“No, I only met him briefly. You say Mr. Harris’s friend, the attractive young woman named Maria, hasn’t been here?”

“Not that I’ve seen, only I don’t spend my day snoopin’ on me tenants.”

I bet you don’t, I thought. I said, “Well, I think I’ll leave a note on Mr. Harris’s door if you don’t mind.”

“Harris owed me rent, too. You say you’re a friend of the family? How about payin’ ’is rent?”

“I’m not that much of a friend. Excuse me.” I wrote a brief note asking Maria to call me, and slipped it under Jason’s door.

I descended to the ground floor, the landlady yelling after me every step that no one had any sense of honor or decency anymore, that all she ended up with in the building was bums, and that she intended only to rent to “proper ladies” from now on. I wasn’t sure how many “proper ladies” would be interested in living in that building, but you never knew. Then again, how did she intend to define “proper ladies”?

I moved on to Soho and David Simpson’s talent agency. The waiting room was filled with young women of varying shades, sizes and dress. Simpson would have no trouble filling openings for exotic dancers that night. Carmela, the receptionist, was in her usual pose behind the desk, reading a magazine and chewing gum. I asked for Mr. Simpson, and she curtly told me he was gone for the day.

“Will he be here tomorrow?” I asked.

She shrugged. “Wouldn’t I like to know that? He owes me pay.”

I left feeling as though I’d touched base with the Debtors’ Society of London. It was three o’clock; an hour to go before Marjorie’s will was read. I hadn’t eaten, and stopped in the Soho Brasserie for a sandwich and soft drink, then headed for Mr. Gould-Brayton’s office on Newgate Street, where the Roman and mediaeval wall dissects it.

As I entered the spacious, richly paneled, and sedate surroundings of Gould-Brayton & Partners office, I expected to see very few people. Certainly Jane Portelaine would be on hand, as might those members of the household staff who were named in the will. Instead, the conference room looked like a re-creation, minus food, of the dinner party at Ainsworth Manor the night Marjorie died. There were some notable exceptions; Jason Harris, of course, wasn’t there, nor was William Strayhorn, the London book reviewer. The other missing personages included Sir James Ferguson, the theatrical producer, and Clayton Perry’s wife, Reneé.

I was seated next to Count Antonio Zara, who held out my chair for me and, I suspect, had intentions of kissing my hand, which I deftly avoided by wrapping both of them around my purse.

Mr. Gould-Brayton looked the way he sounded, terribly overweight, dark three-piece suit with gold chain draped across his large belly, and rimless spectacles, and, I was certain, had bad breath, although I wasn’t close enough to confirm that supposition.

My assumption that Jane Portelaine would be there had been confirmed the moment I entered the reception area. Victorian posy hung heavy in the air and dominated the conference room.

Jane sat across the large mahogany conference table from me, flanked by American agent Bruce Herbert, and American publisher Clayton Perry. Her appearance this afternoon interested me. She wore lipstick, just a touch, but surprising nonetheless. She’d done something with her hair that allowed it to fall with more softness about her face. Her nails appeared to have been freshly manicured, and a subtle, rose-colored nail polish, the same shade as her lipstick, had been expertly applied. Her dress, too, was different, although not dramatically so. She wore a teal blouse and had left the top button open, of all things. A simple chain suspended the gold letters of her name above her bosom. The heavy gray cardigan sweater seemed the only throwback to how I’d always remembered her, although I couldn’t see her skirt and shoes.

“Hello, Jane,” I said.

She smiled at me. “Hello, Mrs. Fletcher. It’s good to see you again.”

What a change from our strained conversation at the graveside.

“Bloody shame we meet again like this,” said Archibald Semple, Marjorie’s British publisher. “We’ll have a more festive atmosphere this evening at dinner. I trust you are joining us, Mrs. Fletcher.”

“Yes, and looking forward to it, Mr. Semple.”

Bruce Herbert, whose suit looked as though it had come minutes ago from Tommy Nutter or Henry Poole on Savile Row, leaned as far as he could over the table and asked, “Have you given any thought to the suggestion?”

“What suggestion?”

“About the nonfiction account of this tragedy.”

“Oh, no, no further thought at all, Mr. Herbert. It really doesn’t interest me.” Herbert sat back. The broad, engaging smile that had been on his face disappeared, and he cast a sideward glance at Clayton Perry, who sat in his usual bolt-upright posture, tanned hands folded neatly on the table. Perry smiled; I returned the smile.

“Well now, ladies and gentlemen,” Mr. Gould-Brayton intoned, “we might as well get to this painful but necessary business.” He looked across the room to where a young assistant stood at attention. Gould-Brayton didn’t have to say anything to him. The young man opened the door and motioned to someone, and a young female stenographer came to a small desk at Gould-Brayton’s side and poised her fingers over the keyboard of a court stenographer’s machine.

Marjorie’s will turned out to be novella-length. I didn’t want to be impudent, but I couldn’t help but smile at so many of the preliminary comments she included in it. She seemed to have used the opportunity to expound on matters dear to her, including her growing disgust with brooding, discourteous, and unpleasant young people behind shop counters; television programs that insult the intelligence of anyone with an IQ slightly above moronic; writers who use the word “enthused” rather than “enthusiastic”; frozen food; women who wear fur coats; and myriad other aspects of life she found disagreeable. Mr. Gould-Brayton was obviously embarrassed at having to read all of this. He stopped once, smiled, and said through fleshy lips, “She was a writer, after all.” We all laughed nervously, and he continued, evidently content that he had sufficiently distanced himself from this client who viewed a last will and testament as more than simply a division of spoils.

“She should have videotaped this,” Bruce Herbert said. “I can see her now delivering these protestations against society.”

Mr. Gould-Brayton looked at Herbert, closed his heavy eyelids as though to ask whether he were through, then returned his attention to the typewritten pages in front of him.

Eventually he reached the financial portion of the will, and I noticed everyone sit up a little straighter. Gould-Brayton paused for effect, removed his spectacles and held them up to the light to ascertain they were clean enough for accurate reading, placed them on his nose, and read, “ ‘I have made far more money then any human being is entitled to make, and have spent very little of it, my frugality a source of constant annoyance to local shopkeepers and telephone solicitors attempting to sell me magazines that would surely go unread. Because of my lifelong dedication to cheeseparing, I am able to leave behind a substantial sum of money, most of it undoubtedly to be squandered, some of it to be used wisely only because I have taken the steps necessary to ensure that.’ ” Gould-Brayton looked up at us. “Any questions?” he asked.

We all shook our heads.

He continued. “ ‘I hereby bequeath one half of my estate, presently accounted for and to be earned through the future sale of my books, to a trust to be named the Marjorie Ainsworth International Study Center for Mystery Writers, to be housed at Ainsworth Manor, and to be stocked with every available reference source the trustees are able to obtain.’ ”

“Hear, hear,” said Archibald Semple. “The woman was a benefactor to her profession, a saint. How splendid to have such a center here in Great Britain.”