Chapter Nine #3
“It really wasn’t. It involved a lot of standing around in the snow and tiresome telephone calls to the police—who couldn’t get through the snow to reach us, very helpful—and Abigail making endless mince pies because she bakes when she’s anxious.”
“I do love mince pies,” he said dreamily, but before he could drift too far into a baked-good-induced reverie, he was distracted by the framed copy of a letter in a neighboring display case.
“And here is the letter from the orphanage, alerting the murderous maid to Lady Tunbridge’s identity as the mother who abandoned her!
” He sounded duly impressed. “Quite a distinctive smudge on the letter ‘O’ on this typewriter—wouldn’t want to use it to send a ransom note! ” He chortled.
“Fortunately, I don’t think orphanage employees are in the habit of sending frequent ransom notes,” Georgie said, as patiently as she could manage; even as she spoke, there came the sound of footsteps behind them, and Georgie and Sebastian turned in unison to see Mrs. Penbaker approaching.
“Miss Radcliffe,” she said with a slightly forced smile, looking from Georgie to Sebastian and back again. “This is a surprise. I wasn’t under the impression you were very fond of the exhibition.”
Mrs. Penbaker was considerably younger than her late husband, in her mid-forties, with a head of cropped blond hair that showed only a few strands of gray. She was wearing a neat green dress with a pleated skirt and sensible loafers; a strand of pearls was at her throat.
Georgie’s previous dealings with Mrs. Penbaker had always been scrupulously polite but not terribly warm, and she could not think that her husband’s recent death would have made her any more welcoming, particularly to questions regarding it.
Fortunately, however, she had not accounted for Sebastian.
“Mrs. Penbaker,” she said with a nod. “This is Mr. Fletcher-Ford—he’s a family friend, visiting from London.
” Sebastian offered a complicated and elegant bow over Mrs. Penbaker’s hand, as though she were a Regency debutante.
Mrs. Penbaker raised her eyebrows at this display, but a hint of a smile played at the corners of her mouth, which Georgie took as a promising sign.
“I’m delighted to meet you,” Sebastian said. “And I’m so sorry for your loss.”
Mrs. Penbaker inclined her head with a slightly pained smile. “Thank you.”
“It must be nice to see your husband’s legacy live on, though,” Sebastian said, all earnest solemnity.
Mrs. Penbaker looked a bit startled. “In what way?”
Sebastian widened his arms in a broad, sweeping gesture that encompassed their surroundings. “This fascinating exhibition. It’s quite thorough.”
Mrs. Penbaker smiled. “Thank you. Bertie and I worked quite hard on it—we even have a poison garden out back that Miss Halifax and a few of her book club members planted for us, showcasing plants that featured in crime novels.”
“Delightful!” Sebastian said brightly, as if he could think of no greater pleasure than surrounding himself with herbs that might kill him.
“The entire exhibition is an interesting idea. I understand that your husband was determined to find a silver lining in the village’s recent misfortunes—terribly admirable.
” He leaned against the display case featuring the bloody knife, stuck a hand in his pocket, and cast an appreciative glance around the room.
He looked, Georgie thought, a bit like he was posing for a catalogue: “A jumper-wearing man at ease in the country.”
“Yes,” Mrs. Penbaker said, regarding Sebastian as though he were some sort of exotic tropical creature one might find at the zoo.
“Well, Bertie had become very fond of murder mysteries himself—an interest he developed in the last year or so. And so he was less surprised than I was when increased numbers of tourists began arriving. Eventually, given their number, Bertie thought it sensible to at least offer some sort of official, village-sanctioned information on the recent misfortunes.”
“So very wise,” Sebastian said with an earnest nod. “You’d hardly want them getting all their information from The Deathly Dispatch, after all!” He chuckled easily.
“Miss Radcliffe has told you about The Deathly Dispatch, has she?” Mrs. Penbaker asked.
“Yes—well,” Georgie said, thinking quickly, “that is, Arthur Crawley has received a tip that the Dispatch is going to do some sort of dreadful article implying that your husband was murdered. I was explaining to Sebastian here how they publish sensationalist garbage.”
Mrs. Penbaker frowned. “Why on earth would they think that? Bertie had a heart attack.”
“We know that,” Georgie assured her. “But you know what the Dispatch is like.” She shook her head darkly.
“Just last week it published an article contrasting how many lambs were killed by foxes here this past spring compared to Bramble-in-the-Vale, as if we’re some sort of hotbed for the murder of humans and animals alike. ”
“This county does love its hyphens, doesn’t it?” Sebastian observed.
“Do not compare us to Bramble-in-the-Vale,” Mrs. Penbaker insisted. “They have three hyphens. We only have two!”
“Of course, of course,” Sebastian agreed, nodding.
“I didn’t mean to cause any offense—particularly not to a lady as lovely as yourself.
” This last was uttered in an intimate tone.
“I don’t suppose there’s anything you could tell us about your husband’s death—something we could pass along to Crawley, so he can write an article that clearly refutes anything that hack at the Dispatch publishes?
” He offered Mrs. Penbaker a reassuring sort of smile.
“It would pain me to see an upstanding woman like yourself caused distress by tabloid journalism.” He shook his head.
Mrs. Penbaker regarded him coolly. “Do you know, Mr. Fletcher-Ford, that I used to know a man just like you?”
Sebastian smiled at her. “Do you remember him fondly?”
“No,” Mrs. Penbaker said. “He was a dreadful flirt and broke my heart when he married my best friend after leading me on.”
Sebastian leaned forward, his gaze fixed on her. “Then, my dear Mrs. Penbaker, he was nothing at all like me.”
He winked.
Mrs. Penbaker, seemingly against her better judgment, relented and offered him a small smile.
Georgie exhaled a soft sigh of relief.
“What can I tell you about my husband’s death?” Mrs. Penbaker asked briskly, crossing her arms over her chest.
Georgie rummaged for her notebook and a pencil. “I believe he was at home alone when he became ill?”
“Yes.” Mrs. Penbaker nodded. “I was running some errands, and then was at the fete planning committee meeting.”
“And when you returned home,” Georgie prompted, “you found your husband unwell?”
Mrs. Penbaker nodded again. “He complained of being dizzy and short of breath, and his chest was paining him. I rang for Dr. Severin, but by the time the doctor arrived…” She shook her head.
Georgie began to hastily jot down notes. “And what time would you say this was?” she asked, glancing up.
Mrs. Penbaker cleared her throat. “I couldn’t say for certain. My meeting usually ends at two, and I came straight home afterward.”
“So by two-fifteen or so, then?” Georgie asked.
“I suppose so,” Mrs. Penbaker agreed.
“And were you surprised by your husband’s death?”
“It was quite sudden, as I’ve just explained. So it was shocking, yes.”
There was nothing in her voice but cool, measured politeness. She was very self-contained, Georgie thought—she was not the sort of woman to give any sign of strong emotion.
“And Dr. Severin found nothing unusual about your husband’s symptoms?”
“If he did, he told me nothing of it,” Mrs. Penbaker said, still very cool.
Georgie glanced at Sebastian; this was going, truthfully, about as well as she had expected it might, but if he thought that his dubious charms could aid the progress of this conversation, now would be a rather helpful time for him to employ them.
Mercifully, he took the hint and leaned forward. “We are so sorry to bother you with what must seem like very odd questions, at such a difficult time for you,” he said, his voice warm and soothing, and Georgie could practically see Mrs. Penbaker melting slightly before him.
“But,” he continued, “we know how much your husband loved this village—Georgie here has spoken of him so highly, and in such glowing terms,” he added, with a fond glance at Georgie, “that I can only mourn the fact that I did not get to make his acquaintance myself. And I cannot help but wonder if your husband had any known enemies who might have had cause to do him harm.” He finished this pretty little speech, then leaned back against the display case, looking entirely at ease.
Mrs. Penbaker hesitated for a long moment; Georgie had the impression that she was thinking quite hard, considering her next words. At last, she looked directly at Sebastian and said, “My husband was quite obsessed with increasing tourism to Buncombe-upon-Woolly, you know.”
Georgie snorted; everyone in the village knew this—it would have been rather impossible to miss. Sebastian split a curious glance between her and Mrs. Penbaker before asking politely, “Is there something I’m missing?”
“Mr. Penbaker was very… imaginative,” Georgie said, with considerable diplomacy, “in his schemes for attracting new visitors.”
A small smile played at the corners of Mrs. Penbaker’s mouth. “What Miss Radcliffe is too polite to say in front of me is that my husband had ideas that bordered on lunacy—he tried, at one point, to introduce a flock of sheep to the village green, on a permanent basis.”
Sebastian blinked. “For what purpose?”
“Our name,” Georgie explained. “Buncombe-upon-Woolly. He thought we ought to really lean into the character of the name and become known for our friendly flock of village sheep.”
“I take it this didn’t work?” Sebastian asked.
Mrs. Penbaker shook her head. “It was absolute chaos—sheep everywhere. You couldn’t drive a motorcar through the village for weeks. Eventually, he saw that it was folly, and the sheep were returned to their usual fields.”
“Except for one,” Georgie added.
“Poor Ernest,” Mrs. Penbaker agreed.
“Our permanent village sheep,” Georgie explained, seeing that Sebastian looked mystified. “He loved the village green so much that he could not be persuaded to return home. I’ll introduce you to him, next time we walk past.”
“I look forward to the honor,” he said gravely.
“There was also the year he attempted to create a festival at harvesttime centered around racing pumpkins down the river,” Mrs. Penbaker continued.
“And the year he tried to draw tourists for Bonfire Night by advertising the largest bonfire in the Cotswolds, and he ended up setting the roof of the school on fire,” Georgie added.
“And when he thought we should have an annual weekend celebrating particularly large wheels of cheese, and he ended up dropping one and breaking a tourist’s foot.”
“If the tourist were allowed to eat the cheese afterward, I expect they might not have minded,” Sebastian said thoughtfully. “What’s a broken bone when compared with the joys of cheese?”
“And,” Mrs. Penbaker added, after a brief, eloquent silence, “he was absolutely obsessed with the notion of besting Bramble-in-the-Vale. The council chairman there—Mr. Lettercross—was an old friend of his, but they hadn’t spoken in fifteen years after a falling-out over the last bit of Bath Blue at a Christmas market—”
“I did not realize cheese could cause such lasting enmity,” Sebastian said, looking duly impressed.
“Welcome to the Cotswolds,” Georgie said.
“—and once Lettercross became the chairman of Bramble-in-the-Vale’s village council, just the year after Bertie was elected here, it grew even worse.”
“Bramble-in-the-Vale has always been a bit flashier than us,” Georgie explained. “Their cheese is more famous, and their sheep have thicker fleece.”
“It seemed as though no matter what Bertie did, Lettercross was always a step ahead,” Mrs. Penbaker said, shaking her head. “Until the murders, of course. There haven’t been any murders at all in Bramble-in-the-Vale.”
“No Murder Tourists either, I expect,” Sebastian said cheerfully.
Mrs. Penbaker frowned thoughtfully. “That’s where you’re wrong, actually.
A friend of mine runs an inn in Bramble-in-the-Vale, and apparently they’re positively overrun—loads of tourists who want a glimpse of the scenes of the crimes, but who are a bit nervous about staying in Buncombe-upon-Woolly itself, lest they become the next victim.
So, even when Buncombe-upon-Woolly managed to at last accomplish something noteworthy, Bramble-in-the-Vale still benefited. ”
Georgie exchanged a glance with Sebastian, her mind racing.
A village leader with no love lost for Mr. Penbaker. And the money and renown that Murder Tourists could bring… without the actual murders?
It all sounded rather ideal for Bramble-in-the-Vale.