Gin and Daggers by Jessica Fletcher Read Free Book Online Page A

hands gripping it as I drew a deep breath to fill my lungs. I shouted, “Help! Please come quickly! There’s been a murder!”

Chapter Five
    We huddled together in the study like survivors of a shipwreck or plane accident, each having experienced a tragedy that bound us to one another. As expected, everyone reacted to the shocking event in his or her own way. There was the hysterical camp, which included Archibald Semple, Marjorie’s British publisher; Bruce Herbert, her New York agent; Sir James Ferguson, the producer of Who Killed Darby and Joan? (his lack of control surprised me, based upon my observation of him at the dinner table); and, even more surprising, Renée Perry, the wife of Marjorie’s American publisher, Clayton Perry. My surprise wasn’t based upon any dramatic change in her demeanor, although it certainly had changed. Murder tends to cause that. It was more a matter of wondering why she was so personally distraught over Marjorie’s death. She acted as though she had lost her dearest friend, which, of course, wasn’t true.
    I was relieved when the local police inspector arrived, accompanied by two young constables in uniform. Marshall, the butler, brought them to the library. The young police officers took positions at opposite ends of the room as the inspector assumed a stance in the middle. He was a little man, no taller than five feet six inches, which, I reasoned, accounted for his habit of moving up and down on his toes. He wore heavy laced boots and a well-worn red plaid outdoor jacket over an ill-fitting and wrinkled suit that had a distinct green cast to it. He held a notebook to his chest as he continued to rock up and down.
    “I am Inspector Montgomery Coots, in charge of Crumpsworth. Miss Ainsworth has been killed, has she? Where might the body be?”
    “Upstairs, in her bedroom,” Jane Portelaine said. She stood with Jason Harris behind a large oak table.
    Coots turned at the sound of her voice. “Miss Portelaine, isn’t it?”
    “Yes, I am Jane Portelaine, Marjorie Ainsworth’s niece.”
    “I take it you found the body,” Coots said.
    “No, I did,” I said from my chair, causing him to have to turn again.
    “And who might you be?”
    “My name is Jessica Fletcher, Inspector. I’m an old friend of Marjorie Ainsworth and was invited here as a weekend guest.”
    “American, I can hear.”
    “Yes, I am from the United States.”
    “You flew all the way here to attend a party?”
    “No, you see ...” Bruce Herbert interrupted to explain who I was and why I was there.
    “A mystery writer.” He took in the others: “Is that the case with all of you?”
    “No,” said Herbert, “we are all involved— were professionally involved with Marjorie Ainsworth.”
    “Excuse me, Inspector, but don’t you want to see the body before we get into this kind of questioning?” Clayton Perry asked.
    Coots fixed him with a hard stare. “I think I’ll be the judge from this point forward, sir, of how we proceed with investigating this case. You are?”
    Perry told him.
    “Well now, where is the body?” he asked imperiously. He was a dislikable man, filled with pomposity. His left eye twitched, and he had a habit of moving his nose as though a foreign object were lodged in it.
    Jane came around the table and said, “Come with me, Inspector.”
    Coots said to his men, “Stay here and see that no one leaves.” He asked the room, “Has anyone left since the body was discovered?” We assured him no one had.
    “Household staff?” he asked Jane.
    “All present and accounted for,” she said.
    “Well then, let’s proceed.”
    After Coots and Jane left the room, Archibald Semple, who’d resumed drinking upon being summoned to the library, started pacing, drink in hand. He said, “What we have here is right out of the cozy school of murder mysteries, it seems to me. It may be irreverent for me to be speaking this way at such a time, but Dame Agatha could not have created a more