“I assure you, Jessica, that had I the notion to do away with you, I would never spoil a dinner party,” said Marjorie. “As you know, I’ve always believed in treating my victims to a splendid final meal, then doing away with them somewhere removed from the table to avoid offending the sensitive digestive tracts of other guests.”

“A considerate murderer,” Clayton Perry said.

“Let’s hear it for blood, the sort brought about by daggers and revolvers, not poison. I hate death by poisoning,” Archie Semple said. “It’s bloody dull, but I suppose I’ve picked up my love for violence from reading too many of your American books and watching too many of your American productions on the telly.” He looked across the table at Perry, who gave him a condescending smile and pushed his barely touched cup of syllabub away. His wife had done the same moments earlier. Fattening; no poisoning them with desserts. It would have to be a main course, soup, or from the classic decanter.

I looked down the table at Jason Harris; his usual scowl was on his face. He wore a forest-green corduroy jacket over a black turtleneck. He established eye contact with Jane Portelaine and raised one eyebrow-something I’ve never been able to do-which said to me that he found the dinner boring and would be happy when it ended.

It ended a half hour later. We retired to the library. Marshall, the butler, stood behind a rolling cart and portioned out after-dinner drinks. I’d just been handed a Cognac when Clayton Perry’s wife came up to me. Her name was Renée. “I’ve been admiring that pendant all evening, Mrs. Fletcher.”

I lifted the gold pendant to which she was referring, and smiled. “It’s my favorite piece of jewelry, Mrs. Perry. My husband gave it to me.”

“It’s lovely.”

“Yes, it’s very special. In fact, he bought it for me when we were in London together a number of years ago. You can imagine that coming back here always has special meaning for me.”

“Of course. By the way, I’m a big fan of your novels.”

“Thank you.”

“Clayton would give his eyeteeth to have you as an author at Perry House.”

“That’s very flattering, but I’ve been with my present publishers for years now, wouldn’t think of changing unless they committed outright theft of my royalties, or insisted upon multiple four-letter words and interminable car chases and mass murders.”

We both laughed. “I assure you, Mrs. Fletcher, Clayton would see that nothing like that ever happened to you.”

“I’m sure he would. He has a fine reputation…” (I seemed to recall some gossip about Perry House’s being in serious financial trouble, but, of course, didn’t mention that.) “By the way, please call me Jessica for the rest of the weekend.”

“Yes, and it’s Renée.”

We all turned in the direction of Marjorie Ainsworth’s voice, which announced she was going to bed. I was amazed at her stamina. She’d been gracious and witty all day and evening. Again, there were those mental lapses that were disquieting, but everyone seemed to accept them as nothing more than periods of fatigue in a brain that had been working at top creative effort for so many years.

Marjorie’s departure broke up the gathering. Most of us said good night and retired to our respective rooms, leaving Bruce Herbert, Jason Harris, Jane Portelaine, and “Count” Antonio Zara to accept another drink from Marshall, and to settle down on large couches in front of the fireplace, which had recently been stoked by the butler. I walked upstairs with Ona Ainsworth-Zara.

“It’s been so good to meet you after all these years,” I said.

“My sister speaks often and well of you, Mrs. Fletcher.”

“That’s always nice to hear, especially from someone like her. By the way, your husband is a charming man.”

“He has to be. He has little else.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing. She bade me a curt good night and walked down the hall. I watched her go into her room, then entered mine, closed the door behind me, and prepared for bed. I was tired; I looked at the copy of Gin and Daggers that sat on my night table and wondered whether I would be able to stay awake long enough to read more. I knew I would; it was that compelling, that rich, that much of a page-turner.

I got into bed, opened the book to where I’d left off, and before starting to read, thought back to my conversation in London with Lucas Darling. He was right; it was like no other Marjorie Ainsworth novel I’d ever read. He was also right when he’d said that there were numerous examples of the classic Ainsworth style and touch, but that they were isolated, cropping up at intervals rather than being the basis for the narrative. I wondered at it, could do nothing else. Dare I ask Marjorie whether she’d been helped? I answered my own question with a resounding no. That would be a terrible offense. Undoubtedly, though, others would be asking her as the rumor swelled and those who read her book arrived at the same conclusion as Lucas Darling.

What if Marjorie hadn’t written Gin and Daggers? Would that be taking unfair advantage of the reading public? I didn’t know the answer to that question and decided not to grapple with it at that point. I finished a chapter, laid the book down beside me, got into my robe and slippers, and went to an adjacent bathroom that was assigned to me, which could be reached only from the hallway. I returned ten minutes later, pausing at the railing and listening to muffled conversations from the library. Mrs. Horton stepped into the dining room and looked up at me. “Good night, Mrs. Horton,” I said. She mumbled something and left the room. A few minutes later I was in my bed, asleep.

I sat bolt upright. I didn’t know what time it was. Had I been asleep ten minutes, an hour, four hours?

It was a sound that had awakened me, and it seemed to come from Marjorie’s room. How to describe it? A cry for help? Not really. Sounds from someone engaged in a struggle? More like it, but hardly accurate. Whatever it was, it had been loud enough to awaken me and sinister enough to cause me to get out of bed, slip into my robe and slippers, and open my door. I looked up and down the hallway, which was dimly lighted by low-wattage sconces along the wall. I listened, heard nothing. I immediately tried to calculate how much time had elapsed between when I had first heard the noise and had looked into the hallway. Five minutes perhaps, considering the time it had taken me to process what I’d heard, to decide to investigate it, to find my slippers, one of which I’d inadvertently kicked under the bed, to get into my robe, and to cross the darkened room to the door. Five minutes.

I entered the hallway, stepping gingerly as the ancient floorboards creaked beneath my feet, a sound I hadn’t heard since awakening.

I stood outside Marjorie’s bedroom door. It was ajar, not enough so that you could see through the opening, but certainly not closed tight. I put my ear to it and listened, heard nothing but silence. The steeple bell at a nearby country church suddenly went into action: one, two, three chimes. It was three o’clock in the morning, unless the clock controlling the bell hadn’t been set correctly.

I placed my fingertips against the door and pushed. It was heavy and did not swing open, had to be pushed more. I did that and peered into the room. Marjorie’s bed was king-sized and covered with a canopy. The room was dark except for a sharp shaft of moonlight that poured through an opening in the drapes. It was perfectly aimed, as though a theater lighting technician had highlighted a section of a stage where major action would occur.

I stepped over the threshold and walked to the side of the bed, like a moth drawn to a summer candle. A whole arsenal of grotesque sounds rose up inside me but stopped at my throat-sounds of protest, of outrage, of shock and horror. Yet not a sound came from me as I looked down at the body of Marjorie Ainsworth, the grande dame of murder mystery fiction, sprawled on her back, arms and legs flung out, a long dagger protruding from her chest like a graveyard marker.