“What a break,” he said.
“I don’t think so. As I told Inspector Sutherland, the gardener might have picked it up anywhere in the house. It doesn’t necessarily have a connection with the murder.”
Lucas thought for a moment before saying, “You’re absolutely right, Jessica. The thought of Marjorie Ainsworth being murdered by a common laborer is too dismaying to contemplate. It has to have been done by someone with better credentials than that.”
I couldn’t help laughing at the pomposity in what he’d said. “I’m famished,” I said.
Later, after I’d consumed a lunch of Scotch eggs-hardboiled eggs wrapped in saveloy, a highly seasoned sausage-and Lucas had put away a ploughman’s lunch (he insisted we order a glass of Tusker Bitter and Wethered Bitter, and do a taste test; he swore the Wethered was better, although I couldn’t discern any difference), I asked him whether he’d ever heard of a London private detective named Jimmy Biggers.
You never had to wonder what Lucas Darling was thinking. His face was like a television screen, his thoughts playing on it in Technicolor. The mention of Mr. Biggers’s name brought forth an expression of horror usually reserved for the discovery of corpses.
“You do know him.”
“Oh, Jessica, of course I know him. Why do you mention him?”
“He’s called me at the hotel a couple of times.”
“Don’t call him back.”
“Why not?”
“Because”-he leaned closer and whispered conspiratorially-“ Jimmy Biggers is not famous in London, Jessica. He’s infamous.”
“Really? Sounds intriguing.”
“He’s a rotter who operates barely on this side of the law.”
“Tell me more.”
“Jimmy Biggers… Well, do you remember the murder a year or two ago of the professor at Cambridge?”
I shook my head.
“He was one of Cambridge ’s most esteemed and revered professors of ancient Greek literature. His name was Pickings, Sir Reginald Pickings. They found him lying face down along the bank of the river that runs through town. He’d been badly bludgeoned. The Cambridge police came up empty-handed, and the crime went unsolved for months. Then the university quietly hired Mr. Biggers, and he sussed the culprit in less than a week.”
“ ‘Sussed’?”
“Suspected-identified the student who’d murdered Sir Reginald and who, by the way, had been involved in a nasty homosexual relationship with him. Biggers is not a shy man. He milked that case to the limit, had his picture in every newspaper almost daily for two weeks.”
“I’m impressed. Maybe he could be helpful in solving…”
That look of horror came over Lucas’s face again. “Marjorie’s murder? Out of the question. Forget it. The man’s friends are prostitutes and yobs-”
“ ‘Yobs’?”
Lucas sighed and said, “Oh, Jessica, I really must give you a course in British slang. Thugs. Yobs are thugs.”
“Thank you for the translation.”
“My pleasure.” He looked at his watch. “We must go.” He placed money on the check, stood, took his umbrella and raincoat from where he’d hung them on a coat tree, and was at the door before I could even gather my things. He’d hailed a taxi by the time I joined him outside, and we headed for the Savoy.
“How is your speech shaping up?” he asked.
“I really haven’t given it much thought, but I intend to devote the afternoon to that.”
By the time the cocktail party preceding the ISMW dinner had started, I was fully prepared for the evening ahead. I walked into the party and was struck immediately with how different this meeting was from the previous ones. The differences involved two things. First, the number of people far exceeded that of any previous convention. I couldn’t be sure whether it was because more members were in attendance, or whether the ranks had been swelled by the number of media people present. There were television cameras-something I’d never seen before at these meetings-and a horde of print journalists circulating through the room. The minute they saw me come in, they converged. “Please, no, I really have nothing to say about Marjorie Ainsworth’s unfortunate death. I have a speech to give tonight and would like to focus my attention on that. Please, try to understand.” They were, as media people tend to be, unwilling to abide by my wishes, but I brusquely walked through the cluster they’d formed around me and went to the bar, where I ordered a ginger ale. I was nervous enough without having to worry about the possible effects of an alcoholic beverage.
The second thing that was different was the intensity in the room. Mystery writers, like most writers, tend to be a low-key species. Previous meetings of ISMW had always been characterized by a quiet, introspective atmosphere. Not tonight; there was a sense of urgency that was almost palpable, undoubtedly caused by the presence of so many media people and the meaning of Marjorie’s untimely and brutal death. I was also acutely aware that I was indeed the center of attention, and probably would be for the rest of the night, not because I was making a speech, but because of the circumstances surrounding my relationship with Marjorie and my having found her body. It was too late to wish those things away, and I didn’t try.
“Jessica, how good to see you again,” Clayton Perry, Marjorie’s American publisher, said. He was standing with a glass of tonic water in his hand, his wife, Renée, at his side.
“Such excitement,” I said.
“Certainly not unexpected,” Perry said. “How are you holding up?”
“Fine… I think. You?”
“Oh, we’re doing quite nicely,” Renée Perry said. “If one is to be detained anywhere, I can’t think of a more pleasant place than London.”
I looked past them to where a knot of journalists had cornered someone. My eyes widened. “Isn’t that Inspector Coots from Crumpsworth?” I asked.
The Perrys turned. “Yes, it is,” Clayton Perry said. “I understand he’s here by invitation of the society.”
“Why would the society invite him?” I asked.
Perry shrugged and sipped his drink. “You know Lucas, Jessica, he’s absolutely thrilled at the publicity the society is receiving this year. Having Coots giving out his pompous statements to the press from the convention will undoubtedly secure more newspaper space, and time on television.”
“Excuse me,” I said, moving away from them to where Lucas was in an animated conversation with Marjorie’s American agent, Bruce Herbert. Listening in on what they were saying was Marjorie’s British publisher, Archibald Semple, and a man I did not recognize. He was short and slender. Multiple tufts of carrot-red hair sprouted from his head, as though planted there. His suit was an iridescent black. He wore a yellow shirt and narrow black tie. As I approached, I noticed his face was heavily freckled. I also observed a bulge beneath his suit jacket that could be nothing but a revolver.
“Aha, Jessica, your ears must be burning,” Herbert said, enthusiastically shaking my hand. “You’ve been the subject of an interesting discussion here.”
“I hope the words were kind,” I said.
“More than kind, Mrs. Fletcher, glowing,” Semple said. He, too, took my hand but, unlike the agent’s, his hand was cold and codlike.
“Jessica, allow me to introduce you to Mr. Biggers.”
“Jimmy Biggers?” I asked.
“Yes, and I don’t blame you for not returning my calls. I wouldn’t have.” He smiled, exposing a set of teeth that leaned toward the color of his shirt. A cigarette dangled from the fingers of one hand; a lot of nicotine had stuck to those teeth.
“Quite an interesting cast of characters has been assembled here this evening,” I said. “Usually the only ones who attend are ISMW members.”
“Yes, a motley crew indeed. I do hope you’ll give me a few minutes of your undivided attention when the dinner is over, Mrs. Fletcher,” Biggers said.