“I’d forgotten about that,” Seth said.
“Never solved that crime, either.”
“Shall we continue?” said Sutherland, tossing me an amused smile.
The “Black Museum” was the name given the Yard’s archives by a reporter who considered it to be dark and evil. It’s not open to the general public, and a visit takes a special invitation from a high-ranking member of the Yard. We couldn’t go much higher than George Sutherland.
After we’d all entered the museum, he carefully locked the door behind us and conducted a tour that lasted almost two hours. It represented a remarkable monument to crime, to the criminal mind, and to detection. Death masks taken from prisoners hanged at Newgate Prison in the 1800s were displayed. There were sections on forgery, rigged gaming devices, burglary, drugs, kidnapping, and, most startling, sexual perversion. It was man, and woman, at their worst.
Many of the displays were chilling, but one in particular has stayed with me to this day. Sutherland said as we stood before it, “A young Southampton girl celebrated a birthday in 1945. One of her gifts arrived by post and contained a card telling her that the gift would bring things closer to her. It was a pair of binoculars. There they are.” He pointed to them in the glass case.
“Before the girl had a chance to look through the binocs, her father put them to his eyes, and adjusted the focusing screw. Sharp spikes sprang out from each eyepiece, blinding him for life. Whoever had intended to injure the young girl was not only a madman, but a remarkably skilled craftsman. He’d carved the binoculars from wood, fitted the spikes inside them on a rachet of sorts, used a coiled spring to activate them, and done a beautiful paint job with black rexine and enamel. To this day no one knows who is responsible for this grotesque crime.”
“A nut, like Jason Harris,” Morton said.
“Yes, or, as we Scots say, deleerit.”
“That was quite a tour, Inspector,” Mort Metzger said after we’d left the museum and were standing in the Yard’s main lobby.
“Yes, we’re quite proud of it,” Sutherland said. “We use it in our training of senior detectives. Do you have a crime museum back in Cabot Cove, Sheriff?”
“No, not enough happens there for a museum, ’less we display tires that got stole off Detienne’s truck, or the picture window that got broke in Miss Boonton’s house.”
Sutherland said, “I’d say your sheriff is a modest man, Jessica. I’ve heard about murder cases you’ve had a hand in solving back home.”
“Just a few, George, just a few.”
“Well, shall we go to lunch?” Sutherland asked. He’d insisted upon taking us to a farewell lunch at Joe Allen, on Exeter Street, which has been serving up American food since 1977 with great success. It was sweet of him to suggest that particular restaurant as a gesture to our American heritage. I would have preferred something more traditionally British, as I’m sure Lucas would, but Morton and Seth seemed delighted with the opportunity to be able to order what London insiders say is the best hamburger in town, and to garnish it with french fries and salads.
One of Sutherland’s uniformed staff drove us in an unmarked black police vehicle. As we were getting out in front of Joe Allen, and the uniformed officer held open the door for me, we all became aware of a commotion at the comer. “Grab him, somebody grab him. He stole my purse,” a lady’s voice cried.
We watched as a young man burst through a sizable crowd and ran in our direction.
“Oh my God, it’s him,” I said.
“Who?” Seth asked.
“Him, the one who mugged me.”
The young man with pink hair, black jacket, and silver earrings headed straight for us.
“I’ll get ’im,” Mort Metzger said. As the young man was about to race by us, Mort threw a body block, sending the thief sprawling to the concrete. Within seconds, Mort was on top of him, twisting his arms behind his back.
“What in hell do you think you’re doing?” the young punk rocker screamed.
“Sheriff Metzger, Cabot Cove, Maine, United States of America. You’re under arrest for the mugging of one Jessica Fletcher. You have the right to remain silent…”
“I never even bin in the bloody States.”
By now we’d all formed a circle around Mort and his prey.
“Are you sure this is the one who mugged you?” Sutherland asked me.
“Yes, positive. How could I miss anyone who looks like that?”
“What’s the old bag yappin’ about?” the mugger asked as Mort, now aided by the bobby who’d driven us, jerked him to his feet and flattened him against the wall.
“You mind your manners and mouth, son,” Mort said. The bobby put the cuffs on him.
Sutherland looked at me and grinned. “If you press charges, Jessica, you’ll have to return to testify at his trial.”
“I will?”
“Afraid so.”
“It would be a great inconvenience, George, and I know my schedule won’t allow it, but there is my civic duty to consider, isn’t there?”
“Yes, most definitely,” he said.
I looked at the young man, looked up into George Sutherland’s green eyes, and said, “Well then, book the bloody bloke!”
Read on for an exciting excerpt
from Murder, She Wrote:
Trick or Treachery
available from Signet.
Dr. Seth Hazlitt and I sat having breakfast, in Mara’s Luncheonette on Cabot Cove’s town dock, and discussing an article that had caught our attention in that morning’s Bangor Times. An organization called the Society for Paranormal Investigation, or S.P.I., had opened an office in a dilapidated building on the old quarry road and was offering to help people contact their dearly departed. Among those its founder, Lucas Tremaine, claimed to have reached was “The Legend of Cabot Cove.” The Legend was an early settler, Hepzibah Cabot, whose dramatic suicidal plunge into the sea after learning of her husband’s infidelity naturally made her the star in local ghost stories, particularly when Halloween rolled around each year.
Our discussion had become somewhat heated. I argued that allowing Lucas Tremaine to bilk our neighbors out of their hard-earned dollars was reprehensible, and that the law should step in to stop him. Seth, less incensed, insisted that you couldn’t keep people from parting foolishly with their money, and that those so inclined would soon realize their folly and stop going to him.
“All set for Halloween?” I asked when we left Mara’s and stood on the dock, breathing in the pristine October Maine air.
“The party, you mean?”
“Yes. Have you decided on a costume?”
“Thought I wouldn’t wear one,” Seth said.
“Everyone wears a costume to Paul Marshall’s annual Halloween party,” I said. “It’s one of the rules.”
“Seems like a foolish rule to me.”
“Silly or not, you don’t want to be a spoilsport. Would you like me to find a costume for you?”
“If I have to wear one, you might as well pick it out for me. Just don’t be gettin’ me any silly kind’a costume, Jess. Keep it simple. Maybe somethin’ in the military vein.”
“I’ll be happy to do that.”
“Sure you want to go as The Legend, Jessica? Lucas Tremaine might decide to hunt you down.”
“I don’t think I have to worry about that,” I said, smiling. “I’ll just scare him off.”
It took me almost an hour to re-create what The Legend of Cabot Cove was reputed to have looked like, according to local history. I wore a floor-length gauzy white dress, and applied greenish-white makeup that gave me the distinct look of a cadaver. I pulled on a long gray wig, and attached strands of green crepe paper to achieve the effect of seaweed. The resulting image was, as an admirer at the party later told me, “Absolutely scary,” and I was startled when I saw my reflection in the mirror. My blue eyes deepened in intensity when contrasted with my now bleached skin, and the pale billowy dress floated around my legs with each step I took, creating the impression of an ethereal figure not subject to gravity.