Donald Bain - Gin and Daggers

“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 writers 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.”