Donald Bain - Gin and Daggers

I had no idea what the area was like today, but had a feeling I would soon find out.

Maria and I sat in the living room. She was now more composed, although she occasionally lapsed into quiet sobbing. She knew nothing more than what she’d told me on the phone.

“I assume they identified him from objects in his pockets,” I said.

“Yes.”

“Will you…” I hesitated before completing my sentence. “Will you have to identify the body, Maria?”

She shook her head.

“Who will? Does he have family here in London?”

“Yes, a stepbrother.”

“Is he a writer, too?”

“No. He’s a talent agent.”

“Really? Does he handle big stars?”

“No. I mean, I really don’t know. I know very little about him. His name is David Simpson. Jason and he haven’t had much to do with each other. I suppose it would not be an overstatement to say that they dislike… disliked each other.”

The next time I checked my watch, it was 4 A.M. “Would you like something to eat?” I asked. “I’ll order it up.”

She went through a mandatory “Oh, that isn’t necessary,” then quickly agreed that food would be welcome. After room service had delivered club sandwiches and coffee, I asked Maria about herself, her life, what she aspired to.

“I’m an actress,” she said.

“How wonderful. I have great respect for people possessing that kind of talent. Have you appeared in anything in London?”

“Oh no, nothing that impressive yet. I’ve been in some smaller productions. I toured Ireland and Wales two summers ago with a troupe.”

“That must have been fun.”

“It didn’t pay much, but I learned a lot.”

“You’re a beautiful young woman, Maria. Have you thought of films?”

She smiled. “Of course I have. Every actor or actress does. I’m afraid I haven’t made much headway in that direction, but I keep trying.”

“That’s the spirit. It’s so difficult making a living as a performer. Lord knows where most people find the perseverance and patience to continue.”

“Like writing,” she said.

“Yes, very much like writing. I was fortunate to have a loving and supportive husband who made sure the refrigerator had food in it while I tried to sell my stories.” I laughed. “I still have a wonderful drawer filled with rejection slips. I treasure those. Somehow they mean more than the letters I’ve received praising what I’ve done, and announcing a publication date for my newest book. Does that make sense?”

“I think so, although I would love to receive such a letter informing me that I’d been selected for a major role at the Old Vic.” She sat back and her eyes misted. “My God, Mrs. Fletcher, it just hit me full force that Jason will never receive such a letter. He was so talented, and it will never be recognized.” She started sobbing. I sat beside her and put my arms about her, pulled her to me and held her close, murmuring over and over, “I know, I know, I know.”

After she’d calmed down, I suggested we catch a couple of hours’ sleep before the sun came up. The couch was already made up. I gave her a spare nightgown, suggested that she try to get some sleep despite the fact that this horrible thing had happened, and went to the bedroom where I lay awake for an hour. Was it reasonable to assume that whoever killed Jason Harris also killed Marjorie Ainsworth? Possible, certainly, although as hard as I tried, I could not come up with a link. I also had to admit to myself that if pressed to name the person most likely to have murdered Marjorie, it would have been Jason, based on nothing but pure intuition. Now he was dead, a corpse dragged from the river Thames. Of course, that did not rule out the possibility that he had killed Marjorie, and had met his own fate for some reason totally unrelated.

I wondered whether Jane Portelaine had heard about Jason’s demise. She’d certainly dismissed him at the funeral, but that didn’t necessarily represent her true feelings. Was she disengaging from him for my benefit? Possibly. Her denial of friendship with Jason certainly hadn’t held water with me. Their relationship, on whatever level it was conducted, was blatantly self-evident during the weekend at Ainsworth Manor.

“We’ll see, we’ll see,” I said softly to myself as I rearranged the pillow beneath my head. Then I sat straight up. Wapping Wall. Yes, I knew it from reading Dickens, but I’d also been made aware of it more recently-in the past day or two, in fact.

I turned on the light and went through my purse until I found Jimmy Biggers’s business card. Sure enough, his office was located on Wapping Wall.

I returned to bed and, after my going through a series of relaxation exercises, beginning with my toes and ending with my eyes, sleep finally arrived.

I’d no sooner gotten up and dressed when the phone rang again. “Mornin’, Jess. Seth. Sleep well?”

“Good morning, Seth,” I replied, my head still foggy from lack of sleep.

“Mort and I are gettin’ ready to see the town. Thought you’d like to have breakfast with us.”

“Seth, I…”

“You all right, Jess?”

“Yes, but I was up very late last night. Something has developed that I must take care of this morning.”

“That so? Can we be of help?”

“No, I don’t think so, but thank you for offering.” Then, without thinking, I proceeded to tell him about Jason Harris’s murder, and Maria Giacona sleeping in my living room.

“That sounds mighty serious, Jess. We’ll be right up.”

“No, Seth, I-”

“No arguments, Jessica Fletcher.” He hung up.

I went to the living room and wakened Maria. “You’ll have to get up now, Maria. Two male friends of mine are on their way here.”

She disappeared into the bathroom, and I hastily put the bed linens back in order and folded up the couch. It had no sooner snapped into place when there was a knock on the door. I opened it, and Seth and Morton walked in. Seth was dressed in a handsome tan poplin suit and wore his walking shoes. Mort was in his Cabot Cove sheriff’s uniform. He had changed shirts, however. Last night it was tan; this morning it was blue.

“I really don’t know what you can do,” I said. “Ms. Giacona is in the bathroom, and I intend to escort her to the police station.”

“Jessica, I know you are a woman who has traveled the world, and who feels very comfortable with crime, but there is no substitute for a professional talking to a fellow professional,” Mort Metzger said.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“If there is any trip to be made to the London police, I will make it with you. After all, I am a law enforcement officer. I speak their language. Trust me, Jessica. It’s a good thing I’m here.” Seth glanced at him and frowned. “That we’re here,” Morton added.

After Maria had finished getting dressed, I introduced her to my friends from Maine, and the four of us went downstairs for breakfast. Seth insisted upon putting the check on his room tab. When he saw the amount, and calculated pounds to U.S. dollars, he remarked, “I could feed a family of four for a month back in Cabot Cove for this money.”

“Hotel breakfast,” I said lightly. “Come on, let’s go.”

Like all London cab drivers, ours this morning was steeped in the history of the city. He pointed out to us the National Museum of Labour History, which, he said, memorialized the strivings of common men and women for a better life. He also pointed to a fascinating church, St. Paul ’s Shadwell, that had been built to minister to sea captains, including Captain Cook.

“Everything’s so old,” Morton Metzger said, his tan Stetson pulled down low over his eyes as he peered through the taxi’s window.