Donald Bain - Gin and Daggers

I had expected to hear any one of a dozen explanations for his behavior at the burial, but not this one.

“I’ve been tempted to call you every day to invite you for lunch or dinner, perhaps a stroll through the park, a ride in the country, but I’ve managed to hold myself in check. As long as I am confessing such things to you, Jessica, I might also say that it is my wish that when this whole nasty matter is resolved, you allow us the opportunity to explore the potentials of a relationship.”

“I… you’re a very kind and attractive man, George, and I am flattered by what you’ve said. In the meantime, although I am not a police officer, I suspect I, too, would be better served keeping my natural and very human instincts in check while we seek the murderer of Marjorie Ainsworth. After that… well, after that we can discuss it further.”

“Of course, Jessica. It was good to see you again tonight. I must, however, pick up on something you’ve just said.”

“Which is?”

“You talk of us trying to solve the murder. Might I make a suggestion to you?”

“Of course.”

“I know you are a skilled author, and because of the nature of the books you write, you have an insight into crime and the criminal’s mind. However, we’re talking here about a very dangerous situation, and I urge you to confine your interests to the conference and leave this investigation to me.”

“I thought you welcomed my observations.”

“I do, but observations are one thing, active involvement is another.”

“I know that you mean well with that suggestion, George, and I will give it serious consideration. Good night, and thank you for a lovely evening.”

He came around and opened the door for me. We looked at each other. I kissed him lightly on the cheek and went into the hotel with deliberate haste.

If I’d wanted to ignore the personal exchange that had just taken place with George Sutherland, it was impossible-Lucas, who’d been sitting in the lobby sipping a gin and tonic, sprang to his feet at the sight of me. “Come, sit with me, Jess, and tell me what happened.”

I forced a laugh. “Nothing happened, Lucas. The inspector and I discussed the case, and he drove me back.”

Lucas gave me one of his mischievous, knowing smiles. “Jessica Fletcher, I think it’s wonderful.”

“What do you think is wonderful?”

“That you and the inspector have a personal interest in each other.” I started to say something, but he cut me off. “I’ve been observing it ever since you met him-the sparks flying, the furtive glances, the romantic electricity in the air. I can see it now.” He created a globe in the air with his hands. “Jessica Fletcher, world-famous mystery writer, falls in love and marries Scotland Yard’s chief inspector, moves to London, where she takes an active part in the Marjorie Ainsworth International Study Center for Mystery Writers, and lives happily ever after.”

His eyes were wide as he awaited my reaction.

“Lucas, I think you should try writing another book, only this time put it in the historical romance genre. I’m pooped. See you tomorrow.”

I didn’t get much sleep after returning from my evening with George Sutherland. The manuscript saw to that.

Of course, I’d already read the book, and there were few differences between published book and manuscript-not surprising for a writer of Marjorie’s status.

What interested me about the manuscript were the numerous margin notes in red, purportedly made by Jason Harris. He identified, by my count, fourteen names that he claimed came out of his own background, including that of a dog which, his notes indicated, had been his pet as a young boy.

There were other references he took credit for, things like a London clothing store, a couple of favorite restaurants, a telephone number that had been his in a previous flat, the gin enjoyed by the story’s hero that was Harris’s own favorite, and myriad other items meant to convince anyone reading this version of the manuscript that Harris had, in fact, written it.

I made a long series of notes of my own, and after I showered and dressed, I went to the London telephone directory, found the number I wanted, and dialed it.

“Semple Publishing,” the operator said.

“Mr. Archibald Semple,” I said.

“Might I enquire who is calling?”

“Jessica Fletcher.”

Semple came on the line. “Mrs. Fletcher, what a surprise, good to hear from you, trust all is well, what can I do for you?”

I asked if I could see him that day.

“I don’t see why not, although the day is a bit crushed, sales conference coming up, too many books in the hopper, not enough editorial hands to deal with them.”

“Would an hour from now be all right?” I asked. “I can be there by ten.”

“Jolly good, sounds fine to me, I’ll clear the decks for you.”

Every publisher’s office I’d ever visited was messy, but they were all bastions of order compared to his. Manuscripts were piled everywhere, including on the carpet in front of his desk, creating a maze for visitors to navigate. He was sweating profusely as he got up to greet me. “What a pleasure, what a pleasure,” he said, leading me to a chair and removing a pile of recently published books from it. “Sit, sit. Tea? Oh no, you probably prefer coffee. I’ll see to it that you have coffee.”

“Actually, Mr. Semple, I would prefer tea. One sugar and lemon.”

“Of course, of course.” He buzzed his secretary and put in an order for two cups of tea.

Once he was settled behind his desk again, he said, “Now, Mrs. Fletcher, what brings you here? This is such an honor.”

“Well, Mr. Semple, I appreciate your kind words, but I’m afraid I’m not here on a social visit.”

“Oh?”

“I was wondering whether you would have available Marjorie Ainsworth’s manuscript of Gin and Daggers.”

He frowned and went through a series of “hrummmphs” before saying, “Unusual request, highly irregular even for a writing colleague. Why, may I ask, do you wish to see it?”

“Mr. Semple, I won’t beat around the bush with you. I’m certain you’re aware of rumors that Marjorie did not write Gin and Daggers.”

“Yes, preposterous, no basis to them at all.”

“I feel the same way, but I think it’s very important that those rumors be put to rest. I thought… I thought that if I could see her manuscript, it might help me become more secure in my own mind that no other hand was involved.”

“Can’t see what the manuscript would tell you, Mrs. Fletcher. Just like any other manuscript from her, a few additions by pen in her hand, and our editorial notes and corrections.”

“Yes, I realize that, Mr. Semple, but there is a young man… was a young man named Jason Harris who, the rumor says, actually wrote the book. We met Mr. Harris at that fateful dinner at Ainsworth Manor.”

“Yes, I remember him. I’d met him before.”

“Really? Under what circumstances?”

“Haven’t the slightest idea, some literary party, cocktail bash, whatever. I’ve heard his name mentioned in connection with Gin and Daggers, too, and I dismiss him along with the rumor itself.”

“Be that as it may, Mr. Semple, there is a growing and serious question about the authorship of Gin and Daggers. May I see the manuscript?”

He had a great deal of trouble flatly refusing me, but that’s what he ended up doing. “Mrs. Fletcher, I would consider that a violation of a publisher’s privilege. After all, the relationship between a publisher and an author is akin, somewhat, to that of solicitor and client. Agree?”

“No, not when murder has injected itself into the relationship. I really can’t see why you won’t allow me to at least look at the manuscript here in your office, Mr. Semple. I don’t intend to do anything with it, to carry it away, or to make a statement to the press about it. All I wish to do is see the pages.”