Donald Bain - Gin and Daggers

“That’s very interesting,” I said, “but it wouldn’t necessarily mean that he killed her. He obviously had access to the house and might simply have picked it up from a table where Marjorie had inadvertently left it.”

“My sentiments exactly, but you did ask if anything was new, and I’m afraid that’s all I have to offer at the moment.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be discourteous.”

“Mrs. Fletcher, I seriously doubt whether you even possess the capability of being discourteous. I would like to ‘touch base’ with you again, as I believe you say in America. Would it be possible for me to drop round sometime later this afternoon?”

That sounded pleasant, but I knew the day was going to be frenetic because of the opening of the conference. I said, “Inspector Sutherland, I would love to meet with you again, but I wonder if we could make it another day, perhaps tomorrow. The conference I came to attend starts this evening, and I am the opening speaker. You can imagine the case of nerves I’ll develop as the day progresses.”

There was that warm, gentle laugh again. “Yes, I can well understand. I’ve faced many difficult situations in my life, including hardened criminals hell-bent on doing away with me, and seldom flinched. But having to get up and speak to a group of people would reduce me to jelly, I’m afraid.”

I doubted that, but it was good of him to sympathize. I promised I would call him the next day.

The Victoria Tavern, a tall and typically high Victorian structure, lies between the intersection of Bayswater Road and Edgware Road, an area sometimes known as Tyburnia. It’s surrounded with large elegant mansions, most erected during the 1840’s.

Lucas was there when I arrived; he was always on time and usually early. He’d secured a small table off to the comer in the restaurant portion of the pub called “Our Mutual Friend.”

“What a lovely pub,” I said as I joined him.

“A real favorite of mine,” he said. “Look.” He pointed to a far wall. “Not long ago they restored a painting on that wall and discovered it was a valuable portrait of a long-deceased member of the royal family. The owner presented it to the Queen, and it’s now part of the royal portrait collection.”

“How generous,” I said.

“For an American perhaps,” he replied. I let the comment pass. “Well, tell me all about this vicious assault on you.”

There wasn’t much to tell, but I gave him as much detail as possible, knowing he thrived on such things. When I was finished, he asked if anything was new in the Ainsworth murder. I told him of my conversation with Inspector Sutherland, and about the arrest of the Spanish gardener.

“What a break,” he said.

“I don’t think so. As I told Inspector Sutherland, the gardener might have picked it up anywhere in the house. It doesn’t necessarily have a connection with the murder.”

Lucas thought for a moment before saying, “You’re absolutely right, Jessica. The thought of Marjorie Ainsworth being murdered by a common laborer is too dismaying to contemplate. It has to have been done by someone with better credentials than that.”

I couldn’t help laughing at the pomposity in what he’d said. “I’m famished,” I said.

Later, after I’d consumed a lunch of Scotch eggs-hardboiled eggs wrapped in saveloy, a highly seasoned sausage-and Lucas had put away a ploughman’s lunch (he insisted we order a glass of Tusker Bitter and Wethered Bitter, and do a taste test; he swore the Wethered was better, although I couldn’t discern any difference), I asked him whether he’d ever heard of a London private detective named Jimmy Biggers.

You never had to wonder what Lucas Darling was thinking. His face was like a television screen, his thoughts playing on it in Technicolor. The mention of Mr. Biggers’s name brought forth an expression of horror usually reserved for the discovery of corpses.

“You do know him.”

“Oh, Jessica, of course I know him. Why do you mention him?”

“He’s called me at the hotel a couple of times.”

“Don’t call him back.”

“Why not?”

“Because”-he leaned closer and whispered conspiratorially-“ Jimmy Biggers is not famous in London, Jessica. He’s infamous.”

“Really? Sounds intriguing.”

“He’s a rotter who operates barely on this side of the law.”

“Tell me more.”

“Jimmy Biggers… Well, do you remember the murder a year or two ago of the professor at Cambridge?”

I shook my head.

“He was one of Cambridge ’s most esteemed and revered professors of ancient Greek literature. His name was Pickings, Sir Reginald Pickings. They found him lying face down along the bank of the river that runs through town. He’d been badly bludgeoned. The Cambridge police came up empty-handed, and the crime went unsolved for months. Then the university quietly hired Mr. Biggers, and he sussed the culprit in less than a week.”

“ ‘Sussed’?”

“Suspected-identified the student who’d murdered Sir Reginald and who, by the way, had been involved in a nasty homosexual relationship with him. Biggers is not a shy man. He milked that case to the limit, had his picture in every newspaper almost daily for two weeks.”

“I’m impressed. Maybe he could be helpful in solving…”

That look of horror came over Lucas’s face again. “Marjorie’s murder? Out of the question. Forget it. The man’s friends are prostitutes and yobs-”

“ ‘Yobs’?”

Lucas sighed and said, “Oh, Jessica, I really must give you a course in British slang. Thugs. Yobs are thugs.”

“Thank you for the translation.”

“My pleasure.” He looked at his watch. “We must go.” He placed money on the check, stood, took his umbrella and raincoat from where he’d hung them on a coat tree, and was at the door before I could even gather my things. He’d hailed a taxi by the time I joined him outside, and we headed for the Savoy.

“How is your speech shaping up?” he asked.

“I really haven’t given it much thought, but I intend to devote the afternoon to that.”

By the time the cocktail party preceding the ISMW dinner had started, I was fully prepared for the evening ahead. I walked into the party and was struck immediately with how different this meeting was from the previous ones. The differences involved two things. First, the number of people far exceeded that of any previous convention. I couldn’t be sure whether it was because more members were in attendance, or whether the ranks had been swelled by the number of media people present. There were television cameras-something I’d never seen before at these meetings-and a horde of print journalists circulating through the room. The minute they saw me come in, they converged. “Please, no, I really have nothing to say about Marjorie Ainsworth’s unfortunate death. I have a speech to give tonight and would like to focus my attention on that. Please, try to understand.” They were, as media people tend to be, unwilling to abide by my wishes, but I brusquely walked through the cluster they’d formed around me and went to the bar, where I ordered a ginger ale. I was nervous enough without having to worry about the possible effects of an alcoholic beverage.

The second thing that was different was the intensity in the room. Mystery writers, like most writers, tend to be a low-key species. Previous meetings of ISMW had always been characterized by a quiet, introspective atmosphere. Not tonight; there was a sense of urgency that was almost palpable, undoubtedly caused by the presence of so many media people and the meaning of Marjorie’s untimely and brutal death. I was also acutely aware that I was indeed the center of attention, and probably would be for the rest of the night, not because I was making a speech, but because of the circumstances surrounding my relationship with Marjorie and my having found her body. It was too late to wish those things away, and I didn’t try.