The Sleuthing Starlet Mysteries

by Bianca Blythe

  “It’s possible the chandelier may have been tampered with.”

  “It is sweet that you’re concerned, but my husband assures me the inquest will declare it entirely accidental.”

  Randolph leaned back. “We did expect you to say that.”

  “It wouldn’t be right if I sat here across from you and divulged suspicions that my husband, mother-in-law, or one of their guests committed the murder.”

  “I understand.” Randolph gave Veronica a curt, businesslike nod. His expression remained neutral: despite his occasional boyish behavior, these conversations suited him.

  “I shall never forget the sight as long as I live,” Veronica said. “It was so dreadful.”

  “And then you all went straight to bed?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did your husband join you?”

  “Naturally.”

  “If it was murder, who do you think did it?” Cora asked.

  “I don’t believe anyone here did it,” Veronica said. “He was a nasty man. One would rather imagine he’d had enemies of his own from his business dealings.”

  “What did he think of you?”

  “I believe you are more aware of his disdain for me than anyone. After all, he hired you to search for sordid secrets from my past.”

  Randolph flushed.

  “The duke didn’t approve of my fame. He likely would have preferred for his son to marry someone more prim and proper.”

  “Is Lady Audrey prim and proper?” Randolph asked.

  Veronica straightened. “What makes you ask?”

  “She’s the only unattached woman here.”

  “Besides Cora.”

  “The late duke had not had the pleasure of meeting Cora before this gathering.”

  “Lady Audrey is really quite dull,” Veronica said. “One does tend to have higher expectations of outrageousness for artists. I suppose it might be difficult for them to live up to them.”

  “I take it you do not find her to have bohemian tendencies.”

  “The woman wears tweed. Need I say more?”

  Randolph was silent, and Veronica downed her whisky in a quick, elegant move. “Personally, I think Lady Audrey uses her portrait painting as an excuse to gain entry to all these great houses. Modern art has made it possible for anyone to declare themselves an artist, no matter how little training they’ve had or if they are even able to paint a straight line.”

  “I see.”

  Veronica shrugged. “On the other hand... I’m sure some women find it unnerving to have an artist do one’s portrait when one is well aware that that artist is in the habit of having prostitutes splay before him for months without as much as a fig leaf to cover them.”

  “Tell me about the dowager duchess.”

  “I presume you would like me to cut to the chase and tell you if I think her capable of murder? Because I really can’t sit around and accuse my mother-in-law of such heinous acts. They didn’t seem particularly happy, but I can’t imagine her sneaking into his room to murder him.”

  Cora recalled the duchess’s damp slippers. “She had the most opportunity of anyone.”

  Veronica shrugged. “She was wealthy before the murder, and she will remain wealthy after. I’m not sure that being bored with one’s aging husband is enough to compel one to murder him, no matter how conveniently chandeliers are placed.”

  “She is also not English.”

  “As someone who is not English,” Veronica said, “I resist the implication that not being English would make her more murderous.”

  “Did she talk often of Czechoslovakia?”

  “No.”

  “Tell me about Mr. Ardingley.”

  “He’s charming.” She frowned. “Though he has a surprising temper.”

  “And his wife?”

  “Is less charming, though I believe she possesses the same temper. Of course, Mrs. Ardingley is less capable of demonstrating the sort of physical prowess that could lead to murder.”

  “Did they strike you as a good couple?”

  “Not in particular, though I’ve wondered if they are fonder of each other than they let on. They’re certainly never indifferent.”

  “Do you believe either of them would have had a motive for murder?” Randolph asked, not dwelling on Mrs. Ardingley’s ambulatory abilities.

  Veronica glanced at the filing cabinet. “It depends what was in his will. Rhys wanted to be recognized—I’m not sure he was. I don’t think he knew.”

  “You’ve been very helpful,” Randolph said and strode to the filing cabinet.

  “Oh, good,” Veronica said. “If you want to reward me, you can always destroy any evidence you have of my improper upbringing. For some reason, people seem to find rags-to-riches stories far more compelling for men, even though it’s harder for us women to make our way.”

  Veronica tossed her hair and exited the library. Cora and Randolph were alone.

  “What are you doing?” a voice asked.

  Edmund stood in the entrance to the library with Lady Audrey behind him.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Suspicion seemed to flicker over both Edmund’s and Lady Audrey’s faces.

  “The butler said we could use this room to conduct interviews,” Randolph said.

  “I suppose it would make it safer for those of us who are not vicious murderers,” Lady Audrey remarked.

  “If you think so,” Edmund acquiesced, and his gaze moved to the filing cabinet. “Still, I’m not comfortable with a stranger sorting through father’s things.”

  “Very well.” Randolph flashed Edmund a broad grin, but Cora suspected Randolph would find an occasion to search through the filing cabinet at a time when he did not have one of Britain’s highest ranked aristocrats looking disapprovingly at him.

  Lady Audrey shrugged. “What could he find? Besides, in a sense, he was your father’s employee.”

  “Right.” Edmund raked a hand through his hair. “Yes. I suppose so.” He frowned. “Did my father pay you yet? I wouldn’t want his death to have caused you any inconvenience.”

  “I was—er—paid in advance. It would be nice to speak with you about the event of last night,” Randolph said.

  “I already mentioned some details to Miss Clarke,” Edmund said quickly.

  Randolph nodded. “Perhaps Lady Audrey...”

  “Oh. You want to question me?”

  “Please,” Randolph said.

  Lady Audrey settled opposite Randolph and Cora. She seemed a trifle uneasy and darted a glance toward Edmund.

  “I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” Randolph assured her.

  “I’m not.” Lady Audrey assessed Randolph. “You just look somewhat familiar. Have we met before?”

  He paused, but then grinned. “Only if you have a habit of getting in trouble with the law.”

  Lady Audrey’s cheeks turned a ruddy color, her embarrassment evidently not hampered by her abundance of freckles. “I must have been mistaken.”

  Edmund frowned. “I would hardly conflate being a private detective with the law.”

  “Then perhaps you have more to learn about the law,” Randolph said easily.

  “Hmph. I’ll leave you be.” Edmund exited the room.

  “What brings you to Chalcroft Park?” Randolph asked.

  “I grew up next door. In Oak Manor,” Lady Audrey said.

  “Mm...hmm. And how did you come to be invited?”

  Lady Audrey flushed. “I suppose you could say I was angling for an invite. An utter mistake, given the circumstances.”

  “So they invited you out of pity?” Randolph asked.

  “Naturally not,” Lady Audrey said. “I offered to do a portrait of the Duchess of Hawley and the new—er—Lady Holt.”

  “I see. And what did the late duke think about this?”

  “We got on well enough. He could be abrasive at times. He respected my family, though.”

  “It must have been difficult growing up near a man so p
rone to criticizing people.”

  Lady Audrey raised an eyebrow. “Rudeness is not a trait unique to him.” She smiled. “Murder would ruin my reputation; being a freeloader is sufficiently intolerable.”

  “Are you in dire economic straights?”

  “Nonsense. Most people are lining up at soup kitchens. Not me. But I’ve limited myself to only one maid and cook in my London townhouse. Quite disgraceful, I know.” She glanced at Cora. “I suppose you, of all people, can understand the convenience of accepting invitations to house parties.”

  Cora flushed. “And you weren’t close to your parents?”

  “They always go to the French Riviera in winter. It would be nice to pop round to their house sometime, if this infernal snow is ever clears. It’s within walking distance.”

  “So take us through the events of the night. What time did you arrive here?”

  “Oh, I’ve been here for several days already. It’s Thursday now? I arrived on Monday. They’re really not all that dreadful. I was painting the Duchess of Hawley.”

  “Did she like your portrait?”

  “Oh, I think she was amused enough by it. She didn’t like standing still much, and the duke naturally was not enthralled by the style, but on the whole, I suppose it was a positive experience.”

  “So you were alone here with Lord Holt.”

  She shrugged. “Yes, Edmund and I were able to catch up.”

  Something about her manner made Cora think about Veronica’s reaction to him. “Have you ever been romantically entwined with him?”

  “Edmund?” She laughed and then stopped. “Ages ago and utterly silly. We get along quite well. Always have.”

  “It would have been convenient to marry someone like Lord Holt. Did you ever expect a proposal?”

  Lady Audrey smiled. “You sound like my aged grandmother. Edmund is...like a brother.”

  “Where were you when the duke died?” Cora asked.

  “In bed.”

  “Did you hear anything in the corridor?”

  She shook her head. “I wish I had. If he was really murdered—” She sighed. “I wish I could have prevented it somehow.”

  “Is there anything you remember that might be useful?”

  She frowned. “I heard footsteps outside my door at, hmm, perhaps ten o’clock.”

  Signor Palombi.

  “Who do you think may have killed the duke?”

  “Mr. and Mrs. Ardingley despised him. They thought the duke should provide greater support to Mr. Ardingley.”

  “And what were your opinions on that?”

  “I thought His Grace was already being remarkably generous. Most men don’t invite their byblows for the holidays. Most don’t even acknowledge their bastards, but everyone in society knows that Rhys is the duke’s firstborn and illegitimate son.” She shrugged. “He should consider himself fortunate.”

  “Any other impressions? Was the duke stressed with anything? Perhaps business?”

  “Not business,” Lady Audrey said. “He liked to boast about how many people from different countries were approaching him. I do know he was deeply uncomfortable with Edmund’s new wife. I think Edmund’s parents always assumed that Edmund and I would marry. Veronica, of course, is nothing like me, and her past threatens the family’s reputation. The duke was plotting how he might sever Edmund’s relationship with Veronica.”

  “Even though it’s a new dukedom?”

  “Especially because of that,” Lady Audrey said.

  “You can go,” Randolph said to Lady Audrey. “You’ve been helpful.”

  Lady Audrey nodded. She turned at the door. “Good luck. I hope you find the culprit.”

  “Thank you.” Cora smiled.

  Randolph rose immediately. “Let’s look through the filing cabinet.”

  “I don’t think I can go through his private things,” Cora said.

  “Then I’ll search it,” Randolph said.

  “Fine.”

  “You can fetch someone else for us to interview.”

  “We should speak with the butler,” Cora said.

  “You think he had a motive?” Randolph asked.

  “It’s unlikely. He does have a good position. Why would he want to ruin that? All the same, perhaps he noticed something.”

  “Fine. Ring the bell for him.” He grinned. “You can keep watch outside.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Cora exited the library.

  “Miss Clarke,” somebody whispered.

  Cora turned around.

  There didn’t seem to be anybody.

  At least...not at first.

  But then she spotted the tips of a pair of distinctly plain shoes behind one of the oversized blue and white vases that seemed to adorn the manor house as if it had been at one time intended as a museum of the Orient.

  A head peeked out. Blonde locks fell under a starched cap.

  “Gladys?”

  Scarlet painted lips swept into a wide smile. “You’re here.”

  “Why yes.”

  “I had hoped you would be,” Gladys said. “I’m not exactly supposed to be in this section of the house.”

  “Oh?”

  “I’m not a footman,” Gladys said, frowning. “And it’s not morning, and the fires don’t need to be lit.”

  “I won’t tell anyone I saw you.”

  Gladys smiled. “Oh, I knew you wouldn’t, miss. You’re not like the others.”

  “Th-thank you,” Cora stammered.

  “I’m not playing hooky, miss,” Gladys said. “I think that’s the term you use in all those American films.”

  “Probably not the best weather for it,” Cora said.

  Gladys snorted. “Indeed not.”

  “Did you want to tell me something in particular?” Cora asked.

  Gladys’s cheeks turned rosy. “I’m probably being silly. It’s likely nothing, miss. And lord knows it’s not nice to gossip.”

  Cora waited for Gladys to continue. The maid seemed occupied with flicking her gaze this way or that, as if hoping to gain confidence from the furnishings.

  “But it might be important,” Gladys said. “I mean, if there hadn’t been a murder, I wouldn’t say anything, but...”

  “You can tell me,” Cora said.

  Gladys drew in a deep breath. “I never wanted to betray anyone’s trust. I’m a servant. I’m beholden to the family. And I do hate gossip.”

  Gladys’s eyes sparkled, and Cora almost smiled. She suspected that Gladys’s opinion of gossip was not entirely one of disdain.

  “Miss Brown!” A deep baritone voice barreled toward them. “What are you doing here? Do you not know what time it is?”

  The butler assessed Gladys. “You’ve got face paint on.”

  “Make up,” Gladys said. “This isn’t the nineteenth century. Or some carnival.” Her lips twitched, and the butler’s glower strengthened.

  “Young lady,” the butler said. “You’ll get yourself in trouble one day.”

  Gladys lowered her head and left.

  “You rang for me, Miss Clarke?” Wexley said.

  “Mr. Randolph Hall did,” she said. “I’ll—er—just tell him you’re here. Perhaps you might—er—bring some tea for us first.”

  “Very well, Miss Clarke.” The butler left.

  Cora entered the library. “Wexley will soon be here with tea.”

  “Splendid.” Randolph shoved some papers inside a folder on the desk.

  “I spoke with one of the maids too,” Cora said, hating that her voice seemed to go up too high, as if it were scaling the keys on the right side of the piano. “Gladys. She was here. And then the butler scolded her for being in this room. Isn’t that odd?”

  Randolph nodded slowly, but his face had a thoughtful expression.

  Perhaps the rule might not be considered particularly eccentric to English people.

  “She wanted to tell me something,” Cora said. “But she left before she could.”

  “I i
magine it was about one of your dresses,” Randolph said. “Perhaps she wasn’t certain about the ironing technique for US clothes.”

  Cora frowned. “Surely it wouldn’t vary.”

  “You drive on the wrong side of the road in America,” Randolph said. “Who knows in what strange manner your dressmakers might fashion your garments?”

  Cora blinked. “Perhaps one of my clothes had a missing button.”

  “Right,” Randolph said. “Perhaps that was—er—more likely.”

  Wexley arrived soon after, and Randolph beamed. “Take a seat.”

  “Very well, Mr. Hall.”

  “Good. Tell me, have you gotten any word from the outside world?”

  “No,” Wexley sighed.

  “Have all the servants been accounted for?”

  “They’re all here. Except for young Billy of course. He volunteered to inform the police, since the telephone lines are still not working. I hope they can arrive tomorrow.”

  “How do you find working here?” Randolph asked.

  “This is certainly far better than most.” He smiled with the confidence of a man who’d worked all his life to get a good position and had achieved it.

  “How long have you been with this family?”

  “Some twenty years. I’ve known the new master since he was a boy. Before that I was a footman, though thankfully no one can remember that now.” He gazed into the middle distance, perhaps recollecting his well-positioned tables and prompt refilling at wine at dinner parties that at long last had earned him his promotion.

  “What are your impressions of your employers?”

  “It’s not my place to reflect on that,” Wexley said.

  “Someone here may have murdered someone else,” Randolph reminded him. “We just want to protect people.”

  “Anything you can say can be ever so helpful,” Cora said. “Even small things.”

  “I don’t see how.”

  “We’ll compare it to what other people said. We might discover patterns, confirmations or strange contradictions that can lead us to the murderer.”

  “I suppose these are unconventional times,” Wexley said.