“Lucas, I will keep that firmly in mind. Now let me get my speech from my briefcase and we can spend a pleasant hour going over it.”
I’ve never been one to define handsomeness in men and beauty in women, believing that those things emanate from inside. But, by any standards, Chief Inspector George Sutherland was a handsome man. I judged him to be six feet four inches tall, and pegged his age at fifty, although my second estimate boosted it to fifty-five. He had brown hair with a tinge of red in it, and with a healthy crop of gray at the temples that added distinction. His face was large and lined, but his features were fine. There was an unmistakable kindness in his eyes, which were the color of Granny Smith apples. He wore a dark brown tweed jacket with leather patches at the elbows, a pale yellow V-neck sweater, white shirt, brown tie, and beautifully creased tan pants. Dark brown boots that came up above his ankles looked expensive.
I sat across a small table from him, sighed, and looked around the beautiful room. “It’s just as I remembered it,” I said. “A friend of mine told me he’d assumed everything had changed since it had been taken over by Trusthouse Forte. I don’t see any changes.” I looked at him. “Do you?”
“No, I can’t say that I do. I’ve had an affinity for Brown’s since moving here from Edinburgh, and it seems to have stayed a steady course since I first set foot in here fifteen years ago.”
“That’s comforting.”
“That’s England.”
We ordered full tea service and, after some preliminary chitchat, he said, “Well, Mrs. Fletcher, I would be delighted to hear from you about what happened at Ainsworth Manor.”
My first reaction was that this was the beginning of an interrogation. I was a suspect. But the easy way he said it, and his seemingly sincere interest in what my perceptions were, put me at ease. I quietly, and as concisely as possible, told him the events as I’d witnessed them that fateful night. He was a good listener.
When I was finished, and we’d selected crustless finger sandwiches from a silver tray, he said, “Mrs. Fletcher, I am well aware of your reputation in the literary field. I have also heard from sources I can’t quite remember that you don’t confine your solving of mysteries to the printed page.”
I laughed. I blushed, too.
“Now that the Yard is involved with the murder of Marjorie Ainsworth, and I have been put in charge of the investigation, I’m eager to get to the first step.”
“Which is?” I asked, biting into a cucumber sandwich.
“Seek help.”
I smiled, and it turned into a laugh. “That sounds like a very sensible first step to me.”
“It’s always worked for me. At least it buys me a few days to think while my ‘help’ gets the ball rolling.”
“I have to admit I’m pleased that you and Scotland Yard are involved, Inspector Sutherland. Frankly, I was dismayed that this brutal murder of a friend and a revered writer would be left in the hands of…”
He took me off the hook. “Mrs. Fletcher, it’s admirable that you don’t wish to be harsh on Crumpsworth’s Inspector Coots, but your unspoken instincts are correct. Inspector Coots… well, how shall I say it?… Inspector Coots is… the inspector of Crumpsworth.”
I laughed. “Your discretion is admirable, too, Inspector Sutherland. I get the picture.”
“Yes, well, with that out of the way, although I must say Coots is not out of the way-he insists upon continuing his investigation and is entitled to do that-let me ask my first helper her thoughts on the murder of Marjorie Ainsworth.”
“I take it, then, that I am your helper, not a suspect.”
“Despite what the papers say, you are not a suspect on my list, Mrs. Fletcher. But, as I told you before, I do need help. You were there and obviously have a trained eye. Tell me, what is your response to the possibility raised by Coots that the murderer might have been an intruder from outside, and not one of the weekend guests?”
I thought for a moment before saying, “Highly unlikely to me. An intruder, unless a bumbling one, would not choose a night when the house was filled with guests to break in. No, I think the killer was someone who was in the house by invitation.”
“Are you ruling out household staff, then?”
“No, by ‘invitation’ I mean someone who was expected to be in the house, either as a guest or because they were employed.”
“Care to venture a guess?”
“No.”
“Surely, Mrs. Fletcher, you must have had some thoughts about people attending the party. Let’s begin with the most basic question. Who would gain from Marjorie Ainsworth’s death?”
I thought of Lucas Darling and his comment about Marjorie’s will. “What about her will?” I asked.
“Aha, a good question. Her solicitor is to deliver it to me in the morning. That might shed some light on motive. Financial gain always heads the list.”
“I’d not put it at the top, although it certainly would rank high.”
“What would be above it?” he asked.
“Pride, I think, possibly followed by lust and, in third place, money.”
“Interesting, Mrs. Fletcher. Let us put the will and the question of money aside for the moment. Whose pride at the party would have been enhanced by having Miss Ainsworth dead?”
Jason Harris immediately came to mind, but I decided not to bring him up. I said, “I don’t know, Inspector Sutherland; perhaps someone who was in trouble and might be bailed out by Marjorie’s death.” He said nothing, but it was plain he was waiting for me to come up with a name. I was caught in an internal debate between wanting very much to be of help to him, yet not wanting to point fingers at anyone. I thought of Clayton Perry, Marjorie’s American publisher, who was rumored to be in serious financial difficulty, but that would be a matter of money, not pride. I said, “I hope you don’t think me uncooperative, Inspector Sutherland, but I think it would be terribly premature for me to speculate on people I met for the first time at Ainsworth Manor. You understand, I’m sure.”
“I must. You said lust ranked second on the list of motives. Somehow I can’t see where that would enter the picture.”
“Because Marjorie was… old?”
He smiled. “I suppose so.”
“You’re right, unless the lust had to do with being free to pursue a lustful venture once she was out of the way.”
“Interesting,” he said. “Was someone there that weekend who would fall into that category?”
I shook my head. “Not that I know of. I’m not being evasive, but I don’t know enough about anyone who was there to make such a judgment.”
Sutherland took a notebook from his breast pocket, flipped to a page he was looking for, and held it away from him. He was farsighted; I wondered why he didn’t put on glasses. Vanity? That would have disappointed me. He did not seem to be a vain man. I was pleased when he reached into his pocket, pulled out a pair of half-glasses, and brought the notebook closer to his eyes. “Tell me about Miss Ainsworth’s niece, Jane Portelaine.”
“I really don’t know what to say about Jane. She’s been devoted to her aunt for many years, and Marjorie always acknowledged that, right up until the end. She’s a seemingly cold and unhappy woman, but that’s a value judgment that I promised years ago not to make about people.” I paused and waited for a reaction. There was none. “There was a certain tension between Jane and her aunt,” I said. “I can’t deny that. Are you looking at Jane as a suspect?”
“No, just curious. She seems so obvious, but that’s because that type of woman, in that sort of situation, is always obvious. A red herring, I think you mystery writers call it.”
“Yes, we do. Every good mystery will have a red herring or two.”
He suddenly sat up in his chair and took on an animation that had not been there before. He asked, “Do you know the origin of the term ‘red herring,’ Mrs. Fletcher?”