A Fatal Footnote Page 15

  Figgy looked at the floor. “I was afraid they wouldn’t approve of the real me,” she said quietly.

  Mabel came out from behind the counter and put an arm around Figgy’s shoulders.

  “Don’t be daft. They’re going to love you—the real you.”

  “I hope so,” Figgy said so quietly Penelope almost couldn’t hear her.

  * * *

  * * *

  Penelope was standing behind the counter—she’d taken over for Mabel who wanted to run a few quick errands—when an older man came into the shop. Penelope thought he looked like everyone’s idea of the typical British professor—trench coat hanging open, tweed blazer, rumpled shirt and slacks, and an unlit pipe clenched in his teeth.

  “Good morning,” Penelope said and smiled.

  The man pulled off his hat, leaving his thin white hair standing out around his head like a halo.

  He took the pipe out of his mouth, waved it in front of Penelope, and grunted. “Do you have any books on World War Two?” He glanced around him and stuck his pipe back in his mouth, clamping down on it with yellowing teeth.

  Penelope thought of all the books they carried on World War II and tried not to sigh. “Is there any specific aspect of the war you’re interested in?” She started to come out from behind the desk. “D-Day or the Battle of the Bulge or the role of the RAF?”

  The man frowned. “Something on the lives of ordinary people at the time perhaps. Surviving during the Blitz and all that.”

  “I think we can help you,” Penelope said, heading for the stacks. “We have a couple of books you might find interesting.” She crouched down beside one of the shelves and pulled out several volumes. “Perhaps you’d like to glance through these?” She held up one of the books. “The Longest Night: The Bombing of London on May 10, 1941 is excellent.”

  She carried the stack over to one of the armchairs and placed them on the side table.

  “Thank you,” the man said before putting his pipe back in his mouth.

  The scent of a woodsy tobacco mixed with a cherry aroma wafted off him. Penelope found it oddly soothing.

  As she walked away she had a sudden thought that nearly stopped her in her tracks. She remembered the night of the Worthingtons’ ball when Jemima had come over to speak to Penelope before the fireworks. Penelope remembered quite distinctly that the smell of tobacco smoke had clung to Jemima’s hair. Penelope was quite certain that Jemima didn’t smoke. But Cissie did—she had gone out to the terrace to light her pipe.

  Had Jemima joined her on the terrace? And had Jemima been the one to murder her?

  FIFTEEN

  She could be one of those closet smokers,” Mabel said when Pen told her about Jemima smelling of smoke, which potentially put her out on the terrace where Cissie was killed. “The type who are ashamed of the habit and hide it from everyone.”

  Pen felt slightly deflated. “I wonder if Charlotte knows. She may have caught Jemima sneaking out for a cigarette at one time or another. Besides, it’s hard to hide the smell.”

  “It’s possible.” Mabel picked up a catalogue from the counter. “I suppose you could ask her.”

  Penelope nodded.

  “What do you think of this?” Mabel said, turning the catalogue around to face Penelope. She pointed to a photograph of some board games. “I’m thinking of expanding our inventory and carrying a few impulse items—those things people pick up on their way to the cash register.”

  “That’s a great idea. Perfect for a birthday gift or something for Christmas.”

  Mabel took the catalogue and thumbed through it. “I was thinking about some leather-bound journals as well. What do you think of these?”

  Penelope glanced at the catalogue. “Lovely. I’m sure they’d sell well.”

  “We can set up a table over there,” Mabel said pointing to a spot in the store. “For these gift items.” She turned to Pen. “What do you think about calendars at the end of the year? They’d make great Christmas gifts, don’t you think?”

  “What are you two cooking up?” Figgy said, wandering over with a plate piled with shortbread cookies.

  “Just what I needed,” Pen said. “Suddenly I’m starving.”

  “Why don’t you nip out and get yourself a proper lunch?” Mabel said sternly. “Some fish-and-chips or a takeout curry. You can’t exist on cookies alone no matter how delicious they are.” She smiled at Figgy.

  “I thought I’d stop by Worthington House and see if Charlotte is in.”

  “Following up on your hunch?” Mabel’s eyes had a twinkle in them.

  “Maybe,” Pen said rather enigmatically.

  * * *

  * * *

  Penelope approached Worthington House with a level of confidence she hadn’t felt on her very first visit. Things had certainly changed. But she still felt a sense of awe as the castle came into view and almost had to pinch herself to be sure she wasn’t dreaming.

  Royston opened the door when Penelope rang. He gave a slight bow and ushered Penelope in.

  Penelope asked if Charlotte was in and Royston nodded affirmatively. He picked up the telephone and dialed.

  “Her grace is in her office,” he said. “I will show you the way.”

  Although Pen had been to Charlotte’s office numerous times, she was still grateful for Royston’s lead as they wound their way down the numerous corridors.

  Royston stopped in front of a closed door, opened it with a flourish, and announced, “Penelope Parish is here, your grace.”

  Charlotte was behind her desk, her laptop open on top and some scribbled notes by her elbow. She was casually dressed in black leggings and a black turtleneck that emphasized the pallor of her face. Penelope noticed there were dark circles under her eyes.

  “Please sit down,” Charlotte said, motioning toward a chair.

  “I hope I’m not interrupting. . . .”

  Charlotte smiled. “Not at all. I’m due for a break. I’ve been working for hours. I’m afraid I’m a bit behind and need to do some catching up.” She massaged her forehead with her fingers. “How is your writing coming?”

  “I’m deep in revisions at the moment,” Penelope said. “I’m quite pleased with how they’re going. So far at any rate.” She laughed.

  “I know what you mean.” Charlotte leaned back in her chair. “Would you care for some tea?” She glanced at her watch. “Goodness, it’s almost lunchtime. I could see what Cook has in store for us today if you’d like.” She put a hand on her stomach. “I’m afraid I haven’t had much of an appetite these days.”

  “Thank you, but I just have a quick question and then I’ll let you get back to work.”

  Charlotte cocked her head.

  “Is Jemima Dougal a smoker?”

  Charlotte looked surprised. “No, why? She has asthma I believe—I’ve seen her using an inhaler so I doubt she’d take up smoking.”

  “Because the night Cissie Winterbourne was killed, I noticed that at one point during the evening, I smelled smoke on her hair.”

  “Could it have been from the bonfire?”

  Penelope shook her head. “It was before the bonfire had been lit. And it was definitely smoke—tobacco smoke.”

  Charlotte shook her head in disbelief. “You’re not saying that you think Jemima killed Cissie? Why would she?”

  “I don’t know,” Penelope admitted. “Something from their past?”

  Charlotte tilted her head. “That could be. All the same people run in these circles and have known each other since they were in diapers, and Jemima went to the Oakwood School for Girls with Cissie.”

  “So it’s perfectly possible there could be some ancient history between them.”

  Charlotte shrugged. “I suppose so. But why would Jemima kill Cissie now? Why wait all this time?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe so
mething stirred things up again? An old grudge perhaps?”

  Charlotte picked up her pencil and began tapping it against the desk.

  “That could be. But if that’s the case, I’m afraid I have no idea what it is.”

  “That’s all I wanted to know,” Pen said, starting to get up. “I’ll let you get back to work.”

  She declined Charlotte’s offer to fetch Royston to escort her and began traversing Worthington House’s maze of corridors herself. She was passing the library door, which was open, when a movement caught her eye.

  Jemima had her back to Penelope and was standing next to a small side table. Penelope watched as she snaked out a hand, picked up an ornate Fabergé egg, and slipped it into her pocket.

  Penelope didn’t know what to do. Should she tell Charlotte that Jemima was the one who had been stealing things? Penelope thought back to the wedding and the time she’d caught Jemima in the drawing room. Jemima had been startled—as if she’d been caught in something. Had she been about to pocket something then?

  Charlotte deserved to know, Penelope decided, and she headed back the way she had come. She knocked on the door to Charlotte’s office, but there was no answer. She cautiously opened the door and peeked in, but the room was empty.

  She’d phone Charlotte later. She could hardly wander all over Worthington House looking for her.

  She decided she’d check in with Mabel and make sure that everything at the Open Book was okay and let her know that she was going to be a bit longer. She had an idea and she was puzzling over just how to pull it off.

  * * *

  * * *

  Penelope turned onto the high street and headed out of Chumley and into the countryside where open fields bordered the road on either side. It wasn’t long before she saw the white sign with the gold crest that read Oakwood School for Girls. She turned onto the nearly quarter-mile-long drive that led to a large campus dotted with Gothic Revival–style buildings.

  Charlotte had said that Jemima and Cissie had both been students there. Penelope hoped to find someone that might have known them and might remember something from their past that would have pushed Jemima to murder all these years later.

  Penelope drove down the circular drive leading to the impressive stone building that housed the administrative offices and parked her car. She pulled a notebook and pencil from her tote bag and got out. She crossed her fingers—she hoped her plan was going to work.

  Pen pushed open the large carved wooden door of the administration building. The foyer’s marble floor was inlaid with gold tiles outlining the school crest. The walls were covered in rich wood paneling that gleamed in the light of the chandeliers that lit the hallway.

  Two girls were coming toward Penelope, whispering to each other, their books tucked under their arms. They were wearing the Oakwood School uniform of plaid skirt, white blouse, and dark gray blazer with the school crest on the pocket.

  Pen approached them, plastering a smile on her face much like a dog wags its tail to show it’s friendly.

  “Can either of you girls help me?”

  They both stopped and stared at Penelope wordlessly, the blonde twirling her long hair around her finger.

  “I’m from Tatler,” Penelope said, brandishing her notebook and pen. “It’s a magazine. Have you heard of it?”

  They stared at her blankly. Finally, the brunette said, “I think my mum reads it.”

  “I’m looking to speak to someone who’s been at the Oakwood School for around twenty years or so. Maybe one of the teachers . . . ?”

  The girls looked at each other.

  “You’d want to speak to T. Rex, then,” the blonde said and giggled.

  “Did you say T. Rex?” Penelope said. She had to have misheard. Parents sometimes gave their children unusual names but . . . T. Rex?

  The girl giggled again. “Yes. Actually, her name is Tina Resse and she’s worked here for absolutely ages. She’s positively ancient.”

  “Where can I find miss, uh, Resse?”

  The blonde pointed to a door with a plaque with Maribel Northcott, Headmistress on it. “She’s Miss Northcott’s assistant. Miss Northcott is the headmistress. T. Rex sits right outside her office.”

  Penelope smiled again. “Thank you.”

  She was relieved that the girls had shown a singular lack of curiosity as to what a reporter from Tatler was doing at the school. She hoped all would go as smoothly with Ms. Resse.

  The door the girls had indicated was open, and Penelope knocked softly on the doorjamb before walking inside. It was a fairly large office with high arched windows, two desks, and a row of filing cabinets along one wall.

  One desk was in front of a closed door with a small nameplate that read M. Northcott. The other desk was pushed into a corner. Two women sat at the desks and it was obvious which one Tina Resse was.

  She had the bigger desk situated directly in front of the headmistress’s door. The desk was very tidy—papers aligned, stapler, tape dispenser, and pencil sharpener all in a neat row. Tina was the picture of efficiency in her stark navy pantsuit with her thick dark hair sprayed into submission in a short bob that ended awkwardly just above her earlobes.

  A younger girl sat at the other desk, her long mouse-brown hair brushing her waist and her desk piled with papers and folders.

  Tina looked up sharply when she heard Penelope’s knock.

  “May I help you?” She started to stand up.

  “I don’t mean to be a bother,” Penelope said, “but I’m looking for a Miss Resse.”

  “That would be me.”

  “Wonderful,” Penelope gushed. “One of the students directed me to you—she said you’d been working at the school for quite a while.”

  “More than twenty years,” Tina said with a note of pride in her voice. “Miss Northcott always says she wouldn’t know what to do without me. Mrs. Gregor said the same when she was head and I worked for her. I started right after finishing secretarial school.”

  Tina was turning out to be quite chatty and Penelope breathed a sigh of relief. Hopefully that would make her job easier.

  “I’m Penelope Hargreaves,” Penelope said, deciding not to give her real name. “I’m freelancing for the Tatler. I don’t know if you’re familiar with it. . . .”

  “Of course I am.” Tina beamed. “I’ve been reading it for years—all that delicious royal gossip.” Her face colored slightly. “It’s my one indulgence.”

  “Wonderful,” Penelope said, holding up her notebook and pencil. “You may have heard about the recent wedding of the Duke of Upper Chumley-on-Stoke and Miss Charlotte Davenport?”

  “Of course,” Tina said as if she couldn’t imagine that anyone might not have. “I’ve followed every story.” She picked up a mug that was sitting on her desk. Charlotte and Worthington were pictured in profile on the front. “I even treated myself to this and a set of tea towels. I’ll never use them, of course—I’m going to frame them and hang them in my sitting room along with the ones from the wedding of the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge.”

  The girl at the other desk had turned around and was sitting with her arms folded on the back of her chair, a look of awe on her face.

  “Go, on,” she said. “You’re really from Tatler?”

  Was her cover about to be blown? Penelope wondered. But the girl simply introduced herself as Wanda.

  “I’m doing a story on some of the guests who were at the wedding,” Penelope plunged on, trying to keep her voice from squeaking and betraying her nervousness. “I understand two of the ladies in attendance were students at the Oakwood School—Cissie Winterbourne—I believe she was Cissie Emmott at the time—and Jemima Dougal. I’m afraid I don’t know her maiden name.”

  “That would be Jemima Kirby you’re meaning.” Tina straightened the already straight collar on her blouse. “She and Cissie Emmo
tt were thick as thieves when they were girls here. Although they could be competitive as well. I remember the time Jemima made the winning goal in our game against St. Mary’s—Cissie threw down her hockey stick and stomped off the pitch. And Cissie didn’t speak to Jemima for three weeks after Jemima was elected head girl. Cissie felt she deserved the position herself.”

  Tina reached out and moved her stapler a quarter of an inch to the right.

  “They made up eventually. They could never stand to be apart. But that’s the way it is with girls, isn’t it?” She looked at Penelope.

  “I suppose so,” Pen said.

  “Such a shame about Cissie, wasn’t it?” Tina shuddered. “Murder isn’t something you expect at a royal wedding.” She shook her head. “Poor Jemima. She must have been devastated. Were they still close, do you know?”

  “I don’t know,” Pen admitted although devastated wasn’t the word she would have used to describe Jemima’s reaction to Cissie’s murder.

  “Of course, even best friends are going to lead separate lives as adults. It’s not like being at school, is it?” Tina said. She waved a hand. “Marriage and children become your focus.”

  Wanda cleared her throat. “Didn’t you tell me something about that girl Jemima Kirby?” she said, brushing her hair back from her shoulders.

  Tina looked alarmed. “I don’t think that’s something we should—”

  But Wanda was already continuing. “I remember you said she had some sort of disease. I don’t remember what you said it was called but it had to do with people compulsively taking things.” She looked at Tina, her eyebrows raised.

  Tina let out an exasperated breath. “It’s not a disease—it’s a mental illness. It’s called kleptomania.”

  Penelope was so startled she nearly dropped her notebook. “Jemima Kirby suffered from kleptomania?” she said.

  A host of emotions passed across Tina’s face and she plucked nervously at the collar of her blouse.

  “I really shouldn’t talk about it.”