“I had the exact same thought.” Penelope wrinkled her nose. “By the way”—she paused with a book in her hand—“did you get a chance to talk to Gladys?”
Mabel frowned. “I did. I tried to be delicate about it, but I believe the message was clear enough. Gladys wasn’t inclined to confide in me, I’m afraid. I tried to leave the door open in case she wanted to talk about it in the future—or if she decided she wanted help getting away from the situation. Abuse often escalates. Let’s hope Gladys has the smarts to get out before that happens.” Mabel peered into the boxes. “Looks like that’s it. We’ve got them all.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “Let’s call it a day, shall we?”
Penelope switched the sign on the front door of the shop to Closed as the last customer left with a shopping bag full of the latest cozy mysteries. The streetlights were on and pedestrian traffic going by on the sidewalk outside the Open Book had slowed.
She put on her coat and gloves. “I’ll be heading off now unless you need me for something?”
Mabel zipped the canvas bag with the day’s bank deposit and tucked it into her tote bag. “Have a good evening. I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”
As Penelope walked to her car, she noticed that the small light left burning during the night at the Pig and Poke was on but that the Chumley Chippie was ablaze and still doing a brisk business with customers leaving with grease-stained bags containing their takeout fish-and-chips dinner.
The cleaning lady’s used Citroën was parked outside Penelope’s cottage when she got there, and the lights in the sitting room were on. Penelope hoped Ashlyn was nearly finished. She was normally gone by the time Penelope got home. Penelope was planning to work on her manuscript before dinner and wasn’t fond of writing while the vacuum was running.
Ashlyn was perched on the sofa in the sitting room, a newspaper spread out on the table in front of her, when Penelope walked in. She jumped up when she heard the front door open, her pasty-white face coloring from her neck to the dark roots of her dyed blond hair.
“I—I wanted to show you something,” she stammered, pointing to the newspaper.
At least she had gotten a fire going in the fireplace, Penelope thought as she peeled off her gloves. The temperature had dipped considerably since the afternoon. She stood with her back to the flames and sighed as the warmth chased away the chill in her bones and eased the ache in her shoulders.
“What is it, Ashlyn?”
Mrs. Danvers slinked in from the kitchen, paused for a moment to take in the scene, then gracefully leapt onto the coffee table, sat right on top of the open newspaper, and clawed gently at the pages with her right paw.
“Shoo, shoo,” Ashlyn said, waving her hand at the cat as if it were a fly.
Penelope noticed that her nails were bitten short and that one of her cuticles was bleeding slightly as if she had been chewing on it.
“I have to show you something,” Ashlyn said after unseating Mrs. Danvers. “It’s here in the paper.” Her hand shook slightly as she held the paper up.
“What is it?”
Penelope took the copy of the Daily Star and glanced at the page. She gasped.
“Where did you get this?” She brandished the paper.
“I got it at the newsstand, didn’t I?” Ashlyn said almost defensively. “I was right shook up when I saw that.” She pointed to the paper. Her lower lip trembled. “She shouldn’t have done it.”
“What do you mean?”
Ashlyn shook her head. “Nothing. I didn’t mean nothing.”
Penelope looked at the article again—if you could call it an article—it was more pictorial than anything else. Under the bold headline Page Two were pictures of a young woman, her blond hair in a long braid, her makeup, despite thick false eyelashes, light enough to show off the freckles on her nose. She was wearing a thong bikini and in some of the photographs was topless.
Penelope had no trouble recognizing the woman—it was Charlotte Davenport.
* * *
* * *
Penelope managed to persuade Ashlyn to let her keep the copy of the Daily Star. She couldn’t imagine how the paper had come in possession of those photographs. But she could easily imagine how upset Charlotte was going to be when she found out about it.
Mabel was nursing a cup of tea and leafing through a book catalogue when Penelope arrived at the Open Book.
Penelope had had a restless night thinking about a number of things from her manuscript to Charlotte Davenport to Regina’s murder. She had decided that tea wasn’t going to fit the bill that morning so she had stopped to pick up a coffee at the local wine bar—the Sour Grapes—that also served coffee and pastries in the morning.
Mabel glanced at the coffee cup in Penelope’s hand.
“Rough night?”
“Sort of.” Penelope fished the Daily Star out of her purse. She opened it to the Page Two feature. “Look at this.”
Mabel slipped on her reading glasses and held the paper up to read it. She lowered it slowly, her mouth open in surprise.
“That’s Charlotte Davenport.”
“Yes. Apparently the Daily Star dug up an old issue of some men’s magazine that Charlotte posed for eons ago and reprinted the photographs.”
Figgy wandered over with a mug of tea in her hand. She gestured toward the newspaper and grinned. “Mabel, somehow I wouldn’t have pegged you as a Daily Star reader.”
Mabel made a face. “I’m not.”
Figgy took a sip of her tea. “Our family’s housekeeper was an avid reader of the Daily Star. I used to sneak a look whenever I could. Mother didn’t approve. She said you can’t believe everything a paper like that prints.”
“I’m afraid this one comes with pictures,” Mabel said, “and the camera doesn’t lie.” She handed the paper to Figgy and pointed to the Page Two feature.
“Bloody hell!” Figgy exclaimed. “That’s Charlotte Davenport.”
“What’s this?” India had come in while they were talking. “A tea party?”
Figgy silently handed her the newspaper.
“Oh,” was all India managed to say. “Poor Arthur.” She handed the paper back to Figgy. “Do you think he’s seen this?”
“Maybe he knows. Maybe Charlotte already told him about those pictures,” Penelope said.
“I wonder why she posed for those photographs,” Mabel said. “It’s not like she was after a career in film or wanted to be on the telly and thought that was a good way to get noticed.”
“I suppose poor Arthur will have to cancel the wedding,” India said. “The people won’t accept a duchess of Upper Chumley-on-Stoke who has posed for indecent pictures. This isn’t America.” She turned to Penelope. “No offense, my dear. But the British are a stodgy lot especially in provincial towns like Chumley and especially when it comes to the aristocracy.”
“I certainly hope he doesn’t cancel the wedding,” Penelope said.
“Everyone has a past,” Mabel said. “There’s no reason to think Charlotte is any different. From what I’ve heard, Worthington has quite the past himself.”
India grimaced. “He certainly does.”
Penelope suddenly remembered her conversation with Ashlyn and the one thing Ashlyn had said that had struck her as odd at the time.
“You know, Ashlyn said something rather strange when she showed me the newspaper. She said, ‘She shouldn’t have done it.’”
“What do you suppose she meant?” Figgy said.
“Did she mean Charlotte?” Mabel said. “That Charlotte shouldn’t have posed for those pictures?”
“I don’t think so.” Penelope frowned. “It didn’t sound that way at the time.”
“I wonder how the Daily Star found those pictures. They were taken almost twenty years ago.” Figgy fingered the gold stud in her nose.
Mabel raised her eyebrows. “I c
an’t help but wonder if someone sent a copy of the magazine to the paper. The Daily Star is known to pay for stories like this.”
Penelope thought of Ashlyn’s words again—“She shouldn’t have done it.” Was it possible that Ashlyn knew—or suspected—how the paper had gotten hold of those pictures? It didn’t seem likely—Ashlyn was rather proud of the fact that she’d never been to London or anywhere else for that matter. She was perfectly content in Upper Chumley-on-Stoke, she’d told Penelope, and she couldn’t understand why people wanted to travel—traipsing around to all sorts of strange places was how she had put it.
Penelope couldn’t imagine her or her friends, who held similar views according to Ashlyn, knowing enough to contact the Daily Star and offer to sell them twenty-year-old pictures of Charlotte Davenport.
* * *
* * *
Penelope was collecting books for a display of Gothic novels she was putting together when she noticed Katie Poole, Charlotte’s assistant, standing near the front desk, scanning the store as if she was looking for someone.
“You’re Katie, right?” Penelope said to her. “Can I help you with something?”
“Yes,” Katie gushed, sounding grateful. “I wanted to talk to you if you have a minute.”
Penelope stacked the books she was carrying on the counter. “Why don’t we sit down? Would you like a cup of tea?”
“I’d prefer coffee if you have it,” Katie said as they took seats at a vacant table in the tea shop.
“Would you like a plate of cookies with that?” Figgy said when she came to take their order.
Penelope nodded.
Katie was quiet until Figgy walked away. She glanced at her cell phone, which she’d put out on the table.
“I have a favor to ask you.” Katie bit her lower lip.
“Yes?”
“I’d love it if you would come and talk to Charlotte. She hasn’t . . . been herself lately.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know. But she’s crying all the time and Charlotte never cries. She’s the most upbeat person I’ve ever known. And she hasn’t been writing either. She said she’s blocked, but I don’t believe it. She’s always managed to do her daily pages even when she learned her mother had cancer.”
Penelope was surprised—obviously Katie hadn’t yet seen the photographs in the Daily Star. Or was there something more that was upsetting Charlotte?
“Ever since the fest when she talked to that woman . . .”
“Oh? Who?”
“I don’t know her name, but she made Charlotte cry. Charlotte won’t say what’s wrong. I don’t think even Arthur knows.”
Two women at an adjoining table had stopped talking and were leaning in their direction. Penelope lowered her voice.
“Did you see what the woman looked like?”
“No, but I think she was the woman in charge of the fest. I’m pretty sure I recognized her voice. Charlotte had already met with her plenty of times, but this was the first time I heard her crying. It must have been something the woman said.”
Regina. It must have been Regina who had been talking to Charlotte. But what had she said that had made Charlotte cry?
* * *
* * *
Penelope agreed to talk to Charlotte and promised Katie that she wouldn’t tell Charlotte about their talk. She was dreading it, though. What could she possibly do to help? What if Charlotte expected to hear that she’d uncovered some clues in Regina’s murder? Penelope had a lot of ideas swirling around in her head—including the idea that Charlotte now had an even stronger reason to want to murder Regina herself. Not that she believed for a minute that Charlotte was a murderer. But someone was certainly trying to make her appear to be the likeliest suspect.
The Open Book was quiet, so Penelope slipped on her coat, said good-bye to Mabel, and headed out to Worthington House.
She parked her car, squared her shoulders, and determinedly marched up to the front door. It was opened by a stone-faced butler.
“Is Miss Davenport expecting you?” he said, reaching for a telephone on a table by the door.
“No, she’s not.”
“Who shall I say is calling, miss?”
Penelope gave him her name and waited while he talked to someone on the other end of the line. Finally he replaced the receiver in the cradle and bowed slightly.
“This way, miss.”
They arrived at Charlotte’s study and the butler knocked on the door before opening it with a flourish.
Charlotte was behind her desk, staring glumly at the far wall. She gave a tired smile when she saw Penelope. She looked as if she hadn’t slept well for days—dark circles formed half-moons under her eyes and her shoulders sagged. She appeared to have lost weight, too—her black-and-white tweed dress and matching jacket looked big on her—a surprise since Charlotte’s clothes were usually impeccably tailored.
She got up from behind her desk and motioned Penelope to a chair. She glanced at her watch.
“I’m sorry, but we’ve got a luncheon for the American ambassador to attend in an hour, but I did want to see you. I could use some support.” She gave a wry smile. “I suppose you’ve seen the pictures?”
Penelope was tempted to deny it but didn’t.
“I was young and foolish.” Charlotte sighed wistfully. “And I needed money for college. I was a good student and already knew I wanted to become a writer, but attending college wasn’t something most girls who grow up in trailers in Kentucky get to do. But I was determined. The magazine offered me money—to me it seemed like a magnificent sum—but now it seems almost laughable. But it was easy money—a lot easier than pressing clothes at the dry cleaner in the heat and humidity of a Kentucky summer, which would have been my only other option.”
“Do you have any idea how the newspaper got hold of the magazine with those photographs?”
Charlotte held her hands out palms up. “I don’t. The magazine is twenty years old. I can’t imagine anyone saving a copy of it. Why would they?”
“A collector maybe?”
“I suppose that’s possible. But, then, why send it to the newspaper? Why wouldn’t they keep it?” Charlotte shook her head. “Someone did this to hurt me, I’m convinced.” She twisted her engagement ring around and around on her finger and the diamond flashed rainbows in the light. “Someone wants to tear Arthur and me apart. And they went looking for a way to do it.”
Penelope’s first thought was that the lady doth protest too much. Something about Charlotte’s insistence that she didn’t know how the newspaper got the magazine didn’t ring quite true.
Charlotte jumped to her feet and began pacing the room.
“People have been against me from the very beginning. One”—she counted the items off on her fingers—“I’m an American and they object to that. Two, I write romance novels—Regency-era bodice rippers, critics have called them. I’d like to think they are slightly more than that, but that’s neither here nor there. Three, everyone”—she turned and pointed a finger at Penelope—“everyone thought Arthur would or should pick them or their daughter to be his wife.”
Penelope hesitated. “Do you think there’s any chance that Regina Bosworth sent the newspaper those pictures?”
Charlotte stopped her pacing. Her face turned white.
Penelope had promised Katie that she wouldn’t say anything, but she needed to get at the truth.
“Your assistant said that she heard you talking with Regina at the fest and that you were crying. And that you’ve been crying ever since. Was she trying to blackmail you?”
Charlotte crumpled before Penelope’s eyes. She collapsed into a chair, buried her face in her hands, and began to cry quietly.
“She did. It was awful. She said if I didn’t leave Arthur, she would send that magazine with those old pictures to
that rag the Daily Star.” She looked up at Penelope. Her face was tearstained. She lifted her chin. “I told her to go right ahead—Arthur knows all about them and doesn’t blame me. He understands why I had to do it. He loves me.” She struck her chest with her fist. She began to cry again. “But for everyone else to see them.” She waved a hand around the room. “It’s so embarrassing. It’s a nightmare. I can’t begin to imagine what the rest of Arthur’s family is going to think.”
Penelope managed to calm Charlotte down before she left. But as she followed the butler back to the front door, she thought about the one question she hadn’t had the nerve to ask Charlotte.
Did she kill Regina?
* * *
* * *
So that gives both Charlotte and Worthington a motive for killing Regina,” Figgy said after Penelope had told her and Mabel about her conversation with Charlotte.
Penelope, Figgy, and Mabel were sitting at a booth in the back of the Book and Bottle.
All the seats at the bar were taken and men were standing two deep, nursing tankards of lager, some in overalls and others in jeans and sweaters or khaki pants and casual shirts.
It was after five o’clock on a Saturday night and the crowd was getting warmed up for the night ahead. Voices were rising and many were enthusiastically cheering the heated soccer match on the television between Manchester United and Liverpool.
Figgy ripped open a packet of salt-and-vinegar crisps and another of bacon-flavored fries, which Penelope was surprised to see looked more like chips or, she corrected herself, crisps.
Daphne was behind the bar, pulling pints and fetching plates of sausage rolls and pork pies from the kitchen for those after heartier fare.
“If Worthington already knew about those pictures, what motive would Charlotte have had for killing Regina?” Figgy leaned her elbows on the table and popped a salt-and-vinegar crisp into her mouth.
“Worthington might be willing to overlook Charlotte’s past, but that doesn’t mean the rest of the family will.” Mabel took a sip of her cider.
Murder in the Margins Page 14