“Aha, the plot for the next Jessica Fletcher murder mystery is already developing. Circadian rhythms out of whack, claims of a suspect to have feasted on smoked salmon, caviar, and London broil on her flight when, in fact, our detective hero knows that particular flight served capon, country pate, and vanilla mousse topped with raspberries.”
We laughed. “Get out of here, Lucas, and let me pull myself together. Marjorie’s chauffeur will be here tomorrow at noon to take me to Ainsworth Manor. I want to be rested, don’t want to miss a moment of my time with her.”
“Of course, I understand. Is there anything I can do for you?”
“No, but I would like to see the public room where I’ll be making my speech, get a feel for it, that sort of thing.”
“Whenever you say.”
“Give me three hours of solitude. I’ll meet you in the foyer.”
“I’ll be there. Three hours will give me time to run some errands. There are always so many errands to run in preparation for the conference, and no one seems willing to run them except me.”
Poor suffering Lucas, I thought. Instead, I said, “Yes, but don’t think your dedication isn’t appreciated. I hear all the time from members about how the society would be nothing without Lucas Darling.”
He kissed me on the cheek. “Bless you, Jessica Fletcher, you give Americans a good name.” He went to the door, turned, and added, “A word of caution. London is not what it used to be. The crime rate is dreadful here, and getting worse every day. Rumor has it that the bobbies are carrying concealed weapons, quite a change from their nightsticks-only days. Packs of vile young men are roaming the streets and preying on visitors, particularly ...”
I finished his sentence for him: “Particularly older women.”
“I didn’t say that, nor would I ever. Anyway, keep your handbag close to you and, no matter how tempted you might be to taste the less elegant areas of jolly old London, control your temptation. See you at three downstairs.” He bounced jauntily out of the room.
“Thank God,” I said aloud, but not too loud. I quickly unpacked and got out of the clothes I’d been living in since leaving Cabot Cove for Boston’s Logan Airport and my connecting flight to London. A quick shower in the beautifully appointed bathroom revived my spirits while, at the same time, relaxing me enough to slide in for a nap between fresh sheets on the queen-sized bed.
Damn the mind. I wanted sleep to rescue me from those sad thoughts I’d had in the taxi, but I lost the race. I could hear the music, the happy sounds of men and women enjoying themselves, the delicious and comforting feel of being led around the dance floor downstairs in the River Room Restaurant:
Savoy, the home of sweet romance,
Savoy, it grabs you at a glance,
Savoy, gives happy feet a chance
To dance....
It seemed like only yesterday, but I knew it wasn’t; another mean trick played by the mind.
Now my topsy-turvy circadian rhythms, more commonly known as jet lag, came rushing over the hill to my rescue. The last thing I remember before falling asleep was changing songs from “Stompin’ at the Savoy” to “Tea for Two,” and smiling at the realization that I whistled more in tune than my mailman.
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.”