“Please help yourselves,” he said, waving a hand toward the buffet table. “There’s tea and dessert or brandy and port if you’d prefer something stronger.”
A stout man, whose stomach strained the limits of his waistcoat, laughed. “I think we could all do with something stronger at this point.”
Pen and Figgy began moving toward the buffet table. Penelope hoped the rest of the guests would follow. It would keep them distracted from what was going on out on the terrace.
“Look.” Figgy pointed to a large cake placed in the middle of the table. Congratulations, Charlotte and Arthur was written in elegant script across the top layer.
Worthington pointed to the cake and had a whispered conversation with one of the waiters, who immediately whisked the cake away and returned with it in slices arranged on a platter so that the lettering was scrambled and the message no longer discernible.
“Worthington has such impeccable manners,” Jemima, who was standing next to Pen and Figgy at the buffet table, said. “He and Charlotte have every right to celebrate, but I imagine he thought the message on the cake was inappropriate . . . if not in actual bad taste . . . under the circumstances.” She ran a hand through her hair. “I can’t believe Cissie is dead.” She looked at Pen. “But then people always say that, don’t they? No one can ever believe it.” She fingered the sash on her tartan gown.
“Cissie—she was christened Cecelia after her great-grandmother—and I have known each other for ages—we were at school together.” Tears glistened on her lower lashes and she swiped a finger under her eyes impatiently. “We were good friends and we went around with the same crowd.” She massaged her forehead. “I wonder what happened? It’s got to have been an accident, don’t you think?” She glanced from Penelope to Figgy, a look of appeal in her eyes.
Penelope smiled. “Yes, of course. It must have been an accident.”
“Although what sort of accident could have befallen her out in the garden, I can’t imagine,” Jemima said.
Heads began to turn toward the door.
“Looks like the police are here.” Penelope jerked her thumb in that direction. “I think I recognize Constable Cuthbert.”
Figgy poked Pen with her elbow. “There’s Maguire.” A sly smile spread across her face.
Penelope’s breath momentarily caught in her throat. She and Detective Brodie Maguire had struck up a friendship—she wasn’t ready to call it a romance yet—when they literally met headon while Penelope was driving down the wrong side of the street.
He wasn’t a handsome man but there was something attractive about his face nonetheless. Penelope found him to be kind, honest, and trustworthy.
Cuthbert and the other constable led Maguire through the room and out to the terrace where the body had been found. The crowd had grown quiet upon his arrival but burst into animated chatter again as soon as he disappeared out the door.
Yvette walked over to Pen and Figgy, her long black chiffon gown swishing around her legs. “I do wish they’d tell us what’s going on,” she said, her French accent more pronounced than previously. “Is it true that Cissie is dead?” She looked at Pen and Figgy and cocked her head.
“It seems so,” Penelope said. “But I’m going to see if I can find out if that’s true.”
Penelope made her way around the ballroom, looking for the woman who had come running in announcing that she’d found Cissie dead on the terrace. She thought she saw Charlotte help the woman into a room off the ballroom and headed in that direction.
The woman with the white hair was alone in the room. It was a small room—a sort of sitting room with a love seat covered in rose-colored damask and an armchair in a matching shade. An oil painting, badly in need of cleaning, of some long-dead Worthington relative was on the wall. Penelope supposed the room was meant for guests who might want to rest briefly when tired from dancing or socializing.
The woman looked up when she heard Penelope. Her expression was troubled, her eyes dull and slightly vacant, like those of a person who had suffered a bad shock. Her hand trembled as she raised an embroidered lace handkerchief to her face. There was a small glass of amber liquid on the table next to her.
She looked up at Penelope and gave her a brief smile. “I’m waiting for that detective to come and talk to me.” Her voice shook slightly. “He’s gone to see the . . . the body first.” She tilted her head. “I’m Beatrice Russell,” she said.
“Penelope Parish.” Penelope sat in the armchair opposite. “Can I get you anything? That must have been a terrible shock for you,” she said gently.
Beatrice nodded. “It was. I can’t begin to tell you. To see her lying there like that . . .”
“I heard her say she was going out for a smoke,” Pen said.
“Yes. I noticed her pipe lying on the ground next to her. She was known to smoke a pipe, you know. Cissie was unique.” She smiled but it faded quickly.
So did the murderer know that sooner or later Cissie would leave the ballroom for a smoke break? Pen wondered. Had they been lying in wait for her outside?
“How could you tell she was dead and hadn’t just fainted?”
Beatrice shuddered. “It was her head—all bashed in the way it was. I’m afraid I shall never forget the sight.” She reached for the glass at her side and took a sip.
The image Beatrice described made Penelope suddenly feel sick to her stomach. She was glad she hadn’t yet had a piece of Charlotte and Arthur’s celebratory cake.
“Did you see anyone else outside? Or hear anything while you were out there?”
“No, I’m afraid not.” Beatrice pleated her handkerchief between her fingers. “I was so startled. All I could see was Lady Winterbourne lying there with—” She gulped and put a hand to her mouth.
She looked up at Penelope and Penelope was startled to see how blue her eyes were—nearly violet.
“Please, it’s okay,” Pen said soothingly.
“Her head,” Beatrice said, balling up her handkerchief in her fist, “it was . . . it was horrible. It looked as if someone had hit her with something. Something fairly heavy.”
Pen suddenly felt guilty. She really ought to leave the poor woman alone. Obviously, there wasn’t much more she could tell Penelope.
Pen was getting up when she sensed someone standing in the doorway and turned around to look. It was Maguire. She found herself smiling at the sight of him.
He looked as if he’d been called out of bed—dressed casually in worn jeans, a plaid flannel shirt, and a brown leather jacket. His hair was slightly rumpled and his face was creased with sleep.
He stopped short when he saw Pen. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“I’ll leave you two,” Penelope said, getting up from the chair.
“Don’t go far,” Maguire said. “I’ll need to talk to you.”
He turned to Beatrice and introduced himself.
When Pen went back to the ballroom, she noticed that more constables had arrived. One was guarding the door to the garden and the other was standing in front of the door leading to the main part of Worthington House.
“They won’t let us leave,” Pen heard a woman in an elaborate sequin-trimmed gown whine fretfully to her companion.
People seemed to be milling around aimlessly, unsure of what to do with themselves. Another constable was walking among the crowd with a notepad and pen in his hand. Penelope supposed he was taking down everyone’s name and address.
“There are at least two hundred people here,” Figgy said when Penelope joined her. “The police are going to have their work cut out for them questioning this lot. Most of them probably have their solicitors on speed dial.”
Worthington walked to the front of the room once more and held up his hand to get everyone’s attention.
“The police have asked that no one leave the ballroom for the mo
ment. I am sorry for the inconvenience, but there’s nothing to be done about it. My staff is putting out more coffee and tea, and if you’d like something stronger, please ask one of the staff and they will arrange it for you.”
A certain amount of grumbling greeted Worthington’s words but eventually died down and gave way to animated chatter.
“Truth be told, it’s all rather exciting,” a man standing near Penelope said.
“I’m positively exhausted,” someone else said. “I wonder if anyone would notice if I slipped my shoes off? My feet are killing me.”
Penelope and Figgy were joined by Jemima and Yvette.
“The police are asking if anyone saw Cissie go out on the terrace,” Yvette said, wrapping her arms around herself.
Penelope could see the goose bumps forming on her arms.
“We did see Cissie out for a smoke, didn’t we?” Jemima turned to Penelope, who nodded.
Yvette tilted her head in a way that reminded Penelope of a curious bird. “I did see Tobias go out,” she said.
“Oh? Is he a smoker, too?” Penelope said.
Jemima shook her head. “No, he gave it up a couple of years ago. Not that he ever smoked all that much—with a cocktail perhaps or during intermission at the theater. It was more for something to do than a serious addiction.”
Figgy put a hand to her mouth and yawned. “Suddenly I’m absolutely fagged out,” she said. “I thought I might get a cup of tea. How about you?”
“That sounds like a good idea,” Pen said while the others shook their heads.
They made their way to the buffet table, where a large urn held hot water with an array of tea bags set out beside it.
Penelope reached for the Earl Grey and handed one to Figgy.
A woman in a maid’s uniform came out of the kitchen with a tray of clean cups and saucers and put it on the table. Penelope noticed she had a bandage wrapped clumsily around her left hand. The woman winced when she accidentally brushed it against the side of the table. Penelope felt sorry for her; she herself had certainly had more than her share of kitchen mishaps—she remembered the time she’d almost cut off the tip of her finger and another time when she’d grabbed a cookie sheet out of the oven without a mitt.
She smiled at the woman as she filled her teacup with hot water, added the tea bag and a generous amount of sugar—Penelope had been blessed with the sort of metabolism that made it hard for her to gain weight—and moved away from the table.
She looked around the room and noticed Charlotte coming toward her.
“Penelope,” Charlotte said, taking Pen’s hand in her own. “I need to speak to you, if you don’t mind.”
Pen put her teacup down on the nearest table and followed Charlotte. The constable at the door let them pass, which surprised Penelope, but then again, Charlotte was now the Duchess of Upper Chumley-on-Stoke and she supposed that had its privileges.
Charlotte led Penelope down a corridor, around a corner, and down another corridor until they came to a partially opened door. Penelope followed her inside and Charlotte closed the door behind them.
It was Charlotte’s study—Penelope had been there before. The room was book lined, with an antique Empire desk, tall windows draped in moss green velvet, and a comfortable sofa and chairs.
Charlotte collapsed into one of the chairs. Penelope noticed her face was white and her hands were trembling slightly.
“This is just ghastly,” she said.
“I’m so sorry this has ruined your reception,” Penelope said.
“My reception?” Charlotte looked at her with a shocked expression. “The party doesn’t matter. It’s poor Cissie . . . She’s dead. The police are saying someone killed her. I asked if there might be some mistake—that maybe it was an accident—but when they told me what her injuries were, it was obvious it was no accident.” Charlotte shuddered. “I overheard that detective—Maguire—talking. He said the killer must have gotten blood on their clothes and he sent that constable off to go through everyone’s things in case the murderer was someone staying here at Worthington House.”
Charlotte was quiet for a moment, twisting her hands in her lap.
“Did you know Cissie very well?” Pen said.
“Not well, no. She was Arthur’s ex-girlfriend, to be honest with you. It was long before we met. People seem to think her presence should bother me, but it doesn’t. They stayed friends, but that’s all it was, so why should I mind?”
Charlotte rubbed her forehead. “I don’t know about you, but I could do with a cup of tea.” She smiled. “I guess I’m becoming quite British after all. Tea—the cure-all for everything.”
She reached out and pressed a buzzer hidden underneath the coffee table.
“Would you care for another cup of tea?” She leaned forward toward Penelope. “Or perhaps you’d prefer coffee or something stronger?”
Penelope was thinking longingly of the bottle of Jameson that Mabel kept under the front counter at the Open Book, but she wanted to keep her head clear and settled for the offered cup of tea.
Moments later there was a knock on the door.
“Come in,” Charlotte said.
A butler stood at attention in the doorway.
“I hate to be a bother.” Charlotte smiled. “But could we have some tea, please?”
“Certainly, your grace.”
Charlotte gave a loud sigh and leaned back in her seat.
The marabou trim on Charlotte’s dress fluttered slightly as she crossed her legs. She stared into the distance, a small frown wrinkling the skin between her eyebrows.
Penelope was quiet but she was curious. She wondered what Charlotte wanted to talk to her about. Was Charlotte having second thoughts about whatever it was?
A few minutes later there was a discreet tap on the door and the butler walked in with a tray laden with a silver teapot, bone china cups and saucers, silver spoons and a bowl of sugar, lemon slices on a small plate, and a pitcher of milk.
Charlotte picked up the teapot. She smiled at Penelope.
“Do you know what the British sometimes say at tea?”
Penelope shook her head.
“Someone will say, ‘Shall I be mother?’ Which means they will handle pouring out the tea and handing around the cups. It’s rather charming, don’t you think?”
Charlotte smiled but the smile disappeared almost immediately, and Penelope noticed her hand was shaking again as she handed Penelope her cup.
Charlotte took a sip of her tea and then abruptly put her cup down. It clattered in the saucer. “I have to admit I’m worried about something.” She kneaded the fingers of one hand with the other.
“What is it? Do you want to talk about it?”
“I don’t know how to put it into words.” Charlotte jumped up from her chair and began to pace the room. “I’m afraid you’ll think I’m imagining things . . . or worse, that I’m crazy. One minute I think it’s preposterous and the next minute, it scares me half to death.” She gave a small laugh and looked at Penelope pleadingly.
“I doubt that. You’re not the sort to imagine things—unless it’s for one of your books, of course.”
As Penelope had hoped, Charlotte laughed briefly.
“And as for being crazy—you’re one of the most sane people I know. As my grandmother would have said—you have both feet firmly planted on the ground.”
“Thank you.” Charlotte bowed her head briefly. “Your support means a lot to me.”
“Come on. Out with it then,” Pen said. “Maybe I can help. At least I can try.”
Charlotte gave a forceful exhale that fluttered the tiny hairs around her face. “Okay. You’ve managed to convince me. Here it is.” She closed her eyes and wrinkled her forehead. “I’m afraid—” Her voice caught for a moment. “I’m afraid that someone mistook Cissie for me. We do
look quite a bit alike, you know.” Charlotte stifled a sob. “I’m afraid someone wanted to kill me but made a mistake and killed poor Cissie instead.”
FOUR
Why would someone want to kill dear sweet Charlotte?” Figgy said later when Penelope told her about her conversation with Charlotte.
Penelope shrugged. She massaged her forehead, which was beginning to ache. “I don’t know. She said it’s this feeling she has. She’s convinced that we all hate her and that everyone wanted Worthington to marry someone else.”
Penelope and Figgy were back in their room. Penelope sat on one of the brocade-covered slipper chairs and eased off her evening shoes. She groaned with relief as they dropped to the floor. She wasn’t used to wearing high heels.
“That’s not true,” Figgy said. She gave Penelope a quizzical look. “I don’t know why Charlotte would think that, although I suppose some of the people in Upper Chumley-on-Stoke do still resent the fact that Worthington chose an American to be his bride.” She made a snorting sound. “Which is perfectly ridiculous. I’ve become quite fond of Americans myself.”
“But there was that woman outside the chapel,” Pen said. “Remember? She was carrying that sign—Yankee Go Home.”
Figgy’s voice faded as her head disappeared inside the bodice of her pink dress. She struggled briefly, and then reemerged, her short hair tousled and standing on end. She tossed the dress on the bed with a sigh and pulled a pair of pajamas from the dresser and slipped them on.
Penelope had to smile when she saw them—the fabric was covered in a Wonder Woman print.
“I’m glad to be shot of that dress,” Figgy said, collapsing on the bed. She wiggled her toes in freedom. “I don’t know how the royals do it—prancing around day in and day out in all those fancy clothes. I don’t envy them, that’s for sure.”
“Neither do I,” Pen said from the bathroom where she was brushing her teeth.
Finally, they were both ready for bed and the lights were out. Penelope had been convinced she’d fall asleep the minute her head hit the pillow, but she was wrong. Thoughts chased themselves, one after the other, through her mind, which refused to shut down. She must be overtired, she thought. She couldn’t imagine how Charlotte must feel.
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