Penelope recognized him from her visits to the pub. She assumed he was the owner.
“Sorry, miss, we’re closed.” He leaned on the mop. “And if you’re here to sell me something, I don’t need it. I’ve got my regular suppliers—I’ve been doing business with them since I took over the pub from my father—and I have no intention of changing.”
“I’m not selling anything. I just wanted to ask you a question.”
He scowled. “You might as well come in, then.” He held the door for her.
He was wearing a worn plaid flannel shirt, jeans with patches on the knees, and a pair of mud-spattered black Wellingtons.
He gestured to them. “Pardon the boots. Been cleaning up a mess in the gents. Broken pipe sent water spraying everywhere.” He sighed. “It’s always something. Know what I mean?”
The interior of the pub looked different with all the lights on. The shabbiness of some of the upholstery was apparent along with the smoke stains on the walls although now smoking was no longer allowed. A woman was behind the bar, swabbing it down with soap and water. She looked up briefly when Penelope walked in, glanced at her boss, then went back to what she was doing.
“The name is Daniel Barber, by the way.”
“Penelope Parish.” Penelope took a deep breath. “You had a booth at the fest,” she began.
“Yes.” A wary look came over Barber’s face. “So did a lot of people.”
“Was Daphne Potter at the booth that day?”
Now Barber’s expression turned angry. “No, she wasn’t. She was supposed to be but at the last minute she claimed she had to take her sister to hospital and couldn’t work. I ended up manning the booth myself and pulling pints all day when I was supposed to take the missus to Ipswich to see her mother who had been taken into care after breaking her hip.” He scowled. “The wife wasn’t half angry that I had to work. She said what’s the point of being the boss when you end up doing all the work yourself?”
“So Daphne didn’t show up at all?”
Barber shook his head. “Nope.”
Had Daphne really been at the hospital? Penelope wondered as she left the Book and Bottle. Or had she snuck into the fest and murdered Regina?
* * *
* * *
Penelope still needed to mail off the scarf she’d bought her sister for her birthday. Mabel had scrounged up an appropriately sized box for the present, which Penelope had managed to wrap after much wrangling with the Scotch tape. It looked a bit sad, she thought—she never could get the paper on straight or tie the ribbon without getting her finger caught. She sighed. It was the best she could do. Beryl was a perfectionist—her gifts always looked as if they’d been professionally wrapped—but at least Penelope was confident she would like what was inside.
It was quiet in the Open Book—a handful of people were browsing the shelves and one person was sitting in the corner with a laptop nursing a container of coffee—so she decided to make a quick run to the post office.
The weather was milder than it had been for a few days, and Penelope was able to leave her coat open and her scarf trailing untied from her neck. As she passed shop after shop, she tried to avoid thinking about the fact that she was secretly hoping to run into Maguire again and she had to squash a feeling of disappointment when she arrived at the post office without seeing him.
Penelope found it quite charming that the post office was actually a small counter inside the Sweet Tooth. The downside of the location was having to traverse all the aisles of delectable candy and chocolate without succumbing to temptation. She passed a bin filled with colorful Swedish fish that brought back memories of buying bags of them in the grocery store and then smuggling them into the movie theater, giggling wildly with her friends as they scooted past the ticket taker and declared themselves home free.
A short line had formed in front of the one clerk who was doling out stamps and weighing packages. Penelope helped herself to a chocolate sample set out on a plate nearby. Waiting in a line at a post office inside a candy store certainly had its compensations.
She never did mind waiting in lines—it gave her the opportunity to think without anyone—with raised eyebrows—asking her what she was doing (nothing, according to them) or being made to feel guilty for “not joining in.” Some of her best plot ideas had come to her while standing in a line, which was very productive for a writer but not something many other people would understand.
The woman in front of Penelope moved slightly to the left, shifting her brown trilby, and Penelope was able to catch a glimpse of the postmistress. She was surprised to recognize Victoria Bosworth, Regina’s daughter. She wasn’t a pretty woman but Penelope supposed she was the sort who might be called handsome. She had strong features and marked brows that were like straight lines over her brown eyes.
Her dark hair was cut in a short bob and she wore no makeup. Her movements, as she stamped the woman’s packages, were swift and efficient.
Finally the customer’s mail was all weighed, stamped, and transferred to a bin on the counter behind Victoria and it was Penelope’s turn. She put her package on the counter. Victoria glanced at the label.
“You must be the American who’s working at the Open Book.”
If you want to hide, don’t try to do it in a small English village, Penelope thought.
“Yes,” she said. “You’re Regina’s daughter, aren’t you? I’m very sorry for your loss.”
The platitude sounded inadequate, but Penelope didn’t know what else to say.
Victoria briefly ducked her head. “Thanks.” She put Penelope’s package on the scale and watched as the needle registered the weight. “That will be five pounds, please.”
Penelope got out her wallet and removed a five-pound note. As she handed it to Victoria, she noticed Victoria was wearing a ring with a small diamond on her left hand.
“Are you engaged? Your ring is lovely.”
Victoria looked pleased. “Yes. Ronnie asked me on my birthday a month ago.” She frowned. “My mother wasn’t terribly pleased—she’s never approved of Ronnie—but he’s a good man and we’re happy.” She leaned her elbows on the counter. “My mother was seriously hoping that Worthington would take an interest in me. Can you imagine?” She rolled her eyes. “No, I’m perfectly content with my Ronnie. We haven’t set a date yet but are planning a spring wedding. Nothing fancy, mind you, just a few friends to celebrate with us.”
Victoria certainly seemed like the chatty type, Penelope thought. That surprised her—she’d read so much about the famous English reserve but everyone she’d met so far had been warm and friendly. She wondered if she dared introduce the subject of the magazine mailed to the Daily Star. Perhaps Victoria knew something about it.
“You didn’t happen to mail a package to the Daily Star in Birmingham, did you?”
“Not for a customer, no.” Victoria frowned. “But I did mail a package for my mother to that address. It was sitting on her desk so I picked it up and brought it with me to post.”
“Do you know what was in it?”
Victoria shook her head. “No. I figured it wasn’t any of my business. I just brought it to work with me, weighed it, put a stamp on it, and tossed it in the bin to be collected with the rest of the mail.”
That solved one riddle, Penelope thought as she left the Sweet Tooth. Victoria had been the one to mail the package to the Daily Star, which undoubtedly contained the magazine with Charlotte’s pictures. It would be too much of a coincidence to think that two people in Chumley had mailed something to the newspaper around the same time.
But she had to wonder—did Victoria really not know what she was sending off?
SIXTEEN
So Victoria is the one who mailed that magazine to the Daily Star,” Mabel said when Penelope returned to the Open Book. “That solves that. But what I’d like to know is how did Regina
get hold of that magazine in the first place? She’d hardly have bought Men’s Fancy for herself.”
“Maybe it was Gordon’s?” Penelope said, helping herself to one of the shortbread cookies Figgy had left for them on a plate on the counter.
“Possibly. But I can’t see Regina allowing Gordon to read something like that. The poor man was bullied half to death. Plus, the magazine was nearly twenty years old. Surely Regina would have rooted it out and gotten rid of it shortly after their marriage. And if not then, certainly by now.” Mabel ran a hand through her unruly white hair. “Poor Gordon. Apparently he wasn’t even allowed to go into his own bureau drawers—Regina put his clothes away for him so he wouldn’t disturb her elaborate folding method. He wouldn’t have been able to hide something like that magazine at home.”
“Then maybe he kept it at work.” Penelope finished the last bite of her cookie.
“But why bring it home with him, then? He had to know Regina would find it eventually.” Mabel drummed her fingers against her chin. “No, I think Regina came by it some other way.” She shrugged. “We may never know.”
“By the way, have you had a chance to speak to Worthington about India’s situation?” Penelope brushed some crumbs from her top. “I can’t stop worrying about her.”
“Yes, I did. He was quite grateful. He said he didn’t realize she was struggling to quite that extent. He’s looking for a way to make things easier for her without offending her. India can be quite prickly. She views herself as part of the aristocracy and that means keeping up appearances at all cost.”
The bell over the door tinkled and the door opened. “Hello,” India called out.
Penelope and Mabel jumped apart as if they had been caught doing something wrong and Mabel’s greeting to India was a bit more effusive than usual to cover her embarrassment.
India was wearing the plaid skirt and twin set Penelope had seen her wearing previously, only this time she noticed the wear at the hem of the skirt and the neatly darned spot on the cardigan.
“I’ve been enjoying that biography of Churchill by Andrew Roberts you recommended,” India said. “I’m so grateful you found me that used copy.” She joined Penelope and Mabel at the counter. “What a man!” She sighed. “They don’t seem to make them like that anymore, do they?”
“Oh, to be fair, I suppose there are a few here and there,” Mabel said.
India glanced at the cookies on the counter. She quickly snaked out a hand, plunked one from the plate, and slipped it into her purse.
Penelope supposed she was saving it for her tea later, but it brought back all her worries about India’s situation. She hoped Worthington really did plan to do something.
“There’s soon going to be quite a bit of excitement in our little corner of the world,” India said.
Mabel raised an eyebrow. “Regina’s murder wasn’t exciting enough?”
“You’re quite right, of course. That was exciting in a rather horrid way. A bit of excitement we could have lived without.” A small frown appeared between India’s brows. “Certainly Regina’s murder wasn’t something one expected to happen in Upper Chumley-on-Stoke.”
“You haven’t told us what this new excitement is going to be,” Penelope said, reaching a hand out for another cookie. She realized her breakfast that morning had been a cup of English breakfast tea and she hadn’t had any lunch yet even though it was after noon already. No wonder her stomach was growling.
India fingered the ancient yellowing pearls around her neck. “This is rather embarrassing”—she gave a forced laugh—“but I have to admit to watching that BBC show Resurrected—Unsolved Crimes Then and Now. It’s my guilty pleasure, I’m afraid.” She clasped her hands together and sighed.
“I’ve watched that show,” Mabel said. “The reporters try to track down the solution to old crimes.”
India beamed. “Yes. And one of those reporters is coming here, to Upper Chumley-on-Stoke.” Her face turned slightly pink.
Mabel looked confused. “I didn’t realize there were any unsolved crimes in Upper Chumley-on-Stoke.” She picked up the last cookie from the plate and took a bite. “Of course I haven’t lived here forever, so maybe it was before my time?”
India pursed her lips. “The crime didn’t necessarily take place here.” She pointed out the window to the high street. “The reporter could be following a clue that has led them to Chumley.”
Penelope shivered. “Does that mean we might have a criminal living right here in Chumley? Someone who got away with murder and was never arrested for it? Other than whoever killed Regina, of course.”
“That’s exactly it,” India said somewhat breathlessly. “It could be anyone. A neighbor or a clerk at the Tesco or the hygienist at your dentist’s office.”
“Let’s just hope it’s not the dentist.” Mabel laughed.
“That does sound exciting, though,” Penelope said. “Do you think the reporter will be able to flush the person out?”
India tapped her index finger to her head. “They’re smart. They’ve caught a number of people so far, including one man who murdered his tennis partner twenty years ago.”
“Maybe they’ll figure out who murdered Regina,” Penelope said.
* * *
* * *
It was nearly two o’clock by the time Penelope ran across the street to the Pig in a Poke to pick up her Cornish pasty.
“We’d just about given up on you, love,” Gladys said as she wrapped the steaming-hot savory pasty in a piece of butcher paper. “But I’ve saved one for you.” She handed Penelope the pasty in a white paper bag that had the outline of a pig on the front in black ink. “Mind, that’s hot now. Be careful you don’t burn yourself.”
“Don’t worry,” Penelope said handing over the money.
She held the paper bag close as she left the shop. The warmth felt good. She’d dashed out of the Open Book without bothering with her coat and it was quite brisk out.
She walked past Brown’s Hardware and glanced at the display of rakes in the front window and the paper leaves of different colors that were taped to the glass.
It would be safer to cross the street in front of the Crown Jewels—the local jeweler—where there was a pedestrian crossing. There wasn’t much traffic on the high street at this hour, but people came whipping around the corner terribly fast and Penelope had already witnessed a near accident in front of the newsstand when a gentleman in a tomato-red Triumph Spitfire had nearly hit an elderly lady crossing the street at a turtle-like pace.
Penelope stopped to look in the window of the Crown Jewels. She wasn’t particularly attracted to jewelry for its own sake although she did cherish the few pieces she had that had special meaning to her—the small gold cross from her godmother when she made her Confirmation at Calvary Episcopal Church, the silver ring she’d bought herself when she backpacked through Ireland, and the thin gold chain her first boyfriend had given her for Christmas the year they were dating.
The display in the Crown Jewels window was interesting, however, as it was an exhibit of antique silver snuffboxes made in Sheffield, England, in the late eighteenth century.
Penelope sensed someone passing close by her and turned around. It was Lady Evelyn Maxwell-Lewis.
“They’re quite lovely, aren’t they?” Evelyn said, standing next to Penelope and pointing to the display in the window. “These were made in Sheffield, but by the early nineteenth century, the silver industry started to blossom in Birmingham. Box makers like Samuel Pemberton began producing oblong containers decorated with purely British images like castles and abbeys.”
A movement in the shop must have caught Evelyn’s eye.
“Look,” she exclaimed. “Isn’t that Daphne Potter with Regina’s husband, Gordon?”
Penelope peered through the glass. “Yes, it is.”
Daphne was standing at the c
ounter with Gordon Bosworth. She appeared to be trying on gold bracelets. Penelope watched while Gordon fastened one with gold links around her wrist and Daphne held her hand up to admire it.
“Good heavens,” Evelyn exclaimed.
Penelope felt slightly self-conscious lingering in front of the window, but she wanted to see what was going to happen.
“I can hardly believe my eyes,” Evelyn said, squinting through the glass. “Does that woman have no shame?”
“Do you suppose Daphne is helping Gordon pick out a present for Victoria? Perhaps it’s for her birthday or a wedding present?”
They waited and watched, but Daphne didn’t take the bracelet off. Instead, Gordon handed over a credit card and waited while the clerk rang up the sale. Daphne smiled at Gordon and leaned over and gave him a chaste kiss on the cheek.
“The nerve of that woman,” Evelyn exclaimed. “With Regina hardly cold in her grave. Not that I gave a jot for Regina, troublemaker that she was, but one must have a sense of propriety after all. You’d think Gordon would know better, but then I think his background is—how shall I put this—rather common.”
Evelyn lifted her chin. “I still have to see Mr. Witherspoon about restringing a necklace. It’s been in the family for several generations, and it needs a bit of repair.” Evelyn moved away from the window and began walking toward the door of the Crown Jewels. “Ta-ta,” she waved to Penelope. “I’ll see you at our writing group meeting next week. I’ve made quite a bit of progress on my manuscript. I think you’ll be pleased.”
Penelope moved away from the window as well, looked up and down the street, and crossed over to the other side. She hoped Daphne hadn’t seen her and Evelyn. She didn’t think so. Besides, so what? They’d been looking at the display of snuffboxes in the window. There was nothing wrong with that.
But it looked as if their original assessment of Daphne and Gordon’s relationship was wrong. Daphne wasn’t simply tolerating Gordon’s attentions, she was actively enjoying them.
Murder in the Margins Page 18