“No, a last-minute whim of his, I suppose. I thought you might join me on it.”
“What’s the subject?”
“Contemporary investigative techniques.”
“I’m afraid I wouldn’t be qualified,” I said.
“I think quite the opposite. It’s at eleven. Will you?”
“Yes, all right. I’m flattered. Lucas must consider having you speak to be the coup of the conference.”
“He’s a pleasant fellow, quite a fan of yours.”
I couldn’t help but wonder as we talked why his manner with me this night was so much warmer than it had been at Marjorie’s burial service.
“I have something to show you that might be of interest,” he said. He handed me that day’s London Times. It was opened to the arts and entertainment section. I scanned the page; nothing jumped off at me.
“Read the ‘Book Notes’ column,” he said.
The column was written by William Strayhorn, the eminent London book critic. “What am I looking for in this?” I asked.
“Read a bit and you’ll see.”
I took out my half-glasses and started. The item he wanted me to see was buried in the middle of the column:
Jason Harris, a heretofore unsuccessful author who was dragged from the Thames the other night with his throat slit and face battered, and who was a protégé of murdered mystery writing queen Marjorie Ainsworth, is about to find posthumous publishing success. Cadence House, headed all these years by Walter Cole, who’s made his millions publishing pornography disguised as literature, has announced its intention to publish the first of four novels written by Mr. Harris before his death, and unpublished to date. Either Jason Harris has written the sort of rubbish that usually appeals to Mr. Cole, or Mr. Cole has decided to take a portion of the money he’s made in the sewer and devote it to works of merit, assuming Mr. Harris has written anything of merit.
I handed the paper back to Sutherland. “Fascinating,” I said. “I had no idea Jason had written four novels.”
“Either he has, or there is a room filled with writers turning out prose to bear his name, and to capitalize on small mentions of his murder in the local press.”
I shook my head. “That doesn’t make any sense to me. Does it to you?”
He shrugged. “I’m afraid I’m out of my element when it comes to the publishing world.”
“How’s the investigation into Marjorie’s murder going?”
Sutherland pursed his lips. “Mrs. Ainsworth-Zara, the deceased’s sister, has come forward with interesting information that I wanted to share with you. I was eager not only to have you hear this information, but to benefit from your evaluation of it.”
If he meant to flatter me, he’d succeeded. As with our previous times together, I could never be sure when he was being personally sincere and when he was playing the role of a smooth, skilled investigator. I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt, and asked him to continue.
“She came to me this morning. I made notes during our conversation.” He pulled them from his pocket, along with his glasses.
Ona’s timing was interesting, I thought. Would she have sought out a Scotland Yard chief inspector if she hadn’t been cut out of Marjorie’s will? A beneficiary spurned could be every bit as lethal as a woman scorned.
He recounted for me his meeting that morning.
Ona had begun by saying, “I have spent considerable time at Ainsworth Manor over the past year or two. Despite the fact that Marjorie and I did not get along especially well, she was always gracious in allowing me extended stays at the manor. I took advantage of that hospitality whenever Antonio and I were estranged, which has been the rule rather than the exception. Antonio would remain at the villa in Capri, and I would seek solace in Ainsworth Manor. He’s in Capri now.”
Sutherland reminded her that leaving Great Britain violated the condition laid down that all those who were at the manor the night Marjorie was murdered remain in Britain. He placed an immediate call to institute an all-points bulletin. Not very wifely to run to the authorities to snitch on one’s husband he’d thought. He asked her to continue.
“My sister had not been herself in the months leading up to her death,” Ona told him. “I won’t try to be subtle. Her mind was going, and she’d lost a great deal of reasoning power. Not only that, she’d become increasingly unaware of what was going on around her.”
As Sutherland told me this, I could only think of Marjorie that weekend and how sharp she’d been, aside from her occasional lapses. Was this the beginning of a setup for Ona and her husband to contest the will?
Ona continued what she had to say in Sutherland’s office, telling him, “It was during one of my extended stays that I became aware of not only the presence, but the influence of the young writer Jason Harris, whom Marjorie had taken into her confidence. Frankly, I never liked him from the day I met him, and had strong feelings that he was up to no good where my sister was concerned. I raised that with her once, and she dismissed me, as she was prone to do, so I kept my mouth shut but continued to observe.”
Sutherland asked Ona whether she was aware that Jason Harris had been murdered, and she said she was. She went on to say, “I was there during a time when a major portion of Gin and Daggers was being written. I’d seen my sister work on previous novels and was quite familiar with her work habits and approach to writing a book. This time, those things were conducted in a vastly different manner.”
“How so?” Sutherland asked her.
“She was incapable of sustaining focus and attention at her typewriter, so she dictated the book in fits and spurts, and gave the tapes to Jane for transcription.”
Sutherland asked what significance that might have.
“None in and of itself,” she replied, “but Mr. Harris seemed intimately involved in the process. I saw him on a number of occasions take Jane’s transcription and work it over with pencil. Once he’d done that, Jane would retype that portion to include his additions and changes.”
“What percentage of the work would you say was changed by Jason Harris?” Sutherland asked her.
“That would be impossible for me to determine,” Ona said, “although, based upon those portions of the book that I had an opportunity to observe, I would say it was substantial.”
Sutherland placed his notes on our table at Bubbs and poured us each another glass of wine. He said to me, “When Jason Harris was found in the Thames, I tried to assign some meaning to his death, as it might apply to Miss Ainsworth’s murder. I wasn’t very successful, until Mrs. Ainsworth-Zara came to me.” He picked up his notes again and continued telling me what had transpired in his office that morning.
Ona had told him, “It was obvious to me that Jane and Mr. Harris were concerned about keeping their activities secret from Marjorie. There was always consternation about having me in the house, and I had a constant feeling of being spied upon.”
“By them?” Sutherland asked her.
“Yes, and by the new butler, Marshall. Be that as it may, it was the relationship between Jane and Jason Harris that was of most interest to me. They were lovers.”
“How did you know they were lovers?” Sutherland asked her.
“Because I observed them. Once, when Marjorie was out of the house, I saw them embracing in the garden. It was dusk, and they probably thought their actions were covered by darkness, but there was quite a bit more light than they realized.”
“A serious embrace?” Sutherland asked.
She replied curtly, “I know the difference, Inspector Sutherland, between a friendly hug and kiss on the cheek, and a passionate embrace.”
“I must assume you do,” Sutherland said. “Was that the only time you observed them displaying affection?”
“No. I saw them holding hands once. Jane was transcribing my sister’s dictation, and Jason sat next to her. They touched hands a number of times, and they had an expression on their faces that was unmistakably carnal.”