A Fatal Footnote

by Margaret Loudon

  They caught the Tube and exited at Sloane Square Station. As they turned onto Sloane Street, the shops became fancier and fancier—Prada, Tom Ford, Chanel, and other high-end retailers. The women they passed on the sidewalk, laden with glossy shopping bags, were all increasingly elegantly dressed and coiffed.

  Beryl appeared to be drinking it all in, pausing occasionally to examine an outfit in one of the windows. She was obviously in her element. She stopped in front of one display and pointed to the mannequin.

  “Isn’t that dress fabulous?” she said to Penelope. She put her hand on the door handle. “I have to try it on.”

  Suddenly Beryl’s shoulders drooped. “I forgot. Those days are over.” She dashed a hand across her eyes and lifted her chin. “I shall have to make the best of, it as Grandma Parish always used to say.”

  Finally they came to Atelier Classique. A vivid emerald strapless gown with a small bustle and a train was featured in the window. They went inside, where the walls were covered in rose moiré silk and all the mirrors were gilt framed.

  A saleslady, dressed all in black, glided over toward them.

  Penelope felt more than a little out of her element but she forced herself to stand up straight.

  “We’re here to see Yvette Boucher,” she said to the saleslady with as much confidence as she could muster.

  The saleslady raised an eyebrow. “Madame Boucher is on the second floor.” She cocked her head toward the back of the store. “The elevator is in the rear.”

  The elevator, which could barely hold both Penelope and Beryl, reminded Penelope of a gilded birdcage. She pushed the button for the second floor, and the car jerked into motion, moving incredibly slowly to the next level.

  The doors opened onto an airy workshop with large windows and a high ceiling. Several dress forms were scattered around, and bolts of brightly colored fabrics leaned against the walls.

  A young woman was sitting at a drafting table, sketching, her lower lip caught between her teeth.

  “Hello?” Penelope said and the young woman jumped.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “That’s okay.” She got up and walked toward Pen and Beryl. “I guess I was lost in what I was doing. Are you here for a fitting?”

  “No. We’re looking for Yvette Boucher. The saleslady thought she would be here.”

  “She’s in a meeting.” The woman glanced at her watch. “She should be out in ten minutes or so if you’d like to wait.”

  They took off their coats and Beryl began wandering around the workroom, peering at the sketches pinned to the wall and fingering some of the fabrics.

  “I hope we’re not keeping you,” Pen said to the woman. “Are you very busy?”

  The woman shook her head. “Not terribly. It was a huge rush, but now that the wedding is over—you may have heard we did the gown for the new duchess of Upper Chumley-on-Stoke—things have quieted down.” She stuck out her hand. “I’m Olivia, by the way.”

  “Penelope.” Pen shook her hand. “I was actually at the wedding of the duke and duchess. The gown was beautiful. Lady Winterbourne did an amazing job with the design. And of course Charlotte Davenport looked beautiful in it.”

  Olivia frowned. “Lady Winterbourne? Of course, she owns Atelier Classique.”

  Olivia paused.

  Penelope suspected there was a “but” coming and she was right.

  “But . . . she doesn’t have anything to do with the designing. Yvette Boucher and her people create all the designs sold at Atelier Classique.”

  “So Lady Winterbourne didn’t design the Duchess of Upper Chumley-on-Stoke’s wedding gown? Not at all?”

  Olivia shook her head vigorously. “No. That was all Yvette and her team.” She ducked her head. “I’m proud to say that I’m a member of her team.”

  Penelope thought back to the night before Charlotte’s wedding to Worthington. She remembered the look Yvette had given Cissie when Cissie had mentioned “her team.” That must have infuriated Yvette, who was being treated like nothing more than a seamstress when in fact she was a very talented designer.

  And Rose had seen Yvette in the boot room where Worthington’s missing polo mallet should have been.

  Had Yvette taken it? And used it to bash Cissie Winterbourne over the head until she was dead?

  Penelope heard the elevator doors open and a hint of perfume wafted toward them. Olivia scurried back to her drafting table and Pen turned around to see Yvette headed their way. Yvette looked momentarily startled to see Penelope, but then her face resumed its usual closed and unreadable look.

  “It’s Penelope, isn’t it?” Yvette said smoothly, eyeing Penelope’s pantsuit.

  Penelope introduced Beryl and noticed Yvette smiled approvingly at Beryl’s more stylish outfit.

  “Can I help you with something?” Yvette said, tilting her head to one side as she regarded Penelope.

  “My sister”—Pen pointed at Beryl—“is looking for a job. She has experience as a model and I thought of you and that perhaps . . .” Penelope’s voice trailed off under Yvette’s icy glare.

  Yvette spun around and looked Beryl up and down, her eyes narrowed appraisingly.

  “You’re the perfect size,” she said finally. “I am starting a new collection for the more mature woman and will need someone to fit the clothes on as well as model them in the salesroom.” She glanced at her watch. “I have appointments all afternoon, but if you come back tomorrow, we can talk about the details. I’ll need to sponsor you for a work visa, so there will be applications to fill out.”

  “That’s wonderful, Beryl.” Pen smiled at her sister. She turned to Yvette. “Olivia told me that you’re the one who actually designed Charlotte Davenport’s wedding gown,” Pen said. “I’m sorry that you didn’t get credit for it. That must hurt.”

  Yvette’s face froze. Pen noticed her chest rise and fall as she exhaled sharply.

  “It’s business. It’s not unusual. I didn’t expect anything else. The name Lady Winterbourne carries a bit more weight than mine, I’m afraid.”

  But Penelope wasn’t so sure. She had the feeling that Yvette had actually been quite hurt. She could imagine how she’d feel if she wrote a book and they put someone else’s name on it. Surely Cissie could have admitted Yvette’s contribution to the design of the gown to her circle of friends at least.

  It wouldn’t have harmed anything and in the end, its omission might have been fatal to Cissie.

  FOURTEEN

  I didn’t realize I’d become a mature woman,” Beryl said as the train was pulling out of King’s Cross station on their way home. She gazed out the window, her arms crossed over her chest.

  Penelope thought she sounded slightly miffed and had to suppress a smile.

  “I suppose it depends on how you define mature.” She squeezed her sister’s arm. “But you have a job. Isn’t that fantastic?”

  Beryl smiled. “Yes. It’s a huge relief. The commute will be a bear, but there should be a lot of men on the train so it will be the perfect opportunity to meet someone.” She pursed her lips. “Of course, now that I’m mature, I may have to settle for someone older—someone who’s balding with a large paunch.”

  Penelope thought of her brother-in-law’s thick head of dark hair and muscular physique honed by weekends spent playing tennis and taking seventy-five-mile bike rides.

  “I don’t see why you should have to settle,” Pen said decisively. “You’re still a very attractive woman. But don’t you think you should give yourself some time to adjust? To be on your own and to find yourself, as they say?”

  “I don’t want to find myself,” Beryl said, her expression set. “Oh, Pen,” she cried suddenly, “I’m not independent like you are. I don’t know how to do . . . things. Other than plan dinner parties and make socially acceptable small talk. I haven’t
balanced a checkbook in years and years.”

  “It’s like riding a bike—it will come back to you, don’t worry.”

  Beryl sighed. “I don’t know. . . .”

  “Listen, Beryl, you’ve got me. If you need help with something, I’ll be here.”

  Beryl looked doubtful. “I don’t know,” she said again.

  * * *

  * * *

  Pen’s cell phone was ringing when they walked into the cottage. Mrs. Danvers looked highly insulted when Penelope gave her a peremptory pat and then proceeded to take the call. The cat stalked off and sat in the corner, occasionally glaring over her shoulder at Penelope.

  Penelope was surprised to hear Maguire’s voice on the other end of the line, asking if she’d care to join him for a quick dinner at the Book and Bottle. Penelope looked at Beryl and hesitated.

  Beryl flapped a hand at her and mouthed, Go on.

  “Are you sure you don’t mind?” Penelope said when she’d hung up.

  “Not in the least. I’ll have leftovers from last night and then probably go to bed early. I’m exhausted. And I’ll have to be up early tomorrow to catch the train to London.”

  Penelope flew up the stairs to her bedroom, jettisoned her pantsuit, and slipped into a more comfortable pair of leggings and a bright purple sweater. She yanked a brush through her hair and headed back downstairs.

  Beryl looked at her disapprovingly. “I thought perhaps this was a date but with you looking like that . . .”

  “We’re friends,” Penelope said. “Besides, he’s seen me before—he knows what I look like.”

  Beryl raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything further.

  Pen grabbed her coat and slipped it on. She planned to walk to the Book and Bottle in order to avoid having to introduce Maguire to Beryl. She wasn’t ready for that. They were still feeling their way with each other—no need to throw family into the mix.

  Before Beryl could make any more comments, Penelope was out the door and walking briskly toward the Book and Bottle.

  The door to the pub swung open as Penelope was approaching and the sound of convivial conversation floated out into the night air along with the smell of beer and fried food.

  Maguire was waiting for her by the entrance. He leaned over and gave Penelope a brief kiss. She could feel the chill coming off him and his lips were cold. He must have just arrived.

  The pub was fairly uncrowded with a couple of open stools at the bar and a choice of tables. The chatter of voices was punctuated by the sound of the fruit machine pinging in the background and the clink of glasses and rattle of cutlery.

  “How is this?” Maguire said, leading them to a somewhat secluded table.

  He pulled out Penelope’s chair, then leaned over with his hands on the table. “What would you like to have? I’ll run up to the bar and we can have our drinks while we’re waiting for our order.”

  Penelope glanced at the blackboard on the wall, but she already knew what she wanted.

  “I’ll have a cider, please, and the bangers and mash.”

  Maguire smiled. “Coming right up.”

  Penelope watched as he walked toward the bar. He had a confident way of moving—it wasn’t a swagger—there was nothing boastful about it—but it was purposeful and assured.

  She pretended to be studying her phone as he walked back toward their table, drinks in hand. She hoped he hadn’t noticed her watching him.

  “Here we go.” He placed the drinks on the table and took the seat opposite Penelope.

  Penelope took a sip of her cider. “I didn’t tell you,” she began, “my sister is staying with me at the moment.”

  Maguire looked up. “Oh?”

  “She wanted to escape from a big brouhaha over in the States. It seems my brother-in-law was involved in some sort of Ponzi scheme. The press has been camping out on the doorstep night and day. She couldn’t stand it anymore.”

  “I can hardly blame her. I know how vicious those tabloids can be.” He scrubbed his hands over his face.

  “Rough day?” Penelope said, leaning forward with her elbows on the table.

  “Kind of.” He exhaled sharply. “It’s that DCI the Met sent down—Angie Donovan. I feel like she’s reduced me to a police constable. Next thing you know, she’ll have me out directing traffic on the high street.” He smiled. “I did score some points, though, for alerting her to the missing button from Tobias’s jacket. That was right brilliant of you, I have to say.”

  The warmth in his eyes made Penelope’s face flush.

  “Have they done the autopsy on Tobias yet? Did they discover what killed him? Frankly, it looked like anaphylactic shock to me.”

  Maguire nodded. “It was. You were spot-on.” He took a sip of his lager and ran a hand over his face again. “But that puts paid to the idea that Tobias is our killer. He’s turned into a victim.”

  “I think he might have seen something while he was out in the garden.”

  “That makes sense to me,” Maguire said. “But the DCI seems to think the two murders are unrelated.”

  “What?” Penelope paused with her glass halfway to her mouth.

  Maguire nodded. “Personally I think she’s got hold of the wrong end of the stick. Two murders so close together and in the same place?” He shook his head. “They’ve got to be related.” He shook his head. “If only they’d let me handle this case.”

  He glanced over toward the bar. “Looks like our food is ready. I’ll be back in a tick.”

  Moments later Maguire returned with two plates of bangers and mash. The aroma of the food drifted toward Penelope and she realized she was quite hungry. She and Beryl had done a lot of walking while in London, having added a bit of sightseeing to their visit.

  She picked up her fork and then put it down again.

  “Do you remember interviewing an Yvette Boucher after the murder? Petite, dark hair, French?”

  “Yes.” Maguire forked up a bit of his mashed potatoes.

  “I’ve discovered she might have a motive for killing Cissie Winterbourne.”

  “Oh? You’re turning into quite the detective,” Maguire teased.

  “Is that a polite way of saying I’m nosy?”

  Maguire threw back his head and laughed. “You said it, not me.”

  “Fair enough.” Penelope smiled. “I found out something interesting today.” She sliced off a piece of her sausage. “Yvette worked for Cissie at the design studio Cissie owned—Atelier Classique. They designed Charlotte Davenport’s wedding gown.”

  Maguire raised an eyebrow.

  “It’s quite a big deal actually,” Pen hastened to explain. “It was a huge drama beforehand—all the tabloids and even some American magazines were dying to find out who was going to design the dress and what it was going to look like. Whoever the designer was, was going to become a household name overnight.”

  Penelope took a sip of her cider. “Cissie claimed to have been the one to design the gown, but in reality it was Yvette who did all the work. I got the sense that she was quite put out about Cissie’s taking credit for it. It could have been a real boon to Yvette’s reputation if it had been known that she was the designer.”

  “ ‘Quite put out’?” Maguire said, dabbing some mustard on his sausage. “You’d have to have a pretty twisted mind to let that goad you into committing murder.” He was quiet for a moment. “Still, I have to say I’ve seen people kill for a lot less.”

  Penelope was thinking. “Maybe that was the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back? Maybe there’s something else? Something worse?”

  “Could be. Or it could be the opposite. Did Yvette have anything to gain by Cissie’s death?”

  Penelope shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  But she vowed she was going to find out.

  * * *

  * * *r />
  Penelope saw Beryl off on the train the next morning. Her sister looked as smart as always and had seemed excited although she did confess to having had an attack of nerves while getting ready.

  Penelope stood on the platform and watched until the train began to chug out of the station. She waved to her sister and when Beryl’s carriage disappeared from view, headed to her car.

  Mabel was in the window of the Open Book, rearranging the display, when Penelope arrived.

  “Hand me that book over there, would you?” Mabel said when Penelope walked in.

  Pen held up a volume. “This?”

  “Yes,” Mabel said. “That’s the new Deborah Crombie. It just came in.”

  Mabel moved another book out of the way and positioned the new one on top of the stack in the display. She backed out of the window and brushed some dust from her sweater.

  “Hang on,” Pen said. She plucked a dust bunny from Mabel’s fuzzy white hair.

  Penelope noticed Figgy walking toward them.

  “Good morning,” Figgy said.

  Penelope turned and opened her mouth to say good morning but the words didn’t come out. She stared wide-eyed at Figgy.

  Figgy looked as if she had been scrubbed clean. The extra earrings that normally adorned her earlobes were missing; there was no ring in her nose; her hair was no longer spiked with gel but smoothed into a glossy helmet; and her clothes . . . well, her clothes were ordinary—like an outfit off a mannequin at Marks and Spencer and not the haphazard assortment of garments Figgy normally wore that looked as if she’d pulled them from her closet blindfolded.

  “What gives?” Pen said, still in shock.

  Figgy made a face. “I’m meeting Derek’s parents tonight for the first time for dinner. He’s picking me up as soon as we close.”

  “Didn’t want them meeting your real self, eh?” Mabel said, leaning her elbows on the counter.