Now Penelope was feeling nervous as well. When should she broach the topic of taking a break with Miles? After she’d knocked back a good, stiff drink? Over the entrée? Or should she wait until they’d ordered dessert? If she put it off too long, she might lose her nerve. Now she wished she had texted him while he was still in the States. That would have been easier than telling him face-to-face.
But Parishes aren’t cowards, Penelope’s grandmother also said. Penelope lifted her chin. She could do this. Think positively, she told herself.
Miles’s lip curled slightly when they opened the door to the Book and Bottle and were suddenly awash in the smell of spilled beer, fried food, and stale cigarette smoke.
“The duke comes here?” he said in tones of disbelief.
“He certainly does. As a matter of fact, he’s standing at the bar right this minute.” Penelope pointed to Worthington, who was leaning on the bar with one hand and holding a mug of lager in the other. He was wearing jeans and a cashmere sweater with the sleeves pushed up. He was the very picture of casual elegance.
The pub was crowded. It was Saturday night and the locals were out for a drink and a chance to catch up with friends, play a game or two of darts, and try their luck at one of the fruit machines. The commuters who lived in the new subdivisions were amusing themselves by “slumming” at the local pub instead of heading into London to some new and trendy spot.
“Looks like we’ll have to wait for a table,” Penelope said, looking around.
“Can’t we go somewhere else?” Miles’s voice was plaintive.
“There’s the Chumley Chippie or Kebabs and Curries,” Penelope said, trying to keep the laughter out of her voice.
Miles shuddered. “Let’s wait.”
“I’ll fetch us a drink. What would you like?” Penelope said.
“A martini. Extra dry,” Miles said. “Make that a dirty martini.”
Penelope almost asked whether he wanted it shaken or stirred but bit her lip and managed to restrain herself.
She maneuvered her way through the crowd and insinuated herself between two people standing at the bar. Daphne was bustling about delivering drinks and pulling pints with incredible speed. Her expression was grim.
“Hey, Daphne,” one of the patrons called out. “Give us a smile, there’s a good girl.”
Daphne curled her lips up briefly, then resumed her previous expression.
Penelope carried Miles’s martini and her cider back to where Miles was standing. His expression was now one of bemusement.
“You’re right,” he said as he took a sip of his drink. “This place is authentic all right.”
A table finally opened up and although it was crammed into a corner, they took it.
Miles twisted around in his seat. “Where’s the waiter?”
“You have to go up to the bar to order and to pick up your food,” Penelope said smoothly. She pointed to a blackboard hanging on the wall. “There’s the menu.” She adjusted her glasses as she read the selections. “I’ve heard the Welsh rarebit is very good here as well as the bangers and mash. Then there’s the steak-and-kidney pie.”
Miles sighed. “I guess I’ll have the Welsh rarebit.”
“I’ll pop over to the bar with our order,” Penelope said, starting to get up.
“I’ll do it,” Miles said. “What are you having?”
“The bangers and mash for me, please.”
Penelope watched as Miles made his way through the crowd to the bar. She wasn’t surprised when she noticed him squeezing into a spot next to Worthington. Nor was she surprised when several minutes later, the two men were chatting companionably.
Penelope began to think again about how she was going to break the news to Miles that she didn’t think they were going to work out as a couple. She finally decided she’d tell him as soon as they began eating. Perhaps he’d be distracted by his Welsh rarebit. Not that she expected him to make a scene—making a scene simply wasn’t comme il faut in Miles’s playbook.
Miles returned with their meals along with two glasses of wine. He drained his martini but instead of picking up his knife and fork, began fiddling with the salt and pepper shakers.
Penelope was starving, so she immediately started in on her bangers and mash.
“Penelope,” Miles said in a tone that made Penelope look up abruptly. “I’ve got something to tell you.”
Penelope’s mouth was full, so she just tilted her head to indicate she was listening and that he should go on.
“It’s been difficult having you so far away like this.”
Penelope was still chewing, so she nodded her head.
“It hasn’t been easy for me.” Miles looked off into the distance. “I have to attend any number of functions every week and it’s expected that I’ll have someone by my side.”
He wasn’t going to tell her he wanted her to come home, was he? Penelope took another bite of her sausage, reasoning that if she had food in her mouth she couldn’t blurt out anything that she would regret later.
Miles gave a crooked smile. “There was a charity dinner at the Met and the firm had taken a table. Paxton suggested I take his sister. It seemed like a good idea at the time, so I gave her a call and convinced her to do me a favor and go with me.”
Penelope knew Miles well enough to realize that Miles undoubtedly thought he was doing her a favor and not the other way around.
Miles cut a piece of his toast but didn’t pick it up.
“We ended up having a great time. She’s a wonderful gal—plays tennis, sails, and recently finished her third triathlon. Came out near the top, too. And it turns out she went to Dartmouth and knows my cousin Carter.” He spread out his hands. “Small world and all that.”
“She sounds wonderful,” Penelope said.
“That’s just it. It turns out that Sloan and I are perfect for each other.” He shook his head as if he couldn’t believe his good fortune. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you.” He looked up but off to the side, not directly at Penelope. “Sloan and I have fallen in love.” He reached for Penelope’s hands and grasped them. “I’m sorry. I never meant for this to happen.”
The forkful of mashed potatoes Penelope had just eaten stuck in her throat and she started to cough.
“Are you okay?” Miles made as if to get up to pat her on the back.
Penelope waved a hand. “I’m fine,” she said in a strained voice.
She didn’t know how she felt. Yes, she had planned to break it off with Miles, but to be unceremoniously dumped instead . . . She had to admit that it stung just a bit.
“I’m very happy for you and Sloan,” she finally said in a small voice.
“So you understand?” Miles’s face brightened and Penelope could hear him sigh with relief.
“You’re a great gal, Penelope,” Miles said, as he dug into his Welsh rarebit with gusto.
I just don’t play tennis, sail, or enter triathlons, Penelope thought.
TWENTY
Penelope hesitated, unsure of how to say good-bye to Miles. Should she kiss him? Shake his hand? He solved the problem by leaning in quickly and giving her a peck on the cheek. He squeezed her shoulder.
“You’ve been just great,” he said, as he turned and headed toward his car. “I’ll see you when you get back to New York.”
He all but dove into the driver’s seat of the Jaguar and within seconds had started the car and pulled away from the curb.
Penelope gave a half-hearted wave and opened the door to her cottage.
The bottle of wine was still sitting on the coffee table in the living room and she decided to pour herself a glass. She got the fire going again and curled up on the sofa with a knitted throw over her lap.
Her emotions were all jumbled up and she couldn’t decide how she felt. Certainly she was grateful that she ha
dn’t had to be the one to tell Miles she wanted to break up. On the other hand, having Miles safely tucked away in New York while she was living in England had felt so comfortable. If anyone asked, she could say she had a boyfriend back in the States and that would be that. And without the necessity of actually having to spend time with Miles.
The sting of having been dumped by Miles was slowly being replaced by an overwhelming sense of relief. Her spirits began to lift—although perhaps that was the wine, she thought.
It wasn’t all that late, but she was getting sleepy. Penelope stood up, yawned, stretched, and looked around for Mrs. Danvers.
Odd. She hadn’t seen the cat since that afternoon. Mrs. Danvers enjoyed her time in the garden—sunning herself on nice days and stalking nocturnal creatures after dark—but she rarely ever stayed outside this long.
Penelope opened the back door and stood on the mat. She shivered. A cold wind had picked up and it sliced through her sweater and whistled down her neck and back.
“Mrs. Danvers,” she called. The words didn’t come out very loud—she was unused to shouting—shouting had been frowned upon by her mother and grandmother. She cleared her throat and tried again. “Mrs. Danvers!” That was better.
Penelope looked around expectantly. Surely Mrs. Danvers would come slinking around the corner, her slit eyes alight with satisfaction over a night well spent. Penelope wrapped her arms around herself and rubbed her arms. Where had that cat gotten to?
Finally she was forced to give up—driven inside by the cold. Obviously Mrs. Danvers would return when she was good and ready—or hungry—whichever came first.
Penelope made sure the fire in the living room grate was out, stabbing at the last few dying embers with the poker. She turned out the lights, checked the kitchen again, half expecting to see the cat picking at her food or lapping up water from her water bowl, but Mrs. Danvers was nowhere to be seen.
Finally, somewhat reluctantly, Penelope climbed the stairs to bed.
* * *
* * *
Her bed was warm and cozy but Penelope couldn’t fall asleep. She was worried about Mrs. Danvers being out all night—what if it started to rain?—but then she reminded herself that the cat was perfectly capable of coming inside through the cat door.
Her mind turned instead to the mystery of Regina’s death. Was it related to the cold case that Noah had been pursuing? It wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility that Regina, with her nose for secrets—particularly damaging ones—might have figured out the identity of the person who had set the fire at Hadleigh House and was hiding in Upper Chumley-on-Stoke under an assumed name.
And if that person had threatened to kill Noah Spencer, it wasn’t impossible that they had decided to silence Regina.
A name floated into Penelope’s mind. Georgie. Josie said a nurse had called the girl that. Penelope thought she had heard that name recently—but where? And was it even relevant?
Penelope was nearly drifting off to sleep when it came to her and she jerked awake. It had been at the Worthington Fest after Regina had been found murdered. Lady Evelyn Maxwell-Lewis had been at their booth purchasing Charlotte’s novel and that woman had come up to them, insisting she recognized Evelyn and that they had gone to school together. She had called Evelyn by the name Georgina. And surely Georgie was short for Georgina?
Penelope began to get excited. It wasn’t much to go on but then she remembered other things as well. Josie had said that Georgie’s hand had been burned in the fire. She closed her eyes and tried to picture herself standing with Evelyn in Francesca and Annabelle’s Boutique. There had been a nasty raised scar on Evelyn’s hand—she remembered noticing it at the time.
She rolled onto her side. It still wasn’t much to go on—certainly not anything she could go to Detective Maguire with. She felt her face color at the thought. She tried to think back to everything that had happened since Regina had been found dead.
She thought about all the people who might have killed Regina—Charlotte, Worthington himself, poor Nora Blakely, Gordon, or Daphne. Or even Regina’s daughter, Victoria, although that had always seemed like a long shot.
She remembered Daphne in the Crown Jewels trying on that handsome gold bracelet while Gordon beamed at her. It had seemed so likely that one or the other of them had done away with Regina in order to be together. But Daphne had an alibi and Penelope honestly couldn’t see Gordon as a murderer. He was too kindhearted.
Penelope sighed. She was never going to fall asleep at this rate. She rolled out of bed and went down the stairs. She had left her phone on the foyer table. She grabbed it and took it over to the sofa, where she curled up with her feet under her and the throw pulled over her legs.
The room was chilly and Pen shivered. Moonlight slanted through the front windows and glinted off the wide-planked wood floor.
She flipped through the photos one more time until she found what she was looking for. There it was—the notation E = past. Penelope let the phone drop into her lap. If Evelyn was actually Georgina Hadleigh, then it certainly made sense. Evelyn had a past and obviously Regina had discovered it.
Penelope felt her eyes closing and her head dropped back against the sofa cushions. She jolted herself awake—she didn’t want to fall asleep on the couch.
She wrapped her arms around herself as she walked into the kitchen and opened the back door. She stood on the mat and called for Mrs. Danvers again. Nothing moved in the shadows at the corners of the garden and there was no answering meow. Reluctantly she went inside, a sudden gust of wind grabbing the back door and slamming it behind her.
Penelope went back upstairs, dove under the covers, and pulled the blankets up to her chin. Her teeth were chattering slightly and her hands and feet were like ice cubes. The warmth of the comforter finally lulled her to sleep.
She dreamed that Mrs. Danvers was in danger and woke suddenly and sat bolt upright in bed. She was surprised to see the first streaks of light in the overcast sky. Penelope rolled over and tried to go back to sleep but soon realized it was hopeless. She might as well get up. Perhaps she could get a head start on her word quota for the day. It was Sunday and Mabel wasn’t expecting her at the bookstore although she thought she might pop in at some point. She wanted to see what Mabel’s opinion was on her deductions of the night before—that Evelyn Maxwell-Lewis had quite possibly murdered Regina.
Penelope put the kettle on and dropped some bread into the toaster. She was waiting for the water to boil when her cell phone rang. Miles? she wondered. Was he calling to say good-bye on his way to the airport?
Penelope didn’t recognize the telephone number on the caller ID. She didn’t recognize the voice either.
“Hello, is this Penelope Parish?” a man’s voice said.
“Yes,” Penelope said somewhat hesitantly. Was it possible that some telemarketers had tracked her down to Upper Chumley-on-Stoke?
“It’s about your cat.”
Penelope went still and her hand tightened on the telephone.
“Go on.”
“I think I saw it wandering around the grounds of Worthington House. Sweet little thing.”
How had Mrs. Danvers gotten all the way to Worthington House? Penelope wondered. She supposed it was possible. Maybe the cat had crawled into someone’s car? She’d read of cases where drivers had found cats under their hoods, seeking the warmth of the engine.
“Are you sure it was Mrs. Danvers?” Penelope said.
“It’s on her tag, innit? Plain as day.”
“Okay, thank you.” Did the person expect a reward? “Who is this?” she said.
But even as she said it, she heard a click and the call was cut off. The person had hung up.
* * *
* * *
Penelope’s first instinct was to throw her coat over her pajamas—actually a sweatshirt and sweatpants—but she forced he
rself to go upstairs and change into a pair of leggings and a warm sweater.
Her hands were shaking as she did up the buttons on her coat and retrieved her car keys from a bowl on the foyer table.
There was no reason to think any harm had come to Mrs. Danvers. The cat had simply wandered off as cats were wont to do. There was no need to panic. But no matter how many times she told herself that, her heart continued to race and her breath to come in short, sharp gasps.
Penelope slammed the front door behind her and ran to her car, which she’d parked in front of the cottage. It took her several tries to insert the key in the ignition, but she finally got the engine started and pulled out into the road.
She nearly pulled into the wrong lane but corrected herself in time and continued on her way to Worthington House. There was little traffic—it was still early and it would be several hours yet before the villagers began heading to church services or off to visit relatives for the Sunday roast and Yorkshire pudding.
Penelope pulled into the long drive that led to Worthington House, her head swiveling this way and that as she searched for Mrs. Danvers. Some of her fear had evaporated and instead turned to annoyance that the cat had led her on this merry chase on a cold Sunday morning. She should still be tucked up in bed or in front of a roaring fire with a cup of tea and the Sunday papers.
There was no one about that Penelope could see—no groundskeeper, no dog walker, no security guards. She prayed there wasn’t some sort of secret alarm that she was about to set off. She imagined driving into a trap or having a giant net capture her like some pesky insect.
Fortunately nothing of the kind happened, and she made it to the car park without mishap. Penelope got out of the car and looked around. The wind tugged at her coat and blew her hair into her eyes and she brushed it away impatiently.
The grounds of Worthington House were enormous and she hardly knew where to begin. She decided she would walk the perimeter of the castle itself. On such a blustery morning, surely Mrs. Danvers would have sought out a sheltered spot for herself.
Murder in the Margins Page 23