Donald Bain - Gin and Daggers

“Well, Jessica, what kind of day did you have?” Seth asked as we sat in the Thames Foyer bar and sipped drinks.

“Absolutely lovely. I took the afternoon to be by myself and to walk around London. Do you know what was especially wonderful? No one recognized me, not a soul.”

Morton made a gagging sound.

“What’s the matter?” I asked.

“This isn’t a martini.”

I looked at Seth, and we both started to laugh. I should have warned Morton that when a martini is ordered in London, you generally get a glass of vermouth. The fact that he had specified a dry martini only meant that the vermouth poured over the ice cubes was of the dry variety. “You have to ask for a martini cocktail,” I said, feeling slightly superior at that knowledge. We motioned for a waiter and put in the new order.

“Tell me what you did and saw today,” I said to them.

“Morton wanted to see if we could get a tour of Scotland Yard, but I convinced him we ought to seek out a little more culture while in London. We spent the afternoon at the British Museum.”

“Isn’t it marvelous?” I said.

Morton, who obviously had not found an afternoon in the sprawling British Museum to be his cup of tea, shook his head and said, “You’ve seen one museum, you’ve seen them all, Jess.” He looked at Seth: “I wouldn’t mind seeing that famous wax museum they’ve got here in London.”

“Madame Tussaud’s on Marylebone Road,” I said. “I’ve been there. It’s interesting, but I wouldn’t put it high on my list of priorities.”

After discussing other possibilities for them to visit the next day, they asked what I was doing for dinner. I told them I was free. “Tell you what,” I said, “I’ll dream up a place for dinner and make a reservation for seven. We’ll meet here in the lobby at six-thirty.” I had La Tante Claire in mind, a restaurant I’d heard so much about over the years but had never had the opportunity to visit. I also knew it was small and had probably been booked for weeks. I said to Morton as we walked from the bar, “Morton, you will have to change out of your uniform and put on a suit. You did bring a suit with you?”

“Of course I did, Jess, but like I told Seth, having me in uniform will keep us out of trouble on the streets, keep the pickpockets away.”

“What a… splendid idea. See you at six-thirty.”

I called La Tante Claire. “My name is Jessica Fletcher,” I said, “and I was wondering whether you could accommodate three people this evening at seven.”

“Jessica Fletcher, the famous writer?” he asked in a French accent.

“Yes.”

“We keep one table open until six for important customers, Mrs. Fletcher. It is for you, of course.”

“Well, I… that’s very nice of you. Thank you… very much.”

Morton had changed into a nice brown suit, white shirt, and tie. Seth was his usual well-groomed self; he was always dressed properly, even to go to his drive-way in the morning to pick up the newspaper.

We climbed into a cab and told the driver to take us to La Tante Claire, on Royal Hospital Road. I was feeling very relaxed. Lucas had called as I was getting ready for dinner to admonish me for spending so much time away from the ISMW conference. I tried to explain that circumstances had changed, and that they would dictate, to some extent, how I spent the rest of my week. I sounded forthright and full of conviction, but I knew he was right. I promised that I would try to focus more on the conference in the days ahead.

As the cab pulled away from the curb and headed for the Strand, I noticed a large automobile, whose lights had been on, make a three-point U-turn and fall in behind us. It was a Cadillac, originally white but now battered and discolored. It had caught my attention because of its size; you seldom see automobiles like that on London streets. Then, as we happily talked about the gastronomic treat awaiting us, I completely forgot about it.

We pulled up in front of La Tante Claire. Seth, who was now adept at handling British currency, paid the driver, and we moved toward the door of the restaurant. I glanced back; the large white Cadillac had pulled up behind cars half a block away, and the lights had been turned off.

“Strange,” I muttered.

“What?” Morton asked.

“Nothing. Come, let’s enjoy a wonderful meal together.”

“Thank you for accommodating us at the last minute,” I told the maître d’hôtel.

“My pleasure, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said in his charming accent. “I have been following events surrounding you very carefully. By the way, my wife has read all the French translations of your books.”

“How flattering.”

“I had one delivered to me when I knew you would be dining with us. I thought perhaps…”

He obviously wasn’t sure whether he was out of place to be requesting an autograph. He wasn’t, of course, and I told him I would be happy to inscribe the book to his wife.

We were shown to what was obviously a prime table. There were only a dozen of them, and ours was in a corner, offering an unobstructed view of the beautiful room, basically white, with some blond wood, blue curtains, lavender-gray armchairs, and portraits of lovely ladies on the walls. The maître d’hôtel handed us expensively printed menus. He also handed me a copy of one of my novels that had been translated.

“What is your wife’s name?” I asked.

“Nicole.”

I wrote a long inscription, tossing in an occasional French word that I happened to know, and handed it back to him. He beamed and told me his wife would be extremely pleased.

“I don’t understand this menu,” Morton said.

“Neither do I,” I said, “But I intend to fake it.”

Seth laughed. He spoke serviceable French, and we allowed him to translate for us, although he did need the help of a waiter on a few items. I knew that Morton would have preferred a steak house where he could order mashed potatoes and corn on the cob. Instead, we had scallop and oyster ragout studded with truffles as an appetizer. “The monkfish with saffron, capers, and celery root sounds wonderful to me,” I said. Seth decided to be adventurous and try the fillet of hare with bitter chocolate and raspberry sauce. We both looked at Morton, whose face was screwed up in debate with himself. He decided on lamb with parsley and garlic, and asked timidly, as though he expected to be attacked for asking, “Do you have any mashed potatoes?”

“Oui. ”

We had a wonderful meal together. Being with them represented something familiar and solid to hold on to, and I reveled in the laughter, the gossip about people in Cabot Cove, and Seth’s and Morton’s reaction to my recounting again everything that had happened since arriving in London.

We all enjoyed crème brûlée and petits fours with coffee to end the glorious meal, and Morton proclaimed the mashed potatoes the best he’d ever eaten.

When we stepped outside into the clear, fresh air, I breathed deeply and said, “Let’s take a walk. I’m in the mood.”

We started arm in arm down Royal Hospital Road, almost giddy enough to break into a song and dance. I didn’t tell them that my reason for wanting the walk had nothing to do with a need to exercise off some of the dinner. I was aware the moment we had come out of the restaurant that we were being watched by a man across the street. He stood behind the white Cadillac, and I couldn’t see him well enough to determine anything about him.

I led the trio around a corner, stopped, and said, “Indulge me a moment. Keep walking. Don’t look back. Just keep walking. I’ll catch up with you in a second.”

They looked quizzically at each other, but did what I asked. I stepped behind a wall that defined the property of a large house and waited. I saw my friends continue up the street, then heard footsteps rounding the corner, stopping for a second, then moving at an accelerated rate. The minute the feet passed me, I stepped out and said, “Excuse me, are you following us?”