“And I suppose Worthington might have done it for the same reason,” Figgy said. “After all, the queen could still try to persuade Worthington that the marriage is a mistake.”
“But either Regina did send them the magazine,” Penelope said, reaching for a crisp, “or someone else did after her death.” She frowned. “If we assume that Regina went to Charlotte at the fest with her threats of blackmail—that’s when her assistant heard her crying—then Regina wouldn’t have sent the magazine off yet. She’d be waiting to see what Charlotte would say and if Charlotte would give in to her demands. And then not long afterward, Regina was found dead. When would she have had time to post the magazine to the Daily Star I wonder?”
“If that’s the case, then maybe it wasn’t Regina who was blackmailing Charlotte,” Figgy said. She held up the last bacon-flavored fry. “Anyone?”
Penelope and Mabel both shook their heads.
Figgy popped the fry into her mouth. “But who else would want to break up Charlotte and Worthington?”
Mabel laughed. “Every female under forty in Upper Chumley-on-Stoke and every mother with a daughter, that’s all. Regina herself was entertaining dreams of pairing her daughter, Victoria, with Worthington.”
Penelope wrinkled her nose. “Wouldn’t that be an awfully weak motive for murder?”
“It seems like it, doesn’t it?” Mabel wiped a spot of condensation on the table with her napkin. “But people have committed murder for far less.”
Figgy giggled. “This is like playing that game where you have to guess who did it—was it the butler in the library with a candlestick?”
“I remember that,” Penelope said.
“We have nearly as many suspects.” Mabel pulled a tissue from her purse and dabbed her nose. “We have Charlotte and Worthington. Then there’s Nora Blakely, poor thing.”
Penelope looked over to the bar where Daphne was busy pulling a pint. She lowered her voice. “And don’t forget Daphne.”
“And Gordon,” Figgy added.
Mabel smiled. “We know the murder weapon and the location at least, so no need to guess those. All we need to figure out is who did it.” Mabel’s expression abruptly changed. “Of course Cluedo—I think you call it Clue in America—was a game and this isn’t. A real person is dead.” She shivered. “I do hope the police find out who did it.”
FOURTEEN
Penelope opened the door of the Book and Bottle and was tempted to duck back inside when she felt the sharp edge of the wind that had picked up while they were in the pub.
She wrapped her scarf around her neck and pulled her gloves from her coat pocket.
“Come over for a drink,” Figgy said as they stood in a pool of light thrown by one of the streetlamps. “I know we just had a drink, but I’m sure you can handle a small glass of wine. Besides, I have some lovely Stilton with mango you have to try.” Figgy shivered and turned her collar up. “Derek is coming over. He might be bringing a friend of his,” she added casually. “We’ll be quite a jolly little party.”
“Sure,” Penelope said, as they began to walk toward Figgy’s apartment. She should go back to her cottage and work, but she was in no hurry to face her manuscript. Outside activities were supposed to stimulate the imagination, weren’t they?
Figgy lived above Pierre’s Restaurant in what Penelope had heard the British call a bedsit and which would be called a studio apartment in the United States.
The brisk walk to Figgy’s apartment—Figgy walked the way she did everything else—fast—warmed Penelope, and by the time they arrived she had loosened her scarf and unbuttoned her coat. A narrow set of stairs led to the second floor and they could hear noise and commotion from Pierre’s—pots banging and raised voices—through the wall.
Figgy’s apartment might have been small, but she had made the most of the space with clever décor that utilized it perfectly. She had a Murphy bed on the far wall that left room for a sofa, armchair, and small dining table. An alcove off to one side held a sink, stove, refrigerator, and microwave.
Figgy’s quirky personality was evident in her choice of posters—dizzying op art pieces by Bridget Riley, the graffiti paintings of Jean-Michel Basquiat, and a Matisse drawing that indicated the breadth of her interest in art.
“What’s this?” Penelope said, pointing to a small piece on the wall. It didn’t look to be a poster but rather an original drawing.
Figgy flushed. “That’s mine. I’m afraid I’m something of an artist manqué.”
“It’s very good,” Penelope said, examining it more closely. “Are you still making art?”
Figgy looked away, out the small window at the other end of the room.
“No. There didn’t seem to be any point to it. I wanted to go to art college but my parents insisted on my reading history at Coventry.” She made a wry face. “And now I’m running a tea shop.”
“I never thought I could write a novel,” Penelope said. “I thought I was only fit to study the work of others.”
Once again, Penelope thought how amazing it was that she’d been able to produce not just a book, but one that hit the bestseller lists. Now if only she could do it again.
She squeezed Figgy’s arm. “You should give it a go. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, as my grandmother used to say.”
“That’s what Derek keeps telling me,” Figgy said. She sighed. “Maybe . . . someday.”
Penelope sniffed the air. “What’s that delicious smell?”
“Nothing I’m cooking, I’m afraid. It’s coming from Pierre’s downstairs. It’s tantalizing, isn’t it? Living here, I’m constantly hungry. But I can offer you a chilled glass of pinot grigio if you’d like.” Figgy headed toward the refrigerator.
She was arranging some cheese and crackers on a plate when the doorbell rang.
“That must be Derek and his friend.” She opened the door. “Oh.”
Derek, who was standing in the doorway, was quite obviously alone.
“I thought your friend was coming,” Figgy said, as he kissed her on the cheek.
“I’m sorry. Richard couldn’t make it. His boss called a last-minute meeting. He said to send his regrets.”
Penelope had met Derek once or twice before but was again struck by how attractive he was. It wasn’t so much a function of his features, which were fine but not out of the ordinary, but rather something about him—something almost magical. She supposed it was what people meant when they talked about charisma.
Figgy poured Derek a glass of wine and carried the cheese plate to the table in front of the sofa.
“Have you heard from your parents? When are they coming?” Derek turned to Penelope. “Figgy isn’t convinced that I can win her parents over.” He gave a cheesy smile.
Figgy gulped her wine and began to cough. “That’s not true,” she sputtered.
“Easy there.” Derek patted her on the back.
Finally Figgy caught her breath. “Soon. They haven’t said exactly when yet.”
Derek ran his hands through his hair. It was dark with a slight wave. He was dressed in a suit that looked as if it had been tailored on Savile Row although he had loosened his tie and unbuttoned his collar.
“How was your day?” Figgy said, handing him a cracker with cheese.
Derek blew out a puff of air. “Okay. Busy.” He munched on the cracker. He smiled at Penelope. “How are you enjoying England?”
“It’s lovely although it’s turned out to be more exciting than I expected.”
“Oh?” Derek said, raising his eyebrows.
“I’ve never been this close to a murder before; I’ve only written about them. It’s both horrifying and thrilling at the same time.”
“Have the police arrested anyone yet?” Derek reached for his wineglass. “I’m afraid I haven’t had time to read more than the business section of the
newspaper.”
“No, not yet,” Penelope said. “Unless they’re keeping it under wraps.”
“One of my clients was talking about it.” Derek stretched his legs out under the table. “News like that doesn’t usually reach the London papers—unless it’s something sensational—but our client lives here in Chumley. Do you know him—Sir Bertram Maxwell-Lewis?”
Penelope reached for a cracker. “That must be Lady Evelyn Maxwell-Lewis’s husband. She’s in my writing group.”
Derek pulled on the knot in his tie and loosened it further. “He said he doesn’t pay much attention to the goings on in Chumley—he spends so much of his time in London—but his wife knew the murder victim and has been following the story.”
“The victim—Regina Bosworth—was somewhat notorious,” Figgy said dryly. “She made it a point to know everyone who was anyone. There’s no way she would have missed making the acquaintance of Lady Maxwell-Lewis. She was positively potty about titles.”
Derek reached for the bottle of wine and offered it to Figgy and Penelope. “Maxwell-Lewis was quite vocal about her. His wife had complained to him about her more than once. This Bosworth woman was trying to get Lady Maxwell-Lewis to convince Sir Bertram to put Bosworth up for a knighthood.” Derek held up the empty bottle of wine “Shall I go fetch another one? I can run down to the Tesco.”
Figgy jumped up. “No need.” She smiled. “I have another one in the refrigerator.”
“Maxwell-Lewis was knighted for the work his company did in the development of some new vaccine,” Derek said. “I’ve forgotten exactly what it’s for. All very technical, and frankly I couldn’t make heads or tails of it. I barely scraped together an O level in science.”
“Regina certainly had a lot of nerve,” Figgy said, returning with a new bottle of wine. “I wouldn’t dream of asking someone to do that for me.” She handed it to Derek along with the corkscrew. “I don’t suppose Sir Bertram Maxwell-Lewis had any intention of even considering it.”
“But what if Regina had some information to use as leverage over Evelyn?” Penelope said, holding out her glass for a refill. “That’s what she tried to do to Charlotte Davenport. She collected people’s secrets and then used them against them to get what she wanted.”
Derek looked shocked. “You mean like blackmail? I’m pretty sure the Maxwell-Lewises are above reproach.”
“Oh, trust Regina to ferret out something,” Figgy said, licking a bit of cheese off her finger. “Everyone has a skeleton in their closet no matter how trivial.”
* * *
* * *
Sunday the skies were overcast and there was a powerful wind that shook the leaves from the trees and whistled down the chimney of Penelope’s cottage.
Penelope had invited Figgy for an early supper—or tea, as Figgy would probably call it. Mrs. Danvers followed Penelope back and forth between the kitchen and the sitting room, where Penelope was setting out plates, silverware, and napkins on the coffee table. She had been to the Jolly Good Grub gourmet shop for some cheeses—a blue-veined Stilton, an English cheddar with leeks, some chicken liver pâté, a loaf of crusty bread, some olives and a container of giardiniera salad.
They were planning to watch Imitation of Life on television—the original one with Claudette Colbert. It was a favorite of Penelope’s and Figgy had never seen it.
Penelope was throwing another log on the fire when the front door opened.
“Hello?” Figgy called from the foyer. “Should you be leaving the front door unlocked when there’s a murderer on the loose?”
Her hair, even as short as it was, had been tossed by the wind, and her cheeks and the end of her nose were pink, giving her the look of a rather tipsy elf.
“Mrs. Danvers would protect me,” Penelope said. “Right, Mrs. Danvers?”
Mrs. Danvers gave Penelope an incredulous look that clearly said every man or woman for themselves and then strutted off to bat at a leaf that had blown in when Figgy opened the front door.
“That fire looks heavenly,” Figgy said, standing in front of it and holding out her hands. “I nearly blew away out there. I half expected to find myself suddenly transported to Kansas. Something nasty is brewing, I’m afraid.” She unbuttoned her coat and tossed it on a chair.
“That looks delicious,” she said, pointing to the spread on the table, “and I’m starved.” She held out a paper bag. “I’ve brought us some plonk to go with it.”
Penelope raised an eyebrow as Figgy pulled the bottle of red wine from the bag.
“Plonk is cheap wine—usually red,” Figgy explained. “It’s vintage yesterday but I’ve had Dark Forest Estate before and it’s relatively decent.”
She plopped onto the sofa and helped herself to an olive.
Penelope turned on the television—there was a bit of static at first from the storm, no doubt—but finally it cleared and they settled in to watch the movie.
Penelope dabbed at her eyes and noticed Figgy doing the same as the final credits rolled.
“Aren’t we a bunch of old softies,” Penelope said, laughing.
Figgy smiled, but the smile didn’t reach her eyes.
“Is something wrong?” Penelope said.
“That was so sad.” Figgy sighed and slumped down farther in her chair. “For some reason it made me think of me and Derek. I don’t know what to do.” She turned to Penelope. Tears trembled on her lower lashes. “I told you my parents are planning to set a date to come and visit and they expect to meet Derek.” She balled up the paper napkin in her hands. “Derek and I nearly had a fight about it last night after you left. He’s convinced I’m embarrassed by him—because he’s Pakistani—but it’s not that. I’m not worried about my father—he’s a bit of an absentminded professor—he’s an anthropologist and has traveled all over and studied different cultures. But my mother is a different story. She’s a snob, I’m afraid, and she’s already disappointed that I’m not engaged to Arthur Worthington by now. How is she going to react to my dating Derek? But I love him, and I think he’s going to propose.” She sighed. “I’m darned if I do and darned if I don’t.”
“What do you mean?”
“If I do introduce him to my parents, I run the risk of them offending him, and if he blames me—which I hope he wouldn’t, but who knows—then it will end our relationship. If I don’t introduce him, and he finds out they were here visiting . . . he’s going to think that’s proof that I am embarrassed by him.” She looked at Penelope, her eyes wide. “And I’m not. I’m proud of what Derek has accomplished. He’s successful in his field, he does volunteer work, he helps old ladies cross the street.”
At that last, Figgy began to laugh and her face cleared. She was always in such buoyant good spirits that Penelope was surprised her funk had lasted as long as it had.
“You know how charming Derek is. I’m sure he will work his magic on them and bring them around.” Penelope smiled reassuringly.
Figgy raised her chin. “I guess my parents are just going to have to deal with it.”
* * *
* * *
Do you know where they publish the Daily Star?” Penelope said the next morning as she and Mabel were discussing which books to order from the winter sales catalogue.
“Birmingham, I believe. Why?”
“I’m wondering if the paper knows who sent that magazine with the pictures of Charlotte Davenport.”
“I doubt the person will have enclosed a calling card.”
“If they expected to get paid . . .”
“True.”
“Still, I think I will give them a call.”
Penelope ducked into her writing room and jiggled the mouse on her computer. The screen sprang to life. She went to her favorite search engine and typed in Daily Star, Birmingham, UK. She hit enter and the paper’s website popped up. Pen scribbled the telephone number do
wn on a piece of scrap paper, reached for her cell phone, and dialed.
She was about to hang up when someone finally answered.
“Daily Star,” they said brusquely.
Pen cleared her throat nervously. “Can I speak to Graham Peterson, please?” she said, asking for the reporter named in the story’s byline.
Penelope was put on hold. She examined her cuticles while she waited. She really ought to start putting cream on them. Beryl was constantly telling her that a lady had a duty to take care of her hands. The problem was, Penelope didn’t consider herself a lady—at least not in the sense that Beryl meant.
Finally her call was picked up and someone growled something indistinguishable into the receiver. Penelope thought the person said Graham speaking, or something like it, but she wasn’t sure.
“Are you the reporter who broke that story on Charlotte Davenport posing for those pictures?” Pen said.
“Are you a lawyer? Because if you are, then you need to call the legal department. And if you’re from another paper, all I can say is that I’m not giving up my sources.” And he banged the telephone down.
Penelope sat and stared at her cell phone for a minute. The reporter had asked if she was a lawyer. A plan began percolating in her mind. The old cliché was true after all—there was definitely more than one way to skin a cat.
* * *
* * *
Mabel turned a page in the catalogue and pointed to one of the covers. “Look. It’s Charlotte Davenport’s new book. “‘The Regency Rogue, the sequel to The Fire in My Bosom,’” Mabel read from the catalogue. “‘A tempting and tempestuous tale of treachery, lust, and love.’ Looks like it will be out on September fifth.” Mabel made a face. “That should hit the bestseller lists for sure.”
“If Charlotte finishes it. This whole affair had been interfering with her writing, she said.”
“She’s a professional. She’ll do it.” Mabel closed the catalogue.
“I’m thinking of going to Birmingham,” Pen said.
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