Read Online Gin and Daggers by Jessica Fletcher - Free Book Online
Authors: Jessica Fletcher
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discovered the body. You must be shaken to your very core.”
“I was, Lucas, but I’m feeling better now. You had suggested in the taxi that we sit down and have a long, leisurely dinner and discuss Gin and Daggers. I’d like that very much.” Before he could say anything else, I added, “I’ve made a reservation downstairs in the Grill. Will you join me?”
“Of course.”
“Fine. The assistant manager is bringing me downstairs in case there’s a reporter lurking in an alcove. I’ll tell him I’m being joined by someone and you can meet me in the restaurant.”
“Count on my being there, Jessica, and don’t you worry. This will all subside.”
“I certainly hope so.”
“Jessica.”
“What?”
“This business about your gold pendant. Are they actually accusing you of ... ?”
“We can discuss that at dinner, Lucas.” I quickly hung up.
I was given a prime corner table, for which I was grateful. Members of the press were not the only ones I had to avoid; my picture had been large enough in the papers for three-quarters of London to recognize me. I hoped that wouldn’t happen, and shifted in my chair so that I offered my profile to people at adjacent tables. There were only a handful; it was early for the main dinner crowd.
Lucas arrived a few minutes after I’d been served a glass of white wine. He wore a dark gray suit and black bow tie. “I got here as fast as I could, Jessica. The things people are saying are despicable.”
“You look as though you’re in mourning, Lucas,” I said.
He crossed his hands on his chest and adopted a horrified expression. “Hardly,” he said, “and I would suggest you not make light of it, either. The murder of Marjorie Ainsworth, and you being the one who found the body, is the biggest news here since the Profumo scandal.”
I laughed away his comparison, even though I knew he was probably right.
We ordered smoked salmon as an appetizer. After it was served, and Lucas had had his Pimm’s Cup, he asked me to fill him in on what had happened at Ainsworth Manor. I accommodated him in exquisite and probably unnecessary detail. He hung on every word, his face a succession of overblown expressions. Finally I sat back and asked him what he thought.
“I would say, Jessica, that we have to look for a motive.”
“Lucas, I’m not asking your thoughts on solving the murder of Marjorie Ainsworth. That’s for the authorities. I’m asking what your advice would be concerning me. Should I stay and deliver the speech?” I realized how academic that question was. I was prohibited from leaving Great Britain by Inspector Coots. Still, there was the possibility of canceling any public appearances and hiding until my name had been struck from the suspect list. No, I knew myself too well. I could never bear that sort of existence.
“Of course you’ll give your speech. The press coverage will be incredible.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of, Lucas.”
“Don’t be. The society can use the exposure.”
My expression of shock was genuine. “Lucas, how can you say something like that at a time like this? Marjorie Ainsworth has been murdered, in cold blood.”
He slumped back in his chair and pinched his nose. “I know, I know, so dreadful, but I am a realist.” He sat forward again, elbows on the table and said earnestly, “Jessica, do you remember my book Poison Alley?”
“Yes, of course. You gave me an autographed copy.” He’d written his one and only murder mystery over ten years ago. It wasn’t very good, and once the critics were finished panning it, it took all the starch out of him. He’d never written another word, contenting himself to rub elbows with mystery writers through ISMW.
“The key clue in Poison Alley came out of the deceased’s will, remember?”
“Yes.”
“That’s where I’d start if I were investigating this case. Marjorie must have had a will. Maybe she cut somebody out of it.”
I almost welcomed the diversion
“I was, Lucas, but I’m feeling better now. You had suggested in the taxi that we sit down and have a long, leisurely dinner and discuss Gin and Daggers. I’d like that very much.” Before he could say anything else, I added, “I’ve made a reservation downstairs in the Grill. Will you join me?”
“Of course.”
“Fine. The assistant manager is bringing me downstairs in case there’s a reporter lurking in an alcove. I’ll tell him I’m being joined by someone and you can meet me in the restaurant.”
“Count on my being there, Jessica, and don’t you worry. This will all subside.”
“I certainly hope so.”
“Jessica.”
“What?”
“This business about your gold pendant. Are they actually accusing you of ... ?”
“We can discuss that at dinner, Lucas.” I quickly hung up.
I was given a prime corner table, for which I was grateful. Members of the press were not the only ones I had to avoid; my picture had been large enough in the papers for three-quarters of London to recognize me. I hoped that wouldn’t happen, and shifted in my chair so that I offered my profile to people at adjacent tables. There were only a handful; it was early for the main dinner crowd.
Lucas arrived a few minutes after I’d been served a glass of white wine. He wore a dark gray suit and black bow tie. “I got here as fast as I could, Jessica. The things people are saying are despicable.”
“You look as though you’re in mourning, Lucas,” I said.
He crossed his hands on his chest and adopted a horrified expression. “Hardly,” he said, “and I would suggest you not make light of it, either. The murder of Marjorie Ainsworth, and you being the one who found the body, is the biggest news here since the Profumo scandal.”
I laughed away his comparison, even though I knew he was probably right.
We ordered smoked salmon as an appetizer. After it was served, and Lucas had had his Pimm’s Cup, he asked me to fill him in on what had happened at Ainsworth Manor. I accommodated him in exquisite and probably unnecessary detail. He hung on every word, his face a succession of overblown expressions. Finally I sat back and asked him what he thought.
“I would say, Jessica, that we have to look for a motive.”
“Lucas, I’m not asking your thoughts on solving the murder of Marjorie Ainsworth. That’s for the authorities. I’m asking what your advice would be concerning me. Should I stay and deliver the speech?” I realized how academic that question was. I was prohibited from leaving Great Britain by Inspector Coots. Still, there was the possibility of canceling any public appearances and hiding until my name had been struck from the suspect list. No, I knew myself too well. I could never bear that sort of existence.
“Of course you’ll give your speech. The press coverage will be incredible.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of, Lucas.”
“Don’t be. The society can use the exposure.”
My expression of shock was genuine. “Lucas, how can you say something like that at a time like this? Marjorie Ainsworth has been murdered, in cold blood.”
He slumped back in his chair and pinched his nose. “I know, I know, so dreadful, but I am a realist.” He sat forward again, elbows on the table and said earnestly, “Jessica, do you remember my book Poison Alley?”
“Yes, of course. You gave me an autographed copy.” He’d written his one and only murder mystery over ten years ago. It wasn’t very good, and once the critics were finished panning it, it took all the starch out of him. He’d never written another word, contenting himself to rub elbows with mystery writers through ISMW.
“The key clue in Poison Alley came out of the deceased’s will, remember?”
“Yes.”
“That’s where I’d start if I were investigating this case. Marjorie must have had a will. Maybe she cut somebody out of it.”
I almost welcomed the diversion
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