by Donald Bain
Marshall, the butler, answered the telephone.
“Marshall, this is Jessica Fletcher. How are you?”
“Quite fine, ma’am.”
“Is Miss Portelaine there?”
“No, ma’am, she’s not. She’s taken a brief holiday, she has.”
“How wonderful. Where has she gone?”
“The Costa del Sol.”
“Delightful,” I said. “When is she expected back?”
“No way of knowing, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“Well, I’m coming close to the end of my stay in London, and she has invited me to spend some time at the manor before I returned to the United States. I have some free time this afternoon, and really don’t see another opportunity.”
“That will be fine, Mrs. Fletcher, Miss Portelaine told me of your request before she left, and instructed me to accommodate you at your convenience. What time will you be arriving?”
“I’ll leave right now. I might bring some friends with me.”
“Oh, Mrs. Fletcher, I don’t know whether Miss Portelaine would approve of that.”
“Well then, I won’t. Expect me, alone, in a little over an hour.”
I quickly called Lucas and told him that something had come up unexpectedly, and that I wouldn’t be able to see him until dinner that evening.
“Another secretive foray by Jessica Fletcher. Damn, Jess, when are you going to include me in these things?”
I laughed away his comment and said, “As soon as I embark on one that would be of interest to you. Have to run, Lucas. See you this evening.”
My next call was to the concierge. “How quickly can I have a car and driver?”
“You wish to hire a taxi, Mrs. Fletcher? There are a few waiting outside. Where will you be going?”
“Crumpsworth.”
“Ah, out of town. A bit far for a local taxi. Perhaps a rental car?”
“I’m afraid I don’t drive, in England or the United States.”
“You’re in a hurry?”
“Yes.”
“We have a car we can dispatch for you. One of the staff will drive you.”
“I don’t want to inconvenience anyone.”
“Our pleasure to serve you, Mrs. Fletcher. Ten minutes?”
“That will be fine.”
“Thank you. I’ll be right down.”
As I waited for the elevator, I thought about never having learned to drive. It wasn’t that I’d consciously avoided taking a lesson and getting behind the wheel of a car, it just never happened. My late husband, Frank, suggested on more than one occasion that I learn, and I usually agreed with him and said I’d do it. But I never got to it, and my life after Frank’s death was such that driving wasn’t necessary, or even appealing. My trusty bike gets me around Cabot Cove quite nicely, and we have a wonderful taxi service that’s always available. Whenever I leave Cabot Cove, I’m on airplanes and in cabs. So my inability to drive, while odd to some, has never been a handicap for me. And frankly, if I were a driver, I certainly wouldn’t have attempted to drive in England, on the “wrong side of the road.”
The young man assigned to drive me couldn’t have been much out of his teens. His name was Jeremy, and he was a bellhop when he wasn’t playing chauffeur.
“Crumpsworth, is it?” he said.
“Yes. Do you know how to get there?”
“More or less.” He looked over his shoulder as he pulled into London traffic. “Not keen on driving yourself over here?” he asked, pleasantly.
“Not at all keen.”
He laughed. “More dangerous for a foreigner crossing the bloody street as a pedestrian.”
I, too, laughed, because I agreed with him. I’d almost been hit a couple of times when I looked for traffic in the wrong direction before stepping off the curb.
We eventually broke clear of London traffic and were on the relatively peaceful highway leading to Ainsworth Manor. As we got closer, my mind wandered to other subjects, particularly Jane Portelaine having gone to Spain on vacation. How unlike her. Then again, people do change. Perhaps Jane’s life had been smothered by her service to her aunt, a classic scenario-spinster caring for an ailing or tyrannical family member until that person dies, freeing the spinster to taste life not previously available to her. I thought of Peter Lovesey’s female lead in his superb Victorian murder mystery, Waxwork. Jane had always reminded me of that character, staunchly loyal to the family but then, as in the novel, having everything and everyone change because of murder.
Jeremy opened the gate at the entrance to Ainsworth Manor, drove through, closed it, and proceeded to the front door.
“I’ll wait right here for you, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said.
“I don’t know how long I might be.”
“Don’t worry about that, Mrs. Fletcher. My instructions are to wait for you as long as necessary.”
I realized how thoughtful it had been of Jane to inform Marshall that I might be coming, and to welcome me at any time. He’d sounded much more pleasant than when I’d first met him. Perhaps Marjorie’s demise had freed everyone in the household. I didn’t like thinking that way, but the reality was that Marjorie Ainsworth’s sheer presence was dominating. Poor Marjorie, I thought as I got out of the car and approached the door, thinking of Jimmy Biggers’s comment about the residents of Crumpsworth disliking her. With all her success, that was a difficult legacy to leave. Would I be thought of that way by certain people when I died? I hoped not.
I’d just begun to knock when the door suddenly opened and Marshall stood there. We stepped into the foyer, and I immediately noticed the heavy scent of Victorian posy that hung in the air. Amazing, I thought, the lasting power of some fragrances, although I didn’t know how long Jane had been gone. She might have left that very morning for her vacation, for all I knew.
Marshall led me to the library and offered me tea, which I accepted, along with a tray of butter cookies. “Are these fresh from Mrs. Horton’s oven?” I asked.
“No, ma’am. She’s gone home to visit family in Manchester.”
“Sounds like everyone’s on holiday.”
“I’m here, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“I suppose someone must keep things going.” I looked around the room and sighed. “Strange, standing in this room without Marjorie poised to enter it,” I said.
“Yes, ma’am, it has affected us all quite deeply.”
“Will you be staying on once the manor is turned into a study center?” I asked.
“Probably not. Such a center needs curators, not butlers.”
He was right, of course, and I felt a twinge of sadness for him. Not only had Marjorie pointedly left him out of her will-his short tenure at Ainsworth Manor was certainly reasonable cause for that-but he would have to find another job. With household help in short supply, according to what I’d read, he probably wouldn’t have much trouble.
“Well, Mrs. Fletcher, I am at your disposal, on Miss Portelaine’s instructions. Please feel free to roam the house. A simple pull on any of the call cords will have me at your side right away.”
“Thank you, Marshall, you’re very kind. I did want to spend a few minutes in Miss Ainsworth’s upstairs writing room.” I laughed. “I once visited Stratford-on-Avon and spent an hour in the house in which Shakespeare was born. It was on Henley Street, I think. No matter. I really felt as though I were absorbing some of his intellectual powers and literary skills. I had the same feeling in Dickens’s house in London. Silly, I know, but I suppose writers, especially those with romantic notions, tend to embrace such ideas. Maybe by sitting in Miss Ainsworth’s chair, I’ll soak up a little of her talent.”
“Yes, I can understand that,” he said. “Excuse me. I’ll leave you to yourself.”
As much as I wanted to get to Marjorie’s upstairs study, I didn’t want to appear too eager. I remained in the main floor library, sipped my tea, and browsed through books that went floor-to-ceiling on the west wall. She had a remarkable collection of other wri
ters in the mystery genre; the study center she established was already off to a good start. She had an autographed copy of Agatha Christie’s first book, The Mysterious Affair at Styles. Marjorie owned every book ever written by Margaret Millar, and they occupied a special shelf. All the greats were represented-Wilkie Collins, a complete collection of Poe, Sayers, James, Carroll John Daly, MacInnes, and right up through Hammett, Stanley Ellin, and McBain. The temptation to pour another cup of tea, pull down any one of the volumes, and curl up for a good afternoon’s read was strong.
Marshall appeared in the doorway once or twice. He didn’t seem to want anything, simply looked in, nodded, and moved on. As I left the library and went up the stairs, he was on the landing. When he saw me, he began polishing a silver goblet with his handkerchief.
“Do you need anything?” he asked.
“No, thank you, I’m enjoying exactly what I’d hoped to, a chance to revel in what this magnificent house, and the lady of it, means to me.”
I took a few moments to examine prints on the wall before going to the door that led to Marjorie’s writing study. I glanced back; Marshall continued to absently wipe the goblet as he observed me. I smiled, opened the door, entered, and closed it behind me.
Books, too, dominated this room, but because it was considerably smaller than downstairs, they created more clutter. I slowly circled the room, stopping to admire artifacts, pictures, and a row of leather-bound editions of each of Marjorie’s works. I paused at the window and looked out over the gardens. How tranquil; what years of pleasure she must have gotten from this view.
I continued my stroll until reaching the door again. I placed my ear against it and heard nothing. I thought of the night Marjorie was murdered, and how I’d been awakened by a sound and had gone out onto the landing and… and saw that horrible sight in her bedroom. I shuddered and looked at my watch; it was later than I thought. I had to be back in London for the ISMW reception and dinner.
I went to Marjorie’s desk and sat behind it. Although many things were on top, there was a certain order. A pile of unopened mail that would never be seen by Marjorie was to the left of a green desk blotter edged in scrolled leather. An ancient fountain pen in its holder was at the top of the blotter. I remembered Marjorie once steadfastly refusing to use anything but a fountain pen, just as she had resisted attempts to replace her old Underwood typewriter with something more modern. The blotter was covered with ink stains from letters addressed with the fountain pen, and fixed upon its porous surface.
I cocked my head in the direction of the door. Again I heard nothing. I slowly and quietly opened the middle drawer of the desk. It contained an assortment of pencils and pens, paper clips, and other practical items found in any office. I wasn’t looking for anything in particular, which made it unlikely that I would recognize something of importance if I came across it. Still, I continued opening and closing the drawers, going down the three on the left side, then opening the top right-hand one. In it were four Greater London telephone directories. Sitting on top of that was a personal address and telephone book covered in green leather and etched with gold leaf. I removed it from the drawer and opened it to the A section. I expected to see dozens of entries. Instead, it contained only five or six. I scanned them, then turned the page to where names beginning with B started. I skimmed the list of people there, and turned to the C section. “Wait a minute,” I muttered, quickly returning to the preceding page. My eyes focused upon one name beginning with B-Beers, Glenville, M.D. There was no address, just a phone number.
I sat back in the chair and tried to identify why the name meant something to me. I certainly didn’t know anyone by the name of Beers, but it was familiar. Then it hit me. It was the name of an incidental character in Gin and Daggers who was casually mentioned toward the end of the book. Yes, Dr. Glenville Beers was the name of a character in Marjorie’s latest novel, which represented a distinct violation of her principle that no real person’s name ever be used. Why would she have included this person? Who was he?
I jotted down his name and number, thumbed through the rest of the book, replaced it in the drawer, and stared at a black telephone on the edge of the desk. Dare I make a call from the house? Would there be someone listening on an extension? I reached for the phone, having resolved that issue by telling myself that it didn’t matter whether someone listened or not.
There was no reason for me to apply any significance to this person, this Dr. Glenville Beers I was about to call. Maybe, like many people, Marjorie did not always live up to her principles and allowed them to slip on occasion. He might simply be her personal physician, whom she wished to honor by including his name in one of her books before she died.
I dialed the number and listened to it ring a very long time before it was picked up. The slow, shaky voice of an old man said, “Dr. Beers.”
“Dr. Beers, my name is Jessica Fletcher. I’m calling from Ainsworth Manor. I’m not sure how to explain this, but-”
“Mrs. Fletcher, I was beginning to wonder whether you would ever call.”
“Pardon?”
“Would you care to join me for tea, or a glass of port? My home is no more than a fifteen-minute drive from where you are, and I would be sincerely pleased if you would come to see me.”
He was expecting my call, this man I knew nothing about? I wasn’t going to explore the matter on the telephone. “Yes, I would like very much to visit you. Would you give me directions? I have my own car.” How fortuitous that I had chosen this date to hire a car and driver.
He gave me directions from Ainsworth Manor, which involved heading back toward Crumpsworth and veering off onto a small road before reaching town. Dr. Beers lived in a village called Heather-on-Floyd, obviously situated on the Floyd River, which ran through the region. I told him I would be there as quickly as possible, gently hung up, and left the study. Marshall was standing a few feet from the door and was straightening a picture that, as far as I remembered, had been perfectly straight when I looked at it fifteen minutes ago.
“Did it work, Mrs. Fletcher?”
“Did what work?”
“Sitting in Ms. Ainsworth’s chair. Were there vibrations you felt?”
I didn’t know whether he was trying to be cute or was legitimately asking whether I had experienced the same sensation as when I’d been in Shakespeare’s and Dickens’s homes. “Yes,” I said, “it worked quite well. My creative energies have been refueled. Thank you so much for allowing me this lovely time. It meant a great deal to me.”
He escorted me down the stairs and to the front door, which he opened for me.
“When is Miss Portelaine expected to return?” I asked.
“I have no idea, Mrs. Fletcher. The strain of what has happened here took its predictable toll on her. It’s good she’s got away for some sun and rest.”
“She’s taken quite a chance in doing that,” I said.
“How so?”
“Everyone who was here the night of the murder has been instructed to stay in the country until further notice.”
“She cleared her trip with Inspector Coots.”
“That’s good,” I said. “Has he been here recently?”
“I don’t think so. If you’ll excuse me now, I have chores to attend to.”
“Thank you for your concern, Marshall, and for your hospitality.”
Jeremy missed the turnoff to Heather-on-Floyd and almost returned to Crumpsworth before realizing it. He turned around, found it, and five minutes later we were in the tiny village of Heather-on-Floyd, which consisted of only a row of low buildings on either side of the road-no more than eight or ten-and the village ended abruptly the minute the last building was passed. There were only two other cars, and they’d pulled up onto the sidewalk to take up less of the narrow roadway. Jeremy did the same in front of the number Dr. Beers had given me. A small sign was just above the buzzer: GLENVILLE BEERS, M.D., G.P.
I pushed the button and heard the buzzer sound inside. M
oments later, the door was opened by a stooped old man with a full head of white hair and cheeks as pink as cherry blossoms, and wearing a red velvet smoking jacket over shirt and tie. His feet were clad in leather slippers. A pair of glasses hung from a black ribbon about his neck.
“Mrs. Fletcher.”
“Dr. Beers.”
“Yes. Come in, please.”
He walked with the slow shuffle of an old person. I followed him into a small parlor dominated by large pieces of stuffed furniture. A pleasant fire crackled in the fireplace. He’d been reading; a book lay open on a table next to his favorite chair. A lamp of the type seen in doctors’ examining offices cast a harsh white light over it.
Once I was settled in a chair next to the fireplace, he sat, leaned forward, and seemed to study me.
“I’m afraid I really don’t understand why I’m here,” I said, “but I have a feeling it’s good that I am.”
He nodded. “Yes, I think it is very good. Tea, or port?”
I started to say tea, but changed my mind. Somehow, I felt a glass of port in my hand would be more appropriate for what I was about to hear.
One hour later, I left Dr. Glenville Beers, got in the car, and headed for London. I’d already missed the cocktail reception, and the awards dinner would have started by now. I hoped Lucas wasn’t too worried about me, although I didn’t dwell upon that as we found our way into Crumpsworth, took the road back toward London, and, eventually, pulled up in front of the Savoy.
“Jessica, I have been frantic,” Lucas said as I walked into the dining room. “I was about to call the police. I heard you hired a car. Why didn’t you let me drive you? I told you I had the afternoon free and…”
I touched his arm and smiled. “Lucas, please, I’ve had an interesting but tiring day. I’m sorry to have given you cause for worry, but here I am, safe and sound, and awfully hungry. Where am I sitting?”
