The Marsh Madness

I sifted through the other books, with flickering memories of the ones I’d read seven or eight years earlier. I read quickly, so I figured I could whip through them again.

I hadn’t wanted to put my foot in it at lunch, so I’d made sure to brush up a bit on Marsh’s history too. What do people talk about at luncheon in places like Summerlea? I felt I could at least chat about the books and their author. It seemed that theater was indeed the grand dame’s first love and crime fiction second. I thought that explained a lot. I could see characters coming and going almost as though on a stage. The image of the scene rose from the page. But best of all was the dialogue, sharp and astute. You got to hear the English dialects from the various settings. I remembered reading these bits out loud. More than once, I’d thought, I wish I’d said what she’d written.

You couldn’t gloss over a character who wandered onto one of these pages. We readers were able to check them out as if they’d been under a particularly heartless microscope trained on their less attractive attributes. She didn’t mind laying her characters bare. With the exception of Alleyn, of course, who remained the perfect gentleman, irritatingly aristocratic, brilliant and unflappable. It appeared he never failed to solve a crime, with his small coterie of helpers to follow along, speaking in accents that were far less elegant. Once again, I knew if I’d been in one of these dramas, it would have been as the perky little Irish maid, who was maybe a bit too uppity for her own good.

I hadn’t found myself yet, no dark-haired twenty-something woman with blue eyes “put in with a sooty finger.” But with thirty-two books, anything was possible. Maybe I’d show up as a Bridget or a Molly with a brogue that Marsh would capture phonetically.

With the other characters, I had decided that Sergeant Fox was my favorite, large, occasionally burly, ginger haired (a good thing), solid in a crisis, he was the right-hand man. He reminded me of Uncle Mick, although clearly on the other side of the law. At least one of the Kelly family was on those pages. I loved the running gag about Fox studying French, which the upper-class Alleyn spouted effortlessly. There were clownish types flitting through the pages too. I wondered what Ngaio Marsh would have made of Uncle Kev.

Smiling, I dressed for dinner.


*

WE DINE AT eight at a splendid Sheraton table in the formal dining room. Vera at one end, me at the other, Kev halfway between us. We are not late if we know what is good for us. I wore my knee-high boots to prevent Bad Cat from giving me some new scars. Tall boots were a wise choice, because Bad Cat’s claws raked at my ankles from the moment I took my seat. Good Cat watched benignly from the black walnut sideboard. Whenever the signora left the room, Good Cat would join Vera.

Signora Panetone was ready for an army even though we were only three. The signora never joins us. She’s too busy serving, fussing and hovering. I’ve learned to accept this as the way it is and stay in my seat.

Tonight the signora had promised tiramisu for dessert, my favorite.

She began by serving homemade spinach fettuccine with a mild but savory tomato sauce and lots of fresh Parmesan. Kev and I each accepted a small mountain of it. Vera took a tablespoon, if that. The signora uttered her familiar bleats. “Eat, Vera! You need to eat.”

Vera has selective hearing, and she never seemed to hear a word the signora said. Kev eased the situation by asking for seconds before I’d finished my first mouthful.

Conversation turned to Ngaio Marsh and her work.

Vera said, “Alleyn is the finest of all the detectives, in my opinion.”