Donald Bain - Gin and Daggers

“Yes, and even if it diminishes the royalties her books will earn in the future. I’m sorry it directly affects you and others who were professionally involved with Marjorie.”

“Well, I suppose you have to do what you think is right, but give it some serious thought.”

“I’ve been giving it nothing but. Thank you for the manuscript and for your candor.”

Lucas had arranged that evening for a group of ISMW members to have dinner at the Mayfair Hotel, and to attend a performance of The Business of Murder, which had been playing in the theater situated in the hotel for more than eight years. I’d seen it twice-good enough reason to beg off-but Lucas was adamant that I join them.

I was thinking of ways of getting out of going to the play when the phone rang. I picked it up and heard Dr. Beers say, “Mrs. Fletcher?”

“Yes, Dr. Beers. How are you?”

“Quite fine.”

“I didn’t expect to hear from you so soon.”

“I hadn’t intended to call you today. Actually, I am not calling for myself. There is someone here who wishes to speak with you.”

“Who?”

“I’ll put him on.”

“Mrs. Fletcher.”

This was a voice I did not recognize. “Yes, this is Jessica Fletcher. Who is this?”

“It’s Wilfred, ma’am, Miss Ainsworth’s chauffeur.”

“Yes, Wilfred. I’m… well, I’m surprised to be hearing from you.”

“Mrs. Fletcher, would it be impudent for me to ask for some of your time today?”

“Absolutely not.”

“It’s my afternoon off and I thought I would drive into the city. Would it be proper for me to stop by at the Savoy?”

“Perfectly proper, and I’ll look forward to it. When do you think you’ll be here, Wilfred?”

He paused before saying, “As soon as I possibly can, Mrs. Fletcher.”

“Lucas, I am terribly sorry, but I couldn’t possibly leave my friend in the condition he’s in. He’s come all the way from Maine to be with me and I can’t abandon him.”

“What about your doctor friend, Hazlitt? Let him take care of him.”

“Please try to understand, Lucas. Have dinner and go to the theater with the others and enjoy it.”

“How can I enjoy it? I’ve seen it fourteen times.”

“Then see it for the fifteenth time and analyze how it has changed over the course of the years. I’d enjoy hearing your comments about that.”

“Jessica, you are extremely exasperating.”

“I know, and I have a great deal to make up to you. I’ll try to do that at first opportunity. Thank you for understanding, Lucas. You are aptly named Darling.”

I hated to lie to Lucas and was uncomfortable making my excuses based upon a fabrication that Morton Metzger had taken ill, but it seemed the most expedient way to get out of the evening. I hung up and looked across the suite to where Wilfred, Marjorie’s chauffeur, sat stoically by the window, very straight and proper, one leg neatly crossed over the other, his uniform cap resting precisely in the middle of his lap.

I put on my raincoat and stood in the middle of the room. I drew a deep breath and said, “Well, Wilfred, I think I’m ready. My friends should be downstairs by now.” I’d instructed Seth and Morton to meet us behind the hotel, just outside the entrance my assistant manager friend had shown me. Wilfred had parked the Morgan there a half hour ago.

He stood. I said, “You’ve done a wonderful thing, Wilfred, for Miss Ainsworth.”

“It’s Dr. Beers deserves any pats on the back, Mrs. Fletcher. The lady was fortunate to have him as a friend.”

“And fortunate to have you, too, Wilfred. We’d better go.”

We started for the door, but I stopped. Should I call George Sutherland one more time? No. He was too efficient for me to worry about his following through.

Seth was dressed in a black turtleneck, tweed sport jacket, and new Burberry raincoat he’d bought that afternoon. Morton was in his Cabot Cove sheriff’s uniform. “Ready?” I asked them.

“I hope you know what you’re doing, Jess,” Seth said.

“I think I do. Besides, if I don’t, I have the two of you for support.”

Wilfred drove at a leisurely pace through London and towards Crumpsworth. Morton, Seth, and I said little to each other during the trip. It wasn’t until we’d turned onto the road leading to Ainsworth Manor that my heart began to trip. “Remember,” I said, “we’re not here to take any physical action. The important thing is that our arrival be a surprise.”

“I’ll take only what action is necessary,” Morton said, his jaw jutting out.

“I’m sure there won’t be any action necessary, Morton, but it is comforting to know an officer of the law is with us.”

Wilfred went through the process of opening and closing the gate and headed for the manor. Instead of veering to his left, however-which would have placed us at the front door-he turned right and followed a narrow gravel road to the back of the house and to the garage, which had been added to the main structure. He clicked an electronic door opener that was clipped to the sun visor, and the garage door slid open. Inside was one other vehicle, a blue Ford Escort belonging to Jane Portelaine. Wilfred guided the Morgan into the garage, turned, and clicked the electronic device again. This time it closed the doors. He turned off the Morgan’s lights, leaving us in virtual darkness, except for a small, low-wattage lamp at the far end, beyond the Escort.

“Careful as you walk,” Wilfred said as we got out of the Morgan and quietly pressed the two back doors shut. Wilfred closed his door with normal force, and we fell in line behind him until reaching the door leading into the house.

“What’s beyond this door?” I asked.

“The pantry, ma’am, which leads directly into the kitchen.”

“Is Mrs. Horton still away?”

“Yes.”

I looked at Seth and Mort. “Ready?”

They nodded.

Wilfred used a key to open the door and led us into the house. The pantry was very large, and its shelves were stocked with enough provisions to ride out a replay of World War II. Our path was illuminated by light from the kitchen. A large butcher block took up the middle of the room; copper pots and pans hung from a circular rack above it. The four of us stood around the block and listened. The sound of voices could be heard coming from the adjoining dining room. There was laughter, it sounded like a party.

I turned to Wilfred and whispered, “I think you have gone far enough with us. What I would like you to do now is to go upstairs and let us take over from here.”

He was about to protest, then simply nodded and left through another door connecting the kitchen with a narrow flight of stairs leading to the upper floors.

I went to the dining room and pressed my ear against it. Now I could hear the voices with more clarity. A man said, “It actually worked, it bloody well worked.” He laughed raucously.

“I propose a toast,” another male voice said, “to literary excellence and to the world of books.” Everyone laughed now. As I heard glasses clink together, I opened the door and stepped into the room. It took those at the table a few seconds to realize that someone had joined their dinner party. Jane Portelaine was the first to see me. She half rose, and her face reflected her shock. The others realized something had happened and turned. I took a few more steps into the room, and Seth and Mort joined me.

“What in hell…?”

“Good evening, Mr. Harris,” I said. “I see you’re sitting in Marjorie Ainsworth’s chair at the head of the table. How appropriate.”

“Who are these people?” the publisher Walter Cole asked.

“These people are my friends. Officer Metzger is a law enforcement officer. I see you and Mr. Simpson have joined this celebratory party.”