Donald Bain - Gin and Daggers

“What are you up to for the rest of the day?” Lucas asked me.

“I have some errands to run. I’ll be back in time for the awards dinner tonight.”

“I have a relatively free afternoon, Jessica. Why don’t we spend it together?”

I told him that might work, but I had to check with my friends from Cabot Cove, Seth Hazlitt and Mort Metzger.

“We can all enjoy what’s left of the day together,” he said.

“I’ll call you in a half hour, Lucas.”

I went to my suite and did what I’d planned to do since getting up that morning. I called Ainsworth Manor. What I hoped was that Jane Portelaine would follow through on her offer to allow me to spend some time at the manor. I was somewhat optimistic based upon her pleasant greeting of me at the reading of her aunt’s will.

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.”