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He was one of those people who seem to enjoy whatever they’re doing with a minimum of effort. He didn’t laugh much, but he was never without an amused smile on his handsome, ruddy face. As we all know, there are people in this world whom you immediately like, and Sir James Ferguson was one of them. I intended to find time for more conversation with him before the weekend was over.
    The young man across from him was not one of those who instantly produce a positive reaction. His name was Jason Harris, and he defined “brooding young man.”
    He’d arrived late Thursday night. I was in my room reading Gin and Daggers , and had come downstairs at about eleven o’clock to pour a small glass of port as a stomach-settling nightcap. Harris had just arrived and was in the library with Jane Portelaine. They were startled by my sudden appearance (it seems that everywhere I went in the manor I startled someone), but they quickly recovered. He was introduced to me by Jane as a writer whom Marjorie Ainsworth had taken under her wing.
    “How wonderful,” I said, offering my hand, which, after some hesitation, he accepted. “My nephew, Grady Fletcher, is an aspiring writer, too.” The moment I said it I knew I should have left out the word “aspiring.” He glowered at me. He was too old to be viewed as aspiring to anything, just as one reaches a certain age when one can no longer refer to a companion of the opposite sex as “girlfriend” or “boyfriend.” He was handsome enough, a head of brown curls falling gently over his forehead and ears, a nicely sculptured face, square jaw, aquiline nose, and sensual, doelike brown eyes—bedroom eyes they were called in my youth. What was missing was a smile or, more correctly, the ability to smile. It went with being the struggling artist.
    Oh well, I told myself as I asked a couple of questions of him and received answers that were little more than monosyllabic grunts.
    My final question was “Are you currently working on a novel, Mr. Harris?”
    Harris and Portelaine looked at each other. He said to me, “I have a work in progress.”
    “Well,” I said, “I think I’ll take this splendid port upstairs with me and read one more chapter of Gin and Daggers. It’s remarkably good, don’t you think?” No answer. “Good night. It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Harris. I’m sure we’ll have time to talk tomorrow.”
    As much as I tried to dismiss Jason Harris—to perceive him as simply amusing, as all such brooding young men are—I couldn’t, and I made a mental note to ask Marjorie about him. I read another chapter, then sat on a window seat and looked out over the gardens. There was a full moon; it was as though someone had turned on a floodlight to illuminate the beautiful plantings. One of my final thoughts before retiring was that besides being a weekend guest at Marjorie’s country home, I was a character in a murder mystery being written by her. The idea amused me, and I fell into a blissful sleep.
    That thought came back to me as I sat at the dinner table and ate my syllabub, which, by the way, was absolutely delicious, although I have to admit that what had been said in jest about it had planted the idea of a foreign substance, arsenic perhaps, having been added to the ingredients. I laughed aloud as I thought it, which caused some of my table companions to look at me. I shook my head. “Just imagining what it would be like to be poisoned,” I said.
    “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