A Fatal Footnote Page 11

  Pen was all smiles as she brought the tea tray into the sitting room. Beryl was perched on the couch, flipping through the autographed copy of The Fire in My Bosom that Caroline Davenport had given Penelope.

  She tossed the book onto the coffee table. “I didn’t think that was your sort of reading material,” she said, accepting the cup of tea Pen handed her.

  “The author is the new duchess of Upper Chumley-on-Stoke,” Pen said, taking the chair opposite the sofa.

  Beryl frowned. “I do remember reading something about that. Some sort of scandal?”

  Pen took a sip of her tea so she didn’t have to answer.

  Beryl had put down her cup and was staring vacantly at the far wall. Pen cleared her throat, but Beryl didn’t respond.

  Pen let the silence lengthen until she couldn’t stand it anymore.

  “Do you want to tell me what brings you to England?” she said finally in as cheerful a tone as she could muster.

  Beryl jumped, as if she’d been startled. She fiddled with the ends of her silk scarf.

  “I’m leaving Magnus,” she said suddenly.

  “What?” Penelope nearly choked on her tea.

  Beryl had been a devoted wife from the moment she and Magnus Kent had said “I do”—planning dinner parties to advance his career, spending hours in Pilates classes and at the salon in order to look the part, managing the household so that he could spend his leisure time golfing. What on earth had gone wrong?

  “I know it comes as a shock.” Beryl twisted the ends of her scarf.

  “What happened?” Pen was still in disbelief. “I thought you loved each other.”

  “We did.” Beryl let out a sob. “We do.”

  “Then what’s wrong?”

  “Magnus has been . . . Magnus has been arrested.”

  Pen nearly dropped her teacup. Of all the things she was expecting to hear, that wasn’t even on the list.

  “Arrested for what? Not paying his parking tickets? For jaywalking?”

  As far as she knew Magnus had always been law-abiding in the extreme.

  “For . . . for cheating his investors. The feds are calling it a Ponzi scheme.”

  Since when had Beryl started using terms like the feds? Pen wondered. Obviously a lot had been going on while she’d been in England.

  “We’re going to lose everything,” Beryl sobbed. “The lawyers alone are costing a fortune, and if they lose the case, the government will take everything that’s left.”

  Pen didn’t know what to say. Here she’d been rehearsing how to deal with things if Beryl said Magnus was having an affair. Or if Beryl herself was having one and had fallen in love with someone else. This, she was completely unprepared for.

  “What are you going to do?” Pen said quietly after several minutes.

  Beryl held out her hands palms up. “I don’t know. I suppose I shall have to get a job assuming I can get a work visa.” She gave Pen a pleading look. “In the meantime, can I stay with you for a bit? I can’t bear to go back to the States. The press was camped outside the house day and night—it’s been a nightmare. I had to trade clothes with my housekeeper to sneak past them. Gina smuggled out my suitcases and her husband drove me to the airport.”

  Beryl buried her face in her hands.

  “The whole time I was waiting for my flight, I was terrified that a reporter would spot me. I hid in the ladies’ room until it was time to board.” She looked at Pen, her face blotchy with tears. “What’s wrong with those people? They’re like vultures.”

  Pen thought of the stories that had been written about Charlotte and she had to agree.

  “I’ve made up the spare room upstairs,” Pen said, collecting the tea things and putting them on the tray. “You’re welcome to stay as long as you like.”

  “Thank you.” Beryl sighed. “It might be a while until the furor at home dies down. It could be weeks or it could be months.”

  Penelope gulped. “That’s fine,” she said without much conviction. “Stay as long as you need to.”

  “How long are you planning to stay in England?” Beryl said.

  “The writer-in-residence position was meant to last a year, but Mabel has hinted that I could extend that if I wanted.” Penelope thought of Maguire. She was going to stay as long as possible.

  “I hate to be a bother,” Beryl said as Pen led her upstairs.

  “Nonsense,” Pen said. “You’re my sister. We have to stick together.”

  What was she getting herself into? Pen wondered as she opened the door to the guest room.

  But she could hardly turn Beryl down in her hour of need. Surely she could cope for a couple of weeks.

  A frightening thought occurred to her—what if it took months for things to settle down back in the States? Beryl had said that was possible.

  If Beryl was going to be staying with her for that long, Pen feared she might have to resort to taking daily nips from the bottle of Jameson that Mabel kept under the counter at the Open Book.

  * * *

  * * *

  Beryl was exhausted by her long flight and all the emotions she’d experienced in the past few days. She assured Pen that she would visit the Open Book as soon as she was rested.

  Pen packed up her laptop and her notes and headed out the door and down the street. She paused to admire the display in the window of the Icing on the Cake—a delicious-looking Battenberg cake that made her mouth water and a Madeira cake that would be perfect with a cup of tea. Perhaps she’d buy something later—it might cheer Beryl up. Always assuming Beryl wasn’t on one of her interminable diets—one week it was the Atkins diet, the next week it was the Mediterranean diet, and the following week something brand-new that some woman’s magazine was touting as the answer to everyone’s prayers.

  Penelope also paused in front of the window of the estate agent’s to see if there were any short-term lets on apartments above the shops along the high street. There was one above Pen and Ink Stationers—she would mention it to Beryl if it appeared as if Beryl would be staying for several months.

  A horrible thought occurred to Pen as she turned away from the window. Would Beryl have to testify in Magnus’s trial? Worse—would they think that Beryl had been in on the scheme? Pen knew her sister and knew that Beryl’s main concerns were decorating, arranging dinner parties, securing theater tickets, and maintaining her youthful good looks. She wouldn’t know a balance sheet from a bedsheet.

  The Open Book was busy as it often was on Saturday mornings and afternoons. Customers browsed the crowded shelves and sprawled, thumbing through books, on the sagging sofas and armchairs.

  No one was behind the counter when Pen opened the front door, but as she approached, Mabel popped up, her fluffy white hair trailing across her forehead and a clump of dust clinging to the front of her sweater.

  “Howdy,” Mabel said when she saw Pen. “How is the newsletter coming, by the way?”

  “Almost done with my part. I think you’ll like it.”

  “I know I will.” Mabel smiled and the skin around her eyes crinkled. “As soon as it’s finished, I’ll send it to the designer to put it together and send it out.” Mabel drew back and looked at Penelope with narrowed eyes. “What’s up? You don’t look like yourself.”

  Pen told her about Beryl’s arrival.

  “Oh, dear,” Mabel said, brushing her hair off her face. “A Ponzi scheme? That doesn’t sound good. They’ve been throwing the book at the chaps running those lately. No pun intended.”

  “I know,” Pen said, her shoulders sagging.

  “What are you going to do?” Mabel said.

  “I don’t know. I looked in the window at the estate agent’s—”

  Before Pen could finish, her cell phone rang. She excused herself and went into her writing room to answer it. She thought for sure it would be Bery
l but was surprised when it turned out to be Charlotte, inviting her to tea later that afternoon.

  Pen thanked her but told her that her sister was visiting at the moment and she couldn’t leave her. Charlotte responded immediately that Penelope was to bring Beryl along. Charlotte said she had something to discuss with Pen—something professional—but there was no reason Beryl couldn’t be there as well.

  For the second time in two days, Pen was left dying of curiosity.

  * * *

  * * *

  The Duchess of Upper Chumley-on-Stoke,” Beryl cried when Pen told her about Charlotte’s invitation to tea. “Whatever shall I wear?” She paced back and forth in Pen’s tiny sitting room. “The duchess has been praised for her tremendous fashion sense in all the gossip magazines back home. She has only to wear a dress once and it immediately sells out.” She bit her knuckle. “I could barely think while I was packing, I was so distressed. I had no idea how long I’d be staying. I just grabbed things willy-nilly off the hanger and stuffed them into the suitcase. I don’t think I have a single suitable outfit.” She looked at Pen hopefully. “Is there a dress shop in town?”

  “There is,” Pen said, biting into the apple she’d plucked from the fruit bowl on the kitchen table, “but it’s not necessary to buy anything new. Charlotte is utterly charming and utterly without pretension. You look absolutely fine the way you are. I’ve seen Charlotte in jeans and a sweater at home and running errands in yoga pants and sneakers.”

  “Are you sure?” Beryl looked down at her outfit, and smoothed out her sweater.

  “Absolutely. And if we don’t hustle, we’ll be late.” Pen tossed her apple core into the wastebasket.

  Beryl continued to fret during the entire trip, although, truth be told, part of the time it was due to Penelope’s rather erratic driving. She really was getting better at remembering to drive on the left-hand side of the street, but she still occasionally made a tiny mistake and drifted over the line in the road.

  Beryl gasped when they rounded a bend and Worthington House came into view.

  “It’s a castle,” Beryl exclaimed.

  “Yes, it is rather.” Pen tried to hide a satisfied smile as she put on her blinker and turned into the long drive leading to the house. She remembered when she had been just as awed as Beryl at the sight.

  “When you said Worthington House, I thought you meant—”

  “Typical British modesty,” Pen said. “Calling it a castle would be nouveau riche and that’s one thing the Worthingtons are not.” Pen negotiated a bend in the driveway. “The Worthingtons go back centuries. Worthington himself is distantly related to the queen.”

  “I . . . I had no idea,” Beryl said quietly.

  Pen parked the car and they walked up the boxwood-bordered flagstone path to the entrance.

  The butler who opened the door smiled at Penelope.

  “Lovely to see you again, Miss Parish,” he said, giving a brisk nod of his head.

  Beryl looked at her sister with wide eyes. “He knew you,” she whispered as the butler led them down the hall.

  Penelope tried not to look too smug but it was nice that for once she was able to impress her sister—something that was a very unusual occurrence indeed.

  The butler led them to a small sitting room where Charlotte was waiting for them. The room was cozy and charming with a carved white marble fireplace flanked by bookcases. An overstuffed sofa slipcovered in cream-colored fabric faced the fireplace and was piled with throw pillows in pale pinks and blues. A large vase overflowing with pink and white tulips sat on an end table at Charlotte’s elbow.

  Charlotte jumped up and greeted Pen with a hug, then turned to Beryl and held out her hand. Beryl appeared to be tongue-tied, and Pen had to stifle a laugh when her sister actually curtsied.

  “Charlotte, this is my sister, Beryl Kent.”

  Pen did notice the look of relief on Beryl’s face when she saw that Charlotte was dressed in slim-fitting jeans, a bulky knit white turtleneck sweater, and black suede ankle boots and had her hair up in a bun. Several gold bracelets dangled from her wrist and some impressive diamond studs twinkled in her ears.

  “Please, sit down,” Charlotte said, taking her place on the sofa and drawing her legs under her. “Our tea will be along any minute.”

  Charlotte made polite conversation with Beryl, asking her how her flight had been and how she was liking England so far. Beryl’s stilted answers were a dead giveaway that she was nervous, but Charlotte did her best to put Beryl at ease.

  Finally there was a tap on the door and the butler entered with a tray of tea things, including a tiered platter with an array of sweet and savory delicacies that made Pen’s mouth water.

  Charlotte poured the tea and handed around the cups. Pen filled her plate with the tiny tea sandwiches—cucumber and cream cheese, chicken salad, and smoked salmon—as well as lemon shortbread, a strawberry tartlet, and a slice of Madeira cake.

  Penelope was quite proud of the fact that she now felt completely at ease taking tea with Charlotte—she remembered the first time she’d been invited to the castle, she had been full of nerves, terrified that she would tip over her cup or commit some hideous faux pas.

  “You’re probably wondering what I wanted to talk to you about,” Charlotte said, putting down her cup. She turned to Beryl with a smile. “I do hope you don’t mind if we talk shop for a few minutes?”

  Beryl’s mouth was full of a bite of a chicken salad sandwich, so she shook her head silently.

  Charlotte brushed a crumb off her sweater. “I’ve been asked to put together an anthology of short stories. We want to include multiple genres. I’m providing romance of course, and we hoped you might consider contributing a story with your special Gothic touch.”

  Pen was surprised. That wasn’t what she had been expecting. She thought of the revisions she had yet to tackle and the deadline for her next book.

  “How soon would you need the story?”

  Charlotte ducked her head. “I’m afraid I’m a bit behind on this project. I got caught up in all the wedding plans.” She gave Pen a pleading look. “I would need it in a month, if that’s possible.”

  Penelope gulped. That was going to be tough. But she didn’t want to let Charlotte down and, besides, this was a great opportunity to expand her readership.

  She was about to answer when Tobias stuck his head in the room.

  “Is there any tea, darling?” he said, looking at Charlotte. He rubbed his rather rotund stomach. “I’m positively famished. We had the most vile lunch at the local pub. Their claim to be able to make a decent bangers and mash is vastly overstated.”

  “I doubt you want to join us,” Charlotte said somewhat frostily. “Why don’t you go down to the kitchen and ask Cook to make you something? I’m sure he can pull something tasty together.”

  “Wonderful idea,” Tobias said, winking at Charlotte. “A nice hot cuppa would fit the bill and perhaps some buttered toast with Marmite. That’s what Nanny used to make us when we were in the nursery. Believe it or not, I’m feeling a bit nostalgic today.”

  “Marmite?” Beryl said when Tobias had gone off down the hall, whistling tunelessly under his breath.

  Charlotte wrinkled her nose. “It’s horrid stuff. Don’t let anyone talk you into trying it. It’s a food spread made from yeast extract and it tastes abominable.” She shivered.

  By now even Beryl was beginning to relax and when Charlotte suggested a tour of the castle, they readily agreed.

  “Let’s start with the great hall,” Charlotte said, crumpling up her napkin and tossing it on the tray. “That was the center of life at Worthington House back in medieval times.

  “The great hall was used to receive guests as well as for dining,” Charlotte said, as they followed her down the corridor that led to the great hall. “And it usually had the largest fireplace
in the castle—big enough to roast an ox.” Her words echoed in the enormous space as they entered the great hall.

  Pen couldn’t help but notice the expression of awe on Beryl’s face. Worthington House put even the mansions in Newport that Beryl thought were so grand to shame.

  The sound of footsteps in back of them startled them and they all spun around together.

  The butler was hastening across the great hall, his shoes clattering against the stone. He was obviously in distress and was struggling mightily to maintain the appropriate decorum. The poor man was trying to rush and yet not look as if he was actually rushing—a very difficult feat under the best of circumstances.

  Charlotte frowned. “What is it, Royston? Is something wrong? Is Cook complaining that the butcher has delivered the wrong order again?”

  Royston shook his head mutely. It took him several moments to catch his breath—his chest was heaving visibly and drops of sweat beaded on his brow.

  “It’s Lord Winterbourne, your grace,” he gasped.

  “I believe he was after some tea,” Charlotte said. “Was Cook able to sort something out? I hope so.”

  “I’m afraid it’s not that, your grace.”

  Charlotte frowned again. “Then what is it, Royston?”

  “Lord Winterbourne has been taken ill, your grace.”

  Charlotte gave a small smile and looked at Pen and Beryl. “It must have been the Marmite.”

  Royston looked confused. He tilted his head inquiringly. “I beg your pardon, your grace? I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  “Nothing.” Charlotte waved a hand. “Forget it. Has someone phoned Dr. O’Connor? I’m sure he’ll know what to do.”

  “I don’t know that he can help, your grace.” Royston bowed his head.

  Charlotte became very still and her face turned white. “What do you mean?”

  Royston gulped. “I mean, your grace, that I think Lord Winterbourne . . . well . . . Lord Winterbourne appears to be dead.”