TIMELY APPOINTMENTS  

“Great!  Just what I need!” I was running late for the most important appointment of my life and now this. The road ahead wound down the side of a small valley and disappeared beneath a thick fog, wisps of which caressed my old Corolla even here at the top. As Bertie (my faithful mechanical conveyance) and I slowed and rolled into the valley, the fog, thick as treacle, clung and moved sluggishly around us.  How am I to find the turn-off in this? 

“Ah, well, at least this can serve as an excuse if A. Forsythe, literary agent extraordinaire, is annoyed.” I sighed and slowed further, peering at the side of the road. Vancouver lay an hour behind me in the clear light of a fading autumn day, and my future lay ahead, shrouded in vagueness. Appropriate. 

“There it is, Bertie old pal! I think. How many ‘Country Inns’ can there be out here?” I turned down a winding, hedge-lined drive to a large parking lot. 

Impressive! The red brick walls rose two stories amid clinging vines and disappeared in the fog, their colour dulled to a memory by the gloom. A steep roof of tiles, supported by white pillars, sheltered the marble entrance and the white-gloved doorman. 

Self-conscious of Bertie’s age amid this splendour, I parked him inconspicuously behind a large bush, grabbed my bags and moved quickly toward the Inn. 

The doorman took my luggage, with a glance at my rumpled slacks, and preceded me to reception. A large grandfather clock struck eight as I crossed the foyer, which was marbled and elegant in a slightly cluttered ’30s style.   Not too late, after all, I thought, relieved. 

A pinched Dickensian clerk responded to the doorman’s ring, placing his hands, fingers spread, on the counter. He raised an eyebrow, looked down his nose at my attire and pursed his lips in obvious disapproval of my small quill earring. 

I cleared my throat. “Reservation for Laurie Brayken.”

The man immediately found a fawning smile. “Ah, Lord Bracken. We’ve been expecting you.” He clapped his hands and another man, matching the ’30s theme, took my bags. “Walters will see you to your personal suite, milord.” Then, “I’m sure the wardrobe you left is ready for you, sir. If there is anything I can do, I am at your service.” He bowed. 

Lord Bracken? Personal suite? Wardrobe? I’d often thought of being aristocracy, but… Out of my depth and thoroughly confused, I turned away, then back. 

“Is there a message for me? I was to meet someone.” 

“Yes, of course. Miss Forsythe. In your suite, milord.” 

Miss? But the name was right so I’d play along. And it might be fun to be a Lord for a day.   

My “personal suite” was lavish: a sitting room the size of my apartment, matching bedroom, and an acre of tile in the bathroom.   

Thanking Walters, I turned to explore the opulence. A huge bedroom closet was full of shirts, pants, and suit jackets, all hanging in sets, with tidy shelves of underclothes, socks and pyjamas at one end. All consistent with the 30’s theme. I moved my exploration to the sitting room and discovered a sealed envelope. Opening it I read; “I have been delayed. Please meet me in the lounge at 9:00 pm. Do not carry the papers on your person.” It was signed, “A. Forsythe.”

Short and to the point.  But what ‘papers’? My manuscript? But Forsythe already has a copy… Curious. I decided there was time for a shower and change, to discover there was only a bed-sized bathtub. I opted for a quick sponge bath, grumbling about too much authenticity. 

With soap in my eyes, it came to me: I had attended a ‘murder mystery’ party once where everyone dressed up and played a character while trying to “solve” a murder. Maybe this was a very elaborate murder mystery party! Forsythe knew I wrote mysteries so… Hey presto! Certainly the Inn was too authentically 30’s to be an accident. If I was right, I would soon find a description of my character and there would be a “victim.”

Pleased with my deductions, I dressed quickly (perfect fit!) and headed for the lounge. 

Billy, the barman, was a large genial sort, willing to talk. We had barely started when another guest entered and Billy turned to serve him. The man was as tall as I but heavier and swarthy, with thin patrician features and a cold eye. Feeling a shiver of intense dislike, I moved away. 

The headline of a newspaper caught my eye and I settled with it in a large armchair near the fire. “Forsythe Millions Up For Grabs,” it screamed, with a picture of Edward T. glaring. The story said Forsythe had been found murdered in his home a few days before. There was no sign of his will and some mystery as to the state of his fortune.  

 I smiled smugly.  The victim!  Reading on, something tickled the back of my mind, too vague to grasp. Something I had read? Ages ago? Nonsense. This was recent.   

I glanced at the date on the paper. September 12, 1936.  This it too much, I thought. Print a newspaper for a game? I checked and found the rest of the paper full of authentic 30s ads and references. It should have been yellow with age but had, apparently, come off the press today. 

The hair on my arms stood on end as I looked around the room searching for some crack in the decor, anything that did not belong in 1936. Nothing. Except me. Frightened, I stood and took a step before noticing the other guest’s hooded eyes watching me from two tables over. There was a malice in them that straightened my wilting backbone and returned me to my seat, just as a woman appeared, silhouetted in the doorway.   

She glanced around and moved toward me. She, too, belonged in this room, this era. 

“Lord Bracken?” 

“Uh. Yes.” 

“Andy Forsythe. You’re not what I expected,” she said, seating herself and examining me. “My father usually dealt with older men. Billy!” to the barman, “Scotch and water, please.” 

“Sure thing, ma’am.” 

She was beautiful: clear complexion, blue eyes, straight eyebrows and nose, and full lips. 

I indicated the paper. “I’m very sorry about your father, Miss Forsythe.” 

“Are you?” She paused. “I wish I were. He was a cantankerous old buzzard who did most things for spite. You’re shocked? I would have thought you knew we were not on the best terms.” 

“Uh, yes. But surely…” 

“What did you expect? Grief? He’s having the last laugh. This will thing is just like him; converting all his assets to cash or bearer bonds and then hiding them, and leaving clues with his will.” 

“I see.” I had no idea what was going on except that she was not remotely interested in my pride – my manuscript – the one finished thing in my life (‘though I had wimped out on the ending). 

“You have it safe I presume?” 

Floundering, I decided to play along, peripherally conscious of the dark man straining to hear. 

“The will?” 

“Of course, the will. And the clues.” 

“You could say that. Why didn’t you want me to bring it tonight?” 

She raised an eyebrow and frowned. “Lord Bracken, as my father’s attorney, you must be aware of his business practices. And enemies. He was murdered. They were after the money. I won’t feel comfortable having possession until I’m protected.” She smiled suddenly, her face coming to life. “You look more able to protect yourself than I.” 

I smiled back; I couldn’t help it. “Thank you.” I leant back in my chair, deciding to accept the challenge. If this was a murder mystery game, no doubt I would find the papers in time. If it wasn’t… Well, I’d manage. I was a writer. 

“Tell me, Miss Forsythe, do you think the people who killed your father know you are here?” 

“I certainly hope not.” 

“And that man watching us, do you know him?” 

She glanced casually around. “No. Why?” 

“He’s been eavesdropping since you came in.” 

She frowned. “You are able to take care of yourself, I presume.” 

I laughed, the sense of danger rousing the part of me that always found trouble. “I’ve been trained to deal with disruptive criminals, after all.” I stopped, remembering I was supposed to be a lawyer not a prison guard. Change the subject. “Tell me about yourself, Miss Forsythe. What attracted you to publishing?” 

She relaxed, leaning back in her chair. “One has to do something, Lord Bracken.” 

“Laurie, please.” 

“Laurie. Father believed in everyone making their own way. I chose something outside his reach.” 

“But do you enjoy it? There’s more to life than escaping fathers. I mean,” I leant forward, warming to my subject, vaguely aware of Mr. Dark and Sinister leaving, “Life should be experienced. It’s a frolic; a gambol through a fascinating obstacle course. It needs to embraced with open arms.” 

“And do you?” She smiled. 

“Yes!” 

We ordered more drinks and talked pleasantly until she glanced at her watch and stood suddenly. 

“I must go. Please bring the papers tomorrow.” She told me quickly where and when. “My guard will be there.” 

And she was gone. 

Puzzled by her sudden departure I made my way to my room. The door opened at a touch. I was pushing it wider before my mind clicked to the present. 

I snapped on the light, catching the intruder with his back to me. He whirled and leapt, one arm swinging a heavy flashlight at my head. 

I ducked and threw up a hand. He grunted and swung again. I closed with him. Knocked him down. Tried to pin his arms. Impossible. Tried the hold for violent inmates. He slipped out of it. We slugged it out, fists connecting anywhere they could. My head slammed into the wall, dazing me.   

From the door he hissed with frightening intensity, “You should have been dead. Stay out of it or you will be.”

In spite of the mask, I was sure it was Mr. D & S from the bar. So much for a ‘friendly’ murder mystery. I wobbled into the hallway, finding it empty and silent. 

The room was a shambles! He had been here some time, searching. For what? My muddled mind focused with a snap. The will and clues!   

Still dazed, I set about cleaning up, righting chairs and tables, finding places for everything. 

The last side table was in bad shape, one side of the moulding loose. As I tried to fix it I realized it wasn’t just askew, there was a hidden compartment with something jamming it. When it finally opened I found a thick envelope snug inside. 

Opening it I read the will of Edward T. Forsythe. He had left everything to Andy and included a letter that made little sense. The wording was so stilted I knew this must be the clues Andy had spoken of. 

I sat for a long time looking at the papers. 

I will not fail in this, I thought.  There’s something more than a game going on. If Andy wants her papers safe, they will be safe. And that, I concluded, does not mean doing what she says. 

I got out my laptop and my pride and joy – a portable printer – and set to work on my plan. 

I breakfasted late in my room, bruised and stiff. Feeling better after food, I packed up my things ready to check out and passed the time until meeting Andy in going over my preparations. 

Finally I folded the new papers, creasing them to fit the envelope, and tucked it inside my jacket. I walked around the back of the Inn, through the gardens, and along a path through the edge of the forest, the tops of the trees shrouded in clouds. As I neared the meeting place the forest grew quiet. Too quiet. Worried, I quickened my pace, coming out of the trees into the clearing where we were to meet. Empty. 

I moved slowly, looking uneasily around. A splash of colour caught my eye. Andy was sprawled ungracefully face down in the grass, her hat beside her and her hair matted with blood. 

Oh no! My thoughts tangled with guilt. “It’s not over yet, Andy. It’ll be OK. I’ll get you to the Inn and you’ll be all right…” 

As I bent over her, frantic, a twig snapped behind me. I whirled, catching a glimpse of a towering figure as my head exploded with pain and lights. Darkness. 

I roused groggily, my head on fire, the clouds, now touching the ground, doing nothing to douse the flames. “Oww. What ..?” 

I remembered and jerked upright. The sudden burst of pain had me face down again and groaning. Slowly it subsided. Andy lay beside me, just beginning to stir. Carefully, I felt for the envelope. Nothing. 

It took some time to get myself and a barely conscious Andy back to the Inn – as long as it took the fog to suck the rest of the warmth from the air. A yellow light shone faintly through the main entrance. I set Andy gently on a chair in the foyer and went to find help. The place was deserted; as dead as the phone line.   

“Maybe the phone in my room works,  I’ll try there, Andy. And I’ll check the manuscript.” I couldn’t remember why the manuscript was so important but I was convinced of it. 

As I started up the stairs there was a soft whump! from above. Another.  Then the sound of flames. 

Oh no! Not now! I should get Andy to the car. I turned back toward the wounded girl. Then back to the stairs.  No. I can’t quit now. Have to get the manuscript. Have to get … the will! In the manuscript. Too dangerous. No. Have to finish this. Arguing with myself, my head still fuddled, I climbed the stairs and ran, wobbling, down the smoke-filled hall to my room. Flames had a firm hold there, the smoke billowing. But I had only one thought fixed in my head and stubbornly held onto it. I flung open the door and, coughing and hacking, tried to recall where I had left things. There! As I reached the neat pile of luggage the bathroom exploded, flinging me across a table with bits of wall and furniture landing around me. 

Eyes watering, I crawled along the floor back to the luggage pushing it ahead of me into and down the hall until I could stand again. Then I gathered it up, wheezing and coughing, and made my way to the stairs. Flames licked along the carpets and greedily crept down the banister. 

It took me a couple seconds to realize Andy’s chair was empty.  She must have left when it started burning. Move, idiot! Move! I staggered across the marble and through the door, the grandfather clock trying to strike the hour behind me. Something hit me a wallop in the middle of the back, flinging me past the pillars and onto the gravel as the whole place went up. I rolled and crawled a few more feet with my precious luggage before blacking out. 

When I came to, the Inn was consumed, the roar of flames diminishing. All that would be left was a husk. There was no sign of Andy, or Walters, Billy, or the clerk…. No one. As if they had never been. I wearily gathered my stuff together, amazed that everything seemed intact and unharmed, not even a whiff of smoke clinging to them. 

“What now, Bertie? Andy must have got away. Maybe Billy took her. Or her missing guard? Old D & S must have set the fire so we would get caught in it. Accidental deaths? Tying up loose ends? Well, this loose end is still untied. And look,” I rummaged through my manuscript, “here it is; the real will and letter!” I leant against Bertie. “I don’t believe it! I actually did it! Ha! Ouch! Now all I have to do is find Andy. And look out for D & S. Fool! He really blew it. Ha! Ouch.” 

I climbed behind the steering wheel and drove carefully to the main road. And promptly lost my way, somehow returning to the sign that had started all this. Thinking people might have arrived to fight the fire I drove down the lane again, arriving in the parking lot of a dilapidated ruin overgrown with weeds and scrub brush. With the fog, vines cloaked the partial walls. Pillars, white against the dim greenery, pierced an empty sky. 

Stunned, I kicked through the rubble of a long ago fire. Stuck beneath a marble slab, and barely legible, was a newspaper. It was dated September 14, 1936 and featured an article about the fire and the “strange disappearance of one guest, thought to have perished in the fire,” but with no evidence to prove it. 

My head ached and my bruises stiffened as I sat in the rubble with the grimy paper. Finally, folding it up, I got Bertie and left. 

The fog lifted just after I regained the main road. The sign to the Bedford Country Inn was clear and prominent. 

“This is where I was supposed to meet Andy, Bertie. Last night, Friday.  What a nightmare! I wonder if she made it. Made it! 50 odd years ago? What difference does it make?  Though I do have the will… Well, a drink and a hot bath, what do you think?” 

Bertie had no objections so we turned down the drive and parked as close to the entrance as possible. I climbed wearily out and trudged through the very modern front door. A grandfather clock struck eight as I entered and a slim, beautiful, very modern Andy Forsythe rose from a chair, no hint of recognition in her eyes. 

“Mr. Brayken?” 

“Yes.” 

“I’m Andy Forsythe. Your agent.” 

“What day is this?” 

She frowned, eyeing my rumpled clothes. “Friday, of course. Now about your book. It has good possibilities, but the ending…”