Donald Bain - Gin and Daggers

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.”