I sat back in the chair and tried to identify why the name meant something to me. I certainly didn’t know anyone by the name of Beers, but it was familiar. Then it hit me. It was the name of an incidental character in Gin and Daggers who was casually mentioned toward the end of the book. Yes, Dr. Glenville Beers was the name of a character in Marjorie’s latest novel, which represented a distinct violation of her principle that no real person’s name ever be used. Why would she have included this person? Who was he?
I jotted down his name and number, thumbed through the rest of the book, replaced it in the drawer, and stared at a black telephone on the edge of the desk. Dare I make a call from the house? Would there be someone listening on an extension? I reached for the phone, having resolved that issue by telling myself that it didn’t matter whether someone listened or not.
There was no reason for me to apply any significance to this person, this Dr. Glenville Beers I was about to call. Maybe, like many people, Marjorie did not always live up to her principles and allowed them to slip on occasion. He might simply be her personal physician, whom she wished to honor by including his name in one of her books before she died.
I dialed the number and listened to it ring a very long time before it was picked up. The slow, shaky voice of an old man said, “Dr. Beers.”
“Dr. Beers, my name is Jessica Fletcher. I’m calling from Ainsworth Manor. I’m not sure how to explain this, but-”
“Mrs. Fletcher, I was beginning to wonder whether you would ever call.”
“Pardon?”
“Would you care to join me for tea, or a glass of port? My home is no more than a fifteen-minute drive from where you are, and I would be sincerely pleased if you would come to see me.”
He was expecting my call, this man I knew nothing about? I wasn’t going to explore the matter on the telephone. “Yes, I would like very much to visit you. Would you give me directions? I have my own car.” How fortuitous that I had chosen this date to hire a car and driver.
He gave me directions from Ainsworth Manor, which involved heading back toward Crumpsworth and veering off onto a small road before reaching town. Dr. Beers lived in a village called Heather-on-Floyd, obviously situated on the Floyd River, which ran through the region. I told him I would be there as quickly as possible, gently hung up, and left the study. Marshall was standing a few feet from the door and was straightening a picture that, as far as I remembered, had been perfectly straight when I looked at it fifteen minutes ago.
“Did it work, Mrs. Fletcher?”
“Did what work?”
“Sitting in Ms. Ainsworth’s chair. Were there vibrations you felt?”
I didn’t know whether he was trying to be cute or was legitimately asking whether I had experienced the same sensation as when I’d been in Shakespeare’s and Dickens’s homes. “Yes,” I said, “it worked quite well. My creative energies have been refueled. Thank you so much for allowing me this lovely time. It meant a great deal to me.”
He escorted me down the stairs and to the front door, which he opened for me.
“When is Miss Portelaine expected to return?” I asked.
“I have no idea, Mrs. Fletcher. The strain of what has happened here took its predictable toll on her. It’s good she’s got away for some sun and rest.”
“She’s taken quite a chance in doing that,” I said.
“How so?”
“Everyone who was here the night of the murder has been instructed to stay in the country until further notice.”
“She cleared her trip with Inspector Coots.”
“That’s good,” I said. “Has he been here recently?”
“I don’t think so. If you’ll excuse me now, I have chores to attend to.”
“Thank you for your concern, Marshall, and for your hospitality.”
Jeremy missed the turnoff to Heather-on-Floyd and almost returned to Crumpsworth before realizing it. He turned around, found it, and five minutes later we were in the tiny village of Heather-on-Floyd, which consisted of only a row of low buildings on either side of the road-no more than eight or ten-and the village ended abruptly the minute the last building was passed. There were only two other cars, and they’d pulled up onto the sidewalk to take up less of the narrow roadway. Jeremy did the same in front of the number Dr. Beers had given me. A small sign was just above the buzzer: GLENVILLE BEERS, M.D., G.P.
I pushed the button and heard the buzzer sound inside. Moments later, the door was opened by a stooped old man with a full head of white hair and cheeks as pink as cherry blossoms, and wearing a red velvet smoking jacket over shirt and tie. His feet were clad in leather slippers. A pair of glasses hung from a black ribbon about his neck.
“Mrs. Fletcher.”
“Dr. Beers.”
“Yes. Come in, please.”
He walked with the slow shuffle of an old person. I followed him into a small parlor dominated by large pieces of stuffed furniture. A pleasant fire crackled in the fireplace. He’d been reading; a book lay open on a table next to his favorite chair. A lamp of the type seen in doctors’ examining offices cast a harsh white light over it.
Once I was settled in a chair next to the fireplace, he sat, leaned forward, and seemed to study me.
“I’m afraid I really don’t understand why I’m here,” I said, “but I have a feeling it’s good that I am.”
He nodded. “Yes, I think it is very good. Tea, or port?”
I started to say tea, but changed my mind. Somehow, I felt a glass of port in my hand would be more appropriate for what I was about to hear.
One hour later, I left Dr. Glenville Beers, got in the car, and headed for London. I’d already missed the cocktail reception, and the awards dinner would have started by now. I hoped Lucas wasn’t too worried about me, although I didn’t dwell upon that as we found our way into Crumpsworth, took the road back toward London, and, eventually, pulled up in front of the Savoy.
“Jessica, I have been frantic,” Lucas said as I walked into the dining room. “I was about to call the police. I heard you hired a car. Why didn’t you let me drive you? I told you I had the afternoon free and…”
I touched his arm and smiled. “Lucas, please, I’ve had an interesting but tiring day. I’m sorry to have given you cause for worry, but here I am, safe and sound, and awfully hungry. Where am I sitting?”
Chapter Twenty-one
“I can’t believe you did this without consulting me, Jessica,” Lucas Darling said as he paced the floor of my suite. Seth Hazlitt and Morton Metzger were there, too. It was nine o’clock the following morning. Sunshine blazed through the windows of the suite, but the weather forecaster on the BBC predicted that a storm of some magnitude would be hitting the city by late afternoon.
“Lucas, you are simply going to have to trust me,” I said from where I sat at a rolling table on which my breakfast had been served.
“The lobby is swarming with press people again,” Lucas said.