Gould-Brayton cleared his throat for order. “ ‘Because my niece and companion of many years, Jane Portelaine, has, at least from her perspective, given up her life for me, I leave to her one quarter of my estate, currently accounted for and to be earned in the future.’ ” Jane managed a smile and looked down at the. table, her hands clasped in front of her.

“ ‘To my dear friend and American colleague, Jessica Fletcher, I leave one eighth of my estate, present money only. Her earnings in the days ahead from her wonderful works of fiction will ensure her future without any help from me.’ ”

I blushed and shook my head. “That is so generous, but as I told Mr. Gould-Brayton, I intend to donate whatever money my share amounts to to the center Marjorie has established.”

“Very generous of you, Jessica,” said Bruce Herbert.

Archibald Semple’s wife tapped the ends of her fingers together and said, “Bravo, Mrs. Fletcher. How typically American.”

“ ‘Next, to my dear friend, critic William Strayhorn, who always had kind things to say about my books, the only exception being his occasional annoyance at how often I mention food in them, which, I might add, I do to substitute for the singular lack of sex in the genre-’ ”

I laughed; I couldn’t help it. Everyone looked at me. “Sorry,” I said. “Please continue.”

“ ‘… I leave the sum of twenty thousand pounds for the day when he is no longer able to enjoy either sex or food.’ ”

“Shame he isn’t here,” Semple said.

“Just as well that he isn’t,” said Bruce Herbert.

Gould-Brayton again checked his glasses for dirt, drew in a deep, rumbling breath to maintain his reading momentum, and pressed on. “ ‘My faithful household staff, with the exception of the newcomer, Marshall, are to be cared for in Ainsworth Manor for the rest of their days, their salary doubled from the date of my demise.’ ”

“It is nice to see she kept the common man in mind,” Count Zara said, to which his wife, Ona, mumbled, “Let them eat cake. They don’t deserve a penny.”

Gould-Brayton asked his assistant for a glass of water. After he’d drunk it (the room was so quiet you could hear the liquid cascading down his throat and into his belly), he said, “There are still other disbursements to be announced. I must admit that in all my years in the legal profession, I have yet to see such provisions in any other will, although, I must admit, Miss Ainsworth was… how shall we say it, an unusual individual.” He looked at Ona Ainsworth-Zara. “I indicated to you, Mrs. Ainsworth-Zara, that it might be less painful for you and your husband not to have attended this gathering. If you would like to leave now, I am sure everyone would understand.”

“Go on, read,” said Marjorie’s younger sister.

“Poor thing,” said the count. “She was not herself in her last days.”

“I thought she was at her intellectual best right up until the end,” said Bruce Herbert.

“Enough,” Gould-Brayton said. “Let me proceed. ‘To my younger sister, Ona, who saw fit to marry into Italian aristocracy and suffer the inevitable impoverishment inherent in such an act, I consider my debt paid. The money I have given them over the years far surpasses what my instincts would tell me to leave them after my departure from this earth. I do, however, leave to my beloved brother-in-law, Count Zara, as he prefers to call himself, a fat envelope of bills from the clothing stores, gourmet food shops, hotels, alcoholic beverage establishments, and other purveyors of the good life that he had made such generous use of. I have not paid these bills; I trust he will see to it that the debts are honored forthwith.’ ”

“Preposterous,” Zara exclaimed, standing and slamming his fist on the table. “Those were gifts to me from Marjorie.” He looked down at his wife. “Weren’t they, Ona, gifts from your sister? She always told me that I was her favorite.”

“Pay them, Tony, and let’s get on with this bloody circus.”

“ ‘To my loyal and accomplished American publisher, Clayton Perry, and my devoted literary agent, Bruce Herbert, I leave two things. First, the large sums of money I have loaned Mr. Perry are to be forgiven at the time of my death. By doing this, I trust the publishing house that Perry built, constantly tottering on the verge of bankruptcy and worse, will be able to sustain itself for a period of time, which means the American reading public will continue to have access to my books. Second, I forgive Mr. Herbert and Mr. Perry for all the royalties they have stolen from me over the years, and assure them that I have not instructed those I leave behind to pursue that matter with the sort of professional diligence that would undoubtedly uncover these thefts.’ ”

“I can’t believe she wrote that,” Herbert said.

“She was obviously demented when she did,” Clayton Perry said, only his lips moving.

“Of course, that is what I said,” the count said. “This entire will must be contested.”

Gould-Brayton said, “I think I should read this next paragraph rather quickly. ‘At the time these provisions have been read, I assume those in the room such as my American publisher and agent, and my beloved brother-in-law, are calling me demented and demanding that the will be contested. Good luck.’ ”

Gould-Brayton sat back in his tall, wide leather armchair.

“There’s nothing else?” Archibald Semple said. “She didn’t mention me?”

“I am just taking a breather to break the tension in the room,” said the solicitor. “Shall I proceed?”

“Yes, please do,” Semple said, grabbing his wife’s hand and squeezing it, evidently hurting her because she made a face and emitted a tiny squeal. He let go and focused his attention on Gould-Brayton, who’d cleaned his glasses and was once again hunched over Marjorie Ainsworth’s will.

“ ‘To my friend and producer of the most successful dramatic adaptation of any of my books, Who Killed Darby and Joan?, Sir James Ferguson, I leave all future royalties from that work, beginning at the moment of my death, and to last in perpetuity. It is my wish that Sir James use the extra money to foster young and deserving theatrical talent in London, although I imagine the overhead of his rather overdone home in Belgravia, and his penchant for expensive young women, will preclude that act of artistic generosity. So be it. I feel compelled to do this, although I can’t possibly tell you why.’ ”

“Come on, come on,” Semple said.

Gould-Brayton scowled at the British publisher, who laughed nervously and looked at his watch. “It’s just that we have another appointment,” Semple said.

“Yes, quite,” said the solicitor. “ ‘My British publisher for many years, Archibald Semple, has undoubtedly stolen from me just as my American business partners have. I forgive him, too, and will not press the matter from the grave.’ ”

“That’s a bloody lie,” Semple said.

This time his wife took his hand and said, “Ssssh, Archie, your colitis.”

“ ‘Still, Archie has displayed friendship to me over these many years, and if he has stolen from me, he has managed to do it with appropriate British reserve, as opposed to his American colleagues. Therefore, in honor of this discretion on his part, I leave him the sum of twenty thousand pounds with which to buy his wife some new and more appropriate clothing, and for him to buy a decent toupee. He may do with the balance what he wishes.’ ”

“She didn’t have to be quite so testy about it,” Semple said, sitting back relieved that he had received a decent sum.

Gould-Brayton looked at his watch. “I shan’t keep you much longer. There is one final provision.”

I knew that everyone at the table was trying to imagine who’d not been mentioned, positively or negatively. We all looked at the large solicitor as he read the final codicil in the will. “ ‘To my former lover, who shall be known only to my solicitor and executor, the most decent man I have ever known, I leave a yearly sum, to be determined by him, to ensure that he spends the rest of his days on this earth in the style to which he is accustomed. When he is no longer of this life, I look forward to once again sharing my bed with him in a higher, grander setting.’ ”