Donald Bain - Gin and Daggers

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Cabot Cove's own mystery writer and sleuth, Jessica Fletcher, travels to London to visit the grande dame of mystery novels, only to discover that the acclaimed author has been murdered.

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Eventually, after our mini-tour of the Wapping district of London, we pulled up in front of the Metropolitan Special Constabulary, Thames Division, established in 1798 and responsible for patrolling fifty-four miles of the river with its thirty-three police boats.

I looked at Maria. “Are you up to this?” I asked.

She’d been extremely quiet the whole morning, saying virtually nothing. She looked at me with those huge brown eyes and forced a smile onto her pretty lips. “Yes, I suppose I have to be.”

A sergeant at the front desk asked who we were.

“My name is Jessica Fletcher, and these are my friends,” I said. “This young lady was a close personal friend of someone you found in the river last night, a young man by the name of Jason Harris.”

The sergeant licked his thumb and turned pages in a book. “Yes, he’s in the book. What’s your business?”

“Well,” I said, “this young lady, whose name is Maria Giacona, received the phone call at Mr. Harris’s flat last night. They were… well, they were very close, and we felt that you would probably want her to personally identify the body.”

The sergeant glanced down at the page in front of him, looked up, and said, “That’s already been done.”

“It has?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Who, might I ask, identified the body?”

“Not for me to say.”

“Sergeant, is there a detective or an inspector with whom we could speak about this matter?”

“Any of you family?” the sergeant asked. He was a slight man with thin black hair; a wavy scar on his upper lip formed a horizontal S over his mouth.

“No, no family, but someone who was very close to the deceased. Please, Sergeant, can’t you show a little consideration for this young woman who has lost a loved one?”

He looked at each of us, then punched a button on a telephone console. “Inspector, there’s four people out here inquiring about the floater last night.” He listened to what the person on the other end of the line said, then hung up. “Okay, you can go back and see Inspector Bobby Half, down the hall, third door to the left.”

Three of us started toward the corridor, but Mort Metzger lingered. He put his hand across the desk and said, “Sheriff Metzger, Cabot Cove, Maine. Here on official business.”

The desk sergeant looked at Metzger’s hat, then his uniform. Morton’s hand continued to dangle over the desk. The S above the sergeant’s mouth wiggled. He limply shook Mort’s hand.

“Come on, Mort,” Seth said impatiently.

Unlike the desk sergeant, the inspector was a big man. He had the rugged, leathery look of a commercial fisherman, which, I reasoned, resulted from having spent his career squinting against the sun’s reflection off the water of the Thames. His hands were hamlike, calloused, and covered with scratches, nails grimy. His face was round, like a Halloween pumpkin, all the features barely protruding from the surface.

I went through my introduction again. This time, however, Morton insisted upon injecting himself into the middle of things. “Sheriff Metzger, Cabot Cove,” he said, shooting his hand at Inspector Half.

“That so?” Half said. “Where might Cabot Cove be?”

“ Maine, Inspector,” I quickly said, moving to put myself between them. I told him of Maria’s relationship with Jason Harris and expressed surprise that the body had already been identified. I asked by whom.

“His half brother, stepbrother, something like that. Came in a few hours after we dragged him out of the river.”

“David Simpson,” I said.

“That was his name.”

“He was certain it was his stepbrother, Jason Harris?” I asked.

“Hard to be certain about a body like that. His throat had been slit from ear to ear, it had, and his face pretty badly battered in. Frankly, I couldn’t tell him from Winston Churchill. A bloody mess, that’s what he was, and floating in the river didn’t help.”

“Then how could his stepbrother make a positive identification?”

“Who knows? He didn’t have any hesitation, and that was good enough for me.” He looked at Maria. “What were you, his girlfriend?”

“Yes.”

“And you want to see the body?”

“I… no, I suppose after what you’ve said, it would be better if I didn’t.” She started to cry.

“Inspector, it seems to me there are certain procedures here that should be followed,” Sheriff Metzger said with considerable profundity.

“You’re the sheriff of where?”

“Cabot Cove, Maine. You see, I flew here on behalf of Mrs. Fletcher, who I am sure you know, is one of the world’s most distinguished writers. She also was the person who discovered the body of Marjorie Ainsworth.”

Morton’s comment obviously meant something to the inspector. He smiled-actually, more of a simple parting of the lips-and extended his hand to me. “You’re the one I’ve been reading about. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“Likewise,” I said.

Inspector Half seemed unsure of what to do next. He sat behind his desk and rolled his fingertips on its surface. “Happy to oblige you folks,” he said. “If you’d like to see the body, you’re welcome.”

Maria turned and walked to the door. “I don’t want to see him,” she said.

“Let’s go,” Seth Hazlitt said.

“I would like to see the body, Inspector,” I said.

“Jessica-”

“I would like to see the body.”

The Inspector stood. “I warn you, it isn’t a pretty sight.”

“I assure you you won’t have a fainter on your hands,” I said.

The Inspector and I went to a small morgue set up at the rear of the building. Through the window, the Thames rolled by. There was a considerable amount of commercial activity on it, and I couldn’t help but wonder what it had looked like two or three hundred years ago when pirates plied its waters. I didn’t have much time to contemplate history, however, because before I knew it, Inspector Half pulled out a body drawer from the wall and had flipped the end of a sheet that covered a corpse’s face.

I quickly turned away. It wasn’t recognizable as a human face, nothing but a gruesome mass of black flesh, no nose, no eyes, just a fetid blob. Look at it, Jessica, I told myself. You asked for this.

I forced myself to look once again at what the inspector had exposed, “Thank you,” I said. “That’s sufficient.”

By the time we reappeared in the lobby of the constabulary, word had gotten out who I was. Inspector Half personally escorted us to the front door. The desk sergeant asked timidly, “Could I have your signature for me kids, Mrs. Fletcher?”

Half gave him a stern look. “If she wouldn’t mind, Inspector,” the sergeant said.

I quickly scrawled my name on the piece of paper he held out, thanked them once again, and walked out onto the street.

“Why did you have to see the body?” Seth asked. “It’s nothing for a lady to see.”

“Seth, someone had to look at the body. Frankly, I was surprised you didn’t come with me. As a doctor, you’ve seen enough corpses.”

“Yes, but I couldn’t have been any help. I never met the young man when he was alive.”

“Well, I did.”

“Was it as terrible as he said it would be?” Maria asked.

I solemnly nodded and avoided her gaze.

“Who could have done such a thing?” she asked.

“I don’t know, Maria, but we’ll try to find out.”

“Must be near lunchtime,” Morton Metzger said. “I’m hungry.”

“It’s only eleven o’clock,” Seth said.

“My body is all turned around,” Morton said. “Jet lag, I guess. What say we find ourselves a place to get a snack, just to tide us over till lunchtime.”

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