Gin and Daggers

Chapter Three

Marjorie Ainsworth’s chauffeur, Wilfred, was a proper gentleman in his sixties who stood forever straight, and who looked as though he could stand that way for hours, perhaps even days, waiting for a passenger. He never smiled, although not from a lack of pleasantness. It was more a matter of not having a smile born into him, which probably accounted for the lack of lines on his face. “It’s a pleasure to see you once more, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said, opening the door of the vintage maroon Morgan.

We pulled away from the hotel, smoothly negotiated London ’s clotted lunchtime traffic, and were soon on our way to the little town of Crumpsworth, an hour’s drive. Ainsworth Manor, as I recalled, was a few minutes outside Crumpsworth, which, like all small, quaint British towns-it was in fact not much more than a large village-was founded at some astoundingly ancient date-1270 seemed to ring a bell with me, a hundred years give or take.

It took a few minutes for me to become comfortable riding on the “wrong” side of the road. I remembered how Frank had eagerly gotten behind the wheel, considering it a challenge, and, within minutes, drove as though he’d lived here his entire life.

I watched the countryside slide by, gently rolling hills, idyllic herds of cows grazing on rich grass, fancy sports cars passing us at grand prix speed, tiny villages with women sweeping their sidewalks. How I loved this place, and once again questioned why I’d never followed my instincts to move here. I knew why, of course. Cabot Cove, my home in Maine, was too precious to me to pull up stakes. I also knew that there were few places I’d ever visited that hadn’t spurred in me a desire to live in them. The grass always seems greener; most times, of course, it isn’t.

As we entered Crumpsworth, I recognized a few shops, even saw a person standing on a corner who looked familiar. I wondered how the residents of Crumpsworth felt about being home to Marjorie Ainsworth, the world’s most famous mystery writer. They probably didn’t think much about it, considering the British psyche and inherent tendency to downplay such things. Still, Ainsworth Manor and its illustrious occupant must be grist for dinner table conversation. Did any of the residents of Crumpsworth read Marjorie’s books? A few, probably, but not enough to put her on the bestseller lists. The rest of the world saw to that.

We navigated a roundabout and proceeded down a narrow, pockmarked macadam road that eventually gave way to dirt. Wilfred drove with caution along the rutted road until we were abreast of Ainsworth Manor. It stood high on the slope of a hill, gothic in aura, although its architecture was not precisely that. I remembered the last time I approached it and thinking there should be streaks of lightning on a dark scrim behind it. Moviemakers would undoubtedly agree.

We turned onto an access road that was lined with poplar trees and drove for a couple of minutes until coming to a gate that had not been designed to keep out anyone who really wanted to get in. Wilfred got out of the Morgan, opened the gate, returned to the car, drove through, got out again, shut the gate, and drove on.

A minute later we were in front of Ainsworth Manor.

“Mrs. Fletcher, how nice to see you again,” Jane Portelaine, Marjorie Ainsworth’s niece, said to me as I stepped through massive oak doors into a stone-floored foyer.

“It’s good to be back,” I said, meaning it, although I thought to myself that Jane’s presence did not necessarily add to my pleasure. She was obviously a good person, as evidenced by the devotion she’d demonstrated to Marjorie for so many years. The problem with Jane Portelaine was that her severe appearance, coupled with an enigmatic personality, tended to be off-putting, at best. She was tall and slender, skinny actually, an angular woman with sharp, chiseled features, except for her mouth, which was full and earthy and out of proportion to the rest of her. She always wore her brown hair pulled back tight, and her choice in clothing ran to drab suits and overly long and simple dresses, shoes sensible beyond even British standards. This day she wore a slate-gray dress buttoned to the neck and a black cardigan sweater, her long, bony hands shoved deep into its pockets. The reason I use the term “enigmatic” to describe Jane is that behind her austere faqade there seemed to be a parallel unstated sensuality, undoubtedly suppressed but, like rage, threatening to spring forth at any moment.

In contrast with her generally spartan approach to life, Jane was, simultaneously, enamored of perfumes and colognes. She used them to excess; the scent of Victorian posy hung heavy in the foyer as I entered Ainsworth Manor. Marjorie once told me that perfume was Jane’s abiding passion, and that the account she maintained at Penhaligon’s, on Wellington Street, was, in her estimation, “obscenely high.” Then again, she went on to tell me, her real objection was not the amount of money her niece spent on such things, but the fact that she liberally doused herself with them, which made Ainsworth Manor smell like “a French whorehouse.”

“Was your trip pleasant?” Jane asked me.

“Yes, tiring, but a good night’s sleep took care of that.”

The foyer was exactly as I remembered it, large and chilly, with two full and tarnished suits of armor flanking the archway leading to the living room, embroidered tapestries hanging on facing walls, a few oversized pieces of dark furniture, and a single light fixture on the high ceiling that cast tentative illumination.

What had changed was the member of the household staff who stood silently at the foot of a long, curving staircase until Jane said to him, “Marshall, please take Mrs. Fletcher’s luggage and show her to her room.” To me: “My aunt hasn’t been feeling well, I’m afraid, and naps more than before. She’s napping now.”.

“Oh, I wouldn’t think of disturbing her. I just hope we have some time to chat a little later.”

“I’m sure you will, Mrs. Fletcher. Might I suggest you spend a few minutes freshening up before joining me in the library. You know where that is.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Tea, or would you prefer sherry?”

“Tea would be fine, thank you.”

I’d been assigned a room at the rear of the house which, I knew, was next to Marjorie Ainsworth’s bedroom. Marshall, who violated the clichéd stereotype of the butler-too young, too of-his-generation-pulled back heavy drapes, allowing gray light to spill into the room. I went to the window and looked down at the magnificent English gardens that had always been Marjorie’s pride and joy. “It’s so beautiful, even in this gray weather,” I said.

“They forecast sunshine tomorrow, Mrs. Fletcher,” said Marshall as he busied himself with my luggage.

“Oh, don’t bother, I’ll take care of that.”

“No bother, ma’am. I’ve heard much about you from Miss Ainsworth.”

“All good, I hope.”

“Oh yes, always positive comments about Jessica Fletcher. You’re one of… the few.”

It was an inappropriate comment for someone in his position to make, but I didn’t challenge him.

After he left, I stood at the window and looked more closely at the gardens below. Two men were working in a far comer. It was hard to tell for certain, but they appeared to be of Mediterranean origin. They were digging up a small tree and I watched with interest, just the way I always watch construction going on in big cities. I then remembered that Jane Portelaine would be waiting for me downstairs. I stepped into the hallway-eight feet wide, very long, and lined with bookcases-and looked down over a railing upon the formal dining room. Beyond it was a drawing room; a fire crackled in the fireplace there, its flickering orange fingers playing on a large and well-worn oriental rug. Everything in the manor was oversized, but not in relation to its mistress. Marjorie Ainsworth’s image in the world was larger than life, and it was only fitting that her domicile would be, too.

I turned and looked at the door to her bedroom. Was she sleeping, dozing in a half-awake state, perhaps fully awake and looking out the window on her treasured gardens? The temptation to knock was strong; I walked away before it overruled good judgment.

Jane was seated in a large wing chair in the library. Her legs were crossed and she held a cup and saucer. A fireplace in the library also housed a healthy fire, spreading a pleasant warmth through the dank room.

“Tea, Mrs. Fletcher? Please help yourself.”

“Thank you.” I poured the tea into a cup through a small silver strainer from a brown teapot that was cradled in blue-and-white quilted chintz. A tiny sponge attached to the lip caught inadvertent drips. I returned to my chair and tasted. “Wonderful,” I said. “Different.”

“Lapsang Souchong,” Jane said. “It’s an oolong.”

“Yes,” I said, taking another sip so that I wouldn’t trigger a long and detailed explanation of the proper tea one should use, and how to brew it. Jane Portelaine was an expert on tea.

I let a moment pass, then said, “You say your aunt hasn’t been well. Her most recent letter to me indicated the same thing. How serious?”

Jane’s reply was to take another sip of tea and to stare at me over her cup.

“I don’t mean to pry and, please understand, I don’t wish to meddle in her life or…” Marjorie’s letter about meddling came to mind. “I got quite a kick out of the letter in which she talked about meddling, especially her tongue-in-cheek asides about you as you took her dictation.”

“Asides?” What could pass for a smile crossed her mouth. “That’s kind.”

I dropped the subject of Marjorie’s health, content to sip my tea, the room’s silence broken only by the crackle of the burning hardwood logs. After a few minutes I asked, “Who else will be coming this weekend?”

“The usual people who flock around my aunt.”

“The usual people?” I laughed. “I suppose we all have ‘usual people’ in our lives, but your aunt’s entourage must be bigger and more diverse than most.”

Jane started to get up. “I can provide you with a list if you’d like.”

“Gracious, no, nothing that formal. I was just…” I wanted to say I was just making conversation. Instead, I said, “I was just mildly curious about whom I would be meeting this weekend.”

She looked up at the rococo ceiling and said, “Well, there will be my other aunt, Ona Ainsworth-Zara, and her husband; my aunt’s New York agent, Bruce Herbert; her American publisher, Mr. Perry, and her British publisher, Archibald Semple, and… yes, I think William Strayhorn will be here.”

“The book critic?”

“Yes, and Sir James Ferguson, the producer of Who Killed Darby and Joan?”

“I loved it,” I said. “I saw it the last time I was in London. How long has it been running now?”

Jane shrugged “Six, seven years, I suppose.”

Who Killed Darby and Joan? was the name of one of Marjorie Ainsworth’s previous novels that had been adapted for the London stage and that had been a hit from the day it opened. The term “Darby and Joan,” I knew, was slang for the archetypical elderly, happily married British couple. There were Darby-and-Joan clubs in cities and towns all over Great Britain.

“Quite an impressive list of visitors,” I said. “I’ve never met Marjorie’s younger sister.”

“Well, you certainly will, won’t you?”

There was that tone of voice again. It was to be hoped that when the others arrived, I would have to spend only minimal time with Jane Portelaine.

We spent another awkward half hour before she got up and said, “I’ll check on her now. If she’s awake, I’ll see if she’s well enough to come down.”

“Please, don’t put any pressure on her. I’ll be content to see her whenever it’s comfortable for her. Perhaps she’d prefer I come to the bedroom.”

“I think not.” Jane’s long, lanky frame disappeared through a doorway.

A few minutes later she reappeared and said, “She’s coming down. Marshall will wheel her.”

“Wheel…? I didn’t realize she was in a wheelchair.”

“Only recently, and not always. It depends on the day. We’ve had an elevator installed in the rear of the house.”

“That sounds like a good idea,” I said, a flush of excitement coming over me as I awaited Marjorie’s arrival. Then anticipation became reality as the young butler wheeled his mistress through the door and to the center of the study.

“Jessica, I am so sorry to have kept you waiting. Welcome.”

Those warm and sincere words buoyed me after the strained conversation with Jane.

I got up and took the hand she offered in both of mine. “How wonderful to see you again, Marjorie. I must say you look a lot better than your last letter indicated you would.”

“Bull! I look like the wrath of God, probably because I am closer to him than I have ever been before. But, my dear poppet, thank you for being the kind friend you have always been. Jane has seen to it that you’ve had tea?”

“Yes, she’s been very gracious.”

Marjorie looked at me through squinted eyes. “That’s bull, too. One thing my niece is not is gracious.” I was relieved there were just the two of us in the room.

I took my chair again and closely observed Marjorie Ainsworth. She had grown old and feeble. Her hand, when I took it, seemed nothing but bone and vein covered loosely by leathery skin. Her hair was completely white and appeared not to have been washed and brushed in too long a time. She wore a Black Watch plaid dress that was stained on the bosom. An old, handmade shawl covered her legs. Most telling of her advanced age, however, were her eyes. I don’t think I’d ever met anyone in my life whose eyes sparkled with such mischief. Now that sparkle was evident only in fleeting bursts, replaced by dark eyes that had sunk into the bony structure of her face, like fresh soil sinking after a heavy rain; dark circles around them gave her skin a puttied appearance. This close scrutiny by me was, at first, upsetting, but then I reminded myself that she was indeed an old woman growing older, and had every right to look it.

The thing that stayed in my mind after the first few minutes was her unkempt condition, and I wondered at the competence and interest of whatever household staff served her these days.

“Jane!” Marjorie shouted in a surprisingly strong and vibrant voice. A moment later Jane Portelaine stood in the doorway. “I’d like a gin,” said Marjorie, “and fetch the book for Jessica.”

When Jane returned, she carried a glass filled with gin and a copy of Gin and Daggers. She handed the drink to Marjorie, the book to me.

“Thank you, I’ve been looking forward to this ever since it was published.” I eagerly opened to the first page and saw that it had been inscribed to me in Marjorie’s own handwriting:

For Jessica,

Whose forays into the matter of murder, both on the printed page and in real life, delight everyone, particularly this old woman who has always been content to confine her snooping to the typewriter. Your reputation in the world as an author is well deserved. More important to me, Jessica Fletcher, I count you as a friend, which puts you in a small group indeed.

Affectionately,

Marjorie

I was sincerely touched. “You’re much too kind with your praise, Marjorie.”

“Not in the least. Would you like to join me in a gin, or whiskey if you prefer, before dear Jane departs us again?”

“Thank you, no.” At those words, Jane was gone.

We chatted about Gin and Daggers, and I must admit I suffered conflicting thoughts. On the one hand, I wanted to sit with Marjorie forever. On the other hand, I couldn’t wait to begin reading. There’d be plenty of time for that later, I knew, and my instincts told me the book would see to a relatively sleepless night for me.

We talked about things, including the subject of death, which Marjorie seemed to dwell upon. Understandable: older people think about their mortality most of the time, I’m told. What was upsetting was that after ten minutes her conversation, lucid and insightful at times, would slip into vague comments that had nothing to do with what we’d been discussing. Let me give you an example.

She was saying, “… and so I talked to my solicitor and changed provisions in my will, knowing full well that the end could come at any moment. He’s a fuddy-duddy, but, as we all know, the last thing anyone needs is a gregarious and creative solicitor. Mine fusses for days over a clause which is in my best interest but…” At that point she literally shuddered in the wheelchair and closed her eyes against something only she could identify-pain, a sudden and unexpected thought?-and then completed her sentence with, “… the flowers turned dry and brittle. I watched them die… how sad, how sad…”

I said, “Yes, I’m sure that’s true, Marjorie. You were saying that your solicitor…”

Her eyes opened wide and she looked at me as though I had intruded upon a precious moment. “I… my solicitor? Yes, of course, he’s an old fusspot but, I suppose, that is in my best interests.” She sipped her gin, closed her eyes, and drew a series of deep breaths. When she opened her eyes she smiled. “Jessica Fletcher. You and I have so much to talk about, but you’ll forgive me if my physical stamina does not always match my mental intentions. If I fall asleep in this chair, just ignore me, leave the room, and busy yourself with something else.”

I forced a laugh. “Oh, don’t worry about me, I certainly will take care of myself. If you should nod off on me, Marjorie, I will not consider it a comment on my conversation. I will take it as a good opportunity to begin reading Gin and Daggers.”

She said slowly, deliberately, and with a modicum of anger, “Gin and Daggers. I trust you’ll find it interesting, Jessica.”

“Of course I will. I find all your books-”

She interrupted with, “Interesting in a different sense, Jessica. Are you certain you don’t want something stronger than Jane’s tea? Gin is good for you, my doctor says, which, despite the fact that he is an inept physician, endears him to my heart. I would never think of giving him the heave-ho as long as his prescription pad continues to have ‘gin’ printed on it.”

I laughed heartily and we shifted into a conversation about the guests who would be arriving the next day-Friday-for the weekend at Ainsworth Manor.

A minute later she did as she’d predicted: dozed off in the chair, the light from the fireplace casting a flattering orange glow across her old, tired face. She seemed very much at peace, which pleased me. I opened Gin and Daggers to the dedication page:

To my faithful niece, Jane,

without whom this modest effort

would never have been possible

I turned to page one:

He stepped out of the shadows and she knew immediately he was not a man to be trusted, not with that downturn at the comers of his mouth which, to the untrained eye, indicated amusement at what went on around him but, for this trained eye, represented pure evil.

I quickly finished the very short first chapter, quietly closed the book, stood, looked down at the woman in whose brain the words I’d just read had been formulated, and tiptoed from the room. On my way up to my bedroom, I passed the butler, Marshall, who stood at the foot of the stairs with a heavyset woman who I remembered was Mrs. Horton, and who ran Ainsworth Manor’s kitchen.

“Hello, Mrs. Horton,” I said.

My sudden appearance seemed to have interrupted a serious conversation. Mrs. Horton flashed a quick smile at me and said she was pleased to have me as a guest once more-“Do you have a preference for dinner, Mrs. Fletcher?” I told her anything would be fine as long as it was prepared with her skilled hands. It was a silly platitude, I know, but I couldn’t think of anything else to say. I passed between them and went to my room, where, after reading the next two chapters of what was, without doubt, a remarkable piece of writing, I dozed off myself.