Seth Hazlitt, Morton Metzger, Lucas Darling, and I sat with George Sutherland in his office at Scotland Yard. It was the following morning: the weather in London was what tourists always claim it is, chilly and damp. Tea in Styrofoam cups had been purchased from a vendor who serviced the Yard. It wasn’t an elegant tea service, but the tea tasted good.

“I can’t believe that dreadful man Montgomery Coots,” I said, “bouncing up and down on TV this morning, claiming he knew all along it wasn’t Count Zara who’d killed Marjorie; that it was Jane. The nerve of him to talk about how Scotland Yard almost derailed the investigation by accusing Zara.”

Sutherland, who’d removed his jacket and sat behind his desk in shirt, tie, and dark brown sleeveless sweater, laughed gently. “I think we can withstand the attack on our reputation by the Crumpsworth inspector.” He leaned forward and said to me, “I must admit, Jess, that when you asked me to announce that we’d identified Zara as the murderer, I came this close to denying you.” He held his thumb and index finger an eighth of an inch apart. “But I must admit it was effective. Obviously Harris, Ms. Portelaine, and the others felt confident they were off the hook.”

“Well, George, all I can say is that I appreciate your going along with me for twenty-four hours.”

“What an evil woman,” Lucas said.

“Jane?” I said. “I don’t think she’s evil, Lucas. I’m not excusing her for having killed Marjorie, but there is a mitigating factor, I think.”

“Which is?” Sutherland asked.

“A lack of premeditation. The others were involved in a classic conspiracy. For Jane, ramming the dagger into her aunt represented extreme frustration and fear. I suspect she’d never had a relationship with a man before, let alone with such a handsome, dashing, and supposedly talented one as Jason Harris. She would have done anything to keep him.”

“Ms. Giancona has been very cooperative,” Sutherland said. “According to her, Harris had Marshall, the butler, plant the pendant your husband gave you in Miss Ainsworth’s bedroom to cast suspicion on you, Jessica.”

I touched the pendant and said, “If Inspector Coots had his way, I’d be defending myself in the Old Bailey right now.”

I looked at Lucas. “I don’t wonder that Maria is being cooperative, after taking Jane’s blows. When I saw that girl’s face-and I am not excusing her, either, from having been part of the scheme-I knew deep inside that Jane had killed Marjorie. Until I saw how capable she was of physically venting her anger, I would have dismissed that notion.”

“Any word on the Maroney fella?” Morton asked.

Sutherland shook his head. “We’ll find him.”

I said, “I certainly was wrong there. I assumed it was Maroney who’d been killed and dumped in the Thames, but then I thought back to when I’d seen the body. It was such a fleeting glance, but the head was too small.”

“Harris was certainly effective at getting others to do his dirty deeds, wasn’t he?” Seth said. “He got Jane to kill Marjorie, and then convinced-or paid off-Maroney to find a drifter down by the docks, kill him, and disfigure him so that he was unidentifiable, then dump him in the river.”

“Yes,” I said, “and that would never have been established had Maria not been there when that deal was made with Maroney.”

“I’m intrigued with this Dr. Glenville Beers,” Sutherland said. “Miss Ainsworth and he had this intimate relationship all these years, and no one ever knew about it?”

“Wilfred, Marjorie’s chauffeur knew,” I said. “She trusted him implicitly, and for good reason.”

Sutherland stood. “Ready for your tour?” he asked, putting on his jacket.

“Sure am,” Morton said. He’d had the Savoy do a fast cleaning and pressing of his Cabot Cove uniform in anticipation of spending the morning with one of Scotland Yard’s chief inspectors. His respect for Sutherland was manifest in the fact he’d removed his Stetson upon entering the office. Morton generally left it on no matter what the event or who the person.

Sutherland talked as he led us to what’s commonly known as Scotland Yard’s “Black Museum.” “We moved into this glass and concrete edifice in 1967,” he said. “The previous headquarters on Whitehall was built on the scene of an unsolved crime.”

“How’d that happen?” Lucas asked.

“They were digging the foundation and discovered a woman’s body. Her head and arms had been severed. They tried their best to find the murderer but never did. Somewhat unpleasant having police headquarters constructed there.”

“Sounds like headquarters back in Cabot Cove,” Morton said.

“It does?” Seth and I said in unison.

“Don’t you remember when the new jail and sheriff’s office was put up five years ago? The construction workers found those tires Tommy Detienne had reported stolen from his Buick a year earlier.”

“I’d forgotten about that,” Seth said.

“Never solved that crime, either.”

“Shall we continue?” said Sutherland, tossing me an amused smile.

The “Black Museum” was the name given the Yard’s archives by a reporter who considered it to be dark and evil. It’s not open to the general public, and a visit takes a special invitation from a high-ranking member of the Yard. We couldn’t go much higher than George Sutherland.

After we’d all entered the museum, he carefully locked the door behind us and conducted a tour that lasted almost two hours. It represented a remarkable monument to crime, to the criminal mind, and to detection. Death masks taken from prisoners hanged at Newgate Prison in the 1800s were displayed. There were sections on forgery, rigged gaming devices, burglary, drugs, kidnapping, and, most startling, sexual perversion. It was man, and woman, at their worst.

Many of the displays were chilling, but one in particular has stayed with me to this day. Sutherland said as we stood before it, “A young Southampton girl celebrated a birthday in 1945. One of her gifts arrived by post and contained a card telling her that the gift would bring things closer to her. It was a pair of binoculars. There they are.” He pointed to them in the glass case.

“Before the girl had a chance to look through the binocs, her father put them to his eyes, and adjusted the focusing screw. Sharp spikes sprang out from each eyepiece, blinding him for life. Whoever had intended to injure the young girl was not only a madman, but a remarkably skilled craftsman. He’d carved the binoculars from wood, fitted the spikes inside them on a rachet of sorts, used a coiled spring to activate them, and done a beautiful paint job with black rexine and enamel. To this day no one knows who is responsible for this grotesque crime.”

“A nut, like Jason Harris,” Morton said.

“Yes, or, as we Scots say, deleerit.”

“That was quite a tour, Inspector,” Mort Metzger said after we’d left the museum and were standing in the Yard’s main lobby.

“Yes, we’re quite proud of it,” Sutherland said. “We use it in our training of senior detectives. Do you have a crime museum back in Cabot Cove, Sheriff?”

“No, not enough happens there for a museum, ’less we display tires that got stole off Detienne’s truck, or the picture window that got broke in Miss Boonton’s house.”

Sutherland said, “I’d say your sheriff is a modest man, Jessica. I’ve heard about murder cases you’ve had a hand in solving back home.”

“Just a few, George, just a few.”

“Well, shall we go to lunch?” Sutherland asked. He’d insisted upon taking us to a farewell lunch at Joe Allen, on Exeter Street, which has been serving up American food since 1977 with great success. It was sweet of him to suggest that particular restaurant as a gesture to our American heritage. I would have preferred something more traditionally British, as I’m sure Lucas would, but Morton and Seth seemed delighted with the opportunity to be able to order what London insiders say is the best hamburger in town, and to garnish it with french fries and salads.