Donald Bain - Gin and Daggers

He escorted me down the stairs and to the front door, which he opened for me.

“When is Miss Portelaine expected to return?” I asked.

“I have no idea, Mrs. Fletcher. The strain of what has happened here took its predictable toll on her. It’s good she’s got away for some sun and rest.”

“She’s taken quite a chance in doing that,” I said.

“How so?”

“Everyone who was here the night of the murder has been instructed to stay in the country until further notice.”

“She cleared her trip with Inspector Coots.”

“That’s good,” I said. “Has he been here recently?”

“I don’t think so. If you’ll excuse me now, I have chores to attend to.”

“Thank you for your concern, Marshall, and for your hospitality.”

Jeremy missed the turnoff to Heather-on-Floyd and almost returned to Crumpsworth before realizing it. He turned around, found it, and five minutes later we were in the tiny village of Heather-on-Floyd, which consisted of only a row of low buildings on either side of the road-no more than eight or ten-and the village ended abruptly the minute the last building was passed. There were only two other cars, and they’d pulled up onto the sidewalk to take up less of the narrow roadway. Jeremy did the same in front of the number Dr. Beers had given me. A small sign was just above the buzzer: GLENVILLE BEERS, M.D., G.P.

I pushed the button and heard the buzzer sound inside. Moments later, the door was opened by a stooped old man with a full head of white hair and cheeks as pink as cherry blossoms, and wearing a red velvet smoking jacket over shirt and tie. His feet were clad in leather slippers. A pair of glasses hung from a black ribbon about his neck.

“Mrs. Fletcher.”

“Dr. Beers.”

“Yes. Come in, please.”

He walked with the slow shuffle of an old person. I followed him into a small parlor dominated by large pieces of stuffed furniture. A pleasant fire crackled in the fireplace. He’d been reading; a book lay open on a table next to his favorite chair. A lamp of the type seen in doctors’ examining offices cast a harsh white light over it.

Once I was settled in a chair next to the fireplace, he sat, leaned forward, and seemed to study me.

“I’m afraid I really don’t understand why I’m here,” I said, “but I have a feeling it’s good that I am.”

He nodded. “Yes, I think it is very good. Tea, or port ?”

I started to say tea, but changed my mind. Somehow, I felt a glass of port in my hand would be more appropriate for what I was about to hear.

One hour later, I left Dr. Glenville Beers, got in the car, and headed for London. I’d already missed the cocktail reception, and the awards dinner would have started by now. I hoped Lucas wasn’t too worried about me, although I didn’t dwell upon that as we found our way into Crumpsworth, took the road back toward London, and, eventually, pulled up in front of the Savoy.

“Jessica, I have been frantic,” Lucas said as I walked into the dining room. “I was about to call the police. I heard you hired a car. Why didn’t you let me drive you? I told you I had the afternoon free and…”

I touched his arm and smiled. “Lucas, please, I’ve had an interesting but tiring day. I’m sorry to have given you cause for worry, but here I am, safe and sound, and awfully hungry. Where am I sitting?”

“I can’t believe you did this without consulting me, Jessica,” Lucas Darling said as he paced the floor of my suite. Seth Hazlitt and Morton Metzger were there, too. It was nine o’clock the following morning. Sunshine blazed through the windows of the suite, but the weather forecaster on the BBC predicted that a storm of some magnitude would be hitting the city by late afternoon.

“Lucas, you are simply going to have to trust me,” I said from where I sat at a rolling table on which my breakfast had been served.

“The lobby is swarming with press people again,” Lucas said.

“Think of the publicity.”

“I have been, but that’s not the point. You simply cannot spring these bombshells without talking to me first. I am, after all, the secretary.”

“I know, I know, Lucas, and please stop pacing. Sit down, and let’s discuss this quietly. When you get this upset, your voice goes up an octave and you sound like a countertenor in a bad opera.”

He sat.

“Let me see if I have this straight, Jessica,” Seth said. “You got up to the microphone at the end of dinner last night and said you would be making a major announcement soon concerning the authorship of Gin and Daggers?”

“That’s right.”

“What Mr. Darling here is gettin’ at, Jess, is that you shouldn’t be comin’ up with such surprisin’ announcements,” said Morton.

“No, I suppose I shouldn’t, but I did, and that’s that. In the meantime, I suggest we enjoy the day. We won’t be here much longer.”

“Just because the conference is coming to a close doesn’t mean you can leave,” Lucas said. “No one can until Marjorie’s murder is solved.”

I ate the final bite of my English muffin.

“When do you intend to make this announcement, Jess?” Seth asked.

“Tomorrow,” I said, dabbing at my mouth with my napkin. I crossed the room to where I’d tossed my raincoat on a chair.

“Where are you going?” Lucas asked.

“Out for a good, brisk walk before the bad weather sets in. Anyone care to join me?”

Lucas jumped to his feet, ran to the door, and splayed himself across it. “You’re not going anywhere until you tell me more about this announcement.”

Seth and Morton came to my side; together, we formed a defiant trio. “Coming with us, Lucas?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said glumly. We went downstairs and got into a waiting taxi. “Kensington Gardens,” I told the driver. “The Albert Memorial.”

“Why are we going there?” Morton asked.

“No special reason,” I said. “It’s a pleasant place to walk, and I haven’t been there in a long time.”

We left the cab and stood at the foot of four wide flights of granite steps leading up to the neo-Gothic spire that juts 175 feet into the air and is ornamented with mosaics, pinnacles, and a cross.

“Who was this Albert fella?” Morton asked.

“Prince Consort to Queen Victoria,” I said. “Come on, let’s head for the palace and pond.”

As we walked, Lucas asked, “Where did you go after the dinner last night?”

“To my room.”

“I tried you there a number of times and you never answered.”

“I heard the phone, but I didn’t want to talk to anyone. I let it ring. The hotel operator took your messages.”

Lucas looked at me skeptically. I smiled in return and picked up my pace. There was no need for him, or anyone, to know just then that after making my announcement at dinner, I’d gone to my room and called George Sutherland at his home. I felt a little guilty inviting him out for a drink because he must have assumed I wanted to pursue the idea of a personal relationship. He suggested a pub in Covent Garden called the Punch and Judy. We met in its quiet upstairs bar overlooking the piazza and I had an old tawny port, while he had a Courage best bitter. I tasted his; it had a wonderful nutty flavor, but I stuck with my port. We talked for an hour, and he drove me back to the hotel, which I entered with trepidation, but was relieved to find that no one I knew was in the lobby.

Lucas, Seth, Morton, and I strolled the parklike gardens of the palace where Victoria, and Queen Mary, wife of George V and grandmother of Queen Elizabeth II, were born, the only inhabited royal palace in London whose state apartments are open to the public.