Penelope moved along and watched as the other fellow behind the counter selected a piece of fish from a warming oven and chips from another and pushed the paper plate across the counter.
“You’ll want some malt vinegar and plenty of salt for that,” Daphne said, coming up in back of her. “Are you eating here? The owner of the Book and Bottle doesn’t like us bringing any food around, as he sells a ploughman’s lunch and a steak-and-kidney pie himself. He doesn’t want us giving his customers any ideas.”
“I’ll get us a table while you wait for your order,” Penelope said.
There was a bottle of malt vinegar and a huge shaker of salt on the table along with a dispenser of paper napkins. The tabletop was scarred from age and use and the initials J and C were carved into the wood at one end. The red leatherette covering the booths was worn, too, and mended in spots with black electrical tape.
Daphne plopped into the seat opposite Penelope. “I’m right hungry, I’ll tell you that. All I had for breakfast was a couple of Jaffa cakes.” She put the folded newspaper she’d had tucked under her arm on the seat beside her. “I brought the Times along in case I had to sit by myself. I like to try my hand at the crossword puzzle. Some of the girls at the bar laugh at me, saying what do I think I’m trying to do—better myself?” She grabbed the bottle of malt vinegar and shook it liberally over her fish and chips.
Penelope was impressed. She had given the Times crossword puzzle a go herself and found it extremely difficult—the clues were word puzzles in and of themselves.
“You were saying that Regina and Worthington argued at the fest,” Penelope said, after they’d begun eating. “Do you know what they argued about?”
Daphne shook her head. “I don’t know. Something to do with the fest is what I told Gordon it probably was, but he wasn’t convinced. He said Regina liked to poke her nose in where it didn’t belong.”
“What do you mean? Poking her nose into something to do with Worthington?”
Daphne speared a chip. “Yes. Or Charlotte. Gordon said you don’t mess with royalty. They’ll come after you right quick, and they’ve got the money to do it.”
“Do you think Regina did something like that—something serious enough to get her killed?”
“That’s what Gordon is afraid of.”
* * *
* * *
Penelope came out of her writing “hole,” as she liked to think of the little room at the Open Book where she had set up shop, and stretched her arms over her head. The afternoon had been productive. She’d found a way to incorporate the plot twist she’d thought up the other day and things were looking good. A change of scenery had been what she needed after all.
India was sitting in the café drinking a cup of tea—Earl Grey no doubt. In India’s mind, English breakfast was for mornings, Earl Grey for afternoons, and Lapsang souchong for when one needed an indulgence. India was devoted to the idea of routine—routine leads to good habits, she liked to say.
She was chatting with Mabel and Figgy, who wasn’t sitting but had both hands braced against the back of one of the chairs.
Penelope went over to the join them.
Figgy tapped Penelope on the arm. “It’s teatime. I think we could do with a bit of a pick-me-up.” She went off and quickly returned with a plate of shortbread cookies.
“I heard that our very own Pen and Ink Stationers will be doing the invitations for the Worthington wedding,” India said, lifting her teacup to her lips. Penelope noticed that her hand shook slightly.
“Worthington has always been very good about patronizing the local shops whenever possible,” Mabel said, selecting a cookie. “Not like some of the residents of that new development that was built on the outskirts of town.”
“I wonder who will be on the guest list,” India said. “Perhaps the queen herself will come. Worthington is a favorite of hers after all.”
“I don’t know.” Figgy nibbled the edge of a cookie. “She is knocking on a bit.” Her face brightened. “Perhaps Will or Harry will come. I think Prince Harry is quite adorable, don’t you?”
“I’m disappointed in him for marrying that American actress,” India said, her nose in the air. She turned to Penelope. “No offense meant to you, my dear, but there is such a thing as tradition, you know.”
“I wonder whether the wedding will even be a traditional one,” Mabel said. “The ceremony followed by the wedding breakfast.” She turned to Penelope. “That’s a bit of a misnomer, as it’s more luncheon than breakfast. Then a gala in the evening with the men in black tie and the women in ball gowns.” She laughed. “Oh, to be the proverbial fly on the wall.”
“Where will they be married?” Penelope said. She found it hard to picture Charlotte walking down the aisle at St. Andrew’s Church.
“There is a chapel at Worthington House,” India said. “It’s quite big and I doubt Worthington’s guest list will be as vast as Prince William’s was when he married Catherine Middleton.”
“I wonder who’s catering it,” Figgy said. “And doing the wedding cake. I’m sure it will be splendid. I do hope we will see some pictures.”
India finished the last of her tea. “I must be going, I’m afraid.” She began to stand up but swayed alarmingly and put a hand on the table to steady herself.
“Are you okay?” Mabel’s face creased with concern.
“Just a bit of a spell,” India said, but her face was white, her breathing shallow and rapid, and beads of perspiration had formed on her forehead.
“You’d better sit down until it passes,” Mabel said.
“But I must get home before the sun goes down. Those lanes are so dark at night and I’m afraid I might fall. There are no streetlights, you know.”
“You walked?” Penelope said in disbelief. “I have my car. Let me drive you.”
“I don’t want to be a bother.” India put a shaking hand to her throat.
“It’s no bother at all,” Penelope insisted.
She managed to overcome India’s objections and eventually hustled her out of the Open Book to her car. She thought she heard India give a sigh of relief as she settled in the front passenger seat of the MINI.
They headed out of town and wound their way down narrow country lanes. Penelope prayed they would not encounter an oncoming car lest that require her to back up into one of the lay-bys.
India’s cottage was on the Worthington estate, but the estate was vast, and Worthington House itself was not even a speck in the distance by the time they reached it.
The cottage was not unlike the one Penelope was living in—charming and slightly larger but also slightly less well maintained. Wild roses were thick on the fence lining the stone path to the front door, their blooms now faded, and English ivy crawled up the stone façade. The lintel over the doorway was cracked and the front door could have used a coat of paint.
India fished her keys from her purse, her hands still shaking slightly, and opened the door. Penelope followed her inside. The foyer was dim, and India switched on a light.
A stone fireplace dominated one wall of the sitting room with a nearly threadbare armchair pulled up to it. Beams ran across the low ceiling and the windows were small and set deep in the stone walls.
A small, framed painting of a coat of arms along with several horticultural watercolors hung on the walls.
Penelope encouraged India to sit and when India swung her feet up onto the small ottoman pulled up close to the chair, she noticed that India had a hole in the bottom of her shoe.
“Would you like another cup of tea?”
Penelope hadn’t been on British shores long before she’d caught on to the fact that a cup of tea was the Englishman’s answer to everything—feeling sad, feeling happy, feeling sick—there was virtually no situation that didn’t call for a good strong cup of tea laced with plenty of sugar.
India tried to refuse, saying she didn’t want to be a bother, but Penelope wasn’t having any of it. She marched out to the kitchen and began opening cupboards. The kettle was already sitting out on the ancient Aga, and she quickly found a collection of mugs—some commemorating historical events like the wedding of Charles and Diana and the queen’s 1953 coronation. She chose one and set it out on the counter, then went in search of some tea.
She found a used Earl Grey tea bag in a small dish next to the sink. Ever frugal, India obviously reused them. Penelope couldn’t find any others, so after boiling water and filling the mug, she plunked in the tea bag. It must have been used repeatedly because it barely colored the water.
Penelope opened the refrigerator in search of milk and found it nearly empty, save for a small carton of cream, two eggs, and some leftover beans in a plastic container.
The cupboards were equally bare. Penelope thought about the worn upholstery on India’s furniture, the hole in her shoe, and the scarcity of food in her kitchen. She noticed that it was terribly cold in the cottage, too, as if the heat had been turned down very low or even turned off completely. She began to wonder if India’s circumstances were even more straitened than they originally thought. She would have to talk to Mabel about it. Perhaps there was something that could be done. At the very least they ought to let Worthington know. He was India’s relative after all, however distant the connection.
By the time Penelope returned to the sitting room, India had switched on the television. The television itself was so old that Penelope wouldn’t have been surprised to see it in an exhibition in the Smithsonian.
She put the tea down on a table within reach of India’s chair.
“What are you watching?”
India quickly switched off the television. “I’m sorry. That was rude of me.” She smiled at Penelope. “I’m afraid I have a penchant for true crime and detective shows. Very silly of me, I admit. But lately I’ve been watching a program on cold cases: Resurrected—Unsolved Crimes Then and Now. Most interesting.” India took a sip of her tea. “The latest episodes have been about a cold case up north where someone set fire to a rather stately home. It burned to the ground killing a young maid who was working there at the time. The family had all gone out for the evening and were spared.
“They investigated, of course, and there was conjecture at the time that the couple’s fourteen-year-old daughter was the culprit but it was never proven. The girl was whisked away somewhere never to be heard from again.”
“Do they have any new leads in the case?” Penelope said.
“They’ve just started investigating it again. There’s a reporter following the story. I suppose we’ll know more in future episodes.”
Penelope wasn’t sure how to broach the topic but decided to plunge ahead.
“Would you like me to do some grocery shopping for you? I didn’t see much in the refrigerator.”
“It’s lovely of you to offer, but I’ll be okay. I have a can of soup and tomorrow my check comes.”
Penelope didn’t press the issue. Perhaps she would talk to Mabel about it and get her advice.
TWELVE
I was thinking about what Felicity Dickens told us when she was here,” Pen said when she got back to the bookstore after escorting India home. “About Nora Blakely and how she worked for Felicity’s husband. She used the past tense. I can’t help but wonder if Nora still works there.” She picked up a publisher’s catalogue and began to flip through it.
Mabel tilted her head. “Why?”
“That entry in Regina’s notebook about Nora and drink and work and the WI. What if she got fired for drinking on the job? That would certainly give Regina something to hold over her head.”
“To what end, though?” Mabel peered over Pen’s shoulder at the catalogue and pointed to a book. She tapped the page. “That’s bound to become a big hit,” she said.
Penelope paused with her hand on the catalogue. “What if Regina used the information to persuade Nora to fiddle with the votes for the election of the president of the Women’s Institute? By all accounts, everyone was surprised when Regina won and several people have already said they didn’t vote for her.”
“I suppose that’s possible,” Mabel said. She went behind the counter and pulled out a box of McVitie’s chocolate digestives. She held them out toward Penelope.
“No, thanks.”
Mabel took a biscuit from the box and began to munch on it.
“Do you still have Felicity Dickens’s book?” Pen said, closing the catalogue.
Mabel reached under the counter, pulled it out, and waved it in the air.
“I need an excuse to drop by Dickens and Charles Solicitors to see if Nora is there. What if I bring the book with me and ask Mr. Dickens to return it to his wife?” Penelope began pacing back and forth. “You can put a note in it saying that you’ve ordered your own copy or something.”
Mabel handed the book to Pen. “It’s all yours. I doubt it’s improved any since it’s been sitting under the counter.”
* * *
* * *
It was almost dark and the streetlights had begun to wink on. The wind was sharp and tore at Penelope’s coat as she walked down the street, Felicity’s book tucked under her arm. Dickens and Charles, Solicitors were at the opposite end of the high street toward the Tesco. It was a brisk walk and several times Penelope was sorry she hadn’t thought to take the car.
Finally she reached the two-story building that housed Felicity’s husband’s law practice. It was two doors down from Kebabs and Curries and the faint scent of spices suggesting warm and exotic places drifted toward Pen on the wind.
A highly polished brass plate announcing Dickens and Charles, Solicitors was over the door at the top of the stairs leading to the second floor. Faint outlines were visible through the frosted glass on the top half of the door.
Pen hesitated briefly, then knocked.
“Come in,” a feminine voice rang out.
Penelope turned the knob and opened the door.
The office was not luxurious. The anteroom was small and crowded with an old wooden desk, metal filing cabinets, and a coat-tree where several dark wool coats hung from the pegs. A tall, rotating fan on a stand was pushed into the corner. Penelope had no doubt it came in handy in the summer months—most of the buildings along Chumley’s high street were not air-conditioned.
A woman sat behind the desk, which was covered from one end to the other with papers. A stack of file folders a foot high tottered on a table next to it.
The woman raised her eyebrows in inquiry, her lips set in a straight line, and the telephone receiver tucked between her shoulder and her ear. She was wearing a navy pinstriped suit and a polyester blouse with a floppy bow. Her light brown hair was coming out of the bun at the nape of her neck, giving her a somewhat frazzled appearance.
She had just hung up the phone when it rang again. She mouthed an apology at Pen and picked it up.
“Dickens and Charles, Solicitors,” she said.
Pen gave her a bright smile, hoping to win the woman over to her side.
“I’m from the Open Book—the bookstore down the street,” she said when the woman had finished the call. She motioned vaguely in the direction of the Open Book. “Mr. Dickens’s wife, Felicity, left a copy of her book with Mabel Morris, the owner. I wanted to return it and hoped that Mr. Dickens would be willing to take it home with him.”
The telephone rang a third time and the woman groaned and picked it up.
“Dickens and Charles, Solicitors,” she barked into the receiver.
Her hands were shaking slightly and despite the chill in the room, a faint sheen of perspiration was visible on her brow. When the call was finished, she slammed the receiver into the cradle with considerable force.
“I’m sorry,” she said, attempting to smoo
th down her hair. “Ever since Mr. Dickens’s secretary left I’ve been stuck doing double duty.” She blew out an exasperated breath that fluttered the bits of hair around her face. “I’m actually a paralegal.” She swept a hand over her desk indicating the mess of papers. “But I’ve been pressed into service as the temporary secretary and receptionist.”
“So Mr. Dickens is looking for a new secretary?” Pen said.
“Yes.” The woman brightened. “You wouldn’t be interested, would you?”
“No, I’m afraid not.” Pen fiddled with the button on her coat. “What a shame his former secretary left him in the lurch like this. In the States, we have to give at least two weeks notice before quitting a job.”
“Oh, she didn’t quit,” the woman said. She lowered her voice. “Mr. Dickens had to let Nora go.”
Pen raised her eyebrows. “She was fired?”
The woman nodded. “I’m afraid she . . . drank.”
“Oh, dear,” Pen said. “How awful.”
The woman sniffed “It was frightfully awful, I can tell you—falling asleep at her desk, knocking into things, making a dog’s breakfast of the paperwork. Especially poor Mr. Ashworth’s divorce.”
“Oh?”
The woman sat up straighter and threw out her chest.
“I did my part. I had the paperwork all filled out right and proper and ready to go, but Nora was too busy faffing about to take them to be filed. Can you imagine? Mr. Ashworth didn’t know he wasn’t actually divorced until he was practically standing at the altar with his new bride. It created quite the stir as I’m sure you can imagine.” She shook her head. “Poor Mr. Dickens was right brassed off about it. He sent her packing as soon as he heard—never mind that she’d worked for him for years. There was no room for mistakes like that, he said.”
She’d certainly gotten an earful, Pen thought as she left Dickens and Charles Solicitors. It looked as if Nora had lost her job after all. Had Regina threatened to tell everyone that Nora had been fired? And had that been the leverage Regina had needed to convince Nora to lie about the results of the Women’s Institute election?
Murder in the Margins Page 12