by Donald Bain
I turned so that I was facing him. “Of course I do.”
“We are very much in the midst of a society whose cynicism is unparalled. Nothing is trusted any longer-government, educators, physicians, solicitors, and publishers of books. The sales of hardcover books, particularly fiction, have been eroding at a steady rate for years.”
He stopped talking. I waited. When he said nothing else, I asked, “What does this have to do with the issue we’re discussing here today?”
“Can you imagine the sense of betrayal millions of people who loved Marjorie. Ainsworth will suffer if you make this announcement?”
I had to give him credit; at least he was basing his objections on a larger, loftier principle than the others, who obviously had their pocketbooks uppermost in mind. At the same time, I found his thesis to be absurd. Pointing out to the public that a great writer had lost her faculties toward the end of her long life and had engaged the services of a younger, more energetic writer to complete her latest work, would hardly mark the end of civilization as we know it. I didn’t put it to him quite that way, but I came close.
“What proof do you have?” Strayhorn asked, looking intently at me, the prosecuting attorney grilling a shaky witness.
“That will be revealed tomorrow, Mr. Strayhorn.”
“I insist, Mrs. Fletcher, that you present your evidence here and now.”
I returned the chair to its place beneath the desk. “No, I will not do that. Sorry, but you will all have to wait until tomorrow to hear the details.”
I must have presented a firm façade because they stopped talking to me and started chattering among themselves. Eventually they drifted from the room muttering objections, interspersed with mild obscenities, and were gone-with the exception of Bruce Herbert.
“Bruce, is there something else you’d like to say?” I asked.
He looked at Lucas. “I’d prefer to speak to you in private, Jessica.”
“Don’t worry about me,” Lucas said, “I’m like family.”
“Not my family,” Herbert said. “Please, give us five minutes.”
I nodded to Lucas that he should accede to the agent’s request. “I’ll run downstairs and check on the convention’s progress,” he said, “but I’ll be back.”
When Lucas had left, Bruce Herbert said, “Jessica, I’m no fool. I know the subject you raised over cocktails yesterday about a series of novels, using the name of a liquor and a weapon in each title, was not an idea that came to you because of Marjorie and Gin and Daggers. You’ve heard about Brandy and Blood.”
I suggested we sit down. “Yes,” I said, “I know about Brandy and Blood. It’s a novel Marjorie wrote before Gin and Daggers. She gave it to you, only you haven’t submitted it anywhere, as I understand it.”
Herbert looked at the floor, and then up at me. “Jessica, I have the distinct feeling that you are finding out more than anyone would really like to know-not only about Marjorie Ainsworth’s murder, but about the young man she took into her confidence, Jason Harris.”
I said nothing; my eyes and expression indicated I wanted to hear more.
“Brandy and Blood was not written by Marjorie,” he said.
“No? Who wrote it, Jason Harris?”
“Yes. Because of Marjorie’s advanced age, he sensed that she would not live much longer, so he batted out a novel in what he hoped was her style, and that could be sold under her name after she died. He tried to create the illusion that Marjorie had written the novel before she went to work on Gin and Daggers, but that isn’t the truth. He’d sat at Marjorie’s side-to be more precise, at Jane Portelaine’s side-throughout the writing of Gin and Daggers and thought he’d gotten her style down.”
“You’re not suggesting, Bruce, that he was concerned about perpetuating Marjorie’s financial estate?”
Herbert smiled. “It wasn’t to perpetuate anybody’s estate. When Jane Portelaine gave the manuscript to me and asked me to handle it, she said that Jason wanted a lot of money for it. Publishing it probably would have doomed Marjorie to an eternity of scorn.”
“How so?”
“Well, it isn’t very good. No, that’s a gross understatement. It stinks.”
I shook my head. “I can’t imagine Jane committing such a traitorous act against her aunt.”
“I don’t know what her motivation was, Jessica. She told me she thought that as Marjorie’s American agent, J would want anything that would be marketable under her aunt’s name. At the time I thought she was sincere, misguided perhaps, but sincere. I suppose I also have to be honest enough to say that if it had been any good, I might have considered going with it.”
“But you sat on it.”
“Yes.”
“What else did Jane say when she gave the manuscript to you?”
“Not much, really. I do remember that she seemed uncomfortable giving it to me. I actually had the feeling that Jason had some sort of hold over her. I wonder if that wasn’t the case.”
“You say the manuscript is terrible. I’ve had conversations recently with people who are praising Jason Harris’s writing.”
Herbert shrugged. “Based upon Brandy and Blood, they’re wrong. Would you like to see the manuscript?”
“Yes, very much.”
“I’m doing this with a purpose in mind, Jessica.”
“Which is?”
“To convince you that Jason Harris did not write Gin and Daggers, was incapable of it. Once you see that, there’ll be no need for you to go through with your announcement tomorrow.”
“I’ll have to make up my own mind about that.”
“Of course.” He went to the door. “I’ll bring the manuscript back in a few minutes. It’s in my room.”
My phone rang. It was Jimmy Biggers. “I’ve been trying to reach you,” I said.
“Been busy, love. What’s this codswallop I hear about the Italian murdering Marjorie Ainsworth? Don’t add up to me. Make sense to you?”
“Yes, perfect sense. I’ve thought all along he was the one who killed Marjorie.”
“You did?”
“Yes.”
“That’s a bummer for us. I was hopin’ you and me would solve this one and share the glory.”
“Looks as though that won’t happen, Jimmy. Sorry.”
“Well, nothing ventured, nothing gained, as me mother used to say. By the way, did you enjoy your afternoon in Crumpsworth?”
“How did… Jimmy, I don’t think it’s standard procedure for a private investigator to follow his own client.”
“Got to bend the rules sometimes, Jessica, especially with a born snoop like you. You never saw me, did you?”
“I don’t know how I could have missed you in that ridiculous car of yours.”
“Didn’t use that one. Borrowed me a friend’s little one.”
“Where are you now?” I asked.
“Back at the Red Feather. I just come in from Crumpsworth.”
“Why did you go back there?”
“You told me to keep an eye on Harris’s stepbrother, David Simpson, so I been followin’ ’im.”
“David Simpson went to Crumpsworth today?”
“That he did, drove straight out to Ainsworth Manor.”
“Was anyone with him?”
“I don’t know who the bloke was, but he was skinny and had long hair.”
“Walter Cole,” I said, more to myself than to him.
“Say, Jessica, what’s this announcement you’re supposed to make tomorrow about Ainsworth’s book?”
I laughed lightly. “Nothing you’d be interested in, Jimmy. Purely a literary matter.”
“I’m not much for books, Jessica. I suppose I might as well pack up here and get on to somethin’ else.”
“Yes, I guess you should. Looks like the Yard did its job, which means we don’t have a job to do. Thank you again. It’s been an interesting collaboration.”
“My pleasure. Maybe you and me could get together for a pint before you head
back.”
“I’ll be busy right up until I leave, but if there is a break in my schedule, I’ll certainly give you a call.” As I hung up, I jabbed at an imaginary Jimmy Biggers with my index finger.
Bruce Herbert returned with the manuscript of Brandy and Blood. I thanked him and promised I’d read it as soon as possible.
“Do with it what you will, Jessica. It has no value to me.” He placed it on the desk.
“Bruce, this manuscript aside, what is your evaluation of Jason Harris’s future potential?”
“Future? He’s dead.”
“Yes, I know that, but it seems that certain people in the London publishing business think they can turn him into a posthumous literary hero.”
“You mean Walter Cole. I read Strayhorn’s column. Cole’s obviously banking on one thing, that the world will be told, with your help, that Harris wrote Gin and Daggers. If that happens, Harris will suddenly take on international importance. Of course, people will read what he’s written, find out how bad it is, and that will be the end of it, but a big, fast profit could be turned. Think about that before deciding whether to go through with your announcement tomorrow.”
I walked him to the door. “Bruce, I have to do what I feel is just and fair where Gin and Daggers is concerned. If I don’t, I won’t be able to live with myself.”
“Even though it smears the reputation of a good friend?”
“Yes, and even if it diminishes the royalties her books will earn in the future. I’m sorry it directly affects you and others who were professionally involved with Marjorie.”
“Well, I suppose you have to do what you think is right, but give it some serious thought.”
“I’ve been giving it nothing but. Thank you for the manuscript and for your candor.”
Lucas had arranged that evening for a group of ISMW members to have dinner at the Mayfair Hotel, and to attend a performance of The Business of Murder, which had been playing in the theater situated in the hotel for more than eight years. I’d seen it twice-good enough reason to beg off-but Lucas was adamant that I join them.
I was thinking of ways of getting out of going to the play when the phone rang. I picked it up and heard Dr. Beers say, “Mrs. Fletcher?”
“Yes, Dr. Beers. How are you?”
“Quite fine.”
“I didn’t expect to hear from you so soon.”
“I hadn’t intended to call you today. Actually, I am not calling for myself. There is someone here who wishes to speak with you.”
“Who?”
“I’ll put him on.”
“Mrs. Fletcher.”
This was a voice I did not recognize. “Yes, this is Jessica Fletcher. Who is this?”
“It’s Wilfred, ma’am, Miss Ainsworth’s chauffeur.”
“Yes, Wilfred. I’m… well, I’m surprised to be hearing from you.”
“Mrs. Fletcher, would it be impudent for me to ask for some of your time today?”
“Absolutely not.”
“It’s my afternoon off and I thought I would drive into the city. Would it be proper for me to stop by at the Savoy?”
“Perfectly proper, and I’ll look forward to it. When do you think you’ll be here, Wilfred?”
He paused before saying, “As soon as I possibly can, Mrs. Fletcher.”
Chapter Twenty-two
“Lucas, I am terribly sorry, but I couldn’t possibly leave my friend in the condition he’s in. He’s come all the way from Maine to be with me and I can’t abandon him.”
“What about your doctor friend, Hazlitt? Let him take care of him.”
“Please try to understand, Lucas. Have dinner and go to the theater with the others and enjoy it.”
“How can I enjoy it? I’ve seen it fourteen times.”
“Then see it for the fifteenth time and analyze how it has changed over the course of the years. I’d enjoy hearing your comments about that.”
“Jessica, you are extremely exasperating.”
“I know, and I have a great deal to make up to you. I’ll try to do that at first opportunity. Thank you for understanding, Lucas. You are aptly named Darling.”
I hated to lie to Lucas and was uncomfortable making my excuses based upon a fabrication that Morton Metzger had taken ill, but it seemed the most expedient way to get out of the evening. I hung up and looked across the suite to where Wilfred, Marjorie’s chauffeur, sat stoically by the window, very straight and proper, one leg neatly crossed over the other, his uniform cap resting precisely in the middle of his lap.
I put on my raincoat and stood in the middle of the room. I drew a deep breath and said, “Well, Wilfred, I think I’m ready. My friends should be downstairs by now.” I’d instructed Seth and Morton to meet us behind the hotel, just outside the entrance my assistant manager friend had shown me. Wilfred had parked the Morgan there a half hour ago.
He stood. I said, “You’ve done a wonderful thing, Wilfred, for Miss Ainsworth.”
“It’s Dr. Beers deserves any pats on the back, Mrs. Fletcher. The lady was fortunate to have him as a friend.”
“And fortunate to have you, too, Wilfred. We’d better go.”
We started for the door, but I stopped. Should I call George Sutherland one more time? No. He was too efficient for me to worry about his following through.
Seth was dressed in a black turtleneck, tweed sport jacket, and new Burberry raincoat he’d bought that afternoon. Morton was in his Cabot Cove sheriff’s uniform. “Ready?” I asked them.
“I hope you know what you’re doing, Jess,” Seth said.
“I think I do. Besides, if I don’t, I have the two of you for support.”
Wilfred drove at a leisurely pace through London and towards Crumpsworth. Morton, Seth, and I said little to each other during the trip. It wasn’t until we’d turned onto the road leading to Ainsworth Manor that my heart began to trip. “Remember,” I said, “we’re not here to take any physical action. The important thing is that our arrival be a surprise.”
“I’ll take only what action is necessary,” Morton said, his jaw jutting out.
“I’m sure there won’t be any action necessary, Morton, but it is comforting to know an officer of the law is with us.”
Wilfred went through the process of opening and closing the gate and headed for the manor. Instead of veering to his left, however-which would have placed us at the front door-he turned right and followed a narrow gravel road to the back of the house and to the garage, which had been added to the main structure. He clicked an electronic door opener that was clipped to the sun visor, and the garage door slid open. Inside was one other vehicle, a blue Ford Escort belonging to Jane Portelaine. Wilfred guided the Morgan into the garage, turned, and clicked the electronic device again. This time it closed the doors. He turned off the Morgan’s lights, leaving us in virtual darkness, except for a small, low-wattage lamp at the far end, beyond the Escort.
“Careful as you walk,” Wilfred said as we got out of the Morgan and quietly pressed the two back doors shut. Wilfred closed his door with normal force, and we fell in line behind him until reaching the door leading into the house.
“What’s beyond this door?” I asked.
“The pantry, ma’am, which leads directly into the kitchen.”
“Is Mrs. Horton still away?”
“Yes.”
I looked at Seth and Mort. “Ready?”
They nodded.
Wilfred used a key to open the door and led us into the house. The pantry was very large, and its shelves were stocked with enough provisions to ride out a replay of World War II. Our path was illuminated by light from the kitchen. A large butcher block took up the middle of the room; copper pots and pans hung from a circular rack above it. The four of us stood around the block and listened. The sound of voices could be heard coming from the adjoining dining room. There was laughter, it sounded like a party.
I turned to Wilfred and whispered, “I think you have gone far enough with us. What I would
like you to do now is to go upstairs and let us take over from here.”
He was about to protest, then simply nodded and left through another door connecting the kitchen with a narrow flight of stairs leading to the upper floors.
I went to the dining room and pressed my ear against it. Now I could hear the voices with more clarity. A man said, “It actually worked, it bloody well worked.” He laughed raucously.
“I propose a toast,” another male voice said, “to literary excellence and to the world of books.” Everyone laughed now. As I heard glasses clink together, I opened the door and stepped into the room. It took those at the table a few seconds to realize that someone had joined their dinner party. Jane Portelaine was the first to see me. She half rose, and her face reflected her shock. The others realized something had happened and turned. I took a few more steps into the room, and Seth and Mort joined me.
“What in hell…?”
“Good evening, Mr. Harris,” I said. “I see you’re sitting in Marjorie Ainsworth’s chair at the head of the table. How appropriate.”
“Who are these people?” the publisher Walter Cole asked.
“These people are my friends. Officer Metzger is a law enforcement officer. I see you and Mr. Simpson have joined this celebratory party.”
Harris, who’d displayed some initial bravado, turned and looked at Jane Portelaine with eyes that sought help.
She stood, came around the table, and faced me. She looked the way she had at the reading of her aunt’s will-rose-colored lipstick outlined the contours of her mouth, and her hair was in that loose, becoming style. And, of course, there was the heavy scent of Victorian posy. “How dare you enter my home without my permission,” she said.
“I didn’t think you’d mind, Jane. After all, you’d instructed Marshall to accommodate me at my convenience.” I looked at Marshall, who’d abandoned his butler’s uniform for a more appropriate jacket and open shirt. He looked panicked.
Harris stood. “What in bloody hell is she talking about?” he snarled at Jane. “Invite her?”
