I wasn’t sure whether I would or not, so I said nothing.
“Jessica, Archibald and I have brainstormed a wonderful idea for you,” Herbert said.
“Oh? Tell me.”
“What would you think of writing a nonfiction book about the murder of Marjorie Ainsworth and the eventual resolution of the case?”
I looked down into my glass and thought for a moment, then looked up and said, “I think it’s a dreadful idea.”
“Why?” Semple asked. “Who better to do such a book? We all know that the minute her murder has been solved and the trial concluded, a dozen writers will turn out purple prose about it. As one of Marjorie’s close friends, you would certainly do it with more sensitivity, more compassion.”
“It’s really worth considering, Jessica,” Bruce Herbert said.
“Well, I… Yes, I will consider it. Thank you for thinking of me.”
A dinner bell struck by Lucas, and sounding more like the bell announcing the beginning and end of rounds in a boxing match, heralded that we were to go into the main ballroom for dinner, and for the evening’s presentations. I was relieved; all I wanted to do was to find some time alone and mentally prepare myself. Fortunately, I was seated on the dais with Lucas, and with members of that year’s slate of ISMW officers, none of whom seemed interested in discussing Marjorie with me.
Lucas welcomed everyone and suggested we enjoy our meal before the “important and fascinating presentations begin.”
The meal was splendid, as it always was at these yearly gatherings. Lucas’s penchant for good food was as well known as his zealous championing of the society, and he always saw to it that the chef, no matter which the hotel, was inspired to reach beyond the typical meeting fare. We began with oysters and caviar in Champagne sauce, went on to truffle-scented chicken consommé, and a choice of Dover sole sautéed with leeks or rack of lamb with stewed shallots for the main course. The most delicate raspberry and lemon sherbert I had ever tasted was the dessert.
Lucas stood at the microphone and said, “Ladies and gentlemen, fellow authors, friends, I welcome you here tonight for the opening of what promises to be the most interesting and successful ISMW conference in our history. I’m sure you all approve of the dinner that was so caringly and expertly prepared by the glorious staff of the Savoy.” There was applause. He rubbed his hands and announced with considerable glee, “It is time to commence the grisly business at hand.” He gave me an embarrassingly flowery introduction.
I stepped to the microphone and looked out over the crowd. I spotted him immediately in the far right-hand corner of the large room: Chief Inspector George Sutherland. It seemed as if every law enforcement agency and individual involved with the Marjorie Ainsworth murder had been invited to attend, and to hear me speak.
I’d rewritten my speech to include opening remarks about Marjorie, about the dreadful thing that had happened to her, and about how we would all miss her presence as both a person, as well as a professional inspiration for every writer of the genre. I got through that portion nicely, although I did have to fight back a tear or two. Then I launched into the major thrust of my remarks, which dealt primarily with the unparalleled popularity of the murder mystery in today’s fiction marketplace, and how it had crossed over the line from genre fiction into the mainstream of literature. I had sprinkled many examples throughout my notes and, as I progressed, found myself becoming more comfortable, more at ease, and actually enjoying the experience.
Until…
It happened so fast, without warning. The man wore a black raincoat and tweed cap. He burst from behind swinging doors that led to the kitchen, and carried the longest sword I had ever seen. It was held in both his hands and was pointed directly at me. He yelled as he ran toward the dais, “You killed the Queen, you killed the Queen… Death to the Queen killer!”
I stood frozen at the podium. A few people reached for him, but he was moving too fast, passed right by them, the sword held high, a maniacal look in his eyes.
Jimmy Biggers stuck out his foot from where he sat, tripping the man, the sword flying in one direction, he the other. Biggers was on him in a second, twisting his arms behind his back and yelling for help. It was Montgomery Coots who was first at the scene, but he seemed unsure of what to do. Then two young men in business suits jumped up from a table and raced to where Biggers held the attacker down. One of them pulled out handcuffs from beneath his jacket and secured the crazed man’s wrists behind his back.
There was bedlam in the room. Lucas came to my side, grabbed both my arms, and led me to my seat.
“What happened?” I asked.
“A madman, demented, hell-bent on killing you because he thinks you murdered Marjorie.”
“Good Lord.”
“I told you it could happen, Jessica, just as I told you to be careful on the streets of London.”
We all watched as the two plainclothes policemen led the man from the room. He continued to yell over his shoulder that I had robbed Great Britain and the literary world of Marjorie Ainsworth. It was a great relief to have him out of the room, his irrational threats suddenly muffled by the slamming of a door.
Once a relative calm had returned, I was urged to continue my speech-which I did, reluctantly, and with considerably less enthusiasm and confidence than before.
When I was finished, Lucas outlined the program for the rest of the conference. There were to be seminars on new forensic techniques, weapons, surveillance apparatus, poisons, police procedure, and everything else of which the working mystery writer likes to keep abreast. There were also to be talks on more esoteric subjects, such as the future of the murder mystery, historical perspectives, and evaluations of new works by a reviewing panel.
A coffee reception followed the dinner, and a receiving line of sorts was formed, with me at its head. It was an awkward situation, but I did my best to get through it, shaking too many hands, smiling too much, saying too often, “Yes, it was startling.” I was relieved when it was over and I could mingle freely.
“Excellent speech, Mrs. Fletcher,” Inspector George Sutherland said. It was good to see him, and I told him so.
“Dreadful incident,” he said. “The city is crawling with daft people like that. Sorry one of them had to decide to do away with you.”
I laughed nervously. “I’m just pleased that he didn’t accomplish his mission.”
“So am I. Might I get you a coffee, or would you prefer to slip away from your adoring public for a drink at the bar?”
The latter sounded appealing, and I graciously accepted, asking, though, for ten minutes before leaving. I walked over to Jimmy Biggers, who was talking with a contingent from the Dutch chapter of ISMW.
“Mr. Biggers, I owe you a debt of gratitude. I saw how you stopped him.”
He excused himself from the Dutch writers, and we moved a few feet away. “Mrs. Fletcher, will you give me a half hour of your time?”
“Now? I’m afraid I’m-”
“Mrs. Fletcher, I would never think of interfering with your responsibilities tonight. Could we meet tomorrow?”
“Yes, I suppose so, but what do you wish to meet about?”
He displayed his yellow teeth and said, “Marjorie Ainsworth, of course. I think you could use the services of someone who knows London as I do, its underbelly, its dark comers. I have some definite ideas on her murder and would like to share them with you.”
His Cockney accent was charming, and went with his physical appearance, which, I knew, represented stereotyping on my part. Cockneys don’t have a look; they simply happened to be born within hearing distance of Bow Bells, the bells of St. Mary-le-Bow Church in Cheapside.
“I’d also like to discuss that fellow over there with you,” he said, pointing to Montgomery Coots.
“Why?”
“He’s a nasty chap, and he’s fixated on you, Mrs. Fletcher, as a suss.”