Gin and Daggers (18 page)

We pulled up in front of La Tante Claire. Seth, who was now adept at handling British currency, paid the driver, and we moved toward the door of the restaurant. I glanced back; the large white Cadillac had pulled up behind cars half a block away, and the lights had been turned off.

“Strange,” I muttered.

“What?” Morton asked.

“Nothing. Come, let’s enjoy a wonderful meal together.”

“Thank you for accommodating us at the last minute,” I told the maître d’hôtel.

“My pleasure, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said in his charming accent. “I have been following events surrounding you very carefully. By the way, my wife has read all the French translations of your books.”

“How flattering.”

“I had one delivered to me when I knew you would be dining with us. I thought perhaps...”

He obviously wasn’t sure whether he was out of place to be requesting an autograph. He wasn’t, of course, and I told him I would be happy to inscribe the book to his wife.

We were shown to what was obviously a prime table. There were only a dozen of them, and ours was in a corner, offering an unobstructed view of the beautiful room, basically white, with some blond wood, blue curtains, lavender-gray armchairs, and portraits of lovely ladies on the walls. The maître d’hôtel handed us expensively printed menus. He also handed me a copy of one of my novels that had been translated.

“What is your wife’s name?” I asked.

“Nicole.”

I wrote a long inscription, tossing in an occasional French word that I happened to know, and handed it back to him. He beamed and told me his wife would be extremely pleased.

“I don’t understand this menu,” Morton said.

“Neither do I,” I said, “But I intend to fake it.”

Seth laughed. He spoke serviceable French, and we allowed him to translate for us, although he did need the help of a waiter on a few items. I knew that Morton would have preferred a steak house where he could order mashed potatoes and corn on the cob. Instead, we had scallop and oyster ragout studded with truffles as an appetizer. “The monkfish with saffron, capers, and celery root sounds wonderful to me,” I said. Seth decided to be adventurous and try the fillet of hare with bitter chocolate and raspberry sauce. We both looked at Morton, whose face was screwed up in debate with himself. He decided on lamb with parsley and garlic, and asked timidly, as though he expected to be attacked for asking, “Do you have any mashed potatoes?”

We had a wonderful meal together. Being with them represented something familiar and solid to hold on to, and I reveled in the laughter, the gossip about people in Cabot Cove, and Seth’s and Morton’s reaction to my recounting again everything that had happened since arriving in London.

We all enjoyed crème brûlée and petits fours with coffee to end the glorious meal, and Morton proclaimed the mashed potatoes the best he’d ever eaten.

When we stepped outside into the clear, fresh air, I breathed deeply and said, “Let’s take a walk. I’m in the mood.”

We started arm in arm down Royal Hospital Road, almost giddy enough to break into a song and dance. I didn’t tell them that my reason for wanting the walk had nothing to do with a need to exercise off some of the dinner. I was aware the moment we had come out of the restaurant that we were being watched by a man across the street. He stood behind the white Cadillac, and I couldn’t see him well enough to determine anything about him.

I led the trio around a corner, stopped, and said, “Indulge me a moment. Keep walking. Don’t look back. Just keep walking. I’ll catch up with you in a second.”

They looked quizzically at each other, but did what I asked. I stepped behind a wall that defined the property of a large house and waited. I saw my friends continue up the street, then heard footsteps rounding the corner, stopping for a second, then moving at an accelerated rate. The minute the feet passed me, I stepped out and said, “Excuse me, are you following us?”

Jimmy Biggers turned and looked at me.

“Mr. Biggers, what a pleasant surprise,” I said.

“Mrs. Fletcher, I ...” He smiled and shuffled from one foot to the other. “I was just out taking a walk in the neighborhood.”

“I would think your neighborhood walks would take place in Wapping.”

“Well, nice to change the scenery every once in a while. What are you doing here?”

“We had dinner at La Tante Claire. Didn’t you notice?”

“No, I just got here.”

“My friends from Maine and I are taking a walk. We’ll probably end up in some pub or hotel bar, extending the evening. Would you care to join us?”

By this time Seth and Morton had decided they’d gone far enough and were on their way back to where Biggers and I stood.

“Are you all right, Jess?” Morton asked, placing himself between Biggers and me. “You’re the fella we met this morning in that Red Feather pub,” he said.

“Right you are, mate,” said Biggers.

I announced my plans for the rest of the evening and suggested we move on.

“No argument from me,” Morton said. “I get the creeps out here on the street at night.”

“You should have worn your uniform.”

“That’s what I said, but you told me to wear a suit.”

“And you’re a darling to do it for me. What do you say we find an archetypal British pub and have ourselves a shandy for a nightcap?”

“What’s a shandy?” Seth asked.

“Half a bitter, half lemonade,” Biggers said. “Come on, I’ll drive us to one of my favorites.”

Our vehicle was, of course, the battered white Cadillac.

“We’re on Wapping Wall,” I said after we’d driven for fifteen minutes.

“Right you are, Mrs. Fletcher, my neighborhood. I feel comfortable over here.” We pulled up in front of a pub called the Prospect of Whitby. “The manager’s a chum o’ mine,” Biggers said as he held open the door for me. “I think you’ll enjoy it.”

Because the pub sat directly on the Thames, and because it dated back to the sixteenth century (the area on which it sat was once known as the “hanging dock,” where the infamous Judge Jeffreys would approve of the bodies of his victims hanging in chains, and then enter the tavern to feast), it was dripping with atmosphere and packed with customers, most of them American.

Biggers was greeted warmly and we were led to a scarred table in the darts room. A bouncy, pleasant young waitress, who threatened to burst through her white blouse, gave Biggers a kiss on the cheek and asked what we would be having.

“Friends from America,” Biggers said. “Let’s give ’em a taste of the good stuff, best bitter for everyone.”

“I thought you’d be taking us to the Red Feather,” I said.

“Have to admit I’m partial to it, Mrs. Fletcher. Never see a tourist there, but I thought you’d enjoy this place. Lots of postcards sent back to the States from here.”

Biggers proved to be an amiable and entertaining drinking companion, although Morton Metzger didn’t seem to be enthralled, judging by the perpetual sour expression on his face. Seth, on the other hand, seemed to be enjoying the little Cockney private detective, and they were soon talking, laughing, and slapping each other’s backs like old fraternity brothers.

Eventually, after the third round of best bitter had been served (I’d switched to a shandy because I knew I couldn’t handle another straight beer), I brought up the subject of Jason Harris’s murder.

“Nasty business, that,” Biggers said. “Learn anything startling at the coppers this morning?”

“No, just what I mentioned to you at the Red Feather.”

“What did that sack o’ manure Simpson tell you?”

“Simpson?” I sat back and scrutinized him across the table. “How did you know I saw David Simpson?”

“Me gut told me.”

“You’ve been following me all day, Mr. Biggers.”

“Just the latter part of it,” he said, “after you woke me up and I put me act together. Simpson’s no good, a slimy one, if you catch my drift.”

“Because of the business he’s in? Yes, I would agree.”

“More than that. He’s connected.”

“Connected? You mean with organized crime?”

“That’s what I mean. Tell me, you seem to have become a mother hen of sorts to the Giacona girl.”

“Oh no, but I do feel sorry for her. She’s a nice person.”

“Is she now?”

“Yes... she is.”

Seth and Morton listened closely to our conversation.

“Mrs. Fletcher—can I call you Jessica?—I had a fling with a bird named Jessica once, lovely thing, but mean-spirited when she drank.”

“Yes, call me Jessica.”

“All right then, Jessica, you might ask Miss Giacona about David Simpson.”

“She’s already spoken to me of him. He’s her dead lover’s stepbrother.”

“That may be true, Jessica, but Simpson was also her lover.”

“The two of them?”

“Not at once.” He laughed loudly, and we all smiled. “She did a bit o’ dancin’ for Mr. Simpson and he took a shine to her, sort of a favorite.”

“She was a stripper ... exotic dancer?”

“Good, too, real popular. Beautiful bird.”

“Yes, she is.”

“Yup, David Simpson and she had quite a fling. She didn’t mention that to you?”

“No, she didn’t.”

“Probably a bit embarrassed. More bitter?”

“No, I think it’s time we leave.”

I insisted upon paying the check, and Biggers drove us back to the Savoy.

“Thank you for escorting us,” I said. “It’s been a pleasant and educational evening.”

“My pleasure, Jessica.” He said to Seth, “Enjoyed your company, sir.” And to Morton: “I’m really a likable chap once you get to know me.”

“I like you.”

“Yeah, well, good night, everyone. Sleep well. See you soon.”

“I
don’t
like him,” Morton said as we entered the hotel.

“I do,” said Seth.

I said, “I’m not sure whether I like him or not, but I have a feeling I’m going to learn a lot more from him before this little London escapade is over.”

I had trouble falling asleep after returning from the evening with Seth, Morton, and Jimmy Biggers, and turned to
Gin and Daggers,
which I read for nearly two hours before drifting off.

I wasn’t reading for pleasure this time; my first read had provided that. This time I concentrated on characters and events that might possibly link up with people and episodes from Jason Harris’s life. It was an impossible task. How could I know whether the name given to a certain character had relevance where Jason was concerned? I also knew that if Jason had included real names, it would have violated a steadfast principle of Marjorie Ainsworth’s—that real names never be used in any novel. Some authors will inadvertently, or deliberately, name characters after people they know; either because the name comes easily to them, or because they wish to give a friend or family member a special treat while reading the book. Not Marjorie. She considered that practice to be patently amateurish, and it didn’t take much to get her up on her soapbox on the subject.

My meeting with Jason’s stepbrother, David Simpson, had been entirely too cursory, and I decided to contact him again. Had Simpson read either the manuscript or the finished book? If so, he probably had some inkling as to which references Jason used to establish his authorship—provided he had lent a creative hand to it. I still had my doubts about that, although I had to admit to myself that after reading a major portion of
Gin and Daggers
for the second time, I could certainly discern a change from the Marjorie Ainsworth writing style with which I was so familiar. Yes, it was possible that another hand had played a part in writing the book. That didn’t mean, however, that it was Jason Harris’s.

I thought about Marjorie’s failing health over the past few years, and how she had dictated a great deal of her correspondence to her niece, Jane. I’d once tried dictating one of my own novels and had found the process excruciating. Not only that, what came out in the transcription of the tapes was a markedly different style from when I sat at my trusty typewriter and pecked away word after word, sentence after sentence. I did, of course, heavily edit the transcript of the dictation, which brought the finished manuscript into line with my hunt-and-peck style. Even then there was some change. Could this explain the difference in
Gin and Daggers?
Perhaps. The only person who might provide insight would be Jane Portelaine, and based upon my brief exchange with her at the cemetery, I doubted whether she would welcome such a conversation with me. But she had suggested I call her if I wished to spend time at Ainsworth Manor before returning to Cabot Cove, and I intended to take her up on it.

My first thought upon awakening the next morning was Maria Giacona. Was Jimmy Biggers telling the truth about her life as an exotic dancer and her affair with Jason’s stepbrother? I suspected he had been truthful, and it perplexed me. I wanted to call Maria, but I had no idea where to reach her. She’d never given me an address or telephone number, aside from Jason’s flat, and I doubted whether she would be staying there. But on the chance that she might, I went to the London telephone directory looking for a Jason Harris. No listing; he had either not had a telephone or had requested he be excluded from the book.

I made my usual list of what I intended to accomplish that day: call on David Simpson, and stop by Jason’s flat in the hope that I might catch Maria there.

I received a call after breakfast from Marjorie Ainsworth’s solicitor, a huffy man named Chester Gould-Brayton, who spoke in slow, sonorous tones. He said, “Mrs. Fletcher, it occurred to me that you might wish to be present at the formal reading of Ms. Ainsworth’s last will and testament.”

“I’d wondered whether I’d be invited, considering I’ve been included in it,” I said, “but I certainly wouldn’t be offended if I weren’t. I don’t intend to accept whatever money she’s left me. I prefer to donate it to the study center that I understand is to be established with the majority of the estate.”