The Sleuthing Starlet Mysteries

by Bianca Blythe

  Could Mrs. Ardingley have made a chandelier come down?

  Cora sighed.

  No.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Hello, ladies.” Signor Palombi waved to Cora and Mrs. Ardingley from the other side of the hallway.

  Mrs. Ardingley frowned. “It’s that beastly Italian. And his dog.”

  Archibald raced toward them, wagging his tail with as much eagerness as he moved his legs. He stopped before the wheelchair

  “One of the few good qualities of this place was always the lack of a dog running about and spreading all manner of germs,” Mrs. Ardingley said, placing her hands on the wheels. “Go away! Shoo!”

  Archibald’s tail did not cease wagging, and he sniffed about Mrs. Archibald’s feet.

  “Dogs seem either terrified or delighted with my chair,” Mrs. Ardingley said, her voice strained. “I’m afraid Archibald belongs to the latter quality of beasts. Far too curious.”

  “Archibald!” Signor Palombi said. “Come back.”

  Archibald continued to lick Mrs. Ardingley’s legs, and for a moment, it seemed that her leg moved.

  Cora blinked.

  That couldn’t be right.

  “Well, I should be going.” Mrs. Ardingley put her hands on her wheels and rolled away quickly.

  Cora stared after her. Was it possible Mrs. Ardingley had the use of her legs after all? But why would she be in a chair? She’d had the impression that Mrs. Ardingley was paralyzed.

  “Miss Clarke,” Signor Palombi said. “I see you do not share Mrs. Ardingley’s unease with dogs.”

  “She was tired.”

  “I appreciate the attempt at a lie. The English can be trying, no?”

  “But there are many people here who are not English,” Cora said.

  “Yes, you are American,” Signor Palombi said.

  “And you are Italian.”

  Some expression Cora couldn’t place flitted across the man’s face, but he soon gave a cocky smile. “Certo. Though...” He paused, and Cora found herself leaning forward. “Archibald is English.”

  The dog tilted his head upward, as if unsure about the veracity of the signore’s statement.

  “He is adorable,” Cora said. “Amidst all this uncertainty.”

  Signor Palombi’s eyes softened. “Would you like to hold him?”

  “Oh, I suppose—”

  Signor Palombi scooped Archibald up and placed him in Cora’s arms.

  Cora stroked Archibald’s fur. The curly white locks felt silky beneath her touch, and Archibald gave her his paw.

  Cora shook Archibald’s paw, noting the leathery texture.

  “His nails need clipped,” Signor Palombi said apologetically. “I’ve been traveling.”

  “A nice trip?” Cora asked.

  “Indeed.”

  “Which part of Italy are you from?” Cora asked.

  “Are you very familiar with the country?”

  “I’ve never been there.”

  Though Pop is from there.

  “I’m from the pretty part,” the Italian said. “Vineyards and ocean. Multo bellissimo.”

  “Tuscany?” Cora ventured.

  He beamed. “Exactimento.”

  She blinked.

  Her father had said esattamente or sometimes just esatto.

  But perhaps the Italian language had simply changed since her father had last been there.

  “I hope you were able to conduct some of your discussions with the duke before his death.”

  “The trip was not entirely worthless.”

  “What is the exact nature of your business?”

  “Imports, exports.”

  “Weapons?”

  The word hung in the air, and Signor Palombi frowned. “What makes you ask that?”

  “Just a hunch.”

  “Those can be dangerous, young lady.”

  “I was simply curious,” she said.

  “Hmph. Death does make one contemplative.”

  “It is horrible what happened.” She assessed the man’s face. Would she find a flicker of guilt?

  But the man simply frowned and fixed a stern stare on Cora. “Any death is tragic. But it would be perhaps a mistake to assume that all deaths are equally tragic.”

  “No one should die before their time.”

  “I agree,” he said, his voice firmer than she would have imagined. He had not seemed to espouse a desire for justice for the late duke. “But accidents happen, do they not? I assume you’ve dropped something in the past. Even if you’re still very much in your youth.”

  “Well—”

  “Perhaps you’ve even heard something fall before, when no one dismantled it and crushed it into the space below.”

  Cora’s cheeks flamed. “Naturally. Where were you when you heard the duke’s scream?”

  “What a curious question.”

  “We Americans aren’t known for being subtle,” she said.

  Signor Palombi’s lips twitched. “No, you are not. I was in my room. You saw me when you came up the stairs, did you not?”

  “Yes,” Cora said.

  “I suppose you want to know if I killed him.”

  “Did you?”

  “That was meant to be a rhetorical question.” He shrugged. “You Americans really are not subtle.”

  “I did warn you,” Cora said.

  He smiled. “So you did. No, I did not kill the duke. I had only just met him.”

  It was tempting to make an excuse to leave, but Cora refused to do so.

  Not when asking Signor Palombi questions might help Veronica.

  “How was your business meeting with him?”

  “We hadn’t had it yet.”

  “Why were you in his library shortly before his murder?”

  He was silent.

  This time she did see a flicker of emotion cross his face.

  It was of guilt and fear.

  He raised his chin though. “I was going to meet him there.”

  A door opened behind Cora, and Signor Palombi grabbed Archibald.

  “I shouldn’t keep you.” Signor Palombi strolled away from Cora quickly. She turned around and saw him enter his room. Whoever had opened the door had disappeared, and Cora frowned.

  Who except Signor Palombi would be in his room? The maid?

  Cora hesitated for a moment, but no sound came from behind the thick wooden doors.

  Not that I should be eavesdropping.

  This wasn’t one of the Gal Detective films.

  Cora wrapped her arms around herself.

  The one thing she was certain of was that Signor Palombi was not what he seemed.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Miss Clarke!” A voice bellowed across the corridor, and the dowager duchess strode into view.

  Her auburn hair was partially obscured by her veil, which extended to cover her face.

  “I heard you interrogated my son,” said the dowager duchess.

  “He showed me the barn.”

  “Apparently you asked him many questions.”

  “Just conversation, your grace.”

  “I do not appreciate it. That boy does not understand how easy it is for him to get into the papers.”

  Cora glanced at the other doors. Who might be listening behind one of them?

  “Perhaps we should talk in a more private setting.”

  “Very well, Miss Clarke.” The dowager duchess marched into a small sewing room off the corridor, with Cora following behind, and then sat down. Her back remained rigid, as if she wore an old-fashioned corset, despite the fact that even the most traditional women’s magazines had likely long since ceased advocating their use.

  She exuded elegance.

  Cora sat on a chair opposite.

  Somehow, Cora had assumed she would know what to say. One could hardly begin a conversation by asking a woman if she’d happened to murder her husband. Some things were not appropriate, no matter what class one belonged to, and undoubtedly the duchess had a
refined knowledge of what questions belonged to the strictures of decorum.

  Last night the action might have caused the duchess to arch an eyebrow, but at the moment her eyebrows remained in place. Her eyes seemed vacant, as if they were not seeing Cora, but perhaps reliving happening upon the scene of her husband’s death.

  The dowager was the first to break the silence. “Who did my son think was guilty?”

  “He didn’t know.”

  The dowager duchess sniffed. “Well, Edmund never was the intelligent sort. Or the athletic sort or even the partying sort for that matter. It’s obvious who killed him.”

  “It wasn’t Veronica. She barely knew him.”

  “You should have heard the way my late husband spoke about her. She would have been clever to hasten the end of his life if she wanted to remain married to Edmund.”

  “I assure you that Veronica is no murderess.”

  The dowager duchess sighed. “Perhaps. Though you should feel sorry for my son. He got entrapped by that horrid actress.”

  “If you could just detail the events of last night. Perhaps you remember something that might be helpful.”

  “That’s the sort of question a constable might ask.”

  “Then consider it practice.”

  The dowager duchess shrugged. “It really was all terribly dull. Horace was arguing and making a dreadful fool of himself all through dinner. It was quite unpleasant.”

  “Was that unusual?”

  “No, though it had become rare for him to have the opportunity to act unpleasantly before so many people at once.”

  “Did you go straight to bed after dinner?”

  “Yes.”

  “And how was the duke’s mood?”

  “Bad.” The dowager shrugged. “Not that that was unusual.”

  “Did you see or hear anything last night?” Cora asked.

  “No.” The dowager duchess frowned.

  “But you were in the room beside him. Surely you must have—”

  “I didn’t,” said the dowager.

  “Did you go outside? Perhaps on your balcony?”

  The dowager duchess’s eyes drifted to the side. “Of course not.”

  “It’s just—” Cora wavered, wondering how much she should say. She was supposed to nod and act demurely. She was fairly certain she was not even supposed to venture into the duchess’s room, lest the dowager duchess miss some stitches on her embroidery.

  But it didn’t matter.

  She was not some debutante, anxious to win the duchess’s approval.

  She was an American, and the sort already presumed to possess poor habits.

  “Your grace,” Cora said, more determinedly. “I saw snow on your slippers.”

  She was glad she’d faced the dowager, noting how her eyes widened.

  The action could not have taken more than a second, before the duchess resumed her look of casual nonchalance. She sipped her tea, seeming to savor it, even though it must have been placed in the room following breakfast, long enough for the temperature to fall to an unpleasantly cool degree, and long enough for the milk to taste worrisomely unappealing.

  “You must have been mistaken,” the dowager said.

  “I was not,” Cora said. “I was an actress. My memory is excellent.”

  “I see.” The dowager took another lengthy sip. The china clattered when she returned the cup to the saucer. “I do remember. I was outside. But it was inconsequential.”

  “Why were you outside?”

  “I desired some fresh air.”

  “In the courtyard?”

  “Nonsense. Simply my balcony.”

  Cora nodded, as if the information were indeed inconsequential, but she hadn’t realized that the duchess and the duke shared a balcony. She could have slipped in and murdered him. Perhaps she’d done so.

  “Your balcony extends to the late duke’s room.”

  The dowager sniffed. “I assure you I did not sneak to his room like some besotted ingénue, intent on being deflowered to be able to boast about my sophistication to the other girls. I knew the duke. Heavens, I married that man. There was nothing to be besotted about.”

  “And angry about?”

  The dowager lowered her gaze and took another lengthy sip of her tea. “We had a good marriage. A proper marriage.”

  “A happy one?”

  The dowager duchess sighed and gestured about the room. “Do you see anything here to be unhappy about?”

  The marble busts and gilt-framed portraits seemed to stare back.

  Everything was perfect.

  “I thought not,” said the dowager with a condescending smile. “You Americans value money.”

  “But did you love your husband?” Cora asked.

  “Darling, does anyone love their husband?” This time the mirth that danced in the dowager’s eyes was unmistakable. “This is life, my dear. Not whatever fanciful notion you know from some script. He made me wealthy. He gave me a healthy son and provided for him. I was content. I’d be a fool not to be.” The duchess frowned. “Do you know what life was like in Czechoslovakia? Do you know what life is even like there now?”

  “Did you have an argument with the duke last night?”

  “He was my husband. Naturally we did.”

  “What did you argue about?”

  She sighed. “I thought he was too harsh on Edmund. The boy never cared for dogs. No reason to humiliate him. Horace was distressed at the whims of the younger generation. He thought Edmund’s bride utterly unsuitable.”

  “I see. But you thought otherwise?”

  “She’s horrid. One only had to take a cursory glance at her to determine that she was far too young and famous for him. And her past! It was a great torment that our son did not have the good taste or analytical capability to recognize it. But perhaps there are some benefits to the marriage. He can start with the business of procuring an heir and some spares. At least Veronica’s features are pleasing, even if her heritage is no better than any of the chamber maids.”

  “What did you think about your husband’s business affairs?”

  “They’re none of my concern.”

  “You mentioned that you came from Czechoslovakia.”

  “I’ve been living in England for decades.”

  “Yet do you have an opinion on your husband’s eagerness to capitalize on Germany’s desire to rearm itself? That must be worrisome for you.”

  “Miss Clarke.” The dowager duchess inhaled sharply. “Horace is my late husband, and I cannot comment on any of his business dealings. It would not be appropriate for me to do so in any case.”

  “And what about personal matters?” Cora asked.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Were you having an affair?”

  The dowager duchess pressed her lips into a firm line. “That is none of your business. Not that anyone would have blamed me.”

  “You seemed to be very cozy with Signor Palombi.”

  “Nonsense.” She met Cora’s gaze defiantly, but the dowager duchess’s shocked tone seemed forced.

  “Did you know him before?”

  “Signor Palombi? Naturally not.” The dowager’s skin grew pink.

  “And the balcony—would it be possible for any other person to access it? Is not his room beside yours?”

  “I won’t tolerate this interrogation.”

  “I’m only trying to have a better idea of what happened.”

  “Whatever happened did not involve Signor Palombi. Of that I am absolutely certain.”

  Cora blinked.

  The dowager duchess’s answer was very firm.

  “What was your opinion on Mr. Ardingley and his wife?”

  “Oh.” Her grace’s shoulders relaxed somewhat, as if relieved to no longer be questioned about the Italian businessman. “Rhys has always been much like his father. Far too arrogant for his own good.”

  “And his wife?”

  The dowager shrugged. “It’s a pity about
the chair. There was one time when I thought they would be quite suited together.”

  “Not anymore?”

  “I imagine Rhys consoles himself about his wife’s poor health and even poorer temper in all sorts of biblically unapproved manners. Now, excuse me. Perhaps you are not tired, but I am.”

  The dowager duchess swept past her and exited the room. Nothing about her gait seemed slow or unsteady. Indeed, she seemed bequeathed with bountiful supplies of energy.

  Perhaps she would have been able to murder her husband. Could she have entered the duke’s bed through the balcony, locked his door, climbed onto the duke’s bed when he was sleeping, unscrewed the chandelier and dropped it on her husband? Could she then have hurried back into her room through the balcony and then feigned surprise and grief with everyone else?

  Cora sank back into the armchair. The snow continued to cascade down, and the flames leaped in the hearth.

  Perhaps all the Europeans cowered to her, but Cora was not going to take the dowager duchess’s statement as truth. Heaving a sigh, Cora departed the duchess’s sewing room.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Heavens.” Veronica widened her eyes as Cora stepped into the corridor. “What on earth were you doing in the dowager duchess’s room?”

  “I thought she might be able to give a clearer picture on the late duke and who may have murdered him.”

  “Hmph.” Veronica frowned. “Simply because your father is Catholic does not mean you should feel compelled to imitate a martyr. One would think that looking at all those gruesome crosses with blood practically dripping off that poor man’s wounds would suffice.”

  “She’s your mother-in-law,” Cora said. “I’m hardly burning myself at the stake like Joan of Arc.”

  “It couldn’t have been a pleasant experience, though.”

  “No,” Cora agreed. “You know, she quite reminds me of you.”

  “Impossible.”

  “Pretty and very determined.”

  Veronica gave her a tight smile and paced the corridor. Energy seemed to rush through her. Finally, she halted. “I really must apologize. This is not the quiet countryside holiday I imagined for us.”

  “Well, it is quiet.”

  Veronica shrugged. “Come to my room. Edmund doesn’t like me smoking in the corridor.”