A Fatal Footnote Read online

  Beryl looked as put together as ever even though she was still in her bathrobe and hadn’t yet done her hair or makeup.

  Penelope looked down at herself. She’d scrambled into some clothes, pulling them willy-nilly from the closet. At least she was comfortable, she thought, as she rummaged in the cupboard for a mug.

  She heated the kettle, warmed her mug with the hot water, added the tea bag, and took it and her laptop out to the sitting room.

  She was going to finish those revisions if it was the last thing she did.

  Penelope pulled up her manuscript and was soon engrossed in her work.

  An hour later she hit Send and immediately wished she could get the e-mail back. She should have read it over one more time—made sure there weren’t any repeated words, missing motivation, lack of conflict. She rubbed her forehead. Maybe she should have scrapped the whole thing and started over.

  Surely her first bestseller had been a fluke and this one was going to be a bust. Whatever made her think she could write a book? Who was she kidding?

  She looked up when she heard footsteps. Beryl was standing in front of her with a worried look on her face. She was dressed for London in a smart-looking suit.

  “Whatever is the matter?” Beryl said. “Is something wrong?”

  “I’ve just sent off my revised manuscript,” Penelope said glumly.

  “Isn’t that cause for celebration? It’s a bit early in the morning, but I can pick up a bottle of champagne on my way back tonight.”

  “Thanks.” Penelope smiled briefly. “I’m just afraid the whole thing is a horrible mess.”

  “I’m quite sure that’s not the case,” Beryl said as they got into Penelope’s car for the drive to the train station.

  “I’ll see you tonight,” Beryl said as Penelope pulled up in front of the station. She got out of the car and turned to go but then paused. “Oh, and do cheer up. I’m sure everything is going to be fine.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Penelope parked her car in front of the Open Book, got out, and gave it a last look before pulling open the front door to the bookstore. Last time, someone had slashed her tire—would there be a next time and would the damage escalate? She sighed and stepped inside.

  Mabel smiled at her from behind the counter where she was sorting through the day’s mail.

  Penelope nodded, gave her a quick smile, and then retreated to her writing room to work on a piece for the store newsletter. She was putting her Gothic literature studies to good use by doing an article on some of the more famous Gothic novels like du Maurier’s Rebecca, Shelley’s Frankenstein, and Walpole’s Castle of Otranto. Mabel planned to do a display of the novels mentioned in Penelope’s article.

  After an hour she yawned, stretched, and stood up. She hit Save and closed her laptop. She was having trouble concentrating. She couldn’t stop thinking about Maguire’s interview with Ivy and wondering how it had gone—and wondering whether she had done the right thing in the first place by telling him about Ivy’s past. If Ivy turned out to be innocent . . .

  Penelope sighed and went out into the salesroom. Being around books always cheered her up—the sight of all the colorful covers, the smell of the pages, and the feel of the glossy jackets never failed to lift her mood.

  Mabel came out from behind the front counter. “You’re awfully quiet this morning,” she said. “Is everything okay?”

  “Yes.” Penelope shook her head. “No.” She cracked the knuckles of her right hand. “I’m not sure I did the right thing.”

  She told Mabel about Ivy and that Maguire planned to interview her that morning.

  “What if Ivy is innocent, and now I’ve put her through all this?”

  Mabel smiled at Penelope. “That’s what the police do—interview people—often even innocent people.” She squeezed Penelope’s shoulder. “You did the right thing—you passed on the information for Maguire to handle.” She laughed. “I much prefer that to your doing the investigating yourself. I don’t want to think about the last time you put on your Sherlock Holmes deerstalker and nearly got yourself killed.”

  Penelope felt slightly better. By the time she’d helped a few customers find a book, she’d forgotten all about Ivy and Maguire’s interview.

  Around noon, Penelope realized she’d forgotten to take the meat out of the freezer that she’d planned to cook for dinner that night. She told Mabel she’d be back in an hour—her fiction writing group was meeting that afternoon—and went out to her car.

  Mrs. Danvers seemed pleased to see Penelope, and Penelope spent a couple of minutes scratching her back and under her chin. Her fur was warm from the sun. What a life, Penelope thought—lazing in the sun all day.

  She ate a bowl of leftover chili for lunch, spent a couple of minutes tidying up the kitchen, checked Mrs. Danvers’s food and water, and then headed back out to her car.

  She was unlocking the MINI’s door when she sensed someone coming up in back of her. She spun around and was surprised to see Ivy’s cousin Floyd approaching her. His arm was at his side and he appeared to be holding something.

  The sun glinted off the object in his hand and Penelope realized it was a knife. She opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out. Her legs refused to move and she felt paralyzed. What did Floyd want with her?

  Floyd came up to her and held the knife to her back. Penelope could feel the pressure of the point through her coat. She sniffed back the tears that were threatening to engulf her and tried to think.

  Should she attempt to outrun him? He looked to be fairly fit—he would probably overtake her before she reached the more populated section of the high street.

  Maybe he was after money? Penelope tried to remember how much cash she had on her. Unfortunately she wasn’t sure. Unlike Beryl, who arranged her bills according to denomination and always knew exactly how much cash she had at any given time, Penelope was far more casual, stuffing her money into her purse, her pockets, and sometimes even her wallet without thinking about it.

  “Get in the car,” Floyd growled in a low, menacing voice that sent chills down Penelope’s spine.

  Penelope fumbled with the door handle, and he increased the pressure of the knife against her back. She imagined she could feel the sharp prick of the tip and she shivered.

  Finally, Penelope got the door open and slid into the driver’s seat. Floyd trotted around the car toward the passenger side. If she could start the car and pull away from the curb before he got the door open, she could get away and head to the police station, pull up outside, and run in yelling for help. She pictured Maguire coming out of his office and taking her in his arms where she would be safe and secure. . . .

  Penelope fumbled with her key, attempting to insert it in the ignition. Her hands were shaking and she dropped it on the floor. She groaned. The passenger door opened as she was bending over, attempting to retrieve the key, and the slightly funky odor of Floyd’s clothes and the musky scent of his aftershave filled the car.

  “Drive,” he said, pointing to the ignition.

  By now Penelope had retrieved the key from the floor of the car. She stabbed at the ignition several times before finally inserting the key successfully. She turned it and the engine sprang to life with a soft purr.

  She pulled away from the curb and headed down the high street.

  “Where are we going?” She turned her head to look at Floyd.

  “Just drive,” he said again, pointing forward.

  Desperation washed over Penelope as they passed the Tesco and Kebabs and Curries, and eventually even Digby’s garage was in her rearview mirror and they were headed into more open country.

  Her steering was jerky and more than once she veered onto the wrong side of the road.

  “Be careful,” Floyd barked at her. “Are you trying to get us killed?”

  Just you,
Penelope thought to herself as she pulled back onto the correct side.

  She continued to weave back and forth across her lane, her hands slick with sweat and unsteady on the wheel. If only a policeman were around, surely she’d be pulled over and saved from whatever fate awaited her.

  Was Floyd planning on killing her? Had Ivy sent him to do it? She realized now that he must have been the one to slash her tire. She thought about the time she felt as if someone had been stalking her as she walked down the high street. Had that actually been Floyd following her?

  “Turn there.” Floyd pointed to what was little more than a dirt path heading up a slope before disappearing beyond the hill. Penelope recognized it as the route that she’d taken when she’d followed Tobias to Worthington’s shooting lodge. Was that where Floyd was taking her?

  Penelope began to shiver uncontrollably, the chattering of her teeth audible in the car as they jolted over the ruts and furrows in the path.

  Soon Worthington’s shooting lodge came into view. The doors to the large shed next to it were wide open. Two cars were parked in the makeshift driveway—a late model Mercedes that looked familiar to Penelope and a boxy utilitarian-looking Land Rover that had dried mud on the bumpers and the front grill and dings in the paint.

  “Pull in there.” Floyd pointed to the shed.

  The shed was empty and the MINI fit handily. Penelope turned off the engine and waited, her hands still clutching the steering wheel.

  “Get out,” Floyd commanded.

  Penelope opened her door. She couldn’t open it all the way without hitting the wall, and had to shimmy out of the driver’s seat.

  Floyd motioned for her to follow him out of the shed.

  He began walking toward the front door of the shooting lodge.

  Penelope hesitated. Should she run? She looked around. There was nowhere to hide. She scanned the landscape, but there were no ramblers about or people walking their dogs.

  Floyd must have sensed her hesitation because he spun around and in a second he was at her side, the knife pressed against the back of her neck this time. Penelope felt the coolness of the steel blade against her skin.

  Her legs began to buckle and Floyd grabbed her arm to steady her. They were nearing the door when Penelope tripped over a bit of uneven ground and fell to her knees. Floyd yanked her to her feet and shoved her toward the lodge.

  He took a set of keys from his pocket, inserted one in the lock, and pushed open the door.

  Ivy was waiting inside by the stone fireplace.

  “You sent that policeman to interview me,” she said, glaring at Penelope.

  “I didn’t,” Penelope said. “He was just doing his job.”

  She really hadn’t, Penelope tried to convince herself. It had been Maguire’s decision.

  “You had to poke your nose in where it didn’t belong, didn’t you?” Ivy said, her lip curling. “Now you’re going to have to pay the price.”

  “Like Cissie paid the price?” Penelope said, lifting her chin.

  “I don’t know anything about that,” Ivy said, crossing her arms over her chest.

  “But you killed her,” Penelope said. “Didn’t you?”

  “No. I killed her.” The voice came from behind Penelope.

  She spun around and came face-to-face with Jemima Dougal.

  “What?”

  Penelope looked from Jemima to Ivy and then back again. Her head was spinning. She’d gotten it all wrong. She tried to think it through—it was like trying to unravel a tangled thread.

  “You said you went out on the terrace to talk to Cissie—to beg her not to tell Charlotte that you’d stolen the things that had disappeared. But you’d gone out there to kill her.”

  Jemima shrugged.

  “You were wearing an apron so no blood would get on you. Did you borrow it from Ivy and did she agree to throw it on the bonfire for you?”

  “Let’s say Ivy wasn’t terribly fond of Cissie either. We certainly had that in common. The chance to get her revenge, plus the bonus of a few hundred extra pounds were enough to persuade her to help me.” Jemima glanced at Ivy. “Right, Ivy?”

  Ivy smiled. “My pleasure. She had it coming to her.”

  “She certainly did.” Jemima sighed. “She never had any qualms about taking what she thought she deserved—even if it belonged to someone else. And she blamed me for taking things!”

  “Ethan,” Penelope said suddenly as the pieces fell into place. “She was trying to take Ethan away from you, wasn’t she? They’d been lovers once before.”

  “It was all a game with Cissie. I don’t think she gave a fig about Ethan—she wanted him in order to get back at me for taking him away from her in the first place. You know who I feel sorry for?”

  “Who?”

  “Poor Tobias. I think he knew what was going on. It was Cissie’s fault—she’s the one who drove him back into Rose’s arms.” Jemima sighed. “Cissie could afford to do what she pleased. She was the one with the money. All she ever wanted from Tobias anyway was the title.”

  “But you killed Tobias,” Penelope said.

  Jemima made a sad face. “I had to. He could have given me away.”

  Jemima clasped her hands together. “But I do love Ethan. Cissie would have broken his heart and I couldn’t bear that.”

  “What about Floyd?” Penelope looked at Ivy and then pointed at Floyd, who was slouched in a chair. “Was he stalking me? And was he the one who slashed my tire?”

  Ivy nodded. “We thought it would warn you off but you didn’t listen. You had to keep sticking your nose in where it didn’t belong. More’s the pity.”

  “Did you pay him, too? To do those things?”

  “I didn’t have to.” Ivy smiled at Floyd. “Right, Floyd?”

  Floyd grunted.

  “No, Floyd owed me,” Ivy continued. “I rescued him, you see. He’s the son of that wretched aunt I was sent to live with. It was a miserable life for him, too, even though he was her own flesh and blood. When I decided to escape, I agreed to take Floyd with me. I was able to get him a job working for the gardener at Worthington House. He didn’t have nowhere to stay, so his lordship very kindly let him have a small room off the kitchen.”

  “You’re not going to get away with this,” Penelope said. She groaned to herself—what a horrible cliché. Bettina would never let that stand in one of her manuscripts.

  “It’s been lovely chatting,” Jemima said, looking at her watch. “But I’m afraid I must go. I’m sorry to miss the finale, but I’m meeting Ethan for a late lunch.” She looked at Ivy then Floyd. “I’ll leave you both to it.”

  Penelope felt her stomach turn over and a trickle of sweat made its way down her spine, giving her the chills.

  She wondered if she dared to make a run for it. Would Floyd be able to hit a moving target with his knife?

  It was now or never, Penelope decided. No need to make it easy on them by being a sitting duck. She turned and had almost made it to the door when something crashed down on her head. There was a momentary jolt of pain and then everything went black.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Penelope’s head throbbed and she had a cramp in her calf. She tried to move her leg, but something was in the way. She’d been having the strangest dream and couldn’t shake the odd feeling it had given her. Slowly she opened her eyes.

  She was sitting in the driver’s seat of her car. What was she doing in there? Had she fallen asleep at the wheel? She rubbed her head, and her hand came away with blood on it. She stared at it in panic. If only she could make the pounding ache go away she could think more clearly.

  Suddenly she became aware that the car was running. What had she been thinking? She reached for the key to turn if off, but it wasn’t there. Had it fallen out?

  She began to search the floor of the car but then realized
that was ridiculous. If the key wasn’t in the ignition, how did she start the car?

  She began to look around. She was parked in some sort of shed. It didn’t look familiar. She’d never left her car anywhere like it before. A shaft of sunlight was coming through windows high up in the double doors behind her.

  She rubbed her forehead. If only she could remember what had happened.

  A sharp pain tore through her head and she reached up to touch the sore spot on her skull. The motion brought back a bit of memory—something smashing down on her . . . pain . . . then blackness.

  She tried to grasp the fragments of thought that drifted through her mind, which were as insubstantial as silk threads.

  She remembered standing in a room with an immense stone fireplace. Ivy was there and so was Jemima. Had she been at Worthington House? She didn’t think so.

  She was beginning to feel light-headed and had the urge to close her eyes again and go to sleep. Trying to puzzle things out was exhausting her.

  Her head was beginning to nod when she had a terrible realization. The car’s motor was running and she was in a confined space. She hadn’t exactly been a star in science class but she’d learned enough to know that carbon monoxide was deadly.

  She had to get out.

  She reached for the door handle but couldn’t find it. She felt as if her brain had been replaced with a thick impenetrable fog. Finally she got a grip on the handle and managed to get the door open. She squeezed through the space and stopped, suddenly doubled over with a spasm of intense coughing.

  She staggered to the double doors at the back of the shed. She needed air. She put the flat of her hand against one of the doors and pushed.

  Nothing happened—the doors didn’t budge. They were obviously locked from the outside. She patted her pockets but they were empty. She must have put her phone in her purse. She made her way back to her car where she upended the contents of her purse onto the driver’s seat. She looked through the items twice but her phone wasn’t there. What a time to forget her cell!