“Yes, I understand,” I said. “I’ll call you tomorrow and let you know what it contains.”

As I watched him leave the hotel, I knew there was no need to call him to reveal the contents of the package. He already knew what was inside, and had probably looked at it with Simpson. Deciding to become involved with Jimmy Biggers might not have been the smartest decision I had made of late, and that thought served as a gentle reminder to be more on my toes when around him.

My phone was ringing as I entered the suite. I picked it up. “Mrs. Fletcher?”

“Yes.”

“George Sutherland. Am I catching you at a bad time?”

“No, I just walked in.”

“I’ve been meaning to call you, but life is so busy and… well, as my father used to say, the road to hell is paved with good intentions.”

I laughed. My father used to say the same thing.

“The reason I’m calling, Jessica, is to invite you to dinner this evening. I know this is terribly short notice but…”

“Yes, it is short notice, but that happens not to matter. I am free this evening, and would very much enjoy dining with you.”

There was an audible sigh of relief on his end. He said, “I have a favorite restaurant in Central Market called Bubbs that I thought you might enjoy. It tends to be somewhat masculine, but the food is quite good and I’m comfortable there.”

“Then I’m sure I will be, too.”

“I’m afraid I’m going to be running late here at the office. Would you consider it discourteous of me not to pick you up, to ask you to meet me there at eight-thirty?”

“Absolutely not.” He gave me the address and phone number of the restaurant.

I’d no sooner hung up when Lucas Darling called. “Jessica, I have missed you so. I never have the opportunity to see you because we live thousands of miles apart, and then you come all the way to London and I still am not able to see you. I insist that we have dinner tonight. Eleven Park Walk has absolutely become the city’s in place for people-watching, and I intend to treat you to an evening there.”

“Lucas, that’s awfully nice of you, but the last thing I want to do is watch people. I’d intended to spend the evening alone with a good book”-I glanced at the desk where the package sat-“but I’ve ended up with a dinner engagement with Inspector Sutherland from Scotland Yard.”

“Him again.”

“What do you mean, ‘him again’? You sound annoyed.”

“Jessica, I have been a model of patience since you arrived. I have put up with constant changes in the program schedule. A nutter has attacked my keynote speaker with a sword, the world’s most revered mystery writer has been murdered, bloody television crews keep getting in my way-not that I mind the publicity for ISMW, mind you-and, most painful, my good friend and colleague, Jessica Fletcher, has been conspicuous by her almost constant absence. I insist you come to dinner with me. Wear your finest. We’ll be watched, too.”

I’d known Lucas well enough over the years to know when it was possible to turn him down, and when doing so might send him to the brink of suicide. This was one of those times when I could be adamant in my refusal and still expect to see him in the morning. He muttered a few terms of disgruntlement, made me promise that I would meet with him the following day, and hung up.

I went to the desk, tore open the package, settled in a comfortable chair beneath the room’s most functional lamp, and stared down at the title page of Gin and Daggers. Scrawled across the top in red pen was the comment: “Proof copy-title was mine.”

I was getting out of my taxi in front of Bubbs when Inspector Sutherland came walking up the street, a newspaper casually tucked beneath his arm. “Please, let me,” he said, and paid the driver. “Shall we?” He offered his elbow. I took it and we entered the restaurant. “I prefer upstairs, if you don’t mind,” he said. “Not as fancy as down, but more conducive to serious eating. The food is good, and plentiful.”

He was greeted warmly by the host and staff, and we were settled in a corner of the upstairs dining room, the walls oxblood red, the linen frosty white. “Wine?” he asked.

“Yes, please.”

“It won’t be a fancy vintage. The owners are rather bourgeois for Frenchmen in London.”

He insisted I taste the wine. “Never sure what I’m supposed to look for,” he said, laughing, “except a large piece of cork floating in it.” I tasted and approved, primarily because I didn’t see any cork.

He raised his glass. “To Jessica Fletcher, who seems to be in the midst of murder no matter where she is.”

“Frankly, I could do without that characterization.”

“Yes, I’m sure you could.” He sat back and was the picture of the relaxed, confident man. He wore a three-piece navy blue suit, probably not very expensive, but he was a man who wore clothes nicely, off the rack or custom-tailored. “Your friend Mr. Darling convinced me to conduct a panel tomorrow for your society.”

“Really? That wasn’t on the schedule.”

“No, a last-minute whim of his, I suppose. I thought you might join me on it.”

“What’s the subject?”

“Contemporary investigative techniques.”

“I’m afraid I wouldn’t be qualified,” I said.

“I think quite the opposite. It’s at eleven. Will you?”

“Yes, all right. I’m flattered. Lucas must consider having you speak to be the coup of the conference.”

“He’s a pleasant fellow, quite a fan of yours.”

I couldn’t help but wonder as we talked why his manner with me this night was so much warmer than it had been at Marjorie’s burial service.

“I have something to show you that might be of interest,” he said. He handed me that day’s London Times. It was opened to the arts and entertainment section. I scanned the page; nothing jumped off at me.

“Read the ‘Book Notes’ column,” he said.

The column was written by William Strayhorn, the eminent London book critic. “What am I looking for in this?” I asked.

“Read a bit and you’ll see.”

I took out my half-glasses and started. The item he wanted me to see was buried in the middle of the column:

Jason Harris, a heretofore unsuccessful author who was dragged from the Thames the other night with his throat slit and face battered, and who was a protégé of murdered mystery writing queen Marjorie Ainsworth, is about to find posthumous publishing success. Cadence House, headed all these years by Walter Cole, who’s made his millions publishing pornography disguised as literature, has announced its intention to publish the first of four novels written by Mr. Harris before his death, and unpublished to date. Either Jason Harris has written the sort of rubbish that usually appeals to Mr. Cole, or Mr. Cole has decided to take a portion of the money he’s made in the sewer and devote it to works of merit, assuming Mr. Harris has written anything of merit.

I handed the paper back to Sutherland. “Fascinating,” I said. “I had no idea Jason had written four novels.”

“Either he has, or there is a room filled with writers turning out prose to bear his name, and to capitalize on small mentions of his murder in the local press.”

I shook my head. “That doesn’t make any sense to me. Does it to you?”

He shrugged. “I’m afraid I’m out of my element when it comes to the publishing world.”

“How’s the investigation into Marjorie’s murder going?”

Sutherland pursed his lips. “Mrs. Ainsworth-Zara, the deceased’s sister, has come forward with interesting information that I wanted to share with you. I was eager not only to have you hear this information, but to benefit from your evaluation of it.”

If he meant to flatter me, he’d succeeded. As with our previous times together, I could never be sure when he was being personally sincere and when he was playing the role of a smooth, skilled investigator. I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt, and asked him to continue.