I said nothing; my eyes and expression indicated I wanted to hear more.

“Brandy and Blood was not written by Marjorie,” he said.

“No? Who wrote it, Jason Harris?”

“Yes. Because of Marjorie’s advanced age, he sensed that she would not live much longer, so he batted out a novel in what he hoped was her style, and that could be sold under her name after she died. He tried to create the illusion that Marjorie had written the novel before she went to work on Gin and Daggers, but that isn’t the truth. He’d sat at Marjorie’s side-to be more precise, at Jane Portelaine’s side-throughout the writing of Gin and Daggers and thought he’d gotten her style down.”

“You’re not suggesting, Bruce, that he was concerned about perpetuating Marjorie’s financial estate?”

Herbert smiled. “It wasn’t to perpetuate anybody’s estate. When Jane Portelaine gave the manuscript to me and asked me to handle it, she said that Jason wanted a lot of money for it. Publishing it probably would have doomed Marjorie to an eternity of scorn.”

“How so?”

“Well, it isn’t very good. No, that’s a gross understatement. It stinks.”

I shook my head. “I can’t imagine Jane committing such a traitorous act against her aunt.”

“I don’t know what her motivation was, Jessica. She told me she thought that as Marjorie’s American agent, J would want anything that would be marketable under her aunt’s name. At the time I thought she was sincere, misguided perhaps, but sincere. I suppose I also have to be honest enough to say that if it had been any good, I might have considered going with it.”

“But you sat on it.”

“Yes.”

“What else did Jane say when she gave the manuscript to you?”

“Not much, really. I do remember that she seemed uncomfortable giving it to me. I actually had the feeling that Jason had some sort of hold over her. I wonder if that wasn’t the case.”

“You say the manuscript is terrible. I’ve had conversations recently with people who are praising Jason Harris’s writing.”

Herbert shrugged. “Based upon Brandy and Blood, they’re wrong. Would you like to see the manuscript?”

“Yes, very much.”

“I’m doing this with a purpose in mind, Jessica.”

“Which is?”

“To convince you that Jason Harris did not write Gin and Daggers, was incapable of it. Once you see that, there’ll be no need for you to go through with your announcement tomorrow.”

“I’ll have to make up my own mind about that.”

“Of course.” He went to the door. “I’ll bring the manuscript back in a few minutes. It’s in my room.”

My phone rang. It was Jimmy Biggers. “I’ve been trying to reach you,” I said.

“Been busy, love. What’s this codswallop I hear about the Italian murdering Marjorie Ainsworth? Don’t add up to me. Make sense to you?”

“Yes, perfect sense. I’ve thought all along he was the one who killed Marjorie.”

“You did?”

“Yes.”

“That’s a bummer for us. I was hopin’ you and me would solve this one and share the glory.”

“Looks as though that won’t happen, Jimmy. Sorry.”

“Well, nothing ventured, nothing gained, as me mother used to say. By the way, did you enjoy your afternoon in Crumpsworth?”

“How did… Jimmy, I don’t think it’s standard procedure for a private investigator to follow his own client.”

“Got to bend the rules sometimes, Jessica, especially with a born snoop like you. You never saw me, did you?”

“I don’t know how I could have missed you in that ridiculous car of yours.”

“Didn’t use that one. Borrowed me a friend’s little one.”

“Where are you now?” I asked.

“Back at the Red Feather. I just come in from Crumpsworth.”

“Why did you go back there?”

“You told me to keep an eye on Harris’s stepbrother, David Simpson, so I been followin’ ’im.”

“David Simpson went to Crumpsworth today?”

“That he did, drove straight out to Ainsworth Manor.”

“Was anyone with him?”

“I don’t know who the bloke was, but he was skinny and had long hair.”

“Walter Cole,” I said, more to myself than to him.

“Say, Jessica, what’s this announcement you’re supposed to make tomorrow about Ainsworth’s book?”

I laughed lightly. “Nothing you’d be interested in, Jimmy. Purely a literary matter.”

“I’m not much for books, Jessica. I suppose I might as well pack up here and get on to somethin’ else.”

“Yes, I guess you should. Looks like the Yard did its job, which means we don’t have a job to do. Thank you again. It’s been an interesting collaboration.”

“My pleasure. Maybe you and me could get together for a pint before you head back.”

“I’ll be busy right up until I leave, but if there is a break in my schedule, I’ll certainly give you a call.” As I hung up, I jabbed at an imaginary Jimmy Biggers with my index finger.

Bruce Herbert returned with the manuscript of Brandy and Blood. I thanked him and promised I’d read it as soon as possible.

“Do with it what you will, Jessica. It has no value to me.” He placed it on the desk.

“Bruce, this manuscript aside, what is your evaluation of Jason Harris’s future potential?”

“Future? He’s dead.”

“Yes, I know that, but it seems that certain people in the London publishing business think they can turn him into a posthumous literary hero.”

“You mean Walter Cole. I read Strayhorn’s column. Cole’s obviously banking on one thing, that the world will be told, with your help, that Harris wrote Gin and Daggers. If that happens, Harris will suddenly take on international importance. Of course, people will read what he’s written, find out how bad it is, and that will be the end of it, but a big, fast profit could be turned. Think about that before deciding whether to go through with your announcement tomorrow.”

I walked him to the door. “Bruce, I have to do what I feel is just and fair where Gin and Daggers is concerned. If I don’t, I won’t be able to live with myself.”

“Even though it smears the reputation of a good friend?”

“Yes, and even if it diminishes the royalties her books will earn in the future. I’m sorry it directly affects you and others who were professionally involved with Marjorie.”

“Well, I suppose you have to do what you think is right, but give it some serious thought.”

“I’ve been giving it nothing but. Thank you for the manuscript and for your candor.”

Lucas had arranged that evening for a group of ISMW members to have dinner at the Mayfair Hotel, and to attend a performance of The Business of Murder, which had been playing in the theater situated in the hotel for more than eight years. I’d seen it twice-good enough reason to beg off-but Lucas was adamant that I join them.

I was thinking of ways of getting out of going to the play when the phone rang. I picked it up and heard Dr. Beers say, “Mrs. Fletcher?”

“Yes, Dr. Beers. How are you?”

“Quite fine.”

“I didn’t expect to hear from you so soon.”

“I hadn’t intended to call you today. Actually, I am not calling for myself. There is someone here who wishes to speak with you.”

“Who?”

“I’ll put him on.”

“Mrs. Fletcher.”

This was a voice I did not recognize. “Yes, this is Jessica Fletcher. Who is this?”

“It’s Wilfred, ma’am, Miss Ainsworth’s chauffeur.”

“Yes, Wilfred. I’m… well, I’m surprised to be hearing from you.”

“Mrs. Fletcher, would it be impudent for me to ask for some of your time today?”

“Absolutely not.”

“It’s my afternoon off and I thought I would drive into the city. Would it be proper for me to stop by at the Savoy?”

“Perfectly proper, and I’ll look forward to it. When do you think you’ll be here, Wilfred?”

He paused before saying, “As soon as I possibly can, Mrs. Fletcher.”