A Fatal Footnote Page 12

  TWELVE

  Royston led them to the library and stood aside to let them enter. The low table in front of the sofa was set with tea things on a tray—a cup half-full of Earl Grey, a silver teapot, and a plate with the remains of some buttered toast spread with Marmite.

  Tobias was sprawled on the floor near the door as if he had been trying to leave the room to get help. He was partially on his side, and his face was visible.

  Pen had to stifle a gasp when she saw it. He was nearly unrecognizable—his complexion almost as red as the roses in the vase on the mantel, his eyes and lips swollen to grotesque proportions.

  Penelope felt Beryl sway beside her and glanced at her sister in alarm.

  Charlotte had obviously noticed as well. “Royston, could you please show Mrs. Kent back to the sitting room?”

  Beryl gave Charlotte a grateful look as she followed Royston from the room.

  Charlotte dropped to her knees next to Tobias and placed her fingers on his neck.

  “I don’t find a pulse, I’m afraid.” She sat back on her heels. “I can’t imagine what happened. Do you suppose it might have been his heart? He did say that the doctor had urged him to take more exercise and to watch his diet.”

  Penelope noticed that Charlotte’s hands were shaking and her lips were trembling.

  “It looks like an allergic reaction to me,” Penelope said, squatting next to Tobias’s body. “We need to call nine-nine-nine.”

  Now Penelope’s hands were shaking as well and her stomach felt as if it had twisted itself inside out.

  “I have my cell.” Charlotte pulled it from her pocket and began to punch in the numbers. “They’re sending someone,” she said when she clicked off the call.

  “Was Tobias allergic to anything, do you know?” Pen said, looking at Tobias’s red face.

  “I always ask all our guests about allergies,” Charlotte said, playing with the charms on one of her bracelets. “I post a list of any allergies in the kitchen for Cook.” She tucked a stray piece of blond hair back into her bun. “I don’t remember if Tobias suffered from any.” Her voice caught in her throat.

  “I think he must have,” Penelope said. “This looks like anaphylactic shock. I remember a girl in college who was allergic to cashews and accidentally ate a granola bar that had cashews in it. She went into shock, but fortunately her roommate knew how to use her EpiPen.”

  Penelope was staring at Tobias’s vest—an ornate affair in emerald green metallic paisley—when she spotted a tiny something near the waist. She frowned at it—it looked like a seed of some sort.

  “What’s that?” she said to Charlotte as she pointed at it.

  “It looks like a sesame seed,” Charlotte said, peering closer. “Perhaps it’s from something he had for lunch?”

  Penelope glanced behind her at the tea things on the table.

  “That toast looks like plain white bread, so it couldn’t have come from that. Are there sesame seeds in Marmite?”

  Charlotte shook her head. “No, there aren’t.”

  Pen shrugged. “It’s probably nothing.”

  “What’s this I hear about Tobias?” Worthington strode into the room. He was wearing a tweed jacket, jodhpurs, and black riding boots and had a riding helmet tucked under his arm. “I was about to go out to the stables when Royston waylaid me and told me something had happened to Tobias.”

  Just then Royston knocked on the door and ushered in a stern-looking man with a bushy gray handlebar mustache. He was wearing a suit and carrying a small black bag.

  “The medical examiner is here,” Royston announced.

  Worthington turned to Charlotte. “I’ll handle this.” He put a hand on her arm. “I hope this hasn’t upset you too much? In your condition—”

  Pen’s ears perked up. Was Charlotte expecting?

  “I’m fine,” Charlotte said, giving Worthington a weak smile. “But I think I will go sit down.”

  Penelope followed Charlotte out of the room. She wondered how long before the press picked up on the fact that there was going to be a little Worthington in the near future. The gossip magazines had already been hinting about it—imagining they saw a burgeoning bump in every picture of Charlotte ever since they became a couple.

  Beryl was slumped on the sofa in the sitting room when Penelope and Charlotte got there. Her face was white and the teacup in her hand rattled in its saucer.

  “I’m so terribly sorry,” Charlotte said, sinking down on the sofa.

  “It’s not your fault,” Pen said. She sat in one of the chairs and absentmindedly stared at the wall.

  She was thinking—what if Tobias had been allergic to sesame seeds? And what if someone had purposely mixed some in the Marmite or even in his tea? Charlotte had said that there was a list of guests’ allergies posted in the kitchen, so it wasn’t likely to have been an accident.

  “Do you mind if I go down to the kitchen and check that list of allergies you said is posted there?” Pen said to Charlotte. “I’d like to see whether Tobias might have been allergic to sesame seeds.”

  Charlotte’s expression was blank. “Please. Feel free. Although why he would have been given anything with sesame seeds on it, I can’t imagine.” She glanced at Beryl. “Would you care for some more tea?”

  Beryl shook her head.

  Pen slipped from the room and started down the corridor. She thought she remembered where the kitchen was but soon realized she was mistaken. Worthington House was a maze of corridors and rooms upon rooms. She glanced in one—it was an office of sorts with a metal desk, filing cabinets, and an old-fashioned rotary dial telephone.

  Finally she found the kitchen. The lights were out, but sun slanted through the tall windows and glinted off the long metal table that ran nearly the length of the room.

  Penelope looked around, but she was alone. She tiptoed into the room. A bulletin board was hung on the wall opposite the windows. A draft coming from near the ceiling fluttered the edges of the various pieces of paper stuck on it.

  She felt like a thief sneaking into the kitchen but she had Charlotte’s permission, although it would still be awkward if someone caught her sneaking around.

  She glanced at the bulletin board quickly—various menus were tacked to it along with the odd recipe. In the lower right corner was a list of the house party guests. Pen scanned it—Yvette was allergic to MSG, Ethan had a reaction to shellfish, and Tobias was allergic to—Pen bent closer—sesame seeds!

  The sesame seed she’d noticed on his vest would indicate that he’d come in contact with them somewhere. But where? He wouldn’t have knowingly ordered a dish prepared with them. And most people with allergies were very careful to question the waitstaff about any food served in restaurants.

  Pen thought that anaphylactic shock came on rather quickly. She pulled her cell phone from her pocket and brought up Google. She found a medical website and confirmed that it could be as rapid as five minutes.

  If that was the case, then Tobias had to have ingested the seeds just recently at Worthington House.

  Pen was about to leave the kitchen when one of the staff entered. She recognized her as Ivy, the woman who had been buying meat at the Pig in a Poke. A man followed her into the room. He was short and stocky with close-cut dark hair and a low forehead. For some reason, he made goose bumps prickle up Penelope’s arms. He stood off to the side with his arms folded across his chest.

  Ivy’s face was expressionless as she regarded Penelope.

  “Were you wanting something, madam? A cup of tea perhaps?”

  “N-n-no, thank you,” Penelope said, giving Ivy what she hoped was an innocent smile. “I’m just leaving.” She was about to go when she turned around. “Did you happen to make Lord Winterbourne his tea this afternoon?”

  “Lord Winterbourne, miss? No, I’m afraid I did not. Is he wanting some?”
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  “Er . . . no, not exactly,” Pen said. “I suppose it must have been Cook who prepared it, then.”

  Ivy tilted her head to one side. “I should suppose so, miss.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Penelope dropped Beryl off at the cottage—she was overwhelmed and thought she’d rest—and then headed to the Open Book. She had her book group that afternoon. There was already a book group but they’d become so popular that she’d started a second one—although Pen was never sure whether that was because of her leadership abilities or because of her proximity to gossip from Worthington House.

  Laurence Brimble was the first to arrive with his usual military punctuality. Pen didn’t know if he’d ever actually served, but he looked like central casting’s version of a British colonial guard with his ramrod posture and handlebar mustache.

  “Cheerio,” he said when he saw Penelope. She half expected him to click his heels. He glanced around and sniffed in disapproval. “Where is everyone?”

  “You’re the first, Laurence,” Penelope said. “You’re early.”

  He glanced at his watch. “So I am. If you call five minutes being early.”

  Penelope and Brimble were just sitting down when Tracy Meadows rushed in, unbuttoning her coat as she crossed the bookstore.

  “Sorry,” she said as she unwound her scarf. “The babysitter was late—that girl’s got the motivation of a slug—but she’s good with the baby, so there’s that.”

  Shirley Townsend arrived right after Tracy. She was a big-boned woman wearing dark slacks, a vivid floral blouse, and a chunky statement necklace of large blue beads. She had a red wool coat slung over her arm.

  She was slightly out of breath as she approached the group.

  “Oh, my,” she declared. “Have you heard the news?” She stopped and put a hand to her chest. “My cousin Philippa works at the police station and she told me there was another murder at Worthington House.” She paused. “Well, they’re not sure it’s murder, but someone has died.” She finished, panting slightly.

  Tracy’s eyes widened. “Who is it? Who has died?” She put a hand to her heart. “Not the duke I hope.”

  “No, no.” Shirley shook her head. “It was one of the guests who was there for the wedding—Earl Winterbourne.”

  Brimble cleared his throat. “Quite some goings-on at Worthington House,” he said, looking around. “What’s the world coming to?”

  “Cor, you’d think the place was cursed,” Shirley said, fingering her necklace. “Two murders in as many years. Three, if this recent death turns out to be murder as well. And those last two being a married couple dying one after the other.”

  “There was a rumor a long time ago that the castle was cursed,” Brimble said authoritatively. “The third duke of Upper Chumley-on-Stoke was found murdered in his bed and then the wife of the fifth duke was killed in a riding accident that some say was highly suspicious. It seems she’d been carrying on with the head gardener and many suspect that the duke had had enough of it. He went on to marry again—someone much younger—so it does make you wonder.” Brimble smoothed his mustache with his index finger.

  “Yes, well . . .” Shirley said.

  “I read in one of those magazines they have by the checkout at Tesco that the duchess is in the family way,” Tracy said.

  “Oh, go on!” Shirley said. “You don’t believe everything those magazines print, do you? They’re just making it up like they always do.”

  Tracy laughed. “Well, if the duchess does have a bun in the oven, I’m sure she’ll have an easier time of it than I have. Hot and cold running nannies, no doubt.”

  “You’re friends with the duchess,” Shirley said, turning to Penelope. “Is that possibly true or is it just another one of those stories those magazines print in hopes that we’ll buy them?”

  Penelope thought of what Worthington had said—in your condition—but she feigned a look of innocence and insisted she had no idea.

  Finally Penelope managed to get the book discussion under way. Figgy wheeled over a cart with tea things and a delicious-looking lemon drizzle cake for them to enjoy while the discussion wrapped up.

  After the book group was finished and everyone had departed, Figgy joined Penelope, and together they cleaned up the dirty cups and saucers and plates sticky with lemon and sugar. Figgy was scratching at a bit of glaze that had stuck to the table when she paused and looked at Penelope.

  “So with Lord Winterbourne dead,” she said with her hands on her hips, “that means he isn’t likely to have killed his wife. Unless there are two killers running around Worthington House.”

  “I know,” Penelope said, stacking plates on Figgy’s cart. “That certainly eliminates him. But why kill him?” She turned and looked at Figgy.

  Figgy shrugged. “To silence him? Maybe he saw something that night? Maybe he saw the person who hit Cissie with that polo mallet.”

  “That’s true.” Penelope’s shoulders slumped. “I was convinced he was the culprit. But you’re right. Tobias must have seen something. Or at least the killer thought he had.”

  Pen picked up a used teacup and placed it on the tray. She gasped and turned toward Figgy.

  “Rose left the ballroom, too. Digby, who was helping with the fireworks, saw her.” Penelope bit her lower lip. “He didn’t know her name of course, but the description fit. She and Tobias must have been having a liaison outside. If Tobias saw something, then maybe she did, too.” Pen gasped again. “And if that’s the case, that means her life could be in danger as well. If the killer murdered Tobias to keep him from talking, why not kill Rose as well?”

  THIRTEEN

  Pen thought about it and finally decided that she needed to warn Rose that she might be in danger.

  Mabel was counting out the register and had flipped the Open sign on the front door to Closed. Night was falling, and the last shoppers were scurrying past the window of the Open Book, packages in hand, as they hurried home to make their tea.

  Beryl had said she was going to rest and Pen felt confident she would be fine for another hour at least. It wasn’t going to take her that long to pop over to Worthington House and have a word with Rose.

  Penelope felt a surge of emotion as she steered her MINI down the high street past all the shops that had become so familiar to her. She felt at home for one of the first times in her life.

  She was stopped at a crosswalk when one of the pedestrians turned and waved to her—it was Violet Thatcher. Pen waved back, feeling a lump gathering in her throat. From being suspicious of Pen upon her arrival—an American intruding on their small, tightly knit community—the residents of Upper Chumley-on-Stoke had come to accept her—or at least tolerate her—a stranger in their midst.

  Pen headed away from town, and soon Worthington House came into view, looking majestic perched on the slight rise above the town. She passed the gatehouse and negotiated the long drive to the castle itself.

  Penelope parked her car, went up to the front entrance, and rang the bell. After a moment the door was pulled open by Royston. He still looked shaken by the afternoon’s events—his lugubrious face appearing even longer than usual, his brow so furrowed it seemed as if it were permanently frozen in that position.

  “Good evening, miss.” His tone was somber.

  “Good evening, Royston. I was hoping to have a word with Miss Rose Ainsley. I believe she’s still here?”

  “Certainly, miss. I will phone her.”

  Royston picked up the telephone on the foyer table and dialed a number. His movements were slow and heavy. He spoke briefly, hung up the telephone, and turned to Penelope.

  “Miss Ainsley is in her room if you care to come with me.”

  Penelope followed him down the corridor. Sconces along the walls had been lit and cast pools of light on the jewel-toned Oriental runner. They passed the open d
oor to the bedroom where she and Figgy had stayed. The beds were made, the duvet precisely folded, and the scent of lemon furniture polish drifted out into the hall.

  Finally they paused before a closed door at the end of the corridor.

  “Here you are, miss,” Royston said as he retreated.

  Penelope could hear the rustling sounds of Rose moving about inside. She knocked softly.

  When Rose opened the door, it was clear she was in distress. Her face was bloated with tears and her eyelids were swollen.

  “Rose, I’m so sorry,” Pen said as Rose let her into the room. “Tobias’s death must be a great shock to you.”

  A suitcase open on the bed was stuffed every which way with garments.

  “You’re leaving?” Pen said.

  Rose sniffed. “I want to. I don’t know. I’m waiting to hear from that detective. I don’t know if they’ll let me go.” She balled up the fabric of her sweater in her hand. “Charlotte said I can stay, but I don’t think I can stand it here another minute longer.”

  She began to cry.

  Penelope pulled a tissue from her purse and handed it to her.

  “Th-th-thank you.” Rose sniffed as she wiped her nose and eyes. “Poor Tobias.” She began to wail again. “Who would do something like that?”

  She began shredding the tissue. “I never stopped loving him. Never. We were going to get married.” She hiccoughed. “He was so unhappy.”

  “Tobias?” Pen perched on the edge of the bed.

  Rose nodded. “He said Cissie didn’t care about him at all. He said he thought . . . he thought she was having an affair.”

  “Oh?” Pen’s ears perked up. “Did he say with whom?”

  “He didn’t know, but he had his suspicions.” Rose yanked a dress off the hanger in the closet, wadded it up, and stuffed it into her suitcase. “He wanted to leave her but he couldn’t. She wouldn’t give him any money. And it wasn’t as if someone in his position could go out and get a job like some commoner.”