Murder, She Wrote: Gin and Daggers

by Jessica Fletcher

Coots fixed him with a hard stare. “I think I’ll be the judge from this point forward, sir, of how we proceed with investigating this case. You are?”

  Perry told him.

  “Well now, where is the body?” he asked imperiously. He was a dislikable man, filled with pomposity. His left eye twitched, and he had a habit of moving his nose as though a foreign object were lodged in it.

  Jane came around the table and said, “Come with me, Inspector.”

  Coots said to his men, “Stay here and see that no one leaves.” He asked the room, “Has anyone left since the body was discovered?” We assured him no one had.

  “Household staff?” he asked Jane.

  “All present and accounted for,” she said.

  “Well then, let’s proceed.”

  After Coots and Jane left the room, Archibald Semple, who’d resumed drinking upon being summoned to the library, started pacing, drink in hand. He said, “What we have here is right out of the cozy school of murder mysteries, it seems to me. It may be irreverent for me to be speaking this way at such a time, but Dame Agatha could not have created a more perfect setting or assembled a more fitting cast of suspects.”

  “This isn’t the time to be discussing fictitious murders, Archie,” Strayhorn, the critic, snapped. “We have a real murder here on our hands, and not only have we lost a treasured friend and colleague, the world has lost the sort of talent that comes along only once in a lifetime.”

  I was tempted to shout, “Bravo!”

  I looked over to where Renée Perry sat hunched in a chair, her sobs soft and steady. Her husband, the patrician Clayton Perry, stood next to her but offered no solace—did not touch her or try to comfort her in any way. My attention then shifted to the table, where Jason Harris casually perched on its comer, his eyes fixed on the high ceiling, a cigarette dangling from his lips.

  I asked, “Did anyone see or hear anything last night?” Everyone shook their heads and said that they hadn’t. Harris did not bother to respond. “Mr. Harris, did you see or hear anything last night?”

  He turned slowly and removed the cigarette from his mouth. The ashes fell to the rug, and he ground them in with his shoe. “No,” he answered.

  Sir James Ferguson sat in a corner of the room shaking his head and muttering over and over, “Can’t be, it just can’t be. It was obviously someone from the household staff. No one in this room would have had any reason to kill Marjorie. Who hires the staff here? Whoever that person is hired Marjorie’s killer.”

  “Not necessarily,” I said. “It could have been”—I took in everyone quickly before ending with—“anyone in the house or, for that matter, someone who entered from outside.”

  “Good point, Mrs. Fletcher. Perhaps we should check for broken glass, footprints in the soft soil outside the windows,” Semple said as he refilled his drink.

  “I think that would be for Inspector Coots to accomplish,” I said.

  “He doesn’t look too swift to me,” William Strayhorn said, “a typical bumbling country copper who’ll undoubtedly muck things up and make it difficult for higher-ups to do their jobs.”

  As much as I agreed with him, I found myself mildly resentful of his characterization of Coots. Our local sheriff back in Cabot Cove, Morton Metzger, would certainly never win awards for investigative brilliance, yet he was a hardworking and competent law enforcement officer. He’d also become a dear friend.

  “I think we should solve this thing ourselves instead of waiting for that inept little man to drag things out,” Semple said. “This was obviously the work of an intruder, a demented one to boot. He enters bent upon thievery, steps into Marjorie’s room, wakes her, and in order to keep her from screaming, rams a dagger into her chest.” This set off an argument among Semple, Strayhorn, and Clayton Perry which, blessedly, came to an abrupt end when Coots and Jane Portelaine returned.

  “Bloody nasty way to go,” Coots said, resuming his stance in the middle of the room. He still held the notebook close to his chest, as though it were a prayer book from which he would deliver a sermon. I noticed something else, however: a gold chain dangling from his fingers glittered in the light from a nearby lamp. I sat forward and squinted to make sure it was what I thought it was. Indeed. My gold pendant, the one Frank had bought for me in a beautiful little jewelry shop in Mayfair. “Excuse me, Inspector Coots, but I believe you have something of mine.”

  He looked at me over his shoulder, a snide grin on his face. “Then you admit it’s yours.”

  I stood. “Admit it? Of course I admit it. Why shouldn’t I?” I quickly explained the origins of the pendant. “Where did you get it?”

  “Beneath the victim’s bed, that’s where.”

  I thought back to having discovered the body and the sound of something metallic being kicked by my slipper. Had I been wearing it when I went to Marjorie’s room in response to the sounds I’d heard? Absolutely not. I never wore jewelry to bed, particularly that piece of jewelry. I don’t think a night had passed since Frank bought it for me that I didn’t carefully remove it at the end of an evening and place it in a small, velvet-lined box that I reserved specifically for it. That meant ...

  “Do you usually wear jewelry like this to bed, Mrs. Fletcher?” Coots asked.

  “I never wear jewelry to bed, Inspector, particularly that piece.”

  “Then I assume you are acknowledging the fact that when you went to Miss Ainsworth’s room in your nightclothes, you were not wearing it.”

  “Of course.”

  “Which means that it must have fallen to the floor by her bed prior to that visit to the room by you.”

  Everyone in the study stared at me. I knew precisely what Coots was getting at: if the pendant had been dropped in Marjorie’s bedroom prior to my discovery of the body, it could have been dropped by the person who killed her. Possibly me.

  Coots was still looking at me over his shoulder, the same defiant, cocky smile on his face. I said flatly, “I assure you I did not visit Miss Ainsworth’s bedroom anytime prior to my having discovered the body.”

  Coots lowered the notebook, opened to a blank page, took the stub of a pencil from his pocket, licked the lead, and made notes, glancing at me a few times for effect. I sat down again and decided I would say nothing more.

  Coots set up a system of interviews with each person in the house, using the dining room for this purpose. Simultaneously, an ambulance arrived from the district infirmary, along with an elderly gentleman who was introduced as the district coroner. Two medical aides removed Marjorie’s body under his supervision—after Coots had made certain that his officers had taken photographs of the bedroom and made notes of its physical condition. I happened to be nearby when this conversation was going on, and asked Coots if he intended to take fingerprints and to check the exterior of the house for signs of a break-in. He wasn’t subtle in letting me know his displeasure at my interference, although later, at dawn, he went outside and personally inspected the exterior of Ainsworth Manor.

  By the time the sun was up, casting merciful light on what had been a gloomy night, a succession of people arrived at the house. One was a young woman who was the editor of the Crumpsworth Gazette, as well as a stringer for the London Times. She questioned everyone she could corner, including Mrs. Horton and the kitchen staff, Marshall, a few of the guests who agreed to be interviewed, and, finally, Inspector Montgomery Coots, who needed no urging from her.

  Eventually, after all of us had been interviewed by the inspector—my interview took only five minutes, which was considerably shorter than all the others; any significance eluded me—we were allowed to leave with the provision that we stay in Great Britain until further notice. This brought forth a protest from Clayton Perry and Bruce Herbert, both of whom said they were due back in New York immediately following the opening session of the ISMW, which I was to address as the keynote speaker. Their pleas fell on deaf Coots ears, although he promised to attempt to expedite his investigation of them to accommodate their
plans.

  He said to me, “You’ll be here all week, I understand.”

  “Yes, I’m to attend the entire conference at the Savoy. Surely I’ll be free to return höme after that.”

  “We’ll see, we’ll see,” he said, bouncing on his toes.

  “About the pendant, Inspector. It means a great deal to me, has considerable sentimental value. When will it be returned?”

  “Hard to say, hard to say. I’d say it’s vital evidence, wouldn’t you?”

  “I don’t see why, although I won’t argue with you. By the way, Inspector Coots, will there be an ... investigation by a body ... well, how can I say it, a body of greater authority than your agency here in Crumpsworth?”

  “No need for that. Scotland Yard, you mean? A waste of time, if you ask me. The yardies won’t bother coming in on this one, I can assure you. They know my reputation. No, it will remain a local matter right here in Crumpsworth where it belongs.”

  His little speech caused my heart to sink. Surely, I reasoned, the brutal murder of the world’s leading mystery writer could not be left to a local inspector in a town the size of Crumpsworth. At least, I fervently hoped that it wouldn’t.

  Wilfred, Marjorie’s chauffeur, drove what could be called the American contingent back to London. I shared the Morgan with the Perrys and Bruce Herbert. We said little during the hour’s drive. Now that phase one of the investigation was over, the profound sadness of the event had settled in, and I found myself crying for the first time since discovering the body. Perry, who sat next to me, put his arm over my shoulder and said, “Yes, Jessica, it is a dreadful blow to all of us. It must be even more horrible for you since you shared the same talent as that wonderful woman. You do realize, of course, what ramifications this will have for you as a writer.”

  I pulled a handkerchief from my purse and dabbed at my eyes. “No, I’m afraid I don’t have any idea what you mean.”

  “Well, it seems to me that Jessica Fletcher must now accept the torch.”

  “The torch?”

  “Yes, professionally speaking, of course. I would say that Jessica Fletcher, by virtue of Marjorie Ainsworth’s death, is now the world’s leading writer of the murder mystery.”

  “Oh, I think that’s overstating it,” I said. “No one could ever ...”

  “Clayton is right,” Bruce Herbert said. “Think about it, Jessica. You not only sell millions of copies of your books worldwide, it was you who discovered the body of your dear friend and colleague. You might need some good advice on how to handle the media attention.”

  He pulled a business card from his breast pocket and handed it to me. I took it, the insensitivity of the act beyond my comprehension, so much so that I could say nothing critical of it. My only words were “Thank you. I can’t believe this has happened.”

  If I had trouble believing the events at Ainsworth Manor, the next day’s edition of the London Times, as well as a barrage of news items over the BBC, made a believer of me. Not only was the murder front-page news—as expected—Inspector Coots was quoted at length:

  Obviously, Jessica Fletcher, the American writer who discovered the body, must be considered a prime suspect. A gold pendant that had been given to her by her late husband—bought in London, I might add—was found under the bed of the deceased. Since Mrs. Fletcher discovered the body in her nightclothes, she obviously wasn’t wearing any gold pendant or any other jewelry. It doesn’t take a genius to wonder why that pendant ended up in that bedroom. The fact that Mrs. Fletcher will now replace Marjorie Ainsworth as the top mystery writer in the world leads to some interesting speculation, I’d say. Yes indeed, I’d certainly say that as a veteran investigator of crimes large and small.

  The lovely, old, and gentle Savoy Hotel now became a buzzsaw of activity. The press waited outside for me to show my face, and my phone kept ringing. I stopped answering it and had all calls impounded by the hotel operators, calling down hourly to have them relayed to me. I sat in my suite for the rest of the day, exhausted but unable to entertain even the thought of sleep, my throat dry, tears flowing and ebbing, leaving a salty taste on my lips.

  After hours of this nightmarish existence, I was informed of a call that had been made to me that I immediately returned. Amazing, today’s satellite systems; my call to Cabot Cove, Maine, went through in seconds, and I was hearing a familiar and welcome voice, my good friend, Dr. Seth Hazlitt. “Seth, it’s Jessica.”

  “Jessica, how are you? We’ve heard. We’ve all heard. It’s the lead item on every television newscast, and on every front page in the country, I suspect. Are you all right, Jessica? It must have been dreadful, what you’ve gone through.”

  “Yes, Seth, it’s been a very difficult time. There are dozens of strangers wanting to talk to me. I hear strange voices and see strange faces on the television. There are words being written about me that I hate, that bear no relationship to reality at all. It’s so wonderful to ... to touch base with something I know, something real.” I broke down completely, the sounds of my anguish transmitted thousands of miles from the Savoy Hotel in London to a small, modest home in the small, modest town of Cabot Cove, Maine.

  “The press has been all over town, Jessica, dubbin’ around lookin’ for dirt.”

  “They’re all over the hotel here, too, Seth. I hate it. I’d give anything to be in Cabot Cove.”

  “Why don’t you come on home then?”

  “I can’t. I have to make my speech, and there are other things I’m involved with at the conference.”

  I could almost see him shaking his head at me. He said, “Ginny made up a big batch o’ Bakewell Cream biscuits today, Jessica, and delivered me some. I wish you were here to share them.”

  I smiled. “Save me some, Seth. I’ll be home the end of the week.”

  “I wish you’d make it sooner, though I know you well enough, Jessica, to know your stubborn side’ll dictate things. Most important, you take care of yourself, and you call if you need anything, anything at all, you heah me?”

  “Yes, I hear you loud and clear, Seth. Thank you. I’ll call again. I promise.”

  “Be sure and do that, Jessica. By the way, before we get off, any ideas on who killed Ms. Ainsworth?”

  “No. The prime suspect seems to be me, but that will change. Frankly, Seth, I haven’t given it much thought.”

  “But you will, won’t you?”

  “I’m trying not to.”

  “Whatever you do, do it carefully. ’Bye, Jessica. Everybody’s askin’ for you here.”

  I didn’t want the call to end, but it did. I returned a few calls to friends from ISMW and tried to concentrate on the notes I’d been making for my speech. It was a losing battle, and I allowed fatigue—emotional and physical—to win out. I fell asleep in my chair, the taste of Bakewell Cream biscuits very real in my mouth.

  Chapter Six

  I managed a few hours of sleep after talking to Seth, then called down to get the latest batch of messages. There were dozens, virtually all from the media, and two placed by a woman named Maria Giacona. The operator said that she had not stated her business, only that it was urgent she speak with me.

  I asked the operator to connect me with the assistant manager, a pleasant young man who’d been gracious from the moment I arrived. When he came on the line, I asked whether it would be possible for me to have dinner downstairs without confronting members of the press.

  “Of course, Mrs. Fletcher. There’s still an assortment of them about, but we’re keeping them in a designated area. Just let me know what time you wish to dine and I’ll come to personally escort you.”

  “Thank you, that’s very kind.”

  “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather dine in your room?”

  “No, I’m beginning to develop a case of cabin fever.”

  “Pardon?”

  I laughed, and it felt good. “An American term meaning I’ve been in one confined space too long. No, I think I would enjoy dining in the restaurant.”
>
  “Then, that’s what it shall be. Do you prefer the Grill or the River Room?”

  As much as I loved the River Room, this was not the night to step back into a world of memories, as pleasant as they might be. I opted for the Grill, and he made a reservation for me an hour from then.

  I picked up the phone and returned Lucas Darling’s calls. He answered on the first ring. “Jessica, Jessica, good Lord, Jessica, what a dreadful thing you’ve been put through. Bad enough someone murdered Marjorie, but to be the one who discovered the body. You must be shaken to your very core.”

  “I was, Lucas, but I’m feeling better now. You had suggested in the taxi that we sit down and have a long, leisurely dinner and discuss Gin and Daggers. I’d like that very much.” Before he could say anything else, I added, “I’ve made a reservation downstairs in the Grill. Will you join me?”

  “Of course.”

  “Fine. The assistant manager is bringing me downstairs in case there’s a reporter lurking in an alcove. I’ll tell him I’m being joined by someone and you can meet me in the restaurant.”

  “Count on my being there, Jessica, and don’t you worry. This will all subside.”

  “I certainly hope so.”

  “Jessica.”

  “What?”

  “This business about your gold pendant. Are they actually accusing you of ... ?”

  “We can discuss that at dinner, Lucas.” I quickly hung up.

  I was given a prime corner table, for which I was grateful. Members of the press were not the only ones I had to avoid; my picture had been large enough in the papers for three-quarters of London to recognize me. I hoped that wouldn’t happen, and shifted in my chair so that I offered my profile to people at adjacent tables. There were only a handful; it was early for the main dinner crowd.

  Lucas arrived a few minutes after I’d been served a glass of white wine. He wore a dark gray suit and black bow tie. “I got here as fast as I could, Jessica. The things people are saying are despicable.”