Tracy Kiely: Murder at Longbourn

“This is you,” she said, as she gave the room a final once-over. “There are ten bedrooms. They are all pretty much the same, although I think this is the nicest.” I had to smile my thanks. I was sadly out of breath. The room’s furnishings were simple but inviting—a large gray-and-white braided rug, a tall wooden bureau, a wingback chair upholstered in a pattern of faded pink and green cabbage roses, a standing floor mirror, and an antique nightstand. The only luxurious item was the large mahogany four-poster bed, its white down comforter floating like a soft layer of meringue.

“What a lovely room!” I cried. “It’s perfect!” As Aunt Winnie peered at her reflection in the mirror, patting an errant curl into place, I opened the closet to hang up my coat. Teasingly, I stood back and said, “What? No shelves in the closet? I’m all astonishment!” Laughing, Aunt Winnie turned away from the mirror. “Don’t be a smart-ass. But I am glad you like it. And thanks again for coming, sweetheart.” She gave me a quick hug. “I really appreciate it. Now, why don’t you freshen up and meet me in the dining room in about half an hour? On Friday nights, some of the locals come in for a drink. It’s our version of happy hour. You can meet everyone … and see Peter again.” Giving me a wink, she moved out into the hall, shutting the heavy door behind her.

I sank into the wingback chair and frowned at the cabbage roses. What had I gotten myself into? I loved Aunt Winnie and wanted to help her with the weekend, but I wondered if I’d made a mistake in coming. The last thing my battered ego needed was Peter McGowan. Repeatedly telling myself that I was a mature woman now, not some insecure kid, seemed to be of little avail.

I added new resolutions for the weekend and repeated them over and over as a mantra:

• I will have inner poise.

• I will not let Peter McGowan get under my skin.

• I will not allow myself to be locked in a dark basement.

• I will have a calm and relaxing New Year’s.

I couldn’t have been more off the mark if I had tried.

For what do we live, but to make sport for our neighbors,

and laugh at them in our turn?

— JANE AUSTEN, PRIDE AND PREJUDICE

WHAT I WANT to know is, who is he exactly? Lauren says he’s an old friend of the family, but then why is he staying here and not with them? No, there’s something fishy going on there. I may be old-fashioned, but you just can’t discount appearances.” This from an elderly woman wearing an enormous maroon velvet hat liberally festooned with silk flowers. A large yellow mum near the top quivered in delighted disapproval.

Beside me, Joan Anderson leaned forward, her glasses slipping down her nose. “What is she like, anyway? I’ve never seen her.”

The couple at the center of this speculation was Lauren Ramsey and Daniel Simms. She was the wife of wealthy local, Gerald Ramsey; he, the purported old family friend. Daniel’s unexpected visit had apparently provided hours of conjecture for the town’s avid gossips, the undisputed leader being the woman in the velvet hat, Miss Jacqueline Tanner, known as Jackie.

“Oh, she’s pretty, in a kind of obvious way, you know, blond, perpetually tan. She tends to keep to herself.” Jackie’s expression indicated a deep suspicion of people who enjoyed privacy.

“But why do you think he isn’t staying with them?” Joan asked. Jackie’s only response to this was a slight raising of her eyebrow. It spoke volumes.

“But wouldn’t it make more sense to stay there if … I mean …” Joan broke off, blushing. Henry’s round face radiated discomfort, not only at the sordid direction the conversation was taking but at his wife’s participation in it. His long fingers played with the stem of his wineglass.

“Maybe they didn’t have enough room,” I offered.

Jackie scoffed. “Clearly you haven’t seen their house. Lack of room is not the reason. There’s another reason, or I’ll eat my hat.” Momentarily distracted by that bizarre image, I lost the thread of conversation. “If you ask me,” she continued, “there’s no fool like an old fool and Gerald is not a man who invites much sympathy. His first wife died, you know. From what I understand, she found death a refuge.”

Beside me, I heard Joan’s quick intake of breath at this callous remark. Jackie continued unawares. “No, the one I feel sorry for is the girl, Polly. She’s a bit of an odd duck, but who wouldn’t be, growing up in that house? Rumor has it Gerald practically keeps her a prisoner. Won’t let her live on her own, which is just absurd. I gather that she was accepted to Oxford for some art history program, but he won’t let her go. And until she inherits her trust fund—which won’t be until she’s twenty-five—she’s stuck.”

Any sympathy I might have felt for Polly markedly diminished at this. Call me insensitive, but the woes of trust-fund babies failed to stir any real sympathy in me. Jackie was still talking. “I wonder if Polly resents Lauren,” she mused, before adding, “not, of course, that it’s any of my business.” She said this last bit without a trace of irony and it was hard not to be impressed. Suddenly, her head swiveled, sending her droplet earrings swinging. Something behind me held her attention; her eyes darkened with interest. “Well, speak of the devil,” she said softly.

I’ve heard of people described as “exuding sex appeal,” but I don’t think I ever understood what it meant until I saw Daniel Simms. It wasn’t merely that he was incredibly good-looking—think of a contemporary Greek god with slightly tousled, dark ash hair and keen blue eyes, and you get the picture. But as I said, it wasn’t just his looks. It was the way his tailored shirt hugged his shoulders, his wolfish grin, his slightly predatory way of moving that all added up to “it”—honest-to-God sex appeal. He paused for a moment in the narrow doorway and, seeing our little group, ambled toward us. From the smile on his face, I was sure that he not only knew we had just been talking about him, but that he found it amusing.

“Good evening, ladies,” he said.

Oh, my God, he was British! I let the sound of his vocal cords—all suggestive of crumpets and Burberry tweed—wash over me. I admit to a certain weakness for an English accent. Which is a polite way of saying that the man could read the phone book to me and I would lose all capacity for rational thought.

After politely greeting Aunt Winnie, he turned his attention to Jackie, saying, “Miss Tanner, it’s always a pleasure to see you.”

In spite of her unflattering gossip, Jackie was clearly not immune to his charm. A girlish blush stained the little bit of face that was visible underneath her hat. “We were just saying, Mr. Simms,” she said in a chirpy voice, “how much we’re all looking forward to tomorrow night. I only hope the weather holds. What’s it like now?”

“A bit rotten, actually.” He enunciated both t ’s in rotten like an art lover discussing Giotto. Heaven.

Aunt Winnie introduced me to Daniel and quickly pulled the others away under the flimsy pretext of showing them a flower arrangement. Subtlety is not her strong point. “I feel a bit at a disadvantage,” Daniel said to me, once they moved away. “I don’t know anything about you. But I suspect that you can’t say the same of me.” He finished with a nod at Jackie’s retreating back.

“She did provide a pretty thorough biography.” I matched his light tone. “Although, I must confess, the years between your tenth and thirteenth birthdays are somewhat murky.”

“Ah, yes. The dark years, as I like to call them.” Jackie returned now. An outmaneuvered Aunt Winnie joined us a split second later, her mouth twisted in an annoyed grimace.