Donald Bain - Gin and Daggers

I sensed that a few people recognized me as Lucas and I left the restaurant, but no one said anything-hooray for British reserve. Lucas walked me to the elevator.

“You shouldn’t stay alone tonight, Jessica.”

“Don’t be silly, I’ll be fine. I’m over the initial shock. I want to concentrate on my speech, and on being helpful to anyone seeking to solve Marjorie’s murder.”

“You don’t understand, Jessica. A national treasure has been murdered, and the way the press has painted it-including that idiot Coots from Crumpsworth-you’re being pointed to as the prime suspect. I’ll stay with you. There’s a couch and two rooms. I promise I won’t…”

I laughed with genuine affection for him, took his hands in mine, and said, “Lucas, you are a sweet man and I sincerely appreciate your concern for me. But, believe me, I don’t need anyone. I’ll see that the door is securely locked. The way I feel now, I’ll sleep through anything, including an all-out assault by the Household Guards.”

He reluctantly accepted my rejection of his offer, kissed me on the cheek, and said he was only a phone call away.

“I take comfort in that, Lucas. Thank you for joining me for dinner. Oh, by the way, we never did get into a discussion of Gin and Daggers.”

“Yes, there were too many other things. We’ll catch up with that tomorrow. Your plans?”

“I don’t have any aside from meeting Ms. Giacona, but I suspect they’ll develop. There are people who’ve called me today whom I really should see, old friends, even a relative or two. Let me play it by ear. I’ll call you when I’m back from Hyde Park.”

“I’ll go with you.”

“No, you won’t. It might hinder the conversation.”

“I’ll stay a discreet distance away, behind shrubs, or in disguise.”

I was adamant in dissuading him, and rode the elevator confident that I had. I locked the door to my suite and closed the drapes, turned on the TV, and caught the tail end of an interview with Inspector Montgomery Coots at his Crumpsworth office. What I heard and saw was enough:

“… I’ll be spending considerable time in London investigating Miss Ainsworth’s murder. I’ve developed a series of solid leads, and the people of Great Britain can rest assured that whoever did this dastardly thing shall pay for it, and soon. I stake my reputation on it.”

I didn’t go to bed right away. Instead, I sat up and made a list of everyone who’d been at Ainsworth Manor, and assigned to each of them a motive. When I was finished, and was about to call it a night, I called the hotel operator for any recent messages. Along with more press calls, there was another call from Cabot Cove, this one from Sheriff Morton Metzger. I was tired, but called him back at his office, where it was late afternoon.

“Jessica, this is Morton.”

“I know that, Morton. You called.”

“Yes I did, Jessica. Seth told me he’d talked to you.”

“That’s right.”

“Just remember one thing, Jessica. I’m always available in case you need me.”

“That’s good of you, Morton, but I don’t see what you could-”

“That fella Ted Koppel from television is going to do a whole program about this, Jessica.”

“He is?” One of the calls had been from a producer at ABC-TV in New York.

“Not only that, a paper from New York, the New York Post, has you on its front page. A real rag, if you ask me, but the people who wrote the story almost say flat out that you were the killer. Now, I know that-”

“Morton, nothing can be done about such reporting. I didn’t kill anyone, especially my friend Marjorie Ainsworth. I’m exhausted, and am about to go to bed. I really appreciate your concern, but-”

“Just remember what I said, Jessica, about bein’ ready to help. I got a book out o’ the library today about the British justice system. If you need me over there, I’ll be prepared. I got vacation coming and-”

“Thank you, Morton. Good night. Please give my best to everyone.”

I gently replaced the phone in its cradle. They were all such good people back in Cabot Cove, true friends I could count on. But as I got under the covers and turned out the light, I knew that whatever was to happen over the ensuing days would be very much my problem, and mine alone. That was not a particularly comforting thought with which to go to sleep, but it was the best I could do.

I woke early, threw back the drapes, and allowed a burst of sunshine to enter the suite, hoping it was symbolic of what the day would be like.

The early morning news on BBC Radio brought me back to reality. Funeral plans had been announced for Marjorie Ainsworth. The service would be. held on Tuesday in a small church in Crumpsworth, at Marjorie’s request. The announcement was made by Janet Portelaine. I was to give my keynote address to ISMW the night of the funeral.

I took a long, leisurely shower, enjoyed the toast and coffee I’d ordered through room service, and dressed in a camel’s-hair skirt, white button-down blouse, heather sweater, and brown tweed sport jacket and made sure I wore sensible walking shoes.

I was about to leave the room when I remembered that the press was laying siege. I called my assistant manager friend, and was assured that he could spirit me from the hotel through a rear entrance that few people, including veteran members of the London press, knew about. Ten minutes later he had me two blocks away and was helping me into a taxi.

I was pleased that Maria Giacona had suggested Hyde Park instead of breakfast in the hotel. I’d wanted to spend Sunday morning at Speakers’ Corner anyway, and this would allow me to indulge that plan, while also hearing what Ms. Giacona had to say. Frank and I had spent two Sunday mornings at Speakers’ Corner and had not only found the experience fascinating, but were both struck with the real meaning of free speech it represented.

My driver let me off at Marble Arch, which was built originally as the main gateway to Buckingham Palace but, because it wasn’t broad enough for royal coaches to pass through, was moved in 1851 to its current site. I stood for a few minutes after he drove away, and took in the broader scene in front of me. Again, as would happen countless times during this post-Frank trip to London, I was bombarded with memories that, while pleasant, carried with them a parallel sadness because they could never be repeated.

It wasn’t difficult to find the South African rally that Maria had mentioned. It dominated the corner and, as opposed to most of the other speakers who had to shout over competing noise, featured a fiery young black man with a microphone and amplification system.

I stood at the rear of the crowd and looked for Maria. I didn’t see her. As I started to wonder whether I was the victim of a time-consuming practical joke, a voice behind me said, “Mrs. Fletcher.”

I turned and looked into Maria’s dark eyes. No wonder I hadn’t seen her; she was dressed very differently from last night. This morning she wore jeans and an army surplus camouflage jacket over a black turtleneck, and her hair was pulled into a French braid. No makeup.

“I was beginning to wonder whether you’d be here,” I said.

“I’ve been here for a while. I was watching you.”

“You were? Why didn’t you just come over to me?”

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s because I wanted to gain a better sense of the person I was going to confide in this morning. I certainly know you by reputation, and I’ve read some of your books, but dealing on a personal level is another matter. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Yes, I would.”

She suggested we walk to the Serpentine. As we walked, and talked, I was increasingly impressed with her. I liked her, which would make things easier, no matter how startling or unpleasant her message.