A Fatal Footnote Page 7

  She took the road leading out of town at a brisk clip, but her hands were steady on the wheel. The sports car hugged the road as they rounded the sharp curves in what had become a country lane with fields on either side where cows grazed, blinking lazily at them as they sped by.

  There were a handful of other vehicles in the parking lot when they pulled in—two muddy pickup trucks; a Vauxhall Astra with rust around the wheel wells; and an older model Mercedes station wagon with a saddle, riding boots; and a friendly-looking English sheepdog with a lolling pink tongue in the back.

  A wooden sign, similar to the one over the Open Book, hung outside with The Wolf and the Weasel in Gothic lettering and an outline of the two animals.

  Jemima pointed to the sign as they walked toward the pub.

  “In the old days, most people couldn’t read. Schooling was only for the wealthy—hardworking farmers had no need for books. The pictures on the pub signs became a way of identifying them—the white horse, the red rooster, and so forth. Even if you couldn’t read, you would recognize the pictures.”

  The interior of the pub was dim with a ceiling crossed with wooden beams, a large stone fireplace, and simple wooden tables and chairs. The brass handles of the beer pumps gleamed in the low light and bottles were lined up in a row on a shelf above them.

  Two men in worn and stained overalls sat at the bar, their calloused hands wrapped around their sweating tankards of ale. Two women in jodhpurs, tall leather boots, and heavy sweaters sat at one of the tables.

  “Will this do?” Jemima said, pulling out a chair at a table near the front window. She took a seat and slipped off her coat.

  A waitress appeared at their side as Penelope was sitting down.

  Jemima pointed across the room. “The menu is on the board there. I highly recommend the steak and kidney pie.”

  The word kidney was a bit off-putting, Penelope thought, but nothing ventured, nothing gained, as her grandmother used to say.

  “Now,” Jemima said, straightening the silk scarf around her neck, “what is it you wanted to talk to me about? I have to admit to being intrigued.” She laughed. “As if we haven’t had enough mysteries already.” She crossed her arms and settled her elbows on the table.

  Penelope cleared her throat. She had no idea how Jemima would react to being questioned about her friends. Fortunately the English rarely created a fuss, and if they did, they did it quietly. It was unlikely that Jemima would embarrass her in a public place.

  “I’ve been thinking about Cissie’s murder.”

  Jemima rolled her eyes. “Haven’t we all? I do wish they would find out who did it. Surely it was some stranger who’d wandered onto the grounds?”

  “But why kill Cissie?”

  Jemima shrugged her shoulders. “Who knows? Perhaps they’d planned to steal her jewelry—she was wearing that magnificent diamond necklace Tobias bought her as a wedding gift—but they were scared off by the start of the fireworks.”

  “I was, ahem”—Penelope cleared her throat again—“actually wondering about Tobias.”

  Penelope tried to summon any wisp of tact she might possess—her mother often said she was as tactful as a bludgeon—in order to approach what even she knew was a delicate subject—suspecting someone’s friend of murder.

  Jemima tilted her head to the side and looked at Penelope curiously. “You don’t seriously think Tobias did it, do you?”

  “Did Tobias and Cissie get along well?” Penelope said, steering clear of Jemima’s question.

  Jemima stopped with her hand halfway to the glass of white wine the waitress had brought her.

  “You really do think Tobias killed Cissie, don’t you?”

  “Well . . .”

  “It’s an interesting thought.” Jemima took a sip of her chardonnay. “Theirs wasn’t exactly what you’d call a match made in heaven.” She leaned closer to Penelope and lowered her voice. “Tobias didn’t have any money. Apparently the family lost it all at some point. They were living in one of the cottages on the estate after the manor house was sold to the National Trust.

  “Tobias resented their loss in status—they kept their titles of course, but he liked the good life. Memberships in the likes of Brooks’s and the Turf Club don’t come cheap. Nor do bespoke suits from Savile Row.” Jemima’s diamond ring clinked against her glass as she picked it up.

  Or fancy velvet evening jackets, Penelope thought.

  “He vowed to marry a rich woman and he succeeded. Cissie’s family has pots of money.”

  “Did they get along? Or did they fight a lot?”

  Jemima fiddled with the salt and pepper shakers. “They got along reasonably well. They’d each gotten what they wanted—for Tobias that was money and for Cissie it was the title. I’m sure being Lady Winterbourne gave her a leg up in the fashion business.” Jemima shrugged. “At least it didn’t hurt.”

  The waitress arrived with their order. The golden crust on the steak and kidney pie looked delicious, but Penelope was still filled with trepidation about what lurked beneath. She poked at it uncertainly with her fork.

  “Of course, Tobias never did get over Rose—Rose Ainsley.” Jemima dabbed her lips with her napkin.

  Penelope was so startled that her hand jumped and knocked her fork to the floor. She bent to pick it up.

  “Tobias and Rose were in love. We all assumed they would get married. But then Cissie came along and things changed. Rose’s family didn’t have any money, you see.” Jemima took a bite of her pie and chewed with relish. “In the end, I guess Cissie’s money was too tempting to resist.”

  The waitress glided by their table with a tray laden with dishes perched on her shoulder. She smoothly slid a clean fork in front of Penelope. Penelope turned to say thank you, but the girl was already making her way through the swinging door into the kitchen.

  “We all told Tobias he was making a bargain with the devil, but he didn’t want to listen,” Jemima said.

  Penelope thought back to the night after the ball. She remembered hearing a door open and the sound of someone making their way down the hall. Then there had been the sound of another door opening and closing. Had Rose been sneaking down to Tobias’s room now that Cissie was out of the way?

  “Do you think it’s possible that Rose . . . killed Cissie?” Penelope stuck her fork into her pie.

  Jemima cocked an eyebrow. “If I’d been dumped for someone else, just because the other woman had money, I’d be roaring mad,” Jemima said coyly. “Wouldn’t you?”

  * * *

  * * *

  Penelope decided it was time to get serious about those revision requests waiting on her computer. She couldn’t avoid them forever. She’d had a glass of wine at lunch with Jemima, which ought to dull the horror, so this was the perfect time to get cracking.

  She got her laptop going and drummed her fingers impatiently as the screen slowly came to life. Now that she’d made up her mind, she was anxious to get going.

  She found Bettina’s e-mail, opened it up, and began to read.

  Darling, this is absolutely wonderful. I can already see this on the bestseller lists. Just a few teensy edits before we put it into production. Parts of the middle seem to lack tension. Seriously, darling, they were an absolute snooze fest at times. Can we tighten those up a bit?

  Penelope chewed on a cuticle. She’d been worried about that herself. At the time, she’d had no idea how to fix it and she prayed she’d have some sort of epiphany now. She read on.

  I’m afraid the character of Raoul just isn’t coming across the way he should. Really, Pen, what is wrong with that man? Maybe a hint of backstory would help?

  Penelope groaned. She’d had trouble bringing Raoul into focus during the writing—hopefully she could pull it off now.

  Other than those few tiny things, and some of my comments on the manusc
ript itself, I think we’re almost there! I trust you to work your magic and make this positively shine.

  Penelope rubbed her hands over her face. Work her magic, indeed. There was nothing magic about it—it was more like pure nose to the grindstone.

  But she could do it. She had to do it.

  Penelope put her head down and got to work. An hour later, she thought she’d solved the problem of Raoul—Bettina had been right—adding in a bit of his backstory was all that had been needed. She glanced at her watch and was relieved to see it was time for her book group.

  She powered down her laptop and closed the lid with a sense of satisfaction. She always felt better when she tackled a problem headon—the key was to remember that whenever a difficult challenge arose.

  Penelope put on her coat, tucked her laptop under her arm, and headed to the Open Book where her book group was meeting. Mabel had set up a cozy spot in the bookstore for them. It was furnished with worn but comfortable chairs that simply invited you to sink into them and relax.

  India was the first to arrive. She hung up her coat and smoothed out the wrinkles in her cardigan sweater. Penelope noticed some areas where it had obviously been darned.

  India was proud of her aristocratic lineage, although sadly it came with very little money. She lived in a cottage on the Worthington estate that could have used some repairs, but India kept the stiff upper lip ubiquitous to the British and never complained. Keeping up appearances meant everything to her.

  “Dreadful business isn’t, it?” she said as she nestled into one of the chairs. “I wonder if the police have caught the killer? I don’t suppose you’ve heard anything . . .”

  “Sorry, no,” Pen said. “Only what’s been in the papers.”

  “Hrumph,” India said as she settled deeper into her chair.

  Violet arrived next, floating in like a wraith, her black wool coat, navy blue skirt, and sweater hanging on her thin frame and looking as if they were still on the hanger and her sparse hair curling around her face.

  “What an honor to have your dear husband perform the royal wedding ceremony,” India said as she accepted a cup of tea from Figgy, who had arrived with a tea cart laden with cups and saucers and a jam roly-poly on a cake stand.

  India’s face brightened. “Thank you, dear.” She smiled at Figgy.

  “Reverend Thatcher must have been right chuffed to have been chosen to officiate,” Figgy said as she cut slices of cake and arranged them on plates. “He did us proud. Was he nervous?” She handed Violet some cake.

  Violet sat up straighter and a bit of color actually came into her face.

  “He was, rather. But I assured him that he would do just fine. He always does.”

  “Hello, hello.” A fluty voice floated toward them and Gladys appeared around the corner. “I’m here,” she said, panting slightly, her face as red as a beet. “I got my brother-in-law to mind the shop while I’m gone, God help us all.”

  Gladys collapsed into a chair seemingly oblivious to the fact that she was still wearing her butcher’s apron with bloodstains all down the front.

  Gladys pulled her copy of Jane Eyre, the book they were reading, out of the pocket of her apron. Pen noticed that the cover was creased and there was a splotch of grease on it.

  “This book is rubbish,” Gladys said, stabbing the cover with her index finger.

  India looked affronted. “Why do you say that?”

  “Jane was a right doormat, wasn’t she? Putting up with all that aggro from that so-and-so Mr. Rochester. If I were Jane I would have given him what for.”

  “I thought he was rather romantic,” Violet said with a dreamy look in her eyes. She clutched her copy of Jane Eyre to her chest.

  India raised an eyebrow. “Romantic? I wouldn’t say that. Tormented maybe.”

  “Anyway,” Gladys said, taking a deep breath, “I’ve got to tell you something. You won’t believe who came into the shop.” Her smile disappeared and her face hardened. “And I have to say I didn’t take to her at all.” She set her jaw and straightened her shoulders.

  Everyone turned toward her, a variety of curious expressions on their faces.

  Finally, India said, “Do tell us, Gladys,” in a slightly exasperated tone.

  Gladys shot India a sharp look. “I’m getting to it. Let me tell it in my own time, if you don’t mind.”

  “Yes, of course,” Penelope said soothingly with a glance at India.

  Gladys took a deep breath. “The new detective from the Met came into the shop looking for one of me Cornish pasties this afternoon.”

  India, Violet, and Figgy exchanged curious looks. All eyes were now trained on Gladys.

  It was obvious she relished the attention. She drew herself up straight and assumed the air of an actor about to perform a monologue.

  “It seems that the powers that be have decided to call in the Met to investigate the murder at Worthington House.” She frowned. “They don’t trust our local bobbies to do the job properly.”

  “Well,” India said huffily.

  Gladys nodded. “And she’s a right stuck-up little miss, too, if I must say so myself. No warmth,” she said decisively. “Attractive enough but no warmth, if you know what I mean.”

  “What did she look like?” Violet said. “One of those stone-faced career women?”

  Gladys tilted her head to one side and rubbed her chin.

  “Not exactly. She was pretty—blond hair, blue eyes, a fine English complexion. Smartly dressed, too, in one of those pantsuits women seem to fancy these days.” Gladys paused. “But she gave me a right chill, she did. A real cold fish.”

  “Poor Detective Maguire,” India said. “What will become of him?”

  “He’ll be left twiddling his fingers, I should imagine,” Gladys said. “But I didn’t tell you the whole of it. I overheard the little miss on her cell phone. It seems the police have found the murder weapon that was used to kill that poor woman up at Worthington House.”

  An audible gasp ran through the group.

  “Well, what was it?” India’s tone was becoming increasingly waspish.

  “It was one of them sticks the toffs play polo with. Seems it had been tossed in that wooded area down by the river. Some young lads found it and were bright enough to realize they should take it to the police.” Gladys took a deep breath and pulled down her sweater. “The police are sending it away for . . . Oh, blimey, what’s that called again?” She looked around the group.

  “I suspect they’re sending it for what’s called forensic analysis,” India said crisply. She was a fan of true crime shows and was proud of her knowledge of police procedure.

  A polo mallet, Penelope thought. There was something about a polo mallet she ought to remember, but the memory was tantalizingly out of reach.

  They were halfway through their discussion of Jane Eyre when Penelope remembered.

  “Oh!” she said.

  Everyone’s head swiveled in her direction.

  “Sorry,” she waved a hand. “Something just occurred to me. What was that you were saying, Violet?”

  Penelope wasn’t listening to the answer. She was thinking about the polo mallet and how Worthington had claimed that his had gone missing before the polo game the day before his wedding.

  Was that the one that had been used to kill Cissie? And if so, would it implicate Worthington in her death?

  Cissie was Worthington’s ex-girlfriend. Had there been some sort of unfinished business between them that no one knew about? Or was Cissie really planning to write one of those tell-all memoirs that Charlotte had talked about?

  And had that led to her murder?

  EIGHT

  Penelope, however, didn’t believe for one minute that Worthington had killed Cissie. But that didn’t mean that the police wouldn’t peg him as a suspect now that the polo mallet h
ad been found. Of course they didn’t know if it was Worthington’s missing one, but Penelope felt the odds were good that that was exactly what it would turn out to be.

  Poor Charlotte, Pen thought. She’d been through enough already—the last thing she needed was for her new husband to be suspected of murder. Instead of dealing with all this, she ought to be on her honeymoon right now, basking in the warm sun in the Seychelles.

  Penelope thought about Tobias. She remembered a quote from a book by motivational speaker Zig Ziglar that her sister had urged her to read, hoping that it would spur her on to get a “real” career—“The first step to getting what you want is having the courage to get rid of what you don’t want.”

  Was that what Tobias had done? He’d wanted money so he’d dumped Rose and married Cissie. Then, once he had the money, he’d gotten rid of Cissie so he would be free to continue his romance with Rose, his true love.

  He had a strong motive, he had the means, and then there was that button found outside the ballroom. Tobias had been looking for something in the garden the morning after the murder. And the distinctive jacket he’d worn to the wedding ball had disappeared from his room.

  That gave Penelope an idea. But she didn’t want to do it alone—she needed a partner in crime. She went in search of Figgy.

  It was nearly five o’clock and Figgy was closing up her tea shop for the night—going through the register and preparing the day’s deposit.

  “What’s up?” she said when she saw Penelope approach. “You look excited about something.”

  “Not excited maybe, but certainly intrigued.” Pen leaned on the counter and helped herself to one of the shortbread cookies Figgy had on a plate next to the cash register. “You know how we couldn’t find Tobias’s dinner jacket in his room?”

  “Yes.”