“What’s wrong?” I asked. “I know some of the things said today in the lawyer’s office must have been upsetting to your husband, but-”
“It goes far deeper than that, Jessica.”
I sat back and opened my eyes as an indication that I was receptive to whatever she wished to say next.
“Are you aware, Jessica, that Marjorie wrote a novel that was never published?”
“No, but that wouldn’t strike me as terribly unusual. Most writers, especially successful ones with long careers, have early unsold works in the trunk, as they say.”
She shook her head. “I’m not talking about an early work. I’m talking about a novel that was written just before Gin and Daggers.”
“Before Gin and Daggers? Why wasn’t it published?”
“I don’t know, but I do know it exists. The title of it is Brandy and Blood.”
I smiled. “Brandy and Blood. Gin and Daggers. It sounds as though Marjorie was launching into a series at her advanced age, an alcoholic beverage in every title instead of a color, as in John D. MacDonald’s novels.”
“Perhaps. I don’t know what her motivation was, but it was written, and never submitted to Mr. Semple, or to my husband.”
“Why not?”
She took a sip of her wine and then said, “Because, Jessica, Bruce Herbert stole it.”
“Gracious, that’s quite an accusation. Are you certain?”
“Yes, I am. It’s why he murdered her.”
I suppose you could call it the “layered shock approach” -hit you with one, then quickly hit you with another. Whatever it might be called, it worked, and I was without words.
“I’ve considered going to the authorities, Jessica, but I’m afraid it might implicate my husband.”
“How would Clayton be implicated?” I asked. “He knows about the manuscript?”
“Yes, he does. Don’t misunderstand me. I’m not suggesting that he had anything to do with stealing it, but because he and Bruce are such close friends and working colleagues, Bruce naturally made him aware of it.”
“Because he wants your husband to publish it.”
“I’m not so certain about that, although Clayton thinks so. The fact is, Bruce Herbert will sell it to whoever will pay top dollar. He isn’t what you’d call the most ethical of people.”
I took another sip of wine. “How could he have stolen it, Renée? Wouldn’t Marjorie have raised a beef?”
She smiled ruefully. “Exactly. That’s why he killed her.”
“Let me ask you something very directly, and hope for an answer containing nothing except hard-nosed fact. Are you certain, without question, that not only did Bruce Herbert steal this manuscript, but he murdered Marjorie Ainsworth, too?”
She silently stared at me before saying softly, “No. I mean, I know he stole the manuscript, but I certainly can’t prove he murdered her.”
I asked, “Didn’t Marjorie ask him why this novel of hers wasn’t being published? She obviously knew that anything she put her name on would be instantly gobbled up, if not by Perry House, then by any one of fifty other publishers.”
“She did ask him, as I understand it, and he told her he considered it so special that he wanted to have time to think about the proper way to market it.”
“And she accepted that?”
“Yes. With all Marjorie Ainsworth’s insight and intelligence, she could be remarkably naïve and easily led.”
“I see. Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I have tremendous respect for you, am well aware that you are the one person who had nothing to gain by Marjorie’s death, and because not only are you recognized as a fine writer of murder mysteries, you’ve ended up solving many real murders yourself. Is that sufficient?”
“More than sufficient, although the compliments are hardly justified. You say I’m the only one with nothing to gain. Obviously, you’re including your husband in the group who would benefit from Marjorie’s death.”
She’d been reticent and sedate during the conversation. My comment brought forth animation for the first time. “Jessica, my husband did not kill Marjorie Ainsworth. Bruce Herbert did.”
Up until that moment I had assigned a certain credence to what she’d been saying. Now, as I looked at this beautiful and expensively dressed woman across from me, I wondered whether this pointing of fingers at Bruce Herbert was, in fact, designed to point fingers away from her husband. I couldn’t ask that directly, of course, but it stayed with me as we finished our wine, she paid the check, and we retraced our steps to the Savoy.
We paused in the lobby. “I’m putting tremendous faith in you, Jessica, telling you this. Will you talk to the London authorities?”
“I don’t know. I’m not sure what you’ve told me would warrant that.”
“I only ask because I know you’re on friendly terms with that Scotland Yard inspector.”
George Sutherland. I’d like to have said I’d forgotten about him, but that was hardly the case. The fact was, I thought about him often, the warm and pleasant conversations we’d had, and the cold shoulder he’d given me at the funeral. I said to Renée Perry, “I’ll think about what I might do with what you’ve told me. If I decide to do anything, I’ll certainly let you know.”
“I can’t ask for more. Thank you, Jessica. Have a good evening.”
I watched her elegant, tall figure swathed in mink cross the lobby and disappear around a bend. Was she being sincere and forthright, or was this a calculated move to establish a field in which any suspicion would be diverted from her handsome publisher husband? According to Marjorie’s will, she’d accused him, along with Bruce Herbert, of stealing money from her, although she’d dismissed it in a charmingly cavalier manner. The loan she claimed to have given him was another matter. More substance to that. Depending upon how large it was, it could certainly provide motive for murder.
“Enjoy your walk?” Jimmy Biggers asked me.
“Still here? Yes, we had a lovely walk, just the thing to get over a large meal.”
He smiled, narrowed his eyes, and tapped me on the shoulder with his index finger. It was a strange action for him to take; was he about to attack me, give me a push? No, it was just his way of getting my attention for what he was about to say next. “Jessica, a word of warning. You’re much too visible in the way you’re going about this. People are talking. You don’t want to end up like Marjorie Ainsworth.”
His words had their intended effect. “Do you know something I don’t?” I asked.
He flashed his nicotine-stained teeth and moved his head back and forth, as he was wont to do. “Absolutely not, Jessica Fletcher, but I will tell you that I like you, have respect for you, and don’t want to see you floating face down in the Thames like the Harris chap.”
“How do I avoid that, Jimmy?” I asked.
“That, Jessica, is the subject of our breakfast meeting tomorrow morning.”
“I wasn’t aware that we had a ‘breakfast meeting.’ ”
“I think we should. Meet me at eight o’clock at the Red Feather. They’ll whip us up a proper English breakfast, and I’ll tell you what’s on my mind. You’ll be there?”
What else could I say? “Yes.”
Chapter Seventeen
Because the Red Feather was close to the Metropolitan Special Constabulary on Wapping Wall, it was a popular hangout for police from that division. When I walked in at precisely eight o’clock the next morning, Biggers was sitting with Inspector Half and three other uniformed officers. He bounced up and met me just inside the door. “Good morning to you, Jessica, right on time. Punctuality. I like punctuality.”
“I try my best,” I said. “I see you know Inspector Half.”
Biggers laughed. “Know ‘em all, all good chums o’ mine. Care to join ’em, or would you rather we take another table?”