“No, I don’t.”
He seemed pleased that he could explain it to me. “It goes back to the seventeenth century, perhaps even earlier. Animal activists who were dismayed by the senseless killing of foxes for sport would smoke herrings, which turned them red, and then drag them through the fields. The smell of the fish was so strong that it disguised the foxes’ scent-making it possible for them to beat a hasty retreat while packs of confused hunting dogs sniffed around in circles. It was a simple and effective ruse.”
“That’s fascinating. I will now inject red herrings into my books with greater respect.”
“The business of your necklace, Mrs. Fletcher, about which so much has been made in the press. You obviously dropped it when you discovered the body.”
“No, I don’t think I did. I would have heard it drop. The only sound I heard was when I kicked it under the bed. It obviously was there when I entered the room.”
“Do you have an explanation for that?”
It was the first question that sounded like a question to a suspect. I said, “I have no idea how it happened, although I did leave my bedroom prior to going to sleep. I went to the bathroom for about ten minutes. It’s possible someone came into my room during that period, took the necklace, murdered Marjorie, and, in the process, dropped it.”
“Deliberately, of course.”
“Of course.”
“Perhaps the intruder theory isn’t so farfetched. A thief enters the manor, goes to your room first, and takes your necklace, goes to the next room-I understand your bedroom was next to Miss Ainsworth’s-proceeds to steal from that room, is startled by Miss Ainsworth awakening, drops your necklace in the confusion, and, in order to silence Miss Ainsworth, rams a dagger into her.”
I shook my head. “No, Inspector Sutherland, I think that is farfetched. I believe someone placed my necklace there to cast suspicion on me.”
He nodded and finished his tea. “Mrs. Fletcher, I have found this to be extremely interesting and pleasant. You are… well, may I say, you are an intelligent and attractive woman.”
My blush was slightly deeper this time. I simply said, “Thank you.”
“I was quite serious when I said I was looking for help. I know that you have been restricted to Great Britain, at least for a period of time. I would be most appreciative if you would use some of that time to confer with me, to give me the benefit of your insights. I was not at the manor when Marjorie Ainsworth was killed. You were. In effect, you could be my eyes there, which would be especially helpful considering that your eyes are obviously observant.”
Was he out to flatter me, or did he mean it? It didn’t matter. Either approach brought about in me the same pleasant sensation. I assured him that I would be available, if he needed me, at any time.
We stood on the pretty street in front of Brown’s Hotel. He took my hand in both of his and said, “Thank you for a most pleasant afternoon, Mrs. Fletcher. You’ll be hearing from me soon.”
We looked at each other and waited for the other to make a move in the opposite direction. I believe he did so out of a sense of chivalry; the awkward situation demanded it. I watched him walk away, and was struck by his gait. Some people walk with confidence and purpose; others amble, which belies their basic modest nature. He certainly fell into the latter category. He looked back once; I waved, then turned and walked in the opposite direction until rounding the corner.
It wasn’t until I had returned to the Savoy and had settled in an easy chair near the window that the warm feelings I’d experienced since leaving Brown’s were pushed aside by a sudden recognition that I might have had tea with an extremely skilled interrogator. Had he found me as attractive as I perceived, or was it his way, was it his technique of drawing me into his confidence?
“I think I am a suspect,” I said aloud as I picked up the phone to order coffee from room service. “I really think I am, and this time it isn’t some Napoleonic inspector from Crumpsworth, it’s a top investigator from Scotland Yard.”
Chapter Nine
I left the Savoy in plenty of time for my eight o’clock meeting with Maria Giacona at Jason Harris’s flat. “Number 17 Pindar Street,” I told the cab driver, a ruddy-faced gentleman who smelled of too liberal a splash of after-shave lotion. “I’m told it’s near Liverpool Street Station. I really don’t have more information than that, I’m afraid.”
He turned and laughed. “No need for more information, ma’am. I know Pindar Street. We’ll be there shortly, depending upon the bloody traffic.”
I sat back and smiled in the taxi’s spacious rear compartment. Of course he knew where Pindar Street was; London cab drivers know their city better than any other drivers on earth.
He chatted amiably as we headed for our destination. “What an interesting area of the city,” I said. “There are so many parts of London I’ve never seen.”
“Some not especially worth seeing,” he said. “We’re coming into the Liverpool Street Station area now. Many changes going on, ma‘am, but it’s still a grotty neighborhood. Lots of young people moving in ’cause the rents are low, struggling artists and writers and the like. They all used to live on Grub Street, were called Grub Streeters. There’s no Grub Street any longer.” He pointed to what looked like an iron Gothic cathedral. “That’s the Liverpool Street Station, ma’am, and next to it is the Great Eastern Hotel. Not much on amenities, but quite a bargain, I hear.”
I was glad I was staying at the Savoy. There was somthing ominous about the area surrounding Liverpool Street Station, although the streets themselves-residential buildings of varying sizes and shapes dotted with small restaurants and shops-were pleasant enough.
Pindar Street was tiny and slightly curved, running between Norton and Appold, not far from Finsbury Square. We stopped in front of Number 17, four stories tall and, I judged, classical in its architecture, although it was difficult to see much because the street was dark. The only light in the building came from two windows on the top floor.
As I paid the fare, the driver said, “You ought to be careful on the streets, ma’am. There’s been some nasty incidents of late.”
I thought of Lucas’s same admonition and decided to heed the advice of both. “I won’t be here long,” I said. “A brief visit with an old friend.”
“Well, enjoy your stay in London.”
I stood on the sidewalk and watched him drive off, wondering whether I should have asked him to stay until I was safely inside. I suddenly felt isolated and alone. The only activity on Pindar Street seemed to be a small Chinese takeout restaurant on the far corner, its yellow light spilling out onto the pavement in front of it. I then became aware of the faint sound of music coming from one of the buildings near me, dissonant string music with steady, underlying drone tones, accompanied by complex cross-rhythms played on tablas, hand drums used widely throughout the Middle East, India, and Africa. East Indian, I decided, and cocked my head to listen better. I’d introduced an East Indian detective in one of my earlier novels and had steeped myself in the music and culture. Obviously, a mixed ethnic neighborhood, immigrants making their way in a strange city.
I climbed three cement steps to the front door of Number 17, took a tiny flashlight from my bag, and used it to search for the names of occupants, perhaps buzzers. I found neither. Maria had said it was on the third floor, but how could I let her know I was downstairs? The outside door would certainly be locked. I pushed it; it swung open with a groan. So much for that theory.
I stepped into the dark foyer and looked up a narrow flight of stairs to the first floor, reminding myself that in Europe I was standing on the ground floor; one flight up was the first. A low-wattage bare bulb spilled eerie light over the landing and a portion of the stairway.