The Sleuthing Starlet Mysteries

by Bianca Blythe

“I wanted to protect my friend.”

  “Let me look at the body. I have some experience in these matters, and I don’t want you to get hurt.” He glanced at the snow-filled road. “Besides I think we’ll be here for a while.”

  Cora’s lips twitched. “It’s possible.”

  She directed her attention back to the duke’s window. A large tree sat outside. A few stubborn leaves fluttered on the tree’s dark, spidery branches. They drooped downward, as if regretting their insistent perch and contemplating the soft bed of snow beneath them.

  Had someone climbed up this tree to the duke’s room? The branches were slick with frost, and they didn’t seem sturdy enough to hold someone. But perhaps she was wrong.

  If only she’d devoted time to tree climbing as a child. The strength of tree trunks and branches had never seemed of particular interest before, but now it seemed of the utmost importance. She scrutinized the diameter of the branches. Perhaps the murderer had gone to that branch, and then the one diagonally over it, and then—

  “You think someone may have climbed up the tree to enter the duke’s bedroom?” Randolph asked.

  Cora jerked her head toward him.

  Perhaps he was also capable of climbing onto trees, and not just crawling beneath them.

  “That tree wouldn’t hold an adult,” Randolph said, with an air of authority. “Besides I don’t see any footprints underneath it.”

  “It was snowing all night,” she said.

  “Perhaps,” Randolph said, “though that doesn’t change the fact that the tree wouldn’t hold anyone.”

  She nodded. Perhaps she should yield to his expertise.

  Something didn’t feel right, but Randolph tucked a lock of hair behind her ear.

  “It’s windy,” she said apologetically.

  His gaze was more serious. “You have beautiful hair.”

  Heat flooded her cheeks. “It’s too dark. And it doesn’t hold a curl well.”

  “It’s thick and silky,” Randolph said. “And the color is beautiful.”

  She turned away. Her heart pattered in her chest. All talk of trees was forgotten. She couldn’t talk about climbing trees. Not when Randolph’s eyes seemed to gaze at her in wonder. Not when she longed to tuck herself against his broad shoulders as protection against the world.

  “You don’t have to investigate this,” Randolph said. “That’s not your job.”

  “Someone died. He didn’t want that either.”

  They reentered the manor house, and a servant came to assist them in removing their winter outerwear.

  “I’ll get the key to the room,” Randolph whispered. “Meet me up there in ten minutes.”

  Voices sounded from the drawing room, but Cora ascended the steps. Perhaps they might investigate while the others were otherwise occupied.

  Perhaps she could see if all the rooms on the corridor were occupied. The dowager duchess’s room might have been on one side of the duke, but who was on the other? Maybe the duke’s room had not shared a balcony with that room, but was there perhaps an adjoining door?

  She decided to enter the room in question.

  Cora opened the door.

  It was another bedroom, and someone was inside.

  Mrs. Ardingley.

  Except she was...standing.

  Cora swallowed hard.

  Mrs. Ardingley didn’t stand.

  She was in a wheelchair.

  “Who’s there?” Mrs. Ardingley jerked her head in the direction of Cora.

  Instinctively Cora stepped behind the door. She pressed her back against the wall, and her heart hammered.

  The picture rail dug into her spine, and she glanced at the stairs.

  Perhaps Mrs. Ardingley hadn’t seen her.

  Perhaps if she walked on the carpet, Mrs. Ardingley wouldn’t hear her footsteps and she might escape.

  Because if Mrs. Ardingley could stand, if she could walk—perhaps she’d had the capability to murder the duke after all.

  Why on earth was she keeping her ability to walk secret? If Cora had been confined to a chair for a period and then recovered, she would be taking every chance to walk.

  Did her husband know?

  “Miss Clarke,” Mrs. Ardingley called out, and Cora stiffened.

  A shiver, not attributable to the lack of central heating, swept through her.

  Should she flee?

  “I know you’re there,” Mrs. Ardingley said.

  It was no use. Mrs. Ardingley had seen her. They were confined to a manor house. Cora could hardly succeed at spending the entirety of the time avoiding her.

  Cora stepped from behind the door.

  Mrs. Ardingley had settled back into the chair.

  It didn’t matter.

  Cora had seen her walking, and Mrs. Ardingley’s reliably icy composure seemed ruffled.

  Cora glanced around the room. For the first time she thought those men in westerns might have a point when they didn’t appear without a pistol. Candlesticks stood on a nearby table. Perhaps she might protect herself with one of those?

  Faint clinking sounded, and she moved her gaze upward.

  A crystal chandelier hung above them, and Cora straightened her back. The clear glass reflected all manner of colors.

  Things are not what they seem.

  How could material devoid of any color under the right circumstances seem in possession of every color? Had someone devoid of any appearance of means killed the duke after all?

  Mrs. Ardingley laughed. The sound was bitter, halting, as if she was unaccustomed to the action.

  “I’m not going to dismantle the chandelier and fling it at you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  Cora flushed.

  “You Americans,” Mrs. Ardingley said. “You really are too fanciful.”

  Cora gritted her teeth. “You can walk.”

  Mrs. Ardingley flushed, but then raised her chin. “It’s of no concern of yours.”

  “You told everyone you couldn’t. Everyone thinks you’re lame.”

  “Well. I’m not.”

  “But why would you pretend to be? And for months?”

  Mrs. Ardingley sighed. “Perhaps you should close the door.”

  “I don’t owe you any favors. No one is in the corridor.”

  Mrs. Ardingley shrank back. “Perhaps I like using a wheelchair.”

  “That’s nonsense.”

  “Look,” Mrs. Ardingley said quickly. “I really did injure my legs. But then my health improved. We still needed money. And I hoped the duke might be compelled to feel sorry for Mr. Ardingley if I was, well, in a chair. If I went about walking, he would think that there was no reason in the world to give us any funds.”

  “Mr. Ardingley is his son though.”

  She shrugged. “Mr. Ardingley has worked so much more than his younger brother. And he is so much more appropriate as a duke.”

  “So you wanted to manipulate an elderly man’s emotion?”

  “For Rhys? Yes.”

  “You love him.”

  Mrs. Ardingley flushed. “Nonsense. You’re a romantic.”

  “Don’t be embarrassed,” Cora said. “You did marry him.”

  “I did.” Mrs. Ardingley gave her an assessing gaze. “Be careful with that...photographer.”

  “He’s a PI.”

  “I hardly see the difference. None of us do. He hides in bushes and takes pictures. He’s just one lacking in artistry.”

  Cora blew the air from her mouth.

  “I saw the way your eyes lit up when you saw him this morning. It blinds you. To other things. I speak from experience.”

  Cora stiffened. “I didn’t know you were watching us. Besides, there’s nothing between Mr. Hall and me.”

  “Oh, darling, I wouldn’t fault you.” Mrs. Ardingley smiled, and in that moment, she could have been any society woman.

  What would Mrs. Ardingley’s life have been like if she hadn’t felt that the only thing she had to offer her husband was her
money? Would she have murdered her father-in-law in the optimistic hope that he might have set aside sufficient money to keep her husband in tailored clothing and with a healthy wine stock? Was that why she was waiting to reveal the fact that she’d recovered strength in her legs?

  “Does Mr. Ardingley inherit any money from his father’s will?”

  “I don’t know,” Mrs. Ardingley said, but her eyes flickered to the side.

  She’s lying.

  “Does your husband know?”

  Mrs. Ardingley flushed and flicked her lashes down.

  “You should tell him. There are enough secrets in this house.” Cora left Mrs. Ardingley’s room, thankful to see Randolph standing outside the duke’s door.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Randolph opened the door to the duke’s bedroom, and Cora entered behind him, conscious of his presence.

  They stepped closer to the bed. The duke’s body still lay there, still pinned by the chandelier.

  Cora glanced at the ceiling, just in case there were more chandeliers that could come crashing down, but it was only the one. “I’m never going to put light fixtures over my bed.”

  “Is the room the same as when you last saw it?” Randolph asked.

  “I think so,” Cora said. “I mean, we were rather focused on the bed.”

  “And I can see why.”

  Cora stared at the corpse.

  She despised this whole business of murder.

  The duke’s sensible woolen pajamas were stained with blood.

  Randolph peered at the body. “We can see that blood, now dry, spurted from various punctures in the body. The chandelier hit his face and neck and chest. The good thing is we know when the murder happened. The room is so cold, I’m not sure we would have learned if he hadn’t screamed. The pathologist would have struggled anyway.”

  “The murderer would have had to exit from the duchess’s room.”

  “Why?”

  “The door was locked.”

  He frowned. “That’s odd.”

  “Why? He’d gone to bed.”

  “Locked doors are a hindrance to good service. We’ll need to see if he made a habit of locking his door. Or if he was scared of anyone.”

  “He didn’t seem to be the type to be scared of anything,” Cora murmured.

  Randolph tilted his head. “What were your impressions of him?”

  “Not particularly good,” Cora admitted. “He was set in his ways, certainly. He yelled at Veronica for tracking snow into the house. He wasn’t afraid to humiliate people in front of others. He was eager to let them know where they ranked in importance to him, and that he was the most important person here. Always.”

  “Hmm.” Randolph sighed. “Men like that could have made many enemies.”

  “Even far into the past.”

  “Perhaps. Who came to the door first?”

  “Signor Palombi—or whatever his true name is. Lady Audrey and the dowager duchess came soon after, and Mrs. Ardingley was the last person to arrive.”

  “And the servants?”

  “Wexley, the butler, arrived after someone rang. He and the other servants were taking their dinner in the kitchen.”

  “And where was the new duchess?”

  “Veronica?” Cora blinked. “She was also approaching from the corridor when Edmund, Mr. Ardingley and I came up the steps.”

  “But you don’t think she did it,” Randolph said.

  “No. Of course not.”

  Randolph returned his gaze to the chandelier. “There are some quite sharp pieces of crystal.” He picked a piece up with his gloves carefully. “Look.” He held it against one of the wounds. “See it fits perfectly. He must have a particular misfortune to have the crystal fall on his neck. It’s managed to slice through his arteries.”

  Cora shivered. She wondered what other accidents could happen in this very old house.

  “The marks are also quite deep,” Randolph mused. “I wouldn’t have thought a chandelier would produce it.”

  “You think something else killed him?”

  “It’s possible. Perhaps the murderer stabbed him with another weapon and tried to make it appear like an accident.” He shrugged. “The murderer would have had to act quickly.

  “Yes.”

  The base of the chandelier lay on the body. Randolph put on gloves and examined the chandelier’s cord. “Ah, ha. This looks tampered with. You were right. Let me check the screws.” He murmured to himself, and Cora was quiet, conscious that the man was focusing on all manner of complex things. Then Randolph drew back. “The screws are all tight. Someone wanted it to appear that the weight of the chandelier made it fall. If the murderer undid the screws he or she would have had to screw them back in again to make it appear like an accident.”

  “Then you do think it was murder?”

  “I doubt there was somebody in the attic accidentally cutting cords.” He glanced up at the ceiling. “But this process was done neatly. It was organized.”

  “We’re looking for an organized murderer?”

  He smiled. “How would you rate the organizational skills of the people here?”

  “I don’t think they’ve ever needed to display any skills, what with the servants.”

  “Perhaps the question is then...is there anyone who could not have been capable of undoing the chandelier and placing it on the body? Perhaps the dowager duchess?”

  Cora shook her head. “I think she could have done it.”

  “I would like to question the suspects,” Randolph said.

  Cora almost bristled. “That word is so harsh.”

  “Less harsh than murderer.”

  “Yes. I spoke with some other guests this morning. I still haven’t spoken with Lady Audrey or for that matter that much with Veronica.”

  “Then let’s speak with them first,” Randolph said.

  “In the drawing room?”

  “Why don’t we speak with them in the location the duke was perhaps most at home in? The library.”

  Chapter Twenty

  The library was filled with thick jewel-colored leather tomes. A large globe perched on a table, and busts dotted the room. The windows were stained glass, as if the designer had confused the solemnity of books with the solemnity of the church.

  The walls were painted a deep garnet, and the ceilings were paneled. It looked warm and almost cozy, and utterly different from anything Cora had seen in Hollywood before.

  Veronica glided into the room, all elegance. “Cora, darling. The butler said you wanted to see me in here. Whatever for?”

  “We had some questions about the murder. Randolph Hall will be assisting.”

  “Oh.”

  Cora waited for outrage to spurt from Veronica’s mouth, but she only smiled prettily.

  “You must be the photographer who trespassed onto my property,” Veronica said.

  “Private investigator.”

  “Not an improvement, darling.” She shrugged. “Well, Cora, if you find it important, I suppose we could chat. Heavens knows there’s nothing else to do here.”

  “Could you tell me about the events of yesterday?” Randolph asked. “It’s nice to make sure everyone’s facts match.”

  “Oh, I do hope mine match!” she exclaimed. “This is really not something I’m used to. One doesn’t expect to have to remember everything. Would you like some whisky? My husband thinks I don’t know why his father liked going to the library.” She strolled to fetch the alcohol.

  “It’s not necessary,” Randolph said.

  “Oh, but it’s my pleasure!” She poured three fingers.

  Randolph did not take a sip. Instead, he moved to the next question.

  “What time did you arrive here?”

  “Early afternoon. We’d missed lunch, but they sent us some cold food to our rooms.” She wrinkled her nose. “Not that I am a big eater. I have other vices.” Veronica grasped hold of the crystal tumbler and brought it elegantly to her mouth. “Scottish. So di
vine. So delicious. So decadent.”

  “What did you do after you arrived?”

  “I took a nap.” She looked at Cora. “I’m sorry I was such bad company.”

  “Oh, no,” Cora said quickly. “I did the same.”

  Veronica smiled.

  “And then what happened?” Randolph asked.

  “I woke up.”

  “Anything unusual about the evening?”

  “Well, it was dreadfully dull,” Veronica said. “At least until the scream sounded, and then it was just dreadful.”

  She blinked. She’d stopped smiling, and her eyes widened as if still seeing the horror.

  “Why didn’t you join your husband and friend in the drawing room after dinner?”

  Her eyes narrowed, and Cora remembered that Veronica was now a duchess. “Oh, I intended to. I went to change my clothes.”

  “For hours?”

  “I was waiting for my maid,” Veronica said. “I really didn’t want to wear my silk gown when velvet was there, newly hung up. Far too chilly. It would have been quite wasted on Edmund and Cora. My maid never appeared though—apparently I’d been forgotten.”

  “So you heard the scream,” Randolph continued. “What did it sound like?”

  “Oh, it was dreadful. Ghastly. I rushed from my room into the corridor.”

  “Who was first in the room?”

  “I’m not sure. It was locked. We were trying to get in. We were banging on the door and shouting. I hope those weren’t the last things he heard.” She gave a brave smile. “And then it was dark, though the balcony door was open which provided sufficient moonlight for us to know that something very wrong had occurred.”

  “Describe the scene.”

  “It was really too dreadful. The chandelier was splayed over the bed. Crystal shards everywhere. Some still sticking into his skin. And his eyes—they were wide open. But he,” she gave a slight sob, “He was dead. He might have been a man with a very large voice and a dismissive manner, but he—really, he was quite frail when it came down to it. So thin. Quite...quite pathetic, actually. The chandelier was just sitting on him, crushing him. There was so much blood.”

  “It’s odd that the crystal could do that.”

  She shrugged. “I’m an actress, honey. Not a physicist. The chandelier bars helped. Bad luck that he didn’t move. I suppose you can’t help how chandeliers are going to fall, and it’s just so terribly unfortunate that the shattered crystals pierced him in a, well, fatal manner.”