A Fatal Footnote

by Margaret Loudon

  “Is that what he said?”

  Rose nodded. “Yes. He said it would be unseemly.” She fiddled with the handle of her suitcase. “Cissie treated him horribly, but she wouldn’t let him leave. She couldn’t bear to see him happy with me.”

  Pen had a sudden thought. She’d assumed that Tobias had killed Cissie to get out of the marriage while keeping her money. But what if Rose had been the one to do the deed? She’d been seen outside near the terrace as well.

  As if Rose had read her mind, she said, “And don’t think I killed Cissie. I couldn’t do something like that.” She shuddered. “I faint at the sight of blood. I’m very sensitive.”

  A hard look came over her face. “Besides, why don’t you ask Yvette what she was doing in the boot room the day Worthington’s polo mallet went missing? She had no cause to be in there. I think she has some explaining to do.” Her breathing was agitated.

  Penelope waited until Rose had calmed down.

  “I actually came here to warn you,” Pen said.

  Rose froze with her hand on her suitcase. “Warn me?”

  “Why did someone kill Tobias? What if it was because he saw the killer out on the terrace around the time Cissie was murdered and they killed him to keep him quiet?”

  Rose’s face turned white and she bit her lower lip so hard a drop of blood pooled around her tooth.

  “What if they thought you saw something that night as well?” Penelope said.

  “But I didn’t . . . we didn’t. I’m sure Tobias didn’t.”

  “Did you hear anything?”

  Rose hung her head. “No. I’m afraid we were . . . concentrating on each other.”

  “But I don’t suppose the killer would realize that. If they knew you’d been outside . . .”

  Rose’s hand flew to her throat, and she gasped. “They might try to kill me, too,” she whispered.

  * * *

  * * *

  Pen was about to leave Worthington House when she ran into Charlotte.

  “Penelope!” Charlotte exclaimed. “I didn’t know you were here.”

  “I stopped by to see Rose,” Pen said, eyeing Charlotte.

  She didn’t look well—she seemed agitated—her hands tugging at the neck of her sweater in an uncharacteristically nervous gesture that Penelope had never seen her make before.

  “Is everything okay?”

  Charlotte opened her mouth, and Pen had the impression she was about to deny anything was wrong, but then she obviously changed her mind.

  “Something has gone missing again and I don’t know what to make of it.” Charlotte ran her hands through her blond hair, which was loose and cascading past her shoulders. “It can’t be the servants—they’ve been with Arthur forever. Some of them even worked for his father. And nothing’s ever gone missing before—not even so much as a farthing, as Arthur always says.”

  “What is missing? Could it have been misplaced?”

  Charlotte shook her head. “It’s a Dresden lace figurine of a dancing lady. It belonged to Arthur’s mother—it was given to her by a dear friend when she married Arthur’s father. It was a favorite of hers, although heaven knows what Arthur thought of it.” A ghost of a smile played around Charlotte’s lips. “It seems a bit . . . feminine for his tastes—all those crinolines and porcelain lace.” She sighed. “Still, the piece is valuable and who knows what is going to go missing next?”

  “Do you still have houseguests?” Pen said. “Aside from Rose, of course.”

  “Yes, there’s Jemima and her husband, Ethan, and Tobi—” Charlotte stuttered to a halt. She wiped a hand over her face. “I keep forgetting that poor Tobias is gone. It’s almost impossible to take in—like the plot in a terrible novel.” She pulled at the neck of her sweater again. “That horrible detective they sent from the Met—Angie Donovan—doesn’t want anyone to leave until the case is solved, although she’s allowed Yvette to commute to her dress studio in London.” Charlotte bit her lip. “I do wish we were dealing with Maguire instead. I’m sure he’d be more reasonable.”

  She gave her shoulders a small shake as if trying to physically shed her worries.

  “I suppose under the circumstances, it’s a bit ridiculous to be fretting about a missing figurine even if it is worth several hundred pounds at least.”

  “I imagine you’re right,” Pen said as Charlotte walked her to the front door.

  Pen said good-bye and went out to her car. As Worthington House retreated in her rearview mirror, she thought that, as grand as it was, she still preferred her cozy little cottage, and she breathed a sigh of relief when she pulled up in front of it.

  Beryl was waiting at the door when Penelope walked in.

  “Do you know you left the stove on?” she said, pursing her lips in disapproval.

  “It’s an Aga,” Pen said, as she took off her coat. “It’s always on.”

  “What on earth for?” Beryl said, straightening the stack of magazines on Pen’s coffee table. “At any rate, I decided to take a walk and get some fresh air. I ended up in your grocery store—Tesco I think it’s called—and I bought some things for dinner.”

  “How lovely.” Penelope suddenly realized delicious smells were coming from the kitchen.

  “It’s nothing special—a simple poulet à la crème and a green salad.”

  Penelope remembered Beryl had once taken a cooking course with Pierre Laurent, the famous French chef and restaurateur.

  Beryl patted her stomach. “I must start watching my waistline though—now that I’m going to be single.” The last word came out on a sob.

  “You’re divorcing Magnus?” Pen said.

  “Yes. I don’t know.” Beryl held her hands out, palms up. “What else can I do? If he’s going to prison—the lawyers seem to think it would be for a long time—I’ll have to get on with my life.”

  “Come on.” Penelope pointed toward the kitchen. “This calls for a glass of wine.”

  “Do you have any vodka?” Beryl said as she followed Penelope out to the kitchen. “I could do with something a bit stronger than a chardonnay at this point.”

  “Vodka it is.”

  The pot sitting on the stove was giving off a delicious aroma. Pen lifted the lid and let the fragrant steam bathe her face briefly before opening the cupboard and pulling out her bottle of vodka.

  She put a few cubes of ice in a glass, poured the liquor over it, and handed it to Beryl. Beryl took a huge sip and then looked at Penelope.

  “I’m going to need to get a job,” she said more matter-of-factly than Penelope would have expected.

  “A job? Yes, I suppose so.” Pen had poured herself a glass of wine and she took a sip. She sat down at the table opposite her sister. “What sort of work would you be looking for?”

  Beyond modeling, Beryl had never done much of anything unless you could count selling Pampered Chef products at parties attended by her friends.

  Penelope was setting the table when several ideas came to mind—two different ideas to be specific—that hatched a third idea.

  She’d been thinking about what Rose had said—that Yvette had been seen in the boot room the day Worthington’s polo mallet disappeared. Rose might simply have been trying to throw suspicion on Yvette or she might have been telling the truth.

  And if Rose was telling the truth, Penelope wanted to learn a little more about Yvette. And Beryl was the key to killing two birds with one stone. Although under the circumstances, that wasn’t perhaps the best choice of idiom.

  But if Pen played her cards right, she would have an excuse to go to Atelier Classique in London to talk to Yvette and she might—just might—manage to score Beryl a job, assuming Beryl could get a work visa.

  * * *

  * * *

  Pen already had the coffee on when Beryl appeared in the kitchen the next morning.

>   “That smells heavenly,” Beryl said, pulling her robe closer around her. Her blond hair was tousled and her face creased with sleep. “I guess I’m still jet-lagged. I could have slept all day.” She covered her mouth and yawned.

  “I thought we’d go to London tomorrow,” Pen said, as she poured out two mugs of coffee. She’d taken to drinking tea in the mornings—English breakfast—but in honor of Beryl’s visit she’d switched back to coffee.

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” Beryl said. “I’m in no mood to go sightseeing. Besides, I’ve been to London numerous times already with Magnus when he was there on business.”

  Beryl accepted the mug from Penelope and wrapped her hands around it. She stared pensively at it for a moment.

  “Magnus proposed to me in London, did I ever tell you?” She turned toward Penelope. “It was so romantic. He took me out to dinner at this fabulous restaurant—believe it or not I can no longer remember the name and it’s long been closed—and I ordered a chocolate lava cake for dessert. When I dug my spoon into it—there it was—a diamond engagement ring.” Beryl sniffed and dabbed her eyes. She looked at Penelope, her mouth downturned. “What went wrong?”

  Magnus got greedy, Pen thought to herself. And now he had to pay the price. It was unfortunate that it was going to cost Beryl as well. All Beryl had ever tried to be was a good wife.

  “We won’t be going to London to sightsee,” Penelope said. She went to the refrigerator and removed a carton of eggs. She glanced toward the back door, where Mrs. Danvers was curled up in a beam of sunlight coming through the window.

  “I need to go to the Atelier Classique on Sloane Street in Belgravia.”

  Beryl perked up. “Atelier Classique? I love their designs.” Beryl’s face took on a dreamy expression but then quickly clouded over. “Not that I can afford them now.”

  “They designed the Duchess of Upper Chumley-on-Stoke’s wedding gown.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re planning on buying something.” Beryl put down her mug with a thud.

  “Of course not. We’re going there to get you a job. I happen to know someone who works there.”

  “You can’t be serious?” Beryl’s mouth hung open. “I’m way too old to model, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “I’m not thinking anything in particular,” Pen admitted as she cracked some eggs into a bowl. “Maybe they need a sales consultant or a stylist. Or even, yes, a model for their in-house fashion shows. You may not be twenty anymore, but you’re hardly ancient.” She faced Beryl with her hands on her hips. “We’ll see what happens when we get there.”

  Penelope poured the eggs into a pan on the stove. They sizzled and spit momentarily. She grabbed a spoon from a container by the Aga and gave them a stir.

  “Today, I thought I’d take you to the Open Book and you can meet the cast of characters I’ve gotten to know while I’ve been here. Afterward, we can do a bit of sightseeing and then have lunch. There’s a pub that does a very good steak and kidney pie.”

  Beryl’s eyebrows shot up. “Steak and kidney pie?”

  Pen nodded. “Trust me. You’ll love it.”

  * * *

  * * *

  This is so charming,” Beryl said when they were standing in front of the Open Book. “I feel as if I’ve stepped into a fairy tale. The whole town feels that way.”

  Penelope felt a rush of pride. “The inside is equally charming,” she said as she held the door open for Beryl.

  Mabel looked up and smiled when she saw them. “You must be Beryl,” she said, as she came out from behind the counter. “Welcome to the Open Book. We’ve been dying to meet you.”

  “This is lovely,” Beryl said, looking around. “So wonderfully cozy.” She turned to Pen. “No wonder you love it.”

  India came out from behind one of the bookshelves and Pen motioned her over.

  “India, this is my sister, Beryl Kent.”

  “India Culpepper,” India said crisply in her posh, upper-class accent. She squinted at Penelope and Beryl. “You two don’t look terribly alike,” she proclaimed.

  “Beryl got our mother’s good looks,” Penelope said, “while I’ve always been told I take after my father.”

  “Quite,” India said, fingering her pearls. “How are you getting on?” she said to Beryl.

  “It’s been a bit overwhelming,” Beryl said. “I hadn’t expected to visit a castle and meet the Duchess of Upper Chumley-on-Stoke. What an honor. Or to be on the scene of a murder.” She shuddered.

  “Murder?” Mabel’s eyebrows shot up.

  Figgy came up to them and held out a plate of shortbread cookies. “Help yourself.”

  “Tobias Winterbourne appears to have died from anaphylactic shock,” Pen said, reaching for a cookie.

  “My sainted aunt,” Mabel said. “Another murder at Worthington House?”

  “We don’t know for sure that it’s murder. Yet,” Penelope said.

  “Poor Tobias,” Figgy said. “He was a bit of a tosser, but still, that’s no reason to murder him.”

  “I suppose we’ll know more soon,” Penelope said.

  Figgy turned to Beryl. “I’m Figgy. You must be Beryl.” She smiled.

  “Figgy?” Beryl said. It was clear that she thought she hadn’t heard correctly.

  Figgy fingered the stud in her ear. “Actually it’s Lady Fiona Innes-Goldthorpe, but that’s such a mouthful that everyone calls me Figgy.”

  “How long will you be staying?” India said, peering at Beryl.

  Beryl hesitated. “To be honest, I don’t know yet.”

  India nodded briskly. “I hope you enjoy your stay.”

  “Why don’t you show Beryl around?” Mabel called over her shoulder as she headed back to the counter where a customer was waiting.

  Pen led Beryl around the shop, pointing out the rather extensive used-book section and the display of royal books she’d put together in honor of Charlotte and Arthur’s wedding.

  “Very nice,” Beryl said. “You’re quite creative.”

  “Thanks.”

  “It’s not very tidy, is it?” Beryl eyed a tottering stack of books waiting to be shelved. “But that’s part of its charm.” She pointed to one of the armchairs. “That looks comfortable. The perfect place to curl up on a rainy day.”

  “You must see my writing room,” Pen said, leading her across the shop. She opened the door and Beryl peeked in.

  “It’s tiny but I imagine there are no distractions.”

  “Exactly.” Penelope shut the door again.

  “I guess you really are an author,” Beryl said with a note of pride in her voice. “I’m sorry I didn’t take your writing seriously before.” She squeezed Pen’s arm. “It’s actually quite impressive.” She gave a bitter laugh. “Certainly more impressive than marrying a man with money and spending your time going to Pilates classes, arranging flowers, and hosting dinner parties.”

  Beryl was quiet as they said good-bye and headed out the door. “Everyone seems to be quite fond of you,” she said when they were on the sidewalk. “I can see that you’ve made a life for yourself here.”

  “Yes,” Penelope said in surprise as they headed out. “I guess I have.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Beryl was ready early the next morning. Penelope took that as a good sign—she was excited to go to London—or at least not totally against the idea.

  She was dressed for it, too, in a very smart outfit—high-waisted black pants, a black-and-white houndstooth-print silk blouse with a chunky necklace at her throat. Penelope felt decidedly un-chic in her plain black pantsuit and white blouse.

  Beryl was quiet on the drive to the train station although she did gasp once or twice. Penelope thought she was overreacting—she was doing a fine job of staying on the left side of the road.

  Bery
l breathed a very loud sigh of relief when they arrived at the train station parking lot. Penelope thought it sounded sarcastic—if a sigh could be said to be sarcastic.

  Beryl paused outside the station. “I feel like I’ve stepped back in time—or have fallen into a Charles Dickens novel,” she said, regarding the small Victorian brick structure. “This is so charming.”

  “The trains are quite modern though,” Penelope said as she purchased their tickets.

  “I’m almost disappointed,” Beryl said, fastening the buttons on her coat.

  The day had dawned bright and cloudless, but the wind had a sharp edge to it as they stood on the platform waiting for the train.

  Finally a whistle sounded in the distance and the train slowly chugged around the bend, rattling as it went over the switches.

  The train came to a halt and Penelope and Beryl boarded and found seats. The carriage was warm and they unbuttoned their coats and settled in.

  They didn’t say much on the trip—Beryl spent most of the time staring out the window. Penelope could imagine how she felt—being betrayed by Magnus and having her life change overnight. She said a prayer that their trip to London would be successful.

  Penelope noticed that Beryl perked up as soon as the train pulled into King’s Cross station. The station was humming with activity and sunlight streamed through the arched glass-paneled ceiling. The hands on the large old-fashioned clock suspended next to the platform appeared to be working and read ten o’clock—a far cry from the clock at the Chumley train station that had been stuck at six o’clock for longer than anyone could remember.

  Penelope had checked a map before their arrival in London. “We can take the Tube to Sloane Street from here,” she said as they joined the crowd heading toward the exit. “We’ll have to walk a bit when we get off, but it’s a lovely day if a bit chilly.”

  “A brisk walk will warm us up,” Beryl said, buttoning her coat.

  Beryl’s attitude had definitely changed, Penelope noted as they made their way through the crowd to the tube station. Even if things with Atelier Classique didn’t work out, this had been a good idea.