I stood and said, “I don’t see anything to be gained by continuing this conversation, Mr. Cole. It was good of you to allow me to barge in on you, and I wish you the best of luck with Jason’s books.”
“Thanks,” he said, “but I don’t need good luck.”
I went halfway to the circular staircase, turned, and asked, “Do you know Jason’s stepbrother, David Simpson?”
Stuart laughed. “I know of him. He provides real girls the way I publish stories about them.”
“Yes, I know that. Is he involved in any way in this project to publish his stepbrother’s works?”
“Doesn’t have a thing to do with it, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“What about Jason’s girlfriend, Maria Giacona? Have you spoken with her?”
“Never heard of her.”
“I see. Well, thank you again for your time.”
I was happy to leave the building and be out on the streets of SoHo. The sunshine felt clean and good after my encounter with Walter Cole. He certainly sounded convinced of the wisdom of publishing Jason Harris posthumously, but, at the same time, I had a feeling that most of what he’d said to me had been written by a public relations expert on the floor below, a company line, the sort of hype that would be used to create an audience for Jason Harris.
I walked to Dean Street, went up the stairs, and asked Carmela, David Simpson’s receptionist, whether he was in.
“Haven’t seen him all morning,” she said without looking up.
“Well, I would like to speak with him. Would you have him call me as soon as he has a moment?” I took a piece of paper from her desk and wrote my name and phone and room numbers on it. She looked at it, casually tossed it to the other side of the desk, and continued reading the tabloid in front of her. There was only one other person in the reception area, a woman whom I judged to be my age, although she had applied her makeup the way a young girl does the first time she gets into Mommy’s dressing table. She looked very tired, beaten down. I considered suggesting to her that we leave together and have a bite to eat, but knew that she would probably find that offensive, so I left by myself, returned to the Savoy, and called the room shared by Seth and Morton. Morton answered.
“What are you two up to today?” I asked.
“We were just about to head for the Tower of London.”
“Mind if I tag along?”
“Gee, Jess, that would be terrific.”
“Good, lunch is on me, and so’s admission. I need a couple of hours of normalcy in the Bloody Tower.”
Chapter Twenty
“... and so ninhydrin spray has proved to be extremely valuable in raising fingerprints that might not have been identifiable before its invention. Ninhydrin is quite different from fingerprint powder. It reacts to the amino acids in the skin rather than to salt in perspiration, and works quite well on paper, cardboard, and certain wood surfaces. It is, by the way, toxic and must be used very carefully. We prefer that our officers in the field not apply it at the site of a crime, but we are using it extensively in our laboratories.”
Members of ISMW who attended the panel discussion with Chief Inspector George Sutherland were treated to a fascinating morning in which new scientific investigative techniques were expounded upon. I’d always found that ISMW members fell into two categories, those who dwelt extensively in their books on technical matters, and those who included just enough detail to establish credibility, but who preferred to focus more on character and plot development. Judging from the questions that came from the crowd, most in attendance were from the former school.
Members of the panel lingered for a half hour after the session for informal conversation with attendees. I had a few minutes alone with Sutherland and asked him whether Marjorie’s mysterious lover could be considered a suspect. He told me he’d personally called Chester Gould-Brayton on that subject and had received the response he’d expected—that the solicitor-client privilege precluded him from divulging the lover’s identity. “Frankly, Jessica,” Sutherland said, “I really would be quite surprised if this unnamed romantic interest of hers had anything to do with her murder, although we intend to keep the option open.”
Lucas Darling invited Sutherland to join a select group for lunch, but he begged off because of his busy schedule that afternoon. He wished me a pleasant day and said he hoped I had not taken offense at his personal comments the night before.
“Quite the contrary, George, I was flattered.”
“May I call you again?”
“I thought we decided to postpone any personal considerations until Marjorie’s murder was solved.”
“Yes, and I consider myself a man of my word, but there have been times—rare, I admit—when I have been an outright liar, and this might be one of them.” We both laughed, and he left the hotel.
Lucas took us to Dirty Dick’s pub on Bishopsgate for lunch, and we enjoyed a pleasant meal in the atmosphere of synthetic dirt, grime, cobwebs, and dead cats used to carry through the pub’s theme. According to legend, Dirty Dick’s fiancée died on their wedding eve, and he was so stricken with grief that he shut the room that was to have been the site of their wedding breakfast and left everything, including the food, to decay. He never washed or changed his clothes again for the rest of his life, so deep was his sense of loss. An abandoned meal in a locked room—straight out of Great Expectations.
“What are you up to for the rest of the day?” Lucas asked me.
“I have some errands to run. I’ll be back in time for the awards dinner tonight.”
“I have a relatively free afternoon, Jessica. Why don’t we spend it together?”
I told him that might work, but I had to check with my friends from Cabot Cove, Seth Hazlitt and Mort Metzger.
“We can all enjoy what’s left of the day together,” he said.
“I’ll call you in a half hour, Lucas.”
I went to my suite and did what I’d planned to do since getting up that morning. I called Ainsworth Manor. What I hoped was that Jane Portelaine would follow through on her offer to allow me to spend some time at the manor. I was somewhat optimistic based upon her pleasant greeting of me at the reading of her aunt’s will.
Marshall, the butler, answered the telephone.
“Marshall, this is Jessica Fletcher. How are you?”
“Quite fine, ma’am.”
“Is Miss Portelaine there?”
“No, ma’am, she’s not. She’s taken a brief holiday, she has.”
“How wonderful. Where has she gone?”
“The Costa del Sol.”
“Delightful,” I said. “When is she expected back?”
“No way of knowing, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“Well, I’m coming close to the end of my stay in London, and she has invited me to spend some time at the manor before I returned to the United States. I have some free time this afternoon, and really don’t see another opportunity.”
“That will be fine, Mrs. Fletcher, Miss Portelaine told me of your request before she left, and instructed me to accommodate you at your convenience. What time will you be arriving?”
“I’ll leave right now. I might bring some friends with me.”
“Oh, Mrs. Fletcher, I don’t know whether Miss Portelaine would approve of that.”
“Well then, I won’t. Expect me, alone, in a little over an hour.”
I quickly called Lucas and told him that something had come up unexpectedly, and that I wouldn’t be able to see him until dinner that evening.
“Another secretive foray by Jessica Fletcher. Damn, Jess, when are you going to include me in these things?”
I laughed away his comment and said, “As soon as I embark on one that would be of interest to you. Have to run, Lucas. See you this evening.”
My next call was to the concierge. “How quickly can I have a car and driver?”
“You wish to hire a taxi, Mrs. Fletcher? There are a few waiting outside. Where will you be going?”
“Crum
psworth.”
“Ah, out of town. A bit far for a local taxi. Perhaps a rental car?”
“I’m afraid I don’t drive, in England or the United States.”
“You’re in a hurry?”
“Yes.”
“We have a car we can dispatch for you. One of the staff will drive you.”
“I don’t want to inconvenience anyone.”
“Our pleasure to serve you, Mrs. Fletcher. Ten minutes?”
“That will be fine.”
“Thank you. I’ll be right down.”
As I waited for the elevator, I thought about never having learned to drive. It wasn’t that I’d consciously avoided taking a lesson and getting behind the wheel of a car, it just never happened. My late husband, Frank, suggested on more than one occasion that I learn, and I usually agreed with him and said I’d do it. But I never got to it, and my life after Frank’s death was such that driving wasn’t necessary, or even appealing. My trusty bike gets me around Cabot Cove quite nicely, and we have a wonderful taxi service that’s always available. Whenever I leave Cabot Cove, I’m on airplanes and in cabs. So my inability to drive, while odd to some, has never been a handicap for me. And frankly, if I were a driver, I certainly wouldn’t have attempted to drive in England, on the “wrong side of the road.”
The young man assigned to drive me couldn’t have been much out of his teens. His name was Jeremy, and he was a bellhop when he wasn’t playing chauffeur.
“Crumpsworth, is it?” he said.
“Yes. Do you know how to get there?”
“More or less.” He looked over his shoulder as he pulled into London traffic. “Not keen on driving yourself over here?” he asked, pleasantly.
“Not at all keen.”
He laughed. “More dangerous for a foreigner crossing the bloody street as a pedestrian.”
I, too, laughed, because I agreed with him. I’d almost been hit a couple of times when I looked for traffic in the wrong direction before stepping off the curb.
We eventually broke clear of London traffic and were on the relatively peaceful highway leading to Ainsworth Manor. As we got closer, my mind wandered to other subjects, particularly Jane Portelaine having gone to Spain on vacation. How unlike her. Then again, people do change. Perhaps Jane’s life had been smothered by her service to her aunt, a classic scenario—spinster caring for an ailing or tyrannical family member until that person dies, freeing the spinster to taste life not previously available to her. I thought of Peter Lovesey’s female lead in his superb Victorian murder mystery, Waxwork. Jane had always reminded me of that character, staunchly loyal to the family but then, as in the novel, having everything and everyone change because of murder.
Jeremy opened the gate at the entrance to Ainsworth Manor, drove through, closed it, and proceeded to the front door.
“I’ll wait right here for you, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said.
“I don’t know how long I might be.”
“Don’t worry about that, Mrs. Fletcher. My instructions are to wait for you as long as necessary.”
I realized how thoughtful it had been of Jane to inform Marshall that I might be coming, and to welcome me at any time. He’d sounded much more pleasant than when I’d first met him. Perhaps Marjorie’s demise had freed everyone in the household. I didn’t like thinking that way, but the reality was that Marjorie Ainsworth’s sheer presence was dominating. Poor Marjorie, I thought as I got out of the car and approached the door, thinking of Jimmy Biggers’s comment about the residents of Crumpsworth disliking her. With all her success, that was a difficult legacy to leave. Would I be thought of that way by certain people when I died? I hoped not.
I’d just begun to knock when the door suddenly opened and Marshall stood there. We stepped into the foyer, and I immediately noticed the heavy scent of Victorian posy that hung in the air. Amazing, I thought, the lasting power of some fragrances, although I didn’t know how long Jane had been gone. She might have left that very morning for her vacation, for all I knew.
Marshall led me to the library and offered me tea, which I accepted, along with a tray of butter cookies. “Are these fresh from Mrs. Horton’s oven?” I asked.
“No, ma’am. She’s gone home to visit family in Manchester.”
“Sounds like everyone’s on holiday.”
“I’m here, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“I suppose someone must keep things going.” I looked around the room and sighed. “Strange, standing in this room without Marjorie poised to enter it,” I said.
“Yes, ma’am, it has affected us all quite deeply.”
“Will you be staying on once the manor is turned into a study center?” I asked.
“Probably not. Such a center needs curators, not butlers.”
He was right, of course, and I felt a twinge of sadness for him. Not only had Marjorie pointedly left him out of her will—his short tenure at Ainsworth Manor was certainly reasonable cause for that—but he would have to find another job. With household help in short supply, according to what I’d read, he probably wouldn’t have much trouble.
“Well, Mrs. Fletcher, I am at your disposal, on Miss Portelaine’s instructions. Please feel free to roam the house. A simple pull on any of the call cords will have me at your side right away.”
“Thank you, Marshall, you’re very kind. I did want to spend a few minutes in Miss Ainsworth’s upstairs writing room.” I laughed. “I once visited Stratford-on-Avon and spent an hour in the house in which Shakespeare was born. It was on Henley Street, I think. No matter. I really felt as though I were absorbing some of his intellectual powers and literary skills. I had the same feeling in Dickens’s house in London. Silly, I know, but I suppose writers, especially those with romantic notions, tend to embrace such ideas. Maybe by sitting in Miss Ainsworth’s chair, I’ll soak up a little of her talent.”
“Yes, I can understand that,” he said. “Excuse me. I’ll leave you to yourself.”
As much as I wanted to get to Marjorie’s upstairs study, I didn’t want to appear too eager. I remained in the main floor library, sipped my tea, and browsed through books that went floor-to-ceiling on the west wall. She had a remarkable collection of other writers in the mystery genre; the study center she established was already off to a good start. She had an autographed copy of Agatha Christie’s first book, The Mysterious Affair at Styles. Marjorie owned every book ever written by Margaret Millar, and they occupied a special shelf. All the greats were represented—Wilkie Collins, a complete collection of Poe, Sayers, James, Carroll John Daly, MacInnes, and right up through Hammett, Stanley Ellin, and McBain. The temptation to pour another cup of tea, pull down any one of the volumes, and curl up for a good afternoon’s read was strong.
Marshall appeared in the doorway once or twice. He didn’t seem to want anything, simply looked in, nodded, and moved on. As I left the library and went up the stairs, he was on the landing. When he saw me, he began polishing a silver goblet with his handkerchief.
“Do you need anything?” he asked.
“No, thank you, I’m enjoying exactly what I’d hoped to, a chance to revel in what this magnificent house, and the lady of it, means to me.”
I took a few moments to examine prints on the wall before going to the door that led to Marjorie’s writing study. I glanced back; Marshall continued to absently wipe the goblet as he observed me. I smiled, opened the door, entered, and closed it behind me.
Books, too, dominated this room, but because it was considerably smaller than downstairs, they created more clutter. I slowly circled the room, stopping to admire artifacts, pictures, and a row of leather-bound editions of each of Marjorie’s works. I paused at the window and looked out over the gardens. How tranquil; what years of pleasure she must have gotten from this view.
I continued my stroll until reaching the door again. I placed my ear against it and heard nothing. I thought of the night Marjorie was murdered, and how I’d been awakened by a sound and had gone out onto the landing and
... and saw that horrible sight in her bedroom. I shuddered and looked at my watch; it was later than I thought. I had to be back in London for the ISMW reception and dinner.
I went to Marjorie’s desk and sat behind it. Although many things were on top, there was a certain order. A pile of unopened mail that would never be seen by Marjorie was to the left of a green desk blotter edged in scrolled leather. An ancient fountain pen in its holder was at the top of the blotter. I remembered Marjorie once steadfastly refusing to use anything but a fountain pen, just as she had resisted attempts to replace her old Underwood typewriter with something more modern. The blotter was covered with ink stains from letters addressed with the fountain pen, and fixed upon its porous surface.
I cocked my head in the direction of the door. Again I heard nothing. I slowly and quietly opened the middle drawer of the desk. It contained an assortment of pencils and pens, paper clips, and other practical items found in any office. I wasn’t looking for anything in particular, which made it unlikely that I would recognize something of importance if I came across it. Still, I continued opening and closing the drawers, going down the three on the left side, then opening the top right-hand one. In it were four Greater London telephone directories. Sitting on top of that was a personal address and telephone book covered in green leather and etched with gold leaf. I removed it from the drawer and opened it to the A section. I expected to see dozens of entries. Instead, it contained only five or six. I scanned them, then turned the page to where names beginning with B started. I skimmed the list of people there, and turned to the C section. “Wait a minute,” I muttered, quickly returning to the preceding page. My eyes focused upon one name beginning with B—Beers, Glenville, M.D. There was no address, just a phone number.
I sat back in the chair and tried to identify why the name meant something to me. I certainly didn’t know anyone by the name of Beers, but it was familiar. Then it hit me. It was the name of an incidental character in Gin and Daggers who was casually mentioned toward the end of the book. Yes, Dr. Glenville Beers was the name of a character in Marjorie’s latest novel, which represented a distinct violation of her principle that no real person’s name ever be used. Why would she have included this person? Who was he?
Murder, She Wrote: Gin and Daggers Page 20