I wasn’t sure whether it was too personal or not, but it really didn’t matter. I accepted his offer, and we agreed to meet at Brown’s Hotel, between Dover and Albemarle streets, in Mayfair. I’d had tea at Brown’s during one of my previous trips to London and remembered how delightful it had been.
I next returned Clayton Perry’s call, which was answered by his wife, Renée. She didn’t sound especially pleased to be hearing from me but, I reasoned, she probably wasn’t pleased to be hearing from anyone at that moment. Her husband came on the line and said pleasantly, “How are you holding up, Mrs. Fletcher?”
“As they say, as well as can be expected. You?”
“Aside from not liking the feeling of being captive, I suppose things could be worse. The reason I was calling was to invite you to dinner with us this evening.”
I’d almost forgotten about my eight o’clock meeting with Maria Giacona at Jason Harris’s flat. “That’s very kind of you, Clayton, but I’m afraid I have other plans.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. I think it might make a great deal of sense for us to get together to talk about this terrible incident on two levels.” He paused and then added, “Not only should we put our minds together where the murder of Marjorie Ainsworth is concerned, but I think you and I might find it mutually profitable to talk business.”
“I hardly think Marjorie’s death should trigger a burst of free enterprise.” I knew it sounded harsh, but it represented what I felt.
He seemed taken aback at my words, but only for an instant. He changed the subject and, after five minutes of general banter in which I finally agreed to find some time during the coming week to spend with him, we ended the conversation.
I reached Sir James Ferguson at his home, which, he told me, was in the elegant Belgravia section of London. He sounded nervous, although it might have been nothing more than a hesitant speech pattern. He had trouble getting to the point of his call. Finally, when he did, he said, “I was wondering if you would consider being my dinner companion at a party I am to attend this evening.”
Unlike the offer of tea from Chief Inspector Sutherland, there was no doubt that Ferguson ’s invitation was purely personal. I was flattered by it, and there was a certain appeal in it, but I told him I couldn’t because of previous plans. Ferguson sounded profoundly disappointed, and I quickly soothed him by saying that I would enjoy seeing him another time while in London. He seemed buoyed by my words, thanked me profusely for returning his call, and we ended the conversation by saying how we mutually looked forward to seeing each other at the opening session of the International Society of Mystery Writers.
My return call to Count Antonio Zara resulted in a succession of unanswered rings, at which I was not disappointed: grateful is more like it.
Ten minutes later, I heard what sounded like a scuffle outside my door. I looked through the peephole. There was considerable movement, which made it difficult to identify who was involved. Then I saw Lucas Darling’s face; it suddenly blurred into only one of his eyes as he pressed it against the door. “Lucas?” I said in a loud voice.
“Don’t open the door, Jessica, they’ve followed me.”
“Who followed you?”
“The vultures from the press, damn them. They’re parasites, bloodsucking leeches.”
A female voice shouted, “Please, Mrs. Fletcher, just give us five minutes with you to ask some questions.” Other voices, some male, some female, joined the request.
I went to the phone and called the assistant manager’s office. He wasn’t there, but I told a young woman that I needed security at my room immediately. Within minutes guards appeared and escorted the intruders away, including Lucas. “Jessica!” he yelled. I quickly opened the door and shouted, “He can stay,” pointing at Lucas. The press threatened to break away from the guards, but Lucas was quicker. He sprinted to my door, and as two reporters made a dash in my direction, I slammed the door and secured the lock.
“Bastards,” he said.
“It was inevitable that they would get up here, Lucas,” I said. “I was just thinking before you arrived that I really should hold a press conference and get rid of them once and for all.”
His look was sheer horror. “Don’t you dare, Jessica. They’ll tear you apart, quote you out of context. You’ll end up portrayed as a vicious, greedy, and insane murderess.”
I laughed and sat in a chair. “No, Lucas, I’m not afraid of that.” What I didn’t say was that I wasn’t about to spend the rest of my time in London sneaking out back doors wearing black wigs, garish makeup, and an Arab costume rented from a theatrical supply house.
Lucas sat in a matching chair and said, “We can discuss this later. First, tell me what happened in the park today. What did she have to say?”
I’d been debating whether or not to tell anyone about my conversation with Maria, and as I sat across from Lucas, I reached a decision-I would not tell anyone, at least not now.
I made up a story for him: Maria was upset at the possibility that her lover, Jason Harris, might be considered a suspect in Marjorie Ainsworth’s murder, and wanted me to know that Jason had been devoted to Marjorie, not only as a protégé, but personally as well. Lucas’s screwed-up face indicated that he either didn’t believe me or was scornful of the sentiment expressed by Maria about Jason Harris. “Poppycock,” he said with finality.
“I haven’t made a judgment about Jason Harris or anyone, Lucas; I’m just telling you what we talked about.”
He narrowed his eyes and cocked his head. “Are you telling me the truth, Jessica? It seemed to me that the young woman had much weightier things to discuss than that.”
I shrugged. “I’m meeting with a chief inspector from Scotland Yard this afternoon.”
That took his mind off my meeting in the park. “Who is he? Why does he want to see you? Is he dealing with you as a suspect?”
“No, I don’t think so. Frankly, I’m pleased that Scotland Yard is involved. I would hate to think of that dreadful little man Coots remaining in charge of the investigation. Don’t you agree?”
“Yes, of course. You’re going to the Yard?”
“No, as a matter of fact we’re having tea at Brown’s Hotel.”
“That’s highly unusual.”
“I think it’s simply courteous and nice. Besides, I would love a chance to have tea at Brown’s again.”
“It isn’t what it used to be since Trusthouse Forte took over.”
“Well, I’ll certainly see, won’t I? What are your plans for the afternoon?”
“I was going to spend it with you discussing the opening session and going over your speech. I assume you’ve decided to incorporate some comments about Marjorie’s murder.”
I nodded.
“It’s very important that what you say reflects the true sentiments of the society as a whole.”
I looked at him quizzically.
“Don’t misunderstand, Jessica, but this entire matter is very sensitive.”
“Everyone seems to have sensitivities that must be reckoned with while, of course, poor Marjorie’s sensitivities are no longer an issue. All right, Lucas, I’ll be happy to go over my speech with you and to discuss the opening session, as long as we leave time for me to meet the inspector for tea.”
“Would you like me to come with you when you meet him?”
“No.”
“Jessica, I know you have a reputation for going things alone, but it isn’t the smartest approach considering the circumstances.”
“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.