The cat looked at her and blinked slowly, then jumped out of the planter and began grooming itself.
Penelope glanced at the hole the cat had dug. Should she cover it up again or let Gordon deal with it? She looked closer and noticed that something was sticking up out of the dirt. Had the cat uncovered one of the roots? She didn’t know much about plants beyond the fact that they needed sun and water, but she didn’t think the roots should be exposed.
She started to smooth the dirt over the top of the planter when she realized that it wasn’t a root—it was the tip of a very small notebook. She pulled it out and brushed the dirt off. It was no bigger than two inches by four inches.
How strange. Had the cat buried it there? Or had someone hidden it in the planter for some reason? She opened it to the first page.
She didn’t know what she had expected to find—computer passwords, bank account numbers, the combination to a safe?
The first page—and subsequent pages—appeared to contain some sort of code. There were entries like E = past and D = money.
Penelope didn’t have a clue as to what these meant but she wondered if these notations could somehow be tied to Regina’s murder. Maybe Regina was involved in some clandestine operation that no one else knew about. She thought of giving the book to Gordon but then changed her mind. What if it did have something to do with the murder and Gordon was a suspect?
She would give it to Detective Maguire instead. Perhaps he would be able to make something out of it. But first, she was going to photograph the pages.
* * *
* * *
Thanks,” Penelope said as Mabel dropped her off in front of the police station, which was within walking distance of the Open Book.
“Good luck,” Mabel said. “I’m curious as to what Detective Maguire has to say about your notebook.”
Penelope closed the car door and stood for a moment in front of the police station. The building was old, like every other building in Upper Chumley-on-Stoke, and made of putty-colored stucco and dark wood timbers. Right by the front door was a blue lamp on a pole with Police written on it.
Penelope went inside and approached the front desk. The man behind it looked up.
“How can I help you, love?” He had a wide smile and a slight overbite.
“I’d like to see Detective Maguire, if he’s in.”
A door behind the reception desk opened and Maguire stepped out. He saw Penelope and smiled.
“This is an unexpected pleasure. I didn’t think I’d see you again so soon. Is there something we can do for you?”
“It’s regarding the Bosworth case. I have . . . something that might be useful,” Penelope said. She suddenly felt foolish. What if Regina’s notebook turned out to be nothing important at all?
Maguire raised his eyebrows. “Let’s go into my office, then.”
He led Penelope into a small room crammed with a desk, a wooden straight-backed chair positioned in front of it, and several filing cabinets. Stacks of paper were piled on every available surface. The blinds in the window were down, and Penelope noticed that several slats were bent.
Maguire sat behind his desk and Penelope took the chair in front of it. She pulled the notebook out of her pocket. A few crumbs of dirt still clung to the cover. She handed it to Maguire.
“I went to the memorial luncheon for Regina Bosworth today. I was sitting in their conservatory when their cat began to dig in one of the potted plants. It unearthed that notebook. I thought it might have some bearing on the case.”
Maguire raised his eyebrows and opened the notebook. He leaned back in his chair as if he was getting ready to settle down with a good novel.
He flipped a few pages, sat back up, and scratched his head. “What does this mean? It looks like code of some kind.”
Penelope nodded. “Regina Bosworth was known for ferreting out people’s secrets. I thought perhaps that notebook”—she gestured toward it—“contained code for some of the things she’d discovered.”
Maguire chuckled and Penelope felt her face getting hot. Maguire wasn’t taking her seriously and it was making her feel silly as if she were a child playing at being Nancy Drew.
Maguire closed the notebook. “More likely it’s some sort of diary. I doubt it has anything to do with Mrs. Bosworth’s murder; however, we’ll look into it.” He tapped the cover. “I hope you don’t mind if I keep this?”
“Not at all.” Penelope stood up. “Thank you for your time,” she said rather stiffly.
“Would you like a cup of tea before you go?” Maguire said.
“Thank you, but I need to get back to the bookstore.”
Penelope nearly ran out of the police station and by the time she arrived at the Open Book, her face was flushed and she was breathing heavily.
“What the dickens happened to you?” Mabel said when she saw her. “You look like all the furies in hell are after you.”
“I showed Maguire the notebook. And he didn’t take me seriously. I felt so stupid.”
Pen felt her anger bubble up again.
“What did he say?”
“He said he didn’t think the notebook had anything to do with the case. I got the feeling that he thought I was a hysterical female. Or worse, some sort of busybody with nothing better to do.”
“If I learned one thing in my career as an analyst,” Mabel said, coming out from behind the counter to put an arm around Penelope’s shoulder, “it’s that things always mean something even if we can’t immediately figure out what that is.”
“Is everything okay?” Figgy came toward them. She ran her hand through her hair, ruffling it even further.
Penelope explained about finding the notebook and giving it to Maguire.
“You did the right thing,” Figgy said. “The police are always urging people to share any information they have about a murder case and that’s what you did.” She smiled at Penelope. “I think we could all do with a nice cuppa. Why don’t I make us some?”
Mabel and Penelope joined her in the tea shop and waited while she prepared the tea.
“Here we go,” Figgy said finally, putting a tray down on the table. She poured cups of Earl Grey and handed them around.
“Let’s see the photographs you took of the notebook,” Mabel said.
Penelope pulled them up on her phone and handed it to Mabel. She explained her theory that the notations possibly had something to do with the secrets Regina was in the habit of collecting—a way for her to make note of them but disguising the information in case someone found the notebook.
“If it doesn’t mean anything, why would she have hidden the book in that planter?” Penelope said.
“I suppose she didn’t want Gordon to find it, but how on earth would he have been able to make heads or tails of this?” Mabel said. “If this is a code, it’s a strange one—combining single letters with whole words. Normally you would begin to decipher code by assuming that the single letters were the word a, since that is such a common one-letter word. And then you’d go from there—seeing if the three-letter words could possibly be the.”
“What if the single letters were initials?” Penelope blew on her tea.
Mabel frowned. “That could be. As you said, with Regina’s penchant for hoarding secrets, that notebook may very well have been her way of keeping track.”
“What is the first entry in the notebook?” Figgy said, refilling her teacup.
Penelope took the phone and scrolled through the pictures. “It’s a D followed by the word money.”
“Could that be Daphne Potter?” Mabel said. “But why the word money?”
“Maybe that she’s after Gordon’s money?” Figgy said. “Perhaps Regina overheard something?”
“We may never know,” Mabel said, “but it certainly is curious.” She took the phone and scrolled through the p
hotographs again. She pointed to an entry. “There’s a phone number written here.” She looked through the photos of the rest of the notebook’s pages. “No other numbers, but there’s an address here.”
Penelope peered over Mabel’s shoulder. “‘Compton Lane, Northampton,’” she read. She pointed to another entry. “What’s this? ‘MM—OS—wed.’”
The phone began to tremble in Mabel’s hand and her face turned white. She all but shoved the phone at Pen.
“Who knows what that infernal woman was up to? It probably means nothing. Best to forget about it.”
Penelope tucked her phone back into her pocket.
“I’m sure the police will solve the case without our help,” Pen said soothingly. “Maybe then we can work backward and figure out what all that gibberish means.”
That was rather odd, Penelope thought. Mabel had acted so strangely when she saw that one entry. Could it possibly be that the MM in Regina’s notebook stood for Mabel Morris?
EIGHT
Penelope wasn’t one to give up easily—although what she thought she could do when even Mabel, with her experience in MI6, couldn’t decipher the code in the notebook, she didn’t know.
Mrs. Danvers greeted Penelope with cool disdain when Penelope pushed open the door to her cottage.
“You’re mad because I left, aren’t you?” she said to the cat, scratching her under the chin.
Mrs. Danvers purred and arched her back. It seemed she was willing to forgive Penelope—at least for the time being.
It was chilly in the cottage. Penelope arranged some logs and some kindling in the fireplace and put a match to it. She patted herself on the back when it caught. She was finally getting the hang of this. She knelt in front of the fireplace warming her hands. A few minutes later the logs began to catch, and then they too began to glow.
Penelope’s stomach rumbled and she paused to examine the sensation. She must be hungry. She glanced at the clock. Of course she was—it was nearly past dinnertime.
The night before she had made a pot of spaghetti Bolognese or what she’d learned the Brits called spag Bol. She was about to put her dish in the microwave when she heard a knock on the door.
Mrs. Danvers, who had been loitering in the vicinity of the food, made a mad dash for the living room. Penelope followed. She flung open the door. A woman was standing on the doorstep clutching a batch of brochures. She was slight with short brown hair in neat waves. Her skirt was either too long or too short to be fashionable and she smelled clean—like soap and laundry detergent.
She smiled hesitantly at Penelope and held out a brochure. “I’m Nora Blakely from the WI.”
Penelope raised her eyebrows. “The WI?”
“I’m sorry. That’s the Women’s Institute—the Upper Chumley-on-Stoke chapter. I’m the treasurer.”
Penelope hoped she wasn’t collecting money for something.
The wind had picked up and was tugging at Nora’s skirt and swirling leaves along the gutter outside Penelope’s cottage.
“I’m sorry,” Penelope said. “Won’t you come in?”
“You’re Penelope Parish, right?”
Penelope assured her that she was and Nora stepped over the threshold.
“What a charming room,” Nora said, looking around. “And the fire feels quite lovely. It’s become rather chilly out.”
“Please sit down,” Penelope said. “Would you like a cup of coffee?”
“No, thank you. I’ve just had my tea.” She folded her hands and put them in her lap.
Penelope waited expectantly.
“I’m here to tell you about the Women’s Institute,” Nora said finally. “And to invite you to join the group to show our hospitality.”
“Oh.” Penelope was taken aback. “That’s very kind of you. What does the Women’s Institute do?”
Nora cleared her throat. “The organization was started to get women in rural communities and small towns like ours to produce food during World War One. Then we were provided with extra sugar, which was being closely rationed, during World War Two to produce jellies and jams with fruit that would have gone bad otherwise. We even received canning equipment from America.”
She smiled benignly at Penelope as if Penelope had been personally involved in the donation.
“Now we’ve become a sort of radical group.” Nora laughed at her own joke. “We’ve gotten involved in politics and all sorts of things.”
“I don’t know—”
“The queen is a member,” Nora said as if that settled it.
“Could I look over the brochure?” Penelope said.
“Certainly.” Nora folded her hands in her lap again. She appeared to be waiting for an answer.
“Can I let you know—after I’ve read the brochure?” Penelope said.
Nora looked startled. “Certainly.”
“It’s very kind of you to invite me,” Penelope said again lest Nora think she wasn’t grateful.
Nora nodded and got to her feet. “It’s such a shame about what happened to Regina Bosworth. She was supposed to be our next president. I suppose we shall have to hold another election now.” She paused and pursed her lips. “Unless the runner-up takes over the position. We shall have to check the bylaws.”
She smiled at Penelope as they walked toward the door. Penelope saw her out and then closed the door. A thought struck her as she was putting her dish of spaghetti back in the microwave to heat.
Hadn’t there been a notation in Regina’s notebook for someone whose first initial was N? She put her plate on the kitchen table and went out to the foyer to retrieve her purse. She pulled out her phone and flipped through the photos. Yes, there it was: N = Work = WI/Drink.
N could certainly be Nora. She was obviously involved in the WI, if that stood for the Women’s Institute.
But why the word work and what on earth did drink mean?
* * *
* * *
Penelope washed her dishes, dried them, and put them away. Unfortunately charm didn’t come with a dishwasher but since she made very few dirty dishes, she really didn’t mind.
She brushed her teeth, ran her fingers through her hair, put on her coat, and grabbed her laptop. Mrs. Danvers stared at her with disapproval from her perch on the arm of the sofa.
Penelope assured Mrs. Danvers that she would be back . . . eventually . . . and went out the door. Tonight was a special event at the Open Book. Cookbook author Evaline Foster was going to give a demonstration right in the store. Pen was looking forward to it.
The evening was chilly but cloudless with hundreds of stars dotting the night sky. Penelope stood for a moment admiring them—without the light pollution of the big city it almost looked as if you could reach up and touch them.
She decided to walk to the Open Book. Mabel looked up when Penelope opened the door.
“That night air has done you some good, I see. It’s put some color in your cheeks.” She smiled. “You look healthy.”
Penelope unwound her scarf, took off her coat and hat, and hung them on the coat-tree.
Mabel had set up folding chairs in a half circle in an empty area of the bookstore. A table in back of the chairs held copies of Evaline Foster’s latest cookbook, Cakes Fit for a King. A long table covered with a white cloth was in front of the chairs. On it were bowls, wooden spoons, whisks and packages of McVitie’s digestive biscuits.
Evaline was fussing over the arrangement and checking things off against the list fluttering in her hand. She was a plump woman with ash-blond hair set and lacquered into place in a hairdo reminiscent of the queen’s. She was wearing a fawn-colored short-sleeved dress with a frilly white apron tied over it. There was a starburst broach pinned to her shoulder.
Figgy wheeled over a tea cart set with plates, cups, saucers, and two electric kettles.
“I’ve
got two types of tea,” she said to Penelope. “Earl Grey and Lapsang souchong. And we’ll be serving Evaline’s cake as well.”
Evaline would be demonstrating one of the recipes from her cookbook and afterward she planned to sign copies for the Open Book’s patrons.
India was the first to arrive followed by Shirley Townsend and Tracey Meadows. Tracey was a new mother with a four-month-old baby.
“How is the baby?” Shirley took a chair, crossed her legs, and smoothed out her blouse.
“He’s finally sleeping through the night. If you can call five hours through the night. Still, it’s the most sleep I’ve had in months.”
“Is Nigel minding him?”
“Yes. Under some duress, I might add. He kept trying to tell me he wasn’t up to it, but I told him that as long as the baby was alive when I got home, it was a job well done.”
Tracey pointed to the picture of the cake on the front cover of Evaline’s book. “I’ll have to stay away from that. I have to get serious about slimming. I need to lose the baby weight. There’s a smart young secretary in Nigel’s office and she’s had eyes for him for ages now. I can’t have him getting any ideas.” She pointed to her blouse. “I’m still wearing maternity tops.” She looked down and scratched at a bit of a stain near her shoulder. “Spit-up.” She made a face.
“I should be on a slimming course myself.” Shirley laughed and patted her stomach. “This might not have been the best demonstration to come to. I hear Miss Foster is going to show us how to make a chocolate biscuit cake.”
“That cake is a favorite of the queen’s,” India said with authority as if she had inside knowledge of that fact and hadn’t read it in My Weekly magazine. “She has it for tea every day until it’s finished. They’ve even transported it to Windsor Castle for her.”
“Here comes Helen Hathaway,” Tracey said. “Hi, Helen.” She waved at a petite silver-haired woman.
“There’s going to be a demonstration on how to make a chocolate biscuit cake.”
“I remember the one you made, Helen, for the Women’s Institute tea when the Countess of Wessex came to visit our chapter,” Shirley said.
Murder in the Margins Page 8
