He smiled sheepishly. “There I go again, my penchant for overstating things. Of course it’s filled with classic Ainsworth plotting, insight into the human dilemma, things like that, but there’s a philosophical depth that isn’t evident in her previous books. Do you know what I mean?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know; I always found quite a bit of depth to Marjorie’s writing.”

He sighed and looked out though raindrops on his window. We’d entered central London now; sprawling industrial complexes and blue-collar housing had given way to the more genteel architecture of the West End. He turned to me. “Ignore everything I’ve said, Jessica, until you’ve had a chance to read Gin and Daggers. Then we’ll sit down over a long, leisurely dinner and discuss it, like two matrons at a literary luncheon.”

“You have a deal, Lucas. I look forward to it.”

The driver turned off the Strand and into a broad courtyard, at the end of which was the main entrance to the Savoy Hotel. Until the driver made that turn, I’d managed to avoid thinking about previous arrivals at the Savoy with my late husband, Frank. Now, as the splendidly uniformed doorman stood waiting to assist us, those feelings threatened to overflow. I turned away from Lucas in case my eyes had misted.

“Here we are, Jessica,” Lucas said brightly. “I would have opted for a more intimate setting for the conference, but the site selection committee, God bless them, insisted upon the Savoy.” When I didn’t turn to acknowledge his comment, he said, “Jessica, are you all right?”

I drew a breath and smiled at him. “Yes, of course. I’m just overwhelmed at being back in this wonderful city.”

We were graciously whisked through the elegant Thames Foyer, where tea would be served in the afternoon-and where theatergoers would snack before curtain time-and went to the reception desk. I was warmly greeted by name. Then, in the tow of a handsome, gregarious porter dressed in pinstripes, we were led to my room.

Room? It was a magnificent suite, spacious and airy, a fireplace on one wall, fine paintings on another establishing the Victorian panache for which the Savoy was famous.

I went to a window and looked out over the leafy embankment of the river Thames.

“Is everything to your satisfaction, Mrs. Fletcher?” the porter asked.

I turned. “Yes, it’s splendid. I didn’t expect to be in a suite, especially one with such opulence.”

Lucas Darling laughed. “Nothing but the best for the famous Jessica Fletcher. Do you realize, Jessica, that…?”

I cocked my head. “Realize what, Lucas?”

“Well, I hate to sound maudlin, but when Marjorie Ainsworth passes away, Jessica Fletcher will become, without doubt, the world’s most revered writer of the murder mystery.”

I couldn’t help the guffaw that came from me. “Don’t be silly, Lucas. I am firmly entrenched in a wonderful and large group of good writers. Then there are the Marjorie Ainsworths of this world. But thank you. You’ve always had an ability to flatter.”

After the porter left, tipped handsomely by Lucas, he asked if I would join him for a drink downstairs.

“Oh, thank you, Lucas, but I really need some time to straighten out my circadian rhythms. The flight was long.”

“Aha, the plot for the next Jessica Fletcher murder mystery is already developing. Circadian rhythms out of whack, claims of a suspect to have feasted on smoked salmon, caviar, and London broil on her flight when, in fact, our detective hero knows that particular flight served capon, country pate, and vanilla mousse topped with raspberries.”

We laughed. “Get out of here, Lucas, and let me pull myself together. Marjorie’s chauffeur will be here tomorrow at noon to take me to Ainsworth Manor. I want to be rested, don’t want to miss a moment of my time with her.”

“Of course, I understand. Is there anything I can do for you?”

“No, but I would like to see the public room where I’ll be making my speech, get a feel for it, that sort of thing.”

“Whenever you say.”

“Give me three hours of solitude. I’ll meet you in the foyer.”

“I’ll be there. Three hours will give me time to run some errands. There are always so many errands to run in preparation for the conference, and no one seems willing to run them except me.”

Poor suffering Lucas, I thought. Instead, I said, “Yes, but don’t think your dedication isn’t appreciated. I hear all the time from members about how the society would be nothing without Lucas Darling.”

He kissed me on the cheek. “Bless you, Jessica Fletcher, you give Americans a good name.” He went to the door, turned, and added, “A word of caution. London is not what it used to be. The crime rate is dreadful here, and getting worse every day. Rumor has it that the bobbies are carrying concealed weapons, quite a change from their nightsticks-only days. Packs of vile young men are roaming the streets and preying on visitors, particularly…”

I finished his sentence for him: “Particularly older women.”

“I didn’t say that, nor would I ever. Anyway, keep your handbag close to you and, no matter how tempted you might be to taste the less elegant areas of jolly old London, control your temptation. See you at three downstairs.” He bounced jauntily out of the room.

“Thank God,” I said aloud, but not too loud. I quickly unpacked and got out of the clothes I’d been living in since leaving Cabot Cove for Boston ’s Logan Airport and my connecting flight to London. A quick shower in the beautifully appointed bathroom revived my spirits while, at the same time, relaxing me enough to slide in for a nap between fresh sheets on the queen-sized bed.

Damn the mind. I wanted sleep to rescue me from those sad thoughts I’d had in the taxi, but I lost the race. I could hear the music, the happy sounds of men and women enjoying themselves, the delicious and comforting feel of being led around the dance floor downstairs in the River Room Restaurant:

Savoy, the home of sweet romance,

Savoy, it grabs you at a glance,

Savoy, gives happy feet a chance

To dance…

It seemed like only yesterday, but I knew it wasn’t; another mean trick played by the mind.

Now my topsy-turvy circadian rhythms, more commonly known as jet lag, came rushing over the hill to my rescue. The last thing I remember before falling asleep was changing songs from “Stompin’ at the Savoy ” to “Tea for Two,” and smiling at the realization that I whistled more in tune than my mailman.

Marjorie Ainsworth’s chauffeur, Wilfred, was a proper gentleman in his sixties who stood forever straight, and who looked as though he could stand that way for hours, perhaps even days, waiting for a passenger. He never smiled, although not from a lack of pleasantness. It was more a matter of not having a smile born into him, which probably accounted for the lack of lines on his face. “It’s a pleasure to see you once more, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said, opening the door of the vintage maroon Morgan.

We pulled away from the hotel, smoothly negotiated London ’s clotted lunchtime traffic, and were soon on our way to the little town of Crumpsworth, an hour’s drive. Ainsworth Manor, as I recalled, was a few minutes outside Crumpsworth, which, like all small, quaint British towns-it was in fact not much more than a large village-was founded at some astoundingly ancient date-1270 seemed to ring a bell with me, a hundred years give or take.

It took a few minutes for me to become comfortable riding on the “wrong” side of the road. I remembered how Frank had eagerly gotten behind the wheel, considering it a challenge, and, within minutes, drove as though he’d lived here his entire life.

I watched the countryside slide by, gently rolling hills, idyllic herds of cows grazing on rich grass, fancy sports cars passing us at grand prix speed, tiny villages with women sweeping their sidewalks. How I loved this place, and once again questioned why I’d never followed my instincts to move here. I knew why, of course. Cabot Cove, my home in Maine, was too precious to me to pull up stakes. I also knew that there were few places I’d ever visited that hadn’t spurred in me a desire to live in them. The grass always seems greener; most times, of course, it isn’t.