“We are lovers.”
“I see.” I asked what she meant by his having lost credit for work he’d done.
“I suppose there is no sense in trying to say this gently, Mrs. Fletcher. The fact is that Jason wrote Gin and Daggers.”
If she intended to bring about a physical reaction from me with her bluntness, she’d succeeded. My heart tripped, and I looked away from her.
“Mrs. Fletcher.”
“Yes?”
“What I say is the truth.”
“I’m not debating whether you’re being truthful for now, although I don’t know what the truth actually is. A much larger question at the moment, Ms. Giacona, is why are you telling me? Do you expect me to do something?”
The softness in her eyes and face returned. Was it deliberate, a good actress changing emotions on cue? I couldn’t tell. All I knew was that her face was an expressive instrument, and I was responding to its shifts in mood.
“I want you to speak on Jason’s behalf.”
“To whom?”
“To the world.”
“The world?”
“Those in publishing, critics, the press.”
“Ms. Giacona, I could never do that.”
She sighed and looked at the ground.
“Let’s say what you’ve told me is true and, I repeat, I don’t know what the truth is. But, let’s say I did know for certain that Jason wrote Gin and Daggers. Marjorie Ainsworth was a dear friend. I would never do anything to sully her reputation.”
“What about Jason’s reputation, Mrs. Fletcher? Is it fair that his talent goes unrecognized, unrewarded?”
“I suppose not, but… was he paid to write the book?”
“A pittance.”
“Does he share in its success, monetarily, I mean?”
“No.”
“He was a writer for hire, then.”
She looked at me quizzically.
“It’s a term used in publishing. It means that he performed work, was paid for it, and has no further claim on that work.”
“In terms of money, yes. In terms of fairness, no. He’s not looking for more money, Mrs. Fletcher. I know he wouldn’t take money if it were offered, and he would be very angry if he even knew I was speaking to you about this. Jason is… he’s very shy and unsure of his talent. He would be content to have the world never know that he’s written this wonderful book that the critics have acclaimed. I am different. I love Jason very much and am determined that the world know what a fine writer he is.”
“That’s admirable, Ms. Giacona. Tell me, was there a written agreement between Jason and Marjorie?”
She shook her head. “I told him he should demand such an agreement, but he didn’t want to upset her.”
“I don’t think she would have been upset. She was a very fair person.”
It was more a snort from her than a laugh. “It is good to feel that way about a dead friend. Others do not feel that way about Marjorie Ainsworth.”
I debated asking how much of Gin and Daggers Jason had actually written, how Jane Portelaine fit into the picture, whether Marjorie’s publishers and agents knew of the arrangement. I decided to, but didn’t have the chance. Maria stood and looked down at me with angry eyes. “I have always heard about Jessica Fletcher being a good person, as well as a talented writer. I know you are a good writer, but as for the other attribute, I-”
I stood, too, and said, “Ms. Giacona, I think you have now gone a little too far. You expect me to stand up and proclaim that Jason Harris wrote Gin and Daggers when, in fact, I have no idea whether he did or not.”
“If I prove it to you?”
“Proof? You said there was no written agreement.”
“There is another way. Jason saw to that.”
“I thought he didn’t care.”
“He doesn’t. What he did was not deliberate but can be used now that she’s dead.”
I took it that she was glad Marjorie Ainsworth had died. I asked her to explain further.
“Jason used many things from his own life in Gin and Daggers, such as names of old friends and deceased family members. He gave some characters traits that come directly from himself. No one except Jason would have known those things, certainly not Marjorie Ainsworth.”
“That’s very interesting. I’ve read Gin and Daggers. Could you point out those things to me?”
“Not at this moment.”
“Why not?”
“Because I do not know what they are.”
“Ms. Giacona-”
“Please, allow me to finish. I know Jason included those things, because he told me he did, but he never told me exactly what they were.”
“Then Jason would have to tell me.”
“He would never do that. He made notes about them on the original manuscript.”
“Have you seen the manuscript?”
“No, but I now know where it is. I would never have come to you unless I could show the manuscript to you.”
“With Jason’s permission, I assume.”
“Without it. He wouldn’t approve.”
“That wouldn’t be right.”
“Is it more right that he goes unrecognized while someone else takes credit for his work?”
I turned and looked over the lake. A distinguished British couple pushing a baby carriage strolled past us, followed by two punk rockers, the girl’s hair a shocking pink, the boy’s hair orange, the two of them wearing matching black leather jackets with spikes.
“All right,” I said. “When will you show me the manuscript?”
“Tonight? I know that Jason will be out. You could come to his flat.”
“What time?”
“Eight. He’ll be leaving at seven.” She gave me an address on Pindar Street, near Liverpool Street Station. “It’s on the third floor,” she added. “I’m afraid there’s no lift.”
“The exercise will do me good, Ms. Giacona. I suppose that’s all we need to talk about this morning.”
“Except to say that I am sorry for having been… how shall I say it… for having been harsh in my words.”
“No apologies necessary. This has been a stressful time for everyone. Shall we share a cab?”
“No, I am to meet someone and I’m already late. Thank you, Mrs. Fletcher.”
She walked quickly along the edge of the lake and disappeared around a small building. I lingered at Speakers’ Comer for a half hour before hailing a taxi and returning to the Savoy, where I took the list I’d made the night before and wrote next to Jason Harris’s name
Obviously will derive tremendous benefit from Marjorie’s death. Now free to take credit for Gin and Daggers, with Marjorie not here to defend herself.
Chapter Eight
I called downstairs to the hotel operator and was given six messages that had been left that morning. A few were from media; the others were from Sir James Ferguson, the theatrical producer; Clayton Perry, Marjorie’s American publisher; Count Antonio Zara, Marjorie’s brother-in-law; and George Sutherland, who, the operator said, was a chief inspector from Scotland Yard.
I returned the call to Sutherland first and was put through immediately.
“Mrs. Fletcher, it’s good of you to return my call on Sunday.”
“Well, sir, you called me on Sunday. Besides, I would never hesitate to return a call to a chief inspector from Scotland Yard.”
“Good of you to say so, Mrs. Fletcher. It won’t come as any surprise that I’m calling about the unfortunate demise of Marjorie Ainsworth.”
“No, of course not. How may I help you?”
“I’m not quite sure, but I would appreciate the opportunity to explore some possibilities with you.” His voice was deep and resonant. I assumed he would be English, but a Scottish burr made the point that his roots were farther north.
“Anything you say,” I said.
“Would you have some free time this afternoon?”
“I’ll see to it.”
“It would be my pleasure to treat the eminent Jessica Fletcher to tea, if you wouldn’t think it too personal.”