A Fatal Footnote Page 2

  An attendant met Mabel’s car in the drive and took over parking it for them. A valet followed behind him and removed Pen’s and Figgy’s suitcases from the trunk. Pen and Mabel were walking toward the Worthington House chapel when they became aware of a disturbance in back of them and turned around.

  “What’s going on?” Mabel said, craning her neck. “Is that someone shouting?”

  Penelope, at nearly six feet tall, had a slight advantage.

  “It looks as if some woman is protesting.”

  “Good heavens! Protesting what?” India said.

  “The wedding, I assume. She’s carrying a sign, too.” Penelope stood on tiptoe. “It says Yankee Go Home.”

  “I should imagine that’s the first time a sign like that has been seen on these shores since World War Two ended,” Mabel said. “What’s happening now?”

  “A constable is hustling the woman away.”

  “Dreadful impudence.” India sniffed. “Trying to ruin Arthur and Charlotte’s wedding day.”

  “Fortunately the bride hasn’t arrived yet,” Figgy said.

  “We should probably hurry. We don’t want to be late,” Mabel said, shepherding them toward the door of the chapel.

  The chapel was quite large, considering that it had been built only for the use of the members of the Worthington family. Today it was resplendent with all kinds of flowers. Penelope thought it gave the illusion of having walked into a garden.

  “Most impressive,” India said approvingly. She pointed to a vase overflowing with soft yellow flowers. “That’s the Charlotte rose. Each blossom has up to one hundred petals. That’s what makes them so lovely.”

  An usher greeted them and led them to their seats. They hadn’t been seated long before there was a sudden rustling among the guests in the chapel. The organ swelled and began playing a piece by Handel and the assembled guests rose to their feet.

  “There she is,” India said, slightly breathlessly.

  “She looks lovely,” Figgy said. She turned to Pen. “Cissie was spot-on—the gown is downright regal.”

  Charlotte’s silk gown had an off-the-shoulder neckline, three-quarter-length sleeves, and a trumpet skirt that flared into a long train that ran nearly the length of the chapel aisle. Her veil was simple and flowed in back of her.

  In an unexpected move, Worthington had invited the local vicar from St. Andrews to perform the ceremony. Penelope thought that had been a shrewd public relations gesture on his part and the decision had been much praised by the residents of Chumley who were already unhappy that he had chosen an American to be his bride.

  As soon as Charlotte reached the altar, Reverend Thatcher began the ceremony.

  “In the presence of God, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit,” he intoned, “we have come together to witness the marriage of Arthur Worthington and Charlotte Davenport, to pray for God’s blessing on them, to share their joy, and to celebrate their love.”

  Finally, Reverend Thatcher was saying “you may kiss the bride,” and the organ began playing the recessional. Worthington offered Charlotte his arm, she gathered her train in her hand, and they strode down the aisle, their faces stretched into broad smiles.

  Penelope didn’t think she’d ever seen Charlotte look so genuinely happy. She’d been through a lot since her arrival in England and Penelope thought she deserved all the happiness she could get.

  The chapel doors were thrown open and the couple stepped outside into the sunshine followed close behind by the assembled guests.

  An open landau with the Worthington crest on the side was waiting in front of the chapel, the two horses pawing the ground and snorting great clouds of vapor into the air.

  Charlotte and Worthington turned to face the crowd and waved before Worthington held out a hand and helped Charlotte into the carriage. The crowd roared their approval as they headed down the drive.

  “That was lovely,” India said.

  Figgy made a face. “Hopefully now my mother will give up on the notion that I ever had a chance of becoming the Duchess of Upper Chumley-on-Stoke.”

  “And of course they know about Derek now,” Pen said, pointing to Figgy’s engagement ring.

  “Yes, they’ve met him. They liked him. But I think my mother is still disappointed that I didn’t snare someone with a title.”

  Figgy was engaged to a young man from a Pakistani family. Penelope found him charming, good-looking, intelligent, and caring. He had also secured a first in economics at Oxford and was very successful in his field. Personally, Penelope thought him quite the catch.

  “I’m heading back to the bookstore now,” Mabel said, putting on her gloves, “since I am not among the chosen.” She laughed.

  “I’ve only been invited to the wedding breakfast because I’ve come to know Charlotte,” Pen said.

  “And I’ve been invited as a courtesy because my father is an earl.” Figgy rolled her eyes and put up a hand to straighten her fascinator. “That fact had my mother convinced that Worthington would seek me out to be his bride.”

  “I almost wish I wasn’t going,” Pen said. “I’m terrified I’m going to commit some sort of giant faux pas and let the American side down completely.”

  Mabel patted her on the arm. “You’ll be absolutely fine. There’ll be such a crush that no one would even notice if you dropped your entire meal into your lap. And we Brits are so polite, we’d look the other way and pretend it never happened.”

  Penelope laughed. She felt slightly better, but she still had the jitters as she and Figgy followed the guests to the entrance to the castle. Her knees were a bit wobbly and her stomach was doing flip-flops. She’d feel so much more comfortable in her accustomed leggings and sweater and without that ridiculous fascinator perched on top of her head.

  The wedding breakfast was being held in the great hall of Worthington House—a vast space with a massive fireplace at one end, heraldic banners hanging on the walls and from the ceiling, and high arched windows with glass wavy with age.

  Long rows of tables had been set with the finest linen, china, and silver Worthington House had to offer with each place setting positioned a precise distance apart. Penelope wondered if there was a single flower left in all of England, given the lavish displays on the table and around the room.

  Penelope was dismayed that she and Figgy hadn’t been seated together. Instead, she found herself next to a young woman in a moss green floral-print silk dress. Her dark hair was in loose waves past her shoulders and she had exceptionally blue eyes.

  She glanced shyly at Penelope. “I’m Rose Ainsley. Are you a friend of Charlotte’s or Arthur’s?”

  Penelope introduced herself. “I’m a friend of Charlotte’s. And you?”

  Rose hesitated. “I’m a friend of Cissie’s actually. Cissie Winterbourne. I met Arthur through her and we all sort of became friends.” She fiddled with the handle of her knife. “I’m sorry I missed the dinner last night. I imagine it was gobs of fun.”

  They chatted briefly and then Penelope turned to introduce herself to the older woman on the other side of her, whose fascinator had become slightly askew. She gave Penelope a timid smile as she unfurled her napkin and placed it on her lap.

  “Oh, dear,” she suddenly said, her face crinkled with concern.

  Penelope looked at her inquiringly. “Is something the matter?”

  “I’m afraid I’ve left my handbag in the ladies’ room. What a bother.” She smiled apologetically. “It’s difficult for me to get up. It’s this pesky arthritis.” She indicated the cane propped against the table next to her.

  “I’ll get it for you.” Penelope pushed back her chair. “What does it look like and where is the ladies’ room?”

  Penelope followed the woman’s directions out of the great hall and down the corridor. She remembered this part of Worthington House from the previous October whe
n she’d been there during the annual Worthington fest.

  She was passing the library when she heard raised voices. It was clear that someone was very angry, although Pen couldn’t quite make out what was being said.

  She paused briefly and peeked into the room. Cissie was standing with her back to the door—Penelope recognized the fascinator she’d worn to the ceremony. She was clearly arguing with someone. Her shoulders were set and her posture was stiff. The person with her moved slightly and Pen recognized Yvette Boucher from the evening before.

  She tiptoed past the door and down the corridor to the ladies’ room. She wondered what they had been arguing about.

  * * *

  * * *

  Charlotte had insisted that Penelope and Figgy stay at Worthington House for the duration of the festivities—the ball that evening and a brunch to be held the following morning before everyone would see Charlotte and Worthington off on their honeymoon to the Seychelles.

  They were sharing a charming bedroom with two carved mahogany four-poster beds draped in flowered chintz and piled with fluffy white duvets. There were two elegant slipper chairs, a small fireplace with an elegant marble mantel on one wall, and the door to an en suite bathroom on the other.

  Penelope didn’t know what she’d been expecting—something drab and cold perhaps—but of course this part of Worthington House had been thoroughly modernized and freshly decorated.

  A maid in a black uniform with a frilly white apron had unpacked their small overnight bags that the valet had brought to their room and hung their dresses for the evening in the wardrobe.

  Pen got out the voluminous garment bag housing her gown and laid it on one of the beds.

  “I can’t wait to see you in that dress,” Figgy said. “We were so lucky to find it.”

  “Lucky indeed,” Pen said. Her modest clothes budget was nearly running out when they came upon a sale at a tiny boutique. It was the first dress Penelope tried on and the last—both she and Figgy had agreed it was perfect for the wedding ball.

  Penelope slipped it from the bag and, with Figgy’s help, slid it over her head.

  It was a long, slim column of navy blue velvet with a draped neck and spaghetti straps—simple but elegant.

  “Now for your dress,” Pen said, as Figgy got her garment bag out of the wardrobe.

  Figgy unzipped it and the frothy pale pink confection that was her dress nearly burst out of it.

  It was pure Figgy, Pen thought as she helped Figgy with the zipper. It had a full, tiered skirt in tulle and a high neck trimmed with feathers that fluttered just under Figgy’s chin.

  “I feel like Cinderella,” Pen said.

  “Hopefully we won’t turn into pumpkins at the stroke of midnight,” Figgy said as she bent down to peer into the mirror over the vanity.

  “And Cinderella has already married her prince so there are no worries about that,” Pen said. “Or I guess I should say duke, in this case.”

  Figgy turned to Pen suddenly, her hands on her hips. “Now what are we going to do about your hair?”

  “My hair?” Pen touched a hand to her head of dark curls.

  “I’m quite a whiz with hair,” Figgy said, digging a hairbrush out of her suitcase. “I might have a pixie cut at the moment, but I’ve had every length of hair imaginable. At one point it was nearly to my waist.” She pointed to the bench in front of the vanity. “Sit.” She pulled a handful of bobby pins out of her makeup bag and laid them out.

  Penelope did as she was told and watched in the mirror in amazement as Figgy transformed the unruly tangle that was her hair into a low bun with loose tendrils curling around her face.

  “There,” Figgy said in satisfaction.

  “I think we’re ready,” Pen said, reaching for her wrap, which she’d tossed on the bed. She felt a fluttering of excitement in her stomach.

  “This should be exciting,” Figgy said, linking her arm through Pen’s as they headed down the corridor and toward the ballroom.

  * * *

  * * *

  The ballroom glittered with light from crystal chandeliers, sconces along the walls, and flickering candles set out around the room. Flowers were everywhere, too, including the pale yellow Charlotte rose.

  The assembled crowd gave off a sense of excited anticipation as they waited for Charlotte and Arthur to arrive.

  Suddenly the doors to the ballroom opened and the couple arrived arm in arm. A gasp rose from the crowd as the newlyweds made their way into the room and the orchestra began to play. Charlotte was stunning in a white dress with a halter neckline and a mermaid skirt trimmed with marabou. Everyone gathered around as they began dancing and soon other couples joined in.

  “I don’t suppose we’ll be doing much dancing,” Figgy said, snagging a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. She grabbed Pen’s arm. “Good heavens, look at that fellow.”

  “That’s Tobias Winterbourne, isn’t it?” Pen said squinting into the distance. “We met him last night at dinner.”

  “What on earth is he wearing?”

  “It is quite something, isn’t it?” Rose Ainsley had come up behind them. She smiled indulgently. “Tobias never did like blending in with the crowd.”

  Amid the sea of black dinner jackets and starched white shirts, Tobias stood out in a midnight blue burned velvet jacket and ruffled navy shirt.

  “I rather like his style,” Figgy said. She turned to Rose. “Speaking of style, did Cissie design the dress Charlotte’s wearing tonight?”

  “Yes. I have to admit—she is talented. Looks like she has it all—beauty, brains, and money.” She gave a cynical laugh.

  Rose wandered off and moments later, Pen noticed her dancing with Tobias.

  She was glad no one had asked her to dance so far. With her height and long legs she always felt she looked like a flamingo on the dance floor.

  “I suppose we should circulate,” Pen said. “Otherwise someone might mistake us for one of the columns.”

  “You go ahead. I’m going to track down a waiter and get rid of my empty glass.” Figgy began to move away. “And get another,” she called over her shoulder.

  Pen found Cissie; Jemima; and Jemima’s husband, Ethan, clustered together near the French doors to the garden. Ethan had rather boyish good looks and hair that was long enough and shaggy enough to accentuate that impression.

  “Lovely dress,” Cissie said, looking Pen up and down, one eyebrow raised.

  Pen thought she noticed a smirk hovering around Cissie’s lips. She lifted her chin. She felt very elegant in her gown even if it didn’t have a famous designer label attached.

  Cissie waved a hand dismissively. “I’m going out for a smoke. Anyone care to join me?”

  Everyone shook their heads and watched as Cissie made her way to the door.

  Jemima rolled her eyes. “I guess she’s still smoking that pipe of hers.”

  “A pipe?” Pen said in disbelief.

  Jemima nodded. “Cissie always has to be different. Just like her husband.” She gestured toward the dance floor where Tobias was again dancing with Rose.

  Dancing continued until nearly midnight with a huge buffet set out around ten o’clock. Charlotte had insisted that she wanted the event to be fun, so the menu was unexpectedly informal with sliders, tacos, fish-and-chips, and Cornish pasties.

  “I’m stuffed,” Figgy said an hour later after several trips to the buffet. People were pushing back their chairs and moving toward the French doors to the garden.

  “What’s going on?” Pen looked around curiously.

  Jemima was passing by. She stopped, put her hands on the table, and leaned down toward Penelope. She smelled of a heavy gardenia perfume mixed with whiffs of tobacco smoke.

  “There are going to be fireworks and a bonfire on the lawn. It should be spectacular.”

  Figgy l
ooked at Pen. “We don’t want to miss that.”

  They got up and started to follow the crowd. They were almost to the door when they heard someone scream—a high, piercing scream that cut through the noise of the fireworks that had just started outside.

  THREE

  Penelope and Figgy looked at each other.

  “What on earth?” Figgy said.

  A woman had come rushing back into the ballroom, her gray hair in disarray, her mouth working but no sound coming out.

  Worthington immediately broke free from the crowd and strode over to her. He put a consoling hand on her arm.

  “I’m going to see what’s going on,” Pen said, beginning to move through the people clustered near the door.

  The woman had finally found her voice and had started to talk. Pen sidled closer until she could hear what she was saying. She couldn’t catch every word, but several were clear enough—body . . . dead . . . Lady Winterbourne.

  Cissie was dead? Maybe the woman was mistaken? Penelope strained to hear, but the woman had lapsed into silent sobbing, her hands clutching and unclutching the folds of her gown.

  Worthington cleared his throat and held up his hands to get everyone’s attention.

  “There’s been an . . . accident, I’m afraid,” he said finally, hesitating over the word accident. “Everyone please sit down. The authorities will be on their way shortly.”

  He spoke briefly to one of the men, who pulled a cell phone from his pocket.

  The police? Penelope heard people whispering among themselves.

  “They’re calling the police,” Pen said to Figgy when she rejoined her.

  “What sort of accident requires the police?” Figgy said.

  “Murder, that’s what. It sounds as if someone has killed Cissie.”

  Figgy’s eyes got rounder and she gasped. “You think Cissie’s been murdered?”

  “I don’t know. That’s what it sounds like, doesn’t it?”

  Worthington was standing at the front of the ballroom again, holding up his hands for silence. Slowly the chatter, which sounded like so many chirping cicadas, died down.