by Donald Bain
Ona had told him, “It was obvious to me that Jane and Mr. Harris were concerned about keeping their activities secret from Marjorie. There was always consternation about having me in the house, and I had a constant feeling of being spied upon.”
“By them?” Sutherland asked her.
“Yes, and by the new butler, Marshall. Be that as it may, it was the relationship between Jane and Jason Harris that was of most interest to me. They were lovers.”
“How did you know they were lovers?” Sutherland asked her.
“Because I observed them. Once, when Marjorie was out of the house, I saw them embracing in the garden. It was dusk, and they probably thought their actions were covered by darkness, but there was quite a bit more light than they realized.”
“A serious embrace?” Sutherland asked.
She replied curtly, “I know the difference, Inspector Sutherland, between a friendly hug and kiss on the cheek, and a passionate embrace.”
“I must assume you do,” Sutherland said. “Was that the only time you observed them displaying affection?”
“No. I saw them holding hands once. Jane was transcribing my sister’s dictation, and Jason sat next to her. They touched hands a number of times, and they had an expression on their faces that was unmistakably carnal.”
Sutherland waited for her to say more. When she didn’t, he said, “Let’s assume your observations are correct and that there was some level of romantic interest between them. What significance does that have?”
“I am convinced that Jason Harris murdered my sister in order to benefit, in some tangible way, from his involvement with Gin and Daggers.”
One of Bubbs’s waiters interrupted us and asked if we wished to order. Sutherland removed his glasses and said, “Time for a break, I think.” We perused the short menu, and I decided on poached turbot in a sauce into which strips of vegetables were woven. Sutherland opted for partridge. We agreed to share a salad garnished with venison as a first course.
“Can’t shake my Scottish love of game,” he said.
“One of my friends from Maine had hare with a chocolate and raspberry sauce the other night at La Tante Claire,” I said.
“That might be a bit much for this Scotsman,” Sutherland said with a gentle laugh. “It’s the chocolate that would do me in.”
We talked of things other than his meeting with Ona Ainsworth-Zara until after we’d consumed our salad. I asked what else had been discussed.
“I told her that since Harris is dead, I would hardly consider him to have benefited from anything. Her response was that his death might have been nothing more than an unfortunate coincidence that robbed him of the opportunity to gain whatever benefit he was seeking.”
I frowned; I didn’t buy that, and judging from the expression on Sutherland’s face, he didn’t, either. “She told you she’d seen them in the garden when Marjorie was out of the house. I wasn’t aware she ever left, at least not in recent months. She needed a wheelchair. Where did she go? Was this an isolated instance of her leaving the manor, perhaps to see a doctor?”
Sutherland said, “I asked the same question. Mrs. Ainsworth-Zara told me that her sister left Ainsworth Manor more than people realized. Evidently her chauffeur, Wilfred, took her out on a regular basis.”
“How regular?” I asked.
“Once every two weeks, she told me.”
“Had she ever asked Wilfred where he took Marjorie on these regular outings?”
“As a matter of fact, I did ask that, Jessica. We think very much alike, it seems. She said she’d tried to talk to him once, but failed to learn anything. As she told me, this Wilfred is much the archetypal chauffeur, deathly loyal to his employer. She told me, ‘It would take a severe form of Oriental torture to make him even admit he’d taken her anywhere.’ ”
Our main courses were served. As we enjoyed them, Sutherland leaned across the table and said in a whisper, “Those people at the table in the corner obviously know who you are, Jessica. They’ve been looking in your direction and commenting all evening.”
“How unfortunate,” I said, bringing a smile to his face.
When those dishes had been cleared, Sutherland said to me, “Well, Jessica, what do you make of all this?”
I’d forgotten for the moment about his meeting with Ona Ainsworth-Zara. Instead, I’d been grappling with how much to tell this handsome Scotland Yard inspector whom I found so attractive, yet was compelled to be on my guard with. Did he know about Jimmy Biggers, about the manuscript Biggers had delivered to me that afternoon, about Maria Giacona, David Simpson, the whole Jason Harris connection? I decided that if he did, he would have to be the one to bring them up.
I forced myself to return my attention to his question. “What do I make of it?” I repeated. “I don’t know. I was thinking of how angry Tony Zara was when he left the reading of Marjorie’s will.”
“Are you suggesting he might have murdered his wife’s sister?”
“No, but his suddenly leaving the country must raise some question with you.”
“That occurred to me, of course. Here we go again, Jessica, thinking alike. I raised that with Mrs. Ainsworth-Zara, and she did not offer the expected defense of her husband. Quite the opposite, I would say. She actually seemed pleased that I was thinking along those lines. She told me that her husband was awfu’ upset because Marjorie often made a fuss over him, enjoyed calling him her… what did she say?- her ‘little Mediterranean darling’… her ‘Italian duckie’… something like that. He assumed he would be included in her estate, according to his wife, and was furious when he wasn’t.”
“Awfu’?” I said.
“Did I say that? You can take the Scot out of Scotland, but you can’t take the language out of him. Awfu’. It loosely means very… very upset… awfu’ upset.”
“This meal is awfu’ good,” I said.
“Not quite the proper usage, I’m afraid,” he said pleasantly. “Getting back to my meeting this morning, I asked whether she was angry at being left out of her sister’s estate. She said that she wasn’t even surprised because, according to her, her sister had never forgiven her for marrying an Italian. He’s a count?”
“He bills himself as such,” I said.
“Dessert?” he asked, eyeing a dessert menu that had been placed in front of us.
“No, not for me, thank you,” I said. “This has been lovely, and I’m very pleased to see you again, but I can’t help but question the purpose of it. Clearly, you’ve gained nothing of substance from me.”
“Well, Jessica, perhaps now is the time for you to provide such substance.”
He stared at me. I shrugged. “Please explain.”
“You’ve been doing as much investigation as I have, according to my sources. You’ve engaged the services of the inquiry agent Mr. Biggers, have made contact with Jason Harris’s stepbrother, are the only person who had a look at Harris’s body other than his stepbrother, and, in general, seem to have been devoting considerable time to this effort, at least according to Mr. Darling.”
“According to Lucas?”
“I was chatting with him about his panel discussion tomorrow, and happened to ask how much participation you’ve given the convention. He said you’ve barely taken part.”
“Which means I’ve decided to enjoy London. I’ve done some wonderful walking and sightseeing.”
“Undoubtedly you have, Jessica, but I also have the feeling… no, to be more accurate, I have had information given me to support my feelings that you’ve possibly been learning things that would be of interest, and of use to me and the Yard in this investigation. Would you share what you’ve learned with me now?”
I made a decision at that moment that I would totally divorce the two large questions-who killed Marjorie Ainsworth, and whether she had written Gin and Daggers without undue help from Jason Harris. Whatever I knew that had direct bearing on the former, I would share with any and all authorities, beginning with Chief Inspect
or George Sutherland. Anything having to do with the authorship of the novel was not, it seemed to me, police business, not with the reputation of a dear and deceased friend on the line. I thought of the manuscript sitting in my hotel suite; that certainly would not be mentioned, at least for now.
There was, however, the conversation I’d had with Renée Perry regarding the alleged novel Brandy and Blood, and her assertion that Bruce Herbert had possession of it, and had murdered Marjorie Ainsworth in order to resolve the pending difficulties presented by it.
“George,” I said, “I have run across some information that might possibly be of interest to you where Marjorie’s murder is concerned, but it must be kept…” I smiled. “It must be kept awfu’ private.”
“Of course. Let me drive you back to the hotel, and you can tell me on the way.”
He drove a relatively old racing-green Jaguar that he kept in pristine condition. He drove slowly, and I explained what Renée Perry had told me about the missing manuscript, and her accusation that Bruce Herbert had killed Marjorie.
“Does Mrs. Perry hold any particular credibility with you?” he asked.
“Frankly, no, and when I asked her directly, she admitted she had no proof.”
“What about her husband? We’ve done a considerable background check on him. It seems he heads a publishing company that bears his name and is in precarious financial condition.”
“Yes, I’ve heard that.”
“And Miss Ainsworth charges in her will that he’d stolen money from her, and that she had loaned him a considerable amount to keep the company going.”
“I was at the will reading and heard those things. As far as stealing money from her, Marjorie wouldn’t be the first author to make such claims against publishers and agents without evidence to support it. Writers are… writers, and by the very nature of what they do and how they earn a living, tend to become distrustful and paranoid. I remember touring Dickens’s house on a previous trip to London. I jotted down the contents of some of his letters that are on display, letters to his agent and to his publisher humbly requesting money with which to live and, without actually stating it, implying that there might be some hanky-panky going on with their accounting of royalties.” I laughed. “I even committed one of those letters to memory. He’d written it to his publisher, Chapman and Hall, in 1836.
“When you have quite done counting the sovereigns received for Pickwick, I should be much obliged to you to send me up a few…”
I delivered the lines in my best British accent.
“The same with all writers, I take it,” Sutherland said.
“Yes, but I’m not sure I would put much credence in Marjorie’s claim of having been cheated either by Perry House or by her British publisher, Archibald Semple. The loan is another question. I wondered whether there had been papers drawn when the money had been given to him.”
“I questioned Mr. Perry yesterday,” Sutherland said, “and asked him about that. He said there never had been papers, and he characterized the loan as being of a very small amount, nothing of the magnitude Miss Ainsworth indicated in her will.”
“When Mrs. Perry was telling me her story about the agent Bruce Herbert, I actually wondered-” I stopped myself. It’s so easy to comment about other people without having a solid reason for doing so. I once heard a song titled “Your Mind Is on Vacation, Your Mouth is Working Overtime.” I didn’t want that to be the case with me.
I needn’t have worried. Sutherland said, “It occurred to me as you were telling me of Mrs. Perry’s accusation that she might be attempting to divert attention from her husband as a suspect in Miss Ainsworth’s murder.”
I didn’t acknowledge that I had thought the same thing, although I suspect he knew I had.
He drove me to the front of the Savoy and offered to buy me a nightcap. I declined, but asked him why he had seemed so cold toward me at Marjorie’s burial.
“Can I be brutally honest with you without offending, Jessica?”
“Yes, by all means.”
“Any good law enforcement officer knows that the biggest mistake he can make is to become emotionally involved with someone in a case, and I must admit I developed feelings for you from the first moment we met that could easily violate that principle.”
I had expected to hear any one of a dozen explanations for his behavior at the burial, but not this one.
“I’ve been tempted to call you every day to invite you for lunch or dinner, perhaps a stroll through the park, a ride in the country, but I’ve managed to hold myself in check. As long as I am confessing such things to you, Jessica, I might also say that it is my wish that when this whole nasty matter is resolved, you allow us the opportunity to explore the potentials of a relationship.”
“I… you’re a very kind and attractive man, George, and I am flattered by what you’ve said. In the meantime, although I am not a police officer, I suspect I, too, would be better served keeping my natural and very human instincts in check while we seek the murderer of Marjorie Ainsworth. After that… well, after that we can discuss it further.”
“Of course, Jessica. It was good to see you again tonight. I must, however, pick up on something you’ve just said.”
“Which is?”
“You talk of us trying to solve the murder. Might I make a suggestion to you?”
“Of course.”
“I know you are a skilled author, and because of the nature of the books you write, you have an insight into crime and the criminal’s mind. However, we’re talking here about a very dangerous situation, and I urge you to confine your interests to the conference and leave this investigation to me.”
“I thought you welcomed my observations.”
“I do, but observations are one thing, active involvement is another.”
“I know that you mean well with that suggestion, George, and I will give it serious consideration. Good night, and thank you for a lovely evening.”
He came around and opened the door for me. We looked at each other. I kissed him lightly on the cheek and went into the hotel with deliberate haste.
If I’d wanted to ignore the personal exchange that had just taken place with George Sutherland, it was impossible-Lucas, who’d been sitting in the lobby sipping a gin and tonic, sprang to his feet at the sight of me. “Come, sit with me, Jess, and tell me what happened.”
I forced a laugh. “Nothing happened, Lucas. The inspector and I discussed the case, and he drove me back.”
Lucas gave me one of his mischievous, knowing smiles. “Jessica Fletcher, I think it’s wonderful.”
“What do you think is wonderful?”
“That you and the inspector have a personal interest in each other.” I started to say something, but he cut me off. “I’ve been observing it ever since you met him-the sparks flying, the furtive glances, the romantic electricity in the air. I can see it now.” He created a globe in the air with his hands. “Jessica Fletcher, world-famous mystery writer, falls in love and marries Scotland Yard’s chief inspector, moves to London, where she takes an active part in the Marjorie Ainsworth International Study Center for Mystery Writers, and lives happily ever after.”
His eyes were wide as he awaited my reaction.
“Lucas, I think you should try writing another book, only this time put it in the historical romance genre. I’m pooped. See you tomorrow.”
Chapter Nineteen
I didn’t get much sleep after returning from my evening with George Sutherland. The manuscript saw to that.
Of course, I’d already read the book, and there were few differences between published book and manuscript-not surprising for a writer of Marjorie’s status.
What interested me about the manuscript were the numerous margin notes in red, purportedly made by Jason Harris. He identified, by my count, fourteen names that he claimed came out of his own background, including that of a dog which, his notes indicated, had been his pet as a young boy.
There were other refe
rences he took credit for, things like a London clothing store, a couple of favorite restaurants, a telephone number that had been his in a previous flat, the gin enjoyed by the story’s hero that was Harris’s own favorite, and myriad other items meant to convince anyone reading this version of the manuscript that Harris had, in fact, written it.
I made a long series of notes of my own, and after I showered and dressed, I went to the London telephone directory, found the number I wanted, and dialed it.
“Semple Publishing,” the operator said.
“Mr. Archibald Semple,” I said.
“Might I enquire who is calling?”
“Jessica Fletcher.”
Semple came on the line. “Mrs. Fletcher, what a surprise, good to hear from you, trust all is well, what can I do for you?”
I asked if I could see him that day.
“I don’t see why not, although the day is a bit crushed, sales conference coming up, too many books in the hopper, not enough editorial hands to deal with them.”
“Would an hour from now be all right?” I asked. “I can be there by ten.”
“Jolly good, sounds fine to me, I’ll clear the decks for you.”
Every publisher’s office I’d ever visited was messy, but they were all bastions of order compared to his. Manuscripts were piled everywhere, including on the carpet in front of his desk, creating a maze for visitors to navigate. He was sweating profusely as he got up to greet me. “What a pleasure, what a pleasure,” he said, leading me to a chair and removing a pile of recently published books from it. “Sit, sit. Tea? Oh no, you probably prefer coffee. I’ll see to it that you have coffee.”
“Actually, Mr. Semple, I would prefer tea. One sugar and lemon.”
“Of course, of course.” He buzzed his secretary and put in an order for two cups of tea.
Once he was settled behind his desk again, he said, “Now, Mrs. Fletcher, what brings you here? This is such an honor.”