Donald Bain - Gin and Daggers

“I would say, Jessica, that we have to look for a motive.”

“Lucas, I’m not asking your thoughts on solving the murder of Marjorie Ainsworth. That’s for the authorities. I’m asking what your advice would be concerning me. Should I stay and deliver the speech?” I realized how academic that question was. I was prohibited from leaving Great Britain by Inspector Coots. Still, there was the possibility of canceling any public appearances and hiding until my name had been struck from the suspect list. No, I knew myself too well. I could never bear that sort of existence.

“Of course you’ll give your speech. The press coverage will be incredible.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of, Lucas.”

“Don’t be. The society can use the exposure.”

My expression of shock was genuine. “Lucas, how can you say something like that at a time like this? Marjorie Ainsworth has been murdered, in cold blood.”

He slumped back in his chair and pinched his nose. “I know, I know, so dreadful, but I am a realist.” He sat forward again, elbows on the table and said earnestly, “Jessica, do you remember my book Poison Alley?”

“Yes, of course. You gave me an autographed copy.” He’d written his one and only murder mystery over ten years ago. It wasn’t very good, and once the critics were finished panning it, it took all the starch out of him. He’d never written another word, contenting himself to rub elbows with mystery writers through ISMW.

“The key clue in Poison Alley came out of the deceased’s will, remember?”

“Yes.”

“That’s where I’d start if I were investigating this case. Marjorie must have had a will. Maybe she cut somebody out of it.”

I almost welcomed the diversion of the attractive young woman standing just inside the entrance to the Grill. I’d heard Lucas go off on tangents like this, and I found them trying. He saw me staring across the room-which was now filling up-and turned in the direction of my gaze. He snapped his head back at me and said, “Who’s she?”

“I don’t know, but she certainly knows who I am.”

He again looked in the direction of the young woman. Then, to me: “She’s carrying a large handbag. I don’t like this.”

I took my eyes off her and asked him what he meant.

“Do you realize that half of London probably thinks you murdered Marjorie Ainsworth? It’s like murdering the Queen Mother, for God’s sake. Someone might want revenge.”

I again looked at the young woman, who was slowly heading in our direction. “Oh no,” I muttered under my breath, my eyes on the large, cheaply embroidered purse she held against her stomach. Maybe Lucas was right. I braced myself. When she reached the table, I had a chance to get a better look at her. She was absolutely beautiful, olive skin framed by long, thick black hair that fell casually to her shoulders. Her features were Middle Eastern, Lebanese perhaps, or possibly Spanish or Italian. No matter; her face was out of a beauty magazine. She wore a mauve dress that reached her ankles. It was cut moderately low and, whatever fabric it was made of, followed every contour of her lithe young body with military precision.

I smiled at her.

“Mrs. Fletcher?”

“Yes.” I looked across the table. Lucas was poised to attack. “May I help you?”

“I hope so. No, I’m sure you can. That’s why I’ve been trying to call you. My name is Maria Giacona.” So much for guessing at her national origin. Her father, if the name meant anything, was Italian.

“I’m afraid this is not a good time, Ms. Giacona. I’m having an important conversation with my colleague.”

“Yes, I see that, and I apologize for interrupting. I don’t wish to be a problem, but it is imperative that I have a chance to speak with you, if only for a few moments.” There was only a trace of accent to her words. She’d obviously lived in an English-speaking country a long time.

Lucas said to her, “Can’t you see Mrs. Fletcher is busy?”

She bit her trembling lower lip and turned her head away from us. I half stood and put my hand on her bare arm. “Please, Ms. Giacona, I’ll be happy to talk with you, but could I suggest we make an appointment, perhaps later this evening or tomorrow? I promise I’ll honor whatever arrangements we make.”

She slowly turned her head and looked at me with large brown eyes that seemed filled with pain. “Do you mean that?” she asked.

“Of course I mean that. I always keep my word. Would you like to have breakfast tomorrow morning?”

“Breakfast? Well, I…”

“Please, I’ll be happy to have breakfast with you. But would you mind telling me very quickly what it is we’ll be discussing?”

Her purse started to slip between her hands and stomach, sending Lucas to his feet. She grabbed the purse before it fell to the floor, looked at Lucas until he slowly sat down with an embarrassed expression on his face, then said to me, “Mrs. Fletcher, I want to speak with you about Jason Harris and Marjorie Ainsworth.”

Although I assumed there was something she wanted to discuss about the Ainsworth murder, I didn’t expect Jason Harris to be part of it. I was almost overwhelmed with a temptation to excuse myself from the table and to find a quiet spot in the lobby where I could hear more from her. Instead, I repeated my invitation to meet for breakfast.

“Would you mind if we met somewhere else?” she asked.

“No, I suppose not. What do you suggest?”

“Do you know Speakers’ Corner in Hyde Park, near Marble Arch?”

“Yes, I do. I’ve spent some pleasant Sunday mornings there.”

“Could we meet there, say, at ten? I will be near the speakers from South Africa. They always draw the biggest crowds.”

“All right, I’ll be there.”

She thanked me, nodded at Lucas, and crossed the room with a sensuous sway out of a commercial for a Caribbean paradise.

“What do you think?” Lucas asked me, his eyes wide.

“I don’t know what to think.”

“Jason Harris.”

“Do you know him, Lucas? I mean, before I mentioned his having been at the house, and his relationship to Marjorie?”

“I don’t know him, Jessica, but I certainly have heard of him. There was a lot of consternation when Marjorie started playing mentor to him. I did a little checking. He’s what I suppose could be termed a ‘failed poet,’ a bright but misdirected talent.”

“He said so little at the party. Has he had anything published?”

“Not that I know of, unless he’s been in some of those small literary quarterlies.”

“How does he live?”

“Probably by getting into the good graces of people like Marjorie Ainsworth. You know the type. Users, low-lifes who pretend to be artists, and who prey on the need of true artists to share something of their talent with the less fortunate.”

I suspected he was basically right in his evaluation, although I also recognized it was presumptuous of me. Obviously, Marjorie saw something worthwhile in Jason Harris and was willing to share her knowledge with him. Was Maria Giacona his lover? Funny, but I’d immediately assumed she was.

My mind raced as we perused the menu in search of a palatable main course. I wasn’t hungry, but I knew Lucas was. He had a voracious appetite.

What would Maria Giacona tell me in the morning-that she had information incriminating Jason Harris in Marjorie Ainsworth’s murder? Or would she present some defense of him in anticipation of his being charged with the killing? What a silly game, I told myself as I returned my attention to the menu. Those questions would be answered tomorrow, and there was little sense losing a night’s sleep by speculating.

I ordered creamed Finnan haddie garnished with a poached egg. Lucas went for London beef that was sliced tableside. A platter of boiled vegetables accompanied both entrées, prompting him to say, “We British can do anything with boiled vegetables except digest them.”