I jotted down his name and number, thumbed through the rest of the book, replaced it in the drawer, and stared at a black telephone on the edge of the desk. Dare I make a call from the house? Would there be someone listening on an extension? I reached for the phone, having resolved that issue by telling myself that it didn’t matter whether someone listened or not.
There was no reason for me to apply any significance to this person, this Dr. Glenville Beers I was about to call. Maybe, like many people, Marjorie did not always live up to her principles and allowed them to slip on occasion. He might simply be her personal physician, whom she wished to honor by including his name in one of her books before she died.
I dialed the number and listened to it ring a very long time before it was picked up. The slow, shaky voice of an old man said, “Dr. Beers.”
“Dr. Beers, my name is Jessica Fletcher. I’m calling from Ainsworth Manor. I’m not sure how to explain this, but—”
“Mrs. Fletcher, I was beginning to wonder whether you would ever call.”
“Pardon?”
“Would you care to join me for tea, or a glass of port? My home is no more than a fifteen-minute drive from where you are, and I would be sincerely pleased if you would come to see me.”
He was expecting my call, this man I knew nothing about? I wasn’t going to explore the matter on the telephone. “Yes, I would like very much to visit you. Would you give me directions? I have my own car.” How fortuitous that I had chosen this date to hire a car and driver.
He gave me directions from Ainsworth Manor, which involved heading back toward Crumpsworth and veering off onto a small road before reaching town. Dr. Beers lived in a village called Heather-on-Floyd, obviously situated on the Floyd River, which ran through the region. I told him I would be there as quickly as possible, gently hung up, and left the study. Marshall was standing a few feet from the door and was straightening a picture that, as far as I remembered, had been perfectly straight when I looked at it fifteen minutes ago.
“Did it work, Mrs. Fletcher?”
“Did what work?”
“Sitting in Ms. Ainsworth’s chair. Were there vibrations you felt?”
I didn’t know whether he was trying to be cute or was legitimately asking whether I had experienced the same sensation as when I’d been in Shakespeare’s and Dickens’s homes. “Yes,” I said, “it worked quite well. My creative energies have been refueled. Thank you so much for allowing me this lovely time. It meant a great deal to me.”
He escorted me down the stairs and to the front door, which he opened for me.
“When is Miss Portelaine expected to return?” I asked.
“I have no idea, Mrs. Fletcher. The strain of what has happened here took its predictable toll on her. It’s good she’s got away for some sun and rest.”
“She’s taken quite a chance in doing that,” I said.
“How so?”
“Everyone who was here the night of the murder has been instructed to stay in the country until further notice.”
“She cleared her trip with Inspector Coots.”
“That’s good,” I said. “Has he been here recently?”
“I don’t think so. If you’ll excuse me now, I have chores to attend to.”
“Thank you for your concern, Marshall, and for your hospitality.”
Jeremy missed the turnoff to Heather-on-Floyd and almost returned to Crumpsworth before realizing it. He turned around, found it, and five minutes later we were in the tiny village of Heather-on-Floyd, which consisted of only a row of low buildings on either side of the road—no more than eight or ten—and the village ended abruptly the minute the last building was passed. There were only two other cars, and they’d pulled up onto the sidewalk to take up less of the narrow roadway. Jeremy did the same in front of the number Dr. Beers had given me. A small sign was just above the buzzer: GLENVILLE BEERS, M.D., G.P.
I pushed the button and heard the buzzer sound inside. Moments later, the door was opened by a stooped old man with a full head of white hair and cheeks as pink as cherry blossoms, and wearing a red velvet smoking jacket over shirt and tie. His feet were clad in leather slippers. A pair of glasses hung from a black ribbon about his neck.
“Mrs. Fletcher.”
“Dr. Beers.”
“Yes. Come in, please.”
He walked with the slow shuffle of an old person. I followed him into a small parlor dominated by large pieces of stuffed furniture. A pleasant fire crackled in the fireplace. He’d been reading; a book lay open on a table next to his favorite chair. A lamp of the type seen in doctors’ examining offices cast a harsh white light over it.
Once I was settled in a chair next to the fireplace, he sat, leaned forward, and seemed to study me.
“I’m afraid I really don’t understand why I’m here,” I said, “but I have a feeling it’s good that I am.”
He nodded. “Yes, I think it is very good. Tea, or port?”
I started to say tea, but changed my mind. Somehow, I felt a glass of port in my hand would be more appropriate for what I was about to hear.
One hour later, I left Dr. Glenville Beers, got in the car, and headed for London. I’d already missed the cocktail reception, and the awards dinner would have started by now. I hoped Lucas wasn’t too worried about me, although I didn’t dwell upon that as we found our way into Crumpsworth, took the road back toward London, and, eventually, pulled up in front of the Savoy.
“Jessica, I have been frantic,” Lucas said as I walked into the dining room. “I was about to call the police. I heard you hired a car. Why didn’t you let me drive you? I told you I had the afternoon free and ...”
I touched his arm and smiled. “Lucas, please, I’ve had an interesting but tiring day. I’m sorry to have given you cause for worry, but here I am, safe and sound, and awfully hungry. Where am I sitting?”
Chapter Twenty-one
“I can’t believe you did this without consulting me, Jessica,” Lucas Darling said as he paced the floor of my suite. Seth Hazlitt and Morton Metzger were there, too. It was nine o’clock the following morning. Sunshine blazed through the windows of the suite, but the weather forecaster on the BBC predicted that a storm of some magnitude would be hitting the city by late afternoon.
“Lucas, you are simply going to have to trust me,” I said from where I sat at a rolling table on which my breakfast had been served.
“The lobby is swarming with press people again,” Lucas said.
“Think of the publicity.”
“I have been, but that’s not the point. You simply cannot spring these bombshells without talking to me first. I am, after all, the secretary.”
“I know, I know, Lucas, and please stop pacing. Sit down, and let’s discuss this quietly. When you get this upset, your voice goes up an octave and you sound like a countertenor in a bad opera.”
He sat.
“Let me see if I have this straight, Jessica,” Seth said. “You got up to the microphone at the end of dinner last night and said you would be making a major announcement soon concerning the authorship of Gin and Daggers?”
“That’s right.”
“What Mr. Darling here is gettin’ at, Jess, is that you shouldn’t be comin’ up with such surprisin’ announcements,” said Morton.
“No, I suppose I shouldn’t, but I did, and that’s that. In the meantime, I suggest we enjoy the day. We won’t be here much longer.”
“Just because the conference is coming to a close doesn’t mean you can leave,” Lucas said. “No one can until Marjorie’s murder is solved.”
I ate the final bite of my English muffin.
“When do you intend to make this announcement, Jess?” Seth asked.
“Tomorrow,” I said, dabbing at my mouth with my napkin. I crossed the room to where I’d tossed my raincoat on a chair.
“Where are you going?” Lucas asked.
“Out for a good, brisk walk before the bad weather sets in. Anyone care to j
oin me?”
Lucas jumped to his feet, ran to the door, and splayed himself across it. “You’re not going anywhere until you tell me more about this announcement.”
Seth and Morton came to my side; together, we formed a defiant trio. “Coming with us, Lucas?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said glumly. We went downstairs and got into a waiting taxi. “Kensington Gardens,” I told the driver. “The Albert Memorial.”
“Why are we going there?” Morton asked.
“No special reason,” I said. “It’s a pleasant place to walk, and I haven’t been there in a long time.”
We left the cab and stood at the foot of four wide flights of granite steps leading up to the neo-Gothic spire that juts 175 feet into the air and is ornamented with mosaics, pinnacles, and a cross.
“Who was this Albert fella?” Morton asked.
“Prince Consort to Queen Victoria,” I said. “Come on, let’s head for the palace and pond.”
As we walked, Lucas asked, “Where did you go after the dinner last night?”
“To my room.”
“I tried you there a number of times and you never answered.”
“I heard the phone, but I didn’t want to talk to anyone. I let it ring. The hotel operator took your messages.”
Lucas looked at me skeptically. I smiled in return and picked up my pace. There was no need for him, or anyone, to know just then that after making my announcement at dinner, I’d gone to my room and called George Sutherland at his home. I felt a little guilty inviting him out for a drink because he must have assumed I wanted to pursue the idea of a personal relationship. He suggested a pub in Covent Garden called the Punch and Judy. We met in its quiet upstairs bar overlooking the piazza and I had an old tawny port, while he had a Courage best bitter. I tasted his; it had a wonderful nutty flavor, but I stuck with my port. We talked for an hour, and he drove me back to the hotel, which I entered with trepidation, but was relieved to find that no one I knew was in the lobby.
Lucas, Seth, Morton, and I strolled the parklike gardens of the palace where Victoria, and Queen Mary, wife of George V and grandmother of Queen Elizabeth II, were born, the only inhabited royal palace in London whose state apartments are open to the public.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” I said as we left the palace grounds and walked to the Bayswater Road in search of a cab. We approached a small stand from which a young boy sold newspapers. He shouted out the most provocative headline of the day: “AINSWORTH MURDERER NABBED. READ ALL ABOUT IT, AINSWORTH MURDERER NABBED.”
Lucas literally jerked the paper from the boy’s hand and stared at the front page. “Look, Jessica.”
We gathered around him and looked down at the headline. Sure enough, that’s what it said.
“You look, you pay,” the boy said. Seth handed him money and we moved a few feet away. Lucas read the short front-page article aloud to us. The gist of it was that Scotland Yard’s Chief Inspector George Sutherland had announced that evidence had been gathered to support a murder charge against Count Antonio Zara, Marjorie Ainsworth’s Italian brother-in-law. Italian authorities had been notified, and once an arrest was made, extradition proceedings would begin immediately.
“I never did trust him,” Lucas said.
“Nor did I,” I said.
A line at the end of the story indicated that other material concerning the Ainsworth murder could be found on an inside page. Lucas turned to it. The lead item was my announcement at the ISMW dinner that I would be revealing startling information about the true authorship of Gin and Daggers. My picture accompanied the story. Lucas looked at me and said, “You knew about this, didn’t you?”
“About what, Count Zara being accused of Marjorie’s murder? Of course I didn’t. If I had, you would have been the first to hear.”
His expression was a mixture of skepticism and confusion.
“Let’s get back to the hotel,” I said. “There’s an empty taxi.” We ran to it and got in.
“This was a lovely stroll, Jessica, but I don’t see the purpose of it.”
“Lucas, must there always be a purpose to everything? I just felt like a walk, wanted to soak up a little bit of London before we left. Now that the murder has been solved, I suppose we’ll be able to leave on schedule.”
“Fine with me,” said Mort Metzger. “I can’t stay forever. I don’t have many vacation days left.”
I patted his knee. “Morton, it was so good of you to use your vacation to come here to give me support.” I said to both Mort and Seth, “You are dear friends, and I am very fortunate to have you.”
We pushed our way through a large crowd of press people at the Savoy who shouted questions at me, most pertaining to the announcement I promised to make, some dealing with the news that Ona Ainsworth-Zara’s husband, Count Antonio Zara, had been charged with Marjorie’s murder. I stopped and said, “The announcement I promised will be made tomorrow. As for the charges against Count Zara, I can only assume that the painstaking investigation undertaken by Chief Inspector Sutherland of Scotland Yard has successfully pointed to Count Zara, which comes as a relief to every other suspect ... including this one. Please, I have nothing else to say until tomorrow.”
Lucas, Seth, and Morton wanted to come up to my suite, but I dissuaded them. I went there by myself, locked the door, and sat down at the desk. The Times had been delivered to the room, and I carefully reread the front-page story and the inside items pertaining to Marjorie Ainsworth.
I went downstairs and used the rear entrance shown to me early in my stay by the assistant manager, grabbed a cab, and said, “Pindar Street, please.”
Jason Harris’s landlady was sitting on the front steps smoking a cigarette with a neighbor. She screwed up her face when I approached as though trying to remember where she’d seen me.
“Good morning,” I said. “Has Mr. Maroney returned?”
She cackled. “No, and not likely he ever will.”
“I want to leave another note under Mr. Harris’s door.”
“No need to do that,” the landlady said. “She’s up there.”
“She?”
“The little dark one, Harris’s bird. She paid up his rent, she did. Can’t take that from her.”
“Excuse me,” I said, stepping between the two older ladies and going up the stairs. Jason’s door was partially opened. I pushed it open the rest of the way and said, “Maria.”
Maria Giacona stood by the window holding a handkerchief stained with blood to her nose.
“Maria, what happened?” I asked, going to her. Now I saw a purplish yellow lump above her left eye. “Who hit you?” I could think only of Jason Harris, of course.
She looked at me with those large, brown, pleading eyes and sat on a crate used as an end table. She continued to cry and to attempt to stem the flow of blood from her nostrils. I crouched down and placed my hand on her knee. I was about to ask her again who’d struck her, but the question was suddenly rendered unnecessary. I raised my face and sniffed the unmistakable scent of Victorian posy in the small room, certainly not the sort of fragrance Maria—or Jason Harris—would use.
“Maria, was Jane Portelaine here? Was she the one who hit you?”
She shook her head. I didn’t believe her.
“We should get some ice for your nose and eye,” I said. “Why don’t you come with me and we’ll find a pharmacy. That nasty-looking bruise is getting bigger every second.”
She slowly moved the handkerchief away from her nose. The bleeding seemed to have stopped. “Lie down with your head back for a few minutes,” I said.
“No, I have to go.”
She started to get up, but I pushed down on her knees. “Maria, you must tell me if Jane Portelaine did this to you, and why.”
She gently touched her nose with her index finger, and examined it for fresh blood. She said, “I heard what you plan to do, Mrs. Fletcher. You are going to announce that Jason wrote Gin and Daggers?”
“You read the pape
r.”
“Yes, and saw it on the television. Are you really going to say that?”
“Yes, because I believe it to be true. I would do anything to avoid injuring the memory of my friend Marjorie Ainsworth, but I think there is a greater truth at stake here. Although Jason is no longer alive to receive the accolades he deserves, his talent should be recognized.”
A small smile came to her face.
“I knew you’d be pleased, Maria. Where have you been? You disappeared so suddenly.”
“I had to get away, Mrs. Fletcher. Jason’s murder was too much for me to bear.”
“I understand. I just wish you’d kept in touch, that’s all. Why did you come to the flat today? The landlady said you paid Jason’s back rent.”
“Yes. I thought I would live here for a while. I couldn’t bear to be near this place after he was killed, but now I have a need to touch everything that was his.”
“I understand that, too.” I did, of course. I’d gone through similar shifts in emotion after Frank died.
I suggested again that we find a pharmacy, and this time she was agreeable. We went downstairs and I asked the landlady for the location of the nearest one. She looked at Maria’s face and shook her head.
I repeated my question, and she told me there was one two streets away. Maria had started to walk in the direction the landlady pointed. I quickly asked, “The tall, thin lady who was here. How long ago did she leave?”
“The scarecrow? No more than fifteen minutes.”
“Thank you.”
The pharmacist invited us into the back room of his shop, where he prepared an icepack for Maria to hold against her face. He said there wasn’t anything else to be done, except report the attack to the police.
“No one attacked me,” Maria said. “I fell.”
Murder, She Wrote: Gin and Daggers Page 21
