Bells, Tails, & Murder: (A Dickens & Christie Mystery)

by Kathy Manos Penn

  “Everyone has secrets. Some are just better at hiding them than others.”

  “There’s a bit of that going ‘round, you know.”

  Belle interjected, “And that last comment was about someone on the telly having an affair.”

  “Wow,” Wendy said, “When you list them out like that, the words sound pretty threatening. So, ‘Last time I’m going to ask?’ Ask for what?”

  “Money,” I blurted. That was the first thing that came to mind.

  “And,” Belle said, “was there someplace someone had to deliver the money or hide it?”

  “I think someone or some two were having an affair and Alice found out about it,” said Wendy.

  I was furiously jotting down everything we were saying. “This whole thing is mind-boggling,” I said. “Could she have been pilfering things from all of our cottages? Not just mine? Maybe the photos we took will show us something.”

  I pulled two more chairs up to my desk so we could view the photos on my monitor, and we all gathered around. Once we could see beyond the mess, we began to see intact items here and there. It seemed that whoever did this wasn’t necessarily interested in wanton destruction.

  “Isn’t that a lovely teapot?” said Belle, pointing to a porcelain teapot with a delicate picture of Alice in Wonderland. “There are quite a few porcelain pieces scattered around, and surprisingly, they weren’t broken by whoever made the mess.”

  “Look,” said Wendy, “Is that a picture of Rhiannon with . . . Toby? He’s standing behind her with his hands on her shoulders. What’s with that?” She hesitated and then blurted out, “Are they having an affair?”

  “Uh-huh,” said Belle. “I’d been wondering about them. You know how you just sense things sometimes? Maybe that’s what Alice meant by her comment ‘There’s a lot of that going around.’ She was talking about those two, and they have the perfect setup with Toby’s wife Cynthia gone all week every week!”

  “Can you read what it says on that piece of paper on the floor?” asked Wendy. “The one with the teacup image across the top?”

  “Let me zoom in,” I responded. “Can you read it now?”

  “We should be able to get together this weekend without any interruptions. Cynthia has a big job in Spain and will be overseeing the renovation for a week. Her boss is partnering with her on this project, so she won’t be after me to join her. Besides, she knows I can’t leave for much more than a day or two. With a whole weekend available, the White Knight and the White Witch should be able to work out a partnership.”

  “Now what’s that about? And who’s the White Knight?” asked Belle.

  “Wait a sec, let me think,” said Wendy. “Is it only because we saw that photo that I’m thinking this, or could the White Knight be Toby White? And is the note to Rhiannon? You know her name means witch.”

  “If I’m not mistaken, it means white witch. I’m beginning to have a sick feeling about this,” I said. “This is more than I want to know about our friends. Are we making a mistake getting involved in this?”

  Belle looked at me sternly. “We’re already involved, and I don’t see how we can stop now.”

  I may have been hesitant, but Wendy hadn’t missed a beat. “Look. There’s another photo of a couple on the refrigerator door, but I can’t see it all that well.”

  “Let me see if I can make it a bit bigger,” I murmured.

  “Oh my gosh,” blurted Wendy, “that’s Peter with his arm around Alice. Alice? And Peter? I had no idea. Did you, Mum?”

  “No, dear. I can’t remember the last time your brother had a girlfriend. I’m sure he’s dated here and there, but nothing too serious. Not like he’s brought anyone around to meet me.”

  “Oh, Mum, look at the time,” said Wendy. “We certainly need to talk more about Peter, but it’s past time for us to be in bed. Maybe Leta will invite us back to look at the photos again. There’s bound to be more to see if we look closely. And we haven’t even looked at the notebook pages yet.”

  “Sure I will,” I replied. “It’s going to take all three of us to figure this out.”

  Wendy tapped her forehead and said, “Oh my goodness, with all that’s happened, I almost forgot about Dave Prentiss, the journalist, coming over tomorrow. You’re still coming, right?”

  “I’ll be there. And I should have plenty of time before then to go to yoga class, have coffee at Toby’s, and even pop by the Book Nook. That way I can let you know what I’ve found out once the journalist leaves.”

  “Well, we’ve got lots to think about and plenty to keep us busy for at least a day or two,” said Wendy. “We’ll see you tomorrow.”

  I let Dickens out for a brief garden visit and then sat down at my desk. I couldn’t believe I’d started my day by finding a body. If I’d been at home, my first call would have been to my youngest sister Anna. I decided instead to write an email to both my sisters. Maybe trying to explain it in an email in some coherent fashion would help me sort through it all yet another time.

  Like me, Anna was fond of murder mysteries, though she leaned more toward serial killer fiction than I did. Still, she was going to find this tale pretty unbelievable. She might even think I was pulling her leg. Most likely, she was going to react by reading me the riot act.

  I was betting my sister Sophia’s reply would be more measured and philosophical. When I hit send, I was already anticipating two very different responses.

  By morning, I was once again questioning my involvement in a murder investigation, but nonetheless, I set out to follow the plan. I took a moment to check my email while drinking my coffee. I was right. Anna had sent me a blistering email that started with, “What the heck do you think you’re doing? Have you lost your mind?” Ah yes, I knew I could depend on my practical, matter-of-fact sister to cut right to the chase. I’d respond to her later.

  I planned to start the day with a calming yoga class. Surely, that would help to clear my mind before I started snooping. Boy, was I ever wrong.

  My discovery of Alice’s body had spread through Astonbury’s grapevine, and I was greeted by a group of women wanting the details. No matter that Rhiannon quieted the chattering women long enough to hold class, I couldn’t quiet the chattering inside my head. I kept my gaze down as I rolled up my mat and looped the strap around it, hoping to avoid any more questions.

  Rhiannon pulled me aside once the others had left. She was not her usual calm self this morning—she seemed anxious. I sensed it wasn’t so much grief over Alice’s death as it was some kind of personal worry. She grew increasingly anxious when I told her about the visit to Alice’s flat, a detail I hadn’t revealed to the other class participants.

  “You went to her home?” Rhiannon said. “Umm, did you find anything that shouldn’t have been there?”

  “Well, for starters, it had been ransacked,” I replied. “But what do you mean by ‘something that shouldn’t have been there?’ What are you asking?”

  “Oh, nothing. It’s just I’ve missed the odd item now and then from my flat, and I keep thinking either Alice moved it, or . . . maybe took it. I know, I know, I’m speaking ill of the dead. I’m sorry, never mind.”

  “Seriously, what kind of odd item?” What was Rhiannon hinting at?

  “Oh, a favorite photo I planned to frame and a thank you note from a friend—things like that. I probably misplaced them. You know how disorganized I can be. Forget I even mentioned it. Let’s go have our usual tea at Toby’s.”

  As we walked up the street, my mind was racing. Was she talking about the photo of her and Toby I’d seen in Alice’s cottage? Was a thank you note Rhiannon’s euphemism for the note from the White Knight?

  Why would Alice take Rhiannon’s photo and note? Why would she take my Frog Prince? Unpacking the boxes that had arrived from the States had left my cottage in disarray for several months, and it was no wonder I hadn’t missed my figurine until I saw it in Alice’s cottage.

  I should have realized Toby’s Tearoom would
be abuzz this morning too. The village grapevine not only worked in the old-fashioned way by telephone, but also via the Astonbury Aha, a website where villagers could post news, items for sale, and messages about missing dogs and cats. Apparently today, all the news had been about Alice’s death, and the Tearoom was packed.

  Toby greeted me with concern. “How are you doing after your ordeal? It must have been quite a shock. I recommend you skip your usual coffee and have a strong sugary cup of black tea instead.”

  I gave a weak smile and said I’d stick with coffee. All the concern was wearing on me. I much preferred to hear others’ concerns rather than share mine. It was my ability to listen and observe that had made me an effective manager and coach in my banking days, and I’d always believed it was my genuine interest in people that made them open up to me. Me open up to others? Uh-uh.

  Rhiannon seemed preoccupied, and I was content to sip my coffee in silence and pick up fragments of other conversations as they floated my way. The villagers were mostly complimentary of the service Alice provided and of her scones and biscuits, but there were also a few unkind comments:

  “She was an outsider, plain and simple.”

  “I heard she moved here to get away from something.”

  “She was cagey about where she came from.”

  “I’m not sure I trusted her.”

  As I paid at the counter, Toby leaned in and said, “May I call you later?”

  “Sure,” I replied. I left with a puzzled expression on my face and walked across the street to the Book Nook. Tommy and Tuppence were in the window, Thom was on a ladder hanging cobwebs and spiders on the ceiling, and Beatrix was arranging a display of Halloween mysteries in preparation for the upcoming holiday. She was also sporting a witch’s hat today, and with her ash blonde hair, she reminded me of Samantha in Bewitched.

  “You’re here right on cue,” she exclaimed as she gave me a hug. “The Louise Penny books arrived yesterday afternoon, but when I heard the news about Alice, I didn’t want to bother you with a call.”

  “Thanks, a new book is just what I need. I’m having visions of shutting out the world and sitting in the garden to read. Honestly, one more question about what I saw yesterday and how I feel will send me over the edge.”

  “Funny, isn’t it?” mused Beatrix. “Alice was a constant in all our lives, but I hardly ever saw her except occasionally at Libby and Gavin’s gatherings. She’d leave me scones or shortbread when she cleaned my cottage, and I’d leave her cash in an envelope, but I rarely saw her. Even when she cleaned this place every week, it was after hours.”

  “She didn’t come in to buy books like everyone else in the village?” I asked.

  “You know, not really, not until late last year. First, she found a Sherlock Holmes anthology among the used books. Then she bought a biography of J. M. Barrie. I always have those on hand. She briefly shifted to American authors when she asked if I could recommend an Edgar Allan Poe biography. And just lately, it was Winnie-the-Pooh—not the children’s book but the biography, The Extraordinary Life of A. A. Milne. I had to order the Poe biography, but I keep the Milne bio in stock.”

  “Hmmm, with the exception of Poe, it sounds like she was interested in the authors who summered here in the last century. Maybe after living here a few years, she developed a natural curiosity about the history of the area. I know the literary associations have fascinated me.”

  “And you know who else is curious?” said Beatrix. “Dave Prentiss, the journalist staying at The Olde Mill. He came by yesterday asking for a copy of Peter and Wendy. Not many people know Barrie wrote that book after he wrote the play, and of course, I stock copies of it and several Barrie biographies. I think he’s going to see Belle today. Now, there’s a story.”

  “Then I’m in luck, because Wendy invited me to join them. Who knows? I may be back for a Barrie biography too after that visit.”

  Not only was I eager to hear Belle’s tales, but after Dickens’s comment about the journalist being interested in me, I was also a tiny bit curious to see whether he might be right. Not that I was interested or anything.

  Chapter Five

  Dickens and I arrived at the cottage before Dave. We found Wendy puttering around making tea and Belle in the sitting room with Tigger in her lap.

  “He’s settling in,” said Belle, “and you can see who his favorite is.”

  I laughed. “Does that mean he has a new home? He certainly looks comfy.”

  Just then, Wendy brought Dave Prentiss into the room, and Tigger bolted from Belle’s lap.

  “Whoa!” I exclaimed. “I wonder if he’s not used to men or he’s just still skittish from his experience.”

  “Huh,” said Dave. “Is he all right?”

  “It’s a long story,” said Belle.

  “Never mind,” said Wendy. “Mum, this is Dave Prentiss from the States, the gentleman Leta and I met the other night at the inn. So, now you have a captive audience of two, or I guess three if you count Dickens. I’m going to leave you lot to it, as I’ve heard these stories many times over. I’ll be in the kitchen, though, so let me know if you need anything.”

  Dave and I listened intently as Belle told the tale of how her mother knew J. M. Barrie and how he had taken care of her when she was pregnant with Belle. Dickens lay at Belle’s feet.

  “Oh my gosh, I can’t believe Barrie set your gran up in this cottage and you were born here. Did her mother really turn her out, an unwed mother with no place to go? And Barrie gave her this cottage? From the bits I’ve read about him, he was a caring man, but your story is amazing,” I exclaimed.

  “Can it really be because she sat up listening to his stories when he couldn’t sleep? Don’t you ever wonder if there was something else to it? It would have been a substantial gift, even in those days,” said Dave.

  “Oh piffle,” huffed Belle. “I suppose you think there was something more going on between them, just like others through the years who’ve suggested he must have been my father. Mum would have set you straight in no time.

  “When Uncle Jim’s wife took up with a younger man and divorced him, she let it be known that their marriage had never been a real one—if you know what I mean. The supposition was that he was impotent. Not that he was gay, another rumor that used to go around. He was just a big kid—well, not so big. He was quite short.”

  “Belle,” I said. “I’m sitting here in awe of the fact that you knew the author of Peter Pan so well that you called him Uncle Jim. What a story.”

  “Mum told me that’s what the three Llewelyn Davies boys called him—you know, the family that inspired his play?” said Belle. “Uncle Jim was a kind and generous man, plain and simple. You know he supported those boys after their parents died, right?”

  “Yes,” said Dave. “You see reference to the Llewelyn Davies boys everywhere, but I’ve never seen anything about this other part of this life. He must have been an amazing man.”

  “Oh,” I said. “I remember their story from the movie Neverland, the one with Johnny Depp and Kate Winslet.”

  “Belle, if I may be so bold, who was your father?” Dave asked.

  “Mum never ever said. I suppose it could have been one of the cricket players or authors or someone else otherwise unsuitable, but suffice it to say that I was born out of wedlock. Of course, she was no longer welcome at the Stanway House, but we had our cottage and until Uncle Jim died, he sent Mum money so she wouldn’t have to go back to housekeeping work until I went to school. He was a generous man, though I don’t have too many memories of him. He died in 1937 when I was only seven and hadn’t visited in a few years.”

  “He visited you?” I asked.

  “Yes, and he brought the most marvelous gifts,” said Belle. “For my first birthday, he brought me all four Winnie-the-Pooh books. Of course, I don’t remember my first birthday, but Mum read me the books, and I still have them. A. A. Milne was one of the authors who summered at the Stanway House with Uncle Jim, and they bo
th played cricket. Would you like to see the books? They’re a bit worn, as I read them to my twins too.”

  “Oh yes, I’d love to see them,” I said, “especially as I seem to be the only person around here who didn’t read them as a child.”

  “Belle, this just gets better and better. You have Winnie-the-Pooh books from the 1930s? What treasures,” exclaimed Dave.

  “Oh, I loved my books, but not as much as the dog. It was Uncle Jim who brought me my first dog the very next year. Mum named her Tinker after you-know-who in Peter Pan. That little thing lived to the ripe old age of fifteen and is buried in the garden. One year, Uncle Jim sent me Peter and Wendy, the book he wrote after the play. It’s similar in many ways but has more detail in it. I almost know it by heart, as Mum read it to me, and I read it to the twins. I guess now you know who they’re named after.”

  She chuckled. “He didn’t visit many more times, I don’t think, though he wrote Mum quite regularly. He was a fascinating man.

  “Leta, can you reach over and get the Winnie-the-Pooh books from bookcase, please, there on the bottom shelf?” asked Belle. “I can’t manage them and my cane.”

  “No problem,” I said as I retrieved the books. “Shall we look through them together?”

  “Yes, but please be careful; they’re in decent shape for being over eighty years old, but still they’re a bit fragile,” said Belle.

  Dave moved to the couch next to me as I opened the first book, When We Were Very Young. He gasped as I opened it, and I looked at him not understanding his reaction.

  “It’s a first edition,” he explained. “And it’s signed. There can’t be very many of these around. Could they all be signed first editions?”

  “I never really thought about it,” said Belle. “To me, they’re storybooks that Uncle Jim gave me. Leta, what do you think?”

  “Well, for starters, they’re all signed,” I said. “But I don’t know how to identify whether or not they’re first editions. I guess I’ll have to defer to Dave.”