“I hope the words were kind,” I said.
“More than kind, Mrs. Fletcher, glowing,” Semple said. He, too, took my hand but, unlike the agent’s, his hand was cold and codlike.
“Jessica, allow me to introduce you to Mr. Biggers.”
“Jimmy Biggers?” I asked.
“Yes, and I don’t blame you for not returning my calls. I wouldn’t have.” He smiled, exposing a set of teeth that leaned toward the color of his shirt. A cigarette dangled from the fingers of one hand; a lot of nicotine had stuck to those teeth.
“Quite an interesting cast of characters has been assembled here this evening,” I said. “Usually the only ones who attend are ISMW members.”
“Yes, a motley crew indeed. I do hope you’ll give me a few minutes of your undivided attention when the dinner is over, Mrs. Fletcher,” Biggers said.
I wasn’t sure whether I would or not, so I said nothing.
“Jessica, Archibald and I have brainstormed a wonderful idea for you,” Herbert said.
“Oh? Tell me.”
“What would you think of writing a nonfiction book about the murder of Marjorie Ainsworth and the eventual resolution of the case?”
I looked down into my glass and thought for a moment, then looked up and said, “I think it’s a dreadful idea.”
“Why?” Semple asked. “Who better to do such a book? We all know that the minute her murder has been solved and the trial concluded, a dozen writers will turn out purple prose about it. As one of Marjorie’s close friends, you would certainly do it with more sensitivity, more compassion.”
“It’s really worth considering, Jessica,” Bruce Herbert said.
“Well, I ... Yes, I will consider it. Thank you for thinking of me.”
A dinner bell struck by Lucas, and sounding more like the bell announcing the beginning and end of rounds in a boxing match, heralded that we were to go into the main ballroom for dinner, and for the evening’s presentations. I was relieved; all I wanted to do was to find some time alone and mentally prepare myself. Fortunately, I was seated on the dais with Lucas, and with members of that year’s slate of ISMW officers, none of whom seemed interested in discussing Marjorie with me.
Lucas welcomed everyone and suggested we enjoy our meal before the “important and fascinating presentations begin.”
The meal was splendid, as it always was at these yearly gatherings. Lucas’s penchant for good food was as well known as his zealous championing of the society, and he always saw to it that the chef, no matter which the hotel, was inspired to reach beyond the typical meeting fare. We began with oysters and caviar in Champagne sauce, went on to truffle-scented chicken consommé, and a choice of Dover sole sautéed with leeks or rack of lamb with stewed shallots for the main course. The most delicate raspberry and lemon sherbert I had ever tasted was the dessert.
Lucas stood at the microphone and said, “Ladies and gentlemen, fellow authors, friends, I welcome you here tonight for the opening of what promises to be the most interesting and successful ISMW conference in our history. I’m sure you all approve of the dinner that was so caringly and expertly prepared by the glorious staff of the Savoy.” There was applause. He rubbed his hands and announced with considerable glee, “It is time to commence the grisly business at hand.” He gave me an embarrassingly flowery introduction.
I stepped to the microphone and looked out over the crowd. I spotted him immediately in the far right-hand corner of the large room: Chief Inspector George Sutherland. It seemed as if every law enforcement agency and individual involved with the Marjorie Ainsworth murder had been invited to attend, and to hear me speak.
I’d rewritten my speech to include opening remarks about Marjorie, about the dreadful thing that had happened to her, and about how we would all miss her presence as both a person, as well as a professional inspiration for every writer of the genre. I got through that portion nicely, although I did have to fight back a tear or two. Then I launched into the major thrust of my remarks, which dealt primarily with the unparalleled popularity of the murder mystery in today’s fiction marketplace, and how it had crossed over the line from genre fiction into the mainstream of literature. I had sprinkled many examples throughout my notes and, as I progressed, found myself becoming more comfortable, more at ease, and actually enjoying the experience.
Until ...
It happened so fast, without warning. The man wore a black raincoat and tweed cap. He burst from behind swinging doors that led to the kitchen, and carried the longest sword I had ever seen. It was held in both his hands and was pointed directly at me. He yelled as he ran toward the dais, “You killed the Queen, you killed the Queen.... Death to the Queen killer!”
I stood frozen at the podium. A few people reached for him, but he was moving too fast, passed right by them, the sword held high, a maniacal look in his eyes.
Jimmy Biggers stuck out his foot from where he sat, tripping the man, the sword flying in one direction, he the other. Biggers was on him in a second, twisting his arms behind his back and yelling for help. It was Montgomery Coots who was first at the scene, but he seemed unsure of what to do. Then two young men in business suits jumped up from a table and raced to where Biggers held the attacker down. One of them pulled out handcuffs from beneath his jacket and secured the crazed man’s wrists behind his back.
There was bedlam in the room. Lucas came to my side, grabbed both my arms, and led me to my seat.
“What happened?” I asked.
“A madman, demented, hell-bent on killing you because he thinks you murdered Marjorie.”
“Good Lord.”
“I told you it could happen, Jessica, just as I told you to be careful on the streets of London.”
We all watched as the two plainclothes policemen led the man from the room. He continued to yell over his shoulder that I had robbed Great Britain and the literary world of Marjorie Ainsworth. It was a great relief to have him out of the room, his irrational threats suddenly muffled by the slamming of a door.
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 s
o, 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 da
y 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.”
Murder, She Wrote: Gin and Daggers Page 10
