Free Gin and Daggers by Jessica Fletcher Page A

that plan, while also hearing what Ms. Giacona had to say. Frank and I had spent two Sunday mornings at Speakers’ Corner and had not only found the experience fascinating, but were both struck with the real meaning of free speech it represented.
    My driver let me off at Marble Arch, which was built originally as the main gateway to Buckingham Palace but, because it wasn’t broad enough for royal coaches to pass through, was moved in 1851 to its current site. I stood for a few minutes after he drove away, and took in the broader scene in front of me. Again, as would happen countless times during this post-Frank trip to London, I was bombarded with memories that, while pleasant, carried with them a parallel sadness because they could never be repeated.
    It wasn’t difficult to find the South African rally that Maria had mentioned. It dominated the corner and, as opposed to most of the other speakers who had to shout over competing noise, featured a fiery young black man with a microphone and amplification system.
    I stood at the rear of the crowd and looked for Maria. I didn’t see her. As I started to wonder whether I was the victim of a time-consuming practical joke, a voice behind me said, “Mrs. Fletcher.”
    I turned and looked into Maria’s dark eyes. No wonder I hadn’t seen her; she was dressed very differently from last night. This morning she wore jeans and an army surplus camouflage jacket over a black turtleneck, and her hair was pulled into a French braid. No makeup.
    “I was beginning to wonder whether you’d be here,” I said.
    “I’ve been here for a while. I was watching you.”
    “You were? Why didn’t you just come over to me?”
    “I don’t know. Maybe it’s because I wanted to gain a better sense of the person I was going to confide in this morning. I certainly know you by reputation, and I’ve read some of your books, but dealing on a personal level is another matter. Wouldn’t you agree?”
    “Yes, I would.”
    She suggested we walk to the Serpentine. As we walked, and talked, I was increasingly impressed with her. I liked her, which would make things easier, no matter how startling or unpleasant her message.
    We chose a bench in the shade of a huge sycamore tree. She sat hunched over, and peered with intensity out over the lake. Whatever it was she was about to tell me meant a great deal to her. She was taut, coiled, and evidently going through an internal debate either about whether to tell me anything at all, or about how to word it.
    I tried to help her. “Ms. Giacona, you wanted to talk to me about Marjorie Ainsworth’s murder, as well as Jason Harris.”
    She slowly turned her head and narrowed her eyes. “Mrs. Fletcher, I must first say that I do not wish to offend you or your friend, Marjorie Ainsworth. I know you were close to her, and that her death must be a shock to you, especially the circumstances of it.”
    “Very true.”
    “I do not share that closeness with her, but I do share such a closeness with another person who is being hurt by this.”
    “Jason Harris?”
    “Yes.”
    “I can imagine. From what I understand, Marjorie had taken him in as a pupil of sorts. He certainly couldn’t have had a better teacher, and losing such a mentor must be difficult.”
    Now her soft brown eyes were tempered with a discernible anger. It was almost frightening, so abrupt was the change. She said in measured tones, “It is not losing Marjorie Ainsworth as a teacher that is upsetting to Jason, Mrs. Fletcher. It is losing credit for his wonderful work that is so painful to him, and to me.”
    I processed what she had said, then asked, “What is your relationship to Jason Harris?”
    “We are lovers.”
    “I see.” I asked what she meant by his having lost credit for work he’d done.
    “I suppose there is no sense in trying to say this gently, Mrs. Fletcher. The fact is that Jason wrote Gin and Daggers.”
    If she intended to bring about a physical reaction from me with