Murder in the Margins

by Margaret Loudon

  Penelope headed out across the front lawn where the Worthington Fest had been held. It now seemed as if the fest had taken place in another lifetime and not merely two weeks ago. The vast lawn was bordered by shrubs pruned into ornamental shapes with tall trees in the distance.

  Penelope turned the corner and headed toward the back of the castle where formal gardens were laid out with incredible precision. There was a perennial garden, an annual garden where a few hardy specimens continued to bloom, and a fragrant herb garden set out in a circular pattern. Penelope sniffed—she smelled lavender, thyme, and lemon balm on the perfumed air.

  An intricate stone terrace, surrounded by topiary, was the centerpiece of the garden, its furniture shrouded in heavy canvas covers that flapped in the breeze.

  Unfortunately, Mrs. Danvers was nowhere to be seen.

  Penelope was passing a door set in the thick castle wall when she heard a plaintive meow—or so she thought. She paused and listened hard, her heartbeat speeding up and pounding in her ears as the blood rushed to her head. Had that been a cat or had it been the wind and she’d simply imagined it?

  There it was again—most decidedly a cat’s meow. Was it Mrs. Danvers? Penelope wasn’t sure. Perhaps Worthington kept a cat to chase the mice away?

  She moved closer to the door and peered through the window. The glass was thick and wavy with age and she could barely see through it. There was a staircase but no sign of Mrs. Danvers as far as she could tell. She was about to chalk the sound up to the wind whistling through the trees when she heard it again. It was clearly a cat—and to her, it sounded just like Mrs. Danvers.

  Penelope tried the door handle. She was surprised when it turned and the door opened. She stepped inside.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Penelope stopped short just inside the door. Was she being too stupid to live, like the heroine in a poorly written novel? Why was the door unlocked? Was this a trap? She laughed. This wasn’t fiction—this was real life. And there wasn’t a bogeyman waiting for her and no sinister plot afoot. The worst that could happen would be having one of the security guards catch her but she could explain about searching for her lost cat and she could always mention that she was friends—even if that was a slight exaggeration—with Charlotte Davenport if need be.

  Penelope went down the stairs and found herself in the cellar. The lights weren’t on and it was dark and shadowy with only a bit of light coming in through the small windows set high on the wall. She didn’t see Mrs. Danvers, although she thought she heard a rustling in one of the darkened corners.

  “Mrs. Danvers,” Penelope called. The cat rarely ever came when called but she hoped this time the cat would condescend to listen. “Mrs. Danvers,” she called again, not daring to raise her voice too loud for fear of someone hearing her.

  She heard a faint meow and cocked her head, listening. She couldn’t tell which direction it was coming from but she was positive now that it was a cat. Her spirits lifted—hopefully she and Mrs. Danvers would soon be tucked up at home enjoying a cup of coffee and the Sunday papers.

  Penelope felt something furry brush against her legs. She looked down.

  “Mrs. Danvers! You naughty girl. You scared me.”

  She bent to pick up the cat and when she straightened she found she was looking directly into the barrel of a gun.

  “I didn’t know if you would fall for that telephone call or not,” Evelyn Maxwell-Lewis said. “But I thought it was worth taking a chance.”

  “Was that you?” Penelope said. “But it didn’t sound like—”

  Evelyn shrugged. “I was in the drama club in school. I was very good at putting on different voices.”

  Penelope had been too startled to feel fear at first, but now it washed over her, freezing her to the spot and giving her the sensation that she was drowning. Mrs. Danvers squirmed out of her arms, jumped to the floor, and retreated to a corner to groom herself.

  “What are you doing with the gun?” Penelope said, although she knew it was a stupid question. Perhaps it would buy her time. Would anyone in the Worthington household be coming down to the cellar? They were unlikely to be searching for a bottle of wine this early on a Sunday.

  Evelyn laughed. She was wearing her usual jodhpurs and polished leather riding boots.

  “How did you get in here?” Penelope said. “Wasn’t the door locked?”

  “I borrowed the key the last time I was here for dinner with Worthington and Charlotte. He keeps them in a drawer in a table in the drawing room. I’ve seen him go in there when we’ve gone on shoots and he had to get the guns from the cellar. He keeps the keys to the gun safe in there as well.”

  “If you shoot me here, you’ll never get away with it.”

  Evelyn lifted her chin. “I have no intention of shooting you here. The gun is to persuade you to come with me to my Land Rover, which is parked outside. We’ll go out into the countryside where your death will look like a very sad hunting accident. You were out having a ramble and some poor misguided hunter with bad eyesight took you for prey.”

  Penelope vaguely remembered a personal safety course she had taken in college where they were instructed that you should never let an attacker move you from one place to another. Instead, you were to resist if at all possible. Unfortunately Evelyn was holding a very persuasive gun in her hands. Would she dare to use it here? She’d shot Regina here, Penelope realized, and that pretty much answered that question.

  She needed to get away somehow—she needed a distraction. Meanwhile, she needed to keep Evelyn talking.

  “Why did you kill Regina?” she said, although she was quite sure she already knew the answer.

  “Regina was such a dreadful pest. She actually had the nerve to ask me to pressure my dear Bertram into putting her husband up for a knighthood. Honestly! The man has done nothing to merit a knighthood beyond making a bit of money with that company of his. That’s hardly a qualification for a Grand Cross of the British Empire. Of course, Bertram wouldn’t hear of it and I can hardly blame him.”

  Evelyn sniffed. She was quiet for a couple of seconds as if she was mentally somewhere else. Penelope was glad for the delay. Every minute that went by increased the odds that someone would come downstairs and distract Evelyn.

  “Somehow Regina found out about my . . . past,” Evelyn continued. “She threatened to reveal my identity to the press if I didn’t give her what she wanted. She claimed to have the telephone number of a reporter working for the BBC.” Evelyn caressed the barrel of the gun she was holding as if she was reliving shooting Regina. “Bertram doesn’t know that I was once . . . someone else. I changed my name—I had to because everyone knew who I was—and I created a new life for myself. I couldn’t have all of that destroyed because of one silly woman and her ridiculous demands.”

  Penelope felt a pang of sympathy for Evelyn in spite of herself. Supposedly the years Evelyn had spent in the mental hospital has been considered punishment enough for what she had done. Besides, there had been no trial, no jury to weigh the evidence. Evelyn had been convicted solely in the court of public opinion.

  But that didn’t alter the fact that she was standing here now, pointing a gun at Penelope’s chest.

  “Were you the one who set the fire at Hadleigh House?” Pen said, still stalling for time.

  Evelyn’s head jerked. “Yes, I did. And I’ve paid a dear price for it—many years locked up in that dreadful psychiatric hospital. They said I had a mental illness called pyromania. I must have been born with it.

  “Fortunately in my last years at Arbor View, I met with a new psychiatrist who actually cared if I got better or not. He helped me channel my impulses into riding, which I came to adore. If it hadn’t been for him, I’d no doubt still be locked up there.”

  Penelope had been balancing on the balls of her feet ready to run given the slightest chance. She prayed Evelyn’s attention wou
ld stray or that she would be racked with sneezing or something that would give Penelope a second or two head start.

  “By the way,” Penelope said, still stalling for the right moment to make her dash—thank heavens she had been a sprinter on the high school track team—something she never thought would come in so handy. “How did Mrs. Danvers get here? I can’t believe she walked all this way.”

  Evelyn tossed her head. “That was easy. I snatched her from your garden when you weren’t home and brought her here myself. It was easy enough to lure her with a piece of chicken.”

  Mrs. Danvers must have sensed they were speaking about her. Out of the corner of her eye, Penelope noticed the cat stand up, stretch, and slowly saunter away from the corner where she had been grooming herself. She sidled closer and closer to Evelyn until she finally brushed up against Evelyn’s legs.

  Evelyn jumped. “What was that? A mouse?”

  Penelope didn’t hesitate—she was off like a shot racing through the darkened cellar. She wanted to reach the stairs to the upper level before Evelyn caught up with her.

  Footsteps sounded behind her. She hoped the dim light would prevent Evelyn from getting off an accurate shot.

  Penelope passed an alcove and darted into it. A cloud of dust arose and nearly made her sneeze. She clamped a finger under her nose to stifle it. Someone was standing next to her and she nearly screamed but it was just one of the Worthington suits of armor.

  “Where are you?” Evelyn shouted and her voice echoed around the cavernous space. “I can’t have you going to the police. It would spoil everything I’ve worked so hard to create.”

  Penelope stayed silent, barely daring to breathe. She thought she was near the stairs. Should she make a run for it? Her legs refused to move—fear had paralyzed her.

  A bit of light coming from one of the windows glinted off the barrel of Evelyn’s gun.

  “There you are,” she said in satisfied tones, peering into the alcove where Penelope was crouched.

  She had the gun pointed directly at Penelope’s chest. Penelope began to shiver. She saw Evelyn’s finger move on the trigger and panicked. If she could throw something it might spoil Evelyn’s aim.

  She lashed out and managed to hit the suit of armor, which teetered unsteadily and finally fell, knocking the gun from Evelyn’s hands. It skittered across the floor and disappeared into the shadows. Penelope dropped to her knees and began crawling toward the spot where it had landed.

  She snagged her leggings on a rough patch of floor and scraped her knee. It stung and she had to bite her lip to keep from making any noise.

  The gun had to be here somewhere. Penelope had heard it land. She stretched out an arm and swept her hand across the floor. She had to find it before Evelyn, who was also down on her knees, did.

  Her hand touched something cold—something metal. It was the gun. Penelope grabbed it and struggled to her feet. She was breathing heavily and her heart was still pounding furiously. She hoped she didn’t have a heart attack and die of fright.

  “Give me that,” Evelyn hissed.

  Penelope raised the gun and trained it on Evelyn. She’d never shot a gun in her life—or even touched one for that matter—but Evelyn didn’t know that. Penelope tried to act cocky—as if she knew what she was doing—and hoped that Evelyn wouldn’t notice that her teeth were chattering.

  Evelyn scrambled to her feet. Her jodhpurs were covered in dust and there was a hole in the right knee. She looked down at them in disgust.

  Penelope leveled the gun at Evelyn, trying to keep it as steady as possible in her shaking hands. She patted her pocket with one hand. Her cell phone must have fallen out while she was crawling around on the floor looking for the gun. On to plan B, she thought.

  She motioned to Evelyn with the gun. “We’re going to go upstairs where someone will call the police.”

  Evelyn gave a cackling laugh. “Do you seriously think Worthington is going to believe you? Some upstart American he doesn’t even know?”

  That had never occurred to Penelope. She suddenly realized how strange it looked—her walking into Worthington’s cellar as if she owned the place—even if the door had been unlocked. Evelyn was a frequent guest of Worthington’s and presumably a friend. He’d be far more likely to take Evelyn’s side and call the police on Penelope!

  Evelyn gave a smile that sent a chill through Penelope.

  “I was having breakfast with Worthington and Charlotte. I excused myself to visit the bathroom. I’ll tell them I heard a noise and came down to investigate and found you breaking in.”

  “I didn’t break in,” Penelope said, even as she realized it was ridiculous to argue with Evelyn. “The door was unlocked.”

  “Of course. I unlocked it. But we won’t be telling Worthington that.”

  “And if I do tell him, he won’t believe me—I get it,” Penelope said. “Come on.” She gestured toward the stairs with the gun. “I guess I’ll have to take my chances.”

  Evelyn made a face but when Penelope waved the gun at her menacingly, she turned and began walking.

  Evelyn was halfway up the stairs and Penelope was on the first step when the door at the top of the stairs burst open.

  “Police!” a man in uniform shouted, waving his billy club.

  Penelope didn’t know which of them was more surprised.

  “What’s going on here?” the policeman demanded, his face creased in confusion. He looked from Penelope to Evelyn and then back again.

  “She tried to kill me,” Penelope and Evelyn said at the same time.

  Penelope had a moment of panic. Would the policeman believe her or Evelyn?

  Suddenly Worthington appeared on the stairs. “What’s going on?” he demanded. “I heard a noise and called the—”

  He stopped short when he saw Penelope and Evelyn.

  “Looks like we’ve got some sorting out to do,” the policeman said, scratching his head. “I think I’d better take these two down to the station.” He gestured to Penelope and held out his hand. “I’ll take that gun now.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  Penelope and Evelyn were taken in separate cars to the police station, where Penelope was put in a small room with a metal table and chairs, a clock on the wall, and bars on the window. A tape recorder sat out on the table. She supposed Evelyn was in a similar room. Penelope could hear her protesting through the wall.

  The clock ticked off every second passing with a loud click. An hour passed and it was beginning to get on Penelope’s nerves. She was sure she would be hearing that sound in her nightmares for days to come.

  How long were they going to keep her here? Surely they had done all the checking necessary and found her record to be free of blemishes—well, except for that one time she was arrested for throwing her shoe during a protest over animal rights. She’d never been convicted and the charges had been dropped, so surely that wasn’t still on her record?

  Another fifteen minutes went by and Penelope’s palms began to sweat. Was this some sort of police technique to wear her down? If so, it was working. She was ready to confess to nearly anything at this point if it meant she could get out of this room.

  A horrible thought occurred to her—she would leave this room eventually, she knew that, but would she then be going to a jail cell?

  She was nearly dozing when the door suddenly opened. She jumped and banged her knee against the table—the one she’d scraped in the Worthington cellar. She grimaced.

  It was Maguire. He was carrying a folder, which he slammed down on the table, making Penelope jump again. She would have been more alarmed if it wasn’t for his expression—it was clear he was trying hard not to laugh. His blue eyes twinkled and one side of his mouth curved up in spite of himself.

  Surely he couldn’t be taking this seriously if he found it so funny?

  He sat down opposite Penelo
pe and folded his hands on the table. “So.”

  Penelope sat up straighter and tried to comb her hair with her fingers. She must look deranged after crawling around the Worthington House cellar.

  “How on earth,” Maguire began, then scrubbed his face with his hand. “Do you want to tell me what happened?”

  Penelope took a deep breath. Where to begin? Should she tell him Evelyn had confessed to murder or simply stick to the story about rescuing Mrs. Danvers? Which was more likely to get her out of this trouble?

  Penelope squared her shoulders. “My cat, Mrs. Danvers, had gone missing.”

  Maguire raised his eyebrows. “Mrs. Danvers as in the novel Rebecca?”

  In spite of herself, Penelope was pleased that Maguire got the literary reference.

  She nodded. “She went out into the garden yesterday and didn’t come back. I assumed she’d be home by morning but there was no sign of her. Then the telephone rang.”

  She shivered. “He said he had seen Mrs. Danvers wandering around Worthington House. I couldn’t imagine how the cat managed to get all the way over there, but I needed to check in case it was true and not some other cat that someone had mistaken for mine.”

  “Did the caller identify himself?”

  “No. I thought that was suspicious but I was worried about my cat. I checked as much of the grounds as I could manage and then I heard Mrs. Danvers meowing. It sounded like she was trapped in the cellar.” Penelope paused for breath.

  “We’ve got Mrs. Danvers safe and sound here at the station. Constable Cuthbert got quite a nasty scratch trying to corral her.” Maguire smiled.

  Penelope felt a rush of relief. “I found the cellar door unlocked. Evelyn—Lady Maxwell-Lewis—admitted to having unlocked it.”

  For a moment Penelope was back in the dim basement facing the barrel of Evelyn’s gun. She shuddered.

  “Take your time,” Maguire said. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

  “Yes,” Penelope said, suddenly realizing she was absolutely freezing. It was probably from the shock because the room was overheated with a radiator gushing out steam in the corner.