As we entered Crumpsworth, I recognized a few shops, even saw a person standing on a corner who looked familiar. I wondered how the residents of Crumpsworth felt about being home to Marjorie Ainsworth, the world’s most famous mystery writer. They probably didn’t think much about it, considering the British psyche and inherent tendency to downplay such things. Still, Ainsworth Manor and its illustrious occupant must be grist for dinner table conversation. Did any of the residents of Crumpsworth read Marjorie’s books? A few, probably, but not enough to put her on the bestseller lists. The rest of the world saw to that.

We navigated a roundabout and proceeded down a narrow, pockmarked macadam road that eventually gave way to dirt. Wilfred drove with caution along the rutted road until we were abreast of Ainsworth Manor. It stood high on the slope of a hill, gothic in aura, although its architecture was not precisely that. I remembered the last time I approached it and thinking there should be streaks of lightning on a dark scrim behind it. Moviemakers would undoubtedly agree.

We turned onto an access road that was lined with poplar trees and drove for a couple of minutes until coming to a gate that had not been designed to keep out anyone who really wanted to get in. Wilfred got out of the Morgan, opened the gate, returned to the car, drove through, got out again, shut the gate, and drove on.

A minute later we were in front of Ainsworth Manor.

“Mrs. Fletcher, how nice to see you again,” Jane Portelaine, Marjorie Ainsworth’s niece, said to me as I stepped through massive oak doors into a stone-floored foyer.

“It’s good to be back,” I said, meaning it, although I thought to myself that Jane’s presence did not necessarily add to my pleasure. She was obviously a good person, as evidenced by the devotion she’d demonstrated to Marjorie for so many years. The problem with Jane Portelaine was that her severe appearance, coupled with an enigmatic personality, tended to be off-putting, at best. She was tall and slender, skinny actually, an angular woman with sharp, chiseled features, except for her mouth, which was full and earthy and out of proportion to the rest of her. She always wore her brown hair pulled back tight, and her choice in clothing ran to drab suits and overly long and simple dresses, shoes sensible beyond even British standards. This day she wore a slate-gray dress buttoned to the neck and a black cardigan sweater, her long, bony hands shoved deep into its pockets. The reason I use the term “enigmatic” to describe Jane is that behind her austere faqade there seemed to be a parallel unstated sensuality, undoubtedly suppressed but, like rage, threatening to spring forth at any moment.

In contrast with her generally spartan approach to life, Jane was, simultaneously, enamored of perfumes and colognes. She used them to excess; the scent of Victorian posy hung heavy in the foyer as I entered Ainsworth Manor. Marjorie once told me that perfume was Jane’s abiding passion, and that the account she maintained at Penhaligon’s, on Wellington Street, was, in her estimation, “obscenely high.” Then again, she went on to tell me, her real objection was not the amount of money her niece spent on such things, but the fact that she liberally doused herself with them, which made Ainsworth Manor smell like “a French whorehouse.”

“Was your trip pleasant?” Jane asked me.

“Yes, tiring, but a good night’s sleep took care of that.”

The foyer was exactly as I remembered it, large and chilly, with two full and tarnished suits of armor flanking the archway leading to the living room, embroidered tapestries hanging on facing walls, a few oversized pieces of dark furniture, and a single light fixture on the high ceiling that cast tentative illumination.

What had changed was the member of the household staff who stood silently at the foot of a long, curving staircase until Jane said to him, “Marshall, please take Mrs. Fletcher’s luggage and show her to her room.” To me: “My aunt hasn’t been feeling well, I’m afraid, and naps more than before. She’s napping now.”.

“Oh, I wouldn’t think of disturbing her. I just hope we have some time to chat a little later.”

“I’m sure you will, Mrs. Fletcher. Might I suggest you spend a few minutes freshening up before joining me in the library. You know where that is.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Tea, or would you prefer sherry?”

“Tea would be fine, thank you.”

I’d been assigned a room at the rear of the house which, I knew, was next to Marjorie Ainsworth’s bedroom. Marshall, who violated the clichéd stereotype of the butler-too young, too of-his-generation-pulled back heavy drapes, allowing gray light to spill into the room. I went to the window and looked down at the magnificent English gardens that had always been Marjorie’s pride and joy. “It’s so beautiful, even in this gray weather,” I said.

“They forecast sunshine tomorrow, Mrs. Fletcher,” said Marshall as he busied himself with my luggage.

“Oh, don’t bother, I’ll take care of that.”

“No bother, ma’am. I’ve heard much about you from Miss Ainsworth.”

“All good, I hope.”

“Oh yes, always positive comments about Jessica Fletcher. You’re one of… the few.”

It was an inappropriate comment for someone in his position to make, but I didn’t challenge him.

After he left, I stood at the window and looked more closely at the gardens below. Two men were working in a far comer. It was hard to tell for certain, but they appeared to be of Mediterranean origin. They were digging up a small tree and I watched with interest, just the way I always watch construction going on in big cities. I then remembered that Jane Portelaine would be waiting for me downstairs. I stepped into the hallway-eight feet wide, very long, and lined with bookcases-and looked down over a railing upon the formal dining room. Beyond it was a drawing room; a fire crackled in the fireplace there, its flickering orange fingers playing on a large and well-worn oriental rug. Everything in the manor was oversized, but not in relation to its mistress. Marjorie Ainsworth’s image in the world was larger than life, and it was only fitting that her domicile would be, too.

I turned and looked at the door to her bedroom. Was she sleeping, dozing in a half-awake state, perhaps fully awake and looking out the window on her treasured gardens? The temptation to knock was strong; I walked away before it overruled good judgment.

Jane was seated in a large wing chair in the library. Her legs were crossed and she held a cup and saucer. A fireplace in the library also housed a healthy fire, spreading a pleasant warmth through the dank room.

“Tea, Mrs. Fletcher? Please help yourself.”

“Thank you.” I poured the tea into a cup through a small silver strainer from a brown teapot that was cradled in blue-and-white quilted chintz. A tiny sponge attached to the lip caught inadvertent drips. I returned to my chair and tasted. “Wonderful,” I said. “Different.”

“Lapsang Souchong,” Jane said. “It’s an oolong.”

“Yes,” I said, taking another sip so that I wouldn’t trigger a long and detailed explanation of the proper tea one should use, and how to brew it. Jane Portelaine was an expert on tea.

I let a moment pass, then said, “You say your aunt hasn’t been well. Her most recent letter to me indicated the same thing. How serious?”

Jane’s reply was to take another sip of tea and to stare at me over her cup.

“I don’t mean to pry and, please understand, I don’t wish to meddle in her life or…” Marjorie’s letter about meddling came to mind. “I got quite a kick out of the letter in which she talked about meddling, especially her tongue-in-cheek asides about you as you took her dictation.”

“Asides?” What could pass for a smile crossed her mouth. “That’s kind.”

I dropped the subject of Marjorie’s health, content to sip my tea, the room’s silence broken only by the crackle of the burning hardwood logs. After a few minutes I asked, “Who else will be coming this weekend?”