Donald Bain - Gin and Daggers

“She had the soul of a mystery writer,” I said. “I was surprised not to see your friend Mr. Harris here.”

Jane stopped abruptly. She looked at me with those same tempestuous eyes and said, “Mr. Harris is not a friend of mine, and I don’t know why you would raise his name to me.”

I suppose my face reflected the surprise I felt. I said, “I thought you two were close. At least, it seemed that way on the weekend. I don’t mean to offend but-”

“Mrs. Fletcher, my aunt is dead. That carries with it a certain finality, including the right of those close to her to enjoy their privacy. I am being curt, I know, but consider the circumstances.”

She’d lost the one person who had been a constant in her life for many years, and I admonished myself for being insensitive. Still, I was determined to pursue what I’d been thinking ever since I left the hotel that morning. “Would it be possible for me to visit the manor again while I’m still in London?” I asked.

“What for?”

“Oh, I don’t know, just the need to touch Marjorie’s surroundings once again before going home.”

“I can’t imagine why you would want to do that, but I suppose…”

I took advantage of this apparent weakening. “Could I stop by now?”

“No, that would be quite impossible.”

“Well, perhaps another day?”

“I suppose you could call me, Mrs. Fletcher. I will do what I can to accommodate you.”

I watched her continue walking to the road where Wilfred, their faithful chauffeur, opened the door for her. I assumed he would close it behind her, but Constable Coots climbed in after her, and the door was closed once he was inside. Strange, I thought, that Coots would ride to and from the funeral with someone who was obviously a suspect. Then again, it might represent a certain brilliance on his part. Stay close: that often paid off when investigating murder.

I’d reached the road and was approaching my limo when Sir James Ferguson, the producer of Marjorie’s Who Killed Darby and Joan?, came up behind me.

“Sir James. What a horrible day to bury someone.”

“Yes, Mrs. Fletcher, although I vividly recall a scene in one of Marjorie’s early novels in which the murderer was identified at just such a burial. Do you remember it? It was called Murder and Other Inconveniences.”

“Of course I do, but it hadn’t occurred to me to make the connection. How are you, Sir James?”

“Quite well. I still wish to find quiet time to spend with you while you are here in Loridon. I have some things to discuss with you.”

“Sounds terribly weighty.”

He broke into a smile; he had a wonderfully pleasant face. “Nothing of the sort, although I think we might benefit from a frank discussion about the possibilities of who murdered our dear friend and colleague. No, I just thought that you and I might find some common ground on a personal level, some pleasant dinner conversation, perhaps a spin around the dance floor at the Dorchester or Savoy, whatever would make the world’s most famous mystery writer happy.”

“You’re very flattering,” I said. “Yes, I would enjoy that. Please call.”

“I certainly shall. How long since you’ve seen Who Killed Darby and Joan?”

“A few years.”

“Would you enjoy seeing it again? Somehow I find watching the play puts me in touch with Marjorie. I suppose that will become increasingly important now that she’s no longer physically present.”

His comment touched me.

“Shall we go together? As the producer, I have two of the best seats in the house reserved for me at each performance. I would consider it a great privilege.”

“Sir James, I have no idea of my schedule for the rest of this week. I have responsibilities at the convention, and there are so many people I must see while here. But, of course, I would love to accompany you to the play if I can work it out.”

He swallowed his disappointment and looked up into the gray sky, then back at me. “The gods are not happy that she’s gone.”

As I walked to my car, Inspector Sutherland of Scotland Yard nodded. That was all-a simple, un-smiling nod. I joined Lucas in the backseat and said to the driver, “Please take us into Crumpsworth.”

“Why are we going there?” Lucas asked. “I have to get back to the convention.”

“It won’t take long, Lucas. Indulge me a half hour.” I looked through the rear window as we pulled away and saw Sutherland still standing in the rain, his eyes fixed upon us. A strange change in him, I thought. What could have caused it?

We reached the center of Crumpsworth within a few minutes and circled the small main square until I spotted a shop whose sign read JEWELRY. “Stop here,” I said. Then, to Lucas: “Won’t be a minute.”

He followed me out of the car-of course-and we entered the tiny shop. A wizened little old man wearing a jeweler’s loupe and a green eyeshade looked up. “May I help you?” he asked in a shaky, raspy voice.

“Yes. My name is Jessica Fletcher. I was a close friend of Marjorie Ainsworth.”

“Oh. Just come from the planting, have you?”

“Planting? Yes, she’s been buried. I understand one of her gardeners tried to sell you a watch belonging to her.”

“That’s right. Those bloody foreigners’ll steal the gold from your teeth.”

“Yes… I also understand you turned the watch over to local authorities.”

“Coots. I gave it to Coots.”

“How did you know it belonged to Ms. Ainsworth?”

“I fixed that watch before, I did. Saw whose it was right off.”

“That was very astute of you.”

A smug smile came to his lips.

“Is the man who tried to sell it to you in jail?”

“Should be. You’ll have to ask Coots about that. I told the other bloke this morning the same thing.”

“Other bloke? Who might that have been?”

“Read his name yourself.” He pointed to a business card on top of the glass display case.

JIMMY BIGGERS

PRIVATE INVESTIGATIONS

Discretion Assured.

“He moves fast,” I said to Lucas.

“Let’s get out of here,” Lucas said.

“Yes, I’m ready.” I thanked the jeweler and we headed for London.

My thoughts during the ride were divided between the conversations I’d had that morning at the burial and trying to shake off an intense chill. My raincoat, good as it was, had merely strained the rain. My feet were soaked; all of me was wet, and I looked forward to a hot bath.

“Mrs. Fletcher, we have messages for you,” the desk clerk said as I asked for the key to my suite. I wasn’t surprised; I’d never had so many people trying to reach me at once in my life.

She handed me a pile of telephone message forms, and I skimmed them. There were many familiar names written on the small slips of paper, but one message caught my eye. It was from my dear friends from Cabot Cove, Dr. Seth Hazlitt and Sheriff Morton Metzger. The message read

Arriving by Pan Am World Airways at eleven tonight at Heathrow Airport. Will arrange own transportation to hotel. Please don’t wait up for us.

“I can’t believe this,” I said to Lucas. I handed him the paper.

“Who are these people?”

“Very good friends from home.”

As we rode the elevator to my floor, I suffered mixed emotions. On the one hand, the idea of seeing familiar faces from Cabot Cove was as welcome as roses in May. On the other hand, my life seemed to have become so complicated since arriving in London that having more players involved was overwhelming.

We were no sooner inside the suite than Lucas said, “I found out more about that lunatic who attacked you last night.”

“Really? Tell me.”

“A certifiable madman. He attacked the London postmaster two years ago when he suggested the color of post boxes be changed. They let him go because he was obviously so demented that he couldn’t be held responsible.”