Page 53 of And Then There Was the One
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
All right,” Arthur said a couple of hours later from his perch on the arm of the sofa in the drawing room at Radcliffe Hall. “What do we know so far?”
Georgie and Sebastian had returned home after leaving Miss Halifax’s, and had placed a quick telephone call to Arthur, who had materialized within ten minutes, lured in no small part by the promise of a Sunday roast, courtesy of Mrs. Fawcett. The meal was over now, however, and Papa had retreated to his study, while Abigail vanished upstairs, leaving Georgie, Sebastian, and Arthur to hole up in the drawing room to confer. Sebastian had charmed his way into being left with an entire tin of biscuits, and he was now munching them happily, hip propped against the bar, legs crossed at the ankles, the very picture of contentment.
Georgie, feeling a bit like a schoolgirl who had been called upon in class, straightened and raised a finger. “First, we knowthat Mr. Penbaker had, until recently, a mistress.” A second finger. “Second, we know that he had a wife who may or may not have been aware of the existence of the mistress.” Another finger. “And third, we know that there were no witnesses to his sudden heart problems, until his wife returned home—alone—and he died shortly thereafter.”
“Fourth,” Arthur continued, “we know that he was apparently a complete tosser. I can’t believe we let this idiot run our village council foryears.”
“No one else on the council had the energy to argue with him, I expect,” Georgie said darkly. Mr. Penbaker had been a bit of a shock to the village politics when he’d taken up the role of council chairman five years earlier, after the previous, long-serving chairman had stepped down to spend his golden years knitting sweaters for his seven spoiled whippets. Mr. Penbaker had enthralled the electorate with all his talk of increasing tourism to the village and making it a hot spot for well-heeled Londoners looking to spend a weekend engaging in wholesome countryside pursuits, though in practice his schemes had been considerably more unhinged than promised.
Georgie sighed, rubbing her temples. “The point is, after all we’ve learned, we’re left with one obvious suspect.”
“The wife?” Sebastian asked, polishing off another biscuit.
“Yes.” Georgie shook her head. “Who seems a plausible candidate to have murdered her husband, but we need to somehow prove that hewasmurdered, which seems a bit of a tall order, since no one else in the village seems remotely concerned by his sudden death.”
“Georgie,” Arthur said, sounding a bit uneasy. “Do you think it’s possible…” He trailed off.
“What?” Georgie asked sharply.
“Well, we don’tknowthat Penbaker was murdered. You might be looking for a crime where there hasn’t been one.”
“I am aware of that,” Georgie said evenly. “Which is why Sebastian is here, if you’ll recall.”
“But it’s beendays—”
“Four days.”
“—and we’ve not uncovered anything to suggest—”
“Mysteries don’t get solved in a day, Arthur!” Georgie snapped, crossing her arms over her chest and feeling oddly defensive. “They take work! You should know this—it’s not as if your articles materialize overnight! If you’re too busy with other stories to help us, that’s fine, butweare going to continue investigating.”
“I never said I didn’t want to help.” Irritation crept into Arthur’s voice. “But I do have ajobto do, and I was just asking—”
“You were just asking if we’re all wasting our time here,” Georgie snapped. “And I don’t like the implication!”
“Georgie,” Sebastian said quietly, “I don’t think Crawley was trying toimplyanything.”
“He was,” Georgie insisted, feeling her cheeks heating in the way they only did when she got properly upset. One of her least favorite traits in herself was the fact that she cried when she was angry; it felt weak and stupid, but it was almost impossible to control, and she could tell by the prickling at the corners of her eyes and the burning at the back of her throat that she was close to tears now. “But if there’s the slightest chancethat there’s something that’s been missed, then it’sour dutyto work out who’s behind it—”
“It’s not, though,” Arthur said shortly.
Georgie stared at him. “What do you mean?”
“I mean it’s notourduty. We’re not policemen.”
“But this is important,” Georgie insisted. “It’s our village—our home. We can’t let it turn into a… a crime-ridden cesspool of sin and vice!”
In unison, Arthur and Sebastian craned their heads around to take in their cozy surroundings, the worn furniture, the lingering smell of recently baked biscuits. There was a wireless tucked on a shelf, playing the BBC; a couple of windows were open, letting in the fresh air, late-evening sunlight spilling in and casting their surroundings in a golden glow. The smell of roses wafted in from the back garden. Faintly in the distance, Ernest could be heard baaing.
Still in unison, they turned back to look at Georgie, who waved her hand impatiently.
“All right, I’ll grant you that it’s not exactly Whitechapel,” she admitted. “But still!” She glared at Arthur accusingly. “I thoughtyouof all people would be just as eager to get to the bottom of this—you’re certainly building quite a reputation for yourself based on all your articles!”
“I never said I wasn’t,” Arthur said. “Especially seeing as…” He trailed off, looking suddenly a bit shifty in a way that Georgie recognized, given that she’d known him since he was five years old, and had known him to commit more than one minor crime over the course of their childhood.
“Seeing as what?” she asked suspiciously.
