“Yes, it was quite an experience, although he really didn’t have much of a chance to get to me with so many people in the room.”
“Still, Jess, it caused Seth and me to think we’d better help our good friend,” said Morton, “no matter how far away she is. Must be fright’nin’ bein’ here in a strange country.”
I laughed. “It isn’t strange at all. After all, we came from here.”
“You’d never know it by listenin’ to that cab driver we had. I only understood every third word.”
“Yes, sometimes they speak quickly, but it is English.”
I was exhausted; it was one o’clock in the morning, London time. For them it was eight in the evening, and they looked ready for a night on the town. They insisted upon buying me a drink, and I filled them in on everything that had happened since my arrival. They listened intently, interrupting only with an occasional grunt or nod. When I was finished recounting my tales of woe, I asked them what their plans were for the next day.
“To be with you, Jess,” Seth said. “That’s why we came.”
I shook my head and said with conviction, “Oh no, I’ll be extremely busy with the convention, and I insist that you two spend the day sightseeing. London is a remarkable city, and to fly all the way here and not see as much of it as you can would be a crime.” This was debated for a few minutes until Seth finally said, “All right, Jess, but only tomorra, and we’re goin’ to keep in close touch. Right?”
“Absolutely. Now this lady needs her beauty sleep.” I stood.
“You do look a mite fatigued,” Morton Metzger said. “Want me to escort you to your room?”
“No, thank you, Morton, that won’t be necessary. Tell you what. You go off on a good day’s sightseeing tomorrow, and I’ll meet you right here in this same bar for a drink at five o’clock.”
“Fair enough,” said Seth.
“Buy yourself a good map and a guidebook. Be sure to see the Changing of the Guard, Westminster Abbey, and try to fit in the Tower of London.”
Seth smiled. “I brought some good walkin’ shoes. Looks like they’ll get considerable use.”
“I hope so,” I said over my shoulder as I headed for the elevators. “Walking is the best way to see London.”
I started to undress the minute I reached my suite, but was stopped by the ringing of the telephone. Who would be calling at this hour? Must be Seth or Morton with some last-minute comment or question. I picked up the phone and was confronted with a hysterical Maria Giacona. “Please, calm down, Maria, or I’ll never understand what you’re saying.”
It took her a moment to muster enough composure to speak with some clarity. When she did, her words cut into me like a stiletto. “Jason is dead, murdered,” she said. I sat heavily on the bed and asked her to give me more details.
“They found him in the Thames, off Wapping Wall, near the docks.”
“Maria, I am so sorry. How did it happen? Any idea of who might have done it?”
“No, I just heard. I’m at Jason’s flat. The police called looking for a family member, and I happened to be here. I wish I hadn’t been.”
“It must have been a dreadful shock. What do you intend to do now?”
“I don’t know. I shouldn’t be calling you this late, but I didn’t know who else to turn to.”
I felt the ambivalence one always feels in such a situation, flattered to be important enough to a person to be the one to whom they turn in time of trouble, yet wishing you weren’t.
“Maria, why don’t you come here to the hotel.”
“Oh, Mrs. Fletcher, I couldn’t…”
“No, I insist. Obviously, there will have to be a trip to the police, but it doesn’t have to be now, at this hour. I would feel much better if you were here. Spend the night if you wish. The living room has a lovely pull-out couch.”
She uttered a few further protestations, then agreed.
By the time she arrived, it was almost three in the morning, and I was exhausted. Simultaneously, my adrenaline was flowing at an accelerated pace, and I wouldn’t have been able to sleep whether she arrived or not.
As I waited for her, I thought about the location she’d mentioned, Wapping Wall. I remember it, of course, as a setting in Dickens’s novels, a densely populated waterfront cut into many pieces by narrow, twisting alleys, long sets of stone steps, and a succession of docks, including Execution Dock where condemned pirates and thieves, including Captain Kidd in 1701, were left for the tide to wash over them three times. It was, in Dickens’s time and probably long after, a sinister area of London where crime and criminals ruled.
I had no idea what the area was like today, but had a feeling I would soon find out.
Maria and I sat in the living room. She was now more composed, although she occasionally lapsed into quiet sobbing. She knew nothing more than what she’d told me on the phone.
“I assume they identified him from objects in his pockets,” I said.
“Yes.”
“Will you…” I hesitated before completing my sentence. “Will you have to identify the body, Maria?”
She shook her head.
“Who will? Does he have family here in London?”
“Yes, a stepbrother.”
“Is he a writer, too?”
“No. He’s a talent agent.”
“Really? Does he handle big stars?”
“No. I mean, I really don’t know. I know very little about him. His name is David Simpson. Jason and he haven’t had much to do with each other. I suppose it would not be an overstatement to say that they dislike… disliked each other.”
The next time I checked my watch, it was 4 A.M. “Would you like something to eat?” I asked. “I’ll order it up.”
She went through a mandatory “Oh, that isn’t necessary,” then quickly agreed that food would be welcome. After room service had delivered club sandwiches and coffee, I asked Maria about herself, her life, what she aspired to.
“I’m an actress,” she said.
“How wonderful. I have great respect for people possessing that kind of talent. Have you appeared in anything in London?”
“Oh no, nothing that impressive yet. I’ve been in some smaller productions. I toured Ireland and Wales two summers ago with a troupe.”
“That must have been fun.”
“It didn’t pay much, but I learned a lot.”
“You’re a beautiful young woman, Maria. Have you thought of films?”
She smiled. “Of course I have. Every actor or actress does. I’m afraid I haven’t made much headway in that direction, but I keep trying.”
“That’s the spirit. It’s so difficult making a living as a performer. Lord knows where most people find the perseverance and patience to continue.”
“Like writing,” she said.
“Yes, very much like writing. I was fortunate to have a loving and supportive husband who made sure the refrigerator had food in it while I tried to sell my stories.” I laughed. “I still have a wonderful drawer filled with rejection slips. I treasure those. Somehow they mean more than the letters I’ve received praising what I’ve done, and announcing a publication date for my newest book. Does that make sense?”
“I think so, although I would love to receive such a letter informing me that I’d been selected for a major role at the Old Vic.” She sat back and her eyes misted. “My God, Mrs. Fletcher, it just hit me full force that Jason will never receive such a letter. He was so talented, and it will never be recognized.” She started sobbing. I sat beside her and put my arms about her, pulled her to me and held her close, murmuring over and over, “I know, I know, I know.”
After she’d calmed down, I suggested we catch a couple of hours’ sleep before the sun came up. The couch was already made up. I gave her a spare nightgown, suggested that she try to get some sleep despite the fact that this horrible thing had happened, and went to the bedroom where I lay awake for an hour. Was it reasonable to assume that whoever killed Jason Harris also killed Marjorie Ainsworth? Possible, certainly, although as hard as I tried, I could not come up with a link. I also had to admit to myself that if pressed to name the person most likely to have murdered Marjorie, it would have been Jason, based on nothing but pure intuition. Now he was dead, a corpse dragged from the river Thames. Of course, that did not rule out the possibility that he had killed Marjorie, and had met his own fate for some reason totally unrelated.