Gin and Daggers (10 page)

“It isn’t what it used to be since Trusthouse Forte took over.”

“Well, I’ll certainly see, won’t I? What are your plans for the afternoon?”

“I was going to spend it with you discussing the opening session and going over your speech. I assume you’ve decided to incorporate some comments about Marjorie’s murder.”

I nodded.

“It’s very important that what you say reflects the true sentiments of the society as a whole.”

I looked at him quizzically.

“Don’t misunderstand, Jessica, but this entire matter is very sensitive.”

“Everyone seems to have sensitivities that must be reckoned with while, of course, poor Marjorie’s sensitivities are no longer an issue. All right, Lucas, I’ll be happy to go over my speech with you and to discuss the opening session, as long as we leave time for me to meet the inspector for tea.”

“Would you like me to come with you when you meet him?”

“No.”

“Jessica, I know you have a reputation for going things alone, but it isn’t the smartest approach considering the circumstances.”

“Lucas, I will keep that firmly in mind. Now let me get my speech from my briefcase and we can spend a pleasant hour going over it.”

 

 

I’ve never been one to define handsomeness in men and beauty in women, believing that those things emanate from inside. But, by any standards, Chief Inspector George Sutherland was a handsome man. I judged him to be six feet four inches tall, and pegged his age at fifty, although my second estimate boosted it to fifty-five. He had brown hair with a tinge of red in it, and with a healthy crop of gray at the temples that added distinction. His face was large and lined, but his features were fine. There was an unmistakable kindness in his eyes, which were the color of Granny Smith apples. He wore a dark brown tweed jacket with leather patches at the elbows, a pale yellow V-neck sweater, white shirt, brown tie, and beautifully creased tan pants. Dark brown boots that came up above his ankles looked expensive.

I sat across a small table from him, sighed, and looked around the beautiful room. “It’s just as I remembered it,” I said. “A friend of mine told me he’d assumed everything had changed since it had been taken over by Trusthouse Forte. I don’t see any changes.” I looked at him. “Do you?”

“No, I can’t say that I do. I’ve had an affinity for Brown’s since moving here from Edinburgh, and it seems to have stayed a steady course since I first set foot in here fifteen years ago.”

“That’s comforting.”

“That’s England.”

We ordered full tea service and, after some preliminary chitchat, he said, “Well, Mrs. Fletcher, I would be delighted to hear from you about what happened at Ainsworth Manor.”

My first reaction was that this was the beginning of an interrogation. I was a suspect. But the easy way he said it, and his seemingly sincere interest in what my perceptions were, put me at ease. I quietly, and as concisely as possible, told him the events as I’d witnessed them that fateful night. He was a good listener.

When I was finished, and we’d selected crustless finger sandwiches from a silver tray, he said, “Mrs. Fletcher, I am well aware of your reputation in the literary field. I have also heard from sources I can’t quite remember that you don’t confine your solving of mysteries to the printed page.”

I laughed. I blushed, too.

“Now that the Yard is involved with the murder of Marjorie Ainsworth, and I have been put in charge of the investigation, I’m eager to get to the first step.”

“Which is?” I asked, biting into a cucumber sandwich.

“Seek help.”

I smiled, and it turned into a laugh. “That sounds like a very sensible first step to me.”

“It’s always worked for me. At least it buys me a few days to think while my ‘help’ gets the ball rolling.”

“I have to admit I’m pleased that you and Scotland Yard are involved, Inspector Sutherland. Frankly, I was dismayed that this brutal murder of a friend and a revered writer would be left in the hands of ...”

He took me off the hook. “Mrs. Fletcher, it’s admirable that you don’t wish to be harsh on Crumpsworth’s Inspector Coots, but your unspoken instincts are correct. Inspector Coots... well, how shall I say it? ... Inspector Coots is ... the inspector of Crumpsworth.”

I laughed. “Your discretion is admirable, too, Inspector Sutherland. I get the picture.”

“Yes, well, with that out of the way, although I must say Coots is not out of the way—he insists upon continuing his investigation and is entitled to do that—let me ask my first helper her thoughts on the murder of Marjorie Ainsworth.”

“I take it, then, that I am your helper, not a suspect.”

“Despite what the papers say, you are not a suspect on my list, Mrs. Fletcher. But, as I told you before, I do need help. You were there and obviously have a trained eye. Tell me, what is your response to the possibility raised by Coots that the murderer might have been an intruder from outside, and not one of the weekend guests?”

I thought for a moment before saying, “Highly unlikely to me. An intruder, unless a bumbling one, would not choose a night when the house was filled with guests to break in. No, I think the killer was someone who was in the house by invitation.”

“Are you ruling out household staff, then?”

“No, by ‘invitation’ I mean someone who was expected to be in the house, either as a guest or because they were employed.”

“Care to venture a guess?”

“No.”

“Surely, Mrs. Fletcher, you must have had some thoughts about people attending the party. Let’s begin with the most basic question. Who would gain from Marjorie Ainsworth’s death?”

I thought of Lucas Darling and his comment about Marjorie’s will. “What about her will?” I asked.

“Aha, a good question. Her solicitor is to deliver it to me in the morning. That might shed some light on motive. Financial gain always heads the list.”

“I’d not put it at the top, although it certainly would rank high.”

“What would be above it?” he asked.

“Pride, I think, possibly followed by lust and, in third place, money.”

“Interesting, Mrs. Fletcher. Let us put the will and the question of money aside for the moment. Whose pride at the party would have been enhanced by having Miss Ainsworth dead?”

Jason Harris immediately came to mind, but I decided not to bring him up. I said, “I don’t know, Inspector Sutherland; perhaps someone who was in trouble and might be bailed out by Marjorie’s death.” He said nothing, but it was plain he was waiting for me to come up with a name. I was caught in an internal debate between wanting very much to be of help to him, yet not wanting to point fingers at anyone. I thought of Clayton Perry, Marjorie’s American publisher, who was rumored to be in serious financial difficulty, but that would be a matter of money, not pride. I said, “I hope you don’t think me uncooperative, Inspector Sutherland, but I think it would be terribly premature for me to speculate on people I met for the first time at Ainsworth Manor. You understand, I’m sure.”

“I must. You said lust ranked second on the list of motives. Somehow I can’t see where that would enter the picture.”

“Because Marjorie was ... old?”

He smiled. “I suppose so.”

“You’re right, unless the lust had to do with being free to pursue a lustful venture once she was out of the way.”

“Interesting,” he said. “Was someone there that weekend who would fall into that category?”

I shook my head. “Not that I know of. I’m not being evasive, but I don’t know enough about anyone who was there to make such a judgment.”

Sutherland took a notebook from his breast pocket, flipped to a page he was looking for, and held it away from him. He was farsighted; I wondered why he didn’t put on glasses. Vanity? That would have disappointed me. He did not seem to be a vain man. I was pleased when he reached into his pocket, pulled out a pair of half-glasses, and brought the notebook closer to his eyes. “Tell me about Miss Ainsworth’s niece, Jane Portelaine.”

“I really don’t know what to say about Jane. She’s been devoted to her aunt for many years, and Marjorie always acknowledged that, right up until the end. She’s a seemingly cold and unhappy woman, but that’s a value judgment that I promised years ago not to make about people.” I paused and waited for a reaction. There was none. “There was a certain tension between Jane and her aunt,” I said. “I can’t deny that. Are you looking at Jane as a suspect?”

“No, just curious. She seems so obvious, but that’s because that type of woman, in that sort of situation, is always obvious. A red herring, I think you mystery writers call it.”

“Yes, we do. Every good mystery will have a red herring or two.”

He suddenly sat up in his chair and took on an animation that had not been there before. He asked, “Do you know the origin of the term ‘red herring,’ Mrs. Fletcher?”

“No, I don’t.”

He seemed pleased that he could explain it to me. “It goes back to the seventeenth century, perhaps even earlier. Animal activists who were dismayed by the senseless killing of foxes for sport would smoke herrings, which turned them red, and then drag them through the fields. The smell of the fish was so strong that it disguised the foxes’ scent—making it possible for them to beat a hasty retreat while packs of confused hunting dogs sniffed around in circles. It was a simple and effective ruse.”

“That’s fascinating. I will now inject red herrings into my books with greater respect.”

“The business of your necklace, Mrs. Fletcher, about which so much has been made in the press. You obviously dropped it when you discovered the body.”

“No, I don’t think I did. I would have heard it drop. The only sound I heard was when I kicked it under the bed. It obviously was there when I entered the room.”

“Do you have an explanation for that?”

It was the first question that sounded like a question to a suspect. I said, “I have no idea how it happened, although I did leave my bedroom prior to going to sleep. I went to the bathroom for about ten minutes. It’s possible someone came into my room during that period, took the necklace, murdered Marjorie, and, in the process, dropped it.”

“Deliberately, of course.”

“Of course.”

“Perhaps the intruder theory isn’t so farfetched. A thief enters the manor, goes to your room first, and takes your necklace, goes to the next room—I understand your bedroom was next to Miss Ainsworth’s—proceeds to steal from that room, is startled by Miss Ainsworth awakening, drops your necklace in the confusion, and, in order to silence Miss Ainsworth, rams a dagger into her.”

I shook my head. “No, Inspector Sutherland, I think that is farfetched. I believe someone placed my necklace there to cast suspicion on me.”

He nodded and finished his tea. “Mrs. Fletcher, I have found this to be extremely interesting and pleasant. You are... well, may I say, you are an intelligent and attractive woman.”

My blush was slightly deeper this time. I simply said, “Thank you.”

“I was quite serious when I said I was looking for help. I know that you have been restricted to Great Britain, at least for a period of time. I would be most appreciative if you would use some of that time to confer with me, to give me the benefit of your insights. I was not at the manor when Marjorie Ainsworth was killed. You were. In effect, you could be my eyes there, which would be especially helpful considering that your eyes are obviously observant.”

Was he out to flatter me, or did he mean it? It didn’t matter. Either approach brought about in me the same pleasant sensation. I assured him that I would be available, if he needed me, at any time.

We stood on the pretty street in front of Brown’s Hotel. He took my hand in both of his and said, “Thank you for a most pleasant afternoon, Mrs. Fletcher. You’ll be hearing from me soon.”

We looked at each other and waited for the other to make a move in the opposite direction. I believe he did so out of a sense of chivalry; the awkward situation demanded it. I watched him walk away, and was struck by his gait. Some people walk with confidence and purpose; others amble, which belies their basic modest nature. He certainly fell into the latter category. He looked back once; I waved, then turned and walked in the opposite direction until rounding the corner.

It wasn’t until I had returned to the Savoy and had settled in an easy chair near the window that the warm feelings I’d experienced since leaving Brown’s were pushed aside by a sudden recognition that I might have had tea with an extremely skilled interrogator. Had he found me as attractive as I perceived, or was it his way, was it his technique of drawing me into his confidence?

“I think I am a suspect,” I said aloud as I picked up the phone to order coffee from room service. “I really think I am, and this time it isn’t some Napoleonic inspector from Crumpsworth, it’s a top investigator from Scotland Yard.”

I left the Savoy in plenty of time for my eight o’clock meeting with Maria Giacona at Jason Harris’s flat. “Number 17 Pindar Street,” I told the cab driver, a ruddy-faced gentleman who smelled of too liberal a splash of after-shave lotion. “I’m told it’s near Liverpool Street Station. I really don’t have more information than that, I’m afraid.”

He turned and laughed. “No need for more information, ma’am. I know Pindar Street. We’ll be there shortly, depending upon the bloody traffic.”

I sat back and smiled in the taxi’s spacious rear compartment. Of course he knew where Pindar Street was; London cab drivers know their city better than any other drivers on earth.

He chatted amiably as we headed for our destination. “What an interesting area of the city,” I said. “There are so many parts of London I’ve never seen.”

“Some not especially worth seeing,” he said. “We’re coming into the Liverpool Street Station area now. Many changes going on, ma‘am, but it’s still a grotty neighborhood. Lots of young people moving in ’cause the rents are low, struggling artists and writers and the like. They all used to live on Grub Street, were called Grub Streeters. There’s no Grub Street any longer.” He pointed to what looked like an iron Gothic cathedral. “That’s the Liverpool Street Station, ma’am, and next to it is the Great Eastern Hotel. Not much on amenities, but quite a bargain, I hear.”