“Are you saying that Lord Worthington might become a suspect in Cissie’s murder?”
Charlotte looked relieved. “Yes. I’m so glad you see it, too.”
“I still don’t understand what I can do to help.” Penelope finished the last of her tea.
“You’ve solved one case already—Regina’s murder in the fall.”
And I nearly got myself killed, Penelope thought.
“I was hoping you would look into this one, too.”
As Penelope headed back to her room to collect her suitcase, she was kicking herself for promising Charlotte that she would see what she could do. It had been sheer luck that she’d figured out Regina’s murder one step ahead of the police.
Would she be able to do that again? And not get herself killed in the bargain?
FIVE
Did Maguire ask you about that button they found near the terrace?” Pen asked Figgy as they checked the drawers in the dresser for any of their belongings they might have missed. “It was quite distinctive.”
“He did, but I’m afraid I was no help. I didn’t recognize it.”
Penelope opened the last drawer in the dresser. Suddenly a thought occurred to her. She rolled it around in her mind for a couple of seconds. Did they dare?
“That button has to be relatively rare,” she said. “I’ve certainly never seen one shaped like a rose before. I wonder if it came off of one of Tobias’s jackets. He obviously goes in for unusual things. And I saw him poking around the garden this morning. It was clear he was looking for something, although he denied it when I mentioned it to him.”
Figgy paused with her hand on the closet door.
“You’re right. It looked like something Tobias would be partial to.”
“How about if we sneak into Tobias’s room and go through his clothes and check to see if any of his jackets have buttons like the one found outside?”
Figgy gave a little squeak and clapped a hand over her mouth.
“Oh, let’s. It will give us something to talk about at cocktail parties for positively ages.” Her eyes became huge. “Maybe we’ll even crack the case—we’ll be a regular Inspector Morse and Sergeant Lewis.”
“Whoa,” Pen said. “It might backfire. We might get caught. We’ll have to be very careful and I don’t think we should tell anyone about it.”
Figgy looked downcast. “I suppose you’re right.”
“First we need to find out where Tobias is at the moment. The last I saw of him he was in the drawing room reading the Financial Times.”
“Great. Let’s go check his closet, then.”
Pen shook her head. “We need to make sure he’s still there reading his paper.”
They set off down the corridor and headed toward the drawing room.
The chair Tobias had been sitting in was empty. Jemima was in the room standing with her back to them and in front of a small occasional table with a collection of antique snuffboxes arranged on it.
“Oh,” she said, startled, when she turned around and saw Pen and Figgy.
“I was just . . . I was just going.”
And she swept past them, leaving behind the scent of her gardenia perfume.
“That was odd,” Pen said, glancing after Jemima.
“Yes, it was.”
Penelope shrugged. “Well, it’s obvious Tobias isn’t here.”
“Maybe we should abandon the plan?”
Pen shook her head. “Maybe he’s gone outside.”
A car started up just then. Penelope went to the window and peered out.
Tobias was behind the wheel of a late model Jaguar. As Penelope watched, he headed down the drive and out of sight.
“The coast is clear,” she said to Figgy. “That was Tobias driving off.”
“Supposing he’s packed up and gone home?” Figgy said.
“We’ll soon find out,” Penelope said.
She had to stifle a giggle as they made their way back upstairs to the bedrooms. She felt like Nancy Drew in the books she’d read as a child, only minus the blue roadster.
Although the hall was empty and there was no one about, Penelope found herself walking along on tiptoe as they approached Tobias’s room
“Here it is,” Pen said.
“Are you sure?” Figgy whispered.
“Yes. I noticed him going into his room when we went up to change before the ball.”
She opened the door slowly and peeked inside, then motioned for Figgy to follow her.
An enormous carved wood armoire was against one wall with a chest of drawers opposite it. The walls were painted a deep rich green that was echoed in the print on the curtains around the four-poster. It was unmade and all the pillows had been pushed to the center.
Figgy gestured toward it. “Looks like Tobias didn’t waste any time spreading out into the middle of the bed.”
“I’m getting the distinct feeling that he’s not all that terribly upset by his wife’s murder,” Penelope said as she opened the door to the armoire.
Garments were hung on wooden hangers with shoes arranged neatly below. As Penelope flipped through them, the scent of Tobias’s aftershave—something bespoke no doubt—filtered into the air.
“That’s a relief,” Penelope said. “Like you said, he might have already packed up and headed home but it looks as if he’s just run an errand.”
Penelope examined the other two jackets in the armoire but without any luck. The buttons were all ordinary—the sort you’d find on any men’s jackets at Marks and Spencer or Turnbull & Asser.
“Where is that evening jacket he had on last night?” Figgy said, fiddling with the key in the armoire door.
“I must have missed it.”
Penelope looked through the garments again.
“It’s not here.”
“Are you sure?” Figgy said. “Although I suppose it would be hard to miss.”
“Why don’t you look?”
Figgy went through the garments one by one, then turned to Penelope with a frown. “It’s definitely not here. Has he thrown it over the back of a chair or something?” She closed the door to the armoire and began looking around.
“I don’t see it,” Pen said.
“Neither do I.”
“Maybe he sent it down to be cleaned or pressed?” Penelope said, picturing scenes she’d watched on Downton Abbey.
“Or maybe he got rid of it.” Figgy stood with her hands on her hips. “You said you saw him searching for something in the garden. Maybe it was the button from his jacket. He realized it was missing and that it would place him outside near the terrace at the time of the murder.” She raised her eyebrows. “And if he didn’t kill Cissie, maybe he saw who did.” She snapped her fingers. “Or perhaps he hired someone to do the deed and wanted to make sure it had been done before he paid up.”
“That makes more sense,” Pen said. “If he’d seen the murderer himself, I would think he’d have told the police.”
* * *
* * *
I’ll be glad to get back to my little cottage,” Pen said as she and Figgy got ready to leave Worthington House.
“I don’t know,” Figgy said, looking around. “I’ve rather enjoyed the luxury myself.”
They were passing the drawing room on their way to the front entrance, where Charlotte had arranged for the chauffeur to meet them and drive them into town, when they heard voices—Charlotte and another woman. Charlotte sounded distressed.
Penelope paused by the entrance to the room and looked inside. Charlotte was talking to a maid holding a feather duster. There was a bandage on her left hand and Pen recognized her as the same woman she’d seen bringing out the tray of teacups at the ball the previous night.
“Yes, your grace,” they heard the maid say as she left the room.
“I
s something wrong?” Pen said, stepping through the doorway. The room smelled of lemon furniture polish, and all the wood pieces gleamed in the sun coming through the tall windows.
Charlotte’s brows were drawn together in a frown and she was wringing her hands.
“A snuffbox has gone missing,” Charlotte said, pointing to the small table next to one of the armchairs. “It’s a rather special one. I bought it for Arthur to celebrate our engagement. He’s been collecting them for years. I felt so lucky to find it.” She smiled. “It belonged to a previous duke of Upper Chumley-on-Stoke and had been sold years ago when Arthur’s grandfather racked up considerable gambling debts that needed to be paid off.”
“It does sound very special,” Figgy said.
Charlotte nodded. “It was silver with a drawing of Worthington House etched on the cover. Arthur was thrilled with it.” She wrung her hands again. “And now it’s gone missing. I can’t imagine what happened to it. I asked Ivy about it—she is usually the one to dust and vacuum this room—but she hadn’t noticed it was missing.”
“Could it have been knocked off the table somehow?” Pen said, glancing at the armchair whose pleated skirt brushed the ground. “Perhaps under there?” She pointed to the chair.
“I’ve already looked,” Charlotte said. “I even got down on my knees.” She knitted her fingers together. “And yesterday I noticed the silver-backed comb was missing from the powder room.” She looked around her as if expecting to see that something else had suddenly disappeared. “Nothing has ever gone missing before so I can’t believe it’s the staff.”
Pen and Figgy looked at each other.
“That leaves our guests,” Charlotte said. She shook her head. “But I can’t believe any of them would stoop to stealing. . . .”
Charlotte made an obvious effort to smile. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to trouble you with all this. I imagine you’re anxious to get home. I’ll have Tinley bring the car around.”
“Do you suppose one of Charlotte’s guests is a kleptomaniac?” Figgy said after Charlotte had left and they were waiting by the door.
“I suppose it’s possible.”
“A house party with a thief and a murderer,” Figgy said, blowing out a puff of air and fluttering her short bangs. “It sounds like an Agatha Christie novel.”
Penelope snorted. “Let’s just hope it’s not like And Then There Were None.”
* * *
* * *
Penelope groaned as she opened the front door to her cottage. It really was good to be home. Mrs. Danvers, her tuxedo cat, came around the corner and stared at her balefully, clearly annoyed at Penelope’s having left, even though she’d been in Mabel’s expert care during Pen’s absence.
She wound between Pen’s legs, but when Pen bent down to pet her, she stalked off, tail in the air, and sat in the far corner of the room.
Penelope shrugged and put down her suitcase and looked around with satisfaction. The sitting room was small but charming with a large fireplace, windows that looked out onto the high street, and a beamed ceiling. When Penelope first saw it, she’d felt as if she’d stepped into Shakespearean times and it had been love at first sight.
The kitchen was equally charming with an old Aga that kept the room warm and cozy. Penelope filled the kettle and put it on to boil. She was going to have a cup of tea and then head down to the Open Book. She also planned to get some writing done on her third manuscript. Her second book was currently in the hands of her editor and she was in the nail-biting stage of waiting for the editor’s suggested revisions.
The teakettle whistled and Penelope rinsed out her mug with hot water, then added a tea bag and the boiling water from the kettle. Mrs. Danvers seemed to have gotten over her little snit and had come into the kitchen. Either that or she was wondering if food was on order, Penelope thought. This time, though, she did let Penelope scratch behind her ears and under her chin.
Penelope finished her tea and checked Mrs. Danvers’s food and water dishes, which were both full. She carried her suitcase up to the bedroom and checked her watch. She’d have to hustle if she was going to get to the Open Book on time.
* * *
* * *
The Open Book was as charming as Penelope’s cottage with its timbered exterior; diamond-paned windows; and low, beamed ceiling. It was warm and welcoming and Penelope always felt like she was coming home when she walked through the door.
“Come to join the hoi polloi, have you?” Mabel said with a smile.
She was behind the front counter, looking more familiar in her corduroy trousers and cable-knit sweater.
“So how was hobnobbing with the nobility? You haven’t become too good for us commoners now, have you?”
Pen laughed. “Hardly. I’m thrilled to be back in the normal world. The air in that one is too rarefied for me.”
India sidled up to the counter. She came to the Open Book nearly every day and sat in a corner in one of the armchairs Mabel had scattered around, flipping through a stack of books. Penelope knew she lived alone—she supposed she was lonely and enjoyed the convivial atmosphere of the bookstore. Besides, Figgy often gave her goodies from the tea shop—a freshly baked scone, a few pieces of shortbread, or a slice of Victoria sponge cake.
“I missed you at the ball last night,” Penelope said to India. Surely India had been invited—she was a relative of Worthington’s, even if only a distant cousin.
India waved a hand. “I hung up my dancing shoes years ago, I’m afraid. I was tucked up in bed before the ball even started.”
“Was it splendid?” Mabel said, leaning her elbows on the counter.
Figgy had wandered over to join them.
“Didn’t you hear? There was a murder.”
Both Mabel and India gasped.
“No, really?” Mabel’s eyes were wide.
“Yes,” Pen said. “I suppose it will be in all the afternoon papers. Someone hit Cissie—Lady Winterbourne—over the head with something and I’m afraid she’s dead.”
“It couldn’t have been an accident?” Mabel said.
Penelope shook her head.
“Poor Arthur.” India fingered her pearls. “Having his wedding ball ruined like that.”
“I have to say the ball was quite spectacular up to that point.” Figgy fiddled with one of the gold studs in her ear, turning it around and around.
“It certainly was,” Pen said.
Figgy sighed. “I need to get the tea things sorted,” she said. “I’d best get back to work.”
A bell jangled as someone pushed open the front door. Gladys came in like a whirlwind, her hair wind whipped and her hat slightly askew.
“There’s a right ruckus going on down the street,” she said breathlessly. “In front of the stationer’s. Did you see it?”
“No.” Mabel frowned. “What’s happening?”
“Someone was standing in the road—I couldn’t tell whether it was a man or a woman dressed in all those baggy clothes as they were. They were waving a large sign with Yankee Go Home in black letters dripping with red paint. It gave me quite the fright—for a moment I thought it was actually blood.”
Gladys paused to take a breath and snatch off her hat. “Constable Cuthbert got them to move along, but quite a crowd had gathered by then.”
Penelope shuddered. Someone had been holding a similar sign in front of Worthington House right before the wedding. She knew that the residents of Chumley resented Worthington’s choosing an American to be his bride—many of the mothers had been hoping that their daughters would catch his eye.
But she hadn’t expected anyone to actually protest—and with such a gruesome and graphic sign.
Maybe Charlotte had been right and the killer had mistaken Cissie for her and Charlotte had actually been the intended victim all along.
* * *
* * *
As soon as the members of her book group left—they had been reading and discussing Jane Eyre—she carried her laptop into what she called her writing room—a tiny space off the salesroom of the bookstore. There weren’t any windows, which was perfect because Penelope didn’t want any distractions.
She opened her laptop and powered it up. She hadn’t checked her e-mail since before she’d gone to Worthington House. No doubt her in-box would be full of the usual advertisements, notes letting her know that there was an account with her name on it and a million dollars in it if only she’d hand over her bank account number.
Penelope scrolled through the e-mails. There was one from her sister, Beryl, complaining that the housekeeper had neglected to vacuum under the sofa. Another one was from her mother, wondering when she was going to come home and get serious about finding a husband. Pen sighed. Everyone seemed to have a different vision for her life than the one she had in her own head. She was enjoying her time in Chumley and had no intention of cutting it short.
She was about to click out of her e-mail folder when another one popped up suddenly. Penelope closed her eyes and groaned. It was from her editor, Bettina, in New York. She peeked at the e-mail notice. There was an attachment. She groaned again.
The dreaded request for revisions on her second book, The Woman in the Fog, had obviously arrived. Penelope sighed—there was no way of avoiding it—she’d have to read the e-mail sooner or later.
She decided that later would be just fine and powered off her laptop and closed the lid.
SIX
Penelope had been about to summon up her courage and tackle her editor’s e-mail when the telephone rang. She couldn’t lie—she was glad of the diversion. And she was even happier when the caller turned out to be Detective Maguire inviting her to dinner.
Fortunately, Penelope wasn’t the sort who needed a lot of time to get ready to go out. She brushed her hair, checked her sweater for any spots—there were none—powdered her nose, cleaned her glasses, put on her jacket, and headed out the door.
A Fatal Footnote Page 5