Murder, She Wrote: Gin and Daggers

by Jessica Fletcher

  I started walking in the direction of Liverpool Street Station. Surely there would be taxis waiting there. The closer I got, the more alone I felt, even though there were people on the street, small groups, mostly young, the majority obviously not native-born. I forced myself to slow down, and to respond more realistically to my surroundings. There was nothing threatening about the people I passed. For the most part, they looked like everyday folks going about their business.

  I felt better after a couple more blocks and even considered stopping into one of the small, intimate restaurants for something to eat. No, I decided, I would wait until I got back to my hotel.

  I paused at a comer. To my right, a block away, was what appeared to be a main thoroughfare. I started in its direction, then realized that the block I had to travel was particularly dark. It occurred to me for a fleeting moment that I should return to the better lighted comer from which I’d come, but the allure of the traffic and lights on the larger street was too compelling.

  I reached a point approximately halfway along the street when I became aware of the presence of something—or someone—behind a tall pile of packing crates to my right. I froze; the presence was confirmed by the movement of a ten-foot shadow on the wall, followed by the person who’d cast it. He was young, and very punk. A wide steak of vivid pink ran through the middle of his Mohawk-styled blond hair from front to back. His acne was terminal. Three long silver earrings dangled from his left ear, and he was dressed in a black leather jacket with silver studs. He said in a distinct Cockney accent, “ ’Ere we go, give it to me now.” He stepped directly in front of me and grabbed the lapel of my raincoat. My bag hung on my right shoulder. I tried to yank free, but his other hand fastened on the strap of the bag and spun me around. I fell heavily to my knees, pain immediately radiating to my brain. Still, I continued to hold on to my handbag and started yelling.

  He cursed and gave a final tug on the strap, pulling it from my shoulder.

  “Stop!” I shouted as he took off on the run. I saw him disappear around the comer and realized it was futile to pursue him. Actually, it was foolish of me to have fought him at all. I’d established a habit years ago of keeping anything of value like credit cards, cash, and airline tickets in a small leather pouch around my waist whenever I was in a big city. My handbag contained nothing but cosmetics, my small flashlight, and two ten-pound notes.

  I stood and gently touched my kneecaps. The stockings on both were torn, and one knee was bleeding. I stumbled to the larger street, where two black London cabs waited at a corner. I opened the door of the first, said, “Savoy Hotel, please,” and collapsed on the backseat.

  “You all right, mum?” the young driver asked.

  “Yes ... no, I’m not. I’ve just been mugged.”

  “I’ll get a bobby,” he said.

  “No, please, just take me to the hotel. I’ll notify the police from there.”

  My assistant manager friend was in the lobby when I arrived. I explained to him what had happened, and he paid the taxi driver.

  As I crossed the lobby, two young reporters who’d been sitting in a comer sprinted toward me. “Mrs. Fletcher, would you give us a few minutes for some questions?”

  I couldn’t help but smile. There I was, my knees bruised and bloody, my stockings torn, lucky to have escaped with my life (the driver had told me so at least six times), and they wanted to interview me for a story. I shook my head and walked toward the elevators.

  “Mrs. Fletcher,” the assistant manager called. “Please, let me escort you to your room.”

  No hotel room in my memory every looked as pleasing and welcome as mine did at that moment. The assistant manager assured me that the police would be notified immediately, and he ordered a light dinner for me from room service.

  I knew I wouldn’t be able to take a nice, soothing bath until the police had called, and I didn’t want to be in the tub when the food arrived, so I stayed in my clothes until those things happened. The police were cordial and courteous enough, but I sensed a weariness in their taking of my statement over the phone. The assault on me was obviously not the only crime they had to worry about that Sunday evening in London.

  My bath felt heavenly, and I applied bandages to the knee that had bled. I sat in a nightgown, robe, and slippers and nibbled at my dinner. I was hungry, yet had little interest in eating. I’d spent time in many major cities and had never come close to being mugged. Now, it had happened to me for the first time, and in London, of all places.

  “Stupid,” I said to myself as I got up from the rolling table and looked out the window. “You asked for it, Jess,” I added in a louder voice.

  I called the hotel operator for messages. There were the usual assortment of media people trying to reach me. The only caller not identified as someone from the press was named Jimmy Biggers. His message indicated that he was a private investigator, and that it would be very much to my advantage to talk to him. I thanked the operator, noted the numbers she gave me, and went to bed, the face of that young mugger hovering over me until sleep wiped him away.

  Chapter Ten

  My knees ached when I awoke the next morning. So did the shoulder on which I’d carried my handbag. But, overall, I felt pretty good, especially considering what might have been.

  The phone rang a few times while I was in the shower. I called the operator and was told that Lucas Darling had called twice; Scotland Yard Chief Inspector George Sutherland once; and private investigator Jimmy Biggers had tried to reach me again. It then dawned on me that this was the day of the dinner to kick off the conference of the International Society of Mystery Writers, and that I was to give my address. In the bustle of things, I’d completely forgotten about that, and my heart tripped as I now thought of it. You’d better get rolling, I told myself.

  The phone rang again. This time I instinctively picked it up. “Hello,” I said.

  “Jessica, it’s Lucas. You answered your own phone.”

  “Purely involuntary, I assure you. I suppose we ought to get together and talk about this evening.”

  “Of course we should. You have a major speech to give.”

  “I know, and I’m beginning to wish I didn’t. Are you free for lunch?”

  “I kept it open, hoping you and I could meet. How are you?”

  “With the exception of being mugged last night, fine.”

  He gulped. “Who, where, when, why?”

  I laughed. “You left out ‘What?’ Not to worry, Lucas, I’m all right.”

  “I told you to be careful,” he said sternly.

  “Yes, and I should have listened. I promise you I will from this moment on. Where are we having lunch?”

  “I was leaning toward the Connaught, or Le Gavroche, but we won’t have time to linger, so I thought a pub was probably more sensible. The Victoria, on Strathearn Place, Bayswater, is pleasant. I won’t have a chance to pick you up at the hotel. Noon?”

  I’d written down the name of the pub and its address, and told him I’d be there on time.

  I returned the call to George Sutherland at Scotland Yard. “Mrs. Fletcher, how are you?”

  “Fine, thank you.”

  “I received a report about what happened to you last night. Dreadful shame.”

  “My first and only mugging,” I said. “It was terribly upsetting at the time, but I’m feeling better today.” Why would he have received a report of a run-of-the-mill mugging in a city the size of London, I wondered. I asked him.

  “Insightful of you to question that, Mrs. Fletcher. The fact is I have made it known to the authorities that I have a special interest in Jessica Fletcher, and that I am to receive any news regarding you during your stay.”

  I didn’t know whether to be flattered or concerned. I decided not to pursue the matter further. I knew what his response would be, flattering undoubtedly, but hardly telling. I asked, “Anything new on Marjorie Ainsworth’s murder?”

  “As a matter of fact ...” Was he going to
finish what he’d started to say? I hoped so. He did. “Miss Ainsworth had two Spanish gardeners working on the grounds. One of them tried to sell a wristwatch to a jeweler in Crumpsworth. It belonged, it turns out, to Miss Ainsworth.”

  “That’s very interesting,” I said, “but it wouldn’t necessarily mean that he killed her. He obviously had access to the house and might simply have picked it up from a table where Marjorie had inadvertently left it.”

  “My sentiments exactly, but you did ask if anything was new, and I’m afraid that’s all I have to offer at the moment.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be discourteous.”

  “Mrs. Fletcher, I seriously doubt whether you even possess the capability of being discourteous. I would like to ‘touch base’ with you again, as I believe you say in America. Would it be possible for me to drop round sometime later this afternoon?”

  That sounded pleasant, but I knew the day was going to be frenetic because of the opening of the conference. I said, “Inspector Sutherland, I would love to meet with you again, but I wonder if we could make it another day, perhaps tomorrow. The conference I came to attend starts this evening, and I am the opening speaker. You can imagine the case of nerves I’ll develop as the day progresses.”

  There was that warm, gentle laugh again. “Yes, I can well understand. I’ve faced many difficult situations in my life, including hardened criminals hell-bent on doing away with me, and seldom flinched. But having to get up and speak to a group of people would reduce me to jelly, I’m afraid.”

  I doubted that, but it was good of him to sympathize. I promised I would call him the next day.

  The Victoria Tavern, a tall and typically high Victorian structure, lies between the intersection of Bayswater Road and Edgware Road, an area sometimes known as Tyburnia. It’s surrounded with large elegant mansions, most erected during the 1840’s.

  Lucas was there when I arrived; he was always on time and usually early. He’d secured a small table off to the comer in the restaurant portion of the pub called “Our Mutual Friend.”

  “What a lovely pub,” I said as I joined him.

  “A real favorite of mine,” he said. “Look.” He pointed to a far wall. “Not long ago they restored a painting on that wall and discovered it was a valuable portrait of a long-deceased member of the royal family. The owner presented it to the Queen, and it’s now part of the royal portrait collection.”

  “How generous,” I said.

  “For an American perhaps,” he replied. I let the comment pass. “Well, tell me all about this vicious assault on you.”

  There wasn’t much to tell, but I gave him as much detail as possible, knowing he thrived on such things. When I was finished, he asked if anything was new in the Ainsworth murder. I told him of my conversation with Inspector Sutherland, and about the arrest of the Spanish gardener.

  “What a break,” he said.

  “I don’t think so. As I told Inspector Sutherland, the gardener might have picked it up anywhere in the house. It doesn’t necessarily have a connection with the murder.”

  Lucas thought for a moment before saying, “You’re absolutely right, Jessica. The thought of Marjorie Ainsworth being murdered by a common laborer is too dismaying to contemplate. It has to have been done by someone with better credentials than that.”

  I couldn’t help laughing at the pomposity in what he’d said. “I’m famished,” I said.

  Later, after I’d consumed a lunch of Scotch eggs—hardboiled eggs wrapped in saveloy, a highly seasoned sausage—and Lucas had put away a ploughman’s lunch (he insisted we order a glass of Tusker Bitter and Wethered Bitter, and do a taste test; he swore the Wethered was better, although I couldn’t discern any difference), I asked him whether he’d ever heard of a London private detective named Jimmy Biggers.

  You never had to wonder what Lucas Darling was thinking. His face was like a television screen, his thoughts playing on it in Technicolor. The mention of Mr. Biggers’s name brought forth an expression of horror usually reserved for the discovery of corpses.

  “You do know him.”

  “Oh, Jessica, of course I know him. Why do you mention him?”

  “He’s called me at the hotel a couple of times.”

  “Don’t call him back.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because”—he leaned closer and whispered conspiratorially—“ Jimmy Biggers is not famous in London, Jessica. He’s infamous.”

  “Really? Sounds intriguing.”

  “He’s a rotter who operates barely on this side of the law.”

  “Tell me more.”

  “Jimmy Biggers ... Well, do you remember the murder a year or two ago of the professor at Cambridge?”

  I shook my head.

  “He was one of Cambridge’s most esteemed and revered professors of ancient Greek literature. His name was Pickings, Sir Reginald Pickings. They found him lying face down along the bank of the river that runs through town. He’d been badly bludgeoned. The Cambridge police came up empty-handed, and the crime went unsolved for months. Then the university quietly hired Mr. Biggers, and he sussed the culprit in less than a week.”

  “ ‘Sussed’?”

  “Suspected—identified the student who’d murdered Sir Reginald and who, by the way, had been involved in a nasty homosexual relationship with him. Biggers is not a shy man. He milked that case to the limit, had his picture in every newspaper almost daily for two weeks.”

  “I’m impressed. Maybe he could be helpful in solving ...”

  That look of horror came over Lucas’s face again. “Marjorie’s murder? Out of the question. Forget it. The man’s friends are prostitutes and yobs—”

  “ ‘Yobs’?”

  Lucas sighed and said, “Oh, Jessica, I really must give you a course in British slang. Thugs. Yobs are thugs.”

  “Thank you for the translation.”

  “My pleasure.” He looked at his watch. “We must go.” He placed money on the check, stood, took his umbrella and raincoat from where he’d hung them on a coat tree, and was at the door before I could even gather my things. He’d hailed a taxi by the time I joined him outside, and we headed for the Savoy.

  “How is your speech shaping up?” he asked.

  “I really haven’t given it much thought, but I intend to devote the afternoon to that.”

  By the time the cocktail party preceding the ISMW dinner had started, I was fully prepared for the evening ahead. I walked into the party and was struck immediately with how different this meeting was from the previous ones. The differences involved two things. First, the number of people far exceeded that of any previous convention. I couldn’t be sure whether it was because more members were in attendance, or whether the ranks had been swelled by the number of media people present. There were television cameras—something I’d never seen before at these meetings—and a horde of print journalists circulating through the room. The minute they saw me come in, they converged. “Please, no, I really have nothing to say about Marjorie Ainsworth’s unfortunate death. I have a speech to give tonight and would like to focus my attention on that. Please, try to understand.” They were, as media people tend to be, unwilling to abide by my wishes, but I brusquely walked through the cluster they’d formed around me and went to the bar, where I ordered a ginger ale. I was nervous enough without having to worry about the possible effects of an alcoholic beverage.

  The second thing that was different was the intensity in the room. Mystery writers, like most writers, tend to be a low-key species. Previous meetings of ISMW had always been characterized by a quiet, introspective atmosphere. Not tonight; there was a sense of urgency that was almost palpable, undoubtedly caused by the presence of so many media people and the meaning of Marjorie’s untimely and brutal death. I was also acutely aware that I was indeed the center of attention, and probably would be for the rest of the night, not because I was making a speech, but because of the circumstances surrounding my relationship with Marjorie and
my having found her body. It was too late to wish those things away, and I didn’t try.

  “Jessica, how good to see you again,” Clayton Perry, Marjorie’s American publisher, said. He was standing with a glass of tonic water in his hand, his wife, Renée, at his side.

  “Such excitement,” I said.

  “Certainly not unexpected,” Perry said. “How are you holding up?”

  “Fine ... I think. You?”

  “Oh, we’re doing quite nicely,” Renée Perry said. “If one is to be detained anywhere, I can’t think of a more pleasant place than London.”

  I looked past them to where a knot of journalists had cornered someone. My eyes widened. “Isn’t that Inspector Coots from Crumpsworth?” I asked.

  The Perrys turned. “Yes, it is,” Clayton Perry said. “I understand he’s here by invitation of the society.”

  “Why would the society invite him?” I asked.

  Perry shrugged and sipped his drink. “You know Lucas, Jessica, he’s absolutely thrilled at the publicity the society is receiving this year. Having Coots giving out his pompous statements to the press from the convention will undoubtedly secure more newspaper space, and time on television.”

  “Excuse me,” I said, moving away from them to where Lucas was in an animated conversation with Marjorie’s American agent, Bruce Herbert. Listening in on what they were saying was Marjorie’s British publisher, Archibald Semple, and a man I did not recognize. He was short and slender. Multiple tufts of carrot-red hair sprouted from his head, as though planted there. His suit was an iridescent black. He wore a yellow shirt and narrow black tie. As I approached, I noticed his face was heavily freckled. I also observed a bulge beneath his suit jacket that could be nothing but a revolver.

  “Aha, Jessica, your ears must be burning,” Herbert said, enthusiastically shaking my hand. “You’ve been the subject of an interesting discussion here.”