Maria turned and walked to the door. “I don’t want to see him,” she said.

“Let’s go,” Seth Hazlitt said.

“I would like to see the body, Inspector,” I said.

“Jessica-”

“I would like to see the body.”

The Inspector stood. “I warn you, it isn’t a pretty sight.”

“I assure you you won’t have a fainter on your hands,” I said.

The Inspector and I went to a small morgue set up at the rear of the building. Through the window, the Thames rolled by. There was a considerable amount of commercial activity on it, and I couldn’t help but wonder what it had looked like two or three hundred years ago when pirates plied its waters. I didn’t have much time to contemplate history, however, because before I knew it, Inspector Half pulled out a body drawer from the wall and had flipped the end of a sheet that covered a corpse’s face.

I quickly turned away. It wasn’t recognizable as a human face, nothing but a gruesome mass of black flesh, no nose, no eyes, just a fetid blob. Look at it, Jessica, I told myself. You asked for this.

I forced myself to look once again at what the inspector had exposed, “Thank you,” I said. “That’s sufficient.”

By the time we reappeared in the lobby of the constabulary, word had gotten out who I was. Inspector Half personally escorted us to the front door. The desk sergeant asked timidly, “Could I have your signature for me kids, Mrs. Fletcher?”

Half gave him a stern look. “If she wouldn’t mind, Inspector,” the sergeant said.

I quickly scrawled my name on the piece of paper he held out, thanked them once again, and walked out onto the street.

“Why did you have to see the body?” Seth asked. “It’s nothing for a lady to see.”

“Seth, someone had to look at the body. Frankly, I was surprised you didn’t come with me. As a doctor, you’ve seen enough corpses.”

“Yes, but I couldn’t have been any help. I never met the young man when he was alive.”

“Well, I did.”

“Was it as terrible as he said it would be?” Maria asked.

I solemnly nodded and avoided her gaze.

“Who could have done such a thing?” she asked.

“I don’t know, Maria, but we’ll try to find out.”

“Must be near lunchtime,” Morton Metzger said. “I’m hungry.”

“It’s only eleven o’clock,” Seth said.

“My body is all turned around,” Morton said. “Jet lag, I guess. What say we find ourselves a place to get a snack, just to tide us over till lunchtime.”

I wasn’t particularly hungry after viewing the remains, but I wasn’t averse to a cup of tea. We looked down the length of the street and saw a pub at the far corner. “Let’s go there,” I said. “We can call a taxi after we eat.”

The pub was called the Red Feather. We looked through the window. It seemed pleasant enough, somewhat run down, but weren’t most neighborhood pubs? The others started in. I stepped back to take in the entire building, which was only two stories tall. Then I noticed a small sign next to the door:

JIMMY BIGGERS

PRIVATE INVESTIGATIONS

We settled at a table in the main room and ordered Devonshire ham and Silton cheese sandwiches. I asked the owner where Mr. Biggers’s office was; he pointed to a set of stairs to the rear.

“Is he up there now?” I asked.

“Probably asleep. He works nights most times, and sleeps the day away.”

“Do you think he would mind being awakened by an old friend?”

“I didn’t know he had any old friends, new ones either.”

I waited until we finished our sandwiches and tea before going upstairs. I knocked.

“Who in hell is it?” Biggers shouted.

“Jessica Fletcher,” I yelled with equal volume.

There was cursing and the sound of furniture being bumped into before Biggers opened the door. His hair went in a dozen directions, and there was a healthy growth of stubble on his cheeks. He wore an old flannel bathrobe riddled with cigarette burns.

“Sorry to have woken you, Mr. Biggers, but I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d stop in to say hello.”

“That so? Wouldn’t expect to see you sightseeing Wapping Wall.”

“One of my favorite places,” I said.

He yawned and scratched his belly through a gap in his robe and pajamas. “I intended to call you today,” he said.

“I’m downstairs with friends,” I said. “We’ve finished eating, but if you’d like to join us, we can have another cup of tea, or a beer.”

“I might do just that, Mrs. Fletcher. Give me a minute.”

He took five minutes to join us. Obviously, showering upon awakening wasn’t part of his morning routine. He’d tried to tame his hair but without much success. There were still sleep granules in the corners of his eyes. I introduced him to the others.

“What brings you to this neighborhood?” he asked.

“An unfortunate circumstance,” I answered. I told him about Jason Harris, and how Maria was Jason’s closest friend.

“Friend?” he said, grinning. “If that’s all he saw in you, miss, he was a bloody fool.”

Maria didn’t know what to do, so she looked away. I was embarrassed, too, but tried not to show it. Biggers asked some questions about Jason Harris, which I deftly avoided. I was aware that Morton Metzger was taking in Biggers with narrowed, questioning eyes. He didn’t say anything, but his stare became unsettling. I decided it was time to leave, thanked Biggers for allowing me to barge in on him as I had, and said we’d be in touch.

“Anytime, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said, standing and pulling out my chair. “It’s a grotty neighborhood, but I call it home, have for many years. You ought to come back just for a social visit some time.”

“I might take you up on that, Mr. Biggers. Good day.”

When we returned to the Savoy, I suggested that Morton and Seth try to salvage some of the day for sightseeing. They reluctantly agreed, and we reconfirmed our plans to meet for a drink at five in the Thames Foyer bar.

Maria and I went up to my suite.

“I really must be leaving now, Mrs. Fletcher. Thank you so much for all you’ve done. You’re a very kind person.”

“No need to thank me, Maria. You’ve been through something dreadful.”

“Mrs. Fletcher, could I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“How terrible did he look? I mean…”

“I won’t mince words with you, Maria. It was a horrible sight. Frankly, I had no idea whether it was Jason or not.”

Her eyes filled up, and she quickly left the room.

Lucas had wanted me to take part in a panel discussion on creating believable female detectives in fiction, but I begged off, agreeing instead to join one the next morning on the relative merits of small-town settings versus big cities.

I couldn’t get the vision of the battered face I’d seen in the Wapping police headquarters out of my mind, nor could I ignore Maria’s comments about Jason Harris’s stepbrother, David Simpson. I’ve always prided myself on my ability to maintain order in my life. Like any writer who’s made a living at it, discipline has been the key, and I’ve had to be a disciplined person.

There are times, however, when, hard as I try, I am drawn to something like a moth to a summer candle. That’s what was happening as I mulled over the circumstances of Jason’s death. How had the police known to contact David Simpson in the middle of the night? I should have asked that. Perhaps Jason carried a card that indicated in the event of emergency, his stepbrother was to be called.

Each time I raised a question-and answered it-I was dissatisfied with my reply.

I went through the London Yellow Pages until I came to the Talent Agent section, which told me to look at Booking Agents. I did, and found an agency in the listing: Simpson Talent Bookers, located on Dean Street, in Soho. I noted the address and phone number on a piece of paper and decided I needed a leisurely walk in London to help clear my mind. It might as well be to Soho. Besides, I’ve often found that simply dropping in on someone can be more effective than trying to arrange a meeting in advance. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t, but it was the approach I decided to take.