Donald Bain - Gin and Daggers

“Jessica, how good to see you again,” Clayton Perry, Marjorie’s American publisher, said. He was standing with a glass of tonic water in his hand, his wife, Renée, at his side.

“Such excitement,” I said.

“Certainly not unexpected,” Perry said. “How are you holding up?”

“Fine… I think. You?”

“Oh, we’re doing quite nicely,” Renée Perry said. “If one is to be detained anywhere, I can’t think of a more pleasant place than London.”

I looked past them to where a knot of journalists had cornered someone. My eyes widened. “Isn’t that Inspector Coots from Crumpsworth?” I asked.

The Perrys turned. “Yes, it is,” Clayton Perry said. “I understand he’s here by invitation of the society.”

“Why would the society invite him?” I asked.

Perry shrugged and sipped his drink. “You know Lucas, Jessica, he’s absolutely thrilled at the publicity the society is receiving this year. Having Coots giving out his pompous statements to the press from the convention will undoubtedly secure more newspaper space, and time on television.”

“Excuse me,” I said, moving away from them to where Lucas was in an animated conversation with Marjorie’s American agent, Bruce Herbert. Listening in on what they were saying was Marjorie’s British publisher, Archibald Semple, and a man I did not recognize. He was short and slender. Multiple tufts of carrot-red hair sprouted from his head, as though planted there. His suit was an iridescent black. He wore a yellow shirt and narrow black tie. As I approached, I noticed his face was heavily freckled. I also observed a bulge beneath his suit jacket that could be nothing but a revolver.

“Aha, Jessica, your ears must be burning,” Herbert said, enthusiastically shaking my hand. “You’ve been the subject of an interesting discussion here.”

“I hope the words were kind,” I said.

“More than kind, Mrs. Fletcher, glowing,” Semple said. He, too, took my hand but, unlike the agent’s, his hand was cold and codlike.

“Jessica, allow me to introduce you to Mr. Biggers.”

“Jimmy Biggers?” I asked.

“Yes, and I don’t blame you for not returning my calls. I wouldn’t have.” He smiled, exposing a set of teeth that leaned toward the color of his shirt. A cigarette dangled from the fingers of one hand; a lot of nicotine had stuck to those teeth.

“Quite an interesting cast of characters has been assembled here this evening,” I said. “Usually the only ones who attend are ISMW members.”

“Yes, a motley crew indeed. I do hope you’ll give me a few minutes of your undivided attention when the dinner is over, Mrs. Fletcher,” Biggers said.

I wasn’t sure whether I would or not, so I said nothing.

“Jessica, Archibald and I have brainstormed a wonderful idea for you,” Herbert said.

“Oh? Tell me.”

“What would you think of writing a nonfiction book about the murder of Marjorie Ainsworth and the eventual resolution of the case?”

I looked down into my glass and thought for a moment, then looked up and said, “I think it’s a dreadful idea.”

“Why?” Semple asked. “Who better to do such a book? We all know that the minute her murder has been solved and the trial concluded, a dozen writers will turn out purple prose about it. As one of Marjorie’s close friends, you would certainly do it with more sensitivity, more compassion.”

“It’s really worth considering, Jessica,” Bruce Herbert said.

“Well, I… Yes, I will consider it. Thank you for thinking of me.”

A dinner bell struck by Lucas, and sounding more like the bell announcing the beginning and end of rounds in a boxing match, heralded that we were to go into the main ballroom for dinner, and for the evening’s presentations. I was relieved; all I wanted to do was to find some time alone and mentally prepare myself. Fortunately, I was seated on the dais with Lucas, and with members of that year’s slate of ISMW officers, none of whom seemed interested in discussing Marjorie with me.

Lucas welcomed everyone and suggested we enjoy our meal before the “important and fascinating presentations begin.”

The meal was splendid, as it always was at these yearly gatherings. Lucas’s penchant for good food was as well known as his zealous championing of the society, and he always saw to it that the chef, no matter which the hotel, was inspired to reach beyond the typical meeting fare. We began with oysters and caviar in Champagne sauce, went on to truffle-scented chicken consommé, and a choice of Dover sole sautéed with leeks or rack of lamb with stewed shallots for the main course. The most delicate raspberry and lemon sherbert I had ever tasted was the dessert.

Lucas stood at the microphone and said, “Ladies and gentlemen, fellow authors, friends, I welcome you here tonight for the opening of what promises to be the most interesting and successful ISMW conference in our history. I’m sure you all approve of the dinner that was so caringly and expertly prepared by the glorious staff of the Savoy.” There was applause. He rubbed his hands and announced with considerable glee, “It is time to commence the grisly business at hand.” He gave me an embarrassingly flowery introduction.

I stepped to the microphone and looked out over the crowd. I spotted him immediately in the far right-hand corner of the large room: Chief Inspector George Sutherland. It seemed as if every law enforcement agency and individual involved with the Marjorie Ainsworth murder had been invited to attend, and to hear me speak.

I’d rewritten my speech to include opening remarks about Marjorie, about the dreadful thing that had happened to her, and about how we would all miss her presence as both a person, as well as a professional inspiration for every writer of the genre. I got through that portion nicely, although I did have to fight back a tear or two. Then I launched into the major thrust of my remarks, which dealt primarily with the unparalleled popularity of the murder mystery in today’s fiction marketplace, and how it had crossed over the line from genre fiction into the mainstream of literature. I had sprinkled many examples throughout my notes and, as I progressed, found myself becoming more comfortable, more at ease, and actually enjoying the experience.

Until…

It happened so fast, without warning. The man wore a black raincoat and tweed cap. He burst from behind swinging doors that led to the kitchen, and carried the longest sword I had ever seen. It was held in both his hands and was pointed directly at me. He yelled as he ran toward the dais, “You killed the Queen, you killed the Queen… Death to the Queen killer!”

I stood frozen at the podium. A few people reached for him, but he was moving too fast, passed right by them, the sword held high, a maniacal look in his eyes.

Jimmy Biggers stuck out his foot from where he sat, tripping the man, the sword flying in one direction, he the other. Biggers was on him in a second, twisting his arms behind his back and yelling for help. It was Montgomery Coots who was first at the scene, but he seemed unsure of what to do. Then two young men in business suits jumped up from a table and raced to where Biggers held the attacker down. One of them pulled out handcuffs from beneath his jacket and secured the crazed man’s wrists behind his back.

There was bedlam in the room. Lucas came to my side, grabbed both my arms, and led me to my seat.

“What happened?” I asked.

“A madman, demented, hell-bent on killing you because he thinks you murdered Marjorie.”

“Good Lord.”

“I told you it could happen, Jessica, just as I told you to be careful on the streets of London.”

We all watched as the two plainclothes policemen led the man from the room. He continued to yell over his shoulder that I had robbed Great Britain and the literary world of Marjorie Ainsworth. It was a great relief to have him out of the room, his irrational threats suddenly muffled by the slamming of a door.