The Last Night in London by Karen White (reading list .TXT) 📕

edge, the white border of the print conspicuously missing. “This reminds me of something my sisters did to photos of them and their exes. They’d cut out the boyfriend instead of destroying the photo because they were good shots of my sisters.”

“And you never did that?” Arabella said absently, digging through the box.

“Hardly. Mostly because I’m the one who does the jilting.” I plucked up another photograph from the top, one of Precious seated at a white-clothed table, a glass of something raised to her darkened lips. “Although, since these belonged to Sophia, that theory doesn’t really makes sense, does it?”

“No, not really.”

“You know,” I said, running my finger down the smooth edge of the photo, “I don’t think the damage to these photographs was done in anger—it was more of a planned thing.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, they’re not torn, are they? This looks like it was done very calmly. Assuming it was Sophia, it looks like she had time to think about what she was doing. And it’s so precise. My guess is she even used scissors.”

“Have you found the other halves?” Arabella leaned over and picked up one of the smaller black-and-white photos.

“No, but I haven’t gone through everything here yet.”

Arabella nodded, studying the photograph in her hand. It showed Precious from the waist up, her head nearly hidden by a hat with an enormous brim. A dark-haired man in a black silk top hat, a waisted black coat, and a white cravat stood next to her. They were both looking into the camera, and Precious was smiling the kind of smile that made me think of a woman thrilled with her life.

The man was smiling, too, but it had nothing to do with joy or happiness. It was a smile someone planning to rob a bank might have worn, part cunning, part deception. As I looked closer, I couldn’t help but think he had the look of a satisfied squirrel, one who’d hidden all of his acorns and wasn’t planning to share.

“It looks like they’re at Ascot! But that man—who do you suppose he is? Definitely not Graham—wrong hair—and I don’t think it’s Sophia’s David, either. But he’s a looker for sure.” Arabella grinned at me, excited. “Have you looked in all the hatboxes? Silk top hats like he’s got on here are rare—they’re made from hatters’ plush, and there just aren’t any looms capable of producing that material anymore. Vintage models in good condition can go for tens of thousands of pounds. I would kill to have one for the exhibition.”

“I haven’t come across one, but be my guest. I was more interested in these photographs. I’d love to know why Sophia would have cut them.”

“How peculiar,” Arabella said, turning over a picture of Precious, with a darker blond woman who looked like Sophia, leaning against an old-fashioned car. “I wonder why they weren’t thrown away. I mean, they’re all damaged, so it’s not like they can be framed or put in albums, so why keep them?”

“I agree.” I took the photos from Arabella and put them back in the hatbox.

“By the way,” she said, leaning across the table, “Aunt Penelope called me yesterday. Her friend Hyacinth Ponsonby from the WI volunteers at the National Archives, and Penelope said Hyacinth is thrilled—her exact word—to help dig for information on Colin’s great-uncle Graham. A lot of new information has recently been released to the public, and Hyacinth is very excited to delve into the mystery. Aunt Penelope did say she was scolded for not having asked sooner. Even explaining that Colin’s father never heard Graham’s name mentioned while growing up didn’t exonerate Penelope’s oversight. Apparently, genealogy is Hyacinth’s passion, and she says that Colin’s branch of the St. John family is quite illustrious. Sadly, unless he has children, he’s the last of them. And at this rate, I’m not sure that’s ever going to happen.”

“I have to ask—what is the WI? And is Hyacinth Ponsonby a real person, or did you just make that up? If I were writing a cozy British mystery, I’d probably use that name for the old lady who accidentally solves the murder. I bet she has cats, too.”

Arabella let out a heavy sigh. “The WI is the Women’s Institute—a women’s organization that provides a lot of services to the community. It’s been around for ages and was virtually mandatory if you lived in the country during the war. The WI made sure the home front was operating efficiently, that gardens were growing food, not flowers, and all sorts of other things. Penelope and my mother are members. So am I, but I don’t have a lot of time for meetings. Mother said at the last one, one of the members made a fruitcake in the shape of a corgi in honor of the queen’s birthday.”

“Wow. Sorry I missed that.”

“Me, too.” She plucked a yellowed clipping from the table and handed it to me. “Oh—look at this! It’s from The Tatler, July 1939. Really just a huge gossip rag then and now, but very illuminating.”

I looked at her. “Illuminating?”

“Yes. A recent headline accused Meghan Markle of being the next Wallis Simpson, which I thought rather brilliant. But that’s not what I’m referring to.” With a manicured finger, Arabella tapped on the clipping page. “Recognize the photo?”

I frowned down at it, wondering why it seemed so familiar. Then, brightening, I straightened. “Of course—it’s Sophia’s wedding photo. Still without the entire wedding party.” I tried to keep the disappointment out of my voice.

“True,” she said. “But look—it lists names of those in attendance.”

I quickly scanned the paragraphs printed beneath the photograph.

Miss Sophia St. John of Hovenden Park in Guildford and Mr. David Eliot of Stoke-on-Trent were married at the bride’s home on the 10th of July. Bridesmaids were Miss Eva Harlow of Devon and Miss Jeanne Dubose of Memphis. The groom’s best man was the bride’s brother, Mr. Graham St. John. Also in attendance was fellow Harrovian Alexander Grof of Prague.

“Well,” I said, “we now