“Why are we going there?” Lucas asked. “I have to get back to the convention.”
“It won’t take long, Lucas. Indulge me a half hour.” I looked through the rear window as we pulled away and saw Sutherland still standing in the rain, his eyes fixed upon us. A strange change in him, I thought. What could have caused it?
We reached the center of Crumpsworth within a few minutes and circled the small main square until I spotted a shop whose sign read JEWELRY. “Stop here,” I said. Then, to Lucas: “Won’t be a minute.”
He followed me out of the car—of course—and we entered the tiny shop. A wizened little old man wearing a jeweler’s loupe and a green eyeshade looked up. “May I help you?” he asked in a shaky, raspy voice.
“Yes. My name is Jessica Fletcher. I was a close friend of Marjorie Ainsworth.”
“Oh. Just come from the planting, have you?”
“Planting? Yes, she’s been buried. I understand one of her gardeners tried to sell you a watch belonging to her.”
“That’s right. Those bloody foreigners’ll steal the gold from your teeth.”
“Yes.... I also understand you turned the watch over to local authorities.”
“Coots. I gave it to Coots.”
“How did you know it belonged to Ms. Ainsworth?”
“I fixed that watch before, I did. Saw whose it was right off.”
“That was very astute of you.”
A smug smile came to his lips.
“Is the man who tried to sell it to you in jail?”
“Should be. You’ll have to ask Coots about that. I told the other bloke this morning the same thing.”
“Other bloke? Who might that have been?”
“Read his name yourself.” He pointed to a business card on top of the glass display case.
JIMMY BIGGERS
PRIVATE INVESTIGATIONS
Discretion Assured.
“He moves fast,” I said to Lucas.
“Let’s get out of here,” Lucas said.
“Yes, I’m ready.” I thanked the jeweler and we headed for London.
My thoughts during the ride were divided between the conversations I’d had that morning at the burial and trying to shake off an intense chill. My raincoat, good as it was, had merely strained the rain. My feet were soaked; all of me was wet, and I looked forward to a hot bath.
“Mrs. Fletcher, we have messages for you,” the desk clerk said as I asked for the key to my suite. I wasn’t surprised; I’d never had so many people trying to reach me at once in my life.
She handed me a pile of telephone message forms, and I skimmed them. There were many familiar names written on the small slips of paper, but one message caught my eye. It was from my dear friends from Cabot Cove, Dr. Seth Hazlitt and Sheriff Morton Metzger. The message read
Arriving by Pan Am World Airways at eleven tonight at Heathrow Airport. Will arrange own transportation to hotel. Please don’t wait up for us.
“I can’t believe this,” I said to Lucas. I handed him the paper.
“Who are these people?”
“Very good friends from home.”
As we rode the elevator to my floor, I suffered mixed emotions. On the one hand, the idea of seeing familiar faces from Cabot Cove was as welcome as roses in May. On the other hand, my life seemed to have become so complicated since arriving in London that having more players involved was overwhelming.
We were no sooner inside the suite than Lucas said, “I found out more about that lunatic who attacked you last night.”
“Really? Tell me.”
“A certifiable madman. He attacked the London postmaster two years ago when he suggested the color of post boxes be changed. They let him go because he was obviously so demented that he couldn’t be held responsible.”
“That sword looked serious enough to me,” I said.
“He’s fruity, that’s all. I consider your friendship with Jimmy Biggers to pose a greater threat.”
“My friendship? I haven’t established a friendship with him. We’ve agreed to meet, that’s all. How did you know about that?”
“I have my sources. Keep your distance from him, Jessica. He’s nothing but trouble.”
I put my hands to my temples and said, “I know, I know, Lucas, and I promised I would heed your advice after what happened to me the other night on the street, but you can’t preclude me from making contact with people.”
“You’re willing to risk your life for that principle?”
“Risk my life? Lucas, I don’t wish to discuss this any further. I would like to attend some of the seminars and displays that are going on in the hotel. What are your plans?”
He sighed and huffed. “My plans were all carefully scheduled weeks ago, and on paper. The funeral has disrupted them. I might as well accompany you to whatever it is you decide to do. Damn, Jessica, things have gotten bloody wimpled. I detest complication.”
“Well, you don’t have any choice, do you? I need a hot bath to get rid of this chill. Shall we meet downstairs in an hour?”
“I suppose so. Why did you want to stop in that shop on Crumpsworth?”
“I was curious, that’s all.”
“I thought since you’d become so chummy with that Scotland Yard inspector, you’d be up on the latest through him.”
I was becoming increasingly annoyed with Lucas, and my face reflected it. He grinned sheepishly and said, “You have that good hot bath, Jessica. See you at the weapons display in Room 707 in an hour.”
I sank into the hot water foaming with bubbles and let out a long sigh, my tensions evaporating as the warm water worked its magic. My body felt instantly better, but I couldn’t shut off my mind. Most of all, I wished Frank were alive. I missed him every day of my life, but there were times when that desire became acute, and this was one of them.
The phone rang. I was glad I wasn’t in the living room to answer it. It rang again. And again. Someone was persistent in trying to reach me.
Fifteen minutes later, wrapped in a luxuriant terry-cloth robe provided by the hotel, I padded barefoot into the living room. The phone rang again.
“Mrs. Fletcher, it’s Maria Giacona.”
I hadn’t left Jason Harris’s flat with especially fond feelings for her, mitigated, of course, by having learned that he was known to have beaten her. “Yes, Ms. Giacona, what can I do for you?”
“Mrs. Fletcher, I’m terribly sorry for the way I acted at Jason’s flat. I was upset and ...” Her voice lightened. “No excuses, I was simply rude, and I apologize.”
I sat on the bed. Her apology, sounding sincere, alleviated the annoyance I’d felt. I thanked her for her apology and asked whether she’d heard from Jason.
“No, I haven’t. I know you went to the funeral. He wasn’t there, was he?”
“No, he wasn’t. Are you at his flat now?”
“No, but I’m about to go there. I thought I’d tidy up in anticipation of his return.”
Apparently she’d brought her emotions under control. “You will call me if he comes home?” I said.
“Yes, of course. Mrs. Fletcher, when Jason does come home—and I know he will—I hope you and I can resurrect our plan to sit down together and discuss the work he did on Gin and Daggers.”
“Of course, provided I’m still here in London. I plan to be here only through this week.”
She laughed. “If he isn’t back by then, I will really worry.” Not that she hadn’t already. “Sorry to trouble you, Mrs. Fletcher. You are obviously a good person, and I appreciate the interest you’ve shown.”
“That’s quite all right, Ms. Giacona. Thank you for calling.”
The weapons display was fascinating, although I have always tended to look for less violent methods of doing away with victims in my books. Guns and knives certainly have their place in murder mystery fiction, and I’m sure there is a legion of readers who prefer some gore in their reading, but I’ve always been more comfortable with a more genteel approach. V
ery much like Marjorie Ainsworth, I thought. Still, there were times when a piece of destructive hardware was much needed, and I browsed the display with interest—and horror at what the real weapons could do to real people.
More interesting to me, however, was an array of methods to do away with someone that had nothing to do with triggers and bullets and blades. A London pharmacist who’d been a member of ISMW for many years, and who’d been a consultant to many British mystery writers, had not only created a remarkable display of poisons but, in conjunction with a leading cookbook author, had developed a series of recipes perfect for delivering these lethal chemicals to intended victims—only in books, of course.
I listened to a heated debate between a German psychologist turned mystery writer and a stout Canadian woman who’d written dozens of novels featuring a disgraced Royal Canadian Mounted Policeman, over the reasons that food often plays such a large role in mystery novels. She: “Having a fascination with, and skill at preparing food gives a hero or heroine a worldly sophistication.” He: “Unsinn! It all has to do with sex. There is no sex in murder mysteries. Food is the substitute. For each missing kiss or embrace, there will be an extra Brathandl!”
I noticed as the day wore on that fewer members of the press hung around the hotel, and I enjoyed an accompanying feeling of freedom. But, as when one jinxes a trip by commenting on how smoothly it’s gone just before a tire blows out, and the engine suddenly seizes, my pleasure was short-lived.
It happened at five o’clock as I sat in the lobby with other American writers attending the conference. I was in the process of retelling the German writer’s analysis of food and murder mysteries when Lucas came up to us. “Jessica, I must speak with you immediately.”
Lucas was always so dramatic, and most times it stemmed from his personality, rather than from an event he was about to report. Still, you never knew. I followed him to a corner.
“You haven’t heard?” he said.
“I suppose not. What haven’t I heard?”
“Marjorie’s last will and testament. It’s to be officially read and released tomorrow, but a few reporters were tipped off about its major provisions.”
“And?”
“She left a fortune, millions of pounds.”
“I don’t wonder.”
“The report didn’t mention specific numbers. Most of her estate, as I understand it, is to be used to establish Ainsworth Manor as an international research facility for mystery writers.”
“How wonderful,” I said.
“Her niece, Jane, gets some.”
“I would certainly hope so.”
“Household staff is in for a share.”
“I wouldn’t expect less of Marjorie than to reward them.”
“And, according to the report, she left a sizable portion to you.”
I was speechless.
“Did you hear me, Jessica?”
“Yes, I think so. Me?”
“You.”
“I can’t imagine why.”
“It doesn’t matter, Jessica. Do you realize what that means?”
“It means ... I would never accept it. I don’t need money. I’ll simply donate my share to the study center that obviously meant so much to her.”
“Jessica.”
“What?”
“Her will. Motive. They’ll say you had a motive to kill her.”
I guffawed.
His face was dour. “I’m serious, Jessica.”
“Well, I’m certainly not, and I—”
Six reporters, followed by a camera crew from the BBC, entered the lobby and headed straight for me. “See you later, Lucas,” I said, walking quickly to the elevators while Lucas shouted for calm. Ten minutes after I’d reached my suite, Lucas arrived.
“I took care of them,” he said. “I gave them a statement.”
“What did you say?”
“You’ll see on the telly.”
An hour later, a BBC anchorman said in a deep voice: “The contents of the late Marjorie Ainsworth’s last will and testament were revealed today, twenty-four hours in advance of the formal reading of it.” He went on to say what Lucas had told me downstairs.
Then Lucas’s face filled the screen. “Ladies and gentlemen, it is only fitting that this news be announced on the second day of the annual meeting of the International Society of Mystery Writers.” He’d gotten in the plug; he was beaming as we watched the newscast together.
“The world-famous writer, Jessica Fletcher, who delivered our keynote speech last night, and was the target of a madman’s attack, has no comment at this time about having been named in Marjorie Ainsworth’s will. She is overcome with shock and gratitude to her dear and departed friend and will make a statement later.”
“Lucas,” I said, “this is—”
“Sssssh,” he said, holding his finger to his lips.
Montgomery Coots’s face replaced Lucas on the screen. He’d been videotaped on the road in front of Ainsworth Manor.
“First, I wish to announce that the foreign gardener arrested for attempting to sell a watch belonging to Marjorie Ainsworth has been released. He has an ironclad alibi, which I personally confirmed. Of course, with the release of the deceased’s will, focus must be on those who benefited financially from her death. I make no accusations, but the British people have my word that this heinous crime will be solved.”
“This is dreadful,” I said when the report was over.
“Don’t worry, Jess, I’ll make sure this is handled properly,” said Lucas.
“Lucas.”
“What?”
“Play cribbage with me.”
“Cribbage? At a time like this?”
“Especially at a time like this.” I removed a small cribbage board from my briefcase and set it up.
“Jessica, this is ... mad.”
“No, Lucas, what’s going on downstairs and on television is madness. Cribbage is sanity, my kind of sanity. When Frank was alive, and when there was pressure in our lives, we played cribbage, or some other game. I nearly always won, and felt better. Sit down and cut the cards to see who goes first, and not another word about anything except the game.”
Chapter Twelve
“You’re in uniform,” I said to Morton Metzger, sheriff of Cabot Cove. He and Seth Hazlitt had called my room upon their arrival, and I’d suggested we meet in the bar.
“Yes, Jess, I am. This is no vacation. I’m here on official business.”
I turned to Seth, a familiar warm smile on his face. “Seth, how wonderful to see you.” I kissed him on the cheek, did the same to Morton.
“Well, Jess, Mort and I spent considerable time chewin’ it over, and it seemed like the only sensible thing to do was to climb on an airplane and get here as fast as possible. We’ve been hearin’ terrible things back home, includin’ about that fella who went hay-wire and tried to kill you. Never heard of anything so lackin’.”
“Yes, it was quite an experience, although he really didn’t have much of a chance to get to me with so many people in the room.”
“Still, Jess, it caused Seth and me to think we’d better help our good friend,” said Morton, “no matter how far away she is. Must be fright’nin’ bein’ here in a strange country.”
I laughed. “It isn’t strange at all. After all, we came from here.”
“You’d never know it by listenin’ to that cab driver we had. I only understood every third word.”
“Yes, sometimes they speak quickly, but it is English.”
I was exhausted; it was one o’clock in the morning, London time. For them it was eight in the evening, and they looked ready for a night on the town. They insisted upon buying me a drink, and I filled them in on everything that had happened since my arrival. They listened intently, interrupting only with an occasional grunt or nod. When I was finished recounting my tales of woe, I asked them what their plans were for the next day.
“To be with you, Jess,” Seth said. “That’s why we ca
me.”
I shook my head and said with conviction, “Oh no, I’ll be extremely busy with the convention, and I insist that you two spend the day sightseeing. London is a remarkable city, and to fly all the way here and not see as much of it as you can would be a crime.” This was debated for a few minutes until Seth finally said, “All right, Jess, but only tomorra, and we’re goin’ to keep in close touch. Right?”
“Absolutely. Now this lady needs her beauty sleep.” I stood.
“You do look a mite fatigued,” Morton Metzger said. “Want me to escort you to your room?”
“No, thank you, Morton, that won’t be necessary. Tell you what. You go off on a good day’s sightseeing tomorrow, and I’ll meet you right here in this same bar for a drink at five o’clock.”
“Fair enough,” said Seth.
“Buy yourself a good map and a guidebook. Be sure to see the Changing of the Guard, Westminster Abbey, and try to fit in the Tower of London.”
Seth smiled. “I brought some good walkin’ shoes. Looks like they’ll get considerable use.”
“I hope so,” I said over my shoulder as I headed for the elevators. “Walking is the best way to see London.”
I started to undress the minute I reached my suite, but was stopped by the ringing of the telephone. Who would be calling at this hour? Must be Seth or Morton with some last-minute comment or question. I picked up the phone and was confronted with a hysterical Maria Giacona. “Please, calm down, Maria, or I’ll never understand what you’re saying.”
It took her a moment to muster enough composure to speak with some clarity. When she did, her words cut into me like a stiletto. “Jason is dead, murdered,” she said. I sat heavily on the bed and asked her to give me more details.
“They found him in the Thames, off Wapping Wall, near the docks.”
“Maria, I am so sorry. How did it happen? Any idea of who might have done it?”
“No, I just heard. I’m at Jason’s flat. The police called looking for a family member, and I happened to be here. I wish I hadn’t been.”
Murder, She Wrote: Gin and Daggers Page 11
