We watched him saunter up Doughty Street and disappear into a crowd of people at the corner.
“Nice fellow,” Seth offered.
“Looks like a really successful businessman,” Maureen said. “What were you talking about, Jessica? The murder?”
“Investments, actually,” I said.
“Ooh. Did he give you any good tips?” she asked.
“Nothing I can use,” I said, smiling at her.
I didn’t want to fuel any speculation on the part of my friends, especially with members of the press within earshot. Even though the reporters traveling with us that morning covered travel and business, they were never far away, and I knew their instinct was to listen for a story. I didn’t want to provide them with one.
Our driver dropped off various people at selected locations, saving the Cabot Cove gang for last. Knowing we would be free for lunch, I’d called an old and dear friend, Sally Bulloch, the general manager of the Athenaeum Hotel and Apartments on Piccadilly. The hotel’s highly rated and popular restaurant, Bullochs, was named after Sally, a dynamic hostess who seems always to be everywhere within the hotel greeting guests. Many of these guests are familiar show business names, some of whom stay for months in the row of elegant apartments adjacent to the hotel. Sally assured me that we’d have a prime table in the restaurant, and she didn’t disappoint. She was in the lobby when we arrived, bubbling over with enthusiasm, and led us across the handsome stone floor to our table at the rear of the attractively appointed room, its skylights allowing the striking red, blue, and green space to be bathed in sunshine.
Once we were seated, and I’d made all the necessary introductions, Sally asked me to join her back in the lobby.
“So, Jessica, who killed him?” she asked bluntly.
I had to laugh. “I love the way you ease into things, Sally,” I said. “Who killed Wayne Silverton? I have no idea.”
“It’s all anyone is talking about today. Here’s the founder of a spanking new airline killed in cold blood on the first flight. Have you been in touch with your chum, the handsome, dashing Yard inspector?”
I had to laugh again. “Nothing ever escapes that steel-trap mind of yours, does it? Yes, I have been in touch with George Sutherland and—”
“The papers say you accompanied him to the airport where the body was found.”
I felt a blush rise to my cheeks. “Gorry, leave it to the press to make something of nothing.”
“Gorry, huh? And you say we Brits talk funny.”
“It’s a Maine expression.”
“You people from Maine talk funny.” She cocked her head at me. “That was quite an unflattering snap of you I saw on the telly this morning, dearie. If the photographer had gotten any closer, he’d have been in your mouth.”
“I haven’t seen it,” I said, “and based upon your judgment, I’d just as soon not. I’d better get back to the table. But before I do, my good friend, what do you hear that might shed some light on the murder?”
“Aha,” she said. “You’re up to your old tricks, solving murders when all you should be doing is writing novels about them.” She became slightly conspiratorial. “Folks say that anything Churlson Vicks is involved with has to be questioned.” She lowered her voice even more. “Is it true that the Mafia owns part of the airline?”
“I wouldn’t know about that,” I said, adding, “I spent the morning with Mr. Vicks.”
“And?”
“Nothing to report. You’re a doll for setting up lunch for us. See you later.”
“The chef has your favorite rack of lamb ready. Gorry, it’s good to know that Jessica Fletcher is on the case.”
My laughter continued into the dining room and to the table where Jim Shevlin had ordered two bottles of Australian wine, and where an assortment of complimentary hors d’oeuvres had been delivered. Lunch began as a lighthearted affair, considering that Wayne Silverton’s murder had taken place less than twenty-four hours earlier. I suppose it represented a deliberate attempt on everyone’s part not to dwell on such unpleasant subjects, especially over a meal. But the gravity of the killing soon outweighed our collective stab at gaiety.
“So, Jess, come on now, fill us in on what’s going on with Wayne’s murder,” Maureen said.
“I really don’t know much,” I said.
Their expressions said they weren’t buying it.
“No, I mean that,” I said. “Obviously, everyone who was on the flight is a suspect. I don’t think George is considering the possibility that it might have been someone who just happened upon Wayne while he sat in the plane. It had to be someone who knew him, and that includes all of us.”
“I didn’t do it,” Jim Shevlin quipped, his hands to his heart.
“Oh, stop it, Jim,” his wife, Susan, said. “It’s nothing to make light of.”
“I’m not making light of anything, but if we’re all suspects, we have an obligation to declare our innocence. Isn’t that right, Sheriff?”
“There’s no need for anyone at this table to declare anything,” Mort said. “We know none of us killed Silverton. But I have some thoughts about it that I bet Inspector Sutherland will want to hear.”
We waited for him to elaborate. When he didn’t, Seth said, “Seems if you’re goin’ to make a statement like that, Mort, the least you can do is tell us what in the devil you meant.”
Mort sat back, a satisfied expression on his broad face. “I’d best leave it for the inspector,” he said. “You know, talk shop with somebody who’ll understand what I’m saying.”
I had to smile. I knew that Mort was somewhat envious of George Sutherland’s position in Scotland Yard. George investigated major cases, not only in the United Kingdom but in cities around the world. When in his company, Mort sometimes felt the need to puff himself up. It was silly of him to feel that way. He was a fine sheriff with a solid history in law enforcement, including a stint in New York City, one of the toughest places on earth to effectively police. But I suppose there was a glamour associated with Scotland Yard, and George certainly cut a dramatic figure. I could have pressed Mort for what he was thinking, but decided against it. If he felt he should disclose his thoughts on the murder only to George—lawman to lawman—then so be it. But I have to admit I was curious, and knowing Mort as I do, I was confident that he’d eventually reveal his thinking to me, too.
It didn’t take too long for that to occur. After lunch, we went to the lobby to say good-bye to Sally Bulloch. As we waited for her to come from her office, Mort confided in me.
“The way I figure it, Mrs. F.,” he said, his voice low so the others couldn’t hear, “is that Wayne was killed by a woman.”
“And why do you say that, Mort?”
“Just makes sense, that’s all,” he replied. “Think about it. Here’s this handsome rich guy who owns an airline. Must have had plenty of women in his life before—and maybe even during—his marriage to Christine. I don’t know whether you caught the way he looked at the stewardesses on the flight.”
“The flight attendants?”
“Right, flight attendants. Got to be politically correct. Well, he had the roving eye of a guy who’s used to beautiful women falling all over him. Make sense?”
“Yes, it does, although a knife is not statistically the weapon of choice for a woman.”
“Plenty of wives have used a knife to get rid of a philandering or abusive husband.”
“You’re right,” I said. “No one should be ruled out based upon statistics. Do you have someone specific in mind?”
“Nope. But I’ll pass along my theory to George.”
“And I’m sure he’ll appreciate every bit of input he can get, especially from a fellow lawman.”
“That’s what I figured, too.”
After thanking Sally for her hospitality, we moved to the street where a tall, charming doorman in a fancy uniform opened the door to the limo that waited for us. We got in, and the driver headed for the Old Bailey, a more fa
miliar name for London’s Central Criminal Court. While my thoughts were on the meeting we’d have with one of the judges there and what we’d learn from him, I couldn’t keep my mind focused exclusively on that. What Mort had said had merit.
The problem was that the one woman who took center stage in that scenario was Wayne Silverton’s wife, Christine.
Chapter Eight
In the United States, lawyers routinely spend hours, sometimes days, prepping witnesses before they take the stand to testify. Under the British legal system, any barrister or solicitor caught doing that would be harshly reprimanded by the court. The British approach makes more sense to me. Prepping witnesses smacks of manipulation of the truth. Barristers are usually attorneys who plead cases in court. Solicitors generally perform out-of-court legal work. But recent changes in British law allow solicitors to do trial work, too, in most courts.
Another difference between our legal systems that I find fascinating has to do with the role of the judge in British criminal trials. Here, I much prefer the American way. In British criminal cases, the judge sums up for the jury the evidence that both sides have presented during the trial. This gives a British judge much too much power, in my estimation, to sway a jury to his evaluation of guilt or innocence.
These and other differences were explained to us by a kindly, elderly judge who, I was flattered to learn, had read many of my books.
We spent an hour at Old Bailey. Our limo was waiting on Newgate Street when we emerged. We quickly got into our seats, eager to return to the Savoy and do two things: get ready for whatever dinner plans had been made and see whether there were any new developments in Wayne Silverton’s murder. I hadn’t mentioned my intention to have dinner with George and was reluctant to do so. But the issue was forced when Seth asked, “What are we doing tonight for dinner?”
“I have tentative plans to meet George Sutherland.”
“How exciting,” Maureen said. “We can get the latest from the horse’s mouth. Well, from the inspector’s mouth.”
“Be a good chance for me to discuss the case with him,” Mort chimed in.
“Actually, I—Oh, wait a minute.”
We stopped at a traffic light, and I saw out my window a shop with a sign announcing that it featured London’s largest selection of knives.
“Could we pull over in front of that shop for a few minutes?” I asked the driver.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Where are you going?” Jim Shevlin asked.
“Into that store that carries knives,” I said, opening my door and getting out. Mort and Seth followed, and we entered the shop, the tinkle of a bell alerting the proprietor to our arrival. The owner, a wizened little old man with tufts of white hair shooting straight up from his head, came from a back room. He wore a heavy, dark gray cardigan I was sure had kept him warm during the London bombings of World War II.
“May I help you?” he asked.
“Perhaps,” I said, and mentioned that we were from the States.
His face lit up. “Always enjoy showing my wares to Yanks,” he said. “I assume you’re interested in knives for the kitchen. I have the largest and most diverse stock in the UK.”
“Actually,” I said, “I’m interested in a knife a woman can carry in her purse, you know, with a blade that folds into its handle.”
He looked at me suspiciously but didn’t say anything as he led us to a display cabinet with a glass top through which dozens of knives of that description were carefully laid out on green velvet.
“Yes,” I said, “that’s the sort of knife I’m looking for.”
“Jessica, do you mind telling us why you want to buy a knife?” Seth said sternly.
“I will as soon as I find what I’m looking for,” I said, continuing to peruse the selection beneath the glass. “How about that one?” I said to the shopkeeper. “I’d like to see that one.”
The shop owner looked and sounded disappointed. “We have so many knives that are better than that one, madam. That knife is—well, how shall I say it? That knife is inexpensive and very common.”
“May I see it?” I repeated.
He reluctantly opened the back of the case with a key and handed me my choice. The blade was open.
“Careful, Jessica,” Seth said. “I don’t fancy having to sew up your hand.”
“I’ll be careful, Seth,” I said, turning the knife over to get a good look at both sides.
“Yes,” I said to the shopkeeper, “this is the one I want. You say it’s a common knife. I assume you mean that many sorts of people use it.”
“Mostly people who don’t know much about knives,” he said, going to another counter where he prepared to wrap my purchase. “I sell a lot of these. Plenty of bobbies carry them along with their night-sticks, and I’ve had a fair number of military folks buy them. Airline pilots seem partial to this brand, too. I supply the pilots from British Air and Mr. Bran-son’s Virgin Atlantic.” He shook his head. “I try to get them to upgrade to a better knife, but they’re stuck in their ways, I suppose.”
“ ‘Stuck?’ ” Seth said, smiling.
“Poor choice of words,” the shopkeeper said, returning the smile. “Or a good one.”
I paid for the knife and we left the shop, my neatly wrapped purchase under my arm. Once I was back in the limousine, the questions came about the knife and why I’d bought it.
“Promise that what I say will remain in this limo?” I said.
Nods of affirmation were given all around.
“I got a close look at the knife that was used to kill Wayne,” I said. “Not the whole knife, just the handle. It had an interesting pattern, like the one I just purchased. At least it appears that way to me. It’s the right size, too, based upon the visual calculation I made at the scene.”
As we snaked through mounting London traffic, I unwrapped the knife and showed it to everyone. “Who would like it?” I asked.
I received puzzled looks.
“I don’t need the knife,” I said. “What’s important is what we learned from that very nice shop owner.”
“The old fellow said he sells lots of knives like this to airline pilots,” Mort said, an expression of recognition crossing his face.
I nodded. “It may not mean anything,” I said, “but every little bit helps. I’m sure we can learn more about it from Captain Caine.”
“He wasn’t at breakfast this morning,” Seth said.
“No, he wasn’t, nor was the flight attendant, Ms. Molnari. We’ll probably see them back at the hotel.”
“If you really don’t want the knife,” Mort said, “I’ll be happy to take it from you. I like having them handy in the car and the office, you know, to cut a rope or open a carton.”
“Then,” I said, handing it to Mort as we pulled up in front of the Savoy, “it’s yours. Just don’t put it in your carry-on luggage.”
“I’ll make sure of that,” his wife said.
We stood together in the hotel lobby, waiting for the elevator. Seth said casually, as though addressing no one, “I wonder who inherits Wayne’s stake in SilverAir.”
I’d been wondering the same thing. My assumption was that Christine would be Wayne’s beneficiary, but that wasn’t necessarily true. If it was, it added an additional motive for her to want Wayne dead, both to avenge his philandering ways and to become a rich widow. But everything was supposition at this juncture. There were many questions still to ask, and many answers to be gathered.
George had left a message for me on my suite’s voice mail.
“Hello there, Jessica. I trust you’ve had a pleasant day at the Dickens Museum and the courts. I’m glad you took the opportunity not to think about such grisly things as murder, and were able to simply enjoy the city with your Cabot Cove chums. I’ve made a reservation for us at seven thirty. The restaurant is a particular favorite of mine; I’m sure you’ll find it satisfactory.” There was a long, thoughtful pause, as though he was summoning up the courage to continue
. Finally, he said, “As much as I look forward to us spending a quiet dinner alone, I realize that you have obligations to those who’ve traveled with you from home. So, what I’m saying is that if you feel the need to include them in our dinner plans, it will be fine with me.”
What a dear. Among many admirable traits, his sensitivity ranked high. I was sure he preferred that we dine alone—so did I—but he was always so quick to take into consideration the needs of others. He left numbers where he could be reached, including his cell number, which I already had. I dialed it.
“George, it’s Jessica.”
“Hello there,” he said. “Good day?”
“Very. Yours?”
“Hectic, and hopefully productive. You got my message.”
“Yes. About dinner, I—”
“You wish to have your friends join us.”
“I’m torn.”
“Don’t be. I’ll call and change the reservation to—how many?”
“Make it for seven people, although I don’t know if the Shevlins will join us. I heard them say something about getting together tonight with British friends.”
“However it works out is fine,” he said. “I’ll swing by the hotel at seven.”
“We have the limo for the evening,” I said. “We can pick you up.”
“Happy to go with you in your hired car, but I’ll come to the Savoy. Make it seven fifteen.”
“I’ll be waiting. And thanks, George, for understanding.”
I changed into a robe and turned on the telly, as the British call television. I kept the sound low, more for background talk than to become informed of the day’s news. I sat on the couch and perused magazines, and booklets about the hotel and its services, before heading for the bathroom and a leisurely shower. I’d just gotten up and was halfway across the room when Wayne Silverton’s face filled the screen. I quickly raised the volume and resumed my seat.
The announcer delivered a brief recap of Wayne’s murder, a bit of background about SilverAir, and quoted an unnamed police source who said that a full-scale investigation was under way, but that no breaks in the case had been reported. Then, to my surprise, Christine’s photo came to life. She stood at a podium with a uniformed officer and spoke directly to the camera.
Coffee, Tea, or Murder? Page 7