Mabel looked at her with lowered brows. “Why do I think you’re up to something?”
Penelope threw her hands into the air. “I’m not. I’m just following up on something.”
“I suppose you should see a bit more of England while you’re here,” Mabel said with a twinkle in her eye. “Birmingham has several museums and some very interesting architecture. The Winterbourne House and garden should still be lovely at this time of year with all the leaves turning. You could spend the day.” She put the catalogue on a shelf under the counter. She glanced at her watch. “There’s a train from the Chumley station in an hour that will take you directly to Birmingham.”
* * *
* * *
And thus it was that Penelope found herself on the eleven fourteen train steaming its way north toward the city of Birmingham, the second-largest city in England. She had the address of the newspaper on a piece of paper in her purse and a list of places that Mabel thought she ought to see along with recommendations from Figgy for some pubs for lunch and a tea shop where she could get a cuppa before boarding the train back to Chumley.
Figgy had offered to drive Penelope to the station—it wasn’t far but if Penelope had tried to walk she might have missed the train. Even though Figgy was well acquainted with driving on the other side of the street—having done it all her life, unlike Penelope—it was still a hair-raising ride since she viewed speed limits and stop signs as mere suggestions, which she would either take or not according to her whim; and her shifting was slightly erratic depending on how much attention she was paying to the car and how much she was focused on her conversation with Penelope.
Penelope breathed a sigh of relief when they pulled in front of the Upper Chumley-on-Stoke station, which was a small brick Victorian building with one platform—trains running north and those running south switched tracks before entering the station. A large clock with roman numerals hung from a stanchion right outside and was permanently stuck at six o’clock—although whether that was six in the morning or six at night, no one knew or could remember.
Penelope waved good-bye to Figgy and went inside to buy her ticket. The man behind the counter was older with a luxurious gray mustache and the bearing of a retired army colonel. Penelope handed over several pound notes and her ticket was returned with brisk efficiency.
She had half expected the train to be like some of those she’d seen in televised versions of Agatha Christie’s Miss Marple series, but when it came chugging down the tracks, Penelope was surprised to see that it was quite modern.
The carriage was quite full—mostly men and women in suits heading north from London on business—but there were still plenty of seats scattered here and there, and Penelope managed to find one next to a window.
The doors were about to close when two women got on, laughing as they dashed across the threshold. Penelope thought she recognized them from the Women’s Institute meeting where Charlotte had spoken. They took seats in back of her just as the train began its slow crawl out of the Chumley station.
The train quickly picked up speed and Penelope gazed out the window at the scenery going past. The town was soon behind them, replaced by green fields rocketing by on either side of the train.
What was she doing? Penelope wondered. Was she off on a fool’s errand? Why couldn’t she leave well enough alone and let the police investigate Regina’s murder? Curse her infernal curiosity anyway! She thought again of how her father had often said that her middle name was trouble. The word repeated itself in her head in time to the chugging of the train . . . trouble . . . trouble . . . trouble.
Her thoughts were interrupted when one of the women behind her raised her voice, and a name—Nora Blakely—caught Penelope’s attention.
“She promised him she would stop,” one of the women said. She had a breathy, rather high-pitched voice.
“Yes. I heard he really put his foot down that time—gave her an ultimatum, he did.”
Was this about Nora’s drinking? Penelope wondered.
“Poor thing. Once the drink gets hold of you, it’s hard to get away from it.”
“No, it’s not easy. But she was causing him no end of trouble. He had to do something.”
“So now they’re getting a divorce?”
“I don’t know. But Harriet told me he said if she didn’t stop drinking, he was going to leave her.”
“I heard she lost her job because of her drinking.”
“Yes. Harriet said she didn’t tell him—just pretended to go to work every day as usual. Who knows where she spent her time.”
“But wouldn’t he expect to see her paycheck or the money deposited into their account? My husband pays all the bills and he knows where every penny comes from and where it goes. He knows if I so much as buy a Curly Wurly bar for fifty p.”
The train pulled into the next station and the women’s conversation was cut off. But Penelope was left wondering—had Regina threatened to tell Nora’s husband about her relapse if Nora didn’t lie about the Women’s Institute votes in Regina’s favor?
Poor Nora was certainly being squeezed—she had lost her job and was suspected of taking money from the Women’s Institute treasury plus she’d most likely fiddled the votes to help Regina become president—was it any wonder that the woman might have snapped?
* * *
* * *
The New Street train station in Birmingham couldn’t have been more different than Upper Chumley-on-Stoke’s solid Victorian edifice. It was a cavernous space with a soaring ceiling of glass panels positioned between steel ribs and boasted an extensive and rather exclusive shopping center.
Birmingham was a bustling city compared to sleepy Chumley—far more crowded and with a considerably faster pace. Penelope felt a bit like someone coming out of the dark and emerging into the light. It took her a few minutes to get her sea legs as she left the station and joined the crowd on the sidewalk outside. She had to laugh at herself—it hadn’t been that long since she’d been living in New York City and she was already settling into being a small-town girl.
A line of taxis idled outside the station. They filled up and took off one by one as people exited the train station. Penelope waited her turn and opened the door to the next taxi that pulled up.
“Hello, love,” the driver said.
He was wearing a black-and-white checked cap and had a forest of gray hair sprouting from his rather large and protruding ears. The inside of the cab was clean but worn and smelled of cherry tobacco.
“Where are you off to on this bright sunny day?”
Penelope gave him the address of the Daily Star.
“Ah, so you’re a reporter, are you?”
“No.” Penelope reached out a hand to brace herself as the cabbie went around a sharp bend. “I’m just running an errand.”
“You’re American, aren’t you?” the cabbie said, turning around to look at Penelope. “I can tell by your accent.”
“Yes,” Penelope admitted somewhat reluctantly.
“Never been,” the cabbie said, leaning on his horn when someone cut in front of him. “Great big place, it is. Wouldn’t know where to start.”
The cabbie flicked on his turn signal. “Is this your first trip to Birmingham?”
“Yes.”
“You’ll want to visit Cadbury World and see how the chocolates are made. The missus can’t get enough of their Double Decker bars.”
Penelope hadn’t thought of Cadbury in years. The chocolate cream-filled eggs had been a favorite and there had always been at least one in her Easter basket every year.
“Then there’s the Tolkien Trail—it’s a bit north of here. If you have time, you won’t want to miss that. Did you know the author lived in Birmingham?”
“No, I didn’t.”
Penelope glanced out the window. They were leaving the shops behind and w
ere entering a more industrial area. The cabbie turned a corner and pulled up in front of a no-nonsense-looking redbrick building with a large sign on the front that read Daily Star Publications.
“There you go, miss. It’s been lovely getting to know you.”
Penelope handed over the fare and got out. She stared up at the building. Here goes nothing, she thought.
The lobby was spare and utilitarian and smelled vaguely of ink and newsprint. A receptionist sat behind an old-fashioned metal desk, typing on a computer and fielding telephone calls. Penelope approached him and cleared her throat.
“Yes?” He pulled out his earbuds and tilted his head inquiringly.
He was wearing a lavender shirt with ruffles down the front and dark red pants, and had a thin gold bracelet around his rather bony left wrist. He ran a hand through his bright yellow hair.
“How can I help you, darling? Ronald Penrose at your service.”
“I have an appointment with Graham Peterson.” Pen tried to keep her voice from squeaking. Thankfully, Ronald couldn’t tell her palms were sweating.
“Third floor. His name’s on the door.” Ronald pointed behind him. “Elevator is over there.”
Penelope thanked him and headed toward the bank of elevators. She noticed that her hand was shaking as she pushed the button for the third floor. Courage, she told herself.
The elevator arrived on the third floor and noise washed over Pen as soon as the doors opened.
Row upon row of desks filled the open space with men and women seated behind them, staring intently at their computer screens, typing furiously or leaning toward their neighbor, chatting.
At the back of the room desks were partitioned by chest-high cubicle walls. Rodney had said Graham’s name was on the door so Pen headed toward them. There weren’t any doors per se, but labels with names on them were affixed to the fronts. Penelope went down the row until she found the one marked Graham Peterson.
Peterson was at his desk, the sleeves of his sweater pushed up and a pair of glasses perched on top of his head.
He looked up. “Can I help you?” He studied Penelope. “Are you a lawyer?” He shook his head. “I knew your sort would be around eventually.” He motioned toward the chair in front of his desk. “Have a seat.”
Penelope perched on the chair, which wobbled slightly. She planted both feet on the floor hoping to steady it.
She cleared her throat several times and then began to cough.
When she didn’t immediately stop coughing, Peterson began to look alarmed.
“Let me get you some water.” He sprang from his chair, sending it spinning, and sprinted from the cubicle.
Penelope immediately stopped coughing. She waited a beat and then moved to Peterson’s desk. She began to rifle through the array of papers spread across it, glancing over her shoulder every couple of seconds.
She heard a noise outside the cubicle and froze, her hand on a stack of files. A woman in a tan corduroy skirt walked past, her head bent over a piece of paper in her hand.
Penelope let her breath out in a whoosh and continued searching. She glanced behind her again and then pulled another stack of papers and folders closer and began to go through them. She caught a glimpse of the corner of a manila envelope and pulled it out.
It was the right size for mailing a magazine like the one that had printed Charlotte’s pictures. It was addressed to the Daily Star. She peered inside. It was empty but the postmark on the front was clear enough—it had been sent from Upper Chumley-on-Stoke.
Penelope tucked the envelope back into the pile of papers and walked out the entrance of Peterson’s cubicle. With any luck, she could make it to the elevator before he came back.
She was almost there when Peterson came around the corner, holding a cup of water. Penelope’s shoulder collided with his arm, and the water spilled all down the front of Peterson’s sweater.
“Hey,” he shouted as Penelope continued running.
She jabbed the button for the elevator repeatedly and jumped on as soon as the doors opened. Peterson stared at her openmouthed as the doors closed and she disappeared from view.
She flew past Ronald Wright’s desk and didn’t pause for breath until she was out of the building and several blocks away.
FIFTEEN
I hear Worthington is suing,” Figgy said.
The Open Book was preparing for business. Mabel was organizing the money in the cash register and Figgy and Penelope were standing around the counter, enjoying some of the fresh cottage loaf—a round loaf of bread with a smaller round on top—that Figgy had made that morning.
“That’s not surprising,” Mabel said, straightening a stack of twenty-pound notes. “Remember the French magazine that printed those topless photos of the Duchess of Cambridge when she was in Provence on vacation? They lost in court and were ordered to pay a tidy sum.”
Figgy snorted. “And how much did they make on that issue? Millions of pounds I should imagine. It probably more than made up for the inconvenience of being sued.”
“Did you enjoy your day in Birmingham?” Mabel said. “I hope you got to see Winterbourne House.”
“I did. And I made it to the Birmingham Museum. I saw the exhibit of Anglo-Saxon gold—the Staffordshire Hoard—which was stunning.”
Mabel looked at Penelope, one eyebrow raised. “So that’s why you went to Birmingham? To see the Staffordshire Hoard?”
Pen felt her face flush. “Not exactly,” she finally admitted. “I went to the Daily Star.”
“And?” Mabel said, both eyebrows raised now.
“I met with Graham Peterson.”
“The reporter who printed those pictures of Charlotte?”
“Yes.” Penelope cracked her knuckles. “The magazine with those pictures was sent from Upper Chumley-on-Stoke.”
“He told you that?” Mabel’s voice was incredulous.
“Not exactly.”
“Penelope Parish,” Mabel said sternly.
“The envelope happened to be on his desk.” Pen looked at her feet.
“And you happened to see it,” Mabel said.
“Yes.”
Mabel sighed. “I’m not even going to ask. I really don’t want to know.”
“But no name or return address?” Figgy sounded disappointed.
“I’m afraid not.”
Mabel stroked her chin. “That does tell us something, though, doesn’t it? Apparently the person who sent the magazine wasn’t looking to get paid for the story. They obviously had some other motive altogether.”
“What?” Figgy cut herself another piece of bread and slathered on some butter.
“Revenge?” Penelope said.
“Or, as we originally thought, the person was blackmailing Charlotte.” Mabel closed the cash register drawer. “She didn’t pay up—whether that was with money or something else—so the blackmailer, presumably Regina, carried through with the threat.”
* * *
* * *
Penelope spent most of the morning working on her manuscript and preparing for her writer’s group, which was meeting after lunch. She was marking up pages for each of the members and was horrified to see how much red ink there was on the paper. Was she being too hard on what was, after all, a group of amateur writers?
Did she really know enough about writing herself? A wave of self-doubt threatened to engulf her. She’d only had one book published and perhaps the fact that it had hit the bestseller list was a fluke and not because of any real talent on her part.
She was working herself into a frenzy for nothing, Penelope told herself. She tried doing some of the diaphragmatic breathing she’d learned from an opera singer she’d once dated for a few months. It worked surprisingly well. Slowly, her pulse returned to normal and she felt herself growing calmer.
Once she was feeling
herself again, Penelope gathered all her papers together in a folder and brought everything to the table where the group was to meet.
Someone had left a newspaper behind. Penelope picked it up planning to discard it when a headline caught her eye: Future Duchess Caught in Nude Pix and Murder Scandal.
Penelope sank into the nearest chair and began to read. It was a London paper, and it erroneously referred to Chumley as Lower Chumley-on-Stoke, but the truly horrifying part was the insinuation of a link between Charlotte Davenport and the murder of Regina Bosworth. The reporter seemed to believe it wasn’t a far reach to think that a woman who had once posed nude would be involved in a local murder.
Penelope was aghast. Poor Charlotte—she must be beside herself. She quickly stuffed the newspaper into the recycling bin as if that would somehow bury the story and took a seat at the table to wait.
Evelyn Maxwell-Lewis was the first to arrive, breezing in in her usual confident manner. She wasn’t wearing jodhpurs this time but rather the English country gentlewoman’s uniform of a well-worn Barbour jacket, plaid wool skirt, cashmere twin set, and pearls.
“So what did you think?” she said in her gruff voice, dropping into a chair at the table. “You’ve read my pages, I assume.”
Penelope swallowed hard. She had read them and frankly hadn’t known quite what to make of them.
Evelyn didn’t wait for an answer. “Shocking business about Charlotte Davenport, don’t you think? I was never quite on board with the match, mind you. I feared she wouldn’t understand our ways, but nude pictures! That is something I never expected.”
Penelope opened her mouth, but before she could say anything, Evelyn continued.
“I had breakfast with Arthur this morning to discuss the annual October pheasant shoot. I always look forward to it, and it’s a wonderful day spent outdoors.”
Doing what? Penelope couldn’t help but think. Shooting innocent birds?
“Apparently Arthur knew about the pictures already and of course he hoped they wouldn’t come out. But when he saw that article in the London paper this morning, he was positively livid. Hinting that Charlotte was somehow linked to Regina’s murder just because they lived in the same town.” Evelyn made a hissing sound.
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