Maguire returned a few minutes later with a tray with two steaming mugs and packets of sugar and creamer.
Penelope stirred some sugar into her tea and held it between her hands, letting the warmth seep into them.
“Where were we?” Maguire said.
“Well, I was in the Worthington cellar,” Penelope said with a bit of spirit. “And I was facing Lady Maxwell-Lewis, who had a gun trained on me.”
“Why would she do that?”
Penelope’s heart sank. Did Maguire really not know that Evelyn had killed Regina? Maybe he wouldn’t believe Penelope’s story after all.
Penelope reminded him of Regina’s notebook and told him about her trip to Birmingham, the fire at Hadleigh House, and all the other bits and pieces she had put together to come to the conclusion that Evelyn was Regina’s killer.
Maguire’s chair creaked as he leaned back and steepled his fingers.
“That’s quite clever,” he said. “And I hate to disappoint you or to minimize your detecting prowess, but I’m afraid we’ve been one step ahead of you. We were on the way to pick up Lady Maxwell-Lewis and bring her in for questioning when we discovered she wasn’t at home and Sir Maxwell-Lewis had no idea where she’d gone. She’d been wearing jodhpurs, so he assumed she was out riding somewhere. As we were leaving, we got the call that there was a disturbance at Worthington House. And lo and behold, there was our suspect being held at gunpoint by you.” He shook his head. “I guess we owe you one.”
“Does that mean you believe me?” Penelope said, her hopes rising.
“It does,” Maguire said. “But how about next time you leave the detecting to me, okay?”
Penelope was more than happy to agree. “So I’m free to go?”
“Yes.” Maguire fiddled with the folder on his desk. “We may have some more questions for you as we build our case against Lady Maxwell-Lewis. I assume you don’t have plans to leave town in the near future?”
Penelope shook her head and stood up.
“Then there’s no reason for us to keep you.”
* * *
* * *
When Penelope awoke on Monday morning, she was convinced she had dreamed the whole episode. She’d been surprised to fall into a deep and dreamless slumber as soon as her head hit the pillow.
Mrs. Danvers had obviously been tired out by her escapade as well. Normally she would have been fussing at Penelope to get her breakfast as soon as the sun began to rise, but this morning she was still curled up asleep in her bed when Penelope woke up.
Penelope couldn’t wait to tell Mabel and Figgy about her adventures of the day before. By the time she got to the Open Book, the open sign was already hanging on the door and Mabel was behind the counter ringing up a customer.
“There you are,” Mabel said when Penelope walked in. “Laurence Brimble was just in. He said there was quite a commotion at Worthington House yesterday. He volunteers as a docent there on weekends. He saw several police cars pull into the drive. Have you heard anything about it?”
Figgy wandered over with a plate of freshly baked Chelsea buns and put them on the counter. India suddenly appeared from around the shelf of biographies and joined them.
“I heard you talking about police cars at Worthington House,” India said, helping herself to a bun. “I do hope it wasn’t anything serious.”
Penelope explained about Mrs. Danvers’s escapade and being held at gunpoint by Evelyn.
India gasped and turned white. “You could have been shot!”
The idea made Penelope feel slightly weak in the knees.
“So Lady Evelyn Maxwell-Lewis is really Georgina Hadleigh,” India said. “I wonder how Regina figured that out.”
“Who knows?” Figgy said, licking a bit of sugar off her lip. “Regina was top-notch when it came to ferreting out other people’s secrets.”
Penelope noticed the diamond ring sparkling on Figgy’s finger.
“Have you told your parents that you and Derek are engaged?” she said.
Figgy made a face. “Not yet. I want them to meet him first. I’m hoping he will be able to win them over.”
“Times are changing,” India said. “And we must all accept it, I suppose. It’s not like in the old days where royalty married other royalty like Queen Victoria and Prince Albert. Look at Worthington and Charlotte, and she’s not even British. For that matter, our royal family isn’t purely British—the House of Windsor is originally of German descent.”
Figgy didn’t look particularly consoled by India’s statement. “We shall see,” she said.
* * *
* * *
It was late morning and the shop was quiet. Penelope was helping Mabel set up a display of books to read more than once that readers of the Open Book’s newsletter had suggested.
Mabel put down the copy of The Great Gatsby that she was holding and looked at Penelope.
Penelope had the odd feeling that Mabel was about to say something important—maybe even profound.
“You know, don’t you?” Mabel said. “You figured it out.”
Pen was tempted to feign ignorance but decided against it.
“Yes.”
“I don’t know how Regina found out about Oliver.” Mabel placed the book on the display table. “Yes, I was having an affair with a married man. I could make the usual excuses—his wife was distant, consumed by her career—but the fact remains that he rightfully belonged to someone else.” She grimaced. “I suspected that your curiosity would get the better of you eventually and you wouldn’t rest until you had figured out whose those initials were and what that cryptic note—the one word wed—meant.”
“I . . .”
Mabel waved a hand. “Let’s forget about it, shall we?” Her manner became brisk. “Now. Where shall we put the Hemingway? With Fitzgerald? They were friends, after all.”
* * *
* * *
I’m running across the street to see if the Pig in a Poke has any pasties left,” Penelope said around noon. “Does anyone want anything?”
Mabel looked up from the pile of invoices she was going through.
“Can you see if they have any black pudding?”
“Pudding?” Penelope said.
Mabel laughed when she saw the expression on Penelope’s face. “It’s not pudding actually,” Mabel explained. “It’s sausage made from blood, herbs and spices, and a filler like rice or barley.”
Penelope shuddered.
“If they have it, I’ll take a pound. It’s quite good, actually.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” Penelope said as she headed toward the door.
The Pig in a Poke was empty when Penelope got there and Gladys was the only one behind the counter.
“Good afternoon, Gladys,” Penelope said. “Do you have any of your delicious pasties left? I’ve become quite attached to them.”
“I’m glad you like them, and I’m sorry to disappoint you, my dear.” Gladys leaned on the counter. “But since I’m all on me own, I haven’t had the time to make any. We had quite the rush this morning—first day of the week and the ladies all out doing their shopping. Cleaned me out of veal kidneys, they did. I was run off my feet the whole time.”
“Where’s your husband?” Penelope looked around.
“Ah, poor Bruce,” Gladys said with a twinkle in her eye. “He had a stroke, poor thing. He got to screaming over his tea—I’d overcooked the roast he said—when it suddenly hit him. His face went all red like a beet and then he clutched for the chair and pulled it down with him. I do feel sorry for him.”
Penelope noticed that Gladys didn’t look in the least bit sorry. As a matter of fact, she looked practically gleeful.
“I’ll be hiring someone to work in the shop with me. I can’t do it all on me own.”
“Won’t Bruce be
coming back?”
Gladys shook her head. “At the moment the doctor has recommended further treatment. After he left hospital, we transferred him to the Chumley Care and Rehabilitation Home. He’s having what they call occupational therapy.”
“Will he be coming back to the shop eventually?” Penelope said.
“We’ve agreed he should retire,” Gladys said with a slight smile. “I can handle the store along with some help. Bruce is looking forward to working on his model railway—he never had much time before.” She looked around. “I’ll be making a few changes to the shop now that he won’t be here to object.” She shook her head. “The stroke did something to him. He’s changed. I think it humbled him. He’s kinder and more considerate.” She laughed. “I hope it lasts.”
Penelope hoped it lasted, too—for Gladys’s sake.
Penelope was leaving the Pig in a Poke with Mabel’s pound of black pudding in a bag just as Maguire was walking down the street. He waved and headed toward her.
“I’m sorry about yesterday,” he said. “And I’m embarrassed that we put you through that. I hope it wasn’t too awful, and I hope you’ll let me make it up to you.” He looked Penelope in the eye.
“Y-yes,” she stammered.
“Great.” Maguire smiled. “Pierre’s is due to reopen Saturday. Will you let me take you to dinner?”
Penelope’s eyes widened and her breath caught in her throat. Was Maguire asking her out on a date? She felt absurdly pleased by the idea.
“What time?” she said.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I have to thank my agent, Jessica Faust, who helped me nurture this idea for a series into a reality and my superb editor, Sarah Blumenstock, who worked with me to make the manuscript the best it could be.
Don’t miss the next Open Book mystery
A FATAL FOOTNOTE
Coming Summer 2021 from Berkley Prime Crime!
Penelope Parish’s mother had told her, when she’d accepted the writer in residence position at the Open Book bookstore in Upper Chumley-on-Stoke, England, not to expect to hobnob with the nobility.
But here she was doing exactly that.
It was the night before the wedding of American romance writer Charlotte Davenport and Arthur Worthington, Duke of Upper Chumley-on-Stoke who, despite being well down the line of succession to the throne, was the red-haired favorite of the queen.
The nobility did not wed without a certain amount of pomp and circumstance. In the case of Worthington and Charlotte that consisted of an afternoon polo match where the players graciously allowed Worthington’s team to win; a casual dinner buffet for all the guests staying at Worthington House for the duration of the festivities; the wedding ceremony itself the following day; the ceremonial carriage ride through town; the wedding breakfast (more lunch than breakfast if truth be told), and finally, that evening, a ball complete with fireworks and a bonfire on the lawn of the castle.
Thanks to her acquaintance with fellow writer Charlotte Davenport, Penelope was invited to all the festivities, which caused her no small amount of consternation given that her wardrobe was considerably sub par, consisting mainly of jeans, leggings, and shapeless but comfortable sweaters—hardly the sort of sartorial splendor expected when hobnobbing with said nobility.
Charlotte always looked impeccable whether she was wearing a pair of jeans and a crisp white button-down shirt or a priceless designer ball gown, and Worthington’s vestments were all carefully bespoke by a legion of devoted tailors in London.
There was nothing for it, Mabel Morris, the proprietor of the Open Book, told Penelope—she was going to have to make a trip to London and do some dreaded shopping.
With the help of Lady Fiona Innes-Goldthorpe, aka Figgy, the manager of the Open Book tea shop and Pen’s best friend in Upper Chumley-on-Stoke, Penelope managed to acquire a wardrobe appropriate to the occasion—or, in this case, occasions.
Thus it was that Penelope found herself sitting in the drawing room at Worthington House, dressed in an unaccustomedly elegant gray pencil skirt and black V-neck cashmere sweater rubbing elbows with the likes of the Duke of Upper Chumley-on-Stoke, Lord Ethan Dougal, Lord Tobias Winterbourne, and Lady Winterbourne—the former Cissie Emmott and onetime girlfriend of Arthur Worthington. The two had remained friends even after their romantic relationship ended.
It was clear that Worthington had a “type.” Both Charlotte and Cissie were tall, willowy, and graceful blondes with great style who could almost be mistaken for sisters.
The drawing room, while quite large, felt as snug and cozy as a cocoon with a fire burning in the grate and the dark red velvet drapes drawn across the windows shutting out the chill of the dark night.
Worthington was standing in front of the fire, one elbow resting on the mantle and one leg elegantly crossed over the other, a champagne glass in his hand.
Tobias, a short, stocky man with a red face and thick black eyebrows, approached Worthington and slapped him on the back.
“Good show today, old man. Leading your team on to victory like that.”
Worthington assumed a modest expression. “You’re way too kind. I played miserably. Now if I’d had my lucky polo stick. . . . Darned if I know what happened to the blasted thing. Last I saw it, it was leaning against the wall in the boot room.”
Tobias chuckled. “You’re being too humble. You played brilliantly. No one can hold a candle to you on the polo field.”
Worthington, it should be noted, did not demur further.
The women were clustered at the opposite end of the room—Penelope, Charlotte, Figgy, Jemima Dougal, Cissie and Yvette Boucher, a petite, dark-haired French woman with a pixie cut who looked effortlessly elegant in a black jumpsuit and black suede kitten heels.
Penelope was perched on the edge of a chintz-covered sofa attempting to maintain her balance even as its soft, enveloping cushions threatened to swallow her. She had a flute of Moët & Chandon in one hand and a water biscuit with a dab of potted mushrooms in the other, and had come to the realization that if she bit the hors d’oeuvre in half, she was likely to wind up with crumbs all over her skirt. Eating the whole thing in one go wasn’t an option either—it was far too large for that. Not for the first time in her life, she wished for a third hand with which to deal with the situation. How incredibly convenient it would be to be able to whip one out on occasions such as these.
Figgy, who by virtue of being the daughter of an Earl had also been invited, was sitting next to Penelope and with a knowing look came to her aid by offering to hold her glass.
Penelope ate her canapé, one hand held underneath to catch the crumbs, and vowed not to accept any more from the butler who was circulating with a silver tray of tempting looking morsels.
“Do give us a hint about your wedding dress,” Jemima said to Charlotte in a teasing tone, one hand smoothing down her long plaid skirt. “I’m imagining something regal with a train that goes on forever.”
Penelope thought that at the moment Charlotte looked as regal as ever in a pair of wide-legged cream-colored trousers and a matching cream-colored ruffled blouse. The spectacular diamond on her left ring finger sparkled in the light of the chandelier above.
Cissie, who was sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the sofa, wagged a finger at Jemima. “It’s a state secret. You’ll find out soon enough.”
Cissie owned Atelier Classique and had designed Charlotte’s wedding gown herself. She’d been born in Upper Chumley-on-Stoke but had moved to London after having been sent down from university due to a singular lack of academic achievement.
Her mother had been a sort of royal hanger-on—her great-grandmother having been a lady-in-waiting to the Queen Mother and claimed a distant relationship to the royal family. Her father had no pretentions—royal or otherwise—and had made a fortune in toilet paper thus earning Cissie the nickname of “the Loo
Paper Princess” in the British tabloids where she appeared at least once a week.
“Just a tiny clue,” Jemima wheedled. “I’m dying of curiosity. Is it satin or taffeta or lace?” She raised her eyebrows.
Cissie stretched out her legs in their slim trousers. A gold crest was embroidered on the toes of her black velvet smoking slippers. “It’s one of my best designs yet,” she said. “I will tell you that.”
Penelope noticed Yvette shoot Cissie a look that was decidedly ominous. She nudged Figgy and Figgy whispered back.
“I saw that, too. I wonder what’s eating her?”
A butler, in a uniform glittering with gold buttons, stood in the doorway and cleared his throat.
“Dinner is served,” he said in solemn tones.
“I’m starving,” Cissie said, getting to her feet. She patted her stomach. “Mustn’t eat too much though or I won’t fit into my ball gown tomorrow night.” She glanced at Charlotte over her shoulder. “And you shouldn’t eat too much either. There’s no time to alter your gown again. Right, Yvette?” She shot Yvette a look.
Yvette gave a small nod.
The gentlemen followed them into the dining room where the table had been set with a fine linen tablecloth and the Worthington china and monogrammed silver. Three ornate silver candelabra marched down the center of the table flanked by flowers clustered in low vases.
Food was spread out on the buffet—roast beef, asparagus, silver gravy boats filled with hollandaise sauce and fondant potatoes. A magnificent chocolate biscuit cake stood on a stand off to one side.
Throwing protocol to the wind—the evening was meant to be casual—the men agreed to sit together on one side of the table with the women on the opposite side. Penelope was seated between Yvette and Figgy.
She turned to Yvette and introduced herself. “How do you know Charlotte?”
Murder in the Margins Page 25