“I see,” Maguire said.
“We’ll be waiting in the small office off the library if that’s all right with you,” India said. “We’ve kept everyone in the library in case you need to speak to them.” She turned to Penelope. “Let’s go sit down,”
Penelope had no objection to following India into the office, where she sank into one of the armchairs. A musty smell rose from the cushions and she fought back a sneeze.
“What’s this I hear about a body?” Arthur Worthington suddenly strode into the room.
His hair was redder than in the pictures Penelope had seen of him and he looked every inch the English country gentleman in a tweed jacket with a mossy green sweater vest underneath.
India immediately jumped to her feet. She smoothed out her skirt.
“Regina Bosworth has been found shot in the cellar. The police are here now. Constable Cuthbert is guarding the door and Detective Maguire is surveying the scene.”
“Good heavens!” Worthington ran his hands through his hair. “Was it some sort of accident? You don’t mean she’s dead, do you?” He turned to India, a panicked look on his face.
“I’m afraid she is. There’s no sign of the gun. It appears as if she may have been murdered.”
“Murdered!” Worthington exploded. “I know the woman was an infernal pest but for someone to murder her . . .”
“She must have had enemies?” Penelope said.
Worthington whirled around, a curious look on his face.
“I wouldn’t really think so, would you? I mean, I know women have their little tiffs over things, like who stole whose recipe for sticky toffee pudding or who was flirting with whose husband at the Women’s Institute gala, but one hardly murders someone over something that trivial.”
India gave him a dark look. “I don’t know. . . . I remember reading a story in the papers about a woman who killed her daughter’s rival for a spot on a cheerleading squad. That was over in America, of course.” She looked at Penelope.
As if strange things only happened in the United States, Penelope thought. She wanted to bring up Jack the Ripper, but then thought better of it. It might seem churlish.
“Let’s hope the police find the culprit quickly,” Worthington said, running his hands through his hair again as he paced back and forth.
Penelope would come to recognize it as a gesture he habitually made when nervous.
“I do hope this doesn’t upset Charlotte too much,” Worthington said, almost to himself. “She’s very sensitive. And what with the stress of the wedding and all . . .”
He stopped pacing and looked at Penelope as if he’d suddenly noticed she was there.
“This is Penelope Parish,” India hastened to explain. “She’s the writer in residence at the Open Book. She was meant to give a talk on The Castle of Otranto.”
“Yes, of course,” Worthington said, nodding at Penelope.
“Excuse me.” Detective Maguire stepped into the room.
“Brodie, old chap,” Worthington said. He slapped Maguire on the back jovially. “Surely you can sort all of this out without creating a fuss.”
Maguire smiled. There was a weary look in his eyes. “I’ll do my best.”
“Good man.” Worthington slapped him on the back again. He glanced at the Breitling Aerospace watch on his wrist. “It’s almost time for Charlotte and me to make an appearance at the fest. I assume you can carry on without me?” he said to Maguire.
“I’m afraid I will need to speak to you.”
Worthington looked momentarily put out. “Very well, then,” he said in rather icy tones, “I’ll be waiting for you in my study.” He strode from the room leaving behind the faint citrusy scent of his bespoke Floris cologne.
Maguire waited until Worthington was gone, then turned to Penelope and India.
“Do you mind if I sit down?”
They shook their heads.
He pulled the desk chair over, turned it around, and straddled it. He leaned his arms on the back and looked at Penelope and India and raised his eyebrows.
“India Culpepper,” India said, sitting even straighter in her chair. “I’ve been a resident of Upper Chumley-on-Stoke all my life. Arthur Worthington is a distant cousin.”
Maguire inclined his head. “I see.” He turned to Penelope.
“Penelope Parish,” Pen hastened to say. “I’m the new writer in residence at the Open Book here in Chumley. I only arrived a couple of weeks ago.”
“I just have a few questions for you ladies,” Maguire said. “So it was Gladys Watkins who found the body? What was she doing down in the cellar?”
“Gladys and her husband have a booth at the fest every year selling Cornish pasties,” India said. “They’re quite famous for them.”
Maguire smiled. “I’ll have to try one.”
“There’s a freezer in the cellar where they keep their stock—Gladys spends a good month making up the pasties for the fest. And even then they always run out before the day is over. She went down there to get another batch. They have a portable oven in their booth where they bake them fresh.”
Maguire nodded. “Any idea what Regina Bosworth was doing down there?”
Pen shook her head.
“I have no idea,” India said. “But she is . . . was the chairwoman of the fest, so perhaps she was checking on something.”
“I assume the two women knew each other?” Maguire smiled. “I’ve only been here six months myself—transferred from Leeds. Long story.” His face clouded over. “Everyone seems to know everyone here.”
“They were acquainted, yes,” India said, her tone guarded. “Not socially, of course, but Gladys was on the marketing committee for the fest—not that she was particularly useful—but she did persuade that husband of hers to hang a banner in their shop window. So their paths crossed, but as I said, it wasn’t anything more than that.”
“It sounds, then, as if it’s unlikely Regina went down to the cellar to search Gladys out.”
“I don’t know,” India said. “She might have—to discuss something in relation to Gladys’s booth perhaps.” A look of shock crossed India’s face. “You’re not thinking that Gladys might have killed Regina? Because that’s not possible.”
Maguire smiled. “You’d be surprised what people are capable of and some of the ridiculous motives that drive people to murder.”
Penelope thought of Gladys with her round and perpetually flushed cheeks and large guileless eyes. It was impossible to imagine her killing a spider let alone a human being.
India shook her head vehemently. “Not Gladys. No. She would never . . .”
Maguire shrugged. “Did Regina have any enemies?”
India cleared her throat and looked at Penelope. Penelope knew what she was thinking.
“How shall I put this? I don’t know that I would call them enemies exactly.” India fiddled with a button on her cardigan, avoiding Maguire’s eye.
“Frenemies, then?” Maguire raised his eyebrows. “Isn’t that the term they use nowadays?” He looked at Penelope and she nodded.
“I’ve never heard that before,” India said. “What does it mean?”
“It’s a combination of the words friends and enemies,” Penelope said. “People who act friendly toward you but don’t necessarily have your best interests at heart.”
“I see. I rather like that.” India smiled. “Yes, that describes Regina’s relationships perfectly. As Worthington said, people found her to be a pest, not to mention bossy and often condescending. But I doubt anyone seriously contemplated murdering her.”
“Except it appears that someone did murder her,” Maguire said.
FIVE
What on earth is going on? Do you know?” Mabel said when Penelope finally returned to the Open Book booth. “I saw the ambulance go streaking toward the c
astle and then Constable Cuthbert arrived. Has someone taken ill?”
Penelope explained about Gladys finding Regina’s body in the freezer in the cellar, dead from a gunshot wound.
“How terrible! Was it an accident? So many accidents these days—especially with all those young whippersnappers coming out from the city to hunt on the weekends and with so many of them barely knowing which end of the gun is which. There was bound to be a tragedy sooner or later.”
Once again the horror of the situation washed over Penelope and she sank into one of the folding chairs they’d brought from the shop.
“Are you okay?” Mabel said. “Feeling a bit peckish, are you?”
“It’s not that.” Penelope rubbed her temples. “There was no gun anywhere near Regina when Gladys found her. The detective thinks she was murdered.”
“Good heavens,” Mabel said, plopping into the chair next to Penelope. “I don’t believe we’ve ever had a murder in Chumley. At least not in recent times. I didn’t particularly like Regina, but how horrible to have your life cut short like that.” She clenched her fists in her lap. “I do wish I’d brought that bottle of Jameson with me.” She gave a little smile.
“So do I,” Penelope said.
They saw Figgy coming toward them holding a dish in her hands.
“Why the grim faces?” she said. “The fest’s going quite smoothly, don’t you think? Although I did notice that the ambulance suddenly took off. Someone fainted or had chest pains I should imagine. It happens every year.” She put a plate down on the table where Mabel had set up a cashbox and a pad of receipts. “I’ve brought you some potted shrimp sandwiches to nibble on and some petits fours. You all must be starving by now.”
Penelope suddenly realized that she was starving and reached for one of the tea sandwiches.
“So tell me. Do you have any idea what’s happened?” Figgy said.
Once again Penelope explained about finding Regina dead in the cellar.
Figgy’s already pale face became paler. “Do you think Regina’s husband, Gordon, finally had enough? She’s henpecked the poor man for years. Perhaps he snapped.” She twisted one of the earrings in her ear. “Frankly, who could blame him?”
“The detective who questioned us asked if Regina had any enemies. Poor India seemed at a loss as to what to say.” Penelope finished her sandwich and reached for another.
“That’s no surprise,” Mabel said. “One doesn’t want to speak ill of the dead but in this case . . .”
“I’m knackered. I’ve got to get off my feet for a few moments.” Figgy grabbed another folding chair and sat down. She glanced over her shoulder at her makeshift tea shop. “I’ve left things in Jasmine’s hands. I think that girl is one sandwich short of a picnic. She can barely make change. But it looks as if nothing is on fire—at least not at the moment.” She blew out a breath of air, ruffling her short bangs.
“Do you really think Regina’s husband might have killed her?” Penelope said.
Mabel snorted. “I almost hope he did. I should imagine it would have given him some sense of satisfaction. But I doubt it. He’s much too mild mannered.”
“Who else, then?” Figgy said. “Some random stranger?”
“The detective asked about Gladys, since she’s the one who found her.” Penelope brushed a crumb from the corner of her lip.
“Poppycock,” Mabel said, reaching for a vanilla-iced petit four and popping it into her mouth. “If Gladys was going to murder anyone, I’m pretty sure the bookies would give it two-to-one odds that it would be that husband of hers.”
“Oh?” Penelope raised her eyebrows. “What’s wrong with Gladys’s husband?”
Mabel sighed. “He’s something of a tyrant. He dictates Gladys’s every move. He wouldn’t even let her join the church choir although she has a lovely voice and enjoys singing.” Mabel licked a bit of icing off her finger. “Fortunately Gladys has her romance novels to take comfort in. I gather Bruce—her husband—doesn’t approve of them, but it’s the one thing she’s put her foot down about.”
Figgy swatted at a fly that seemed determined to make a nest in her hair. “What about Regina’s husband? Do you think he had a bit on the side and maybe wanted to get Regina out of the way?”
Mabel burst out laughing. “Gordon?” She wiped her eyes with the hem of her blouse. “Sorry, but I can’t begin to picture Gordon stepping out on Regina. For one thing, he’d be much too terrified of what she’d do if she found out.”
“I don’t know,” Pen said, stretching out her legs. “I can sort of picture a poor henpecked husband taking up with some very kindly woman—pretty and on the plump side—and who cooks for him and pampers him a bit.”
“I’m sure he’d love something like that,” Figgy said, picking up the now empty sandwich plate. “And maybe now that Regina’s gone, he’ll be able to find someone.”
Mabel nodded. “Bachelors aren’t exactly ten a penny in Upper Chumley-on-Stoke although we seem to have more than our share of unmarried women. He’d be quite the catch despite his potbelly and receding hairline. Any living, breathing single male around here is considered a good catch. By tomorrow women will be bringing him casseroles by the dozen.”
“Of course it might have been an intruder who shot Regina,” Penelope said. “She surprised them and they shot her.”
“What would anyone want to steal from the Worthington’s cellar?” Figgy said. “There’s probably nothing but dust balls down there.”
“He has quite an extensive wine collection,” Penelope said. “India pointed it out to me when we were down there.”
“Or,” Mabel added, “they broke into the cellar and were planning on making their way upstairs. I’m sure there’s plenty worth nicking up there.”
Figgy jerked a thumb over her shoulder. “I saw a whole bunch of coppers arrive a few minutes ago. I imagine they are searching Worthington House right now. Maybe the murderer is hiding in a closet or something.” She shuddered.
Figgy glanced over her shoulder and her expression changed to one of alarm. “It looks as if the tea shop is getting busy. I’d better get back and lend Jasmine a hand or who knows what might happen. The poor girl is easily flustered.”
“Thanks for the sandwiches,” Mabel said. “They were just the ticket.”
A few moments later, a tall, well-built woman in jodhpurs and gleaming leather boots approached the booth. “Good morning, ladies,” she said in posh tones. She turned to Penelope. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”
“Evelyn, this is Penelope Parish. She’s our new writer in residence at the Open Book,” Mabel said. “Pen, this is Lady Evelyn Maxwell-Lewis.”
Evelyn held out a hand. It was large—almost manly—with short, unpolished nails. There was a gold signet ring on her pinkie.
“Call me Evie,” she said. “Everyone does.” She smiled at Penelope.
Just then another woman approached them, her face stretched into a smile. She’d broken off from her two companions who were waiting for her at a distance.
“Georgina, is that you?” she said, smiling at Evelyn. “I’d recognize you anywhere. It’s me. Bunny Churchill.” She touched Evelyn’s arm. “We were at St. Agatha’s together. Surely you remember.”
Evelyn shook her head. “Unfortunately, I’m afraid you’re mistaken. I don’t believe we’ve ever met before. I’m Lady Evelyn Maxwell-Lewis.”
“I’m terribly sorry. It’s just that you look so much like her. Granted, I haven’t seen her in over twenty years.” The woman laughed.
Evelyn inclined her head and smiled.
“How odd,” she said to Mabel and Penelope when the woman had left. She shrugged. “Mistaken identity, I guess.”
She tapped the cover of a book on display. “I thought I’d pick up Charlotte’s latest book. Arthur is sure to ask me if I’ve read it when I see him tomorrow nig
ht. He positively dotes on Charlotte.” She laughed. “He’s had his share of affairs. We were all surprised when this one stuck.” She frowned. “I just hope she isn’t after his money.”
* * *
* * *
The words It was a dark and stormy night ran through Penelope’s mind as she sat in the living room of her cottage, a fire blazing in the hearth, her computer in her lap and rain streaming down the front windows. It was nearly as dark as night although unlike in that overworn phrase, it was actually only mid-afternoon.
It was Sunday and even though the Open Book was open from noon until five o’clock, Mabel had said she could manage by herself. Besides, she had a young student who wanted to earn some pocket money who came in to help on the weekends.
Pen was engrossed in writing an exciting scene in her manuscript where Annora was lost deep in a dark wood without even moonlight to guide her. Penelope knew, even though Annora didn’t, that the bad guy who was after her, thinking she held the key to a mysterious locked door, was silently creeping up behind her, his night vision as sharp as any nocturnal animal’s.
Pen couldn’t help but think of poor Regina and how terribly frightened she must have been when she realized she was alone in the basement with a killer.
The thought actually made the hair on Penelope’s neck stand up; and when there was a sudden noise overhead, she jumped so hard she nearly knocked her laptop to the floor.
What was that? Did Mrs. Danvers jump off the bed upstairs?
Penelope heard an irritated meow and realized Mrs. Danvers was not upstairs at all but sitting on the other end of the sofa, her tail hanging over the edge and swishing back and forth.
She turned the light on as she mounted the stairs. She remembered how, as a child, she’d been convinced that lamplight could chase monsters away—especially the ones she was positive lived under her bed.
She was nearly to the top of the stairs when she heard a squeak—like a door whose hinges needed oiling—slowly opening.
Murder in the Margins Page 5
