by Donald Bain
Although I assumed there was something she wanted to discuss about the Ainsworth murder, I didn’t expect Jason Harris to be part of it. I was almost overwhelmed with a temptation to excuse myself from the table and to find a quiet spot in the lobby where I could hear more from her. Instead, I repeated my invitation to meet for breakfast.
“Would you mind if we met somewhere else?” she asked.
“No, I suppose not. What do you suggest?”
“Do you know Speakers’ Corner in Hyde Park, near Marble Arch?”
“Yes, I do. I’ve spent some pleasant Sunday mornings there.”
“Could we meet there, say, at ten? I will be near the speakers from South Africa. They always draw the biggest crowds.”
“All right, I’ll be there.”
She thanked me, nodded at Lucas, and crossed the room with a sensuous sway out of a commercial for a Caribbean paradise.
“What do you think?” Lucas asked me, his eyes wide.
“I don’t know what to think.”
“Jason Harris.”
“Do you know him, Lucas? I mean, before I mentioned his having been at the house, and his relationship to Marjorie?”
“I don’t know him, Jessica, but I certainly have heard of him. There was a lot of consternation when Marjorie started playing mentor to him. I did a little checking. He’s what I suppose could be termed a ‘failed poet,’ a bright but misdirected talent.”
“He said so little at the party. Has he had anything published?”
“Not that I know of, unless he’s been in some of those small literary quarterlies.”
“How does he live?”
“Probably by getting into the good graces of people like Marjorie Ainsworth. You know the type. Users, low-lifes who pretend to be artists, and who prey on the need of true artists to share something of their talent with the less fortunate.”
I suspected he was basically right in his evaluation, although I also recognized it was presumptuous of me. Obviously, Marjorie saw something worthwhile in Jason Harris and was willing to share her knowledge with him. Was Maria Giacona his lover? Funny, but I’d immediately assumed she was.
My mind raced as we perused the menu in search of a palatable main course. I wasn’t hungry, but I knew Lucas was. He had a voracious appetite.
What would Maria Giacona tell me in the morning-that she had information incriminating Jason Harris in Marjorie Ainsworth’s murder? Or would she present some defense of him in anticipation of his being charged with the killing? What a silly game, I told myself as I returned my attention to the menu. Those questions would be answered tomorrow, and there was little sense losing a night’s sleep by speculating.
I ordered creamed Finnan haddie garnished with a poached egg. Lucas went for London beef that was sliced tableside. A platter of boiled vegetables accompanied both entrées, prompting him to say, “We British can do anything with boiled vegetables except digest them.”
I sensed that a few people recognized me as Lucas and I left the restaurant, but no one said anything-hooray for British reserve. Lucas walked me to the elevator.
“You shouldn’t stay alone tonight, Jessica.”
“Don’t be silly, I’ll be fine. I’m over the initial shock. I want to concentrate on my speech, and on being helpful to anyone seeking to solve Marjorie’s murder.”
“You don’t understand, Jessica. A national treasure has been murdered, and the way the press has painted it-including that idiot Coots from Crumpsworth-you’re being pointed to as the prime suspect. I’ll stay with you. There’s a couch and two rooms. I promise I won’t…”
I laughed with genuine affection for him, took his hands in mine, and said, “Lucas, you are a sweet man and I sincerely appreciate your concern for me. But, believe me, I don’t need anyone. I’ll see that the door is securely locked. The way I feel now, I’ll sleep through anything, including an all-out assault by the Household Guards.”
He reluctantly accepted my rejection of his offer, kissed me on the cheek, and said he was only a phone call away.
“I take comfort in that, Lucas. Thank you for joining me for dinner. Oh, by the way, we never did get into a discussion of Gin and Daggers.”
“Yes, there were too many other things. We’ll catch up with that tomorrow. Your plans?”
“I don’t have any aside from meeting Ms. Giacona, but I suspect they’ll develop. There are people who’ve called me today whom I really should see, old friends, even a relative or two. Let me play it by ear. I’ll call you when I’m back from Hyde Park.”
“I’ll go with you.”
“No, you won’t. It might hinder the conversation.”
“I’ll stay a discreet distance away, behind shrubs, or in disguise.”
I was adamant in dissuading him, and rode the elevator confident that I had. I locked the door to my suite and closed the drapes, turned on the TV, and caught the tail end of an interview with Inspector Montgomery Coots at his Crumpsworth office. What I heard and saw was enough:
“… I’ll be spending considerable time in London investigating Miss Ainsworth’s murder. I’ve developed a series of solid leads, and the people of Great Britain can rest assured that whoever did this dastardly thing shall pay for it, and soon. I stake my reputation on it.”
I didn’t go to bed right away. Instead, I sat up and made a list of everyone who’d been at Ainsworth Manor, and assigned to each of them a motive. When I was finished, and was about to call it a night, I called the hotel operator for any recent messages. Along with more press calls, there was another call from Cabot Cove, this one from Sheriff Morton Metzger. I was tired, but called him back at his office, where it was late afternoon.
“Jessica, this is Morton.”
“I know that, Morton. You called.”
“Yes I did, Jessica. Seth told me he’d talked to you.”
“That’s right.”
“Just remember one thing, Jessica. I’m always available in case you need me.”
“That’s good of you, Morton, but I don’t see what you could-”
“That fella Ted Koppel from television is going to do a whole program about this, Jessica.”
“He is?” One of the calls had been from a producer at ABC-TV in New York.
“Not only that, a paper from New York, the New York Post, has you on its front page. A real rag, if you ask me, but the people who wrote the story almost say flat out that you were the killer. Now, I know that-”
“Morton, nothing can be done about such reporting. I didn’t kill anyone, especially my friend Marjorie Ainsworth. I’m exhausted, and am about to go to bed. I really appreciate your concern, but-”
“Just remember what I said, Jessica, about bein’ ready to help. I got a book out o’ the library today about the British justice system. If you need me over there, I’ll be prepared. I got vacation coming and-”
“Thank you, Morton. Good night. Please give my best to everyone.”
I gently replaced the phone in its cradle. They were all such good people back in Cabot Cove, true friends I could count on. But as I got under the covers and turned out the light, I knew that whatever was to happen over the ensuing days would be very much my problem, and mine alone. That was not a particularly comforting thought with which to go to sleep, but it was the best I could do.
Chapter Seven
I woke early, threw back the drapes, and allowed a burst of sunshine to enter the suite, hoping it was symbolic of what the day would be like.
The early morning news on BBC Radio brought me back to reality. Funeral plans had been announced for Marjorie Ainsworth. The service would be. held on Tuesday in a small church in Crumpsworth, at Marjorie’s request. The announcement was made by Janet Portelaine. I was to give my keynote address to ISMW the night of the funeral.
I took a long, leisurely shower, enjoyed the toast and coffee I’d ordered through room service, and dressed in a camel’s-hair skirt, white button-down blouse, heather sweater, and brown tweed sport jacket and made sure
I wore sensible walking shoes.
I was about to leave the room when I remembered that the press was laying siege. I called my assistant manager friend, and was assured that he could spirit me from the hotel through a rear entrance that few people, including veteran members of the London press, knew about. Ten minutes later he had me two blocks away and was helping me into a taxi.
I was pleased that Maria Giacona had suggested Hyde Park instead of breakfast in the hotel. I’d wanted to spend Sunday morning at Speakers’ Corner anyway, and this would allow me to indulge that plan, while also hearing what Ms. Giacona had to say. Frank and I had spent two Sunday mornings at Speakers’ Corner and had not only found the experience fascinating, but were both struck with the real meaning of free speech it represented.
My driver let me off at Marble Arch, which was built originally as the main gateway to Buckingham Palace but, because it wasn’t broad enough for royal coaches to pass through, was moved in 1851 to its current site. I stood for a few minutes after he drove away, and took in the broader scene in front of me. Again, as would happen countless times during this post-Frank trip to London, I was bombarded with memories that, while pleasant, carried with them a parallel sadness because they could never be repeated.
It wasn’t difficult to find the South African rally that Maria had mentioned. It dominated the corner and, as opposed to most of the other speakers who had to shout over competing noise, featured a fiery young black man with a microphone and amplification system.
I stood at the rear of the crowd and looked for Maria. I didn’t see her. As I started to wonder whether I was the victim of a time-consuming practical joke, a voice behind me said, “Mrs. Fletcher.”
I turned and looked into Maria’s dark eyes. No wonder I hadn’t seen her; she was dressed very differently from last night. This morning she wore jeans and an army surplus camouflage jacket over a black turtleneck, and her hair was pulled into a French braid. No makeup.
“I was beginning to wonder whether you’d be here,” I said.
“I’ve been here for a while. I was watching you.”
“You were? Why didn’t you just come over to me?”
“I don’t know. Maybe it’s because I wanted to gain a better sense of the person I was going to confide in this morning. I certainly know you by reputation, and I’ve read some of your books, but dealing on a personal level is another matter. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“Yes, I would.”
She suggested we walk to the Serpentine. As we walked, and talked, I was increasingly impressed with her. I liked her, which would make things easier, no matter how startling or unpleasant her message.
We chose a bench in the shade of a huge sycamore tree. She sat hunched over, and peered with intensity out over the lake. Whatever it was she was about to tell me meant a great deal to her. She was taut, coiled, and evidently going through an internal debate either about whether to tell me anything at all, or about how to word it.
I tried to help her. “Ms. Giacona, you wanted to talk to me about Marjorie Ainsworth’s murder, as well as Jason Harris.”
She slowly turned her head and narrowed her eyes. “Mrs. Fletcher, I must first say that I do not wish to offend you or your friend, Marjorie Ainsworth. I know you were close to her, and that her death must be a shock to you, especially the circumstances of it.”
“Very true.”
“I do not share that closeness with her, but I do share such a closeness with another person who is being hurt by this.”
“Jason Harris?”
“Yes.”
“I can imagine. From what I understand, Marjorie had taken him in as a pupil of sorts. He certainly couldn’t have had a better teacher, and losing such a mentor must be difficult.”
Now her soft brown eyes were tempered with a discernible anger. It was almost frightening, so abrupt was the change. She said in measured tones, “It is not losing Marjorie Ainsworth as a teacher that is upsetting to Jason, Mrs. Fletcher. It is losing credit for his wonderful work that is so painful to him, and to me.”
I processed what she had said, then asked, “What is your relationship to Jason Harris?”
“We are lovers.”
“I see.” I asked what she meant by his having lost credit for work he’d done.
“I suppose there is no sense in trying to say this gently, Mrs. Fletcher. The fact is that Jason wrote Gin and Daggers.”
If she intended to bring about a physical reaction from me with her bluntness, she’d succeeded. My heart tripped, and I looked away from her.
“Mrs. Fletcher.”
“Yes?”
“What I say is the truth.”
“I’m not debating whether you’re being truthful for now, although I don’t know what the truth actually is. A much larger question at the moment, Ms. Giacona, is why are you telling me? Do you expect me to do something?”
The softness in her eyes and face returned. Was it deliberate, a good actress changing emotions on cue? I couldn’t tell. All I knew was that her face was an expressive instrument, and I was responding to its shifts in mood.
“I want you to speak on Jason’s behalf.”
“To whom?”
“To the world.”
“The world?”
“Those in publishing, critics, the press.”
“Ms. Giacona, I could never do that.”
She sighed and looked at the ground.
“Let’s say what you’ve told me is true and, I repeat, I don’t know what the truth is. But, let’s say I did know for certain that Jason wrote Gin and Daggers. Marjorie Ainsworth was a dear friend. I would never do anything to sully her reputation.”
“What about Jason’s reputation, Mrs. Fletcher? Is it fair that his talent goes unrecognized, unrewarded?”
“I suppose not, but… was he paid to write the book?”
“A pittance.”
“Does he share in its success, monetarily, I mean?”
“No.”
“He was a writer for hire, then.”
She looked at me quizzically.
“It’s a term used in publishing. It means that he performed work, was paid for it, and has no further claim on that work.”
“In terms of money, yes. In terms of fairness, no. He’s not looking for more money, Mrs. Fletcher. I know he wouldn’t take money if it were offered, and he would be very angry if he even knew I was speaking to you about this. Jason is… he’s very shy and unsure of his talent. He would be content to have the world never know that he’s written this wonderful book that the critics have acclaimed. I am different. I love Jason very much and am determined that the world know what a fine writer he is.”
“That’s admirable, Ms. Giacona. Tell me, was there a written agreement between Jason and Marjorie?”
She shook her head. “I told him he should demand such an agreement, but he didn’t want to upset her.”
“I don’t think she would have been upset. She was a very fair person.”
It was more a snort from her than a laugh. “It is good to feel that way about a dead friend. Others do not feel that way about Marjorie Ainsworth.”
I debated asking how much of Gin and Daggers Jason had actually written, how Jane Portelaine fit into the picture, whether Marjorie’s publishers and agents knew of the arrangement. I decided to, but didn’t have the chance. Maria stood and looked down at me with angry eyes. “I have always heard about Jessica Fletcher being a good person, as well as a talented writer. I know you are a good writer, but as for the other attribute, I-”
I stood, too, and said, “Ms. Giacona, I think you have now gone a little too far. You expect me to stand up and proclaim that Jason Harris wrote Gin and Daggers when, in fact, I have no idea whether he did or not.”
“If I prove it to you?”
“Proof? You said there was no written agreement.”
“There is another way. Jason saw to that.”
“I thought he didn’t care.”
“He doesn
’t. What he did was not deliberate but can be used now that she’s dead.”
I took it that she was glad Marjorie Ainsworth had died. I asked her to explain further.
“Jason used many things from his own life in Gin and Daggers, such as names of old friends and deceased family members. He gave some characters traits that come directly from himself. No one except Jason would have known those things, certainly not Marjorie Ainsworth.”
“That’s very interesting. I’ve read Gin and Daggers. Could you point out those things to me?”
“Not at this moment.”
“Why not?”
“Because I do not know what they are.”
“Ms. Giacona-”
“Please, allow me to finish. I know Jason included those things, because he told me he did, but he never told me exactly what they were.”
“Then Jason would have to tell me.”
“He would never do that. He made notes about them on the original manuscript.”
“Have you seen the manuscript?”
“No, but I now know where it is. I would never have come to you unless I could show the manuscript to you.”
“With Jason’s permission, I assume.”
“Without it. He wouldn’t approve.”
“That wouldn’t be right.”
“Is it more right that he goes unrecognized while someone else takes credit for his work?”
I turned and looked over the lake. A distinguished British couple pushing a baby carriage strolled past us, followed by two punk rockers, the girl’s hair a shocking pink, the boy’s hair orange, the two of them wearing matching black leather jackets with spikes.
“All right,” I said. “When will you show me the manuscript?”
“Tonight? I know that Jason will be out. You could come to his flat.”
“What time?”
“Eight. He’ll be leaving at seven.” She gave me an address on Pindar Street, near Liverpool Street Station. “It’s on the third floor,” she added. “I’m afraid there’s no lift.”
“The exercise will do me good, Ms. Giacona. I suppose that’s all we need to talk about this morning.”
“Except to say that I am sorry for having been… how shall I say it… for having been harsh in my words.”