That was interesting, Penelope thought, as she paid for her purchase. So Gordon’s interest had gone beyond just visiting the Book and Bottle for a drink every night. A car was quite an expensive present to give to someone—especially if that person was just a casual acquaintance.
Maybe there really was more to Gordon and Daphne’s relationship than everyone first realized. Perhaps they were having an honest-to-goodness affair. Wouldn’t that give Daphne a motive for murder?
* * *
* * *
Did you know that Gordon Bosworth bought Daphne a car?” Penelope said when she arrived at the Open Book.
“Yes,” Mabel said. She was shelving some books that had been left out on the various tables scattered around the store. “It was terribly kind of him.” She turned around to face Penelope. “I wouldn’t read too much into it. Daphne’s sister, Layla, is disabled—she uses a wheelchair. Some sort of accident, I believe. She’s collecting insurance, of course, but she can’t live on her own. Daphne takes care of her.” Mabel hesitated, a hand on her hip, then put one of the books face out on the shelf. “Daphne’s old car broke down—it had been destined for the junk heap for a long time as it was and there was no putting another bandage on it to squeeze out a few more miles—and it was difficult for her to get her sister to her medical appointments, let alone take her for the occasional outing to break the monotony of being in the house all day.”
Mabel smiled at Penelope. “Don’t tell me you’re still trying to solve Regina’s murder? I would leave that to the police, if I were you. They probably already have a lot more information than we do. They have forensics and the like—things the police in Christie’s Miss Marple books didn’t have.”
“Believe me, I’d be more than happy to leave it in Detective Maguire’s lap. It’s only that I promised Charlotte I would see what I could do.”
“I can’t imagine why Charlotte would think you’d have any better luck than the police.”
“Neither can I,” Penelope said, thinking of how little she’d been able to discover so far.
She was feeling rather discouraged when the members of her writing group began to arrive. Lady Evelyn Maxwell-Lewis was the first. She was wearing jodhpurs and tall leather boots again, and the faint odor of horse combined with fresh hay clung to her. Penelope had been surprised to find out that Evelyn was writing a Regency romance. All that bodice ripping and shirtless men with rippling muscles was so at odds with her cut-glass persona.
Nora Blakely was also in the group and was working on a children’s book, which seemed fitting. Penelope thought her illustrations were quite good—fairytale-like watercolors—and she was hoping to guide Nora in writing a salable manuscript to go with them.
Two more members drifted in—both also writing romances—obviously a popular genre—but far more tepid and timid ones than Evelyn’s.
They all took seats around the table at the back of the store. Nora took a notebook from her bag, placed it in front of her, put a pencil beside it, and folded her hands on top. Evelyn flung herself into a chair, pulled an untidy sheaf of manuscript pages from her purse, put them in her lap, and leaned back, crossing her long legs.
Figgy wheeled over a cart set up with an electric kettle and an assortment of tea bags and cups and saucers, and Penelope took that as a signal to begin. She cleared her throat.
Before she could say a word, Evelyn pushed back her chair. “I simply must have a cup of tea first. I hope you don’t think I’m being rude, but I’m utterly parched. I took Brigadier out this morning for a long ride and he kicked up so much dust my throat feels like the Sahara.”
The spoon tinkled against the cup as Evelyn stirred sugar into her tea. She glanced at Nora. “What is the Women’s Institute going to do about the president’s position now that Regina is no longer with us?”
“I can’t believe she was elected,” one of the other women murmured. “I know I didn’t vote for her.”
“Neither did I,” Evelyn said. “But obviously others did. I imagine she would have been quite good at it—as well as insufferably bossy and condescending.” She paused with her teaspoon in her hand, her mouth forming a small o. “Do you suppose the election results were tampered with?” She looked at the others.
“You mean by Regina?” Penelope said. “Would that have been possible? Surely someone else counts the votes?”
A flush had risen up Nora’s neck to her face, which became mottled with red. “I count the votes,” she said in a very small voice.
Evelyn raised an eyebrow. “And you couldn’t have made a mistake?”
Nora shook her head. “No, I counted them twice to be sure.”
She put her hands in her lap but not before Penelope noticed they were shaking slightly.
Had Regina convinced Nora to change the vote in her favor? But why would Nora agree to that? She thought back to the conversation she’d had with Mabel and India before the murder—about how Regina collected secrets. Maybe Regina knew something about Nora that persuaded Nora she had to do what Regina wanted. Mabel had said she didn’t think it had anything to do with Nora’s drinking, despite the entry in Regina’s notebook—Nora’s vice seemed to be a well-known secret. It had to be something else. Something Regina thought she could use against Nora.
* * *
* * *
Penelope realized that her diet of late had consisted mainly of food Figgy had kindly given her from the Teapot. She decided it was time to make herself a proper dinner for a change and at lunchtime she went across the street to the Pig in a Poke to buy whatever looked good—and that she could afford.
A sign in the window announced a sale on pork-and-leek sausage and boneless pork loin chops, and hung beside a large wooden cutout of a pink and smiling pig. Penelope wondered what on earth the poor pig had to smile about, given that it would soon find itself butchered into chops and roasts or stuffed into sausages and splayed out on a platter on someone’s dining table.
Penelope pushed open the door. Large cuts of meat hung from vicious-looking hooks behind the long counter. The shop also carried poultry, and chickens with the heads still attached dangled between the cuts of beef. There was an outline of a pig on a poster on the wall with arrows indicating the different cuts of meat and another one on the opposite wall showing the different parts of a cow.
Gladys was behind the counter, handing a customer a brown-paper-wrapped parcel tied with twine. Her husband, Bruce, was in back of her, cutting a beef tenderloin into plump filet mignon steaks. He had broad shoulders and a thick neck dotted with short bristly hairs. His neck was a dusky red—as if he’d been sunburned. His gray hair was cut close to the scalp and was receding on the sides.
Gladys’s plump face broke into a smile when she saw Penelope. “Hello, love. What can I get for you?”
“I don’t know,” Penelope admitted. “I’ve decided to cook myself dinner for a change. What do you suggest?”
“We have some lovely pork loin chops. And our pork-and-leek sausages are on sale. Or perhaps you’d fancy a steak? Bruce is cutting up some filet mignons right now.”
“I imagine those are pricey. Probably beyond my budget.”
Gladys winked. “I’m sure we can give you a good deal. What do you say?”
“Okay,” Penelope said, suddenly salivating at the thought of a nice juicy steak.
“Give me one of those filets,” she said to Bruce. “The nice plump one there.”
Bruce grunted and handed the meat to Gladys, who pulled a length of brown paper from the roller, wrapped up the filet, and tied it securely with a piece of twine. She was handing the tidy package to Penelope when the sleeve of her blouse slid up her arm, briefly revealing a large and angry oddly shaped purple bruise that was beginning to turn yellow.
“Gladys! What happened to your arm?”
Gladys hastily pulled down her sleeve. “Oh, that? It�
��s nothing. Looks worse than it is.” She glanced behind her. Bruce was glaring at her.
Gladys smiled again, only it looked strained this time. “I walked into a door on the way to the loo in the middle of the night. Silly me.”
Penelope didn’t press her—it was clear she didn’t want to talk about it . . . or couldn’t talk about it. Penelope strongly suspected Bruce had something to do with that nasty black-and-blue mark.
Penelope was about to leave when the door opened and Charlotte walked in. All three of them looked stunned to see her. She was wearing yoga pants, a baby blue cashmere sweater, and a Barbour jacket. Her hair was in a ponytail and she had no makeup on. She was still stunning.
Gladys began to flutter, her facial expression alternating between a welcoming smile and sheer astonishment. Penelope could have sworn she actually dipped into a small curtsy as Charlotte approached the counter. Gladys might have been complaining about Charlotte’s unsuitability as a match for Worthington just the other day, but in Charlotte’s presence, she dissolved into a fawning fan awed by the seemingly royal connection, however distant.
“Penelope,” Charlotte said when she noticed her. “How are you?” Charlotte glanced over her shoulder at Gladys. She lowered her voice. “Can I talk to you?”
Penelope was taken aback. “Sure.”
“Let’s go outside.” Charlotte put her hand on Penelope’s arm and led her to the door.
They stepped outside, leaving Gladys sputtering behind the counter.
“Have you found out anything yet?” Charlotte said as they stood in the shadow of the butcher shop awning. “Please tell me you have.”
Penelope hated to disappoint her. She shook her head reluctantly. “No, not yet, I’m afraid.”
Charlotte chewed on her bottom lip—an anxious gesture that surprised Penelope. Charlotte always projected such a calm and collected image—as if she were gliding through life on greased rollers.
“Please tell me you’ll keep trying,” Charlotte said, gripping Penelope’s arm with a fierceness that surprised Penelope.
Penelope again wondered why Charlotte was so convinced the police were going to consider her a suspect. She’d barely known Regina and, as far as Penelope knew, the two had managed to get along well enough.
Regina had to have known something about Charlotte that was making Charlotte so nervous. But what? Charlotte obviously wasn’t prepared to reveal any secrets to Penelope. Penelope would have to operate on the assumption that there was something—something that could have come between Charlotte and Worthington—something serious enough to make Charlotte believe she was a suspect in Regina’s murder.
Charlotte fiddled with the zipper on her jacket, pulling it up and down.
“Detective Maguire came to Worthington House yesterday. He spent a long time talking to Arthur and then to me.” Charlotte bit her bottom lip again. “He wouldn’t let Arthur stay in the room—he said he wanted to talk to us separately.” She looked down at her highly polished leather ankle boots. “I suppose he wanted to see if our stories matched.” She gave a pained smile. “I’ve watched my share of Law and Order, and that’s how they always do it.”
Did Maguire actually suspect Charlotte or Worthington? Penelope wondered. Or was this simply the usual procedure and Charlotte was blowing it out of proportion? After all, Regina had been killed at Worthington House, so surely Maguire had plenty of questions that needed answers.
“I’m sure Detective Maguire is interviewing anyone connected with Regina or the fest,” Penelope said.
Charlotte shook her head and her ponytail swished back and forth.
“It’s not only that.” She began pulling her zipper up and down again. “He told us they—the police—found the gun that killed Regina.”
“Oh?”
Charlotte looked at Penelope, her eyes wide with fear. “He said the gun came from Arthur’s collection. The killer took it from the gun safe in the basement. But the safe is always locked. Arthur keeps one key on his key chain and the other is in a drawer in a table in the drawing room.”
“So someone must have stolen the key,” Penelope said.
“Yes, but . . .” Charlotte paused. “Who would have known where to find it? Aside from Arthur, of course.”
Penelope thought for a moment. “One of the servants, perhaps? Would they have known where the keys were kept?”
Charlotte shrugged. “Probably. But what motive would they have had? I doubt any of them even knew Regina.”
“Perhaps Regina caught them out in something? Stealing, perhaps?”
“They’ve all been with Arthur for ages. Besides, if they’d wanted to steal something, there would have been plenty of other opportunities. Why choose the day the fest was going on and people were coming and going from the cellar?”
Penelope had to admit that didn’t make any sense.
On the other hand, she couldn’t imagine either Charlotte or Worthington killing Regina. It had to have been someone else.
And she had rashly promised Charlotte that she would try to find out just who that was.
TEN
Mabel was behind the counter, staring at a book in her hands with a quizzical expression, when Penelope returned to the Open Book. Penelope put her package of meat in the refrigerator in the stock room and joined her.
“What’s that?” Penelope pointed to the book in Mabel’s hands.
Mabel made a face. “It was sent to me by a local author who wants to have a book signing here.”
“The cover is rather . . . odd,” Penelope said. “Do you know the author?”
Mabel shook her head. “Not well, no. But I know who she is—she’s the wife of a solicitor in town. He works long hours.” Mabel held the book up. “I guess this is how she passes the time.”
“What are you going to do?”
Mabel stuck the book under the counter. “Avoid the issue as long as possible.” She grinned at Penelope.
“You’ll have to deal with it eventually,” Penelope said. She liked to tackle things head on herself—like a runaway train, her sister often said, since it meant Pen occasionally acted without thinking things through.
“Did you get your meat?” Mabel changed the subject.
“A lovely piece of filet mignon. A bit rich for my blood, but Gladys gave me a discount.”
“What a treat,” Mabel said.
“You know, I’m worried about Gladys.” Penelope couldn’t stop thinking about that angry bruise on Gladys’s arm.
Mabel cocked her head. “Oh?”
“I don’t think her husband treats her very well.”
“He doesn’t,” Mabel said matter-of-factly. “He’s a terrible bully and takes advantage of her. I think that’s why she takes refuge in her romance novels. Books can transport you to another reality—one where earthly cares no longer exist—at least not while you’re engrossed in the story. And then in romance, there’s always the happily ever after ending. It’s an escape for Gladys.”
“I’m glad she has that comfort at least. But I’m worried that he’s abusive. Gladys has a large bruise on her arm—it was a strange shape and now I realize it looked like fingerprints—it was still purple but beginning to turn yellow so she must have gotten it a couple of days ago.”
“Did you ask Gladys about it?”
“Yes. She said she walked into a door in the middle of the night. She seemed very nervous and kept looking over her shoulder at her husband.”
Now Mabel looked concerned. She frowned. “I didn’t know that. Poor Gladys. It does sound as if Bruce has become abusive.”
“What are we going to do? Gladys is terribly sweet and doesn’t deserve to be treated like that. No one does.”
“I’ll see if I can have a word with her,” Mabel said. “Perhaps she’ll confide in me.”
* * *
* * *
Penelope closed herself in the tiny room Mabel had set aside for her to use when she wasn’t busy in the shop. She had her laptop open and her fingers on the keys, and for once the words were flowing. She was shocked when she looked at the clock and realized the entire afternoon had flown by. Perhaps England was working its magic after all.
The room was windowless, so she hadn’t noticed the passage of time and was surprised to see that outside the windows of the Open Book it was dark and the streetlights had come on.
Figgy was slumped at a table in the tearoom, texting on her phone. Penelope plopped into the seat opposite her with a sigh.
Figgy looked up from her phone, peering at Penelope from under her bangs. “You look totally fagged out.”
“I am,” Penelope admitted. “I’ve never been able to figure out how sitting in a chair and writing can be so tiring.” She blew out a breath and the lock of hair that had drifted onto her forehead momentarily went back into place. “Rescuing Annora wasn’t easy, but I managed to do it. Fortunately I was able to plant a rusted iron bar that had come loose from one of the windows in the basement for her to make use of. I’m proud to say she wielded it expertly.” Penelope grinned.
* * *
* * *
The bright red neon-lit Tesco sign was a brash modern intrusion amid all the quaint wooden signs that hung in front of Upper Chumley-on-Stoke’s shops along the high street and broke the illusion of having stepped back into a century long past.
Penelope had decided that she would get a bottle of inexpensive red wine to go with her steak dinner. She felt she deserved a bit of a celebration having accomplished so much on her manuscript that afternoon.
Pen was turning into the car park behind Tesco when another car pulled in behind her. The driver appeared to be in a hurry—shooting into an empty parking space in the row next to Pen. The driver had barely cut the lights when she was already opening the door and getting out of the car.
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