Page 58 of And Then There Was the One
Old tax records.
Copies of letters sent to Mr. Penbaker’s mother.
“This is sodull,” Georgie said despairingly, waving about an unsent letter to the editor of theRegisteron the topic of the disappointing decision not to use Ernest in the St. Drogo’s Christmas pageant.
“Speak for yourself,” Sebastian murmured, his attention fixed upon the letter in his hand. “Did you know that Penbaker was obsessed with Fitzgibbons’s capture of the Acton Arsenic Ring? This is a draft of a fan letter.”
“No, but it doesn’t surprise me,” Georgie said. “He has opined at length in the past about how much he admires men with bushy mustaches.”
“This village is fascinating.”
“I’m so glad you think so. You can’t imagine how much we dream of entertaining shiny-shoed tourists from London.”
“To be fair, I think that you collectively do, it’s just that you personally don’t.”
This was not inaccurate: Georgie was a confirmed curmudgeon.
She glanced down at the letter before her, noting the fact that the letter ‘O’ appeared consistently filled with a small smudge of ink each time it was used. It must have been a quirk that the typewriter developed over time, she thought; a quick glance at another letter in the folder sent from Mr. Penbaker revealed the same distinctive O. “There doesn’t seem to be anything interesting here,” she said, trying to keep a note of frustration from her voice. They had committed a crime, and to no apparent end.
“I suppose not,” he agreed, but his brow was slightly furrowed, and his tone was a bit absent. “It would be an awful lot easier to solve this case, you know, if we were certain that Penbakerwasmurdered.”
“I am aware,” Georgie said testily, taking a sip of her cider.
“How many poisons are there that mimic the symptoms of a heart attack?” Sebastian asked, glancing up from the papers again. “If we had a list, perhaps we could work out which the likeliest candidate was.”
“A fair few,” Georgie said, tipping her head to the side thoughtfully. “There’s cyanide… and hemlock…”
“Perhaps we should summon Miss de Vere and Miss Singh,” he said with a grin. “They’re fresh off the heels of their tour of the poison garden, after all, and Miss Singh was taking copious notes.”
“She was,” Georgie agreed, and then paused, considering.“Though… was she, actually? I thought she and Miss de Vere had already toured the poison garden. Multiple times, even.”
Sebastian shrugged. “No doubt trying to learn as much as possible, so the next time a corpse pops up, they’re ready to identify the poison that was used.” He shook his head admiringly. “One has to admit, they’re very passionate.”
“Yes,” Georgie said, her mind turning. “The next time a corpse pops up,” she repeated, frowning unseeingly down into her drink. Then, she looked up at Sebastian. “Isn’t that exactly what Miss Singh said?”
His brow wrinkled. “What?”
“Didn’t shejustsay something about ‘next time a corpse pops up’? When we saw them at the poison garden?”
“Er. Something along those lines, yes.”
“And,” Georgie said, growing the slightest bit agitated, “don’t you thinktheywould benefit, were there to suddenly be a corpse? Who here is most eager for there to be another murder?”
“The Murder Tourists,” he said, comprehension dawning.
“The Murder Tourists,” she agreed. “Who are frequently around, unknown to any of us, and desperate for another crime to investigate.” She shook her head, excited. “Oh God, why didn’t I think of it before? Some of them—like Miss de Vere and Miss Singh—have been to visitmultiple times—and they’ve definitely been here when the last two murders occurred! What if they were so inspired by last year’s crimes that they’re willing to take matters into their own hands so that they could witness an investigation up close?”
“That’s a bit of a stretch, don’t you think?” Sebastian asked.
Georgie, however, was thinking, her mind churning through everything she’d learned in the past several days. “Have you noticed that Miss de Vere and Miss Singh get a bit shifty whenever we ask them how long they plan to stay? And Miss de Vere is supposed to be engaged, but I’ve yet to hear her mention her fiancé by name—wouldn’t you think he’d eventually wonder where she’s run off to?”
“They rescued us from that godforsaken cellar,” Sebastian pointed out.
“All the better to make them look like the heroines in one of Mrs. Christie’s novels.”
“Or Miss Sayers’s. I think I prefer hers—I tell you, that Harriet Vane—”
“Sebastian,” Georgie asked, “do youreallythink this is the time?”
