“Yes.” Penelope dug a card with the Open Book’s telephone number on it from her purse and handed it to Noah. “You can reach her anytime after nine o’clock.”
“Thank you.” Noah pocketed the card. “And if you learn anything that might prove useful to our investigation, could you let me know?”
“Of course, “Penelope said as she got up to leave.
She hoped Mabel would agree to let them film in front of the shop. It would be good advertising for the Open Book and ought to prove interesting as well.
EIGHTEEN
They want to film in front of the Open Book?” Mabel said the next day when Penelope told her about her conversation with Noah Spencer. “I don’t see why not. How exciting. And wonderful exposure for the store.”
“He said he would call you this morning,” Penelope said, picking a currant out of the Chelsea bun she’d bought at Icing on the Cake on her way to work.
“India will be right chuffed to hear that her favorite show will be filming here.” Mabel leaned her elbows on the counter. “It really is an intriguing story—a young girl suspected of arson—and I suppose you could say murder, too, since someone died in the fire—disappearing afterward. Suspected of the crime but never charged or proven either, for that matter.”
“I wonder where she went.” Penelope licked some sugar off her fingers. “She could be with her parents, I suppose. Which wouldn’t be much of a mystery at all.”
“I don’t know.” Mabel frowned. “If the parents knew she’d set the fire, wouldn’t they want to do something about it? Even if they’d shielded her from the law at the time, they must have realized she needed help. She had to have been mentally unwell.”
“Hopefully they took her to a competent psychiatrist,” Penelope said, crumpling up the piece of glassine from her bun and tossing it into the trash can.
“I wonder,” Mabel said, and paused. “I know what I might have done in those circumstances—have the girl placed in a mental hospital where she wouldn’t be a danger to anyone and might get the help she needed.” Mabel tapped her lip with her index finger. “They might even have made a deal with the police so that the girl got locked up in a psychiatric facility instead of being locked up at Holloway women’s prison.”
Mabel shuddered. “Frankly, I wouldn’t care to be locked up in either, but a hospital would be far better than prison I should imagine.”
Penelope felt a shiver go down her spine. “The thought of being locked up anywhere is horrible.”
* * *
* * *
Penelope was in her writing room, plugging away on her manuscript. It was going quite well—Annora had sussed out another clue as to the location of the hidden chest she had set out to find. She wished that her own detective work was going as well. She felt as if she were going down one blind alley after another when something suddenly occurred to her. She couldn’t imagine why she hadn’t thought of it sooner.
She grabbed her purse and rummaged around until she found her phone. She flipped through the photographs. There it was—Compton Lane, Northampton.
Why had Regina written down that address? What did it mean? It might not mean anything at all but so far everything in the notebook had panned out one way or another. Besides, Hadleigh House was in Northampton—there was bound to be a connection.
Penelope supposed there was only one way to find out—she’d have to go to Northampton and see for herself.
Thus it was that Penelope found herself on the train again—only to Northampton this time—later that morning. She leaned her head against the window and dozed lightly as the train rattled north and awoke with a jolt when she sensed the train slowing down as it pulled into Northampton station.
She retrieved her handbag—more oversized tote bag than dainty clutch—and followed the other passengers off the train.
She was in a bit of daze as she stood on the sidewalk outside the station looking for a taxi. She was going to check out the address in Regina’s notebook and then she planned to head to the Northamptonshire Central Library where they ought to have an archive of the Northampton Chronicle & Echo, the local daily newspaper. She hoped to find some articles about the house fire that might add to her research.
A taxi pulled up to the curb and Penelope slid into the backseat. The car was spotlessly clean with an air freshener stuck discreetly to one of the doors. The driver was an older woman with close-cropped, iron-gray hair and dangling beaded earrings. She was wearing a denim jacket that had been rubbed thin in spots, and her hands on the steering wheel were large and mannish with blunt nails.
“I’m going to Compton Lane, please,” Penelope said as she pulled the door closed.
The woman swiveled around. “American?”
“Yes.”
“Visiting someone?”
“Not exactly. I’m doing some research actually.”
“Off we go, then,” the cabbie said, putting the car in gear and pulling away from the curb.
Ten minutes later they turned down a road with a sign announcing that it was Compton Lane. Tall, dense trees lined either side of the road. Traffic noise had retreated into the distance and Pen could hear birds singing and the rat-a-tat-tat of a woodpecker.
“It’s terribly quiet, isn’t it?” she said.
The cabbie swiveled around. “I suppose the quiet is good for them.”
Good for them? Who were they? Where were they going?
Finally they came to a driveway and headed down it. The drive wound around until they came to a clearing with a large, forbidding-looking building in the center. A discreet plaque next to the front entrance read Arbor View.
“What is this place?” Penelope said.
The cabbie turned around and looked at her. “You don’t know? It’s a psychiatric facility. My old auntie used to work here as a cleaner.”
“Do you think she would know something about the Hadleigh House fire?”
“Now that was a terrible scandal. Burned to the ground it was and the poor maid killed.”
“Did they ever find out how the fire started?”
The cabbie shook her head. “No, but they suspected the daughter, although they couldn’t prove it. Auntie told me that shortly after the fire, a young girl was brought in to Arbor View late at night. It was all very secret and hush-hush, but Auntie suspected it was the daughter and they were hiding her away until the furor died down.”
“Does your aunt know what happened to the girl? The BBC is doing a segment on it for their show Resurrected—Unsolved Crimes Then and Now.”
“You’re with the BBC then? Do you know why they canceled Birds of a Feather? A wonderful show it was—Auntie and I used to watch it while having our tea. It always made us laugh. Of course, ITV picked it up and we were that disappointed when they canceled it as well.”
Penelope certainly wasn’t with the BBC, but she decided that it served her purposes to let that slide.
“Auntie could tell you more about the Hadleigh House fire, I’m sure. Would you like to meet her? It would liven her day no end, I can tell you that.”
Penelope couldn’t believe her luck. “Yes, I’d love to meet her. Is she home now?”
* * *
* * *
The cabbie’s aunt lived in a council flat not far away and in minutes they were pulling up to a utilitarian-looking brick building with white trim.
“Auntie has the ground floor apartment since she can’t do the stairs anymore,” the cabbie said as she opened Penelope’s door.
The woman who answered the door was bent over a cane and had sparse white hair that revealed glimpses of her freckled scalp. Her blue eyes were sharp, though, and Penelope hoped that her memory was as well.
“Aunt Josie, this is . . .” The cabbie turned to Penelope.
“Penelope Parish.” She held out her hand and the woman grasped it. H
er fingers were cold to the touch.
“Penelope is with the BBC,” the cabbie said. She turned toward Penelope. “I’m Bernadette, by the way.” She showed them into a small sitting room.
Penelope felt another twinge of conscience over allowing the lie that she worked for the television network to continue, but she managed to quash it.
The sitting room was stuffed with furniture that looked as if it had once belonged in a larger space, and nearly every surface was covered with a crocheted doily.
“I’ll put the kettle on, shall I?” Bernadette said as she bustled off.
Josie lowered herself onto a royal-blue velvet sofa and leaned her cane against the coffee table in front of it.
“This is a treat,” she said, beaming at Penelope. “Bernadette and I watch all of your shows. We loved Birds of a Feather and were so disappointed to hear that even ITV had canceled it. Bernadette would get a takeaway curry for us and we’d have our tea while we watched the show.”
Bernadette bustled into the room with a tray of tea things.
“Here we go,” she said cheerfully as she filled teacups and handed them around.
“Penelope is doing a story about the Hadleigh House fire,” Bernadette said. “It’s going to be on that true crime show.” She glanced at Penelope with her eyebrows raised.
“Resurrected—Unsolved Crimes Then and Now,” Penelope said, feeling that twinge of conscience again.
“Are you going to be on the telly, dear?” Josie said, peering at Penelope. “I don’t think I’ve seen you before.”
Penelope smiled. “I’m strictly behind-the-scenes, I’m afraid.”
“I told Penelope you worked at Arbor View,” Bernadette said, stirring a third spoonful of sugar into her tea. The delicate teacup looked out of place in her large hands.
Josie smiled, settled back in her seat, and folded her hands in her lap. “Yes, I started there as a young girl and eventually became head cleaner. We moved here to Northampton for Jeremy’s job—he got a position at the Timkin Roller Bearing Factory—and I wanted something to do. We never had any children and I couldn’t see staying home all day watching soap operas on the telly like some of them. I stayed at Arbor View until I retired. Jeremy was gone by then. I didn’t need all that space we had in our house, so that’s when I moved here to Cardigan Close.”
“I think Penelope would like to hear about the Hadleigh House fire,” Bernadette said. “You once said they brought a young girl in who you thought might be the daughter suspected of setting the fire. Do you remember?”
“Yes, I remember. Of course, I do. It was very late at night. A stormy night—rain coming down in sheets and the wind so fierce it rattled the windows. I was working late that night. Several of the girls had come down with the flu—it swept through the place like wildfire—so the rest of us pitched in where we could. I was mopping the floors when the door opened and they brought in this poor young girl. They tracked in all manner of mud and leaves and I had to mop the floor all over again.”
“What can you tell me about the girl?” Penelope said.
“Not much, I’m afraid. She looked as if she had been sedated. I’ve seen that often enough to recognize it.” Josie’s eyes took on a faraway look. “One of her hands was bandaged, I do remember that. We all wondered if she had been burned in the fire.” Josie smiled. “Always assuming it was the same young woman.”
Josie picked up her teacup and it rattled in the saucer. Bernadette half rose from her seat, but Josie motioned for her to stay put.
“I can manage, dear,” she said. “The girl was quite tall. I remember noticing that she was taller than one of the men who had accompanied her. And what you’d call big-boned, I believe. She looked like a strong, strapping country girl.” Josie laughed. “Funny because you always think of those aristocratic lasses as being dainty will-o’-the-wisps.”
“Did she stay long?” Penelope said, putting down her teacup.
“It was a number of years later when I went to mop her room and found it empty. I don’t know if she left or she was moved somewhere else. I imagine she would have been close to eighteen years old by then.”
“Do you happen to know her name?” Penelope said hopefully.
“No, but I did hear one of the nurses calling her Georgie once,” Josie said.
* * *
* * *
Penelope was tired by the time she boarded the return train to Upper Chumley-on-Stoke. She’d managed a visit to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, where she’d marveled at the remains of the Norman window in the nave. She’d also gone to Althorp, which had been deeply moving. She was only six years old when the Princess of Wales had been killed in the car accident, but she remembered watching the footage on television of Diana’s life and had imagined herself as a princess, marching around the house wearing a plastic crown that said Happy Birthday on it, which she’d gotten at her sixth birthday party.
Penelope once again dozed off on the train, this time dreaming about a burning house and a girl named Georgie who was inexplicably fleeing the fire in a ball gown and a diamond- and pearl-encrusted crown.
She shook herself awake as they neared Chumley and gathered her things together. A number of people got off with her and they all filed into the station waiting room making it seem crowded.
Penelope thought she saw a familiar face in the crowd and when she looked again, she realized it was Evelyn Maxwell-Lewis. She appeared to be waiting for someone. She noticed Penelope, gave a small smile, and then glanced at the arrivals board, which was modern and electric and looked out of place in the old station. Evelyn frowned, looked at Penelope again, and then turned away when someone called her name.
For some reason, the encounter gave Penelope an uneasy feeling. She couldn’t figure out why but she soon forgot it as she found her car in the car park and headed home.
Mrs. Danvers was by the door when Penelope opened it but then stalked off in high dudgeon to sulk under the coffee table, her long tail swishing back and forth.
Penelope hung up her coat and kicked off her shoes. She was pleased to see that Ashlyn had swept the grate and laid a new fire. Penelope lit the kindling and stood back and watched as the flames leapt up and licked the logs placed on top.
She was heading toward the kitchen to see what she might be able to rustle up for dinner when she remembered she’d turned the ringer off on her cell phone when she’d toured the Holy Sepulchre. She was tempted to leave it till later but found herself picking up her purse and retrieving the phone without even thinking about it. No wonder people complained that millennials were too attached to their electronic devices.
She had a missed a call from Miles and there was a voice mail waiting. Penelope sighed, tapped the voice mail icon, and put the phone to her ear.
There was a lot of background noise—people talking, glasses rattling—was Miles in a bar? Penelope wondered. Finally, Miles’s voice came on. The gist of the message was that he was in London on business and would be driving down to Chumley the following day to see Penelope.
Penelope groaned and put her phone down on the table. She should have been thrilled that Miles was coming to see her, but the feelings she was experiencing were just the opposite. Why now? Why did he have to spring this on her like this?
She’d barely given him a thought since arriving in England and had actually been slightly relieved that the writer-in-residence position had allowed her to put their relationship on hold. And now he would be here and she’d have to deal with things. She’d have to be a full-fledged grown-up and tell him it was over. It was only fair she let him go so that he could be snatched up by some Isla or Binky or Tinsley. Penelope had no doubt that they were just biding their time and waiting patiently for Miles and Penelope to break up in order to pounce.
Miles had told her to make a dinner reservation at the best restaurant in town. The Chumley Chippie fl
ashed through Penelope’s mind and she had to stifle a laugh. Unfortunately Pierre’s was still closed for repairs. She’d take him to the Book and Bottle, Penelope decided. It was authentic—the layers of grime on the walls and floor had been built up over more than a century—unlike so many of the flashy upstart pubs in London whose purpose was to attract businessmen with expense accounts and which the Brits thumbed their noses at.
Besides, Worthington was supposedly a patron. If it was good enough for royalty, surely it should be good enough for Miles.
Penelope put the thought of Miles out of her mind and went into the kitchen where she poked her head in the refrigerator. She had a wedge of Stilton and one of cheddar along with some crusty bread and the remains of some red wine. It would make a perfectly adequate dinner, she decided.
She put everything on a tray and carried it into the sitting room by the fire. She put the tray on the coffee table, sat down, and reached for her laptop. She ought to get a little writing done while she was at it.
Penelope nibbled on a crust of bread spread with some Stilton and put her fingers on her laptop keys. She managed a paragraph or two before her mind began wandering to what she’d learned during her trip to Northampton.
Josie had said she thought the girl brought into the psychiatric hospital after the fire had been named Georgie. Why did that name ring a bell? Penelope couldn’t put her finger on it, but she was convinced it was important.
NINETEEN
Penelope had planned to spend the morning writing but had barely completed a paragraph before she became distracted—looking through magazines and newspapers she’d set aside to be recycled, gazing out the window, watching as Mr. Patel was pulled down the street by his French bulldog and heading out to the kitchen to make a second cup of tea. When she found herself, sponge in hand, cleaning the kitchen sink, she realized there were too many distractions around for her to get any writing done.
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