Murder in the Margins

by Margaret Loudon

  “Yes. Wasn’t that the time—”

  “There was that incident with Nora Blakely? Yes.”

  “So dreadfully embarrassing,” India said, clutching her pearls.

  “What happened?” Penelope took a seat.

  “Well,” Shirley said in a tone that suggested she was about to impart a particularly juicy morsel of gossip. “Nora was known to . . .” She mimed drinking. “And it wasn’t just the odd glass of afternoon sherry. She came to the tea completely sozzled and fell face-first onto the tea table.” Shirley laughed. “Her head landed in a bowl of Eton mess if you can believe it!”

  “Regina was beside herself,” Helen said. “I thought she would have a stroke.”

  “Of course, it seems funny now,” Shirley said, “but at the time we were all mortified. In the presence of the countess no less. We’d all been warned to be on our best behavior and then . . .”

  “I heard she’s gotten help,” Tracey said. “My neighbor told me she saw her coming out of one of those Alcoholics Anonymous meetings.” She picked at the spot on her blouse again. “They hold them at St. Andrew’s, I think.”

  Penelope was surprised. She wouldn’t have expected Nora, of all people, to have a problem with alcohol. She’d seemed so prim and proper.

  “That’s sad,” Penelope said.

  Shirley nodded. “It is. You never know what’s going to drive a person to drink. I think it was that accident.”

  “What accident?” Tracey said.

  A handful of other women had arrived by now and Evaline was standing behind the table, smiling benignly at everyone. She cleared her throat.

  “Shall we begin?” She opened her cookbook to a glossy full-color picture of a cake and held it up for everyone to see. “Today we are going to be making a chocolate biscuit cake. It’s a favorite of the queen’s,” she cooed. “It’s what we call a refrigerator cake and is quite simple to make despite its royal pedigree.”

  Penelope wasn’t paying attention. She was thinking about what Shirley had just said. What accident had Nora been in? And what did it have to do with her drinking? And did any of it have anything to do with Regina’s death?

  As soon as the demonstration was finished, and the ladies had eaten and fussed over Evaline’s chocolate biscuit cake, Penelope retreated to her writing room. Mabel gave her a strange look as Pen sped past, her laptop under her arm.

  Penelope wasted no time but got her computer up and running, clicked on her favorite search engine, and typed in some information. She bit her lower lip as she hit enter and waited for the near instantaneous results.

  She scrolled through several entries until she came to a link to an article in the Upper Chumley-on-Stoke newspaper, the Trumpet Herald. She began to read. According to the article, a Nora Blakely of Evergreen Lane, Upper Chumley-on-Stoke, had lost control of her car on an icy road and had hit another vehicle head on, killing the other driver instantly.

  Penelope leaned back in her chair. She could imagine that something as traumatic as that might drive someone to drink. Was that what had happened to poor Nora?

  * * *

  * * *

  It wasn’t until later, when Penelope and Mabel were helping Figgy clean up, that the penny dropped as Penelope’s grandmother would have said. She abruptly put down the plates she was carrying and ran to get her purse.

  “What’s up?” Figgy said.

  “You know that notebook I showed you? The one I found in Regina’s planter?”

  Figgy and Mabel nodded.

  Penelope rummaged in her purse—a large, shapeless affair that she kept meaning to clean out. Where had her phone gotten to? She pulled out her wallet, a spare pair of glasses, one sock, and finally, there it was.

  Mabel and Figgy gathered around as she thumbed through the pictures on her phone until she found the ones she’d taken of the notebook. Mabel put on her glasses, which had been resting on top of her head.

  “See?” Penelope pointed to the entry N = Work = WI/Drink. They peered at the notation in Regina’s fancy scrawl.

  “I guess Regina knew that Nora drank,” Figgy said. “But so did everyone else it seems, so it was hardly a secret.”

  Mabel rubbed her chin. “And WI? She’s the treasurer of the Women’s Institute but it’s hard to believe Regina would have written these things down if that was their only significance—that Nora drank and was in the Women’s Institute. Don’t you think?”

  Penelope tucked her phone back in her purse. “I suppose. But what do you think it means, then?”

  Figgy paused with the plate of what was left of the cake in her hand. “What if Nora hasn’t quit drinking? Maybe she’s fallen off the wagon?”

  “Do you think Regina was trying to blackmail her?” Mabel sounded incredulous.

  “That does sound rather astonishing,” Figgy admitted.

  “Maybe Regina planned to use that knowledge to her own advantage somehow?” Pen said. The more she thought about it, the more logical the explanation seemed.

  “Now that does make sense,” Mabel said. “We just have to find out what that was.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Fancy a drink?” Mabel said as they were closing up the store. “You haven’t been to the Book and Bottle yet, have you?”

  Penelope buttoned up her coat as they stepped outside. The air was fresh against her face. She felt a sense of contentment she hadn’t felt in a long time.

  “Sounds good to me,” she said as she and Mabel headed down the high street.

  The wind had picked up and the wooden sign depicting a volume of Shakespeare and a bottle of lager hanging outside the Book and Bottle creaked as it swayed back and forth. They were about to pull open the door when someone from the inside pushed it instead. A man came stumbling out, his hat slightly askew and his jacket buttoned up all wrong.

  “’Scuse me, ladies,” he said and hiccoughed. The air filled with the smell of beer. He staggered down the street singing “God Save the Queen” at the top of his lungs.

  A window above one of the shops opened and someone yelled, “Be quiet, would you? The wee lad is finally asleep.”

  “A bit the worse for wear,” Mabel said, gesturing toward the fellow weaving his way down the street.

  They stepped inside the Book and Bottle and Penelope paused to look around. The pub had beamed ceilings, old oak furniture, and gleaming taps behind a long wooden bar. It was warm, cozy, and snug.

  Men in jeans and flannel shirts clustered around the bar, their hands around tankards of ale. A lively dart game was going on in the far corner and a young man with lank dark hair was pulling the handle on the slot machine—or the fruit machine, which Pen had learned was the British term. Judging by the set of his shoulders, Penelope guessed he wasn’t having much luck. Several young couples were deep in intense conversation, holding hands across the table and oblivious to everyone around them.

  Nearly everyone in the place turned around and looked when Penelope and Mabel entered.

  “Don’t worry,” Mabel whispered to Penelope, “the novelty will wear off after you’ve been here a couple of years.” She laughed. “I was deemed highly suspicious when I first moved here after I bought the Open Book, but I no longer hear whispers when I enter a room.”

  They found an empty table and sat down.

  “What will you have?” Mabel said. “I suggest a cider. I think you’d like it.”

  Penelope readily agreed. She shrugged off her coat and unwound her scarf as Mabel went to the bar to place their order.

  She recognized the young woman behind the bar who waited on Mabel—it was Daphne Potter who had appeared to be consoling Gordon Bosworth at his wife’s memorial luncheon. She was wearing an old-fashioned barmaid’s outfit with the obligatory low-cut puffed-sleeve blouse, a tight vest that accentuated her small waist and abundant cleavage, and
a short frilly skirt. Her long dark hair was pulled back in a twist and there was a dark red ribbon woven through it.

  Mabel soon returned, balancing two glasses on a tray along with a packet of potato chips.

  “I’ve got us some crisps,” she said, ripping open the bag and setting it in the middle of the table. She laughed at Penelope’s blank expression.

  “We call these crisps. I believe you call them potato chips?”

  Penelope nodded. She took a gulp of her cider.

  “Careful,” Mabel said. “There’s alcohol in that.”

  Penelope had been expecting the American version of apple cider and coughed and sputtered as the liquid burned its way down her throat.

  “It’s good,” she said as she took another, more cautious sip.

  Mabel played with her glass—turning it around and around in her hands. She turned serious and Penelope looked at her curiously.

  “Thanks for coming out with me tonight,” Mabel said. “Today is a difficult day for me.” She took a sip of her cider. “It’s the anniversary of the day we learned Oliver had gone missing.”

  Penelope cocked her head. “Oliver?”

  Mabel laughed. “I wasn’t always a white-haired old lady. I was young once and in love. Oliver Semenov was an MI6 operative. He was born in Russia but his family emigrated to Britain when he was a child. The fact that he could speak the language made him invaluable as a spy. We had nine months together before he was assigned to go undercover in the Soviet Union.”

  Mabel stared into the distance for several moments, then sighed.

  “Somehow he managed to get messages to me to let me know he was all right . . . and to tell me he loved me.” Mabel looked down at the table. She wiped a finger under her eyes and when she looked up, Penelope could see they were glistening with tears.

  “One day the messages stopped. I didn’t think anything of it at first—there were often long gaps when I didn’t hear a thing. It wasn’t always easy for Oliver to find a way to communicate that wouldn’t jeopardize his cover.”

  Mabel picked up the empty crisp packet and began to pleat it between her fingers.

  “But I began to sense that this time might be different. I don’t know why. Intuition? A gut feeling? Months went by, then it was a year and then several years. It took a long time, but I finally gave up hope of ever hearing from Oliver again. They never did find out what happened, but it was presumed that he was dead.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Penelope said. She wrinkled her brow. “Semenov? That name rings a bell for some reason.”

  Mabel looked startled. Her hand jerked and she nearly knocked her cider over.

  “It’s not a terribly common name—at least not in Britain. I doubt you’ve heard it before. Anyway,” Mabel said, suddenly becoming brisk. “All that was a long time ago. I’ve recovered, although there are still those days when all the feelings come rushing back.” She smiled. “It doesn’t last for long. I’ll be right as rain tomorrow.” She finished the last bit of her cider. “Thanks for listening,” she said. “I didn’t mean to lay that all on you.”

  Penelope reached out and took Mabel’s hands. “Don’t be silly. I’m glad I could be here for you. Anytime. Seriously.”

  Mabel smiled ruefully. “Somehow I never fell in love again. There were dates, even an affair that lasted almost six months, but in the end I guess I never really got over Oliver.” She looked at Penelope. “I suppose I didn’t want to.” She laughed. “Silly me clinging to something that was over—something that could never be.”

  Penelope thought of her own love life—or lack thereof. Was she doing the same thing as Mabel—stringing Miles along so she didn’t have to admit the relationship was a failure and look for someone else? She knew she had no intention of marrying him—not that he’d asked her but things seemed to be heading in that direction.

  Miles had said he would come to Chumley to see her the next time he was in London on business and could spare a few days away from his job. She’d definitely tell him then that it was over between them. Keeping him hanging wasn’t fair to either of them.

  And then, without Miles as a safety net, perhaps she’d be open to meeting someone else.

  NINE

  Penelope glanced at her computer screen and sighed. She had managed to get her protagonist, Annora, into the cellar where Penelope wanted her and where danger awaited her. She was now in the clutches of the villain. But how to rescue her?

  Penelope was certain of one thing—Annora had to rescue herself—no Prince Charming riding in on his white horse to save her. Like life, Penelope thought. You couldn’t depend on a man to define your life. You had to do it yourself.

  Her mother claimed that Penelope’s independent attitude would drive men away. Penelope didn’t care—she didn’t want a man who was threatened by her independence anyway.

  She was about to close her laptop when she changed her mind. Ever since talking to Mabel earlier that evening, Penelope had been trying to remember where she’d heard the name Semenov before. Mabel was right—it wasn’t a common name. But Penelope was convinced that she remembered it from somewhere.

  She pulled up a search engine and typed in Semenov. The headline on the first article that appeared read “Surgeon Saves Wife of Prime Minister with New Cardiac Procedure.” The name Semenov immediately caught Penelope’s eye.

  The surgeon, Ursula Semenov, had invented a new surgical technique, which she had used to treat the prime minister’s ailing wife. Now that Penelope had seen the article, she remembered reading about the lifesaving surgery. No wonder the name had sounded so familiar.

  She wondered if there was any relation between Ursula Semenov and Mabel’s Oliver.

  She did some more searching and discovered a longer article on Ursula Semenov. It talked about the surgical procedure she had pioneered, her early life in Russia before coming to Britain, her medical training. Suddenly the name Oliver Semenov popped out at Penelope.

  She reached for her mug of tea and settled down to read.

  The more she read, the more shocked she became. It turned out that Ursula and Oliver Semenov were husband and wife . . . and there was no mention of a divorce. There was speculation that Oliver hadn’t disappeared in Russia but that he’d actually defected to his birth country.

  So Mabel had been in love with a married man. Penelope grabbed her purse and pulled out her phone. There it was: MM—OS—Wed. Regina had obviously uncovered Mabel’s secret. Had she tried to blackmail Mabel with it? Penelope couldn’t imagine what Mabel could have done for Regina. Perhaps it was simply one of the secrets Regina kept in her back pocket in case it ever came in handy.

  Penelope couldn’t decide whether to mention her discovery to Mabel or not. What purpose would it serve? She thought about it as she climbed the stairs to bed and by the time she’d slid under the covers, she had decided she would keep the information to herself.

  * * *

  * * *

  She was due at the Open Book shortly for the writing group she had started at Mabel’s suggestion. She felt like a bit of a fraud running a group for writers when she was struggling so much with her own manuscript.

  Penelope spent an extra couple of minutes making a fuss over Mrs. Danvers who purred loudly, arched her back, then suddenly stalked away, her tail in the air.

  So much for that, Penelope thought, getting her coat out of the closet. It was another brisk day, and although the sky was overcast, rain hadn’t been predicted. She decided to take a chance and walk to the bookstore again since she had to stop in at the drugstore and pick up some shampoo.

  Penelope closed and locked the front door to her cottage, paused for a moment to admire her temporary home—she never seemed to tire of that—then began walking down the high street.

  She passed Icing on the Cake—the bakery—and glanced in their window, where luscious-looking tarts f
illed with glistening berries and cakes with delectable frosting were on display. Her stomach rumbled and she realized she had forgotten to eat breakfast. The iced scones looked very tempting, but, as tempted as she was, she knew Figgy would have something for her at the bookstore. The Sweet Tooth candy shop was right next door and the window was filled with more scrumptious goodies and the smell of their homemade chocolates wafted out the door when a customer opened it.

  The Upper Chumley-on-Stoke Apothecary was next to the Sweet Tooth. The rabbit warren of shelves behind the counter was original to the store, and, although modern improvements had been added along the way, the old wooden floor still creaked under foot.

  Penelope found the shampoo display and was looking for the brand she wanted when she heard two women talking an aisle over.

  “She was being quite forward,” one woman said in offended tones.

  Her companion murmured something Penelope couldn’t quite catch.

  “And at his wife’s funeral, no less,” the first woman added.

  Penelope’s ears perked up. Could they be talking about Regina’s funeral? She found the bottle of shampoo she wanted but continued to linger, pretending she was looking at the various products.

  “She’s been after him for a time now,” the other woman said. “And I blame Gordon for encouraging her the way he does.”

  They were talking about Regina’s funeral. And Penelope had no doubt the woman they were criticizing for being quite forward was Daphne Potter.

  “I thought Gordon was just being nice to her,” the first woman said.

  “Nice? You do know he gave her a car, don’t you? I heard it from Lady Maxwell-Lewis when I was getting my hair done.”

  Penelope heard the other woman gasp.

  “It was secondhand, of course, but in terribly good shape—a Vauxhall of some sort. I’m afraid I don’t know my cars. It looked almost brand-new if you ask me. I’ve seen her driving around town in it as if she was the Duchess of Upper Chumley-on-Stoke herself!”