She would head to the Open Book where her writing room presented her with four walls—the paintings hung on them had already been thoroughly examined—and no curtains to be straightened, windows to look out of, or sinks to be cleaned.
She grabbed her coat and laptop and was soon walking briskly down the high street.
“What brings you in so early on a Saturday?” Mabel said when Penelope entered the shop.
“I must get some writing done,” Penelope said, as she pulled off her gloves and blew on her cold hands. “There are too many distractions around the cottage, I’m afraid.”
“Can you spare a minute for a chin wag?” Mabel said. “Figgy’s got the tea going. You look like you could use a cup to warm you up.”
“Yes, certainly,” Penelope said.
Figgy bustled over with the tea cart, the wheels giving an ungodly screech as she neared the front desk.
Mabel pointed at it. “That could do with a bit of oiling I should think.”
Figgy poured the tea and handed around the mugs. Penelope held hers up and let the warm steam bathe her face.
“How did your trip go yesterday?” Mabel said. “Did you enjoy Northampton?”
Penelope helped herself to one of Figgy’s Chelsea buns. She’d already had her breakfast, but they looked too delicious to pass up. Not for the first time, she thanked her ability to eat without gaining weight.
“Althorp was lovely and I’m so glad I was able to visit it. The Holy Sepulchre as well.”
“Was this sightseeing or were you chasing a clue?” Figgy said, picking a crumb off her bun and licking it off her finger.
“A little of both. I was tracking down an address Regina had penned in her notebook. It turned out to be a psychiatric hospital. By great good fortune, the cabbie who drove me there had an aunt who used to work there.”
Penelope explained about Bernadette the cabbie and her aunt and the story her aunt had told about the young girl being brought to Arbor View.
“She said she thought she heard a nurse call the girl Georgie. That name rings a bell for some reason, but I can’t put my finger on it.”
“It does ring a bell,” Mabel said, stroking her chin. “Although I suppose we’ve all known a Georgie at one time or another. Hopefully it will come to one of us sooner or later.”
“I’d better get to work,” Penelope said, tucking her laptop under her arm.
“Off with you, then,” Mabel said, making a shooing motion.
Penelope took her mug of tea and the last bit of her bun into her writing room and shut the door. Time to get down to business, she told herself.
She opened up her laptop and began to work. Her writing room was like a cocoon, cushioning her from the noise in the Open Book but without making her feel isolated. The scene she was working on flowed along nicely and soon Penelope was wrapped up in Annora’s world as the real world slowly retreated.
Penelope stopped suddenly in the middle of a sentence, her fingers frozen on the keys. She grabbed her purse, rummaged through it, pulled out her cell phone, and thumbed through the photos she’d taken of Regina’s notebook.
There it was—the telephone number she’d noticed earlier. It had never occurred to Penelope until now to call the number and see who answered. It might turn out to be Regina’s doctor or the library or the local plumber, but then why would she have written it in this particular notebook?
Looking at her phone reminded her of Miles’s voice message and a wave of near nausea swept over her. She pushed the thought aside and punched in the number Regina had jotted down.
It rang several times and Penelope was about to give up when someone finally said hello in a breathless voice.
“Who is this?” Penelope said.
“I think you must have the wrong—”
“No, sorry,” Penelope said. “I wrote this number down and now I can’t seem to remember why. I’m hoping you can help me.” She tried to put a smile in her voice.
“Oh, I understand. That’s happened to me more than once. This is Noah Spencer of the BBC. Do we know each other?”
“Oh,” Penelope said, slightly disappointed. She didn’t know what she’d been expecting. A great revelation? That was highly unlikely. “This is Penelope Parish,” she said finally. “We spoke the other day.”
“Yes, Penelope. Of course. From the Open Book.”
“I . . . I wondered if you’d been able to get in touch with Mabel, the proprietor here. And . . . and if there was anything else I could do to help.”
It was a flimsy excuse, and Penelope felt her face getting hot. She hoped Noah didn’t think she was coming on to him or anything.
“Yes, I did. We’ve worked everything out. With any luck we’ll be filming soon. Assuming I come up with a story, of course.”
“Well, good luck,” Penelope said. She hung up quickly.
That was that, she thought. Time to get back to work. Her fingers were hovering over the keys when she had a thought that nearly catapulted her from her chair.
Regina had noted Noah’s phone number in her notebook full of cryptic notes about the incriminating information she had collected on some of the residents of Upper Chumley-on-Stoke. It wasn’t a huge leap to assume that Regina had somehow figured out the mystery woman Noah had tracked to Chumley for his program on cold cases. Had she been planning to call him with the information if the woman didn’t cough up whatever it was Regina wanted from her?
And if that woman had discovered that Regina knew her secret, it wouldn’t be surprising at all if she was the one who had murdered Regina to keep her quiet.
All Penelope had to do was to figure out who that was.
* * *
* * *
As soon as Penelope had finished her words for the day—she’d set herself a quota in hopes of reaching her deadline—she closed her laptop and went in search of Mabel.
Mabel was ringing up some customers. Penelope busied herself rearranging one of the displays while she waited.
Finally Mabel was free and Penelope joined her at the counter.
“You look like you have some sort of news,” Mabel said, raising an eyebrow. “Hope it’s good.”
“Do you remember when I showed you Regina’s notebook and we noticed that a telephone number was one of the entries?”
Mabel nodded.
“I called the number. It belongs to Noah Spencer, the BBC producer who is here for that cold case show.”
“How interesting,” Mabel said, fingering the amulet that hung from her neck on a leather cord. “Regina must have found the girl who had set that fire—although of course she’d be a middle-aged woman by now. Did you ask Noah if she’d phoned him with a tip that led him here?”
“I didn’t think to.” Penelope bit her lip. “I was so surprised when he answered the telephone. I don’t know what I was expecting.”
Penelope had her phone in her pocket. She dug it out and thumbed through the photographs again. They’d already decoded some of the clues. The one about D and money most certainly had to do with Daphne. Regina must have figured out that Daphne’s sister wasn’t disabled as she’d claimed. And N = Work = WI/Drink was clearly referring to Nora Blakely. And of course there was the entry about Mabel, but Penelope couldn’t see any connection at all to Regina’s murder.
“Excuse me,” a woman said, gently tapping Penelope on the arm. “Can you tell me where the mysteries are?”
Penelope shoved her phone back in her pocket, smiled at the woman, and said, “This way.”
Penelope’s phone dinged, indicating she had a message. She showed the customer to the mystery section and once the woman assured Penelope that she didn’t need any more help—she was simply browsing, she said—Penelope pulled her phone from her pocket. The message was from Miles saying he was picking her up at six o’clock and had she made dinner reser
vations? Penelope laughed. You certainly didn’t need reservations at the Book and Bottle. Miles was in for a surprise in more ways than one.
* * *
* * *
It was late afternoon when the door to the Open Book opened and a man walked in. Penelope looked up from the book display she was arranging and was surprised to see it was Noah Spencer.
His eyes looked as wild as his windblown hair as he looked around the shop. He obviously spied Penelope because he began walking in her direction. His hands were clenched and his expression was serious.
He stalked past the counter where Mabel looked at him, surprised, then at Penelope. She raised her eyebrows.
“Hello,” Penelope said when he reached her. “I hope you’re enjoying your stay in Chumley.”
Noah nodded tersely. “I came to tell you that I won’t be filming here at the Open Book.”
“Oh?” Penelope was disappointed. Everyone had been looking forward to it. “Is there a reason why?”
Noah looked around quickly, then leaned closer to Penelope.
“It’s not worth it. I’ve filmed dozens of these episodes and this has never happened to me before.” He ran his hands through his hair.
“What happened?” Penelope said.
“My life has been threatened,” Noah said. His eyes had taken on an even wilder look.
Penelope gasped. “What . . . how?”
“I received this note.” Noah pulled a crumpled piece of paper from the pocket of his raincoat with shaking hands and waved it in front of Penelope. “It demanded I stop investigating the Hadleigh House fire cold case or there would be dire consequences—to me!” He stabbed his chest with his thumb.
He thrust the note at Penelope. She opened it up and smoothed it out. The letters were neatly cut from a magazine and pasted on the paper. They threatened Noah with death if he didn’t drop the investigation.
“Where did you find the note?” Penelope said.
“It was pushed under my door at Primrose Cottage—the bed-and-breakfast where I’m staying.” Noah shook his head. “And then”—Noah drew a deep shuddering breath as Penelope handed the note back to him—“someone tried to run me off the road! I originally put the note down to some practical jokester—it wouldn’t be the first time since I’ve been producing these shows—but then when someone tried to ram my car as I was driving down the dual carriageway toward the high street . . .” He raised a shaking hand to his throat. “I nearly ended up crushed next to a concrete embankment.”
“But don’t you want to know—”
Noah was already shaking his head. “It’s not worth it. I told the police about it, but I won’t feel safe until I’ve put a good distance between myself and Upper Chumley-on-Stoke. I talked to my boss and she agrees. There are plenty of other cold cases out there to investigate. This one’s simply not worth getting killed over.”
* * *
* * *
It was almost closing time when a thought occurred to Penelope. The more she mulled it over, the more it made sense. She just had to check one thing.
“Excuse me,” she said to Mabel who was talking to a sales representative from Bloomsbury. “I have to run an errand before the shops close. Do you mind locking up on your own?”
“Go,” Mabel said, shooing Penelope away. “I’ll be fine.”
Penelope yanked her coat off the coat-tree and slipped into it. She didn’t bother to button it—she was only going across the street to the Crown Jewels.
A stream of cars was going down the high street but finally there was a break in the traffic and Pen was able to dash across to the other side.
A man carrying a brown paper bag was coming out of Brown’s Hardware and she could see Gladys behind the window of the Pig in a Poke leaning on the counter, talking to a customer.
The display in the window of the Crown Jewels had been changed to gold watches set out on black-velvet-covered stands as if they were tempting dishes being offered at a buffet.
Penelope opened the door and was pleased to find the store empty. An elderly gentleman stood behind the counter, his snowy white hair combed back from his high forehead and his mustache waxed to perfection. He had a loupe in his eye and was examining a stone pinched between the blades of a pair of tweezers.
When he saw Penelope, he put the stone in a box and slid it under the counter.
“May I help you, miss?” he said as he glided toward her.
Pen took a deep breath. “Yes. I’m Lady Maxwell-Lewis’s assistant. She’s asked me to find out if the repairs to her gold necklace are complete. She’d like to pick it up tomorrow—she’s having a dinner party and plans to wear the piece.”
The jeweler frowned. “Gold necklace? I don’t recall that we have a gold necklace from Lady Maxwell-Lewis. Let me see.” He pulled a leather book out from under the counter. The pages were edged in gilt and the cover was worn at the corners.
He flipped through it, found the page he wanted, and ran his finger down the column of names. His face brightened.
“You must mean her pearl necklace,” he said, tapping the page. “She brought it in to be restrung. We had to replace a pearl—apparently the strand broke and one was lost. Fortunately the set was knotted or she might have lost them all.” He smiled again. “We should be able to have it ready for her by tomorrow afternoon if that will do?”
“That will do perfectly,” Pen said.
She thanked the jeweler and turned to leave. She felt a sense of excitement as she left the shop. India had found a pearl on the floor of Worthington’s basement the day Regina was murdered and Evelyn had taken a pearl necklace to the jeweler to be restrung. Had the necklace broken while Evelyn was in the basement with Regina?
Perhaps there had been a struggle and Regina had grabbed Evelyn’s necklace and tugged until it broke?
On the other hand, Evelyn was a frequent guest at Worthington House. She went shooting with Worthington and his guns were kept in the basement. It was quite possible her necklace had broken weeks ago and she’d only just now gotten around to having it repaired.
Pen was tempted to tell Mabel about her find and get her opinion, but then she decided to keep it to herself. It might mean something . . . but then again, it might mean nothing at all.
* * *
* * *
Mrs. Danvers was not in evidence when Penelope opened the door to her cottage later that afternoon. No doubt she was sulking about having been left alone all day. Penelope checked the cat’s bowls just to be sure—there was still plenty of food and water so that was not the cause of Mrs. Danvers’s pout. Penelope supposed she had gone out the cat door and into the back garden—although calling the small patch of grass a garden was a bit of an exaggeration.
Penelope thought about Noah Spencer as she climbed the stairs to the second floor. She shuddered when she thought of what had happened to him. Getting the threatening note would have been frightening enough but then to be nearly run off the road . . . She didn’t blame him for deciding to cancel the investigation.
Penelope had a thought that suddenly froze her in her tracks—one hand on the banister and her right foot hovering in the air above the second-to-last step. What if the person Noah had been pursuing discovered that Penelope had been to Northampton asking questions? She shivered. Would she become a target as well?
She pushed the thought from her mind—she was being overly melodramatic—and once again stood in front of her closet. One of these days she really had to make time to visit Francesca and Annabelle’s Boutique to expand her wardrobe. She sighed. Miles already knew what she looked like and how she dressed so there was really no need to fret. Besides, no one at the Book and Bottle would care either.
Penelope pulled on a pair of black leggings and a royal-blue sweater that Miles once told her brought out the color of her eyes. Then she settled down to wait.
Promptly at six o’clock the door knocker sounded. Penelope had to hand it to Miles—he was always on time. It was one of his better qualities.
Penelope plastered a smile on her face and opened the door.
“Hey,” Miles said, giving Penelope a kiss on the cheek. “How have you been?”
He was impeccably dressed as always in a perfectly tailored navy blazer with gold buttons that had his initials on them, gray slacks, and an open-necked shirt. His Gucci loafers were polished to a high shine and his yellow socks added a pop of color. Even the Duke of Windsor would have been impressed, Penelope thought.
She led him into the sitting room where she’d gotten a fire going. She had two glasses and an open bottle of wine on the table—a Tesco special that had been well rated despite its affordable price tag. Miles was something of a connoisseur, regularly ordering ridiculously expensive bottles of Château Lafite Rothschild when they went out, but Penelope could hardly afford to do that.
Miles took a seat on the sofa and smiled at Penelope. He seemed slightly nervous. She felt a bit awkward, too—as if they were strangers on a first date.
Mrs. Danvers still hadn’t returned by the time they finished their glass of wine and had their coats on ready to leave for the pub. She must have found something fascinating to stalk in the garden and Penelope wondered what animal carcass she would find on the mat by the back door when she got home.
Miles’s rented Jaguar was at the curb. He held the door for Penelope, then sprinted around to the driver’s side and got behind the wheel.
“Where to?” he said, as he turned the key in the ignition.
“Unfortunately, Chumley’s one fancy restaurant, Pierre’s, is closed for renovation following a fire. I thought we would go to an authentic British pub.”
Miles raised an eyebrow and scowled.
“The Book and Bottle is a favorite of the Duke of Upper Chumley-on-Stoke.”
“Really?” Miles said, pulling away from the curb. His expression lightened.
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