“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said, coming down a few steps. “What was his name?”
“Maroney, if you believe ‘im. Probably got ’imself a dozen of ‘em. Blokes like ’im usually do. You a family friend of ‘is, too? Maybe you’d like to pay up for ’im.”
“No, I only met him briefly. You say Mr. Harris’s friend, the attractive young woman named Maria, hasn’t been here?”
“Not that I’ve seen, only I don’t spend my day snoopin’ on me tenants.”
I bet you don’t, I thought. I said, “Well, I think I’ll leave a note on Mr. Harris’s door if you don’t mind.”
“Harris owed me rent, too. You say you’re a friend of the family? How about payin’ ’is rent?”
“I’m not that much of a friend. Excuse me.” I wrote a brief note asking Maria to call me, and slipped it under Jason’s door.
I descended to the ground floor, the landlady yelling after me every step that no one had any sense of honor or decency anymore, that all she ended up with in the building was bums, and that she intended only to rent to “proper ladies” from now on. I wasn’t sure how many “proper ladies” would be interested in living in that building, but you never knew. Then again, how did she intend to define “proper ladies”?
I moved on to Soho and David Simpson’s talent agency. The waiting room was filled with young women of varying shades, sizes and dress. Simpson would have no trouble filling openings for exotic dancers that night. Carmela, the receptionist, was in her usual pose behind the desk, reading a magazine and chewing gum. I asked for Mr. Simpson, and she curtly told me he was gone for the day.
“Will he be here tomorrow?” I asked.
She shrugged. “Wouldn’t I like to know that? He owes me pay.”
I left feeling as though I’d touched base with the Debtors’ Society of London. It was three o’clock; an hour to go before Marjorie’s will was read. I hadn’t eaten, and stopped in the Soho Brasserie for a sandwich and soft drink, then headed for Mr. Gould-Brayton’s office on Newgate Street, where the Roman and mediaeval wall dissects it.
As I entered the spacious, richly paneled, and sedate surroundings of Gould-Brayton & Partners office, I expected to see very few people. Certainly Jane Portelaine would be on hand, as might those members of the household staff who were named in the will. Instead, the conference room looked like a re-creation, minus food, of the dinner party at Ainsworth Manor the night Marjorie died. There were some notable exceptions; Jason Harris, of course, wasn’t there, nor was William Strayhorn, the London book reviewer. The other missing personages included Sir James Ferguson, the theatrical producer, and Clayton Perry’s wife, Reneé.
I was seated next to Count Antonio Zara, who held out my chair for me and, I suspect, had intentions of kissing my hand, which I deftly avoided by wrapping both of them around my purse.
Mr. Gould-Brayton looked the way he sounded, terribly overweight, dark three-piece suit with gold chain draped across his large belly, and rimless spectacles, and, I was certain, had bad breath, although I wasn’t close enough to confirm that supposition.
My assumption that Jane Portelaine would be there had been confirmed the moment I entered the reception area. Victorian posy hung heavy in the air and dominated the conference room.
Jane sat across the large mahogany conference table from me, flanked by American agent Bruce Herbert, and American publisher Clayton Perry. Her appearance this afternoon interested me. She wore lipstick, just a touch, but surprising nonetheless. She’d done something with her hair that allowed it to fall with more softness about her face. Her nails appeared to have been freshly manicured, and a subtle, rose-colored nail polish, the same shade as her lipstick, had been expertly applied. Her dress, too, was different, although not dramatically so. She wore a teal blouse and had left the top button open, of all things. A simple chain suspended the gold letters of her name above her bosom. The heavy gray cardigan sweater seemed the only throwback to how I’d always remembered her, although I couldn’t see her skirt and shoes.
“Hello, Jane,” I said.
She smiled at me. “Hello, Mrs. Fletcher. It’s good to see you again.”
What a change from our strained conversation at the graveside.
“Bloody shame we meet again like this,” said Archibald Semple, Marjorie’s British publisher. “We’ll have a more festive atmosphere this evening at dinner. I trust you are joining us, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“Yes, and looking forward to it, Mr. Semple.”
Bruce Herbert, whose suit looked as though it had come minutes ago from Tommy Nutter or Henry Poole on Savile Row, leaned as far as he could over the table and asked, “Have you given any thought to the suggestion?”
“What suggestion?”
“About the nonfiction account of this tragedy.”
“Oh, no, no further thought at all, Mr. Herbert. It really doesn’t interest me.” Herbert sat back. The broad, engaging smile that had been on his face disappeared, and he cast a sideward glance at Clayton Perry, who sat in his usual bolt-upright posture, tanned hands folded neatly on the table. Perry smiled; I returned the smile.
“Well now, ladies and gentlemen,” Mr. Gould-Brayton intoned, “we might as well get to this painful but necessary business.” He looked across the room to where a young assistant stood at attention. Gould-Brayton didn’t have to say anything to him. The young man opened the door and motioned to someone, and a young female stenographer came to a small desk at Gould-Brayton’s side and poised her fingers over the keyboard of a court stenographer’s machine.
Marjorie’s will turned out to be novella-length. I didn’t want to be impudent, but I couldn’t help but smile at so many of the preliminary comments she included in it. She seemed to have used the opportunity to expound on matters dear to her, including her growing disgust with brooding, discourteous, and unpleasant young people behind shop counters; television programs that insult the intelligence of anyone with an IQ slightly above moronic; writers who use the word “enthused” rather than “enthusiastic”; frozen food; women who wear fur coats; and myriad other aspects of life she found disagreeable. Mr. Gould-Brayton was obviously embarrassed at having to read all of this. He stopped once, smiled, and said through fleshy lips, “She was a writer, after all.” We all laughed nervously, and he continued, evidently content that he had sufficiently distanced himself from this client who viewed a last will and testament as more than simply a division of spoils.
“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-Brayton 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 day
s 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.
Murder, She Wrote: Gin and Daggers Page 15
