table from me, flanked by American agent Bruce Herbert, and American publisher Clayton Perry. Her appearance this afternoon interested me. She wore lipstick, just a touch, but surprising nonetheless. She’d done something with her hair that allowed it to fall with more softness about her face. Her nails appeared to have been freshly manicured, and a subtle, rose-colored nail polish, the same shade as her lipstick, had been expertly applied. Her dress, too, was different, although not dramatically so. She wore a teal blouse and had left the top button open, of all things. A simple chain suspended the gold letters of her name above her bosom. The heavy gray cardigan sweater seemed the only throwb
ack to how I’d always remembered her, although I couldn’t see her skirt and shoes.
“Hello, Jane,” I said.
She smiled at me. “Hello, Mrs. Fletcher. It’s good to see you again.”
What a change from our strained conversation at the graveside.
“Bloody shame we meet again like this,” said Archibald Semple, Marjorie’s British publisher. “We’ll have a more festive atmosphere this evening at dinner. I trust you are joining us, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“Yes, and looking forward to it, Mr. Semple.”
Bruce Herbert, whose suit looked as though it had come minutes ago from Tommy Nutter or Henry Poole on Savile Row, leaned as far as he could over the table and asked, “Have you given any thought to the suggestion?”
“What suggestion?”
“About the nonfiction account of this tragedy.”
“Oh, no, no further thought at all, Mr. Herbert. It really doesn’t interest me.” Herbert sat back. The broad, engaging smile that had been on his face disappeared, and he cast a sideward glance at Clayton Perry, who sat in his usual bolt-upright posture, tanned hands folded neatly on the table. Perry smiled; I returned the smile.
“Well now, ladies and gentlemen,” Mr. Gould-Brayton intoned, “we might as well get to this painful but necessary business.” He looked across the room to where a young assistant stood at attention. Gould-Brayton didn’t have to say anything to him. The young man opened the door and motioned to someone, and a young female stenographer came to a small desk at Gould-Brayton’s side and poised her fingers over the keyboard of a court stenographer’s machine.
Marjorie’s will turned out to be novella-length. I didn’t want to be impudent, but I couldn’t help but smile at so many of the preliminary comments she included in it. She seemed to have used the opportunity to expound on matters dear to her, including her growing disgust with brooding, discourteous, and unpleasant young people behind shop counters; television programs that insult the intelligence of anyone with an IQ slightly above moronic; writers who use the word “enthused” rather than “enthusiastic”; frozen food; women who wear fur coats; and myriad other aspects of life she found disagreeable. Mr. Gould-Brayton was obviously embarrassed at having to read all of this. He stopped once, smiled, and said through fleshy lips, “She was a writer, after all.” We all laughed nervously, and he continued, evidently content that he had sufficiently distanced himself from this client who viewed a last will and testament as more than simply a division of spoils.
