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“… and so ninhydrin spray has proved to be extremely valuable in raising fingerprints that might not have been identifiable before its invention. Ninhydrin is quite different from fingerprint powder. It reacts to the amino acids in the skin rather than to salt in perspiration, and works quite well on paper, cardboard, and certain wood surfaces. It is, by the way, toxic and must be used very carefully. We prefer that our officers in the field not apply it at the site of a crime, but we are using it extensively in our laboratories.”

Members of ISMW who attended the panel discussion with Chief Inspector George Sutherland were treated to a fascinating morning in which new scientific investigative techniques were expounded upon. I’d always found that ISMW members fell into two categories, those who dwelt extensively in their books on technical matters, and those who included just enough detail to establish credibility, but who preferred to focus more on character and plot development. Judging from the questions that came from the crowd, most in attendance were from the former school.

Members of the panel lingered for a half hour after the session for informal conversation with attendees. I had a few minutes alone with Sutherland and asked him whether Marjorie’s mysterious lover could be considered a suspect. He told me he’d personally called Chester Gould-Brayton on that subject and had received the response he’d expected-that the solicitor-client privilege precluded him from divulging the lover’s identity. “Frankly, Jessica,” Sutherland said, “I really would be quite surprised if this unnamed romantic interest of hers had anything to do with her murder, although we intend to keep the option open.”

Lucas Darling invited Sutherland to join a select group for lunch, but he begged off because of his busy schedule that afternoon. He wished me a pleasant day and said he hoped I had not taken offense at his personal comments the night before.

“Quite the contrary, George, I was flattered.”

“May I call you again?”

“I thought we decided to postpone any personal considerations until Marjorie’s murder was solved.”

“Yes, and I consider myself a man of my word, but there have been times-rare, I admit-when I have been an outright liar, and this might be one of them.” We both laughed, and he left the hotel.

Lucas took us to Dirty Dick’s pub on Bishopsgate for lunch, and we enjoyed a pleasant meal in the atmosphere of synthetic dirt, grime, cobwebs, and dead cats used to carry through the pub’s theme. According to legend, Dirty Dick’s fiancée died on their wedding eve, and he was so stricken with grief that he shut the room that was to have been the site of their wedding breakfast and left everything, including the food, to decay. He never washed or changed his clothes again for the rest of his life, so deep was his sense of loss. An abandoned meal in a locked room-straight out of Great Expectations.

“What are you up to for the rest of the day?” Lucas asked me.

“I have some errands to run. I’ll be back in time for the awards dinner tonight.”

“I have a relatively free afternoon, Jessica. Why don’t we spend it together?”

I told him that might work, but I had to check with my friends from Cabot Cove, Seth Hazlitt and Mort Metzger.

“We can all enjoy what’s left of the day together,” he said.

“I’ll call you in a half hour, Lucas.”

I went to my suite and did what I’d planned to do since getting up that morning. I called Ainsworth Manor. What I hoped was that Jane Portelaine would follow through on her offer to allow me to spend some time at the manor. I was somewhat optimistic based upon her pleasant greeting of me at the reading of her aunt’s will.

Marshall, the butler, answered the telephone.

“Marshall, this is Jessica Fletcher. How are you?”

“Quite fine, ma’am.”

“Is Miss Portelaine there?”

“No, ma’am, she’s not. She’s taken a brief holiday, she has.”

“How wonderful. Where has she gone?”

“The Costa del Sol.”

“Delightful,” I said. “When is she expected back?”

“No way of knowing, Mrs. Fletcher.”

“Well, I’m coming close to the end of my stay in London, and she has invited me to spend some time at the manor before I returned to the United States. I have some free time this afternoon, and really don’t see another opportunity.”

“That will be fine, Mrs. Fletcher, Miss Portelaine told me of your request before she left, and instructed me to accommodate you at your convenience. What time will you be arriving?”

“I’ll leave right now. I might bring some friends with me.”

“Oh, Mrs. Fletcher, I don’t know whether Miss Portelaine would approve of that.”

“Well then, I won’t. Expect me, alone, in a little over an hour.”

I quickly called Lucas and told him that something had come up unexpectedly, and that I wouldn’t be able to see him until dinner that evening.

“Another secretive foray by Jessica Fletcher. Damn, Jess, when are you going to include me in these things?”

I laughed away his comment and said, “As soon as I embark on one that would be of interest to you. Have to run, Lucas. See you this evening.”

My next call was to the concierge. “How quickly can I have a car and driver?”

“You wish to hire a taxi, Mrs. Fletcher? There are a few waiting outside. Where will you be going?”

“Crumpsworth.”

“Ah, out of town. A bit far for a local taxi. Perhaps a rental car?”

“I’m afraid I don’t drive, in England or the United States.”

“You’re in a hurry?”

“Yes.”

“We have a car we can dispatch for you. One of the staff will drive you.”

“I don’t want to inconvenience anyone.”

“Our pleasure to serve you, Mrs. Fletcher. Ten minutes?”

“That will be fine.”

“Thank you. I’ll be right down.”

As I waited for the elevator, I thought about never having learned to drive. It wasn’t that I’d consciously avoided taking a lesson and getting behind the wheel of a car, it just never happened. My late husband, Frank, suggested on more than one occasion that I learn, and I usually agreed with him and said I’d do it. But I never got to it, and my life after Frank’s death was such that driving wasn’t necessary, or even appealing. My trusty bike gets me around Cabot Cove quite nicely, and we have a wonderful taxi service that’s always available. Whenever I leave Cabot Cove, I’m on airplanes and in cabs. So my inability to drive, while odd to some, has never been a handicap for me. And frankly, if I were a driver, I certainly wouldn’t have attempted to drive in England, on the “wrong side of the road.”

The young man assigned to drive me couldn’t have been much out of his teens. His name was Jeremy, and he was a bellhop when he wasn’t playing chauffeur.

“Crumpsworth, is it?” he said.

“Yes. Do you know how to get there?”

“More or less.” He looked over his shoulder as he pulled into London traffic. “Not keen on driving yourself over here?” he asked, pleasantly.

“Not at all keen.”

He laughed. “More dangerous for a foreigner crossing the bloody street as a pedestrian.”

I, too, laughed, because I agreed with him. I’d almost been hit a couple of times when I looked for traffic in the wrong direction before stepping off the curb.

We eventually broke clear of London traffic and were on the relatively peaceful highway leading to Ainsworth Manor. As we got closer, my mind wandered to other subjects, particularly Jane Portelaine having gone to Spain on vacation. How unlike her. Then again, people do change. Perhaps Jane’s life had been smothered by her service to her aunt, a classic scenario-spinster caring for an ailing or tyrannical family member until that person dies, freeing the spinster to taste life not previously available to her. I thought of Peter Lovesey’s female lead in his superb Victorian murder mystery, Waxwork. Jane had always reminded me of that character, staunchly loyal to the family but then, as in the novel, having everything and everyone change because of murder.