Gin and Daggers (20 page)

“Poor thing,” said the count. “She was not herself in her last days.”

“I thought she was at her intellectual best right up until the end,” said Bruce Herbert.

“Enough,” Gould-Brayton said. “Let me proceed. ‘To my younger sister, Ona, who saw fit to marry into Italian aristocracy and suffer the inevitable impoverishment inherent in such an act, I consider my debt paid. The money I have given them over the years far surpasses what my instincts would tell me to leave them after my departure from this earth. I do, however, leave to my beloved brother-in-law, Count Zara, as he prefers to call himself, a fat envelope of bills from the clothing stores, gourmet food shops, hotels, alcoholic beverage establishments, and other purveyors of the good life that he had made such generous use of. I have not paid these bills; I trust he will see to it that the debts are honored forthwith.’ ”

“Preposterous,” Zara exclaimed, standing and slamming his fist on the table. “Those were gifts to me from Marjorie.” He looked down at his wife. “Weren’t they, Ona, gifts from your sister? She always told me that I was her favorite.”

“Pay them, Tony, and let’s get on with this bloody circus.”

“ ‘To my loyal and accomplished American publisher, Clayton Perry, and my devoted literary agent, Bruce Herbert, I leave two things. First, the large sums of money I have loaned Mr. Perry are to be forgiven at the time of my death. By doing this, I trust the publishing house that Perry built, constantly tottering on the verge of bankruptcy and worse, will be able to sustain itself for a period of time, which means the American reading public will continue to have access to my books. Second, I forgive Mr. Herbert and Mr. Perry for all the royalties they have stolen from me over the years, and assure them that I have not instructed those I leave behind to pursue that matter with the sort of professional diligence that would undoubtedly uncover these thefts.’ ”

“I can’t believe she wrote that,” Herbert said.

“She was obviously demented when she did,” Clayton Perry said, only his lips moving.

“Of course, that is what I said,” the count said. “This entire will must be contested.”

Gould-Brayton said, “I think I should read this next paragraph rather quickly. ‘At the time these provisions have been read, I assume those in the room such as my American publisher and agent, and my beloved brother-in-law, are calling me demented and demanding that the will be contested. Good luck.’ ”

Gould-Brayton sat back in his tall, wide leather armchair.

“There’s nothing else?” Archibald Semple said. “She didn’t mention me?”

“I am just taking a breather to break the tension in the room,” said the solicitor. “Shall I proceed?”

“Yes, please do,” Semple said, grabbing his wife’s hand and squeezing it, evidently hurting her because she made a face and emitted a tiny squeal. He let go and focused his attention on Gould-Brayton, who’d cleaned his glasses and was once again hunched over Marjorie Ainsworth’s will.

“ ‘To my friend and producer of the most successful dramatic adaptation of any of my books,
Who Killed Darby and Joan?,
Sir James Ferguson, I leave all future royalties from that work, beginning at the moment of my death, and to last in perpetuity. It is my wish that Sir James use the extra money to foster young and deserving theatrical talent in London, although I imagine the overhead of his rather overdone home in Belgravia, and his penchant for expensive young women, will preclude that act of artistic generosity. So be it. I feel compelled to do this, although I can’t possibly tell you why.’ ”

“Come on, come on,” Semple said.

Gould-Brayton scowled at the British publisher, who laughed nervously and looked at his watch. “It’s just that we have another appointment,” Semple said.

“Yes, quite,” said the solicitor. “ ‘My British publisher for many years, Archibald Semple, has undoubtedly stolen from me just as my American business partners have. I forgive him, too, and will not press the matter from the grave.’ ”

“That’s a bloody lie,” Semple said.

This time his wife took his hand and said, “Ssssh, Archie, your colitis.”

“ ‘Still, Archie has displayed friendship to me over these many years, and if he has stolen from me, he has managed to do it with appropriate British reserve, as opposed to his American colleagues. Therefore, in honor of this discretion on his part, I leave him the sum of twenty thousand pounds with which to buy his wife some new and more appropriate clothing, and for him to buy a decent toupee. He may do with the balance what he wishes.’ ”

“She didn’t have to be quite so testy about it,” Semple said, sitting back relieved that he had received a decent sum.

Gould-Brayton looked at his watch. “I shan’t keep you much longer. There is one final provision.”

I knew that everyone at the table was trying to imagine who’d not been mentioned, positively or negatively. We all looked at the large solicitor as he read the final codicil in the will. “ ‘To my former lover, who shall be known only to my solicitor and executor, the most decent man I have ever known, I leave a yearly sum, to be determined by him, to ensure that he spends the rest of his days on this earth in the style to which he is accustomed. When he is no longer of this life, I look forward to once again sharing my bed with him in a higher, grander setting.’ ”

There were gasps around the table. “Lover? I didn’t know Marjorie ever had a lover,” said Semple.

“Who the hell is he?” Bruce Herbert asked.

Marjorie’s sister, Ona, and her husband stood. She said, “Good day.”

“Ona, do you know this lover Marjorie has mentioned?” Bruce Herbert asked.

“I know nothing of my sister’s private life. Excuse us, please.”

We all eventually drifted from the conference room, rode down on the elevator together, and stood on Newgate Street.

“Fascinating,” I said.

“An infuriating, insulting session,” Clayton Perry said. “Her nasty side certainly came out.”

“I might consider libel action if I were you,” Bruce Herbert said to the publisher.

“I think that’s a stupid idea, Bruce.”

I rode alone in a taxi back to the Savoy, Gould-Brayton’s voice buzzing in my ears. I wished I had a tape recording of the reading. It was, as Clayton Perry said, infuriating and insulting to certain people. It was also devilishly typical of my departed friend.

There were a sizable number of the press waiting outside the Savoy. I walked through them saying, “No comment.” The only thing on my mind was Marjorie’s unnamed paramour. When I was filled with natural curiosity about who this mysterious gentleman was, my overriding thought was how nice it was that she’d had such a meaningful and close relationship during her life. “Good girl, Marjorie,” I said aloud.

“Pardon?” the desk clerk said.

“I just came from a celebration of life.” I said, and strode toward the elevators feeling very good indeed.

The dinner hosted by Archibald Semple and his wife for selected members of ISMW was, as might be predicted, flat. The reading of the will had taken the starch out of Archie, Clayton Perry, and Bruce Herbert, and everyone went through the motions of making small talk until dessert had been consumed and we could escape. The only item from the will that was brought up was Marjorie’s mystery lover. Everyone was naturally bursting with curiosity about his identity. I had mixed emotions about it. On the one hand, I would have loved to meet the man who had played such a precious role in Marjorie’s life. On the other hand, it was only fitting that the world’s greatest mystery writer would have a mystery lover.

As I came into the lobby looking for Seth and Morton, I spotted Jimmy Biggers seated in a chair, reading a newspaper. “Mr. Biggers, how unsurprising to see you here.”

He looked over the paper, smiled, stood, and said, “I didn’t want to let a day go by without making contact with you. What did you think of your friend’s final wishes?”

I looked down at the newspaper in his hand: It was a late evening edition, and details of the will had been hastily crammed into a box on page one. “Interesting” was all I said.

“Yes, it does open up some
interesting
possibilities, doesn’t it?”

“Such as?”

“Well, a few motives came out of that reading, I’d say.”

I’d thought the same thing, but really hadn’t dwelled on it.

“You an’ me should get together and discuss it in a little more depth,” he said.

“Perhaps, but not now. I’m looking for my friends from home.”

“Gone out to a gentlemen’s club, they ’ave,” he said.

“How do you know where they are?” “Because they asked me for my recommendation, and I gave it to them.”

“Gentlemen’s club?”

“Yes, and a good one, the Office.”

“Sounds like a business meeting to me,” I said.

“That’s the beauty of it, Jessica. Husbands call their wives and tell them they’ll be late at ‘the Office,’ and they say it without feelin’ too bloody guilty.”

“I see, and what does ‘the Office’ offer my friends?”

“Pretty ladies, decent drinks, and a hell of a tab at night’s end. I’m sure they’ll fill you in on everything... well, maybe not
everything.”

I got his point and didn’t ask any further questions.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Fletcher, I don’t mean to intrude, but...”

I turned to face Renée Perry, who’d been at the dinner I’d come from and, as far as I was concerned, seemed to have suffered through it with even more difficulty than the rest of us. “No bother,” I said.

We stepped away from Biggers.

“Mrs. Fletcher, I must talk to you.”

“Fine.”

“I’d like to get out of here, go where we can be alone. Would you take a walk with me?”

“Of course. Excuse me.” I told Biggers I’d be gone for a while.

“Care for a male escort?” he asked.

“No, I don’t think that will be necessary, but thank you for offering.”

It was a balmy night, rendering Renée’s fur coat superfluous. What would Marjorie have thought? My mugger of the other night came to mind, and I hoped there wasn’t a team of them out this night sniffing for mink.

We walked without saying much of anything—“London is so beautiful”; “Clayton and I had tea at the Dorchester”; “They say a boat ride up the Thames is delightful”; “How unfortunate that Marjorie’s death marred the conference and the week in England”—and then found ourselves in front of a small wine bar called Woodhouse’s.

“Care for a glass of wine, Jessica?”

“That’s a nice idea. It looks charming.”

Woodhouse’s was virtually empty. We settled at a table by the window and ordered individual glasses of white wine. After it was served, Renée Perry looked at me, opened her mouth to say something, then lowered her head.

“What’s wrong?” I asked. “I know some of the things said today in the lawyer’s office must have been upsetting to your husband, but—”

“It goes far deeper than that, Jessica.”

I sat back and opened my eyes as an indication that I was receptive to whatever she wished to say next.

“Are you aware, Jessica, that Marjorie wrote a novel that was never published?”

“No, but that wouldn’t strike me as terribly unusual. Most writers, especially successful ones with long careers, have early unsold works in the trunk, as they say.”

She shook her head. “I’m not talking about an early work. I’m talking about a novel that was written just before
Gin and Daggers.”

“Before
Gin and Daggers?
Why wasn’t it published?”

“I don’t know, but I do know it exists. The title of it is
Brandy and Blood.”

I smiled.
“Brandy and Blood. Gin and Daggers.
It sounds as though Marjorie was launching into a series at her advanced age, an alcoholic beverage in every title instead of a color, as in John D. MacDonald’s novels.”

“Perhaps. I don’t know what her motivation was, but it was written, and never submitted to Mr. Semple, or to my husband.”

“Why not?”

She took a sip of her wine and then said, “Because, Jessica, Bruce Herbert stole it.”

“Gracious, that’s quite an accusation. Are you certain?”

“Yes, I am. It’s why he murdered her.”

I suppose you could call it the “layered shock approach” —hit you with one, then quickly hit you with another. Whatever it might be called, it worked, and I was without words.

“I’ve considered going to the authorities, Jessica, but I’m afraid it might implicate my husband.”

“How would Clayton be implicated?” I asked. “He knows about the manuscript?”

“Yes, he does. Don’t misunderstand me. I’m not suggesting that he had anything to do with stealing it, but because he and Bruce are such close friends and working colleagues, Bruce naturally made him aware of it.”

“Because he wants your husband to publish it.”

“I’m not so certain about that, although Clayton thinks so. The fact is, Bruce Herbert will sell it to whoever will pay top dollar. He isn’t what you’d call the most ethical of people.”

I took another sip of wine. “How could he have stolen it, Renée? Wouldn’t Marjorie have raised a beef?”

She smiled ruefully. “Exactly. That’s why he killed her.”

“Let me ask you something very directly, and hope for an answer containing nothing except hard-nosed fact. Are you certain, without question, that not only did Bruce Herbert steal this manuscript, but he murdered Marjorie Ainsworth, too?”

She silently stared at me before saying softly, “No. I mean, I know he stole the manuscript, but I certainly can’t prove he murdered her.”

I asked, “Didn’t Marjorie ask him why this novel of hers wasn’t being published? She obviously knew that anything she put her name on would be instantly gobbled up, if not by Perry House, then by any one of fifty other publishers.”