A Fatal Footnote

by Margaret Loudon

* * *

  * * *

  I’m running an errand,” Pen said as she waved to Mabel and headed out the door of the Open Book.

  She was planning to pick up something special from the Jolly Good Grub to take home for dinner. Surely by now Grant had forgotten about her earlier rather awkward visit.

  The weather was fine and she turned up her collar and pulled on her gloves as she headed down the high street. She passed the newsstand where stacks of newspapers were bundled up outside the front door. She glanced at the headline of the Daily Mail as she went by.

  Did Worthington Kill His Ex-Girlfriend Cissie Emmott? was splashed across the front page in bold black letters.

  Poor Charlotte, Penelope thought. Now that the tabloids had gotten hold of the story, they would be hounded. Penelope didn’t doubt Worthington’s innocence even though his polo mallet was the weapon and his were the only prints found on it, but she could easily imagine how the press would use that information against him.

  Penelope waited for a break in traffic to cross the street—not that there was ever that much traffic in Upper Chumley-on-Stoke—but there were some elderly drivers who could be quite the menace behind the wheel. She’d nearly been hit at least once, so she had learned to be extra careful.

  She was passing the Knit Wit Shop when she had a very odd sensation. The back of her neck prickled and the hair stood up. She tried to identify the strange feeling and realized that she had the impression she was being followed.

  She ducked into the doorway of Pen and Ink Stationers and peered around the edge. The only person coming toward her on the sidewalk was a teenaged girl in a short skirt, thigh-high boots, and a fake fur jacket. She passed the doorway to the stationer’s without even giving it a glance.

  Her nerves were getting the better of her, Penelope decided as she continued down the street toward the Jolly Good Grub, but try as she might, she couldn’t shake the feeling that someone had been following her.

  Stalking her. The thought nearly brought her up short in her tracks. Why would someone be stalking her? Had she touched a nerve—the killer’s nerve?

  Penelope was relieved when she reached the door to the Jolly Good Grub. She glanced behind her one more time, but there was no sign of anyone following her.

  She must have imagined it.

  * * *

  * * *

  Several hours later Penelope was still thinking about the idea she’d had earlier that morning about the piece of cloth found in the ashes of the bonfire. She wished Maguire had been at the station. He would have known what to do.

  As Penelope was leaving the Jolly Good Grub, bulging shopping bag in hand, she decided the only thing to do was to go back to Worthington House and follow up on her hunch.

  She rang Mabel at the bookstore to let her know she wouldn’t be back until later that afternoon, then headed home to pick up her car and put her groceries in the refrigerator.

  Mrs. Danvers was curled up in a sunbeam when Penelope got back to her cottage. She looked up briefly as if to acknowledge Penelope’s presence, then put her head back down and closed her eyes against the beam of light coming through the window.

  Penelope put her shopping on the kitchen table and began to unpack the bag. She planned to make a simple meal out of all the treats she bought—cheeses, pâté, smoked sausage, and some crusty bread.

  She put everything in the refrigerator, checked that Mrs. Danvers’s bowls were both full, fished her keys out of her purse, and headed out the door.

  She had no idea what she was going to say when she got to Worthington House. What would Royston think if she said she wanted to go down to the kitchen? Perhaps she could say she had something important to tell the cook? Or, perhaps she could say she’d left something in the . . . drawing room but head to the kitchen instead?

  Penelope felt her stomach knot as she headed up the drive to Worthington House. She parked the car and with a sense of dread, rang the bell.

  Royston was his usual calm, imperturbable self and didn’t bat an eyelash when Penelope announced she needed to go to the kitchen to talk to the cook.

  “Certainly, Miss Parish,” Royston said with a slight nod of his head. “Do you know the way or shall I guide you?”

  “I can manage, thank you,” Penelope said as she stepped into the foyer, silently thanking the British for their traditional reserve. Of course Royston wouldn’t be so forward as to ask why on earth Penelope wanted to talk to the cook.

  Royston nodded his head again and Penelope headed toward the kitchen. Soft strains of classical music came from behind one of the closed doors and the low murmur of voices from behind another. She had no idea what she’d say if she encountered Charlotte or Worthington himself and she was relieved when she rounded the corner to the kitchen without having bumped into anyone.

  A symphony of aromas emanated from the kitchen. The cook was lifting a large piece of iridescent pink salmon out of a pan of poaching liquid. He placed it on a platter that had been decorated with fresh green parsley. Penelope watched as he took roasted asparagus from the oven, arranged the stalks on another platter, and drizzled them with melted butter.

  Penelope’s mouth began to water. The cook transferred the platters of salmon and asparagus to the large ornate silver serving tray sitting on the kitchen table. Ivy and a young woman, whose hair was shaved up the sides, were seated at the table, peeling carrots and turnips presumably for the staff’s more modest dinner. The young man Penelope had seen with Ivy in town was leaning against the counter nursing a cup of tea. He leaned over and said something to Ivy and Ivy laughed.

  Penelope looked at Ivy and had the distinct feeling that she was missing something, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on what it was.

  No one seemed to notice Penelope as they bustled about carrying out their various duties.

  A footman appeared, picked up the silver tray, and carried it out of the kitchen. Ivy stood up, wiped her hands on her apron, and disappeared through a swinging door on the other side of the kitchen. The fellow who had been leaning against the counter followed close behind her, still clutching his mug of tea.

  The cook pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, swiped at his sweating brow, and left through the same door.

  The young woman sitting at the table looked up, a half-peeled carrot in her hand.

  She frowned and looked up at Penelope.

  “Who was that young man?” Penelope said. “He looks familiar,” she said, crossing her fingers.

  “Him?” The woman jerked a thumb toward the door. “That’s Ivy’s cousin. Floyd’s his name.

  “Another quick question if you don’t mind?”

  The young woman looked wary but she nodded.

  “Have you had any aprons go missing?” Penelope laughed to show that she knew that must seem like an absurd question.

  “Oh, you’re from the police, then?” the woman said, putting down the carrot. “We’ve had them around several times already asking their questions.” She snorted. “Who would want to go nicking aprons?” She shook her head. “Certainly not me. I guess you never know about people, do you?”

  Penelope nodded. “But did anyone complain that aprons were missing? Or that they couldn’t find theirs?”

  “Not that I know of. And, believe me, if there was something to complain about, this lot would. Some people.” She shook her head.

  “Do you know if any of the staff went outside during the wedding ball?”

  The woman picked up the carrot again and finished peeling it. She cut it into sections and dropped it into the metal bowl in front of her.

  “I wasn’t working that night, more’s the pity. I would have liked to have seen all of them fancy dresses. They’re quite something, aren’t they?” She shook her head. “I was down with a cold and was tucked up at home in bed with a mustard plaster on my chest.”

  �
�Is there anyone who worked in the kitchen that night who might know?” Penelope gave what she hoped was a winning smile. “It’s important.”

  “Let me see.” She put a finger on her chin. “There’s Bridget Sullivan. She’s done no end of talking about the ball. Trying to rub it in, if you know what I mean.”

  “Is she here? Is there any chance I could speak to her?” Pen mentally crossed her fingers.

  “Sure. She’s in the pantry, polishing silver. His grace is hosting a dinner party tonight. A bunch of fancy people down from London, no doubt.”

  The young woman got up from the table and pushed the swinging door open.

  “Bridget?” Pen could hear her yelling.

  Moments later the door opened again and Bridget appeared. She was wearing a plain bib apron over a simple blue uniform. Her hair was as red as the carrots in the bowl on the table and her face was covered in so many freckles that in places they almost blended together.

  She glanced at Penelope with a guarded look in her eyes. “Lucy said you wanted to see me?”

  Penelope gave her a reassuring smile. “Just a quick question if you don’t mind.”

  Bridget looked at Penelope suspiciously. “Go on then.”

  “Did you happen to notice if any of the staff went outside the night of the Worthingtons’ wedding ball?”

  Bridget’s eyebrows drew together. “There was Ivy that was taken faint on account of the heat, if that’s what you mean. She stepped outside for some air. It was that hot in the kitchen what with the ovens going full blast and all the burners on.”

  “Was she outside long?”

  “I didn’t exactly look at my watch, did I? I’d say a good twenty minutes. I was about to go out and look for her when she finally came back in.”

  “How did she seem?”

  Bridget tilted her head to one side. “Seem? What do you mean?”

  “Was she nervous or excited or worried?”

  “I don’t know about that. She seemed the same as always to me. Ivy tends to keep to herself.”

  “Did she have her apron on?” Pen said.

  Bridget looked startled. “Her apron? I can’t say I noticed one way or the other. Why?”

  Penelope was quite certain it was an apron that had been thrown on the bonfire the night of the ball. It was the one thing that the killer could have burned that wouldn’t have been likely to be noticed if it was missing.

  Penelope’s head was swimming. It was possible that one of the guests had snuck into the kitchen, borrowed one of the aprons, and then gone out to the terrace to murder Cissie, afterward throwing the bloodstained garment on the bonfire.

  But it was also quite possible that one of the staff had done it. The question was why. How did any of them even know Cissie well enough to compel them to murder her?

  As Pen drove away from Worthington House, she thought about what she’d learned. According to Bridget, Ivy had gone outside the evening of the ball, claiming she felt faint. Had she really felt ill or had she gone out to murder Cissie?

  But what reason would she have had for killing her? As far as Pen knew, Cissie and Ivy didn’t even know each other.

  She sighed. She wished Maguire was back from Leeds—surely he’d be able to puzzle this out.

  As Penelope was heading back to town, the elusive thought that she’d been trying to grasp as she’d been watching Ivy peel carrots finally came to her. She turned the car around and headed back toward the Worthington estate.

  * * *

  * * *

  Worthington House soon came into view, but Penelope continued driving, headed beyond it to India’s little stone cottage.

  She hoped she’d find India at home. She knew India did her shopping on the high street and frequently visited the Open Book, but Penelope didn’t think she normally did much of anything else.

  Pen parked her MINI in front of the cottage and got out. The rosebushes that bordered the path to India’s front door had been cut back for the winter and the branches on the trees were bare and skeletal.

  Pen rapped on the door and waited. A minute or two went by. She stuffed her hands in her pockets, sorry that she hadn’t taken the time to put on her gloves.

  Finally the door opened a crack and India peered out. When she saw it was Penelope she pulled the door wider.

  “Come in,” she said, obviously pleased to have a visitor. “The day has turned quite brisk, hasn’t it? I’m sure you could do with a cup of tea. Come sit down and warm yourself by the fire and I’ll put the kettle on.”

  Penelope really didn’t want a cup of tea, but it was the Brits’ way of showing hospitality and it would have been rude to refuse.

  She fidgeted impatiently while she waited for India to appear with the tea. She hoped her idea would pan out—she thought it would, or at least she hoped it would—although doubts were beginning to creep into her mind.

  Finally India appeared with the cups and saucers and plate of biscuits rattling on the tray in her hands. She put the tray down on the table.

  “Will you pour?” India said to Penelope. “My hands are a bit shaky today. It’s nothing serious the doctor says—some kind of tremor that comes and goes.”

  Penelope poured out two cups of tea and handed one to India.

  “I have another favor to ask of you,” she said as she stirred sugar into her tea. “Do you think I could look at those magazines of yours again?”

  “Of course. Let me get them for you.”

  India stood up with a grunt, putting a hand to the small of her back. She smoothed down her pleated plaid skirt and left the room.

  Penelope listened to the crackling and spitting of the fire and the ticking of the clock on the mantel as she tried to remember whether the article she was looking for had been in Hello! or OK! magazine. She was fairly certain it hadn’t been in Tatler. She sighed. She would just have to go through the issues again until she found what she was looking for.

  India reappeared with the stack of magazines in her arms. She placed them on the floor in front of Penelope.

  “Are you doing some more investigating, dear?” she said as she resumed her seat.

  Penelope hesitated. “Sort of. I have a theory that I want to check out.”

  India clucked her tongue. “You do realize it could be dangerous. Remember what happened last time. You gave us a terrible fright.” India smiled and the creases around her eyes crinkled. “We’ve grown quite fond of you.” She put her hand over Penelope’s.

  “Whatever information I find is going straight to Detective Maguire,” Penelope reassured her.

  India frowned. “Is that dreadful young woman still investigating? The DCI sent from the Met? Quite insufferable, I must say.”

  “She is. But Detective Maguire is doing his own investigation.”

  Penelope began flipping through the first issue of OK!. She turned the last page but still hadn’t found what she was looking for.

  “Perhaps I can help?” India said, putting down her teacup and reaching for a magazine.

  “I’m looking for an article they did on Cissie Winterbourne. There wasn’t much text—it was mostly a collage of photographs of her at various times in her life.”

  “I think I know the article you mean,” India said, slipping on her reading glasses. She began flipping through the magazine in her lap.

  They went through the stack in silence, the only sound the rustling of pages or the clink of cups in saucers.

  “Is this it?” India said suddenly, handing a copy of Hello! to Penelope.

  Penelope glanced at the pictures. “Yes!” She held out her hand for the magazine. There was the picture she’d been looking for—Cissie as a young girl in a ball gown standing with her father in front of a sweeping staircase. Penelope looked closer at it. Her heart was beating faster with excitement. It was just as she remembe
red—the young girl off to the side was smiling—and showing a wide gap between her two front teeth.

  Just like the Worthingtons’ maid Ivy.

  * * *

  * * *

  Penelope could barely contain her excitement as she drove away from India’s cottage. She had the issue of Hello! on the seat beside her, having promised India that she would return it as soon as she was done with it.

  India had probed—subtly of course—and Penelope knew her curiosity had been piqued, but she didn’t want to share what she’d discovered just yet—it might, after all, amount to absolutely nothing.

  If that was Ivy in the picture with Cissie, then it was obvious they must know each other, even if it had been far in the past. Penelope thought back to the night of the Worthington’s prewedding dinner and the sharp words Cissie had spoken to someone behind Penelope—I have no idea who you are. Had she been speaking to Ivy?

  But why would Cissie deny knowing her? She must have recognized her.

  Penelope glanced at her watch. She ought to be in time to catch Tina Resse at the Oakwood School. Hopefully she would be as forthcoming as she had been on Penelope’s previous visit.

  Tina was at her desk when Penelope arrived at the school. She was dressed in a rather severe-looking pantsuit again—a dark gray one this time. She smiled when she saw Penelope hesitating in the doorway.

  “So you’re back,” she said, starting to stand up.

  “Please don’t get up,” Penelope said, stepping farther into the office. She glanced at the other desk, but Wanda wasn’t there.

  “How can I help you?” Tina said with brisk efficiency.

  “I’m wondering if you can identify a girl in this photograph from Hello!.”

  Penelope had the magazine, open to the relevant page, tucked under her arm. She placed it on Tina’s desk and pointed toward the photograph of Cissie with her father.

  Tina slipped on a pair of reading glasses and glanced at the picture.

  “Well, that’s Cissie Emmott, of course. And that’s her father. I remember him from our annual Parents’ Day. He never missed a one. He was that proud of his daughter.”