He raised his glass. “To Jessica Fletcher, who seems to be in the midst of murder no matter where she is.”
“Frankly, I could do without that characterization.”
“Yes, I’m sure you could.” He sat back and was the picture of the relaxed, confident man. He wore a three-piece navy blue suit, probably not very expensive, but he was a man who wore clothes nicely, off the rack or custom-tailored. “Your friend Mr. Darling convinced me to conduct a panel tomorrow for your society.”
“Really? That wasn’t on the schedule.”
“No, a last-minute whim of his, I suppose. I thought you might join me on it.”
“What’s the subject?”
“Contemporary investigative techniques.”
“I’m afraid I wouldn’t be qualified,” I said.
“I think quite the opposite. It’s at eleven. Will you?”
“Yes, all right. I’m flattered. Lucas must consider having you speak to be the coup of the conference.”
“He’s a pleasant fellow, quite a fan of yours.”
I couldn’t help but wonder as we talked why his manner with me this night was so much warmer than it had been at Marjorie’s burial service.
“I have something to show you that might be of interest,” he said. He handed me that day’s London
Times.
It was opened to the arts and entertainment section. I scanned the page; nothing jumped off at me.
“Read the ‘Book Notes’ column,” he said.
The column was written by William Strayhorn, the eminent London book critic. “What am I looking for in this?” I asked.
“Read a bit and you’ll see.”
I took out my half-glasses and started. The item he wanted me to see was buried in the middle of the column:
Jason Harris, a heretofore unsuccessful author who was dragged from the Thames the other night with his throat slit and face battered, and who was a protégé of murdered mystery writing queen Marjorie Ainsworth, is about to find posthumous publishing success. Cadence House, headed all these years by Walter Cole, who’s made his millions publishing pornography disguised as literature, has announced its intention to publish the first of four novels written by Mr. Harris before his death, and unpublished to date. Either Jason Harris has written the sort of rubbish that usually appeals to Mr. Cole, or Mr. Cole has decided to take a portion of the money he’s made in the sewer and devote it to works of merit, assuming Mr. Harris has written anything of merit.
I handed the paper back to Sutherland. “Fascinating,” I said. “I had no idea Jason had written four novels.”
“Either he has, or there is a room filled with writers turning out prose to bear his name, and to capitalize on small mentions of his murder in the local press.”
I shook my head. “That doesn’t make any sense to me. Does it to you?”
He shrugged. “I’m afraid I’m out of my element when it comes to the publishing world.”
“How’s the investigation into Marjorie’s murder going?”
Sutherland pursed his lips. “Mrs. Ainsworth-Zara, the deceased’s sister, has come forward with interesting information that I wanted to share with you. I was eager not only to have you hear this information, but to benefit from your evaluation of it.”
If he meant to flatter me, he’d succeeded. As with our previous times together, I could never be sure when he was being personally sincere and when he was playing the role of a smooth, skilled investigator. I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt, and asked him to continue.
“She came to me this morning. I made notes during our conversation.” He pulled them from his pocket, along with his glasses.
Ona’s timing was interesting, I thought. Would she have sought out a Scotland Yard chief inspector if she hadn’t been cut out of Marjorie’s will? A beneficiary spurned could be every bit as lethal as a woman scorned.
He recounted for me his meeting that morning.
Ona had begun by saying, “I have spent considerable time at Ainsworth Manor over the past year or two. Despite the fact that Marjorie and I did not get along especially well, she was always gracious in allowing me extended stays at the manor. I took advantage of that hospitality whenever Antonio and I were estranged, which has been the rule rather than the exception. Antonio would remain at the villa in Capri, and I would seek solace in Ainsworth Manor. He’s in Capri now.”
Sutherland reminded her that leaving Great Britain violated the condition laid down that all those who were at the manor the night Marjorie was murdered remain in Britain. He placed an immediate call to institute an all-points bulletin. Not very wifely to run to the authorities to snitch on one’s husband he’d thought. He asked her to continue.
“My sister had not been herself in the months leading up to her death,” Ona told him. “I won’t try to be subtle. Her mind was going, and she’d lost a great deal of reasoning power. Not only that, she’d become increasingly unaware of what was going on around her.”
As Sutherland told me this, I could only think of Marjorie that weekend and how sharp she’d been, aside from her occasional lapses. Was this the beginning of a setup for Ona and her husband to contest the will?
Ona continued what she had to say in Sutherland’s office, telling him, “It was during one of my extended stays that I became aware of not only the presence, but the influence of the young writer Jason Harris, whom Marjorie had taken into her confidence. Frankly, I never liked him from the day I met him, and had strong feelings that he was up to no good where my sister was concerned. I raised that with her once, and she dismissed me, as she was prone to do, so I kept my mouth shut but continued to observe.”
Sutherland asked Ona whether she was aware that Jason Harris had been murdered, and she said she was. She went on to say, “I was there during a time when a major portion of
Gin and Daggers
was being written. I’d seen my sister work on previous novels and was quite familiar with her work habits and approach to writing a book. This time, those things were conducted in a vastly different manner.”
“How so?” Sutherland asked her.
“She was incapable of sustaining focus and attention at her typewriter, so she dictated the book in fits and spurts, and gave the tapes to Jane for transcription.”
Sutherland asked what significance that might have.
“None in and of itself,” she replied, “but Mr. Harris seemed intimately involved in the process. I saw him on a number of occasions take Jane’s transcription and work it over with pencil. Once he’d done that, Jane would retype that portion to include his additions and changes.”
“What percentage of the work would you say was changed by Jason Harris?” Sutherland asked her.
“That would be impossible for me to determine,” Ona said, “although, based upon those portions of the book that I had an opportunity to observe, I would say it was substantial.”
Sutherland placed his notes on our table at Bubbs and poured us each another glass of wine. He said to me, “When Jason Harris was found in the Thames, I tried to assign some meaning to his death, as it might apply to Miss Ainsworth’s murder. I wasn’t very successful, until Mrs. Ainsworth-Zara came to me.” He picked up his notes again and continued telling me what had transpired in his office that morning.
Ona had told him, “It was obvious to me that Jane and Mr. Harris were concerned about keeping their activities secret from Marjorie. There was always consternation about having me in the house, and I had a constant feeling of being spied upon.”
“By them?” Sutherland asked her.
“Yes, and by the new butler, Marshall. Be that as it may, it was the relationship between Jane and Jason Harris that was of most interest to me. They were lovers.”
“How did you know they were lovers?” Sutherland asked her.
“Because I observed them. Once, when Marjorie was out of the house, I saw them embracing in the garden. It was dusk, and they probably thought their actions were covered by darkness, but there was quite a bit more light than they realized.”
“A serious embrace?” Sutherland asked.
She replied curtly, “I know the difference, Inspector Sutherland, between a friendly hug and kiss on the cheek, and a passionate embrace.”
“I must assume you do,” Sutherland said. “Was that the only time you observed them displaying affection?”
“No. I saw them holding hands once. Jane was transcribing my sister’s dictation, and Jason sat next to her. They touched hands a number of times, and they had an expression on their faces that was unmistakably carnal.”
Sutherland waited for her to say more. When she didn’t, he said, “Let’s assume your observations are correct and that there was some level of romantic interest between them. What significance does that have?”
“I am convinced that Jason Harris murdered my sister in order to benefit, in some tangible way, from his involvement with
Gin and Daggers.”
One of Bubbs’s waiters interrupted us and asked if we wished to order. Sutherland removed his glasses and said, “Time for a break, I think.” We perused the short menu, and I decided on poached turbot in a sauce into which strips of vegetables were woven. Sutherland opted for partridge. We agreed to share a salad garnished with venison as a first course.
“Can’t shake my Scottish love of game,” he said.
“One of my friends from Maine had hare with a chocolate and raspberry sauce the other night at La Tante Claire,” I said.
“That might be a bit much for this Scotsman,” Sutherland said with a gentle laugh. “It’s the chocolate that would do me in.”
We talked of things other than his meeting with Ona Ainsworth-Zara until after we’d consumed our salad. I asked what else had been discussed.
“I told her that since Harris is dead, I would hardly consider him to have benefited from anything. Her response was that his death might have been nothing more than an unfortunate coincidence that robbed him of the opportunity to gain whatever benefit he was seeking.”
I frowned; I didn’t buy that, and judging from the expression on Sutherland’s face, he didn’t, either. “She told you she’d seen them in the garden when Marjorie was out of the house. I wasn’t aware she ever left, at least not in recent months. She needed a wheelchair. Where did she go? Was this an isolated instance of her leaving the manor, perhaps to see a doctor?”
Sutherland said, “I asked the same question. Mrs. Ainsworth-Zara told me that her sister left Ainsworth Manor more than people realized. Evidently her chauffeur, Wilfred, took her out on a regular basis.”
“How regular?” I asked.
“Once every two weeks, she told me.”
“Had she ever asked Wilfred where he took Marjorie on these regular outings?”
“As a matter of fact, I did ask that, Jessica. We think very much alike, it seems. She said she’d tried to talk to him once, but failed to learn anything. As she told me, this Wilfred is much the archetypal chauffeur, deathly loyal to his employer. She told me, ‘It would take a severe form of Oriental torture to make him even admit he’d taken her anywhere.’ ”
Our main courses were served. As we enjoyed them, Sutherland leaned across the table and said in a whisper, “Those people at the table in the corner obviously know who you are, Jessica. They’ve been looking in your direction and commenting all evening.”
“How unfortunate,” I said, bringing a smile to his face.
When those dishes had been cleared, Sutherland said to me, “Well, Jessica, what do you make of all this?”
I’d forgotten for the moment about his meeting with Ona Ainsworth-Zara. Instead, I’d been grappling with how much to tell this handsome Scotland Yard inspector whom I found so attractive, yet was compelled to be on my guard with. Did he know about Jimmy Biggers, about the manuscript Biggers had delivered to me that afternoon, about Maria Giacona, David Simpson, the whole Jason Harris connection? I decided that if he did, he would have to be the one to bring them up.
I forced myself to return my attention to his question. “What do I make of it?” I repeated. “I don’t know. I was thinking of how angry Tony Zara was when he left the reading of Marjorie’s will.”
“Are you suggesting he might have murdered his wife’s sister?”
“No, but his suddenly leaving the country must raise some question with you.”
“That occurred to me, of course. Here we go again, Jessica, thinking alike. I raised that with Mrs. Ainsworth-Zara, and she did not offer the expected defense of her husband. Quite the opposite, I would say. She actually seemed pleased that I was thinking along those lines. She told me that her husband was
awfu’
upset because Marjorie often made a fuss over him, enjoyed calling him her ... what did she say?— her ‘little Mediterranean darling’ ... her ‘Italian duckie’ ... something like that. He assumed he would be included in her estate, according to his wife, and was furious when he wasn’t.”
“Awfu’?”
I said.
“Did I say that? You can take the Scot out of Scotland, but you can’t take the language out of him.
Awfu’.
It loosely means
very...
very upset ...
awfu’
upset.”
“This meal is
awfu’
good,” I said.
“Not quite the proper usage, I’m afraid,” he said pleasantly. “Getting back to my meeting this morning, I asked whether she was angry at being left out of her sister’s estate. She said that she wasn’t even surprised because, according to her, her sister had never forgiven her for marrying an Italian. He’s a count?”
“He bills himself as such,” I said.
“Dessert?” he asked, eyeing a dessert menu that had been placed in front of us.
“No, not for me, thank you,” I said. “This has been lovely, and I’m very pleased to see you again, but I can’t help but question the purpose of it. Clearly, you’ve gained nothing of substance from me.”
“Well, Jessica, perhaps now is the time for you to provide such substance.”