A Fatal Footnote Page 4

  She was almost dozing when a noise startled her awake. She sat up in bed and listened. She was positive she’d heard a door close somewhere down the hall. Or had she dreamed it?

  A floorboard creaked. Someone was definitely walking around in the corridor.

  Pen slipped from bed and tiptoed to the door. Figgy was sound asleep, curled into a ball with one hand under her cheek like a child.

  Penelope eased open the door and peered out. Wall sconces at either end of the corridor cast pools of light beneath them creating shadows everywhere else. Pen heard a door hinge squeak at one end of the hall and quickly glanced that way. She was in time to see a door being gently closed.

  She couldn’t see who had been in the hall but her impression was that the hand on the doorknob had been small—a woman’s hand perhaps?

  Penelope was quite sure she’d heard two doors open and close—was someone sneaking into someone else’s room?

  She got back in bed and pulled the covers up to her chin. Worthington House, despite all the updating and redecorating Worthington had done, was still quite drafty and she’d become chilled.

  She burrowed under the covers and rubbed her feet together to warm them. Why was someone sneaking around the halls of Worthington House this late at night? Was someone—or two someones—having an affair?

  And did it have anything at all to do with Cissie’s murder?

  Penelope finally fell asleep, tossing and turning with troubled dreams.

  * * *

  * * *

  Suddenly, she bolted upright in bed. Where was she? She looked around the room and slowly remembered she was still at Worthington House. But what had woken her up so abruptly?

  There were loud voices coming from outside. It sounded like an argument was under way. She tiptoed over to the window, pushed the curtain aside, and peered out.

  The window looked out on the terrace and the sun-dappled gardens of Worthington House. The terrace and the area around it were roped off with crime scene tape that fluttered and snapped in the wind.

  Tobias was arguing with the constable who was on duty guarding the area. Tobias’s face was bright red, although whether from the cold or anger, Penelope couldn’t tell. He was gesticulating wildly, flinging his arms out and waving them around.

  He wasn’t wearing a coat but did have on a tweed wool sport coat with leather patches on the elbows and there was a brown knit scarf around his neck.

  At one point, Tobias attempted to lift the crime scene tape, and it looked to Penelope as if he was going to attempt to duck underneath it, but the constable grabbed him by the arm and spun him around.

  Tobias shook himself free. He brushed off the sleeves of his jacket and straightened his scarf. His expression was clearly furious now. The constable, on the other hand, looked completely unperturbed by the confrontation, his face a bland mask.

  Tobias stalked off and Penelope saw him wandering around the garden, his eyes on the ground, as if he was looking for something.

  All very curious, she thought, as she let the curtain drop back into place and turned away from the window.

  * * *

  * * *

  Penelope closed her suitcase, hauled it over to the door, and placed it next to Figgy’s packed bag. They were having breakfast at Worthington House and then Pen would be heading home to her cottage on the high street.

  Breakfast was being served in the dining room. The room looked different in the daylight—the curtains were open and sun streamed through the windows. The cook had prepared a full English breakfast, or a “fry-up” as it was sometimes known—eggs, bacon and sausage, fried tomatoes, fried bread, mushrooms, kippers, and potatoes.

  Charlotte was helping herself to some eggs and bacon. Penelope thought she looked tired—her face was drawn and there were telltale dark circles under her eyes.

  Jemima was already seated at the table with a plate full of food, which she was attacking with relish. She seemed to be the only one with any real appetite. Rose was picking at the eggs on her plate. She looked almost as tired as Charlotte.

  Yvette strolled into the room as Penelope was helping herself to some eggs. Pen couldn’t help wondering how Yvette managed to make a simple pair of black pants, a black sweater, and a scarf look so impossibly chic.

  Yvette stood and stared at the buffet.

  “Is something wrong?” Charlotte put down her fork.

  Yvette shook her head. “No. But I am not used to such a large meal in the morning—I normally have a cup of coffee and a roll or a croissant. I’m afraid I don’t know where to begin.”

  “Help yourself to whatever looks good.” Charlotte pointed to a toast rack on the table. “There’s plain toast if you’d prefer.”

  Jemima looked up from her plate, her fork poised in midair. “Where is our groom this morning? Sleeping in, is he?”

  Charlotte dabbed her lips with her napkin. “He’s in his office, rearranging our honeymoon plans, I’m afraid. Unfortunately, the police don’t want us to leave just yet and, although he tried, Arthur wasn’t able to convince them otherwise.”

  “Speaking of police,” Yvette said, spreading butter on her toast, “I noticed several had arrived this morning and were examining the terrace.”

  “Yes,” Charlotte said. “Detective Maguire said they would be back in the morning to be sure they hadn’t missed anything—although I have no idea what they’re looking for.”

  “I should imagine they are looking for clues,” Tobias said as he strode into the room.

  He’d removed his scarf but was still wearing the tweed sport coat. Now that Pen could see it up close, she noticed that there was a purple thread woven in with the brown, cream, and black ones. After seeing Tobias’s dinner jacket the previous evening, she wasn’t surprised to find that his need to be distinctive extended to his everyday wardrobe and wasn’t limited to his evening wear.

  “Have they found the murder weapon yet?” Jemima said, returning to the buffet for seconds.

  “I don’t understand it,” Charlotte said. “Who would want to kill Cissie?”

  “Maybe it was an intruder?” Rose said. “Cissie was wearing some spectacular jewelry. So many of the ladies were.” She appeared to be warming to the topic. “It was well-known that there would be a ball tonight. What better opportunity for some jewel thief?”

  “But why go so far as to commit murder?” Yvette said. “It would be easy enough to simply hold a gun to her head and demand she hand over her necklace and rings or whatever.”

  “Maybe she fought back.” Jemima speared a mushroom on her plate. “Cissie was quite tough. She was known for being ferocious on the hockey field when we were at school.”

  “Also, wouldn’t the thief have simply shot her if he was carrying a gun?” Yvette said, one hand on her coffee cup. “I gather the attack was very vicious.”

  Rose shuddered. “How awful to think about it. It’s hard to imagine someone doing something like that.”

  “Well, someone did,” Tobias said rather flippantly.

  “He certainly isn’t playing the grieving widower,” Figgy whispered to Penelope as they took seats at the table.

  What had Tobias and Cissie’s marriage been like? Penelope wondered. Had they been in love at one time? Tobias certainly didn’t seem to be terribly broken up by his wife’s murder.

  Tobias put his cup of tea down and slid into the seat next to Penelope. He, too, looked tired—as if he hadn’t slept well. Penelope supposed that none of them had.

  “You were up early this morning,” Penelope said as she pierced the yolk of her fried egg with her fork.

  Tobias jumped and his elbow caught his teacup, rattling it in its saucer.

  “What do you mean?” He turned to Pen.

  “I heard you outside early this morning. You were arguing with the constable guarding the terrace.”


  “How do you know that?”

  “I saw you from the window of our bedroom—it overlooks the terrace and gardens.” Penelope wiped her lips with her napkin. “You looked like you were searching for something.”

  Tobias’s face flushed. “You’re mistaken. I wasn’t looking for anything. Merely getting some fresh air.”

  And with that he turned his back to Penelope and began to talk to Rose, who was seated on his other side.

  She’d obviously touched a nerve, Penelope thought, as she finished her breakfast. She was positive Tobias had been searching for something. But why would he lie about it? Did he think it would incriminate him somehow?

  * * *

  * * *

  They were finishing breakfast when Maguire stepped into the room. He looked less rumpled this morning although just as casual in jeans, a blue oxford shirt, and the same brown leather jacket. He glanced at Penelope and gave her an almost imperceptible wink.

  “I’m sorry to have to disturb everyone but I have a few questions for you.” Maguire gave a rueful smile.

  “This is preposterous,” Tobias muttered under his breath.

  Jemima looked at him from across the table. There was a wicked gleam in her eye. “You’d better watch out, Tobias. The husband is always the first one the police suspect.”

  Tobias opened his mouth, but no words came out. A flush slowly suffused his face, turning it a mottled red.

  “Worthington has been kind enough to lend us his office. I assume you all know the way?” Maguire raised his eyebrows. “I’d like to speak to you one at a time, if you don’t mind.”

  “Do we have a choice?” Tobias muttered under his breath.

  Maguire pointed at Tobias. “We’ll start with you, Lord Winterbourne. If you don’t mind accompanying me.”

  Penelope expected Tobias to make a snarky retort, but instead he got up from his chair and meekly followed Maguire out of the room.

  One by one, Maguire called the house party into Worthington’s office.

  Jemima went back to the buffet and helped herself to another cup of tea. Her husband, Ethan, who had been quiet throughout breakfast, pulled out his cell phone and began scrolling through his e-mails.

  Yvette sat and stared into space, crumbling the remains of her toast between her fingers. Rose was as still as a statue, the expression on her face unreadable.

  Finally everyone had been questioned and it was Penelope’s turn. She found her way down the maze of corridors to Worthington’s office, pleased and surprised that she remembered how to get there.

  Maguire was sprawled in an armchair, his legs stretched out in front of him, looking as if he had flung himself into it. He ran his hands over his face and then smiled at Penelope.

  “You look tired,” Penelope said, taking a seat.

  Maguire blew out a puff of air. “I am. I was here all night. I only had an hour to go home and shower, change, and grab some breakfast.”

  “It must be tough.”

  Maguire shrugged. “It’s part of the job.” He smiled and nodded at Penelope. “I think you probably have the honor of being the most sane person I’ve talked to so far,” he said.

  “But Charlotte and Worthington . . .”

  “Yes, of course. But aside from them . . .” Maguire shook his head. “Frankly, I think they are all lying about something. Either that or Cissie Winterbourne was the mostwell-liked person in the world.”

  “I don’t suppose they would admit to disliking her,” Penelope said. “Under the circumstances.”

  She’d taken a seat in the chair opposite Maguire. She found that his presence left her slightly breathless and she tried to will her heart to beat slower.

  Maguire laughed. “True. The trick is to listen to what they’re not saying out loud. You’d be surprised how much people give away with their facial expressions and various mannerisms.”

  Maguire reached into his pocket and pulled out a small plastic bag with something in it. He held it out toward Penelope.

  “We found this button in the garden alongside the terrace. You wouldn’t happen to recognize it, would you?” Maguire wiped his hands across his face again. “We’ll send it for fingerprint analysis, of course, but by the time we get the results back we’ll likely have solved this thing.”

  Penelope took the plastic bag and examined the button inside. It was black onyx and carved into the shape of a rose. She handed the bag back to Maguire.

  “It’s not mine,” she said. “And I don’t recall ever seeing one like it before. It’s very distinctive though.”

  “I knew it was a long shot.” Maguire gave a weary smile. “No one seems to have seen it before. Of course it may belong to one of the other guests at the ball or even someone who had been at Worthington House at one time or another. I gather people can pay to take a tour.”

  Maguire shifted in his chair and yawned. “How well do you know these people—the Winterbournes, the Dougals, and the rest of them?”

  “Me? Not very well. I know Charlotte and Worthington, but I met the others for the first time on the day before the wedding.” Penelope hesitated. “I saw something curious out the window this morning.”

  Maguire’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh? What was that?”

  “I heard voices. It sounded like an argument to me. I looked out the window, and Tobias was near the terrace, arguing with the constable on duty about something. He even tried to duck under the crime scene tape but the constable stopped him. Afterward, Tobias appeared to be searching for something in the garden.”

  Maguire suddenly sat up straight. “I haven’t spoken with the constable yet.” He frowned. “That is interesting,” he said. “I think I may need to have another talk with Lord Winterbourne.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Penelope was coming out of Worthington’s office after her interview with Maguire when she ran into Charlotte.

  “There you are,” Charlotte said somewhat breathlessly. “I was afraid you’d already gone.”

  “I’ll be going shortly,” Pen said. Suddenly she was anxious to get back to her own cozy cottage.

  “If I could talk to you for another minute,” Charlotte said. She bit her lip. “I realize this isn’t fair to you, but I’m afraid I need your help again.” She began walking. “I was on my way to the kitchen to get a cup of tea. Would you like one?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  Penelope wondered why Charlotte was getting her own tea. Normally she had only to push one of the buttons hidden all over the castle and the butler or a maid would appear as if by magic.

  “Sometimes I enjoy making my own tea,” Charlotte said as if she’d read Penelope’s mind. “It reminds me that we all put our pants on one leg at a time, as my old granny used to say when she thought I was getting too far above myself.” Charlotte chuckled. “Although I’m afraid it always alarms the staff when I appear in the kitchen.”

  Penelope followed Charlotte down the hall and down a set of stairs. She’d helped Charlotte once before—when Charlotte had been suspected of murdering the town gossip—but she couldn’t see how she could possibly be of help this time.

  The kitchen was a cavernous room with tiled walls and floor and stainless steel appliances. A long, stainless steel table with lights suspended over it ran nearly the entire length of the room and a huge Aga stove held pride of place between the massive refrigerator and deep double sinks.

  The kitchen had been cleaned after the breakfast prep—the table and counters wiped down and the floor mopped. It was quiet and the only person in the room was a woman stirring a pot on the stove.

  “It’s so modern,” Penelope said in surprise.

  “Arthur had it redone a number of years ago,” Charlotte said, nodding at the woman in a bib apron who was simmering a pot of stock on the Aga. “He entertains so frequently, he thought it would be a wise
investment.”

  Charlotte went to a cabinet and retrieved several tea bags along with two cups and saucers. They were made of thick white pottery, which was a contrast to the delicate bone china served upstairs.

  “Why don’t we go sit in the conservatory? The sun will feel good on this cold winter day.”

  They carried their tea to the conservatory, where the sun streamed through the glass windows and ceiling, warming the moist, humid air. Enormous potted plants, small trees, and dozens of the flowering orchids Worthington cultivated gave the a room an exotic tropical feel that was enhanced by the high-backed rattan chairs arranged around a glass table.

  “I feel like I’m always asking you for a favor,” Charlotte said, as she put down her teacup and took a seat. “You were so helpful the last time we found ourselves in a . . . predicament.” She gave a sharp laugh. “People are soon going to think that Worthington House is cursed—two murders in less than a year.”

  Charlotte turned her teaspoon over and over on the saucer. “Arthur says it’s good for business—more tourists will come to tour Worthington House now.” Charlotte looked down at her cup. “But of course he’s actually quite shaken by it even though he tries to make light of it for my sake. Especially this time—he’d known Cissie Winterbourne since he was in his twenties.”

  Charlotte put her hands on the table. “As I said before, either someone mistook Cissie for me—which Arthur doesn’t believe is what happened and the police don’t either—or the killer meant to target Cissie. Which is almost worse.”

  “Why?” Penelope took a sip of her tea.

  “You know Cissie was Arthur’s old flame. Apparently it was all over the papers at the time. People are saying that Cissie planned to write one of those tell-all books that everyone seems to love these days.” Charlotte looked up suddenly. “Nothing criminal—just youthful hijinks that could prove to be embarrassing.”