Ona Ainsworth-Zara, the count’s wife and Marjorie’s sister, was, I judged, twelve to fifteen years younger than Marjorie. She was an attractive woman, regal in bearing, beautifully dressed, and adorned with an array of expensive jewelry. She’d kept to herself most of the day, probably because getting too close to her older and famous sister triggered razor-sharp barbs. I wondered at one point why Marjorie had bothered to invite her, and had my question answered when Bruce Herbert muttered, “The count and his lady have managed to infiltrate another party. Why Marjorie puts up with it is beyond me.”
I’d never met Ona before, and Marjorie had had little to say about her during our brief previous encounters. Although she’d never said anything overtly negative about Ona, there was always an edge to her voice when she brought her up, and I gathered that if there was not an outright estrangement, they certainly weren’t loving siblings. Strange, I thought as I sat at the table, that Marjorie had never married. I knew of no romantic interest in her long life, although one had to assume there were some flirtations along the way. Few people, even those committed to avoiding intimacy, successfully avoid it over a lifetime.
Marshall supervised the serving of dessert.
“Can we trust this?” Bruce Herbert asked. Marjorie, who’d been dozing, jerked awake and said in a strong voice, “Trust it? What in heaven’s name do you mean by that?”
Herbert laughed and said, “I’ve read at least a thousand murder mysteries, Marjorie, in which victims are poisoned by dishes that look like this.”
There was laughter at the table. Strayhorn, the critic, said, “I’d debate you on that, Mr. Herbert. I’d say the whiskey decanter has done more people in than syllabub.”
“Syllabub?” I said. “What’s that?”
Mrs. Semple said with a giggle, “Our answer to zabaglione.”
Her husband chimed in, “It goes back to Elizabethan times.”
“What’s in it?” I asked.
Mrs. Horton, who stood at the door to the kitchen, said, “Whipped cream, sherry, and lemon juice. They used to make it with warm cow’s milk.”
I looked at my hostess and said lightly, “You haven’t decided to poison us all with your syllabub, have you, Marjorie?”
She raised her head and moved her nose, as though a disagreeable odor had reached it. A tiny smile came to her lips as she said, “My dear Jessica, I must be slipping not to have thought of that. What a wonderful way to clear my decks before leaving.”
Laughter quickly dissipated as her final words sunk in.
“Whatever do you mean by saying ‘leaving’?” asked Archibald Semple.
“You know only too well what I mean, Archie. I don’t expect this dicky body to support me much longer.”
Clayton Perry laughed. “You’ll probably outlive us all,” he said.
“I doubt that,” remarked Jane Portelaine, sounding as though she meant it. No one challenged her. By now we were all too used to her depressing comments.
Bruce Herbert broke the tension by suggesting to Marjorie that it was time she did a cookbook. “Everyone else has,” he said. “There’s the Lord Peter Wimsey cookbook, and one of the best cookbooks I’ve ever seen—I use it all the time—is the Nero Wolfe cookbook.”
“Food is of no interest to me,” Marjorie said.
“It was to Agatha,” Strayhorn said. “Remember Funerals Are Fatal?”
That led into a new topic of discussion: food and the use of it as a vehicle to deliver lethal poisons. As the argument heated up, I looked down the table at the other guests. Looking every bit the contented land baron, was the producer of Who Killed Darby and Joan?, Sir James Ferguson. He was stocky, but not portly, and wore a beautiful tan tweed jacket, a maroon V-neck sweater, and a loosely woven brown tie. He was one of those people who seem to enjoy whatever they’re doing with a minimum of effort. He didn’t laugh much, but he was never without an amused smile on his handsome, ruddy face. As we all know, there are people in this world whom you immediately like, and Sir James Ferguson was one of them. I intended to find time for more conversation with him before the weekend was over.
The young man across from him was not one of those who instantly produce a positive reaction. His name was Jason Harris, and he defined “brooding young man.”
He’d arrived late Thursday night. I was in my room reading Gin and Daggers, and had come downstairs at about eleven o’clock to pour a small glass of port as a stomach-settling nightcap. Harris had just arrived and was in the library with Jane Portelaine. They were startled by my sudden appearance (it seems that everywhere I went in the manor I startled someone), but they quickly recovered. He was introduced to me by Jane as a writer whom Marjorie Ainsworth had taken under her wing.
“How wonderful,” I said, offering my hand, which, after some hesitation, he accepted. “My nephew, Grady Fletcher, is an aspiring writer, too.” The moment I said it I knew I should have left out the word “aspiring.” He glowered at me. He was too old to be viewed as aspiring to anything, just as one reaches a certain age when one can no longer refer to a companion of the opposite sex as “girlfriend” or “boyfriend.” He was handsome enough, a head of brown curls falling gently over his forehead and ears, a nicely sculptured face, square jaw, aquiline nose, and sensual, doelike brown eyes—bedroom eyes they were called in my youth. What was missing was a smile or, more correctly, the ability to smile. It went with being the struggling artist.
Oh well, I told myself as I asked a couple of questions of him and received answers that were little more than monosyllabic grunts.
My final question was “Are you currently working on a novel, Mr. Harris?”
Harris and Portelaine looked at each other. He said to me, “I have a work in progress.”
“Well,” I said, “I think I’ll take this splendid port upstairs with me and read one more chapter of Gin and Daggers. It’s remarkably good, don’t you think?” No answer. “Good night. It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Harris. I’m sure we’ll have time to talk tomorrow.”
As much as I tried to dismiss Jason Harris—to perceive him as simply amusing, as all such brooding young men are—I couldn’t, and I made a mental note to ask Marjorie about him. I read another chapter, then sat on a window seat and looked out over the gardens. There was a full moon; it was as though someone had turned on a floodlight to illuminate the beautiful plantings. One of my final thoughts before retiring was that besides being a weekend guest at Marjorie’s country home, I was a character in a murder mystery being written by her. The idea amused me, and I fell into a blissful sleep.
That thought came back to me as I sat at the dinner table and ate my syllabub, which, by the way, was absolutely delicious, although I have to admit that what had been said in jest about it had planted the idea of a foreign substance, arsenic perhaps, having been added to the ingredients. I laughed aloud as I thought it, which caused some of my table companions to look at me. I shook my head. “Just imagining what it would be like to be poisoned,” I said.
“I assure you, Jessica, that had I the notion to do away with you, I would never spoil a dinner party,” said Marjorie. “As you know, I’ve always believed in treating my victims to a splendid final meal, then doing away with them somewhere removed from the table to avoid offending the sensitive digestive tracts of other guests.”
“A considerate murderer,” Clayton Perry said.
“Let’s hear it for blood, the sort brought about by daggers and revolvers, not poison. I hate death by poisoning,” Archie Semple said. “It’s bloody dull, but I suppose I’ve picked up my love for violence from reading too many of your American books and watching too many of your American productions on the telly.” He looked across the table at Perry, who gave him a condescending smile and pushed his barely touched cup of syllabub away. His wife had done the same moments earlier. Fattening; no poisoning them with desserts. It would have to be a main course, soup, or from the classic decanter.
I looked down the table at Jason Harris;
his usual scowl was on his face. He wore a forest-green corduroy jacket over a black turtleneck. He established eye contact with Jane Portelaine and raised one eyebrow—something I’ve never been able to do—which said to me that he found the dinner boring and would be happy when it ended.
It ended a half hour later. We retired to the library. Marshall, the butler, stood behind a rolling cart and portioned out after-dinner drinks. I’d just been handed a Cognac when Clayton Perry’s wife came up to me. Her name was Renée. “I’ve been admiring that pendant all evening, Mrs. Fletcher.”
I lifted the gold pendant to which she was referring, and smiled. “It’s my favorite piece of jewelry, Mrs. Perry. My husband gave it to me.”
“It’s lovely.”
“Yes, it’s very special. In fact, he bought it for me when we were in London together a number of years ago. You can imagine that coming back here always has special meaning for me.”
“Of course. By the way, I’m a big fan of your novels.”
“Thank you.”
“Clayton would give his eyeteeth to have you as an author at Perry House.”
“That’s very flattering, but I’ve been with my present publishers for years now, wouldn’t think of changing unless they committed outright theft of my royalties, or insisted upon multiple four-letter words and interminable car chases and mass murders.”
We both laughed. “I assure you, Mrs. Fletcher, Clayton would see that nothing like that ever happened to you.”
“I’m sure he would. He has a fine reputation ...” (I seemed to recall some gossip about Perry House’s being in serious financial trouble, but, of course, didn’t mention that.) “By the way, please call me Jessica for the rest of the weekend.”
“Yes, and it’s Renée.”
We all turned in the direction of Marjorie Ainsworth’s voice, which announced she was going to bed. I was amazed at her stamina. She’d been gracious and witty all day and evening. Again, there were those mental lapses that were disquieting, but everyone seemed to accept them as nothing more than periods of fatigue in a brain that had been working at top creative effort for so many years.
Marjorie’s departure broke up the gathering. Most of us said good night and retired to our respective rooms, leaving Bruce Herbert, Jason Harris, Jane Portelaine, and “Count” Antonio Zara to accept another drink from Marshall, and to settle down on large couches in front of the fireplace, which had recently been stoked by the butler. I walked upstairs with Ona Ainsworth-Zara.
“It’s been so good to meet you after all these years,” I said.
“My sister speaks often and well of you, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“That’s always nice to hear, especially from someone like her. By the way, your husband is a charming man.”
“He has to be. He has little else.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing. She bade me a curt good night and walked down the hall. I watched her go into her room, then entered mine, closed the door behind me, and prepared for bed. I was tired; I looked at the copy of Gin and Daggers that sat on my night table and wondered whether I would be able to stay awake long enough to read more. I knew I would; it was that compelling, that rich, that much of a page-turner.
I got into bed, opened the book to where I’d left off, and before starting to read, thought back to my conversation in London with Lucas Darling. He was right; it was like no other Marjorie Ainsworth novel I’d ever read. He was also right when he’d said that there were numerous examples of the classic Ainsworth style and touch, but that they were isolated, cropping up at intervals rather than being the basis for the narrative. I wondered at it, could do nothing else. Dare I ask Marjorie whether she’d been helped? I answered my own question with a resounding no. That would be a terrible offense. Undoubtedly, though, others would be asking her as the rumor swelled and those who read her book arrived at the same conclusion as Lucas Darling.
What if Marjorie hadn’t written Gin and Daggers? Would that be taking unfair advantage of the reading public? I didn’t know the answer to that question and decided not to grapple with it at that point. I finished a chapter, laid the book down beside me, got into my robe and slippers, and went to an adjacent bathroom that was assigned to me, which could be reached only from the hallway. I returned ten minutes later, pausing at the railing and listening to muffled conversations from the library. Mrs. Horton stepped into the dining room and looked up at me. “Good night, Mrs. Horton,” I said. She mumbled something and left the room. A few minutes later I was in my bed, asleep.
I sat bolt upright. I didn’t know what time it was. Had I been asleep ten minutes, an hour, four hours?
It was a sound that had awakened me, and it seemed to come from Marjorie’s room. How to describe it? A cry for help? Not really. Sounds from someone engaged in a struggle? More like it, but hardly accurate. Whatever it was, it had been loud enough to awaken me and sinister enough to cause me to get out of bed, slip into my robe and slippers, and open my door. I looked up and down the hallway, which was dimly lighted by low-wattage sconces along the wall. I listened, heard nothing. I immediately tried to calculate how much time had elapsed between when I had first heard the noise and had looked into the hallway. Five minutes perhaps, considering the time it had taken me to process what I’d heard, to decide to investigate it, to find my slippers, one of which I’d inadvertently kicked under the bed, to get into my robe, and to cross the darkened room to the door. Five minutes.
I entered the hallway, stepping gingerly as the ancient floorboards creaked beneath my feet, a sound I hadn’t heard since awakening.
I stood outside Marjorie’s bedroom door. It was ajar, not enough so that you could see through the opening, but certainly not closed tight. I put my ear to it and listened, heard nothing but silence. The steeple bell at a nearby country church suddenly went into action: one, two, three chimes. It was three o’clock in the morning, unless the clock controlling the bell hadn’t been set correctly.
I placed my fingertips against the door and pushed. It was heavy and did not swing open, had to be pushed more. I did that and peered into the room. Marjorie’s bed was king-sized and covered with a canopy. The room was dark except for a sharp shaft of moonlight that poured through an opening in the drapes. It was perfectly aimed, as though a theater lighting technician had highlighted a section of a stage where major action would occur.
I stepped over the threshold and walked to the side of the bed, like a moth drawn to a summer candle. A whole arsenal of grotesque sounds rose up inside me but stopped at my throat—sounds of protest, of outrage, of shock and horror. Yet not a sound came from me as I looked down at the body of Marjorie Ainsworth, the grande dame of murder mystery fiction, sprawled on her back, arms and legs flung out, a long dagger protruding from her chest like a graveyard marker.
All I managed to say—and it was in a whisper—was “Oh my God.” As I turned to leave, my slippered foot hit a metal object and propelled it under the bed. I didn’t stop to see what it was. I returned to the hallway and stood at the railing, my 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 de
arest 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.
Murder, She Wrote: Gin and Daggers Page 4