Donald Bain - Gin and Daggers

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.

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.”

“You look as though you’re in mourning, Lucas,” I said.

He crossed his hands on his chest and adopted a horrified expression. “Hardly,” he said, “and I would suggest you not make light of it, either. The murder of Marjorie Ainsworth, and you being the one who found the body, is the biggest news here since the Profumo scandal.”

I laughed away his comparison, even though I knew he was probably right.

We ordered smoked salmon as an appetizer. After it was served, and Lucas had had his Pimm’s Cup, he asked me to fill him in on what had happened at Ainsworth Manor. I accommodated him in exquisite and probably unnecessary detail. He hung on every word, his face a succession of overblown expressions. Finally I sat back and asked him what he thought.