Penelope paused for a moment, her foot suspended over the next step. What on earth was that?
Surely there was a reasonable explanation. She would probably find that one of the windows was open and the wind was being playful, sending a door swinging back and forth slightly. As it was, it seemed as if the wind was attempting to shake the cottage on its very foundation.
There was no reason to be alarmed, Penelope told herself.
She looked all around—under the bed, in the closets. She poked in the dark corners of the room and behind the furniture but could find no explanation for the noises. Had she imagined them?
Writing about Annora’s predicament in the dark forest and thinking about Regina’s murder must have put her imagination in overdrive.
She couldn’t help but wonder, as she walked back down the stairs, if writing romance would have the same effect and perhaps conjure up a Prince Charming.
She certainly didn’t consider Miles to be her Prince Charming. Pen realized she hadn’t talked to him for several days and she felt guilty for ignoring him. She picked up her phone and punched in his number, but her call went unanswered.
And now she felt even guiltier because the only emotion she felt was relief that he hadn’t picked up.
* * *
* * *
Rain was still coming down in buckets the next day.
“Good thing we aren’t holding the fest today,” Mabel said, watching the rain batter the bookshop windows.
The temperature had dropped dramatically from the day before and the store’s ancient radiators were clanging and banging and belching out warm steam. The day was dark with heavy clouds, but all the lights in the Open Book were on and Penelope felt as if she was in a warm, cozy cocoon.
She was waiting for her book group to arrive. They’d chosen to read Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier—one of Penelope’s favorite Gothic novels.
India arrived first—shaking out her umbrella over the mat by the front door and brushing the rain from the shoulders of her coat.
“Beastly weather,” she said as she stepped into the shop.
“Figgy is brewing some tea for us. You look like you could use a cup,” Mabel said.
India’s sharp features were pink from the cold. She hung her raincoat on the coat-tree by the front door. She was well armed against the chill in a boiled-wool jacket; a heavy plaid skirt; thick, cabled stockings; and stout walking shoes.
India settled herself in one of the armchairs. “What a day we had Saturday,” she said. “A murder at the Worthington Fest. Most unseemly. It’s never happened before, and I, for one, hope it never happens again.”
“Yes,” Mabel said. “I’m sure Regina would be mortified if she knew. The poor thing had prepared for every contingency except her own murder.”
The bell over the front door tinkled and Gladys walked in. She’d obviously dashed across the street without bothering with an umbrella since rain had plastered her hair to her head and was dripping off her nose.
“Gladys, dear, how are you? You gave us all quite a fright the other day,” India said.
Gladys blew out her cheeks. “Bruce was none too pleased that I’d been taken off to hospital and he had to man the booth by himself.”
“I can imagine,” India said dryly.
“He carried on about it for a good hour that night until I told him that I’d never be able to get on with making his tea if he didn’t quiet down. After the day I’d had, the last thing I needed was his aggro.” She blew out her cheeks again.
The bell tinkled once more and Violet Thatcher pushed open the door. She drifted in like the fog, silently and slowly. She was even thinner than India and her sparse fluffy hair made her look like a wraith. She sank into the armchair next to India with a sigh. She unbuttoned the top button on her coat but didn’t take it off and instead huddled inside it.
“I’ve just been round the shops,” Violet said when she’d gotten settled. “And the talk is all about the fest and poor unfortunate Regina’s murder.” She knitted her gnarled hands together. “I lit a candle for her at Evensong last night and Robert said a prayer for her at this morning’s service.” She shook her head. “Such a tragedy.”
Figgy bustled over with a rolling tea tray set with porcelain cups and saucers, a sugar bowl, milk pitcher, and slices of lemon.
“And I’ve made some fresh Eccles cakes for you,” she said, putting a plate down on the low table between the chairs and sofa. “Given everything that’s happened, I thought we could all do with a bit of cheering up.”
Violet sniffed. “This sort of thing wouldn’t have happened if it wasn’t for that woman Worthington’s taken up with. Maybe now the queen will step in and say something. I’m sure a word of advice in his ear wouldn’t go amiss.”
“You can’t possibly be saying that you think Charlotte Davenport had something to do with Regina’s murder,” Mabel said.
Violet fussed with one of the buttons on her coat. “She is American, you know,” she said as if that settled it. “They do things differently over there.”
Pen felt her hackles rise. She and Figgy exchanged a glance. She thought of Mrs. Danvers and how all her fur stood up when she was offended by something. Now she knew how her cat felt.
She tried to stifle her emotions. Her job at the Open Book wasn’t to alienate customers, and she didn’t want to put Mabel in an uncomfortable position. Still, she was quite positive that steam was coming out of her ears. She was surprised the others couldn’t see it.
“We may do things differently,” Penelope said in as pleasant a tone as she could muster, “but we don’t necessarily stoop to murder.”
“Really, Violet,” India said in exasperation.
Violet put a hand over her mouth. “I didn’t mean . . .”
Penelope took a deep breath the way she’d learned to do in yoga class and managed a smile in Violet’s direction. “Of course.”
The door to the store opened again and three people walked in, collapsing their umbrellas and stashing them in the stand Mabel had cleverly placed by the door. Penelope assumed that given the weather in England, it probably got a lot of use.
The three—two women and one man—walked over to where Penelope and the others were gathered.
“Are we late?” one of the women chirped as she took off her scarf and folded it.
The sole gentleman smiled and smoothed his mustache with his index finger. Despite his decidedly civilian gray wool pants, cream colored V-necked sweater, and blue-and-white checked shirt, Penelope had no doubt that he was former military. It was obvious in his bearing and the way his hazel eyes took in everything without appearing to.
The two women jockeyed for a seat next to the lone man who had introduced himself as Laurence Brimble. Penelope noticed Mabel raise her eyebrows and roll her eyes.
“That was certainly a bit of excitement Saturday,” the older blond woman said. “You don’t expect to have a murder at the Worthington Fest. I wonder when the police will find the person who did it.”
Brimble made a sound like a grunt.
“I knew Regina,” the dark-haired woman in the polka-dot raincoat said. “She had a way of making enemies for herself. The last time I talked to her”—she lowered her voice slightly—“she said she knew something about that woman Worthington is engaged to, Charlotte Davenport. She wouldn’t tell me what it was but she hinted that it would create a huge scandal if it got out.”
The blond gasped. “You don’t think Charlotte Davenport killed Regina?”
The brunette raised her eyebrows and shrugged her shoulders. “Who knows? I do know everyone is talking about it. No one seems to know where she comes from or who her family is or really anything about her at all.”
“I hope Worthington isn’t being played for a fool,” Violet piped up.
“All speculation,” Brimble said brusquely, runn
ing a finger over his mustache again. “Let the police do their work. They’ll find out who did it in due course. And if we don’t get started with our book discussion, we’ll be here till seventeen hundred hours.”
His two companions glared at him.
Penelope cleared her throat. “Good idea.” She nodded at Brimble. “Let’s discuss our book,” she said, automatically seguing into what she thought of as her lecture voice.
The discussion, which started out quite robustly, eventually degenerated into a heated debate over who should play the characters in Rebecca if the movie was remade with half the group voting for Helen Mirren to play Mrs. Danvers and the other half favoring Judi Dench for the part.
Violet was in the midst of arguing for Helen Mirren when the front door opened. Everyone stopped talking at once and turned in that direction.
A young woman walked in and looked around as if she was searching for something—not a book since she didn’t even bother to approach the nearest shelves. She was wearing a tightly belted trench coat over a dark pantsuit and black high-heeled pumps and had her blond hair pulled into a low ponytail. She looked as if she meant business despite her ethereal good looks.
Mabel, who had been standing on the fringes of the book group, broke away. She smiled as she walked toward the young woman.
“May I help you? Are you looking for something in particular?”
The girl’s head snapped around when she heard Mabel.
“Yes, actually you can help me, I hope. I’m Katie Poole. I’m Miss Davenport’s assistant.”
By now the book group was silent and straining to hear the conversation.
“I’ve been told that I would find Penelope Parish here.” She pulled a pale blue envelope from her purse. “Miss Davenport would like me to deliver this to her.”
Gladys had been casually leaning back in her chair in order to better hear the conversation. “Why on earth would Charlotte Davenport need an assistant when Worthington has a house full of servants?”
“A lot of them help authors with things like social media now,” Penelope said as she got up.
She walked toward Mabel and Katie. “I’m Penelope Parish.”
Katie gave a quick smile and held out the envelope. “This is for you. Miss Davenport asked me to deliver it to you.”
“Thank you,” Penelope said.
“She’ll be waiting for an answer,” Katie said when Penelope didn’t immediately open the envelope.
Pen slid her finger under the flap and pulled out a note written in a very feminine hand on lightly scented blue cardstock. The letters CED were entwined in an elaborate monogram at the top.
Penelope was curious. She couldn’t imagine why Charlotte would be writing to her. Perhaps she remembered Penelope from the writers’ conference they’d both attended? Pen read the note. It seemed that Charlotte was inviting her to tea that afternoon at four o’clock at Worthington House.
SIX
I wonder why Charlotte is inviting me to tea. I’m surprised she’s even remembered me,” Penelope said later when she and Mabel were alone in the shop. They were unpacking a carton of books that had just arrived—a new novel being touted as the next Harry Potter. Penelope was looking forward to reading it to see if it lived up to the hype.
“As a courtesy? Because you’re a fellow American? And you did say that you’d already met each other.” Mabel had been bending over the carton. She straightened up and put a hand to her back. “The nobility tend to view themselves as unofficial ambassadors. Perhaps Charlotte is taking up the mantle early.”
“I’ve never been to tea before,” Penelope said, brushing a Styrofoam peanut from her sweater where it had stuck. “Will this be what you English call high tea?”
Mabel laughed and shook her head vehemently. “A common misconception that people across the pond have. No, high tea is what workers and laborers call what I suppose you would term supper. It’s a heartier meal eaten after the workday. Beans on toast, bangers and mash, steak and kidney pie, and things like that. What you’re going to have is afternoon tea.”
“I have to admit to being a little nervous,” Penelope said. “What if I make some huge faux pas? You English have a way of making us Americans feel terribly gauche.”
“I don’t think you have anything to worry about. Besides, Charlotte is American. This is all probably new to her, too.” Mabel bent and slit open another carton. “Put your napkin in your lap, keep your feet off the table, and you should do fine. Just remember—don’t drink your tea with your pinkie in the air. That’s considered pretentious.”
Penelope laughed. “Got it.”
“My mother used to take us to tea at Brown’s Hotel in London. It’s where Alexander Graham Bell made the first telephone call from Europe and Agatha Christie supposedly used it as inspiration for At Bertram’s Hotel, although there’s some dispute about that.” Mabel pulled open the carton. “Mother would dress us up in our best clothes, and all the way there on the train she would lecture us on proper manners. We weren’t to eat as if we were starving no matter how enticing the cakes and sandwiches looked. No clattering of spoons or teacups either.” Mabel straightened up and blew back a lock of hair. “Did you know that in the eighteen hundreds women believed they could tell a lot about a potential mate by the way he handled his teacup? If he placed his spoon on his saucer incorrectly, he’d be written off.”
“Now you’re really scaring me,” Penelope said.
“Times have changed. You’ll be fine.” She turned to Penelope and looked her up and down. “What are you going to wear?”
“Wear?” Penelope looked down at her sweater, leggings, and ankle boots. “Do I need to change?”
“You might consider it,” Mabel said dryly.
Penelope mentally went through her closet. She hadn’t brought that many clothes and the ones she had were all similar—worn, comfy, and familiar. She did bring the pantsuit she’d bought to wear to book signings. She supposed it would have to do.
* * *
* * *
Wish me luck,” Penelope said to Mrs. Danvers as the cat wove in and out between her legs, complaining loudly that Penelope was leaving so soon again. “Your water bowl is full and so is your dish,” Penelope reassured the cat. Mrs. Danvers did not look amused. As a matter of fact, she looked decidedly annoyed, narrowing her green eyes to slits and meowing her displeasure.
Pen reluctantly closed the cottage door behind her and headed toward her MINI, which was parked at the curb. She remembered how nervous she’d been when she’d gone to her first book signing but this was far worse. At least at the signing she hadn’t had to worry about balancing a teacup and a plate and making sure she didn’t spill the contents of either on what would no doubt be a priceless Oriental rug.
She turned the key, started the engine, checked the rearview mirror, and pulled away from the curb. It took all her concentration to keep the car on the correct side of the road and she forgot about being nervous until she was pulling through the gates of Worthington House when her nerves began twitching and twanging again like a fiddle being played in a bluegrass band.
The sight of Worthington House brought back the horror of Regina’s murder, and Pen’s hands were shaking on the steering wheel as she headed for the car park where visitors going on tours left their vehicles. A handful of cars were in the lot along with a tour bus with Countryside Tours written on the side.
Her next dilemma was how to get into the house. She couldn’t picture herself marching up to the enormous front door and banging the knocker. How did one get into a castle, anyway, short of being catapulted in or charging the ramparts on a horse with a sword like in medieval times?
A small van pulled into the lot with Sunshine Retirement Home printed on the side. It came to a halt and six people got out—two white-haired ladies with canes, three with walkers, and a gentleman in a blue cardigan
with a portable oxygen tank. They began walking toward the side door of the house where a sign was posted—Welcome to the Worthington House Tour. The hours were listed underneath in smaller type.
That was the entrance Pen had used the other day so she decided to join them. She followed them through the door, where an attendant was taking tickets and handing out brochures. Penelope waited while the brisk young woman, who had shepherded the group from the van into the house, spoke with the attendant.
Pen couldn’t help wondering if the group would be as enthusiastic about touring Worthington House if they had been the ones to find Regina’s dead body in the basement. Then again, she supposed there might be a sort of ghoulish thrill in visiting the scene of a murder.
Penelope was about to tell the attendant that Charlotte was expecting her when someone called her name. She looked up to see Katie Poole crossing the room with a folder tucked under her arm.
She smiled as she walked over to Penelope.
“There you are,” she said. “I hope you didn’t pay for a tour.” She smiled again revealing a dimple in her left cheek. “I was waiting for you by the front door, but when you didn’t appear I thought you might have come to this entrance.”
“I wasn’t sure—”
“Please, don’t worry about it. Come with me. Charlotte is excited to see you.”
That took Penelope aback and she nearly stumbled. Perhaps Charlotte did remember her.
“Charlotte is dying to talk shop with you,” Katie said. Her high heels made a tap-tap-tap sound as they crossed the marble floor. “She’s been talking about it since she heard of your arrival.”
It had never occurred to Penelope that she and Charlotte had anything in common. They both wrote books, of course, but Charlotte was engaged to a duke and Penelope . . . wasn’t.
Katie led her down corridors where the walls were hung with dark oil paintings of men and women in eighteenth- and nineteenth-century dress and watercolors of pastoral settings with weeping willows and rambling brooks.
Murder in the Margins Page 6