The Marsh Madness

I was mindful of what happened not that long ago when I’d yanked Vera’s chain over Archie Goodwin from the Nero Wolfe books. Suggesting they should have been the Archie Goodwin books had been painful.

“Mmmm,” I said. “I thought Marsh glorified the upper classes. The totally perfect Inspector Roderick Alleyn is proof of that in book after book.” I chose not to add that I thought he was a bit too upper class, too constrained, far too elegant, not to mention annoyingly calm. Of course, I liked Alleyn as a detective, but he didn’t have enough flaws for me to fall for him.

Vera shot me a venomous look. “Absurd, even from you, Miss Bingham.”

“I like his wife, the painter Agatha Troy, more.” I ignored the dirty look. “She’s a bit messy, compared to Inspector Perfection.”

Vera scowled as I spoke. The signora edged closer to try to slide a bit more fettuccine onto the plate.

I kept going. “And I like his mother. Alleyn had a warm relationship with her. I was kind of happy that he had a mother. Not enough detectives have mothers. Imagine her dining with the Dowager Duchess of Denver.”

Even from the length of the table, Vera’s stare was chilly. “We read stories, Miss Bingham. We don’t make them up.”

“But the Dowager Duchess is Lord Peter Wimsey’s mother and—”

Vera sighed dramatically. “I know who she is. Sometimes you are too fanciful, silly, even. It’s all about Roderick Alleyn. He is the glue that holds the books together. I believe he was the love of her life.”

“Even more than the theater? Do you think?”

I imagined Alleyn looking a bit like Cary Grant (my mother’s favorite actor from back in the day): laid-back, elegant and intelligent. Not only was the gentleman detective soigné, he was very nice to his mother. It would be pretty easy to spend time with a sleuth like that. I could see an author being in love. But I couldn’t resist teasing Vera a bit. You’d think I’d learn.

“I don’t know. Sergeant Fox also won me over, especially with his brave attempts to master the French language. Imagine how frustrating it would be, struggling with a language that came effortlessly to Alleyn.”

“For heaven’s sake. Fox is an . . . afterthought.”

“Oh, hardly.”

“Cela suffit, Miss Bingham.”

Maybe Vera thought that would do, but I couldn’t resist another little verbal engagement. “Poor Fox. I feel his pain. But should we be jealous of Agatha Troy, Alleyn’s wife? I think I might be, even if she’s a bit untidy and—”

“I do not have emotions about fictional characters.”

I was wise enough not to mention Nero Wolfe again.

The signora arrived with pollo al limone served with rice and peas. “Not too much, thanks, Signora. I’m saving room for the tiramisu.”

She inhaled sharply.

The room went quiet.

“What?” I said.

“Domani!” she said. “Tiramisu domani.”

“But I saw it in the kitchen earlier. Why not tonight?”

Vera stared at Good Cat. Kev stared at his feet. The signora said, “You eat lotsa fettucine! Spinach. And chicken. Very good.”

“Let me guess. Something happened to the tiramisu.”

“No, no, no, no!” The signora did a mad little dance around.

Vera muttered, “Let it go, Miss Bingham.”

Kev said, “It was an accident.”

Of course.

“An accident? Did it fall on the floor?”

“Not exactly.”

“Did you accidentally eat it all?”

He flashed his Kelly grin.

“These things happen, Miss Bingham,” Vera said.

“More tomorrow night,” the signora said, slapping several more pieces of chicken on my plate. “Tonight, cookies.”

This all should prove my point about Kev.


*

AFTER DINNER, I returned to my Ngaio Marsh reading project on my cozy bed. The gently used paperbacks I’d located were not good enough for Vera, but perfect for me. I hoped that I’d get enough of a sense of the Roderick Alleyn stories to hold up my end of the conversation about the series at our coming luncheon. Someone would have to. Vera usually offered nothing more than a grunt for an entire meal, regardless of who she was dining with. Soon I was lost in A Man Lay Dead. Time flies when you’re having fun.