“Of course I will. I find all your books-”

She interrupted with, “Interesting in a different sense, Jessica. Are you certain you don’t want something stronger than Jane’s tea? Gin is good for you, my doctor says, which, despite the fact that he is an inept physician, endears him to my heart. I would never think of giving him the heave-ho as long as his prescription pad continues to have ‘gin’ printed on it.”

I laughed heartily and we shifted into a conversation about the guests who would be arriving the next day-Friday-for the weekend at Ainsworth Manor.

A minute later she did as she’d predicted: dozed off in the chair, the light from the fireplace casting a flattering orange glow across her old, tired face. She seemed very much at peace, which pleased me. I opened Gin and Daggers to the dedication page:

To my faithful niece, Jane,

without whom this modest effort

would never have been possible

I turned to page one:

He stepped out of the shadows and she knew immediately he was not a man to be trusted, not with that downturn at the comers of his mouth which, to the untrained eye, indicated amusement at what went on around him but, for this trained eye, represented pure evil.

I quickly finished the very short first chapter, quietly closed the book, stood, looked down at the woman in whose brain the words I’d just read had been formulated, and tiptoed from the room. On my way up to my bedroom, I passed the butler, Marshall, who stood at the foot of the stairs with a heavyset woman who I remembered was Mrs. Horton, and who ran Ainsworth Manor’s kitchen.

“Hello, Mrs. Horton,” I said.

My sudden appearance seemed to have interrupted a serious conversation. Mrs. Horton flashed a quick smile at me and said she was pleased to have me as a guest once more-“Do you have a preference for dinner, Mrs. Fletcher?” I told her anything would be fine as long as it was prepared with her skilled hands. It was a silly platitude, I know, but I couldn’t think of anything else to say. I passed between them and went to my room, where, after reading the next two chapters of what was, without doubt, a remarkable piece of writing, I dozed off myself.

“But that’s one of Dorothy’s enduring traits, Clayton,” William Strayhorn, London ’s most respected book critic, said to Marjorie Ainsworth’s American publisher, Clayton Perry. “Read a Dorothy Sayers mystery and you’ll always learn something.”

“Yes, readers love to learn something while being entertained,” Archibald Semple, Marjorie’s British publisher, chimed in. “But that doesn’t make her better than a writer who doesn’t give a tinker’s damn about educating readers.”

It was Friday night, and we’d been at the dinner table for two hours. The chief topic of discussion throughout the meal-throughout the entire day for that matter-had been the relative merits of mystery writers, past and present. The quality of the debates ranged from intently interesting to snide and gossipy. No matter what level they took, however, the presence of the invited guests and their conversation seemed to buoy Marjorie Ainsworth’s spirits. She’d spent most of the day with us and, aside from an occasional lapse of concentration and a few brief naps in her wheelchair, had been an active participant.

I’d been more of an observer than an involved member of these spirited discussions. I’ve always preferred to listen; you learn so much more that way than being compelled to verbalize what you already know. I’d drifted from group to group, enjoying some more than others, laughing at myriad witty lines that erupted from time to time, and generally enjoying the ambiance of Ainsworth Manor and its weekend visitors.

Mrs. Horton and two very young girls in starched uniforms cleared the remnants of the main course and prepared to deliver dessert. Marjorie sat at the head of the table. The long day had taken its toll on her; she looked exhausted and was obviously fighting to remain with the group until the last possible minute.

There had been a spirited, somewhat comic debate earlier in the day between Marjorie and her niece, Jane, about the seating arrangements at dinner. Jane had insisted that couples be split up in the time-honored tradition of a formal dinner, but Marjorie insisted couples sit together. “As far as I’m concerned,” Marjorie had said, “they deserve each other, and I see no reason for me to provide a respite from those with whom they’ve chosen to spend their lives.” That settled it; guests sat at the dinner table where Marjorie wanted them to sit.

I had been placed to Marjorie’s immediate left. Across from me was William Strayhorn, the critic, whose face had the bloated, flushed look of a heavy drinker; watery blue eyes further confirmed my impression. He was pleasant enough, but too full of himself for my personal taste, although I’ve been accused in the past of being too quick in making that judgment about people. To my left sat Clayton Perry, the American publisher of Marjorie Ainsworth’s novels, and his wife. Neither of them drank or smoked, and both had the lightly tanned, sinewy bodies of people devoted to health and exercise.

Directly across from the Perrys sat Mr. and Mrs. Archibald Semple. It was obvious to me from the beginning that Mr. Semple was not especially fond of Mr. Perry, and that the feeling was mutual. They were certainly physical opposites; while Perry was dressed immaculately in a three-piece gray suit, pale blue shirt, and perfectly knotted red paisley tie, Semple was the picture of slovenliness. He was obese, one of those people who sweat no matter what the temperature. He consumed his food with the zeal of a stray mongrel who’s been on the run for days, some of it ending up on his wrinkled, stained green-and-brown-striped tie. Because he was heavy, his suit, although probably the correct size, looked as though it belonged to someone else. His fingernails were highly lacquered, and the broad expanse of bare skin on top of his head was sparsely covered with long, wet strands of hair that he brought up from just above his left ear. Mrs. Semple, too, was overweight. She’d started the day staunchly Victorian but, by the time dinner was served, had consumed enough alcohol to turn her into a giggling libertine. She wore a black taffeta dress that was cut very low, exposing the upper reaches of a large bosom. Talcum powder was caked in her cleavage.

To continue down my side of the table, Jane Portelaine sat next to the Perrys, and next to her was Bruce Herbert, Marjorie’s New York agent. They made an interesting couple. Herbert was as outgoing as Jane was taciturn. He was a handsome man in his early forties who seemed always to say the right thing at the right time, a distinct advantage at such gatherings, but invariably making me wonder what he was really thinking. It was he who’d proposed the toast at the beginning of dinner:

“To the world’s finest crime novelist, Marjorie Ainsworth, who has given millions of people supreme joy through her books, who has set the standard for all writers of the genre, today and for future generations. I suspect, Marjorie, that you would be hailed as the best by Dame Agatha Christie were she around to make such a proclamation. I suppose I should also add that you have provided a splendid living for all of us… well, for most of us at this table. To you, Marjorie, may Gin and Daggers be only the latest of your wonderful writings.”

“Hear, hear,” Archibald Semple said, his words slurred.

“I have a toast,” Marjorie said.

We all looked at her as she raised her glass and said: