A Fatal Footnote

by Margaret Loudon

Penelope waved a hand and dabbed at her eyes, which had begun to tear.

  “I’m fine, thanks.” Penelope took a deep breath. “Cissie left the studio to Yvette?”

  “Yes.”

  If that didn’t give Yvette a perfect motive for murder, then Penelope didn’t know what did.

  SEVENTEEN

  Figgy was wiping down the tables in the Open Book’s tea shop when Penelope breezed in the next morning.

  She’d gone full-on Figgy again with all her earrings in place, her hair gelled into its usual spikes, and an outfit that could best be described as bohemian chic. Still, she didn’t look like the usual Figgy to Penelope. Something was missing—the glow that usually emanated from her.

  “Is everything okay?” Pen asked, putting her laptop down on one of the tables.

  “No,” Figgy said and burst into tears.

  Pen put her arm around her friend’s shoulders. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. It’s only that—” And she burst into tears again.

  “Did you and Derek have a fight?” Pen tightened her arm around Figgy.

  “Not exactly,” Figgy said and sniffed loudly. She rummaged in her pocket, pulled out a tissue, and blew her nose.

  “I’m out of guesses, Fig; tell me what’s wrong, okay? Maybe I can help.”

  “No one can help,” Figgy said and hiccoughed.

  “Did you have dinner with Derek’s parents last night? Did something go wrong?”

  “Not wrong exactly,” Figgy said, swiping at her eyes with the crumpled tissue. “I don’t think his parents liked me,” she said finally.

  “Not like you? How could they not like you? Everybody likes you,” Pen said. “What makes you think they didn’t like you? Did they say something to Derek?”

  Figgy shook her head. “No. They didn’t say anything. That’s the problem. They hardly spoke at all. It was awful,” she said, beginning to cry again. She sniffed loudly. “Derek said that was due to cultural differences. He said they’re always quiet. They’re very reserved people.”

  “But—but . . .” Pen sputtered. “That doesn’t mean they didn’t like you.”

  “That’s what Derek said.”

  “So why don’t you believe him, then?”

  Figgy shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s just a feeling I have.” She shuddered. “It was as if I’d walked into a freezer the minute I sat down—they seemed that cold to me.”

  “I suspect it was just your imagination.”

  “I don’t know.” Figgy blew her nose again. “Derek and I are thinking of eloping. Because I can’t imagine a wedding with his parents and my parents and all the tension that would create. Maybe we’ll run away to Scotland or have the captain of the Dover ferry marry us.”

  Somehow that sounded more like Figgy’s style to Penelope. She couldn’t picture her friend in a white wedding gown and long veil traipsing down the aisle for a traditional ceremony.

  Penelope went back to work and was putting some books back on their shelves when the bell over the front door jingled and a harassed-looking woman came in. Her parka was open and she was wearing a sweatshirt, jeans, and a pair of green rubber Wellingtons although it wasn’t raining out and hadn’t for several days. A young girl, who Penelope guessed to be about three years old, was hanging on to her arm.

  “Can I help you find something?” Penelope asked as the woman approached her.

  “Yes,” the woman said, sighing, tugging the young girl by the arm. “I’m looking for a book.”

  Well, you’ve come to the right place, Penelope thought to herself.

  The little girl’s face was sticky with something, and she was wearing purple floral-print corduroy pants and a red-and-white-striped top.

  The woman shrugged. “She insisted on picking out her own clothes today,” she said apologetically. She flashed a smile at her daughter.

  Penelope smiled. “I remember having an argument with my mother over why I couldn’t wear a pair of leggings and a swimsuit top to kindergarten.”

  The woman laughed. She looked relieved. She gestured toward her boots.

  “Of course I couldn’t find any of my shoes this morning. Our Matilda does like to hide them, don’t you, pet?” She patted the little girl on the head.

  “What sort of book are you looking for?”

  “It’s for my book club.” The woman laughed. “Although I think we should call it the wine club because we do more drinking than reading. Anyway, I can’t remember the title exactly, but I know it had the word all in it.” She snapped her fingers. “Oh, and there was a picture on the front and I think the cover was blue.”

  That ought to narrow it down to a couple thousand books, Penelope thought.

  She smiled again. “Do you remember what sort of book it was? Women’s fiction perhaps or suspense?”

  The little girl was now poking her mother in the stomach with her index finger. The woman grabbed the girl’s hand and held it.

  “Dunno, I’m afraid. It was the sort of book that a book club would read.”

  Penelope took a deep breath, held it for a second, and then let it out. She pushed her glasses up her nose with her index finger.

  She was mentally going through every title she could think of that had the word all in it.

  “Was it All the Missing Girls?” she said, taking a stab at it. “Or perhaps All the Ways We Said Good-bye?”

  She thought of All Quiet on the Western Front but doubted that was the sort of title a women’s book club would choose.

  The woman shook her head. “It had a blue cover,” she said again.

  Penelope was running out of ideas when the woman suddenly shouted.

  “There,” she said pointing to a display. “That’s it. All the Light We Cannot See.”

  Penelope breathed a sigh of relief, grabbed a copy of the book, and carried it up to the front counter.

  “Is there anything else you’re looking for?” she said to the woman.

  She shook her head and reached into her purse for her wallet.

  Mabel rang up the sale, slipped the book into a paper bag, and handed it to the woman.

  “What was that all about?” Mabel said when the door had closed in back of the woman and her child. “You look a bit shirty.”

  “I’m okay. That woman was looking for a book and couldn’t remember the title. All she knew was that it had a blue cover with a picture on it and the word all was in the title.”

  Mabel laughed. “Welcome to bookselling. I can’t tell you how many times that’s happened since I started the Open Book. It’s right annoying, isn’t it? As if we were mind readers.” She used the edge of her sleeve to wipe some crumbs off the counter. “Or when they get the title wrong. I had a young girl come in looking for a book she’d been assigned to read. Got the title all wrong—said it was something like For Whom the Doorbell Rings. Fortunately I was able to decode that.” She tapped her head. “One of the times when my MI6 training came in handy.”

  Penelope laughed. “I suppose she meant For Whom the Bell Tolls. Still . . .” She shook her head. “No point in getting exasperated, I suppose.

  “I’m off to shelve those new books that came in,” Pen said, heading toward the stacks where a carton of books sat at the end of one of the rows. She was halfway there when she had a sudden thought—she’d never called Charlotte to tell her about Jemima.

  She tried out different ways to break the news to Charlotte in her head as she shelved some books. No matter how you cut it, it was bound to be awkward and she wasn’t looking forward to it. But as her grandmother always said, the Parishes didn’t shirk their duty.

  As she was placing the last book on the proper shelf, she had a thought. What if she spoke to Jemima first? She might be able to convince her to return the objects that she’d stolen, and then maybe it wouldn’t be necessary to talk
to Charlotte after all.

  * * *

  * * *

  Penelope had butterflies in her stomach as she headed toward Worthington House again. How was she going to confront Jemima about her kleptomania without offending her? She had to be realistic, Penelope thought—no matter how delicately she put it, Jemima was bound to be upset. Just so long as she didn’t become wildly upset.

  The sun had disappeared behind the clouds that had slowly rolled in, turning the scene gray and dreary. Worthington House loomed in the distance. Penelope could picture an enemy army advancing on the castle and storming the ramparts under cover of dark and surprising the unsuspecting people inside.

  She shivered. Her upcoming task was turning her gloomy. She took a deep breath as she pulled the MINI into a parking spot and got out.

  She felt like Marie Antoinette going to the guillotine as she headed toward the front door. Her hand shook slightly as she rang the bell. Its sonorous notes sounded inside and moments later Royston opened the door.

  “Is Lady Dougal in?” Penelope asked as she stepped over the threshold. She was secretly hoping the answer would be no. Then she could retreat to the safety and warmth of the Open Book.

  “Yes, Miss Parish. I will ring her.”

  Moments later, Royston was leading her to a small sitting room where a cozy fire was burning in the grate. A painting of sheep grazing in a field hung over the mantel. That’s how she felt, Penelope thought—like a sheep being led to the slaughter.

  Jemima was sitting in an armchair, reading. She put the book down when Royston announced Penelope.

  Jemima’s eyes narrowed as she looked at Penelope. Did she suspect what Penelope’s mission was? Penelope smiled to put her at ease, but she could feel her mouth trembling slightly at the corners.

  “Hello,” Jemima said, her voice so cold Penelope nearly shivered despite the crackling warmth of the fire. “I know why you’re here. You’ve been spying on me, I hear. You visited my old school and talked to Tina Resse. She called me.”

  The sentence hung in the air as Jemima reached for the teacup on the low table beside her and took a sip, studying Penelope intently over the rim.

  Penelope didn’t know what to say.

  “So now you know my little secret.” Jemima put down her cup. “I’m a kleptomaniac. Tina confessed to having let the cat out of the bag.”

  “I didn’t mean to pry,” Penelope said, clasping her hands. “But I saw you take that Fabergé egg from the drawing room and I wondered. . . .”

  “I imagine you’ve run to Charlotte to tell her,” Jemima said, a sneer twisting her face.

  Penelope sat up a bit straighter, lifted her chin, and cleared her throat.

  “Actually, no, I haven’t. I wanted to give you a chance to return the items—the snuffbox is particularly dear to Charlotte and her husband. If you give everything back, there will be no need for me to say anything. Charlotte need never know.”

  Jemima looked off into the distance. “It’s not as if I need those things,” she said. “I can’t help it. The doctor says it’s a mental illness.” Jemima gave a bitter laugh. “As if that’s supposed to make me feel better.” She clenched the arms of the chair. “He said it’s a lack of some chemical in the brain—I can never remember what it’s called.”

  Penelope was very quiet and as still as she could manage. It was almost as if Jemima was talking to herself.

  “I’ve tried to stop but I can’t. The tension builds and builds until I can’t stand it anymore and afterward . . . such blessed relief. But it comes at a price. Afterward also comes the shame and self-loathing and I promise myself I’ll never do it again. At least until the next time.”

  Her smile was tinged with sadness.

  “You said you don’t actually need or want the things you take. What do you do with them?” Penelope said, leaning forward slightly.

  Jemima shrugged. “I donate them or if they’re worthless—it’s not the value of the item that attracts me—I stash them somewhere—somewhere where Ethan won’t find them. He’d divorce me if he knew.” She looked down at her hands, which were knitted together in her lap.

  “You went out on the terrace where Cissie was killed,” Penelope said. No point in tiptoeing around, she decided.

  Jemima’s head shot up. “How do you know that?”

  “I smelled smoke on your hair. Charlotte assured me you’re not a smoker. But Cissie was—she went out on the terrace to smoke her pipe. Why did you go out there? What did you want to talk to her about?”

  “I don’t suppose you’d believe me if I said I merely wanted to have a friendly chin-wag with a friend.” Jemima laughed. “Cissie had threatened to tell Charlotte about the thefts. I went out there to beg her not to. I think it gave her a sense of power having that to hold over me. Cissie could be cruel sometimes.”

  “Don’t you think Cissie was trying to pay you back?”

  “What . . . what do you mean?” Jemima’s hand went to her throat.

  “According to Tina Resse, Cissie couldn’t stand it if someone else got something that she felt was rightfully hers.”

  Jemima’s face had turned white. “I don’t know. . . .” She stiffened her shoulders. “I don’t have to answer your questions.” She started to stand up.

  “I’m not asking you a question—just speculating. I think Cissie was in love with your husband—I found some pictures in an old magazine of the two of them together.”

  Jemima opened her mouth but then closed it again. She had sunk back in her chair.

  “I think you came along and Ethan fell in love with you. He broke up with Cissie—maybe he had already even proposed to her—and married you instead.”

  “It wasn’t my fault. I never intended for us to fall in love.”

  “But you did. And that angered Cissie—you took something she wanted. She certainly waited a long time to get her revenge,” Penelope said. “But then what is that saying—revenge is a dish best served cold?”

  “But Cissie was alive when I left her, I swear,” Jemima said, her eyes glittering with tears. She put a hand on her heart. “Cissie and I may have had our differences over the years but we were friends—have been ever since we were at school together.”

  Penelope was quiet.

  “You have to believe me,” Jemima said. “Tobias must have seen me—” She stopped abruptly and grasped the fabric of her skirt. “Poor Tobias. He shouldn’t have died like that. But surely Rose can verify that Cissie was alive when I went back inside.” Jemima’s expression changed to one of censure. “Rose and Tobias were out there, snogging like teenagers. It’s a miracle that Cissie didn’t see them.”

  A surprised look came over Jemima’s face. “Maybe she did see them. And that’s why Tobias had to kill her.” She raised an eyebrow. “I wonder if Cissie knew . . . about Tobias and Rose? I suppose she did. Cissie always seemed to know everything.”

  “But Tobias is now dead. Who killed him? The murders have to be related.”

  Jemima’s shoulders sagged. “That’s true.” She straightened up. “But I didn’t kill her, I assure you. Or him.” She began to get up. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve somewhere I need to be.”

  EIGHTEEN

  Penelope followed Jemima down the hall and to the right. She thought she remembered her way to the front door but instead found herself in the wing where the guest rooms were. She was about to turn around and retrace her steps when she heard someone in the room that had been Tobias’s.

  She peeked through the open door. A maid was packing Tobias’s things into his suitcase. Penelope recognized her as Ivy—the maid she’d met in the Pig in a Poke and who she’d talked to in the kitchen.

  As Penelope watched, Ivy closed the lid, picked it up, and headed toward the door. Penelope quickly stepped out of the way.

  “Excuse me, miss,” Ivy said as she walked past
Penelope.

  Penelope hesitated for a second but as soon as Ivy disappeared around the corner, she stepped into the room. She didn’t know what she was looking for—something—anything—that might be a clue to Tobias’s murder.

  The armoire door hung open; it was empty but for a lone handkerchief with Tobias’s initials embroidered on it forgotten on the floor.

  Penelope glanced around the room, but there wasn’t much to see. A small, elegant desk was placed under the window. She walked over and opened the drawer. Stationery with a gold crest and Worthington House in script at the top was lined up neatly alongside a stack of envelopes and some pens.

  Pen closed the drawer and glanced in the wastebasket next to the desk. It was empty but for a crumpled piece of paper. She retrieved the paper and smoothed it out.

  It was cheap, ordinary stock—the kind that came in a pad. A note was scrawled on it with numerous cross outs that suggested it was the draft of a letter.

  Tobias’s handwriting was large and sprawling but Penelope was able to read the note easily enough.

  Dear Rose,

  I fear we must break things off. Cissie knows about us and has given me an ultimatum. If I don’t end our affair, she will divorce me. I am afraid I signed a prenuptial agreement that would leave me with a mere pittance. You know I couldn’t bear being poor so I am sure you will understand.

  Yours faithfully,

  Now that was interesting, Penelope thought—Tobias was breaking it off with Rose. She assumed that he had copied the final version of this note onto a piece of the Worthington House stationery. Did he slip it under Rose’s door during the night?

  Penelope left the room and retraced her steps to the front door.

  If Tobias did give Rose that note, it would change everything. Maybe Rose killed Cissie, thinking that would clear the way for her and Tobias to be together. But then Tobias broke up with her and furious, she turned around and killed him, too.

  She was at Worthington House when Tobias was poisoned. She’d known him for years, so it was quite possible that she knew about his allergy to sesame seeds.