I listened to a heated debate between a German psychologist turned mystery writer and a stout Canadian woman who’d written dozens of novels featuring a disgraced Royal Canadian Mounted Policeman, over the reasons that food often plays such a large role in mystery novels. She: “Having a fascination with, and skill at preparing food gives a hero or heroine a worldly sophistication.” He: “Unsinn! It all has to do with sex. There is no sex in murder mysteries. Food is the substitute. For each missing kiss or embrace, there will be an extra Brathandl!”

I noticed as the day wore on that fewer members of the press hung around the hotel, and I enjoyed an accompanying feeling of freedom. But, as when one jinxes a trip by commenting on how smoothly it’s gone just before a tire blows out, and the engine suddenly seizes, my pleasure was short-lived.

It happened at five o’clock as I sat in the lobby with other American writers attending the conference. I was in the process of retelling the German writer’s analysis of food and murder mysteries when Lucas came up to us. “Jessica, I must speak with you immediately.”

Lucas was always so dramatic, and most times it stemmed from his personality, rather than from an event he was about to report. Still, you never knew. I followed him to a corner.

“You haven’t heard?” he said.

“I suppose not. What haven’t I heard?”

“Marjorie’s last will and testament. It’s to be officially read and released tomorrow, but a few reporters were tipped off about its major provisions.”

“And?”

“She left a fortune, millions of pounds.”

“I don’t wonder.”

“The report didn’t mention specific numbers. Most of her estate, as I understand it, is to be used to establish Ainsworth Manor as an international research facility for mystery writers.”

“How wonderful,” I said.

“Her niece, Jane, gets some.”

“I would certainly hope so.”

“Household staff is in for a share.”

“I wouldn’t expect less of Marjorie than to reward them.”

“And, according to the report, she left a sizable portion to you.”

I was speechless.

“Did you hear me, Jessica?”

“Yes, I think so. Me?”

“You.”

“I can’t imagine why.”

“It doesn’t matter, Jessica. Do you realize what that means?”

“It means… I would never accept it. I don’t need money. I’ll simply donate my share to the study center that obviously meant so much to her.”

“Jessica.”

“What?”

“Her will. Motive. They’ll say you had a motive to kill her.”

I guffawed.

His face was dour. “I’m serious, Jessica.”

“Well, I’m certainly not, and I-”

Six reporters, followed by a camera crew from the BBC, entered the lobby and headed straight for me. “See you later, Lucas,” I said, walking quickly to the elevators while Lucas shouted for calm. Ten minutes after I’d reached my suite, Lucas arrived.

“I took care of them,” he said. “I gave them a statement.”

“What did you say?”

“You’ll see on the telly.”

An hour later, a BBC anchorman said in a deep voice: “The contents of the late Marjorie Ainsworth’s last will and testament were revealed today, twenty-four hours in advance of the formal reading of it.” He went on to say what Lucas had told me downstairs.

Then Lucas’s face filled the screen. “Ladies and gentlemen, it is only fitting that this news be announced on the second day of the annual meeting of the International Society of Mystery Writers.” He’d gotten in the plug; he was beaming as we watched the newscast together.

“The world-famous writer, Jessica Fletcher, who delivered our keynote speech last night, and was the target of a madman’s attack, has no comment at this time about having been named in Marjorie Ainsworth’s will. She is overcome with shock and gratitude to her dear and departed friend and will make a statement later.”

“Lucas,” I said, “this is-”

“Sssssh,” he said, holding his finger to his lips.

Montgomery Coots’s face replaced Lucas on the screen. He’d been videotaped on the road in front of Ainsworth Manor.

“First, I wish to announce that the foreign gardener arrested for attempting to sell a watch belonging to Marjorie Ainsworth has been released. He has an ironclad alibi, which I personally confirmed. Of course, with the release of the deceased’s will, focus must be on those who benefited financially from her death. I make no accusations, but the British people have my word that this heinous crime will be solved.”

“This is dreadful,” I said when the report was over.

“Don’t worry, Jess, I’ll make sure this is handled properly,” said Lucas.

“Lucas.”

“What?”

“Play cribbage with me.”

“Cribbage? At a time like this?”

“Especially at a time like this.” I removed a small cribbage board from my briefcase and set it up.

“Jessica, this is… mad.”

“No, Lucas, what’s going on downstairs and on television is madness. Cribbage is sanity, my kind of sanity. When Frank was alive, and when there was pressure in our lives, we played cribbage, or some other game. I nearly always won, and felt better. Sit down and cut the cards to see who goes first, and not another word about anything except the game.”

“You’re in uniform,” I said to Morton Metzger, sheriff of Cabot Cove. He and Seth Hazlitt had called my room upon their arrival, and I’d suggested we meet in the bar.

“Yes, Jess, I am. This is no vacation. I’m here on official business.”

I turned to Seth, a familiar warm smile on his face. “Seth, how wonderful to see you.” I kissed him on the cheek, did the same to Morton.

“Well, Jess, Mort and I spent considerable time chewin’ it over, and it seemed like the only sensible thing to do was to climb on an airplane and get here as fast as possible. We’ve been hearin’ terrible things back home, includin’ about that fella who went hay-wire and tried to kill you. Never heard of anything so lackin’.”

“Yes, it was quite an experience, although he really didn’t have much of a chance to get to me with so many people in the room.”

“Still, Jess, it caused Seth and me to think we’d better help our good friend,” said Morton, “no matter how far away she is. Must be fright’nin’ bein’ here in a strange country.”

I laughed. “It isn’t strange at all. After all, we came from here.”

“You’d never know it by listenin’ to that cab driver we had. I only understood every third word.”

“Yes, sometimes they speak quickly, but it is English.”

I was exhausted; it was one o’clock in the morning, London time. For them it was eight in the evening, and they looked ready for a night on the town. They insisted upon buying me a drink, and I filled them in on everything that had happened since my arrival. They listened intently, interrupting only with an occasional grunt or nod. When I was finished recounting my tales of woe, I asked them what their plans were for the next day.

“To be with you, Jess,” Seth said. “That’s why we came.”

I shook my head and said with conviction, “Oh no, I’ll be extremely busy with the convention, and I insist that you two spend the day sightseeing. London is a remarkable city, and to fly all the way here and not see as much of it as you can would be a crime.” This was debated for a few minutes until Seth finally said, “All right, Jess, but only tomorra, and we’re goin’ to keep in close touch. Right?”

“Absolutely. Now this lady needs her beauty sleep.” I stood.

“You do look a mite fatigued,” Morton Metzger said. “Want me to escort you to your room?”

“No, thank you, Morton, that won’t be necessary. Tell you what. You go off on a good day’s sightseeing tomorrow, and I’ll meet you right here in this same bar for a drink at five o’clock.”

“Fair enough,” said Seth.

“Buy yourself a good map and a guidebook. Be sure to see the Changing of the Guard, Westminster Abbey, and try to fit in the Tower of London.”