by Donald Bain
“She should have videotaped this,” Bruce Herbert said. “I can see her now delivering these protestations against society.”
Mr. Gould-Brayton looked at Herbert, closed his heavy eyelids as though to ask whether he were through, then returned his attention to the typewritten pages in front of him.
Eventually he reached the financial portion of the will, and I noticed everyone sit up a little straighter. Gould-Brayton paused for effect, removed his spectacles and held them up to the light to ascertain they were clean enough for accurate reading, placed them on his nose, and read, “ ‘I have made far more money then any human being is entitled to make, and have spent very little of it, my frugality a source of constant annoyance to local shopkeepers and telephone solicitors attempting to sell me magazines that would surely go unread. Because of my lifelong dedication to cheeseparing, I am able to leave behind a substantial sum of money, most of it undoubtedly to be squandered, some of it to be used wisely only because I have taken the steps necessary to ensure that.’ ” Gould-Brayton looked up at us. “Any questions?” he asked.
We all shook our heads.
He continued. “ ‘I hereby bequeath one half of my estate, presently accounted for and to be earned through the future sale of my books, to a trust to be named the Marjorie Ainsworth International Study Center for Mystery Writers, to be housed at Ainsworth Manor, and to be stocked with every available reference source the trustees are able to obtain.’ ”
“Hear, hear,” said Archibald Semple. “The woman was a benefactor to her profession, a saint. How splendid to have such a center here in Great Britain.”
Gould-Brayton cleared his throat for order. “ ‘Because my niece and companion of many years, Jane Portelaine, has, at least from her perspective, given up her life for me, I leave to her one quarter of my estate, currently accounted for and to be earned in the future.’ ” Jane managed a smile and looked down at the. table, her hands clasped in front of her.
“ ‘To my dear friend and American colleague, Jessica Fletcher, I leave one eighth of my estate, present money only. Her earnings in the days ahead from her wonderful works of fiction will ensure her future without any help from me.’ ”
I blushed and shook my head. “That is so generous, but as I told Mr. Gould-Brayton, I intend to donate whatever money my share amounts to to the center Marjorie has established.”
“Very generous of you, Jessica,” said Bruce Herbert.
Archibald Semple’s wife tapped the ends of her fingers together and said, “Bravo, Mrs. Fletcher. How typically American.”
“ ‘Next, to my dear friend, critic William Strayhorn, who always had kind things to say about my books, the only exception being his occasional annoyance at how often I mention food in them, which, I might add, I do to substitute for the singular lack of sex in the genre-’ ”
I laughed; I couldn’t help it. Everyone looked at me. “Sorry,” I said. “Please continue.”
“ ‘… I leave the sum of twenty thousand pounds for the day when he is no longer able to enjoy either sex or food.’ ”
“Shame he isn’t here,” Semple said.
“Just as well that he isn’t,” said Bruce Herbert.
Gould-Brayton again checked his glasses for dirt, drew in a deep, rumbling breath to maintain his reading momentum, and pressed on. “ ‘My faithful household staff, with the exception of the newcomer, Marshall, are to be cared for in Ainsworth Manor for the rest of their days, their salary doubled from the date of my demise.’ ”
“It is nice to see she kept the common man in mind,” Count Zara said, to which his wife, Ona, mumbled, “Let them eat cake. They don’t deserve a penny.”
Gould-Brayton asked his assistant for a glass of water. After he’d drunk it (the room was so quiet you could hear the liquid cascading down his throat and into his belly), he said, “There are still other disbursements to be announced. I must admit that in all my years in the legal profession, I have yet to see such provisions in any other will, although, I must admit, Miss Ainsworth was… how shall we say it, an unusual individual.” He looked at Ona Ainsworth-Zara. “I indicated to you, Mrs. Ainsworth-Zara, that it might be less painful for you and your husband not to have attended this gathering. If you would like to leave now, I am sure everyone would understand.”
“Go on, read,” said Marjorie’s younger sister.
“Poor thing,” said the count. “She was not herself in her last days.”
“I thought she was at her intellectual best right up until the end,” said Bruce Herbert.
“Enough,” Gould-Brayton said. “Let me proceed. ‘To my younger sister, Ona, who saw fit to marry into Italian aristocracy and suffer the inevitable impoverishment inherent in such an act, I consider my debt paid. The money I have given them over the years far surpasses what my instincts would tell me to leave them after my departure from this earth. I do, however, leave to my beloved brother-in-law, Count Zara, as he prefers to call himself, a fat envelope of bills from the clothing stores, gourmet food shops, hotels, alcoholic beverage establishments, and other purveyors of the good life that he had made such generous use of. I have not paid these bills; I trust he will see to it that the debts are honored forthwith.’ ”
“Preposterous,” Zara exclaimed, standing and slamming his fist on the table. “Those were gifts to me from Marjorie.” He looked down at his wife. “Weren’t they, Ona, gifts from your sister? She always told me that I was her favorite.”
“Pay them, Tony, and let’s get on with this bloody circus.”
“ ‘To my loyal and accomplished American publisher, Clayton Perry, and my devoted literary agent, Bruce Herbert, I leave two things. First, the large sums of money I have loaned Mr. Perry are to be forgiven at the time of my death. By doing this, I trust the publishing house that Perry built, constantly tottering on the verge of bankruptcy and worse, will be able to sustain itself for a period of time, which means the American reading public will continue to have access to my books. Second, I forgive Mr. Herbert and Mr. Perry for all the royalties they have stolen from me over the years, and assure them that I have not instructed those I leave behind to pursue that matter with the sort of professional diligence that would undoubtedly uncover these thefts.’ ”
“I can’t believe she wrote that,” Herbert said.
“She was obviously demented when she did,” Clayton Perry said, only his lips moving.
“Of course, that is what I said,” the count said. “This entire will must be contested.”
Gould-Brayton said, “I think I should read this next paragraph rather quickly. ‘At the time these provisions have been read, I assume those in the room such as my American publisher and agent, and my beloved brother-in-law, are calling me demented and demanding that the will be contested. Good luck.’ ”
Gould-Brayton sat back in his tall, wide leather armchair.
“There’s nothing else?” Archibald Semple said. “She didn’t mention me?”
“I am just taking a breather to break the tension in the room,” said the solicitor. “Shall I proceed?”
“Yes, please do,” Semple said, grabbing his wife’s hand and squeezing it, evidently hurting her because she made a face and emitted a tiny squeal. He let go and focused his attention on Gould-Brayton, who’d cleaned his glasses and was once again hunched over Marjorie Ainsworth’s will.
“ ‘To my friend and producer of the most successful dramatic adaptation of any of my books, Who Killed Darby and Joan?, Sir James Ferguson, I leave all future royalties from that work, beginning at the moment of my death, and to last in perpetuity. It is my wish that Sir James use the extra money to foster young and deserving theatrical talent in London, although I imagine the overhead of his rather overdone home in Belgravia, and his penchant for expensive young women, will preclude that act of artistic generosity. So be it. I feel compelled to do this, although I can’t possibly tell you why.’ ”
“Come on, come on,” Semple said.
Gould-Bray
ton scowled at the British publisher, who laughed nervously and looked at his watch. “It’s just that we have another appointment,” Semple said.
“Yes, quite,” said the solicitor. “ ‘My British publisher for many years, Archibald Semple, has undoubtedly stolen from me just as my American business partners have. I forgive him, too, and will not press the matter from the grave.’ ”
“That’s a bloody lie,” Semple said.
This time his wife took his hand and said, “Ssssh, Archie, your colitis.”
“ ‘Still, Archie has displayed friendship to me over these many years, and if he has stolen from me, he has managed to do it with appropriate British reserve, as opposed to his American colleagues. Therefore, in honor of this discretion on his part, I leave him the sum of twenty thousand pounds with which to buy his wife some new and more appropriate clothing, and for him to buy a decent toupee. He may do with the balance what he wishes.’ ”
“She didn’t have to be quite so testy about it,” Semple said, sitting back relieved that he had received a decent sum.
Gould-Brayton looked at his watch. “I shan’t keep you much longer. There is one final provision.”
I knew that everyone at the table was trying to imagine who’d not been mentioned, positively or negatively. We all looked at the large solicitor as he read the final codicil in the will. “ ‘To my former lover, who shall be known only to my solicitor and executor, the most decent man I have ever known, I leave a yearly sum, to be determined by him, to ensure that he spends the rest of his days on this earth in the style to which he is accustomed. When he is no longer of this life, I look forward to once again sharing my bed with him in a higher, grander setting.’ ”
There were gasps around the table. “Lover? I didn’t know Marjorie ever had a lover,” said Semple.
“Who the hell is he?” Bruce Herbert asked.
Marjorie’s sister, Ona, and her husband stood. She said, “Good day.”
“Ona, do you know this lover Marjorie has mentioned?” Bruce Herbert asked.
“I know nothing of my sister’s private life. Excuse us, please.”
We all eventually drifted from the conference room, rode down on the elevator together, and stood on Newgate Street.
“Fascinating,” I said.
“An infuriating, insulting session,” Clayton Perry said. “Her nasty side certainly came out.”
“I might consider libel action if I were you,” Bruce Herbert said to the publisher.
“I think that’s a stupid idea, Bruce.”
I rode alone in a taxi back to the Savoy, Gould-Brayton’s voice buzzing in my ears. I wished I had a tape recording of the reading. It was, as Clayton Perry said, infuriating and insulting to certain people. It was also devilishly typical of my departed friend.
There were a sizable number of the press waiting outside the Savoy. I walked through them saying, “No comment.” The only thing on my mind was Marjorie’s unnamed paramour. When I was filled with natural curiosity about who this mysterious gentleman was, my overriding thought was how nice it was that she’d had such a meaningful and close relationship during her life. “Good girl, Marjorie,” I said aloud.
“Pardon?” the desk clerk said.
“I just came from a celebration of life.” I said, and strode toward the elevators feeling very good indeed.
Chapter Sixteen
The dinner hosted by Archibald Semple and his wife for selected members of ISMW was, as might be predicted, flat. The reading of the will had taken the starch out of Archie, Clayton Perry, and Bruce Herbert, and everyone went through the motions of making small talk until dessert had been consumed and we could escape. The only item from the will that was brought up was Marjorie’s mystery lover. Everyone was naturally bursting with curiosity about his identity. I had mixed emotions about it. On the one hand, I would have loved to meet the man who had played such a precious role in Marjorie’s life. On the other hand, it was only fitting that the world’s greatest mystery writer would have a mystery lover.
As I came into the lobby looking for Seth and Morton, I spotted Jimmy Biggers seated in a chair, reading a newspaper. “Mr. Biggers, how unsurprising to see you here.”
He looked over the paper, smiled, stood, and said, “I didn’t want to let a day go by without making contact with you. What did you think of your friend’s final wishes?”
I looked down at the newspaper in his hand: It was a late evening edition, and details of the will had been hastily crammed into a box on page one. “Interesting” was all I said.
“Yes, it does open up some interesting possibilities, doesn’t it?”
“Such as?”
“Well, a few motives came out of that reading, I’d say.”
I’d thought the same thing, but really hadn’t dwelled on it.
“You an’ me should get together and discuss it in a little more depth,” he said.
“Perhaps, but not now. I’m looking for my friends from home.”
“Gone out to a gentlemen’s club, they ’ave,” he said.
“How do you know where they are?” “Because they asked me for my recommendation, and I gave it to them.”
“Gentlemen’s club?”
“Yes, and a good one, the Office.”
“Sounds like a business meeting to me,” I said.
“That’s the beauty of it, Jessica. Husbands call their wives and tell them they’ll be late at ‘the Office,’ and they say it without feelin’ too bloody guilty.”
“I see, and what does ‘the Office’ offer my friends?”
“Pretty ladies, decent drinks, and a hell of a tab at night’s end. I’m sure they’ll fill you in on everything… well, maybe not everything.”
I got his point and didn’t ask any further questions.
“Excuse me, Mrs. Fletcher, I don’t mean to intrude, but…”
I turned to face Renée Perry, who’d been at the dinner I’d come from and, as far as I was concerned, seemed to have suffered through it with even more difficulty than the rest of us. “No bother,” I said.
We stepped away from Biggers.
“Mrs. Fletcher, I must talk to you.”
“Fine.”
“I’d like to get out of here, go where we can be alone. Would you take a walk with me?”
“Of course. Excuse me.” I told Biggers I’d be gone for a while.
“Care for a male escort?” he asked.
“No, I don’t think that will be necessary, but thank you for offering.”
It was a balmy night, rendering Renée’s fur coat superfluous. What would Marjorie have thought? My mugger of the other night came to mind, and I hoped there wasn’t a team of them out this night sniffing for mink.
We walked without saying much of anything-“ London is so beautiful”; “Clayton and I had tea at the Dorchester”; “They say a boat ride up the Thames is delightful”; “How unfortunate that Marjorie’s death marred the conference and the week in England ”-and then found ourselves in front of a small wine bar called Woodhouse’s.
“Care for a glass of wine, Jessica?”
“That’s a nice idea. It looks charming.”
Woodhouse’s was virtually empty. We settled at a table by the window and ordered individual glasses of white wine. After it was served, Renée Perry looked at me, opened her mouth to say something, then lowered her head.
“What’s wrong?” I asked. “I know some of the things said today in the lawyer’s office must have been upsetting to your husband, but-”
“It goes far deeper than that, Jessica.”
I sat back and opened my eyes as an indication that I was receptive to whatever she wished to say next.
“Are you aware, Jessica, that Marjorie wrote a novel that was never published?”
“No, but that wouldn’t strike me as terribly unusual. Most writers, especially successful ones with long careers, have early unsold works in the trunk, as they say.”
She shook her head. “I’m not talki
ng about an early work. I’m talking about a novel that was written just before Gin and Daggers.”
“Before Gin and Daggers? Why wasn’t it published?”
“I don’t know, but I do know it exists. The title of it is Brandy and Blood.”
I smiled. “Brandy and Blood. Gin and Daggers. It sounds as though Marjorie was launching into a series at her advanced age, an alcoholic beverage in every title instead of a color, as in John D. MacDonald’s novels.”
“Perhaps. I don’t know what her motivation was, but it was written, and never submitted to Mr. Semple, or to my husband.”
“Why not?”
She took a sip of her wine and then said, “Because, Jessica, Bruce Herbert stole it.”
“Gracious, that’s quite an accusation. Are you certain?”
“Yes, I am. It’s why he murdered her.”
I suppose you could call it the “layered shock approach” -hit you with one, then quickly hit you with another. Whatever it might be called, it worked, and I was without words.
“I’ve considered going to the authorities, Jessica, but I’m afraid it might implicate my husband.”
“How would Clayton be implicated?” I asked. “He knows about the manuscript?”
“Yes, he does. Don’t misunderstand me. I’m not suggesting that he had anything to do with stealing it, but because he and Bruce are such close friends and working colleagues, Bruce naturally made him aware of it.”
“Because he wants your husband to publish it.”
“I’m not so certain about that, although Clayton thinks so. The fact is, Bruce Herbert will sell it to whoever will pay top dollar. He isn’t what you’d call the most ethical of people.”
