“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.”

“She did ask him, as I understand it, and he told her he considered it so special that he wanted to have time to think about the proper way to market it.”

“And she accepted that?”

“Yes. With all Marjorie Ainsworth’s insight and intelligence, she could be remarkably naïve and easily led.”

“I see. Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I have tremendous respect for you, am well aware that you are the one person who had nothing to gain by Marjorie’s death, and because not only are you recognized as a fine writer of murder mysteries, you’ve ended up solving many real murders yourself. Is that sufficient?”

“More than sufficient, although the compliments are hardly justified. You say I’m the only one with nothing to gain. Obviously, you’re including your husband in the group who would benefit from Marjorie’s death.”

She’d been reticent and sedate during the conversation. My comment brought forth animation for the first time. “Jessica, my husband did not kill Marjorie Ainsworth. Bruce Herbert did.”

Up until that moment I had assigned a certain credence to what she’d been saying. Now, as I looked at this beautiful and expensively dressed woman across from me, I wondered whether this pointing of fingers at Bruce Herbert was, in fact, designed to point fingers away from her husband. I couldn’t ask that directly, of course, but it stayed with me as we finished our wine, she paid the check, and we retraced our steps to the Savoy.

We paused in the lobby. “I’m putting tremendous faith in you, Jessica, telling you this. Will you talk to the London authorities?”

“I don’t know. I’m not sure what you’ve told me would warrant that.”

“I only ask because I know you’re on friendly terms with that Scotland Yard inspector.”

George Sutherland. I’d like to have said I’d forgotten about him, but that was hardly the case. The fact was, I thought about him often, the warm and pleasant conversations we’d had, and the cold shoulder he’d given me at the funeral. I said to Renée Perry, “I’ll think about what I might do with what you’ve told me. If I decide to do anything, I’ll certainly let you know.”

“I can’t ask for more. Thank you, Jessica. Have a good evening.”

I watched her elegant, tall figure swathed in mink cross the lobby and disappear around a bend. Was she being sincere and forthright, or was this a calculated move to establish a field in which any suspicion would be diverted from her handsome publisher husband? According to Marjorie’s will, she’d accused him, along with Bruce Herbert, of stealing money from her, although she’d dismissed it in a charmingly cavalier manner. The loan she claimed to have given him was another matter. More substance to that. Depending upon how large it was, it could certainly provide motive for murder.

“Enjoy your walk?” Jimmy Biggers asked me.

“Still here? Yes, we had a lovely walk, just the thing to get over a large meal.”

He smiled, narrowed his eyes, and tapped me on the shoulder with his index finger. It was a strange action for him to take; was he about to attack me, give me a push? No, it was just his way of getting my attention for what he was about to say next. “Jessica, a word of warning. You’re much too visible in the way you’re going about this. People are talking. You don’t want to end up like Marjorie Ainsworth.”

His words had their intended effect. “Do you know something I don’t?” I asked.

He flashed his nicotine-stained teeth and moved his head back and forth, as he was wont to do. “Absolutely not, Jessica Fletcher, but I will tell you that I like you, have respect for you, and don’t want to see you floating face down in the Thames like the Harris chap.”

“How do I avoid that, Jimmy?” I asked.

“That, Jessica, is the subject of our breakfast meeting tomorrow morning.”

“I wasn’t aware that we had a ‘breakfast meeting.’ ”

“I think we should. Meet me at eight o’clock at the Red Feather. They’ll whip us up a proper English breakfast, and I’ll tell you what’s on my mind. You’ll be there?”

What else could I say? “Yes.”

Because the Red Feather was close to the Metropolitan Special Constabulary on Wapping Wall, it was a popular hangout for police from that division. When I walked in at precisely eight o’clock the next morning, Biggers was sitting with Inspector Half and three other uniformed officers. He bounced up and met me just inside the door. “Good morning to you, Jessica, right on time. Punctuality. I like punctuality.”

“I try my best,” I said. “I see you know Inspector Half.”

Biggers laughed. “Know ‘em all, all good chums o’ mine. Care to join ’em, or would you rather we take another table?”

“Whatever pleases you, Mr. Biggers. I’m here by your invitation.”

“Let’s find us a spot where we can talk in private.” That spot turned out to be a table tucked in the darts room. Biggers ordered a full English breakfast for both of us-fresh-squeezed orange juice, porridge with cream, fried eggs, crisp bacon, well-done sausages, kippered herring, and an excellent pot of coffee.

“This is delicious,” I said.

“Not quite up to the Goring, but better than most.” I’d had one of the famed English breakfasts at the Goring Hotel, and the Red Feather’s was almost as good.

After our plates had been cleared and the waitress poured fresh coffee, I said to Jimmy Biggers, “This has been a very pleasant start to my day. I’d like to know, though, why you invited me here. You said you had something to discuss with me.”

“Simple, Jessica, I need me a client.”

“Really? From what I understand, you’re never without one.”

“True, but I’m talking about a big client, somebody I can hang me hat on. I’ve always got me share of wives wanting their husbands followed, insurance fraud cases, all the run-of-the-mill stuff, but I like big cases, ones that really keep me mind working.”

“You mean cases of the magnitude of Sir Reginald Pickings.”

“How’d you know about that one?”

“Someone told me.”

“Well, you’re right.”

“Obviously, the murder of Marjorie Ainsworth would qualify.”

“Right again.”

“I’ve wondered why you’ve stayed so close to the people involved. Frankly, I assumed you were working for someone already.”

“Not yet.” He stared at me.

“Are you suggesting that I hire you as a private investigator?”

“Actually, they call us inquiry agents here in Great Britain, but I like the American way. Gumshoe? That’s a good one. Call me what you will.”

“Mr. Biggers, I don’t need a… gumshoe.”

“Worried about the money?”

“The money? Of course not.”

“No need, ’cause I’m offerin’ my services off the cuff, gratis, no charge.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

“Let’s just say I wouldn’t mind bein’ the investigator who helps the famous Jessica Fletcher solve the murder of the world’s greatest mystery writer, Marjorie Ainsworth. From what I understand-and I’ve done a bit of checkin’ on you-you’ve knocked off as many murderers in real life as you have in your books.”

I laughed; I didn’t know how else to respond.

Biggers nodded his head and narrowed his eyes as he said, “I’m serious.”