Donald Bain - Gin and Daggers

“I took care of them,” he said. “I gave them a statement.”

“What did you say?”

“You’ll see on the telly.”

An hour later, a BBC anchorman said in a deep voice: “The contents of the late Marjorie Ainsworth’s last will and testament were revealed today, twenty-four hours in advance of the formal reading of it.” He went on to say what Lucas had told me downstairs.

Then Lucas’s face filled the screen. “Ladies and gentlemen, it is only fitting that this news be announced on the second day of the annual meeting of the International Society of Mystery Writers.” He’d gotten in the plug; he was beaming as we watched the newscast together.

“The world-famous writer, Jessica Fletcher, who delivered our keynote speech last night, and was the target of a madman’s attack, has no comment at this time about having been named in Marjorie Ainsworth’s will. She is overcome with shock and gratitude to her dear and departed friend and will make a statement later.”

“Lucas,” I said, “this is-”

“Sssssh,” he said, holding his finger to his lips.

Montgomery Coots’s face replaced Lucas on the screen. He’d been videotaped on the road in front of Ainsworth Manor.

“First, I wish to announce that the foreign gardener arrested for attempting to sell a watch belonging to Marjorie Ainsworth has been released. He has an ironclad alibi, which I personally confirmed. Of course, with the release of the deceased’s will, focus must be on those who benefited financially from her death. I make no accusations, but the British people have my word that this heinous crime will be solved.”

“This is dreadful,” I said when the report was over.

“Don’t worry, Jess, I’ll make sure this is handled properly,” said Lucas.

“Lucas.”

“What?”

“Play cribbage with me.”

“Cribbage? At a time like this?”

“Especially at a time like this.” I removed a small cribbage board from my briefcase and set it up.

“Jessica, this is… mad.”

“No, Lucas, what’s going on downstairs and on television is madness. Cribbage is sanity, my kind of sanity. When Frank was alive, and when there was pressure in our lives, we played cribbage, or some other game. I nearly always won, and felt better. Sit down and cut the cards to see who goes first, and not another word about anything except the game.”

“You’re in uniform,” I said to Morton Metzger, sheriff of Cabot Cove. He and Seth Hazlitt had called my room upon their arrival, and I’d suggested we meet in the bar.

“Yes, Jess, I am. This is no vacation. I’m here on official business.”

I turned to Seth, a familiar warm smile on his face. “Seth, how wonderful to see you.” I kissed him on the cheek, did the same to Morton.

“Well, Jess, Mort and I spent considerable time chewin’ it over, and it seemed like the only sensible thing to do was to climb on an airplane and get here as fast as possible. We’ve been hearin’ terrible things back home, includin’ about that fella who went hay-wire and tried to kill you. Never heard of anything so lackin’.”

“Yes, it was quite an experience, although he really didn’t have much of a chance to get to me with so many people in the room.”

“Still, Jess, it caused Seth and me to think we’d better help our good friend,” said Morton, “no matter how far away she is. Must be fright’nin’ bein’ here in a strange country.”

I laughed. “It isn’t strange at all. After all, we came from here.”

“You’d never know it by listenin’ to that cab driver we had. I only understood every third word.”

“Yes, sometimes they speak quickly, but it is English.”

I was exhausted; it was one o’clock in the morning, London time. For them it was eight in the evening, and they looked ready for a night on the town. They insisted upon buying me a drink, and I filled them in on everything that had happened since my arrival. They listened intently, interrupting only with an occasional grunt or nod. When I was finished recounting my tales of woe, I asked them what their plans were for the next day.

“To be with you, Jess,” Seth said. “That’s why we came.”

I shook my head and said with conviction, “Oh no, I’ll be extremely busy with the convention, and I insist that you two spend the day sightseeing. London is a remarkable city, and to fly all the way here and not see as much of it as you can would be a crime.” This was debated for a few minutes until Seth finally said, “All right, Jess, but only tomorra, and we’re goin’ to keep in close touch. Right?”

“Absolutely. Now this lady needs her beauty sleep.” I stood.

“You do look a mite fatigued,” Morton Metzger said. “Want me to escort you to your room?”

“No, thank you, Morton, that won’t be necessary. Tell you what. You go off on a good day’s sightseeing tomorrow, and I’ll meet you right here in this same bar for a drink at five o’clock.”

“Fair enough,” said Seth.

“Buy yourself a good map and a guidebook. Be sure to see the Changing of the Guard, Westminster Abbey, and try to fit in the Tower of London.”

Seth smiled. “I brought some good walkin’ shoes. Looks like they’ll get considerable use.”

“I hope so,” I said over my shoulder as I headed for the elevators. “Walking is the best way to see London.”

I started to undress the minute I reached my suite, but was stopped by the ringing of the telephone. Who would be calling at this hour? Must be Seth or Morton with some last-minute comment or question. I picked up the phone and was confronted with a hysterical Maria Giacona. “Please, calm down, Maria, or I’ll never understand what you’re saying.”

It took her a moment to muster enough composure to speak with some clarity. When she did, her words cut into me like a stiletto. “Jason is dead, murdered,” she said. I sat heavily on the bed and asked her to give me more details.

“They found him in the Thames, off Wapping Wall, near the docks.”

“Maria, I am so sorry. How did it happen? Any idea of who might have done it?”

“No, I just heard. I’m at Jason’s flat. The police called looking for a family member, and I happened to be here. I wish I hadn’t been.”

“It must have been a dreadful shock. What do you intend to do now?”

“I don’t know. I shouldn’t be calling you this late, but I didn’t know who else to turn to.”

I felt the ambivalence one always feels in such a situation, flattered to be important enough to a person to be the one to whom they turn in time of trouble, yet wishing you weren’t.

“Maria, why don’t you come here to the hotel.”

“Oh, Mrs. Fletcher, I couldn’t…”

“No, I insist. Obviously, there will have to be a trip to the police, but it doesn’t have to be now, at this hour. I would feel much better if you were here. Spend the night if you wish. The living room has a lovely pull-out couch.”

She uttered a few further protestations, then agreed.

By the time she arrived, it was almost three in the morning, and I was exhausted. Simultaneously, my adrenaline was flowing at an accelerated pace, and I wouldn’t have been able to sleep whether she arrived or not.

As I waited for her, I thought about the location she’d mentioned, Wapping Wall. I remember it, of course, as a setting in Dickens’s novels, a densely populated waterfront cut into many pieces by narrow, twisting alleys, long sets of stone steps, and a succession of docks, including Execution Dock where condemned pirates and thieves, including Captain Kidd in 1701, were left for the tide to wash over them three times. It was, in Dickens’s time and probably long after, a sinister area of London where crime and criminals ruled.