Gin and Daggers

by Donald Bain

  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. Very 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 came.”

  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.”

  “It must have been a dreadful shock. What do you intend to do now?”

  “I don’t know. I shouldn’t be calling you this late, but I didn’t know who else to turn to.”

  I felt the ambivalence one always feels in such a situation, flattered to be important enough to a person to be the one to whom they turn in time of trouble, yet wishing you weren’t.

  “Maria, why don’t you come here to the hotel.”

  “Oh, Mrs. Fletcher, I couldn’t…”

  “No, I insist. Obviously, there will have to be a trip to the police, but it doesn’t have to be now, at this hour. I would feel much better if you were here. Spend the night if you wish. The living room has a lovely pull-out couch.”

  She uttered a few further protestations, then agreed.

  By the time she arrived, it was almost three in the morning, and I was exhausted. Simultaneously, my adrenaline was flowing at an accelerated pace, and I wouldn’t have been able to sleep whether she arrived or not.

  As I waited for her, I thought about the location she’d mentioned, Wapping Wall. I remember it, of course, as a setting in Dickens’s novels, a densely populated waterfront cut into many pieces by narrow, twisting alleys, long sets of stone steps, and a succession of docks, including Execution Dock where condemned pirates and thieves, including Captain Kidd in 1701, were left for the tide to wash over them three times. It was, in Dickens’s time and probably long after, a sinister area of London where crime and criminals ruled.

  I had no idea what the area was like today, but had a feeling I would soon find out.

  Maria and I sat in the living room. She was now more composed, although she occasionally lapsed into quiet sobbing. She knew nothing more than what she’d told me on the phone.

  “I assume they identified him from objects in his pockets,” I said.

  “Yes.”

  “Will you…” I hesitated before completing my sentence. “Will you have to identify the body, Maria?”

  She shook her head.

  “Who will? Does he have family here in London?”

  “Yes, a stepbrother.”

  “Is he a writer, too?”

  “No. He’s a talent agent.”

  “Really? Does he handle big stars?”

  “No. I mean, I really don’t know. I know very little about him. His name is David Simpson. Jason and he haven’t had much to do with each other. I suppose it would not be an overstatement to say that they dislike… disliked each other.”

  The next time I checked my watch, it was 4 A.M. “Would you like something to eat?” I asked. “I’ll order it up.”

  She went through a mandatory “Oh, that isn’t necessary,” then quickly agreed that food would be welcome. After room service had delivered club sandwiches and coffee, I asked Maria about herself, her life, what she aspired to.

  “I’m an actress,” she said.

  “How wonderful. I have great respect for people possessing that kind of talent. Have you appeared in anything in London?”

  “Oh no, nothing that impressive yet. I’ve been in some smaller productions. I toured Ireland and Wales two summers ago with a troupe.”

  “That must have been fun.”

  “It didn’t pay much, but I learned a lot.”

  “You’re a beautiful young woman, Maria. Have you thought of films?”

  She smiled. “Of course I have. Every actor or actress does. I’m afraid I haven’t made much headway in that direction, but I keep trying.”

  “That’s the spirit. It’s so difficult making a living as a performer. Lord knows where most people find the perseverance and patience to continue.”

  “Like writing,” she said.

  “Yes, very much like writing. I was fortunate to have a loving and supportive husband who made
sure the refrigerator had food in it while I tried to sell my stories.” I laughed. “I still have a wonderful drawer filled with rejection slips. I treasure those. Somehow they mean more than the letters I’ve received praising what I’ve done, and announcing a publication date for my newest book. Does that make sense?”

  “I think so, although I would love to receive such a letter informing me that I’d been selected for a major role at the Old Vic.” She sat back and her eyes misted. “My God, Mrs. Fletcher, it just hit me full force that Jason will never receive such a letter. He was so talented, and it will never be recognized.” She started sobbing. I sat beside her and put my arms about her, pulled her to me and held her close, murmuring over and over, “I know, I know, I know.”

  After she’d calmed down, I suggested we catch a couple of hours’ sleep before the sun came up. The couch was already made up. I gave her a spare nightgown, suggested that she try to get some sleep despite the fact that this horrible thing had happened, and went to the bedroom where I lay awake for an hour. Was it reasonable to assume that whoever killed Jason Harris also killed Marjorie Ainsworth? Possible, certainly, although as hard as I tried, I could not come up with a link. I also had to admit to myself that if pressed to name the person most likely to have murdered Marjorie, it would have been Jason, based on nothing but pure intuition. Now he was dead, a corpse dragged from the river Thames. Of course, that did not rule out the possibility that he had killed Marjorie, and had met his own fate for some reason totally unrelated.

  I wondered whether Jane Portelaine had heard about Jason’s demise. She’d certainly dismissed him at the funeral, but that didn’t necessarily represent her true feelings. Was she disengaging from him for my benefit? Possibly. Her denial of friendship with Jason certainly hadn’t held water with me. Their relationship, on whatever level it was conducted, was blatantly self-evident during the weekend at Ainsworth Manor.

  “We’ll see, we’ll see,” I said softly to myself as I rearranged the pillow beneath my head. Then I sat straight up. Wapping Wall. Yes, I knew it from reading Dickens, but I’d also been made aware of it more recently-in the past day or two, in fact.