Sutherland waited for her to say more. When she didn’t, he said, “Let’s assume your observations are correct and that there was some level of romantic interest between them. What significance does that have?”
“I am convinced that Jason Harris murdered my sister in order to benefit, in some tangible way, from his involvement with Gin and Daggers.”
One of Bubbs’s waiters interrupted us and asked if we wished to order. Sutherland removed his glasses and said, “Time for a break, I think.” We perused the short menu, and I decided on poached turbot in a sauce into which strips of vegetables were woven. Sutherland opted for partridge. We agreed to share a salad garnished with venison as a first course.
“Can’t shake my Scottish love of game,” he said.
“One of my friends from Maine had hare with a chocolate and raspberry sauce the other night at La Tante Claire,” I said.
“That might be a bit much for this Scotsman,” Sutherland said with a gentle laugh. “It’s the chocolate that would do me in.”
We talked of things other than his meeting with Ona Ainsworth-Zara until after we’d consumed our salad. I asked what else had been discussed.
“I told her that since Harris is dead, I would hardly consider him to have benefited from anything. Her response was that his death might have been nothing more than an unfortunate coincidence that robbed him of the opportunity to gain whatever benefit he was seeking.”
I frowned; I didn’t buy that, and judging from the expression on Sutherland’s face, he didn’t, either. “She told you she’d seen them in the garden when Marjorie was out of the house. I wasn’t aware she ever left, at least not in recent months. She needed a wheelchair. Where did she go? Was this an isolated instance of her leaving the manor, perhaps to see a doctor?”
Sutherland said, “I asked the same question. Mrs. Ainsworth-Zara told me that her sister left Ainsworth Manor more than people realized. Evidently her chauffeur, Wilfred, took her out on a regular basis.”
“How regular?” I asked.
“Once every two weeks, she told me.”
“Had she ever asked Wilfred where he took Marjorie on these regular outings?”
“As a matter of fact, I did ask that, Jessica. We think very much alike, it seems. She said she’d tried to talk to him once, but failed to learn anything. As she told me, this Wilfred is much the archetypal chauffeur, deathly loyal to his employer. She told me, ‘It would take a severe form of Oriental torture to make him even admit he’d taken her anywhere.’ ”
Our main courses were served. As we enjoyed them, Sutherland leaned across the table and said in a whisper, “Those people at the table in the corner obviously know who you are, Jessica. They’ve been looking in your direction and commenting all evening.”
“How unfortunate,” I said, bringing a smile to his face.
When those dishes had been cleared, Sutherland said to me, “Well, Jessica, what do you make of all this?”
I’d forgotten for the moment about his meeting with Ona Ainsworth-Zara. Instead, I’d been grappling with how much to tell this handsome Scotland Yard inspector whom I found so attractive, yet was compelled to be on my guard with. Did he know about Jimmy Biggers, about the manuscript Biggers had delivered to me that afternoon, about Maria Giacona, David Simpson, the whole Jason Harris connection? I decided that if he did, he would have to be the one to bring them up.
I forced myself to return my attention to his question. “What do I make of it?” I repeated. “I don’t know. I was thinking of how angry Tony Zara was when he left the reading of Marjorie’s will.”
“Are you suggesting he might have murdered his wife’s sister?”
“No, but his suddenly leaving the country must raise some question with you.”
“That occurred to me, of course. Here we go again, Jessica, thinking alike. I raised that with Mrs. Ainsworth-Zara, and she did not offer the expected defense of her husband. Quite the opposite, I would say. She actually seemed pleased that I was thinking along those lines. She told me that her husband was awfu’ upset because Marjorie often made a fuss over him, enjoyed calling him her… what did she say?- her ‘little Mediterranean darling’… her ‘Italian duckie’… something like that. He assumed he would be included in her estate, according to his wife, and was furious when he wasn’t.”
“Awfu’?” I said.
“Did I say that? You can take the Scot out of Scotland, but you can’t take the language out of him. Awfu’. It loosely means very… very upset… awfu’ upset.”
“This meal is awfu’ good,” I said.
“Not quite the proper usage, I’m afraid,” he said pleasantly. “Getting back to my meeting this morning, I asked whether she was angry at being left out of her sister’s estate. She said that she wasn’t even surprised because, according to her, her sister had never forgiven her for marrying an Italian. He’s a count?”
“He bills himself as such,” I said.
“Dessert?” he asked, eyeing a dessert menu that had been placed in front of us.
“No, not for me, thank you,” I said. “This has been lovely, and I’m very pleased to see you again, but I can’t help but question the purpose of it. Clearly, you’ve gained nothing of substance from me.”
“Well, Jessica, perhaps now is the time for you to provide such substance.”
He stared at me. I shrugged. “Please explain.”
“You’ve been doing as much investigation as I have, according to my sources. You’ve engaged the services of the inquiry agent Mr. Biggers, have made contact with Jason Harris’s stepbrother, are the only person who had a look at Harris’s body other than his stepbrother, and, in general, seem to have been devoting considerable time to this effort, at least according to Mr. Darling.”
“According to Lucas?”
“I was chatting with him about his panel discussion tomorrow, and happened to ask how much participation you’ve given the convention. He said you’ve barely taken part.”
“Which means I’ve decided to enjoy London. I’ve done some wonderful walking and sightseeing.”
“Undoubtedly you have, Jessica, but I also have the feeling… no, to be more accurate, I have had information given me to support my feelings that you’ve possibly been learning things that would be of interest, and of use to me and the Yard in this investigation. Would you share what you’ve learned with me now?”
I made a decision at that moment that I would totally divorce the two large questions-who killed Marjorie Ainsworth, and whether she had written Gin and Daggers without undue help from Jason Harris. Whatever I knew that had direct bearing on the former, I would share with any and all authorities, beginning with Chief Inspector George Sutherland. Anything having to do with the authorship of the novel was not, it seemed to me, police business, not with the reputation of a dear and deceased friend on the line. I thought of the manuscript sitting in my hotel suite; that certainly would not be mentioned, at least for now.
There was, however, the conversation I’d had with Renée Perry regarding the alleged novel Brandy and Blood, and her assertion that Bruce Herbert had possession of it, and had murdered Marjorie Ainsworth in order to resolve the pending difficulties presented by it.
“George,” I said, “I have run across some information that might possibly be of interest to you where Marjorie’s murder is concerned, but it must be kept…” I smiled. “It must be kept awfu’ private.”
“Of course. Let me drive you back to the hotel, and you can tell me on the way.”
He drove a relatively old racing-green Jaguar that he kept in pristine condition. He drove slowly, and I explained what Renée Perry had told me about the missing manuscript, and her accusation that Bruce Herbert had killed Marjorie.