Chapter Twenty #2
“Horrifying,” Harvey declared. “I cannot believe such things are happening here. But I hope you feel comforted, Penelope, by the fact that we now have police detectives from London on the case too. No one will dare shoot anyone else.”
“I hope not,” Constance said.
Penelope cast her another nervous glance. “I’m sure you are right, sir. I’m afraid I must be off—”
“You won’t have tea?” Mrs. Harvey asked in apparent surprise.
“Thank you, but no. I have another delivery to make before dinner. I just wanted to make sure for myself…” Penelope rose somewhat jerkily from her chair. “No, please don’t get up,” she said quickly to Solomon, already backing away to the door.
Constance stood, following her ruthlessly. “Since you are here, perhaps I might consult you on a private matter, Miss Owens? It will only take a moment.”
“My father—” she began.
“Is not here,” Constance pointed out, opening the door and ushering her out.
She gave Penelope no opportunity to elude her, taking her by the arm and all but marching her across the hall and into the empty morning room, where she closed the door and leaned against it.
Penelope was trying to look unconcerned, though her hands shook as she twisted them together. “I am hardly a doctor, Mrs. Grey. On medical matters, I am not qualified to consult—”
“It is not a medical matter,” Constance said. “I am sparing you the pain of questioning you in front of the Harveys. And giving you the chance to explain yourself—before I ask Inspector Harris to charge you with the attempted murder of my husband.”
Penelope let out an almost inhuman moan and collapsed backward into the nearest chair, burying her face in her hands.
Until that moment, Constance had not been completely sure her theory was correct.
“Pull yourself together,” she said with deliberate contempt.
“It was my husband who came within an inch of death, not you, and I don’t have the luxury of dissolving into such a pathetic state. Why did you try to kill him?”
“I was trying so hard not to kill him,” Penelope wailed, though at least she dropped her hands from her tear-streaked face. “God forgive me, I meant to miss!”
“What kind of weapon did you use?”
“My father’s pistol,” Penlope whispered.
“Had you used it before?”
“My father taught me to shoot with it years ago, at targets he set up on Channing Meadow. He said I had a good eye, and I did. I hit the old bottles on rocks, the paper targets tied to trees. So I was sure I could shoot precisely where I meant to.”
“My husband’s head?”
Penelope gasped. “Near his head! He was standing still, talking to you. It should have been simple. But I saw him fall and I was so frightened I fled!”
“You fled,” Constance repeated. “Without seeing if you could help the man you had just shot, but taking the time to place the torn piece of Mrs. Jenkins’s dress in order to implicate her. I don’t think you were as frightened as all that.”
“I was! I put the rag there before I fired the shot!”
“Why?” Constance snapped back.
Penelope blinked. “Why?”
“Why did you try to implicate Mrs. Jenkins?”
Penelope gazed at her in silence. Twice, she parted her lips as though she would speak, but on both occasions shut them again.
“Because Percy Harvey preferred her to you?” Constance said.
Penelope was no fool. Her eyes widened and expressions of temptation and resentment and fear flickered there.
Admitting to being motivated by Percy’s obsession with the other woman would certainly detract from any secret longing she harbored for Everett.
On the other hand, it would give her a reason for Percy’s murder.
“Everyone preferred her to me, or to any other woman in the county,” she said at last, and there was a certain bitter truth in her voice. “Percy was an indiscriminate rake of no value to me.”
“But he did flirt with you?”
“He didn’t know any other way to treat a female.”
“Was he ever…inappropriately physical in his flirting?”
She hesitated. “Once. But he was easily distracted.”
“By what?”
“The unexpected appearance of my father. Or perhaps by the elbow that struck his face as I turned away from him. Either way, it was the only time he troubled me. I had no reason to shoot him.”
She probably didn’t. Although she had just provided a very good motive for her father.
“Then why did you shoot at us?” Constance asked, holding the younger woman’s gaze.
Penelope closed her eyes, as though that was the only way she could free herself from Constance.
Her throat worked. “Because I knew you suspected Sir Felix. He told us you had been to Larchwood, asking impertinent questions. I thought if a shot fired near you, while Sir Felix was clearly elsewhere—and he was—you would have to change your suspicions.”
“And why not move them onto Adelaide Jenkins?” Constance said affably. “Thus killing two birds with one shot, as it were.”
A tinge of color crept into Penelope’s pale cheeks. And at last she opened her eyes, tilting her chin with a hint of revived spirit. “I found the fabric on a bramble bush by the canal and took it with me on impulse. I didn’t see why she shouldn’t suffer a little of what Sir Felix did.”
Constance stared at her. “My dear girl, my husband was the one who suffered. Have you any idea of the tragedy you so nearly caused? You fired a pistol in our direction. If my husband had died, you would hang.”
Penelope’s eyes dilated. Constance was furiously glad of her fear. The girl needed it.
“We can still make charges against you. Believe me, I am considering it. You are not God, Penelope. You’re a silly, lovesick girl who stole a weapon you had no idea how to use, whatever you imagined.
My children would have been fatherless. Your father would have no daughter, just the shame of your disgrace.
And I very much doubt Sir Felix would be thanking you for any of it. ”
The girl was already ashamed and afraid of her own actions. Constance thought she had probably said enough.
She turned and walked to the door.
“Will you tell the policemen?” Penelope blurted.
“I will certainly not waste their time by lying. You may have a visit from them. But you must tell the truth.” Constance went out, leaving the door wide open.