Page 70 of And Then There Was the One
Abigail nodded. “I remember it particularly, becauseIoffered to do a dramatic recitation of ‘The Lady of Shalott’—just as a trial run, so they could see how impressive it would be!—but I was told we were out of time, because it was a minute till two, and we couldn’t run over.”
“So you were done at two,” Georgie said, “and Mrs. Penbaker did not phone Dr. Severin until after four. Leaving two hours between when her meeting ended and when she notified the doctor.”
Severin and Abigail frowned. “That doesn’t make any sense,” Severin said. “She told me she’d just arrived home and found him in that state—I remember it particularly, because she couldn’t tell me when he’d started feeling unwell.”
“Itdoesmake sense,” Georgie said, “if those hours in between were spent poisoning her husband.” She met Severin’s gaze directly. “And I think I know how she did it—and I’m going to get her to confess to it.”
By one o’clock, their plans were in place. Mrs. Penbaker was usually at home eating lunch, after a morning spent at thevillage hall, giving tours of the murder exhibition. They met, as arranged, outside the Shorn Sheep, though Georgie’s thoughts—of poisonous herbs and murderous plots—were derailed briefly when she caught sight of Sebastian. Or, more accurately, Sebastian’s knees.
“What on earth are you wearing?” she demanded, as soon as he approached the pub; he’d returned to Radcliffe Hall to make a telephone call—and, evidently, to change his outfit.
He glanced down at his attire, his expression wounded. “These are my tennis whites.”
“I see that, thank you. Is there a particular reason you’re dressed for an afternoon of sport when we need to go trick a murderess into confessing?”
“Knees,” he said simply, slipping a pair of sunglasses on to complete the air of glamorous-city-boy-gets-a-spot-of-exercise-in-the-country that was positivelythickaround him. A cream-colored summer-weight jumper was tossed casually over his shoulders. He looked as though he should have appeared in a catalogue.
“Knees,” she repeated now, eyeing him suspiciously and determinedlynoteyeing the joints in question.
“Yes,” he said cheerfully. “Ladies love them. You cannotimaginethe things I have got up to after the merest glimpse of my knees in my tennis attire.”
“Charming,” she said shrewishly.
He glanced sideways and slipped his arm through hers. “I’m not getting my hopes up for later today, but I do cherish a small dream that the pattern might continue.”
“If you think that I am the sort of woman to allow you toremove my clothing simply because you prance around looking allgoldenandathletic—”
“You are not doing much to discourage that small dream, Georgie,” he said cheerfully, and tucked her more firmly against his side.
“Be quiet. Do you really think Mrs. Penbaker is going to take one look at your knees and confess her evil plot to us at the drop of a hat?”
“Probably not,” he admitted. “But I’ve learned not to underestimate the allure of a pair of exposed knees on the female brain—or the male one,” he added, with what he clearly considered to be admirable egalitarian spirit.
“Of course not,” she agreed blandly. “I doubt you ever think about muchotherthan knees, in fact.”
He grinned at her and opened his mouth to reply, but at that precise moment, Arthur arrived, Lexington on his heels, preparing to go on an incredibly well-timed and not-at-all-suspicious patrol of the village.
“Hello,” Arthur said, splitting a curious glance between Georgie and Sebastian, who were—she realized belatedly—looking rather cozy. “Ready to go get a confession?”
“Sebastian’s knees are ready, at least,” Georgie said blandly, and then set off at a march down the street, all three men trailing behind her.
Mrs. Penbaker answered the door within a few seconds of Arthur’s knock, her pleasantly curious expression cooling rapidly once she realized who was on her doorstep.
“Oh. Hello.”
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Penbaker,” Arthur said with a nod; he and Georgie had discussed the plan at length and had determined that for their ruse to be convincing, it would be best for him to take the lead. “I hope you don’t mind giving us a few minutes of your time—I’ve recently learned some information that I imagine you’ll be interested to hear.”
Mrs. Penbaker visibly paled at this, but otherwise gave no sign of distress, merely hesitating for a long moment before saying, with a bit of reluctance, “All right. Won’t you come in?”
They followed her into the house, and once she’d closed the door behind them, she said, “I’ll just put the kettle on, shall I? If you’d like to wait in the sitting room—”
“I’m happy to join you in the kitchen,” Sebastian said, his voice entirely pleasant but a note of steel present beneath the politeness.
In a further sign that Mrs. Penbaker had some notion of what was afoot, she merely nodded and allowed them to follow her deeper into the house, which was just as obsessively tidy as it had been on Georgie and Sebastian’s previous clandestine visit. The kitchen was brightly lit and cheerful; there was a blue willow teapot set on the counter, a teacup waiting next to it. Mrs. Penbaker crossed to the hob and lit it, then turned back to face Georgie, Arthur, and Sebastian, crossing her arms over her chest in a posture that looked instinctively defensive. “What brings you here today?”
Arthur cleared his throat. “We are here because I have received a tip that you are shortly to be arrested for your husband’s murder.”
To Arthur’s credit, he managed to avoid any unnecessary melodrama while leveling this accusation; he stated it simply, without any great fanfare, and it was all the more effective as a result. Mrs. Penbaker, meanwhile, went very still; she did not move an inch from her position by the stove, her face rather paler than usual.
