Coffee, Tea, or Murder? (8 page)

George thanked Vicks, introduced his two associates, and said, “While I appreciate the reason you are here in London, and that a schedule has been established for you, I am afraid the investigation into Mr. Silverton’s murder must take precedence. However, I will try not to inconvenience you too much. Since we are gathered together in this room, my associate, Ms. Simmons, will read names from the passenger and crew manifests provided by SilverAir’s London operations office. Please respond when your name is called.”

The young woman read off the names, eliciting a variety of responses—“Yo,” “Here,” “Present.” When she was finished, she told George that there were eleven people who hadn’t responded. I’d kept track as she read. Captain Caine and the flight attendant, Ms. Molnari, were among the missing, along with Christine Silverton, and others whose names I didn’t recognize.

“Thank you for indulging us in that exercise,” George said. “Reminds one of being back in school, doesn’t it?’

There were a few laughs.

“I will want to speak with each of you individually,” he said. “Perhaps we’ll have an opportunity to do that as the day progresses, and during the flight back to the States.”

“You’re coming with us?” one of the reporters asked.

“Yes,” George replied. “You’ll have the pleasure of my company as a passenger, and I’ll have the pleasure of experiencing this new airline. Please let my associates know before you leave here this morning where you intend to go, and how you can be reached. We’ll need a complete list of names, addresses, and phone numbers, including mobiles. In the meantime, I believe the hotel staff is eager to serve your breakfast. Enjoy your full English fry-ups.”

George slipped into the vacant chair next to me.

“Full English fry-ups?” I said.

“Full English breakfast,” he responded. “Also known here as a fry-up. Everything fried. Of course, most Brits avoid it these days in health consciousness and have cereal and yogurt for breakfast. But the hotels feel their guests want something authentic.”

“And you, sir?” Seth asked.

“I love my fry-ups,” George said with a chuckle. “Nothing like a proper, hearty breakfast to start the day.”

While George’s two assistants circulated among the tables, taking down names and contact information, the waitstaff served us heaping platters of eggs, bacon, sausage, tomatoes, fried bread, and mushrooms. Despite the grim event of the previous night, appetites were not diminished, and we attacked our fry-ups with gusto.

When the meal was over and people began leaving the room, George took me aside. “I have a copy of your schedule for the day and evening,” he said. “Will you be following it?”

“I don’t think so,” I replied. “I’d like to have enough free time to spend with you.”

“That certainly appeals, Jessica, but I’m afraid I’ll be tied up virtually all day getting ready to accompany you back to Boston. I’m sure you’ve noticed the vultures waiting outside.”

“The press.”

“Yes. This is a big story here in the UK. Silverton’s plans to introduce a new carrier to London generated lots of press. Now, with his demise, the stories will get even bigger, and more numerous. The pressure is on. I’ve been in touch with stateside law enforcement. It will truly be a hands-across-the-sea investigation.”

“Then you do whatever it is you have to do, George. Actually, it might be more beneficial for me to spend time with the other passengers. I might learn something valuable.”

“Best you stay clear of it,” he said.

“Why? You allowed me to accompany you to the scene of the crime. I feel very much a part of this. Wayne Silverton came from Cabot Cove, and I was privileged to have been invited on the inaugural flight of his new airline. Someone with whom I crossed the Atlantic may have murdered him. I want to know who that was, and see him, or her, brought to justice.”

“And I know better than to argue with you, Jessica. I will free myself for dinner.”

“So will I.”

Seth came up to us. “Looks like you two are scheming something big,” he said.

“We always are,” George said, with a wink. “Good to see you again, Doctor. I hope we have a chance to talk.”

“Since you’ll be on our flight home, I suspect we’ll have lots of time for gab.”

“I look forward to it,” George said.

I walked George and his two associates outside where chaos reigned. The cramped, U-shaped area in front of the Savoy was chockablock with vehicles, some belonging to the police, others to the media. The elegantly attired doormen, and less decked out parking attendants, scrambled to maintain order and to keep traffic moving. George’s Jaguar was parked directly in front. Limousine drivers in dark suits, white shirts, and ties stood to one side, holding signs indicating they were waiting for members of our large party. One explained to me that they’d had to park out on the Strand because of the logjam near the hotel.

George and I arranged to meet back at the hotel at six. He squeezed my arm and walked to the driver’s side of his car. The doormen cleared a path for his car, and he made his way out to the Strand.

I returned inside to rejoin Seth, the Metzgers, and the Shevlins who were lingering over coffee. By this time, the lobby was swarming with press, and we decided the best way to avoid them was to keep to the timetable of tourist attractions that Wayne had set up for us. There were a number of choices presented to us on the schedule. We’d opted for a visit to The Charles Dickens Museum that morning. Lunch was free time. In the afternoon, we were to spend time at the Old Bailey, where we would be briefed by one of the court’s judges on the differences between British and U.S. law. That there are any surprises many people, considering that our system of jurisprudence is based upon theirs. Mort had been disappointed to learn that Scotland Yard’s famed Black Museum, in which thousands of exhibits from all sorts of crimes were housed and displayed for those with a special invitation, had been closed, its memorabilia warehoused until plans could be made for a reopening. I’d visited it a few years ago as George Sutherland’s guest and found it to be the most chilling museum experience of my life. I especially recall one exhibit. It had to do with a teenage girl who was celebrating her birthday. A package arrived at her home with an unsigned card that read, “You’ll be surprised how closely it brings things.” Inside was a pair of expensive binoculars. When her father put the eyepieces up to his eyes and turned the focusing knob, needle-sharp, solid wooden stakes sprung from both eyepieces, penetrating his eyes and leaving him permanently blind. One of his daughter’s former suitors, whom she’d jilted, was eventually convicted of the dastardly crime. In my opinion, no punishment could have been severe enough.

We were joined on the trip to the former home of Charles Dickens, the great Victorian novelist and playwright, by Churlson Vicks, Wayne’s British partner in SilverAir, and a half dozen others, including three members of the travel press who’d been on the inaugural flight and had insisted they were entitled to stay with the party. I’ve made it a point to visit Dickens’s house on Doughty Street on almost every trip I’ve made to London. Somehow, the experience of standing in the space where this literary giant created his best works seemed to be absorbed through my pores each time I was there, and sent me back to Cabot Cove brimming with creative energy. The house on Doughty Street was one of many homes Dickens had in London, but the only one to have survived. It was where he’d enjoyed one of his most productive periods.
Oliver Twist
,
Nicholas Nickleby
, and
Barnaby Rudge
were written there, and
Pickwick Papers
was completed at that address. I especially enjoyed reading letters written by Dickens to his agent, William Creech, and to his publishers, asking for money, a situation to which every writer, past and present, can relate. One such letter, framed and hung on the wall of Dickens’s study, to Chapman and Hall, publisher of
Pickwick Papers
, reads: “When you have quite done counting the sovereigns received for Pickwick, I should be much obliged to you to send me up a few.”

I smile every time I think of that letter.

We spent an hour in the Dickens Museum. Vicks and I ended up in the basement where many first editions of Dickens’s works are housed. The rest of our party was on the upper floors; mementoes from Dickens’s parallel theatrical career are displayed there.

“Got a minute?” Vicks whispered to me. “Lovely day out there. I thought some air would do us both good.”

I didn’t feel the need for fresh air at that moment, but agreed to accompany him outside. He was right; it was a spectacular, sunny day in London, the sky a clear cobalt blue.

“You obviously enjoy London,” he said as we stood on the quiet street lined with quaint Georgian terraced houses.

“Very much. I just wish I had more time to spend here.”

“More time to spend with your friend, the inspector?”

His question surprised me. “Yes, that too,” I replied.

“You’re obviously close to him.”

“We’re very good friends,” I said, feeling a hint of resentment at this query into my private life.

“I understand you accompanied him to the crime scene last night.”

“That’s right.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“What conclusions have you and your inspector friend come to about who killed Wayne Silverton?”

“We haven’t—or at least I haven’t reached any conclusions, that is. Besides, if Inspector Sutherland has some preliminary thoughts, I doubt he would share them with me. He’s a highly respected professional.”

“Nor would you share them with me if he had,” Vicks said in an accusatory tone thay annoyed me.

“Correct,” I said. “While we’re on this unpleasant subject,” I said, “perhaps you have some ideas to share with me.”

“About Wayne’s killer. Yes, I do have a few. And unlike you, I have no hesitation about imparting them, Mrs. Fletcher. You need not look any further than our esteemed partner, Mr. Salvatore Casale.”

“Oh. Why is that?”

His laugh reminded me of some of my least favorite high school teachers. It was a dismissive laugh, as though to say, “You silly, naïïve girl.”

“Surely,” he said, “you know of Sal’s background.”

“I know that he and Wayne were partners in some Las Vegas real estate ventures.”

That laugh again.

“That’s a genteel way of putting it,” he said. “Sal’s connections with your American gangsters are well-known.”

“Not well-known to me,” I said.

“I wouldn’t expect a woman of your refinement to be aware of such things. Frankly, I don’t relish having a partner with Sal’s sordid background. I fought Wayne when he suggested bringing Casale and his tainted money into the deal to get SilverAir off the ground. I pointed out to Silverton that the banks might not be enthusiastic about lending huge sums of money to a company with a known mafioso on its board. But he was adamant. I’ve never known anyone quite as stubborn as Wayne Silverton. No, arrogant is more like it.”

As Vicks delivered his condemnation of Mr. Casale and, by extension, Wayne, I thought of what George had said about Vicks and his own unsavory reputation. George had also brought up the allegation of Casale’s mob connections back in the States. Here was a classic case of the pot calling the kettle black, although I had to admit to myself that everything I knew about Casale and Vicks was hearsay. I had no firsthand proof of either man’s alleged wrongdoings, but I had no reason to doubt what George had said. I’d never known him to exaggerate even in the slightest.

I decided this sidewalk conversation wasn’t going to produce anything of interest regarding Wayne’s murder. But I was compelled to say before breaking it off, “Even if you are correct and Mr. Casale does have criminal connections—and that’s by no means proved—it still isn’t a reason to accuse him of murder.”

“On the surface, you are quite right, Mrs. Fletcher. But if you add motive—I believe motive is always of primary interest in a murder case—if you mix into the equation that there was bad blood between Casale and Wayne, you have your important motive.”

“And what motive was that?”

“Money, of course. Not only was Wayne stubborn and arrogant, he wasn’t always aboveboard in his business dealings. He promised Casale and
his people
a great deal more for their investment than was actually delivered. And you know, I’m sure, that
his people
don’t settle their grievances in a court of law. They take a more direct approach.”

“And you, Mr. Vicks? Were you also dissatisfied with your investment?”

Before he could answer me, we were interrupted by the emergence of the rest of our party from the Dickens Museum.

“There you are, Jessica,” Maureen Metzger said. “We’ve been looking all over the museum for you.”

“Mr. Vicks and I decided to get some fresh air,” I said. “It’s such a lovely day.”

“That it is,” said Seth, taking a deep breath. “It’s a truly fat day in London.” Seth always referred to such splendid days as “fat.”

“I’m going to be leaving you at this point,” Vicks said. “It’s been a pleasure. Enjoy the rest of your day—this ‘fat’ day as the good doctor calls it.”

We watched him saunter up Doughty Street and disappear into a crowd of people at the corner.

“Nice fellow,” Seth offered.

“Looks like a really successful businessman,” Maureen said. “What were you talking about, Jessica? The murder?”

“Investments, actually,” I said.

“Ooh. Did he give you any good tips?” she asked.

“Nothing I can use,” I said, smiling at her.

I didn’t want to fuel any speculation on the part of my friends, especially with members of the press within earshot. Even though the reporters traveling with us that morning covered travel and business, they were never far away, and I knew their instinct was to listen for a story. I didn’t want to provide them with one.