Alice picked up her teacup, but then obviously realizing it was empty, put it back down.
“Cissie and her father had quite a set-to when she finally came in, clearly inebriated. He told her she was grounded for the rest of the term. Cissie went wild—calling her father all sorts of names—names a young lady her age shouldn’t have even known—and eventually went storming off to her room, slamming every door she could on the way.”
Penelope was wondering how Ivy fit into this scenario but she trusted that Alice would get to that eventually.
“What no one knew at the time was that Cissie crept downstairs after everyone had finally gone back to bed, and slashed a Turner landscape that was the pride of her father’s collection.”
Penelope’s eyes widened. A Turner painting was irreplaceable.
“The thing was,” Alice continued, “Cissie didn’t take responsibility for defacing the painting—she blamed it on Ivy. Said she saw her do it.”
“But why would Ivy—”
Alice held up a hand. “Cissie made the case that Ivy resented her—that Ivy was jealous that Cissie was continuing her education at a boarding school—she was going for her A levels—while Ivy had to go out and work.” Alice massaged the bridge of her nose. “I knew the truth—I’d seen Cissie sneaking back into the kitchen with the knife—but Mr. Emmott wouldn’t believe me. He couldn’t accept the fact that his daughter had ruined his most prized possession. To him that would mean that she really didn’t care about him.”
“What happened to Ivy?”
Alice looked down at her hands resting in her lap. “Mr. Emmott refused to have her in the house anymore in spite of Mrs. Emmott’s tears and pleading. Ivy was sent to live with an aunt—a cruel woman living a hard life on a farm up north. She made Ivy work for her room and board and resented every crumb she had to give her. Ivy stayed until she was able to scrape together enough to buy a bus ticket back to Chumley—that’s when she got the job at Worthington House. She’s worked there ever since as far as I know.”
“That’s really helpful,” Penelope said, picking up her purse and preparing to leave.
“You said you hadn’t known Cissie long,” Alice said, putting the teacups back on the tray. “She had a tendency to turn on everyone eventually—even her good friends. Ultimately they always forgave her. She would make it up to them with little presents or favors—until the next time. Her father had spoiled her, I’m afraid.”
“Did Ivy ever forgive Cissie?” Penelope said, getting up from her chair.
Alice reached out and put a hand on Penelope’s arm. “You don’t really think Ivy had anything to do with Cissie’s death, do you? I’m certain she wasn’t capable of murdering someone. She was a good girl—kind and thoughtful.”
Alice might be certain that Ivy didn’t have it in her to kill, Penelope thought as she thanked Alice and said good-bye, but then the police didn’t originally suspect Ted Bundy either, who could, by all accounts, be quite charming.
Ivy certainly had good reason to resent Cissie aside from Cissie’s wealth and privilege. Who knew what kind of life Ivy might have had if she hadn’t been sent away to live with her aunt? She might have married and had a family.
Cissie certainly owed Ivy a lot, but had she paid that debt with her life?
TWENTY-ONE
The sun was beginning to set when Penelope reached the Chumley high street. She was passing the Upper Chumley-on-Stoke Apothecary when a thought occurred to her. She turned the MINI around and headed back down the high street.
There was no parking in front of the apothecary, so Penelope left the car in the Tesco lot and began to walk back down the street. She had to fight off a sense of foreboding as she walked out of the pools of light cast by the streetlamps and into the shadows. The feeling that someone had been stalking her and then her tire being slashed had stirred up a fear in her that she couldn’t shake.
She was relieved when she finally reached the gourmet shop and the cheerful light that shone onto the sidewalk.
She crossed the street and paused briefly in front of the Sweet Tooth and the mouthwatering display of candies in the window. Maybe she’d pick up a treat for herself and Beryl. But first the apothecary.
The apothecary had been in the same building for longer than anyone could determine. Penelope opened the door and stepped inside. The wooden floor creaked and groaned as she walked across it, and a faint medicinal smell hung in the air. The maze of glass shelves behind the counter had been there since the shop opened. It was easy to imagine a gentleman in knee breeches or a woman in a gown with a bustle asking for a poultice to draw out an infection or some arsenic for a case of asthma.
Standing behind the counter was the pharmacist—or chemist, as Penelope had come to learn they were called in Britain—a petite Asian woman with long, silky hair. A short line of people was waiting for their prescriptions, which the chemist filled with brisk efficiency.
Penelope wandered around the store in the meantime. She picked up some face cream, which Beryl told her she really ought to be using lest she be in danger of becoming a wrinkled prune by her thirtieth birthday.
Finally everyone in the line in front of the counter had been taken care of and Pen approached the chemist, who was doing something on her computer.
“Can I help you?” she said. Her long glossy bangs swept across her forehead as she looked up at Penelope’s approach.
She had a name badge pinned to the front of her white coat, but Penelope couldn’t quite read it.
“I have a rather odd question,” Penelope said, cringing slightly inside.
You would think she’d be used to asking people odd questions by now, she thought as she felt her stomach clench.
The chemist tilted her head and raised her eyebrows.
Penelope cleared her throat and gulped. “Has anyone come in recently—within the last two weeks—looking for some cream or ointment to put on a burn?”
“What a curious question,” the chemist said. “But, yes, as a matter of fact, someone did. She had a nasty burn on the back of her hand—she said she got it when she was taking a baking sheet of biscuits out of the oven. It was causing her some discomfort. I recommended Acriflex Cream for her.”
“You don’t happen to remember what she looked like, do you?”
The chemist tilted her head to one side and put a finger on her chin.
“She was quite ordinary, and I’m afraid I don’t remember much else about her. We do get a fair amount of customers in a day. I was more concerned with examining the burn on her hand. She did say she worked at Worthington House and that I was to put it on their account.”
Penelope tried not to grin at this news. She thanked the chemist, paid for her face cream, and left the apothecary.
Her theory was confirmed, she thought as she walked back toward Tesco and her car. Ivy had told the staff in the kitchen the night of the ball that she felt faint and needed to get some air. No one paid much attention when she went outside. What they didn’t know was that she’d most likely stolen Worthington’s polo mallet with the intention of using it to kill Cissie. She had gone out to the terrace, committed the murder, and had then thrown her blood-spattered apron on the bonfire, hoping to destroy the evidence.
What she hadn’t counted on was burning her hand when she got too close to the sparks. And she’d lied to the chemist about how she got the burn—if she’d gotten it pulling a baking sheet out of the oven without a mitt, the burn would have been on her palm and not the back of her hand.
* * *
* * *
Someone slashed your tires?” Beryl’s voice went up an octave when Penelope told her what had happened. She stared at Penelope, a bottle of wine in one hand and a corkscrew in the other. “Why would someone do that? You might have been hurt . . . or, worse, killed.”
Penelope was sitting in her kitchen, which was
filled with the tantalizing aroma coming from a pot of chili simmering on the stove.
Beryl opened the wine and poured some out. Her hand shook and the bottle clanged against one of the glasses. “Do you think someone slashed them because you’ve been going around poking your nose into an investigation that’s best left to the police?”
Beryl stood with her hands on her hips and gave Penelope a stern look. Penelope was surprised she’d been able to restrain herself from wagging her finger.
“It’s possible.” Penelope took a sip of her wine. She felt the liquid trace a warm path down her throat, and her shoulders began to relax. “It’s also possible that it was simply a teenage prank. You know how kids are—they don’t always realize how dangerous these things can be.”
Penelope got up and peered into the pot of chili on the stove, inhaling the spicy aroma. “How was your day?” she said to Beryl, hoping to change the subject.
“Good. I got my photographs taken and what I saw of them looked great.” She drummed her fingers on the table. “Now to wait and see about that big Molton Brown soap promotion. The agent told me they are looking at several people, but that they planned to use more than one model so he’s quite hopeful.”
“That’s great.” Penelope got place mats and napkins out of the cupboard.
“I’m thinking of getting a little place in London if I do get the job.” Beryl took silverware out of the drawer and began setting the table. “That commute is exhausting and so far I haven’t met any eligible men. They’re all married, gay, or way too young. Perhaps I’ll have better luck in the city.”
“Aren’t apartments terribly expensive?” Penelope felt her stomach growl as Beryl brought the steaming pot of chili over to the table and placed it on a trivet.
Beryl plunged a serving spoon into the pot. “Yvette has a friend who’s going to Mozambique for a few months and would be willing to sublet her place for a very reasonable amount.”
Penelope didn’t know how she felt about Beryl staying in London. On the one hand, it would be nice to have her sister nearby; on the other hand, Beryl was bossy and thought nothing of intruding on Penelope’s life. Penelope had rather been enjoying the freedom to do what she wanted without worrying about what Beryl would think or say.
They were about to start eating when the doorbell rang. Penelope tossed her napkin on the table and pushed back her chair. The legs scraped against the stone floor and Mrs. Danvers looked up from where she was napping with an irritated expression.
“Who could that be?” Beryl called to Penelope as Penelope headed toward the front door.
Penelope opened the door a crack and peeked out. She was surprised to see Maguire standing on the doorstep. She was also secretly pleased.
He brought the scent of cold, fresh air in with him as he stepped into the foyer.
“I wanted to make sure you got home okay,” he said, running a hand over the slight stubble on his chin. “That spare should hold up for a bit, but you’d best get a new tire as soon as possible.”
Penelope heard footsteps and Beryl appeared behind her. She sighed—she was going to have to explain Maguire’s presence. The police generally didn’t stop by the houses of everyone who had had a flat tire to see how they were doing.
“Beryl, this is Detective Brody Maguire.” She turned to Maguire. “This is my sister, Beryl Kent.”
Penelope noticed Beryl giving Maguire the once-over. She must have approved of what she saw. “Won’t you join us for dinner?” she said in a slightly breathy voice. “There’s plenty and we were just about to sit down.”
“I don’t want to be a bother.” Maguire exchanged a glance with Penelope as they walked through the sitting room.
“It’s no bother at all.” Beryl stopped short and put a hand on Maguire’s arm. “I do hope you like chili.”
“I love it. I visited a distant cousin in Texas once—he married an American and now he’s a professor of microbiology at the University of Texas at Austin. I couldn’t get enough chili while I was there.”
“Good.” Beryl linked her arm through Maguire’s and led him out to the kitchen. “Why don’t you sit there.” She pointed to an empty spot at the table. “I’ll get you a plate.”
Penelope was beginning to feel like a third wheel. She reminded herself that if Beryl did get an apartment in London, she’d be an hour away.
Beryl dished out the chili and they all began to eat. She pointed her spoon at Maguire. “You need to tell Pen to stop investigating those murders at Worthington House.” She gave Penelope a stern look. “She said someone slashed her tire today—she could have been hurt—or, worse, killed.”
Maguire looked up from his bowl. “She’s actually been a great help in the investigation.” He smiled at Penelope.
So there, Beryl, Penelope thought.
“But I do worry about her,” Maguire continued. “Maybe it would be best if you leave any further investigating to me, okay?” He winked at Penelope.
She looked down at her plate to hide the smile that was hovering around her lips.
“You know that piece of cloth that was found in the bonfire?” Pen said. “I think I know what it was. I tried calling you to tell you, but you were off in Leeds.”
Maguire startled and dropped his spoon into his dish.
“How did you . . . What do you think it was?” He looked at Penelope in disbelief.
“An apron,” Penelope said somewhat triumphantly. “It’s the one thing a person could take off without anyone noticing. It’s not as if it’s a pair of pants or a shirt. And it would provide protection from any . . . any blood.”
Penelope noticed Beryl shudder and turn white.
Maguire inhaled sharply. He picked up his spoon. “I think you could be right. It makes sense.”
“I talked to some of the kitchen staff at Worthington House and one of them, Ivy Brown, went outside during the ball. She claimed to be feeling faint.”
Maguire’s head snapped up. “She did? Did anyone notice if her apron was missing when she returned?”
Penelope made a sad face. “Unfortunately, no. I imagine they were all run off their feet dealing with a party of that size.” Penelope pushed her plate away. “I did notice something when they were serving the food though. Ivy had a bandage on her hand.”
Maguire shrugged his shoulders. “That could be anything. She worked in the kitchen—perhaps the knife slipped.”
Penelope felt a bit like a conjurer pulling a rabbit out of a hat. “It could have been, but it wasn’t. I checked with the chemist at the apothecary and she said Ivy came in looking for a cream or ointment to put on a burn on her hand.”
Maguire whistled. “Now that’s very interesting. Presumably she burned her hand when she tossed the apron onto the bonfire?” He leaned back in his chair and stretched his legs out. “But there’s no motive. Did she even know Cissie or Tobias Winterbourne?”
“She did know Cissie. And I imagine she was afraid that Tobias might have caught a glimpse of her while he was waiting in the bushes for Rose.”
Penelope explained about her visit to Cissie’s former nanny, Alice, and the story Alice had told her about Cissie blaming Ivy for the ruined Turner painting.
“But why wait until now to get her revenge?” Maguire tapped an index finger against his wineglass. “Surely Ivy had let bygones be bygones long ago.”
“I think I have the answer to that, too.” Penelope put her elbows on the table and leaned closer. “It happened at dinner the night before Charlotte and Worthington’s wedding. I heard Cissie talking to someone. Her tone was very dismissive and condescending. She said something like ‘I’m afraid I don’t know who you are.’ ”
“How rude,” Beryl said, spooning up the last bit of her chili.
Maguire pinched the bridge of his nose. “And she was speaking to Ivy?”
“I do
n’t know—not for sure, at any rate. I had my back to them.” Pen held her hands out palms up. “But it fits, doesn’t it? After growing up with Cissie and after what Cissie did to Ivy, she turns around and pretends not to know her.”
“Could be.” Maguire pushed back his chair. “I’ll have a crack at interviewing this Ivy Brown first thing tomorrow.”
“What about the DCI from the Met?” Pen said, getting up.
Maguire gave a broad smile. “Donovan doesn’t need to know.” He turned to Penelope and put his hands on her shoulders. “Do be careful, okay? Let me take it from here?”
“Sure,” Penelope said.
She hoped her voice carried the right note of conviction.
TWENTY-TWO
Penelope spent a restless night going over and over the information she’d gathered so far about the Worthington House murders. Had she done the wrong thing in telling Maguire about Ivy? He said he was going to interview her. But what if she was innocent? It would no doubt be distressing and it would be Penelope’s fault.
Maybe Rose was the killer after all and she had sent Maguire on a wild-goose chase. Or the killer could have even been Jemima. She had no alibi and she had a motive.
The tabloids were full of lurid headlines insinuating that Worthington had killed his ex-girlfriend. Some were even hinting that Charlotte had done it. Penelope didn’t believe it for a minute, but what if she was wrong?
She rolled over and pulled the blankets up to her ears. Mrs. Danvers was at the foot of the bed and this maneuver obviously disturbed her, because she glared at Penelope, jumped off, and went to curl up on the rug.
* * *
* * *
You look terrible,” Beryl said when Penelope appeared in the kitchen the next morning.
Beryl was sitting at the kitchen table, nursing a cup of coffee—Penelope hadn’t yet been able to get her to trade her morning java for a cup of tea.
A Fatal Footnote Page 21