Murder in the Margins

by Margaret Loudon

  Finally they paused in front of a door. Katie knocked and then pushed it open. The room was empty.

  Katie smiled reassuringly. “Charlotte will be down in a few moments. Please”—she swept a hand toward the sofa and chairs—“make yourself comfortable.”

  Katie left, closing the door behind her, and Pen began to look around.

  The floor-to-ceiling windows were draped with moss-green curtains with ornate gold fleur-de-lis holdbacks. An Empire-style desk sat in front of them with a laptop in the center and a neat stack of papers to one side. Bookcases filled one wall, and opposite were two armchairs and a small sofa set around a low table.

  Penelope couldn’t help herself—she’d never been able to pass a bookshelf without checking out the titles. These seemed to be mostly volumes on the craft of writing—Penelope owned many of them herself—along with a generous selection of history books on the Regency period.

  Penelope had just sat down when the door opened and Charlotte came in. She was wearing slim-fitting dark denim jeans, a luxurious black cashmere cowl-necked sweater with a heavy gold chain around her neck, and leopard print ballet flats. Her hair was down, the blond ends curling onto her shoulders. She smelled lightly of a flowery perfume.

  Charlotte smiled. “I do apologize for being late.” She gave Pen a quick hug, then took a seat on the sofa.

  She had barely sat down when there was a tap on the door and a butler in a uniform resplendent with gold buttons came in, bearing an enormous silver tray set with tea things and a tiered serving dish holding dainty crustless sandwiches on one level and delicate pastries on another. He placed the tray on the table in front of Charlotte, bowed, and withdrew.

  “Tea?” Charlotte said, picking up the teapot.

  “Thank you.”

  Charlotte filled their cups and handed one to Penelope. The cup was porcelain and had a gold rim and a delicate floral pattern.

  “I’ve come to love the English tradition of afternoon tea,” Charlotte said, stirring sugar into her cup. “Although at first it quite intimidated me. I was terrified of doing something wrong or, heaven forbid, of dropping my cup or plate.” She raised her teacup to her mouth.

  Penelope felt herself relax. Charlotte was apparently still quite human after all.

  “I’ve read your book,” Charlotte said. “I thoroughly enjoyed it. I remember how excited you were about it when we met at that conference.”

  Penelope felt herself color. “Thank you. I’m afraid I haven’t—”

  Charlotte waved a hand and the enormous diamond on her left ring finger caught the light and sparkled brilliantly.

  “Romance isn’t everyone’s cup of tea,” she said, her eyes twinkling. She leaned forward and helped herself to one of the sandwiches. Penelope followed suit. It was cucumber and dill and quite delicious.

  “Can I ask you something?” Charlotte said. Her eyes were fixed on Penelope.

  “Yes, of course.” Pen couldn’t imagine what question Charlotte would have for her.

  “Do you ever get writer’s block?”

  Penelope laughed and the cup and saucer in her hand began to rattle alarmingly. She remembered what Mabel had said about that and abruptly put them down on the table.

  “That’s how I ended up here,” she told Charlotte. “I was hopelessly blocked and thought perhaps a change of scenery would help.”

  “It’s a relief to hear you say that,” Charlotte said, toying with her necklace. “I’ve been feeling like a failure because the words have refused to come lately. I’ve spent countless hours staring at my computer screen, watching the cursor blink. I thought perhaps my muse had packed her bags and hightailed it back to the States.” She laughed.

  They talked books and writing for the next hour, until the teapot was empty and most of the pastries had been consumed.

  “Can I ask you a favor?” Charlotte said suddenly. She leaned forward and her heavy gold necklace swung forward and clanged against the table.

  Charlotte grabbed it with one hand as she leaned back again. She fiddled with the links, not looking at Penelope. Penelope thought she seemed nervous, which was surprising but also curious. What did Charlotte have to be nervous about?

  “Everyone is talking about Regina Bosworth’s murder,” Charlotte said, frowning slightly. “Very few people have ever been this close to a murder. Certainly I haven’t.” She clenched her hands in her lap. “Arthur is particularly upset about it.” She looked toward the window. “He feels a sense of responsibility since it happened here at Worthington House.”

  “I believe the murder has everyone upset,” Penelope said. “You’re right—it’s not something we’re used to dealing with.”

  “It’s not only that. It’s because . . .”

  “Because?”

  “Because I’m an American. I’ve heard that people want to blame me for it.”

  Penelope had a sudden horrible thought—what if people started blaming her?

  Charlotte wiped a finger under her eyes. “It’s not only because I’m an American but also because I’m marrying Arthur.”

  “That’s ridiculous. You didn’t even know her, did you?”

  “Not really. I’d met her, of course, since she was in charge of the fest, but that’s all. No, they’re doing it because they want to get rid of me. Everyone wanted Arthur to marry a local girl and, if not that, at least some European royalty. That way they could console themselves with the fact that their precious daughters were never in the running in the first place. And here he’s chosen me—a perfectly ordinary American woman.”

  Charlotte crossed her legs and one leopard print flat dangled from her toes.

  “That’s why I have a favor to ask you.” She looked at Penelope, her eyes pleading.

  “Yes?” Penelope raised her eyebrows.

  “Could you try to find out who really killed Regina?”

  “Me?” Penelope was taken aback. “But I have no idea how to go about it.”

  “You’re the only person I can trust to be on my side. The townspeople are all suspicious of me although they seem to have taken to you.”

  “That’s because I’m not marrying Arthur Worthington,” Penelope said rather dryly, pleased to see that brought a small smile to Charlotte’s lips.

  Penelope didn’t know what to say. It was an absurd request. There wasn’t anything she could possibly do. And surely Charlotte didn’t think the local gossip would be taken seriously? It didn’t add up. She thought of what she’d been told about Regina—that she collected secrets. And that she’d discovered something that would cause a huge scandal—something that might put an end to Charlotte’s romance with Worthington.

  “I still don’t understand why you think the police are going to accuse you of Regina’s murder. Did Regina discover something that makes you a likely suspect?”

  Charlotte jumped and her leg jostled the tea table. The cups and saucers rattled loudly.

  “No, of course not.” Her cheeks colored with indignation. “Why would you say something like that?”

  Penelope suspected Charlotte wasn’t indignant—she was scared.

  Penelope held up a hand and made soothing noises.

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “Of course you didn’t.” Charlotte smiled charmingly. “I’m sorry. It’s the stress. It’s my fault. I offended you. It wasn’t intentional.”

  “I understand,” Penelope said. “I’d be more than happy to see what I can do,” she said, regretting the promise even as she made it. But Charlotte had helped her out of a jam once—admittedly a far smaller predicament than the one Charlotte now found herself in.

  And it wasn’t simply that Pen felt she owed Charlotte something—she actually liked Charlotte. Besides, the whole thing was stirring up her curiosity. More than once Pen’s mother had reminded her that curiosity supposedly killed the c
at. But once Pen had gotten the bit between her teeth, to mix metaphors, there was no stopping her.

  Something was making Charlotte very nervous though—that was obvious. Regina knew something about her—something Charlotte didn’t want known—Penelope was sure of it. But had it been enough to push Charlotte to murder Regina? Pen didn’t think so.

  Penelope decided she would do whatever it was she could to help the police find the real culprit—even if that was very likely to turn out to be very little.

  SEVEN

  The sun was shining the day of Regina Bosworth’s funeral, its rays warming the worn bricks of the façade of St. Andrew’s Church. Leaves on the enormous oak tree, whose branches overhung the roof of the church and were a perpetual concern during storms, were just beginning to turn color.

  There was a nip in the air and Penelope pulled her coat more closely around her as she followed Mabel into the church for the service. Gladys was sitting up front, a handkerchief already pressed to her eyes; and India was behind her, ramrod straight in the uncomfortable wooden pew.

  Mabel poked Penelope and gestured toward Gladys with her head.

  “Gladys is one of those people who cry at every funeral, whether they knew the deceased well or not at all. I can’t think why she’d be all that upset about Regina’s death. Regina always treated her with such obvious condescension.”

  There was a rustle of movement among those gathered and Penelope turned around to see Charlotte entering the church. Katie Poole was with her as well as a tall man in a dark suit who was so obviously a bodyguard he could have come from central casting.

  “Nice of Charlotte to come,” Mabel whispered to Penelope. “I believe Worthington is in London today or I am sure he would have made an appearance as well. He takes his lord-of-the-manor duties seriously.”

  A hush fell over the church as Gordon Bosworth walked out of a side door and slipped into a pew in the front row. A slightly plump young woman in an ill-fitting black dress followed him. They took a seat together and the young woman reached out and squeezed Gordon’s hand.

  “Who is that?” Penelope whispered.

  “That’s Gordon and Regina’s daughter, Victoria,” Mabel said, reaching for the nearest hymnal.

  The doors at the back of the church opened, the congregation struggled to their feet, and the choir processed in singing “Great Is Thy Faithfulness” with abundant vigor if not corresponding skill. Regina’s elaborate mahogany coffin was carried down the aisle and the vicar began the service.

  “We have come here today to remember before God our sister Regina; to give thanks for her life; to commend her to God, our merciful redeemer and judge; to commit her body to be buried; and to comfort one another in our grief,” he recited in a shaky voice.

  Gladys continued to press her handkerchief to her eyes. Charlotte was in a front pew with Katie, who appeared to be texting on her phone while the bodyguard stood against the wall in line with their pew, his eyes on the crowd and not the altar.

  Penelope found her mind wandering to her previous day’s conversation with Charlotte. Her promise to help track down Regina’s murderer had been a bit rash but she hadn’t wanted to disappoint Charlotte. After what Charlotte had said about being a suspect because she was American, Penelope had had a nightmare that night that a crowd of villagers had surrounded the bookstore demanding her head. She had woken up in a panicked sweat.

  Before long the vicar was intoning the last words of the service. “‘May God in his infinite love and mercy bring the whole Church, living and departed in the Lord Jesus, to a joyful resurrection and the fulfillment of his eternal kingdom.’”

  The congregation responded with a resounding “Amen,” Regina’s coffin was wheeled out, and the choir began to sing “The King of Love My Shepherd Is.” The congregation rose and slowly filed out of the church into the bright sunshine.

  Penelope and Mabel walked down the worn stone path to the lawn where people were gathering. Gladys wandered over toward them, her handkerchief still in her hand.

  “Lovely service, wasn’t it? Regina would have been so pleased.” She sniffed and pressed her handkerchief to her eyes. “Are you going to Gordon’s for the memorial luncheon?”

  “Yes. Figgy offered to help mind the store for us so we could go,” Mabel said.

  * * *

  * * *

  The Bosworths’ house was in a new subdivision on the outskirts of town. Mabel drove down the winding streets while Penelope checked the address.

  “It says Hampton Court House on Surrey Lane. There’s no street number.”

  “Birnam Woods is the sort of subdivision where houses don’t have numbers—they have names. The locals, led by Worthington himself, fought tooth and nail to prevent its being built. They already knew from the experience of other small towns like ours that the subdivision would attract a lot of wealthy upper-middle-class people who would speed through town in their fancy European sports cars but would do their shopping in London and not at the local merchants.”

  Mabel put on her blinker and turned down a road dotted with enormous houses, sweeping front lawns meticulously landscaped.

  “I think this is it.”

  Mabel pulled up in front of a faux-Tudor extravaganza with mullioned windows and a lawn so perfectly groomed it looked as if it had been cut with manicure scissors.

  The double front doors—indeed, the whole structure—reminded Penelope of the Grill and Brew restaurant in Connecticut where she grew up and where her date had taken her to dinner before the senior prom.

  “Looks like they’ve got quite a good crowd,” Penelope said as Mabel pulled over to the curb and parked the car.

  “No one was going to turn down a free lunch along with a chance to ogle the interior of Regina’s house. Chumley residents live for this sort of thing.”

  Mabel buzzed the car doors locked, and they crossed the street and made their way down the slate path to the front door, where they were confronted with a massive gold knocker in the shape of the Tudor rose.

  “Should we knock or just go on in?” Penelope said.

  Mabel tried the doorknob. It turned and she opened the door. A wave of voices washed over them.

  Guests were clustered in the living room, which had dark wood-paneled walls, dark woodwork, a beamed ceiling, and oversized furniture covered in dark red velvet. The only notes of bright color came from the flowers scattered around the room—stiff floral arrangements with cards tucked into their foliage that had obviously been sent to the grieving widower after Regina’s death.

  Gordon Bosworth looked none the worse for his grief. He was in the center of a circle of women, all vying to console him in his time of sorrow. One of the women seemed to be getting most of his attention. She was younger than the others, pretty, with an eye-catching figure shown to advantage in a low-cut blouse.

  “Who is that girl?” Penelope whispered to Mabel, inclining her head toward Gordon.

  “That’s Daphne Potter. She’s a waitress at the Book and Bottle. She and Gordon are quite friendly.” Mabel put air quotes around the word friendly. “He stops in for a drink every night on his way home from work.”

  “I wonder if Regina knew.”

  “I’m sure she did. She knew everything—even things that didn’t concern her and weren’t any of her business. My guess is she knew perfectly well what was going on.”

  “Do you think Gordon and Daphne plotted to kill Regina so they could be together?”

  Mabel laughed. “You’ve been reading too many books. Besides, I think the interest is all one-sided.”

  Pen watched Daphne and Gordon talking. She wasn’t so sure. If Daphne was a barmaid, her life was likely to be less than luxurious. Perhaps she wanted what Regina had had—a big house, nice cars, and a husband with a good job.

  People were drifting into the dining room, where the caterer had pu
t out an impressive spread—a large roast, a ham, shrimp, a pasta dish, and cold salads—on the enormous trestle table. The Tudor décor had been carried through into this room as well with a huge wrought iron chandelier with faux candles, high-backed upholstered chairs, a massive dark wood sideboard, and a crewel wall hanging depicting the Tudor rose.

  Gordon came up behind them as they were filling their plates. He pointed to the tapestry on the wall.

  “Regina made that. She liked to do needlework while she watched the telly.”

  “It’s lovely,” Penelope said. “She was quite talented.”

  Gordon looked momentarily sad, as if the realization that Regina was gone had just hit him, but then Daphne came toward him and his expression lightened.

  The baize door to the kitchen swung open and Penelope noticed Victoria, an apron over her black dress, helping the caterer arrange dinner rolls in a basket.

  Mabel wandered off to talk to someone she’d recognized, and both India and Gladys were also engaged in conversations. Penelope didn’t know anyone else so she took her plate out to the conservatory at the back of the house.

  It was blessedly empty and quiet and she sat down at the small wrought iron table situated beneath a giant fern. The air in the room was warm and slightly humid. Penelope felt as if she’d stepped into another climate. It reminded her of Florida and the trip she’d taken to Fort Lauderdale with some friends after college.

  She was finishing her lunch when she heard a loud, disgruntled meow. She looked up to see a cat wandering toward her—a calico wearing a red collar with a bell on it. The cat jumped up onto the chair opposite Penelope and stared at her, slowly blinking its emerald-green eyes.

  Eventually it seemed to tire of that. It jumped off the chair, stretched luxuriously, and wandered over to one of the potted plants and began digging in the dirt.

  Penelope got up from her chair and called the cat.

  “Here, kitty, kitty.” She walked toward it. “Should you be doing that?” she said as dirt flew out of the planter onto the flagstone floor.