At any rate, I’ve been reading Hazlitt’s “On Living to One’s Self,” and something struck me as being relevent to my present level of existence. He wrote, “What I mean by living to one’s self is living in the world, as in it, not of it… It is to be a silent spectator of the mighty scene of things;… to take a thoughtful, anxious interest or curiosity in what is passing in the world, but not to feel the slightest inclination to make or meddle with it.”

I have always taken perverse pleasure in meddling in the world through my books, but would never dream to do it in real lives. Alas, my current frail condition invites meddling by those around me, and I abhor it (as I speak this to dear, devoted Jane, I see the sourness in her face because, of course, she is one of the prime intruders in my life). Please, do not misunderstand. If I have said it once, I have said it countless times that were it not for Jane over the years, my life would be in considerably worse shambles than it presently is. I adore her but I cannot help protesting my plight, and what it has spawned. Still, this headstrong lady (the head is strong, the body less so) manages to prevail at times.

The weekend we’ve planned here at the house is still on, and I look forward with great anticipation to your arrival and the chance to spend time with my American colleague. What I am hoping, Jessica, is that you can come a day earlier than the others. This will give us time to leisurely explore our lives of the moment, and to thoroughly trash all those who will be arriving later.

I warn you: I am not the woman you last saw. I always recall a line from the play Twigs,. a line that rings with great truth: “Men get better looking as they get older, and women get to look more like men.” You will see for yourself the wisdom of that dialogue when you arrive.

Safe journey, Jessica, and bring your woollens. The winds are brisk this time of year at Ainsworth Manor, and I would be devastated should the keynote speaker at this year’s confab of mystery writers come down with a cold that would render her words gratingly nasal.

Affectionately,

Marjorie

P.S. An autographed copy of Gin and Daggers awaits you.

I placed the letter on the desk, sat back, and shook my head, a smile upon my face. What a remarkable woman. No wonder the world adores her.

I went to the bedroom and took from a shelf in a cedar closet the sweaters I would bring to protect against the brisk winds of Ainsworth Manor. As I stood kneading the wool, a jet aircraft passed overhead, and I realized I’d be on such a plane in two days-destination, London.

I couldn’t wait to return to England, to spend time with Marjorie Ainsworth, and to join my colleagues at the annual meeting of the International Society of Mystery Writers, or ISMW, as it was commonly referred to. As much as I adopted a toe-in-the-sand response to people in town when they congratulated me on being chosen to be the speaker this year, inside-deep inside-I was proud as could be.

“Enjoy your stay,” the passport inspector at London ’s Heathrow Airport said as he handed me back my passport.

“Thank you. I certainly hope to.”

I went to the baggage area, where my luggage had already arrived on the carousel. I loaded it onto one of hundreds of available trolleys, the existence of which always confirmed for me London ’s heroic attempt to remain civilized. Because I had nothing to declare, I went through the Customs area marked in green, and immediately spotted Lucas Darling, who was with a crowd of people behind portable barriers.

Lucas was the unpaid secretary of ISMW; a sizable family inheritance allowed him to indulge himself. He was a cherubic little man of fifty, with pink cheeks and gossamer blond-gray hair that he allowed to grow just oh-so-long, giving him what he considered to be a literary look. He was fond of bow ties, and wore a large, floppy red one with white polka dots this day, along with a double-breasted blue blazer with large brass buttons, and gray slacks. A long, slender black umbrella dangled from his wrist. He was virtually hopping up and down as he called, “Jessica, Jessica, over here!”

“Hello, Lucas,” I said.

“Oh, Jessica, how good to see you again,” he said, shaking my hand.

“It’s good to see you, too, Lucas, and wonderful to be back in London.”

“You bought a brolly, I hope. It’s been raining here for days.” Before I could say anything, he added, “No matter, I brought one for you.” He handed me the umbrella he was carrying.

Lucas took over wheeling the baggage trolley and led us to a taxi stand, where a young man graciously loaded my luggage into the space next to him in the front, held open the door for us, and, once we were settled in the spacious rear compartment (more blessed civilization, those London cabs), headed for the city.

“Everything shaping up for the conference?” I asked.

Lucas’s face soured. “I wish that were the case, Jessica, but I’m afraid it’s not.”

I raised my eyebrows.

“So many last minute details. I can’t trust them to anyone else anymore. The members keep promising to do things and then don’t, which means I have to do them myself-although, Lord knows, I don’t mind. Sometimes I think I’m the only one who takes these yearly conferences seriously.”

I laughed and patted his arm. “That isn’t true at all, Lucas. I take them seriously.”

“You’re a pleasant exception, Jessica Fletcher. By the way, have you read Marjorie’s new book, Gin and Daggers?”

“No, I haven’t, but there’s a good reason for it. You do know I’ll be spending the weekend with her before the conference starts.”

He pouted. “Yes, and I was terribly disappointed that you wouldn’t be in London over the weekend. I had some splendid social outings planned for us.”

“I’m sure there’ll be lots of time during the conference for socializing, Lucas. The point I was making was that Marjorie told me in a recent letter that she had a copy of Gin and Daggers waiting for me at the manor, and wanted personally to give it to me. You can imagine the willpower it took for me not to buy a copy back in the States. From everything I hear, it’s her finest work, a masterpiece.”

Lucas shifted on the seat so that he was facing me. He said earnestly, “There’s no debate about that, Jessica. The only question has to do with the book’s authorship.”

My laugh this time was one of dismissal.

“You may laugh, Jessica, but the rumors are getting serious.”

“That’s preposterous,” I said. “If there is one person in this world who does not need a ghostwriter, it’s Marjorie Ainsworth.” As I said it, I realized my protest was probably overblown. Reports of Marjorie’s ill health were consistent and compelling. The letter to me just before I left Cabot Cove gave credence to the fact that she was obviously not well, although the condition of a writer’s body, unless in chronic pain, needn’t influence the quality of writing. Her letter to me was lucid enough. Her mind was sharp. If she had to dictate, that didn’t mean less direct involvement in the book. I said this to Lucas.

“I hope you’re right,” he said. “As you know, ISMW is still carrying the fight to break through that pretentious barrier between genre fiction and what they love to term ‘serious literary works.’ If any book is destined to do that, it’s Gin and Daggers.”

“The more you talk, the harder I have to fight the urge to have the driver stop at the nearest bookstore so I can get a copy. It’s that good, Lucas?”

“Even better than that, Jessica, it’s a tour de force, but it doesn’t read consistently like Marjorie Ainsworth. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not implying that the rumors might be right. It’s just that…”

“Not like her at all?”