“I have to admit I’m pleased that you and Scotland Yard are involved, Inspector Sutherland. Frankly, I was dismayed that this brutal murder of a friend and a revered writer would be left in the hands of ...”
He took me off the hook. “Mrs. Fletcher, it’s admirable that you don’t wish to be harsh on Crumpsworth’s Inspector Coots, but your unspoken instincts are correct. Inspector Coots... well, how shall I say it? ... Inspector Coots is ... the inspector of Crumpsworth.”
I laughed. “Your discretion is admirable, too, Inspector Sutherland. I get the picture.”
“Yes, well, with that out of the way, although I must say Coots is not out of the way—he insists upon continuing his investigation and is entitled to do that—let me ask my first helper her thoughts on the murder of Marjorie Ainsworth.”
“I take it, then, that I am your helper, not a suspect.”
“Despite what the papers say, you are not a suspect on my list, Mrs. Fletcher. But, as I told you before, I do need help. You were there and obviously have a trained eye. Tell me, what is your response to the possibility raised by Coots that the murderer might have been an intruder from outside, and not one of the weekend guests?”
I thought for a moment before saying, “Highly unlikely to me. An intruder, unless a bumbling one, would not choose a night when the house was filled with guests to break in. No, I think the killer was someone who was in the house by invitation.”
“Are you ruling out household staff, then?”
“No, by ‘invitation’ I mean someone who was expected to be in the house, either as a guest or because they were employed.”
“Care to venture a guess?”
“No.”
“Surely, Mrs. Fletcher, you must have had some thoughts about people attending the party. Let’s begin with the most basic question. Who would gain from Marjorie Ainsworth’s death?”
I thought of Lucas Darling and his comment about Marjorie’s will. “What about her will?” I asked.
“Aha, a good question. Her solicitor is to deliver it to me in the morning. That might shed some light on motive. Financial gain always heads the list.”
“I’d not put it at the top, although it certainly would rank high.”
“What would be above it?” he asked.
“Pride, I think, possibly followed by lust and, in third place, money.”
“Interesting, Mrs. Fletcher. Let us put the will and the question of money aside for the moment. Whose pride at the party would have been enhanced by having Miss Ainsworth dead?”
Jason Harris immediately came to mind, but I decided not to bring him up. I said, “I don’t know, Inspector Sutherland; perhaps someone who was in trouble and might be bailed out by Marjorie’s death.” He said nothing, but it was plain he was waiting for me to come up with a name. I was caught in an internal debate between wanting very much to be of help to him, yet not wanting to point fingers at anyone. I thought of Clayton Perry, Marjorie’s American publisher, who was rumored to be in serious financial difficulty, but that would be a matter of money, not pride. I said, “I hope you don’t think me uncooperative, Inspector Sutherland, but I think it would be terribly premature for me to speculate on people I met for the first time at Ainsworth Manor. You understand, I’m sure.”
“I must. You said lust ranked second on the list of motives. Somehow I can’t see where that would enter the picture.”
“Because Marjorie was ... old?”
He smiled. “I suppose so.”
“You’re right, unless the lust had to do with being free to pursue a lustful venture once she was out of the way.”
“Interesting,” he said. “Was someone there that weekend who would fall into that category?”
I shook my head. “Not that I know of. I’m not being evasive, but I don’t know enough about anyone who was there to make such a judgment.”
Sutherland took a notebook from his breast pocket, flipped to a page he was looking for, and held it away from him. He was farsighted; I wondered why he didn’t put on glasses. Vanity? That would have disappointed me. He did not seem to be a vain man. I was pleased when he reached into his pocket, pulled out a pair of half-glasses, and brought the notebook closer to his eyes. “Tell me about Miss Ainsworth’s niece, Jane Portelaine.”
“I really don’t know what to say about Jane. She’s been devoted to her aunt for many years, and Marjorie always acknowledged that, right up until the end. She’s a seemingly cold and unhappy woman, but that’s a value judgment that I promised years ago not to make about people.” I paused and waited for a reaction. There was none. “There was a certain tension between Jane and her aunt,” I said. “I can’t deny that. Are you looking at Jane as a suspect?”
“No, just curious. She seems so obvious, but that’s because that type of woman, in that sort of situation, is always obvious. A red herring, I think you mystery writers call it.”
“Yes, we do. Every good mystery will have a red herring or two.”
He suddenly sat up in his chair and took on an animation that had not been there before. He asked, “Do you know the origin of the term ‘red herring,’ Mrs. Fletcher?”
“No, I don’t.”
He seemed pleased that he could explain it to me. “It goes back to the seventeenth century, perhaps even earlier. Animal activists who were dismayed by the senseless killing of foxes for sport would smoke herrings, which turned them red, and then drag them through the fields. The smell of the fish was so strong that it disguised the foxes’ scent—making it possible for them to beat a hasty retreat while packs of confused hunting dogs sniffed around in circles. It was a simple and effective ruse.”
“That’s fascinating. I will now inject red herrings into my books with greater respect.”
“The business of your necklace, Mrs. Fletcher, about which so much has been made in the press. You obviously dropped it when you discovered the body.”
“No, I don’t think I did. I would have heard it drop. The only sound I heard was when I kicked it under the bed. It obviously was there when I entered the room.”
“Do you have an explanation for that?”
It was the first question that sounded like a question to a suspect. I said, “I have no idea how it happened, although I did leave my bedroom prior to going to sleep. I went to the bathroom for about ten minutes. It’s possible someone came into my room during that period, took the necklace, murdered Marjorie, and, in the process, dropped it.”
“Deliberately, of course.”
“Of course.”
“Perhaps the intruder theory isn’t so farfetched. A thief enters the manor, goes to your room first, and takes your necklace, goes to the next room—I understand your bedroom was next to Miss Ainsworth’s—proceeds to steal from that room, is startled by Miss Ainsworth awakening, drops your necklace in the confusion, and, in order to silence Miss Ainsworth, rams a dagger into her.”
I shook my head. “No, Inspector Sutherland, I think that is farfetched. I believe someone placed my necklace there to cast suspicion on me.”
He nodded and finished his tea. “Mrs. Fletcher, I have found this to be extremely interesting and pleasant. You are... well, may I say, you are an intelligent and attractive woman.”
My blush was slightly deeper this time. I simply said, “Thank you.”
“I was quite serious when I said I was looking for help. I know that you have been restricted to Great Britain, at least for a period of time. I would be most appreciative if you would use some of that time to confer with me, to give me the benefit of your insights. I was not at the manor when Marjorie Ainsworth was killed. You were. In effect, you could be my eyes there, which would be especially helpful considering that your eyes are obviously observant.”
Was he out to flatter me, or did he mean it? It didn’t matter. Either approach brought about in me the same pleasant sensation. I assured him that I would be available, if he needed me, at any time.
We stood on the pretty street in front of Br
own’s Hotel. He took my hand in both of his and said, “Thank you for a most pleasant afternoon, Mrs. Fletcher. You’ll be hearing from me soon.”
We looked at each other and waited for the other to make a move in the opposite direction. I believe he did so out of a sense of chivalry; the awkward situation demanded it. I watched him walk away, and was struck by his gait. Some people walk with confidence and purpose; others amble, which belies their basic modest nature. He certainly fell into the latter category. He looked back once; I waved, then turned and walked in the opposite direction until rounding the corner.
It wasn’t until I had returned to the Savoy and had settled in an easy chair near the window that the warm feelings I’d experienced since leaving Brown’s were pushed aside by a sudden recognition that I might have had tea with an extremely skilled interrogator. Had he found me as attractive as I perceived, or was it his way, was it his technique of drawing me into his confidence?
“I think I am a suspect,” I said aloud as I picked up the phone to order coffee from room service. “I really think I am, and this time it isn’t some Napoleonic inspector from Crumpsworth, it’s a top investigator from Scotland Yard.”
Chapter Nine
I left the Savoy in plenty of time for my eight o’clock meeting with Maria Giacona at Jason Harris’s flat. “Number 17 Pindar Street,” I told the cab driver, a ruddy-faced gentleman who smelled of too liberal a splash of after-shave lotion. “I’m told it’s near Liverpool Street Station. I really don’t have more information than that, I’m afraid.”
He turned and laughed. “No need for more information, ma’am. I know Pindar Street. We’ll be there shortly, depending upon the bloody traffic.”
I sat back and smiled in the taxi’s spacious rear compartment. Of course he knew where Pindar Street was; London cab drivers know their city better than any other drivers on earth.
He chatted amiably as we headed for our destination. “What an interesting area of the city,” I said. “There are so many parts of London I’ve never seen.”
“Some not especially worth seeing,” he said. “We’re coming into the Liverpool Street Station area now. Many changes going on, ma‘am, but it’s still a grotty neighborhood. Lots of young people moving in ’cause the rents are low, struggling artists and writers and the like. They all used to live on Grub Street, were called Grub Streeters. There’s no Grub Street any longer.” He pointed to what looked like an iron Gothic cathedral. “That’s the Liverpool Street Station, ma’am, and next to it is the Great Eastern Hotel. Not much on amenities, but quite a bargain, I hear.”
I was glad I was staying at the Savoy. There was somthing ominous about the area surrounding Liverpool Street Station, although the streets themselves—residential buildings of varying sizes and shapes dotted with small restaurants and shops—were pleasant enough.
Pindar Street was tiny and slightly curved, running between Norton and Appold, not far from Finsbury Square. We stopped in front of Number 17, four stories tall and, I judged, classical in its architecture, although it was difficult to see much because the street was dark. The only light in the building came from two windows on the top floor.
As I paid the fare, the driver said, “You ought to be careful on the streets, ma’am. There’s been some nasty incidents of late.”
I thought of Lucas’s same admonition and decided to heed the advice of both. “I won’t be here long,” I said. “A brief visit with an old friend.”
“Well, enjoy your stay in London.”
I stood on the sidewalk and watched him drive off, wondering whether I should have asked him to stay until I was safely inside. I suddenly felt isolated and alone. The only activity on Pindar Street seemed to be a small Chinese takeout restaurant on the far corner, its yellow light spilling out onto the pavement in front of it. I then became aware of the faint sound of music coming from one of the buildings near me, dissonant string music with steady, underlying drone tones, accompanied by complex cross-rhythms played on tablas, hand drums used widely throughout the Middle East, India, and Africa. East Indian, I decided, and cocked my head to listen better. I’d introduced an East Indian detective in one of my earlier novels and had steeped myself in the music and culture. Obviously, a mixed ethnic neighborhood, immigrants making their way in a strange city.
I climbed three cement steps to the front door of Number 17, took a tiny flashlight from my bag, and used it to search for the names of occupants, perhaps buzzers. I found neither. Maria had said it was on the third floor, but how could I let her know I was downstairs? The outside door would certainly be locked. I pushed it; it swung open with a groan. So much for that theory.
I stepped into the dark foyer and looked up a narrow flight of stairs to the first floor, reminding myself that in Europe I was standing on the ground floor; one flight up was the first. A low-wattage bare bulb spilled eerie light over the landing and a portion of the stairway.
I slowly began to climb, my steps deliberate, my eyes and ears at full alert. I reached the first-floor landing, paused, and continued up until reaching the top floor—the third. There were two doors off the landing. Neither had a number. One was painted a glossy fire-engine red, the other a dull black. I recalled that the light from the building had been on the left side as I faced it, which would put it behind the black door. I knocked, and heard someone move in the room. I knocked again, and was aware of further movement. Maria Giacona opened the door. She looked a wreck. Tears had carried whatever eye makeup she wore down her cheeks. Her hair had the look of having had too many fingers run through it too many times.
“He’s gone,” she said.
“Jason?”
“Yes.”
We looked at each other until I asked, “May I come in?”
Her response was to open her eyes wide, turn to the interior of the flat, and raise both arms. “He’s gone,” she said again, this time her words accompanied by tears. She slapped her hands to her sides and walked into the cluttered and cramped living room. I followed, leaving the door open behind me. It looked as if someone—probably Jason Harris—had frantically pulled things from shelves and drawers, or as if someone had entered the apartment desperately searching for something. The room was a shambles, clothing tossed everywhere, books piled haphazardly on shelves and the floor. The few pieces of stuffed furniture were ripped and faded. Light from a streetlamp was virtually stopped at the windows by layers of grime and nicotine.
“You said Jason was leaving at seven,” I said as pleasantly as I could. “What makes you think he’s gone?”
She turned and glared at me, anger etched on her face. “He took the manuscript. The manuscript is gone, and so is he.”
I started once again to rationalize why Jason might not be there, but decided it was a fruitless exercise. There was no dissuading Maria at this moment, so intense was her upset. “Was this the only copy of the manuscript?”
“Yes.”
“No one made a photocopy?”
“I told him ...”
“No matter,” I said. “Obviously a manuscript was delivered to Marjorie Ainsworth’s publisher, probably more than one.”
“But Jason made his notations only on the copy he kept.”
I was torn between sitting down and continuing the discussion, and getting out of Jason’s flat as quickly as possible. I opted for the latter course of action. “Why don’t we go get a bite to eat and talk about this some more? I know you said Jason is reluctant to do anything about his alleged authorship of Marjorie’s book, but maybe we can convince him otherwise. Please, don’t misunderstand. I’m not suggesting that I would do anything along the lines you suggested in the park this morning, but I would be interested in finding out to what extent he did contribute to the novel. The three of us could sit down and discuss it.”
She shook her head with vigor, sending thick black hair whirling about her. “It is not that easy, Mrs. Fletcher. I don’t think ...” She broke down now into heavy sobbing and sat on the edge of a
frayed love seat. “Something dreadful has happened to him. I just know it.”
I sat and put my arm about her. “Maria, there’s no reason to say that. I’m sure Jason is perfectly all right and will return tonight. We can continue with this in the morning.” I stood. “In the meantime, I really think we should leave and have a cup of coffee or tea. I noticed a Chinese restaurant on the corner. Perhaps—”
“Just leave me alone,” she snapped.
“If you wish. I certainly didn’t mean to impose upon you. If you’d like to talk again, call me at the Savoy.” I walked to the door, stopped, turned, and looked back at her. She was still sitting on the love seat, crying. What a volatile, emotional young woman, I thought. I turned to leave. “Oh my God!” I gasped. The man was huge. He filled the doorway. He had a long, matted gray beard and a bird’s nest of filthy gray hair. He was obviously drunk; his slurred speech confirmed that. “What are you two duckies up to?” he asked.
I tried to catch my breath as I said, “You startled me. Excuse me, I was just leaving.”
He looked past me to Maria and said, “What’d the bastard do, Maria, take his hand to you again?”
Maria shook her head without looking up. “He’s gone,” she said, her words barely audible. I repeated to the large man that I wished to leave. He scowled at me as he stepped back unsteadily and grabbed the railing of the stairs for support. I didn’t say anything to Maria as I left, did not repeat my suggestion that she call me at the Savoy. I descended the stairs, slowly at first, picking up speed as I approached the ground floor. I stepped outside and took a series of deep breaths. It had been cool in London since my arrival, perfect early September weather. Now the humidity had begun to increase and I felt choked by it. A thick fog had developed in the short time I was in Jason’s flat.
I walked with haste toward the Chinese restaurant on the corner, my heightened awareness causing the sound of my heels on the pavement to be louder than was the fact. I looked in the window and saw a few young people seated at two small tables. A Chinese man and woman were behind a counter. I wanted a cab. I looked for a telephone in the restaurant, but saw none. I took in the four corners of the intersection. No familiar red British phone booth on any of them.
Murder, She Wrote: Gin and Daggers Page 8