Was Rose capable of killing? Penelope had no idea. But she was determined to find out.
* * *
* * *
Penelope spent the afternoon in her writing room at the Open Book, struggling with her revisions. She glanced at the date on her computer and shuddered. She’d probably get another e-mail from Bettina any minute now asking where they were. The cover was done, the blurb written, and the book was already up for preorders at all of the online bookstores.
Penelope had to deliver . . . or else.
Two hours later she stretched her arms over her head and yawned. She’d managed to come up with a plot twist that she hoped improved the lag in the middle of the manuscript. She was pleased with it—she’d have to wait to see what Bettina thought.
Mabel was talking to a customer when Penelope emerged from her writing room. When he turned slightly toward her, Penelope realized it was Laurence Brimble. She was surprised to see that Mabel’s face was quite pink and she didn’t object when Brimble moved closer to her. It looked as if they were having an intimate conversation.
Was Brimble flirting with Mabel? Penelope wondered. Mabel didn’t look unhappy about it. As a matter of fact, she was glowing in a way Penelope had never seen before.
She caught Figgy’s eye from across the room and Figgy gestured toward the couple with a nod of her head, then winked.
So Figgy had noticed it, too. How interesting, Penelope thought. Obviously it was never too late for romance.
* * *
* * *
Penelope was on her way home from the Open Book when the car in front of her stopped to let someone cross the street. It was the same woman and little girl who had been in the Open Book earlier. They had just started across when the child yanked her hand from her mother’s and bent to pick up something she had spotted in the road. Penelope couldn’t see what it was exactly, but she thought it might be a coin that had attracted the little girl’s attention.
Suddenly someone tapped on Penelope’s window. She jumped. It was Maguire. She rolled the window down.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” Maguire said, smiling. “I wondered if you’d like to come for a pint at the Book and Bottle?”
In her head Penelope ran through all the things she ought to do—she ought to pick up something for dinner; she ought to get back to the cottage because her sister was probably home by now; she ought to feed Mrs. Danvers who would be waiting for dinner even though her bowl was still most likely full.
“Yes,” she said finally. “I’d love to.”
Maguire saluted and stepped away, and Penelope continued down the high street until she came to the Book and Bottle. She pulled into the drive and around to the parking lot. She had to wait while someone maneuvered out of a tight space, and Maguire was already standing by the front door when she came around the side of the building. He broke into a grin when he saw her.
“Pleasure to see you,” he said, kissing her on the cheek.
The Book and Bottle wasn’t terribly full. A couple of men in worn jeans and work boots sat at the counter, nursing pints and having their tea of steak and kidney pie or Welsh rarebit.
Maguire led Penelope to a booth and waited until she sat down before sliding onto the bench opposite her.
“What will you have?”
“A cider, please.” Penelope had grown quite fond of the British alcoholic cider.
“I’ll be right back.”
The barmaid wasn’t busy and she quickly filled a glass with cider and pulled a pint for Maguire. He carried the drinks back to the table and sat down with a sigh.
“Is DCI Donovan still getting you down?” Penelope said after Maguire had had a sip of his beer.
Maguire ran a hand through his hair, leaving it slightly rumpled—a look Penelope found rather endearing.
“I’m stuck with her until the case is solved. My only consolation is that she’s put up at the Thorn and Thistle just south of Chumley and it’s well-known that the rooms are cramped and the whole place smells of damp.” He grinned.
“Is she any closer to solving the case?”
“I don’t think so.” He laughed. “Not that she’d admit it. I’m taking a perverse pleasure in watching her struggle.” He frowned. “Is that really terrible of me?”
“Not at all. It’s perfectly understandable.”
“Something interesting did turn up.” Maguire tapped his fingers on the table. “I’m mates with one of the men on the SOCO team. We worked together when I was in Leeds. He said they examined the remains of the bonfire after it had cooled down and found a piece of cloth among the ashes.”
Penelope sat up straighter and leaned her arms on the table. “So someone tried to burn something?”
“Righto. They were quite successful—all that was found was this little scrap of fabric. The edges were charred and it was difficult to make out the exact color but it didn’t look as if the cloth had a pattern on it.”
“Why would someone want to burn a piece of cloth? I can understand burning paper—documents or letters or the like—things that someone might want to keep confidential.” Penelope pushed her glasses up her nose. She had a sudden thought. “Maybe the killer did it. Maybe the killer got blood on a piece of their clothing when they killed Cissie and had to dispose of it, so they threw it on the bonfire.”
“That was my first thought, too. But wouldn’t someone have noticed if they’d appeared without their shirt or pants?”
Penelope giggled at the image that that brought to mind. “True. But if they were staying at Worthington House, they might have snuck back to their room and changed.” Penelope tried to imagine that scenario. “On the other hand, everyone was in formal wear and it would have looked odd if a woman had suddenly reappeared in a different dress.”
Maguire tilted his hand. “Would it have even been noticed, do you think? There was a lot of champagne flowing—enough to dull people’s observation powers I should imagine.”
Penelope shook her head. “Women would notice. We pay attention to those sorts of things.”
“But what about a man? Other than Winterbourne’s rather unusual dinner jacket, they all looked somewhat alike. Easy enough to substitute one for the other.”
“That would mean someone brought two sets of dinner clothes with him. He would have had to plan it in advance. There were no formal events scheduled for the wedding other than that ball.”
Maguire scratched his chin. “True. And it looks as if the murder was more a matter of opportunity.” He tapped an index finger against his glass. “The fabric has been sent to forensics, so hopefully they will be able to tell us more.” He grinned. “My mate has promised to give me the results the minute they get them. That’ll give me a jump on Donovan who won’t get them until they’ve put together their report. Not much of a jump, but I’ll take whatever I can get. I need to show them I’m not just a bumbling country copper and that I’ve got what it takes to do the big jobs and not only break-ins and petty thefts.”
“You’re still hoping to beat her to the punch, then?”
Maguire reached out and put his hand over Penelope’s. He grinned. “You bet.”
* * *
* * *
Penelope left the Book and Bottle on a bit of a cloud. Maguire had walked her to her car, his arm tight around her shoulder, and had given her a lingering kiss as they stood next to her MINI. It was all Penelope could do to keep her mind on driving on the correct side of the street, and she felt relief wash over her when her cottage came into view.
She was acting like a schoolgirl, she chided herself as she hung up her coat and bent to pet Mrs. Danvers, who sniffed her suspiciously as if detecting some alien aroma. Time to come down to earth, she thought. She liked Maguire and he obviously liked her. She’d had plenty of relationships that had started out like that and had subsequently fizzled to nothing. It wa
s too soon to get excited.
But she found herself humming as she walked out to the kitchen. She expected to see Beryl sitting at the table, sipping a glass of wine and flipping through a magazine, but the room was empty.
Penelope was making herself a cup of tea when she heard the front door open and Beryl call out.
“Hello. I’m back.”
Penelope walked out to the foyer, her cup in hand. Beryl had brought in a whiff of fresh cold air with her, and her cheeks were rosy and her eyes glowing.
“You look like you’ve had a good day,” Pen said, cradling her mug.
“I have,” Beryl said as she unwound her scarf. “Let me get a glass of wine, and I’ll tell you all about it.”
They went out to the kitchen, where Beryl got a bottle of white wine from the refrigerator and two glasses from the cupboard.
“You have to join me,” she said, filling both glasses and carrying them to the table. She motioned to Penelope to leave her tea.
“Are we celebrating?” Pen said, raising her eyebrows.
“Sort of.” Beryl slid into a seat. “Nothing’s been confirmed yet, of course, but just the possibility is very exciting.”
“Come on,” Pen urged. “Out with it.”
Beryl gave a rather coy smile and ran her finger around the rim of her glass.
“I had a drink with a modeling agent after work at this delightful little wine bar—terribly chic and wonderfully edgy. It felt so good to be back in a sophisticated milieu.”
Penelope took a sip of her wine. She was beginning to wonder if Beryl was ever going to get to the point.
“Nothing’s certain yet.” Beryl held up a hand, palm out as if she was stopping traffic. “But . . . the agent thinks I’d be perfect for this new campaign Molton Brown soap is launching.” Beryl made a face. “It’s aimed at the mature woman—meaning anyone over thirty, which is why the agent thought I had a shot at it.”
“So what’s next?” Penelope wasn’t sure how these modeling gigs worked.
Beryl put a hand on Penelope’s arm. “This is the best part—it’s a print campaign but they are doing some television advertising as well, and I would be considered for both.”
Penelope was glad to see her sister so excited. She hoped she wouldn’t be disappointed. If this campaign was as big as Beryl made it sound, there was bound to be a lot of competition.
“When will you know?”
“Who knows?” She shrugged. “This meeting was strictly preliminary. I’ll have to have some current pictures done for my comp card. . . .” Beryl looked at Penelope. “A comp card is like a business card for models and actors,” she explained.
Penelope nodded. “That’s very exciting.”
“It is, isn’t it?” Beryl looked down. She traced the pattern of the wood grain of the table with her finger. “I thought I was no longer capable of taking care of myself—that I was totally dependent on Magnus.” She looked up at Penelope and Penelope noticed her eyes were filled with tears. “I thought my life was over when Magnus was arrested.”
A coy expression slowly dawned on Beryl’s face. “Speaking of men—what about that man of yours? You haven’t told me anything about him. I haven’t even met him. I’m dying of curiosity.”
Penelope shrugged. “There’s not much to tell . . . yet.” She decided it would be prudent to change the subject. “You know that murder I told you about at Worthington House—well, two murders actually?”
“Yes.” Beryl shivered. “Is the place haunted?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“It will be now.” Beryl laughed.
Penelope gave her a stern look. “The police found a scrap of fabric in the ashes from the bonfire that was lit that night.”
“A bonfire,” Beryl said, getting up to refill her wineglass. “They really went allout, didn’t they?”
“There were fireworks, too.”
“That puts a simple champagne toast to shame.” Beryl laughed. “So what’s this about finding a bit of material?” she said, taking a seat again. She leaned back in her chair and stretched out her legs.
“It’s been sent to forensics, but in the meantime I’m trying to figure out what someone might have tossed on the fire to burn.”
“A piece of clothing, don’t you think? I mean, if it was cloth, what else could it be?”
“That’s what I thought. But who burns an item of clothing? No, I think the killer got blood on something they were wearing and tossed it into the flames to get rid of it.”
“How gruesome.” Beryl shuddered.
“But what I can’t figure out is what it could have been. The men were in dinner clothes and the ladies were in gowns. If they’d stripped down and tossed something on the fire, it would have been noticed.”
“Maybe it was something they didn’t really need, like a shawl? Or perhaps a scarf of some sort?”
“That could be,” Penelope said, as she got up to begin dinner.
Something was niggling at her mind but she couldn’t quite grasp the thought. She had the feeling it was important. Perhaps it would come to her later.
* * *
* * *
The next morning Penelope set out early for the Open Book. She wanted to get started on her revisions right away. Bettina had sent another e-mail, asking her how things were going. Penelope knew that the subtext was actually When am I going to see the finished manuscript?
Beryl had left on an early train to London, flushed with excitement about the day ahead. She had an appointment with a hairdresser and was having pictures taken for her comp card that afternoon.
The Closed sign was still on the door when Penelope reached the Open Book. She unlocked the door and went inside.
The lights in the store weren’t on and the sales floor was in shadows, but the lights were on in the Teapot where Mabel and Figgy were sitting at a table, sipping cups of tea. Figgy had an old-fashioned-looking apron tied around her waist, making her look a bit like a milkmaid.
“You’re early,” Mabel said when Penelope approached them.
“Let me pour you a cup of tea.” Figgy reached for the teapot. “There are some hot buttered crumpets if you’re hungry.” She gestured toward a plate on the table.
Penelope helped herself to a crumpet. Butter dribbled down her chin as she ate it and she quickly grabbed a napkin.
“These are delicious.” Pen reached for another, then hesitated. “I’d better be careful or I’m going to gain weight.”
Mabel looked at her with one eyebrow raised. “You? Gain weight? I don’t believe it. Besides, you could stand to put on another stone.”
Pen took a sip of her tea. “You and Laurence Brimble seemed to be getting along very well yesterday,” she said to Mabel.
Figgy poked Mabel on the arm. “I do believe he fancies you.”
Mabel fumbled with her teacup and it clanged against the saucer. Her face had a pinkish tinge to it. She laughed. “Better late than never, I guess.”
“He seems like a nice man,” Pen said.
“A bit stiff.” Figgy frowned. “That military posture and all.”
“He’s quite charming when you get to know him. He’s just shy.” Mabel brushed some crumbs off the front of her sweater. “He’s an amateur photographer as it turns out and so was my father. I dabble in it myself. My father enjoyed teaching me.” She looked down at her hands. “He’s not Oliver—I’ll never forget him—but we enjoy each other’s company.” Mabel paused dramatically. “And . . . he’s taking me to dinner at Pierre’s tomorrow night.”
“Look at you,” Figgy said. “Sounds like you two are becoming an item.”
“Yes. You’ll soon see our picture in Tatler no doubt.” Mabel laughed.
“I talked to Detective Maguire yesterday,” Pen said. She noticed Mabel and Figgy glance at each other with r
aised eyebrows but decided to ignore them. “He said they found a piece of cloth in the remains of the bonfire at Worthington House. It seems someone tried to burn something.”
“How odd,” Figgy said, picking up some crumbs from her plate with her finger. “Why would someone do that?”
“Don’t you think it was probably the killer? They might have gotten blood on their clothes and needed to destroy them,” Mabel said.
“That was my original thought,” Pen said. “But they could hardly walk around with no shirt or pants.”
“They’d have to hide in the shrubbery.” Figgy giggled and reached into her pocket for a tissue.
As Penelope watched her, she had a sudden idea. It was so startling she nearly leapt from her chair. She actually banged her knee against the table.
Mabel looked at her in concern. “Are you okay?”
“Yes. Fine—sorry.”
Penelope now knew what the killer had thrown on the fire.
She was positive of it.
NINETEEN
Penelope could barely focus on her revisions. She had to keep going back over what she had done. She couldn’t stop thinking about the idea that had suddenly come to her while she was having tea with Mabel and Figgy.
She ought to call Maguire and tell him. Penelope grabbed her purse and pulled out her cell phone.
“Detective Maguire, please,” she said when the call was answered.
“He’s not here at the moment. Gone off to a funeral in Leeds, he has. Going to be a pallbearer for a mate.”
“I’m sorry,” Pen said, clutching her phone between her ear and her shoulder as she closed up her laptop.
“Tragedy,” the man continued. “Shot trying to apprehend a robber.”
“I’m sorry,” Pen said again. The man was certainly chatty. “Can you ask him to call me?” She gave him her number and hung up.
A Fatal Footnote Page 18