by Donald Bain
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.
Chapter Four
“But that’s one of Dorothy’s enduring traits, Clayton,” William Strayhorn, London ’s most respected book critic, said to Marjorie Ainsworth’s American publisher, Clayton Perry. “Read a Dorothy Sayers mystery and you’ll always learn something.”
“Yes, readers love to learn something while being entertained,” Archibald Semple, Marjorie’s British publisher, chimed in. “But that doesn’t make her better than a writer who doesn’t give a tinker’s damn about educating readers.”
It was Friday night, and we’d been at the dinner table for two hours. The chief topic of discussion throughout the meal-throughout the entire day for that matter-had been the relative merits of mystery writers, past and present. The quality of the debates ranged from intently interesting to snide and gossipy. No matter what level they took, however, the presence of the invited guests and their conversation seemed to buoy Marjorie Ainsworth’s spirits. She’d spent most of the day with us and, aside from an occasional lapse of concentration and a few brief naps in her wheelchair, had been an active participant.
I’d been more of an observer than an involved member of these spirited discussions. I’ve always preferred to listen; you learn so much more that way than being compelled to verbalize what you already know. I’d drifted from group to group, enjoying some more than others, laughing at myriad witty lines that erupted from time to time, and generally enjoying the ambiance of Ainsworth Manor and its weekend visitors.
Mrs. Horton and two very young girls in starched uniforms cleared the remnants of the main course and prepared to deliver dessert. Marjorie sat at the head of the table. The long day had taken its toll on her; she looked exhausted and was obviously fighting to remain with the group until the last possible minute.
There had been a spirited, somewhat comic debate earlier in the day between Marjorie and her niece, Jane, about the seating arrangements at dinner. Jane had insisted that couples be split up in the time-honored tradition of a formal dinner, but Marjorie insisted couples sit together. “As far as I’m concerned,” Marjorie had said, “they deserve each other, and I see no reason for me to provide a respite from those with whom they’ve chosen to spend their lives.�
� That settled it; guests sat at the dinner table where Marjorie wanted them to sit.
I had been placed to Marjorie’s immediate left. Across from me was William Strayhorn, the critic, whose face had the bloated, flushed look of a heavy drinker; watery blue eyes further confirmed my impression. He was pleasant enough, but too full of himself for my personal taste, although I’ve been accused in the past of being too quick in making that judgment about people. To my left sat Clayton Perry, the American publisher of Marjorie Ainsworth’s novels, and his wife. Neither of them drank or smoked, and both had the lightly tanned, sinewy bodies of people devoted to health and exercise.
Directly across from the Perrys sat Mr. and Mrs. Archibald Semple. It was obvious to me from the beginning that Mr. Semple was not especially fond of Mr. Perry, and that the feeling was mutual. They were certainly physical opposites; while Perry was dressed immaculately in a three-piece gray suit, pale blue shirt, and perfectly knotted red paisley tie, Semple was the picture of slovenliness. He was obese, one of those people who sweat no matter what the temperature. He consumed his food with the zeal of a stray mongrel who’s been on the run for days, some of it ending up on his wrinkled, stained green-and-brown-striped tie. Because he was heavy, his suit, although probably the correct size, looked as though it belonged to someone else. His fingernails were highly lacquered, and the broad expanse of bare skin on top of his head was sparsely covered with long, wet strands of hair that he brought up from just above his left ear. Mrs. Semple, too, was overweight. She’d started the day staunchly Victorian but, by the time dinner was served, had consumed enough alcohol to turn her into a giggling libertine. She wore a black taffeta dress that was cut very low, exposing the upper reaches of a large bosom. Talcum powder was caked in her cleavage.
To continue down my side of the table, Jane Portelaine sat next to the Perrys, and next to her was Bruce Herbert, Marjorie’s New York agent. They made an interesting couple. Herbert was as outgoing as Jane was taciturn. He was a handsome man in his early forties who seemed always to say the right thing at the right time, a distinct advantage at such gatherings, but invariably making me wonder what he was really thinking. It was he who’d proposed the toast at the beginning of dinner:
“To the world’s finest crime novelist, Marjorie Ainsworth, who has given millions of people supreme joy through her books, who has set the standard for all writers of the genre, today and for future generations. I suspect, Marjorie, that you would be hailed as the best by Dame Agatha Christie were she around to make such a proclamation. I suppose I should also add that you have provided a splendid living for all of us… well, for most of us at this table. To you, Marjorie, may Gin and Daggers be only the latest of your wonderful writings.”
“Hear, hear,” Archibald Semple said, his words slurred.
“I have a toast,” Marjorie said.
We all looked at her as she raised her glass and said:
“A thumbprint on the teacup,
the telltale rigid chin;
a murder’s been committed here,
beware the next of kin. ”
“Bravo,” Bruce Herbert said.
“Did you write that?” I asked her.
“Heavens, no, and I have no idea who did. I heard it once and…”
Count Antonio Zara, Marjorie’s brother-in-law, suddenly stood, cleared his throat, and said in a heavy accent, “As we all know, Italians are not noted for writing murder mysteries. Instead, we have devoted our creative energies to wine, fine food, and an appreciation of beautiful women. That I have married into this illustrious family, and sit at this table tonight, gives me distinct pleasure. I salute my British and American friends, and insist the next time this distinguished group gathers, it be at my villa on Capri.”
There was polite applause. He’d mentioned his villa on Capri many times that day, prompting Bruce Herbert to whisper to me, “His villa. Everything he has is the result of marrying Marjorie’s sister. He’s as phony as his title. ‘Count?’? He’s a handsome, oily gigolo who scored.”
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.
