“The usual people who flock around my aunt.”

“The usual people?” I laughed. “I suppose we all have ‘usual people’ in our lives, but your aunt’s entourage must be bigger and more diverse than most.”

Jane started to get up. “I can provide you with a list if you’d like.”

“Gracious, no, nothing that formal. I was just…” I wanted to say I was just making conversation. Instead, I said, “I was just mildly curious about whom I would be meeting this weekend.”

She looked up at the rococo ceiling and said, “Well, there will be my other aunt, Ona Ainsworth-Zara, and her husband; my aunt’s New York agent, Bruce Herbert; her American publisher, Mr. Perry, and her British publisher, Archibald Semple, and… yes, I think William Strayhorn will be here.”

“The book critic?”

“Yes, and Sir James Ferguson, the producer of Who Killed Darby and Joan?”

“I loved it,” I said. “I saw it the last time I was in London. How long has it been running now?”

Jane shrugged “Six, seven years, I suppose.”

Who Killed Darby and Joan? was the name of one of Marjorie Ainsworth’s previous novels that had been adapted for the London stage and that had been a hit from the day it opened. The term “Darby and Joan,” I knew, was slang for the archetypical elderly, happily married British couple. There were Darby-and-Joan clubs in cities and towns all over Great Britain.

“Quite an impressive list of visitors,” I said. “I’ve never met Marjorie’s younger sister.”

“Well, you certainly will, won’t you?”

There was that tone of voice again. It was to be hoped that when the others arrived, I would have to spend only minimal time with Jane Portelaine.

We spent another awkward half hour before she got up and said, “I’ll check on her now. If she’s awake, I’ll see if she’s well enough to come down.”

“Please, don’t put any pressure on her. I’ll be content to see her whenever it’s comfortable for her. Perhaps she’d prefer I come to the bedroom.”

“I think not.” Jane’s long, lanky frame disappeared through a doorway.

A few minutes later she reappeared and said, “She’s coming down. Marshall will wheel her.”

“Wheel…? I didn’t realize she was in a wheelchair.”

“Only recently, and not always. It depends on the day. We’ve had an elevator installed in the rear of the house.”

“That sounds like a good idea,” I said, a flush of excitement coming over me as I awaited Marjorie’s arrival. Then anticipation became reality as the young butler wheeled his mistress through the door and to the center of the study.

“Jessica, I am so sorry to have kept you waiting. Welcome.”

Those warm and sincere words buoyed me after the strained conversation with Jane.

I got up and took the hand she offered in both of mine. “How wonderful to see you again, Marjorie. I must say you look a lot better than your last letter indicated you would.”

“Bull! I look like the wrath of God, probably because I am closer to him than I have ever been before. But, my dear poppet, thank you for being the kind friend you have always been. Jane has seen to it that you’ve had tea?”

“Yes, she’s been very gracious.”

Marjorie looked at me through squinted eyes. “That’s bull, too. One thing my niece is not is gracious.” I was relieved there were just the two of us in the room.

I took my chair again and closely observed Marjorie Ainsworth. She had grown old and feeble. Her hand, when I took it, seemed nothing but bone and vein covered loosely by leathery skin. Her hair was completely white and appeared not to have been washed and brushed in too long a time. She wore a Black Watch plaid dress that was stained on the bosom. An old, handmade shawl covered her legs. Most telling of her advanced age, however, were her eyes. I don’t think I’d ever met anyone in my life whose eyes sparkled with such mischief. Now that sparkle was evident only in fleeting bursts, replaced by dark eyes that had sunk into the bony structure of her face, like fresh soil sinking after a heavy rain; dark circles around them gave her skin a puttied appearance. This close scrutiny by me was, at first, upsetting, but then I reminded myself that she was indeed an old woman growing older, and had every right to look it.

The thing that stayed in my mind after the first few minutes was her unkempt condition, and I wondered at the competence and interest of whatever household staff served her these days.

“Jane!” Marjorie shouted in a surprisingly strong and vibrant voice. A moment later Jane Portelaine stood in the doorway. “I’d like a gin,” said Marjorie, “and fetch the book for Jessica.”

When Jane returned, she carried a glass filled with gin and a copy of Gin and Daggers. She handed the drink to Marjorie, the book to me.

“Thank you, I’ve been looking forward to this ever since it was published.” I eagerly opened to the first page and saw that it had been inscribed to me in Marjorie’s own handwriting:

For Jessica,

Whose forays into the matter of murder, both on the printed page and in real life, delight everyone, particularly this old woman who has always been content to confine her snooping to the typewriter. Your reputation in the world as an author is well deserved. More important to me, Jessica Fletcher, I count you as a friend, which puts you in a small group indeed.

Affectionately,

Marjorie

I was sincerely touched. “You’re much too kind with your praise, Marjorie.”

“Not in the least. Would you like to join me in a gin, or whiskey if you prefer, before dear Jane departs us again?”

“Thank you, no.” At those words, Jane was gone.

We chatted about Gin and Daggers, and I must admit I suffered conflicting thoughts. On the one hand, I wanted to sit with Marjorie forever. On the other hand, I couldn’t wait to begin reading. There’d be plenty of time for that later, I knew, and my instincts told me the book would see to a relatively sleepless night for me.

We talked about things, including the subject of death, which Marjorie seemed to dwell upon. Understandable: older people think about their mortality most of the time, I’m told. What was upsetting was that after ten minutes her conversation, lucid and insightful at times, would slip into vague comments that had nothing to do with what we’d been discussing. Let me give you an example.

She was saying, “… and so I talked to my solicitor and changed provisions in my will, knowing full well that the end could come at any moment. He’s a fuddy-duddy, but, as we all know, the last thing anyone needs is a gregarious and creative solicitor. Mine fusses for days over a clause which is in my best interest but…” At that point she literally shuddered in the wheelchair and closed her eyes against something only she could identify-pain, a sudden and unexpected thought?-and then completed her sentence with, “… the flowers turned dry and brittle. I watched them die… how sad, how sad…”

I said, “Yes, I’m sure that’s true, Marjorie. You were saying that your solicitor…”

Her eyes opened wide and she looked at me as though I had intruded upon a precious moment. “I… my solicitor? Yes, of course, he’s an old fusspot but, I suppose, that is in my best interests.” She sipped her gin, closed her eyes, and drew a series of deep breaths. When she opened her eyes she smiled. “Jessica Fletcher. You and I have so much to talk about, but you’ll forgive me if my physical stamina does not always match my mental intentions. If I fall asleep in this chair, just ignore me, leave the room, and busy yourself with something else.”

I forced a laugh. “Oh, don’t worry about me, I certainly will take care of myself. If you should nod off on me, Marjorie, I will not consider it a comment on my conversation. I will take it as a good opportunity to begin reading Gin and Daggers.”

She said slowly, deliberately, and with a modicum of anger, “Gin and Daggers. I trust you’ll find it interesting, Jessica.”