Chapter Twelve #2
Sebastian raised a hand to stop her. “I think that simply citing ‘an unnamed source among the police’ should be sufficient—wouldn’t it, Crawley?” He glanced at Arthur, who was still scribbling away.
Arthur nodded, a bit reluctantly. “This should be a good enough scoop without naming names.”
Sebastian nodded, satisfied. “And then, of course, the only other matter would be to answer any questions that Miss Radcliffe might have for you and your father. Just until she is reassured that you don’t pose any further risk to the public—unless you’d prefer her to telephone the police, and see what questions they have for you instead? ”
Both Lettercrosses shook their heads vehemently at this, and Sebastian took a sip of tea, looking pleased with himself.
“What questions could you possibly have for me?” Mr. Lettercross asked, having recovered sufficiently to look indignant. “I am not responsible for my daughter’s illicit journalism career, or for whatever misguided choices she might have made—”
“Oh, I like that!” interjected Miss Lettercross, sounding very annoyed.
“I make it a point to never count on a man to stick with you when you find yourself in a tight spot,” Miss de Vere advised, with the air of someone providing sage counsel to the king.
“Aren’t you engaged?” Miss Lettercross asked, glancing at the emerald on Miss de Vere’s left hand.
“And therefore speak from experience,” Miss de Vere said smoothly, and Miss Lettercross slumped, apparently unable to think of a satisfying reply.
“I’m curious,” Georgie said to Mr. Lettercross, “about your relationship with Mr. Penbaker.”
“Bertie?” Mr. Lettercross looked surprised—genuinely so, Georgie thought. “Well, we used to be the closest of friends, but I won’t deny that we grew apart in recent years.”
“Because you were each obsessed with besting the other’s village?” Georgie pressed.
Mr. Lettercross leaned forward, all wounded outrage.
“Certainly not! Bramble-in-the-Vale is a long-standing destination for refined Londoners with taste—and an appreciation for the finest cheeses,” he added, with a canny look at Sebastian and the Murder Tourists.
“And on that note, I don’t know if you’ve had the chance yet to try the offerings at the Great Stilton—”
“If you could try to stay on topic,” Georgie interrupted.
“My point is, Buncombe-upon-Woolly isn’t our rival—the very notion is insulting!”
“Hmm,” Georgie said skeptically. “And I suppose you didn’t rejoice when the murders started occurring in Buncombe-upon-Woolly, drawing visitors to your village, too?”
“Certainly not!” Mr. Lettercross said, attempting a look of wounded innocence. “I am a moral, upstanding citizen! I care for my fellow man! Unlike Bertie Penbaker,” he added darkly.
Georgie’s brows knit. “What do you mean?”
Mr. Lettercross looked uncomfortable. “I wouldn’t really wish to say, with ladies present.”
“Oh, you needn’t worry about us,” Miss de Vere said. “We’re very good eavesdroppers, and you simply wouldn’t believe the sorts of things men have said when they didn’t realize we were listening.” Next to her, Miss Singh was nodding eagerly.
“And I have personally walked into a bedroom to discover a corpse with a bloody knife still stuck in its chest. I promise, you do not need to worry about my delicate sensibilities,” Georgie added.
“The Mistletoe Murder at Radcliffe Hall!” Miss Singh whispered to Miss de Vere, looking impressed.
“That was my name for it!” Miss Lettercross said, sounding pleased to hear her work being cited.
“For Christ’s sake,” Arthur muttered.
“Penbaker was not a faithful husband!” Lettercross burst out, and then cast an apologetic look at the Murder Tourists.
“How do you know?” Georgie asked, frowning.
“Well, as I mentioned, we used to be friends,” Lettercross said a bit sullenly.
“And I know that early in his marriage there was someone…. She moved away from the village and married someone else. But when I was in Buncombe-upon-Woolly last August for the cheese festival, I popped by the council offices to say hello to Bertie—pay my respects, you know, a friend and colleague—”
“He wanted to gloat,” Miss Lettercross said with an eye roll, “about Bramble-in-the-Vale being named the Cotswolds’ Most Beautiful Village for the third year in a row.”
“That’s quite enough from you, Meg,” Lettercross said, with a reproving look at his daughter.
“Don’t like it when you’re the one being reported on by the journalist in the family, eh?” Sebastian observed idly. Lettercross glowered.
“My point is,” Lettercross said, “I popped in unannounced, and saw that there was no one about—too much cheese to eat!—but Bertie’s door was cracked, and I thought I might just peek inside, but he was in there with some floozy!”
“A floozy,” Georgie repeated. “I don’t suppose you’d care to elaborate?”
Lettercross shrugged. “I didn’t get a good look at her face—dark hair? Wearing a dress?”
This could describe three-quarters of the women in Buncombe-upon-Woolly, and so was not precisely helpful.
“Why are the women always called floozies in these situations?” Miss de Vere asked. “Why isn’t Mr. Penbaker a—a—”
“A man-floozy!” Miss Singh suggested, looking pleased with herself.
“I was hoping for something a bit pithier.”
“Ah.” Miss Singh deflated slightly. “You’re the one who’s good at that sort of thing, Stella.”
“I shall think about it and get back to you,” Miss de Vere informed the room, and lapsed into thoughtful silence.
“So you saw Mr. Penbaker in a compromising situation with an unnamed woman,” Georgie said; for all that she agreed with Miss de Vere’s objection regarding the phrasing, this was undeniably the best clue they’d stumbled across yet.
Perhaps this trip to Bramble-in-the-Vale hadn’t been an entirely wasted excursion.
“Yes,” Lettercross said simply. “Whereas I promise you, I have never been unfaithful.”
Miss Lettercross rolled her eyes again. “My mother died when I was a baby,” she said to Georgie. “So please don’t imagine that he’s had to exercise any great willpower.”
Lettercross flushed. “That’s not the point. The point is—”
“Yes, yes,” Georgie said, growing a bit weary of this entire conversation, her head aching from whatever sleeping powder Miss Lettercross had given her.
“The point is, you’re an upstanding citizen and while you’re not above capitalizing on our misfortune, you certainly don’t rejoice in it.
” She spoke the words a bit wryly, since she was fairly certain he would joyfully welcome another corpse materializing any day now.
However, despite the initial suspicions that had brought them to Bramble-in-the-Vale, she somehow couldn’t believe that he’d had anything to do with Mr. Penbaker’s death—he didn’t strike her as any sort of great criminal mind.
“Now,” she said, settling back in her seat, “I think it’s time, Miss Lettercross, that you got to talking—Mr. Crawley, after all, has an exclusive to write.”