“Yes, I can see that. Actually, I would like to help solve Marjorie’s murder. She happened to be a very dear friend of mine.”

He sat back and grinned. “What say, Jessica, you and me work together, figure out who killed Marjorie Ainsworth, and all I ask is for some public credit. Good for my business, wouldn’t you say, to be hooked’ up with the likes of you?”

Somehow, what he was offering had a certain appeal. His knowledge of London, especially its less obvious aspects, would be helpful. “I’ll think about it,” I said.

“All right, but don’t take too long. I just might end up solvin’ this one on my own.”

He wangled a promise from me that I would call him as soon as possible with my answer. I thanked him for breakfast, we shook hands, and he called a cab that transported me back to the Savoy. Seth and Morton were having breakfast in the dining room, and I joined them.

“Tell me all about your fling last night,” I said.

Seth glanced at Morton, whose face had a slightly green tinge to it. Seth said, “We went to a very exclusive club, compliments of your Mr. Biggers.”

“Compliments of him? He told me he’d recommended it, that’s all.”

“That’s what I mean. Naturally, we would never have considered going to such a place if it had not been so highly recommended by a native like him.”

I smiled and looked down at the table. “I won’t ask any more questions,” I said.

“I learned one thing,” Morton said.

I looked up. “What’s that?”

“There’s lots of beautiful young French ladies in London who were born in Sweden.”

“Where’ve you been this morning?” Seth asked me.

“Having breakfast at the Red Feather with Jimmy Biggers. He’s made me a business proposition.”

Seth frowned. “I wouldn’t trust him, Jess. You’re not thinking of putting up any money in some scheme of his.”

“No, of course not. He wants us-him and me-to solve Marjorie Ainsworth’s murder together.”

“I don’t like the sound of that,” said Morton.

“I told him I would give him an answer as soon as I could. Frankly, I’m tempted. He seems to be a veritable fount of information, and I’d like to be on the receiving end of it.”

“Jess…” Seth said, placing his hand on mine.

“Let’s face it,” I said, “I’ve already been sticking my nose into Marjorie’s murder: one, because she was a good friend, and two, because I have been a suspect all along, and three, because obviously I was born with an extra gene that makes me the way I am.” I quickly changed the subject and asked what their plans were. They said they intended to take it easy that day, which didn’t surprise me, considering the way they looked after their boys’ night out.

As I stood to leave, Seth asked me about the reading of Marjorie’s will.

“It was fascinating.”

“And she did leave you something?”

“Left me quite a bit, although I am donating it back to the study center she created. I’ll fill you in on the details later. Have to run. Enjoy your day of leisure.”

I went up to my suite and picked up the telephone. There was no answer at Jimmy Biggers’s office-apartment above the Red Feather, so I found the number of the pub itself and called it. He was still there; the owner put him on the line.

“You’ve got yourself a client, Mr. Biggers.”

“Good girl, Jess. You’ve made a very wise decision.”

“That will be determined when this is over. In the meantime, I’d like you to do two things for me. First, see if you can find Maria Giacona. Second, learn everything you can about the relationship between Jason Harris and David Simpson.”

“Whoa now, slow down, I’m not sure I like havin’ a woman give me orders like this.”

“I thought you wanted me to be your client.”

“That’s right, but-”

“Well, as I’ve always been taught, clients tell those working for them what to do.”

“Behind that pleasant, feminine facade, you are a tough duck, Mrs. Fletcher.”

“Only when I’m a client, Jimmy. Will you do those things for me?”

“You bet. Just testing, seein’ how far I can go. Where will you be later in the day?”

“I don’t know, but you can leave a message with the hotel and I’ll get back to you. Thanks again for breakfast. It was excellent.”

I changed into a sweat suit and running shoes I’d brought with me and went downstairs with the intention of finding a pleasant jogging path along the Victoria Embankment on the river.

“Mrs. Fletcher,” a familiar male voice said. It was Montgomery Coots, the Crumpsworth inspector.

“Yes, Inspector?”

“On your way for a run, are you?” he asked, moving up and down on his toes.

“Yes, as a matter of fact I was. Would you care to join me?”

He looked down at the suit and leather shoes he wore and said, “Afraid I’m not quite dressed for such activity. Would you spare me a few minutes before you go?”

“Of course. Perhaps you’d like to walk with me. I feel an overwhelming need to be out of doors.”

We made our way around back of the hotel and headed down toward the Embankment. We stopped at a wooden bench beneath a clump of trees. Coots pulled out my gold pendant from his breast pocket and handed it to me.

“Thank you, Inspector. I was wondering whether I would ever see this again.”

“Never any fear of that with me, Mrs. Fletcher. I don’t lose evidence like some others do.”

“Yes, I’m sure that’s true. Evidence? You really did consider this evidence?”

“I overlook nothing, Mrs. Fletcher. I’m well known for that.”

I smiled pleasantly. “Anything else you wish to give me, or discuss with me?”

“As a matter of fact, there is. I don’t like having inquiry agents the likes of Jimmy Biggers-whom, I must say, you’ve been spending a lot of time with-snoopin’ into my business.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Come now, Mrs. Fletcher, let’s not beat round bushes. Biggers has been poking around Crumpsworth, asking questions about Miss Ainsworth and the young writer who got his throat slit.” He paused a moment to gauge my reaction. “Are you aware, Mrs. Fletcher, of the reputation of Jimmy Biggers?”

“I’ve heard some stories about him although, I must admit, I’ve found him to be nothing but pleasant, straightforward and helpful.”

Coots narrowed his eyes and started his up-and-down motion again. “Mrs. Fletcher, you write about murders, I solve ’em. I suggest we keep it that way.”

“I assure you, Inspector Coots, that I have no intention of stepping on your toes, but I have lost a very dear friend under tragic circumstances, and there are questions I want answered. Frankly, I don’t think those questions will be answered by you.”

Anger flashed across his face, and I quickly added, “Not because of any lack of competence on your part, but because some of the questions involve literary matters quite aside from murder.”

“What might those ‘literary matters’ be?”

“I really don’t think you’d be interested in them.”

“Better to let me be the judge of that, Mrs. Fletcher. Like I said, I leave no stone unturned when I’m out to knock off a killer.”

“Well, Inspector Coots, I can only assure you that my inquiries, in concert with Mr. Biggers, have nothing whatsoever to do with your investigation of the murder of Marjorie Ainsworth. Now I really must run, in a literal sense. We can continue this conversation if you’ll join me, or we can make an appointment to continue it later on.” I looked at him; he obviously wasn’t about to join me, so I took off at a trot, looking back only once to see him glaring at me from where I’d left him.

I returned to my room after an hour or so, showered, and called Bruce Herbert’s room. He answered, and I asked whether he was free to meet for a cocktail later that afternoon.

“Anything special on your mind, Jessica?”

“No, I just thought it might be fun as long as we’re at a writers’ convention to talk books. We really haven’t had much of a chance to do that.”