The Sleuthing Starlet Mysteries

by Bianca Blythe

“N-no. Perhaps the police—” She stopped as Becky jerked down the body.

  It was Gladys.

  Not Gladys as Cora knew her.

  Not laughing.

  Not touching up her makeup.

  Not about to launch into some great gossip.

  No, this Gladys was dead.

  Cora’s heart tightened.

  It was the second time she’d seen a dead body.

  Gladys lay on her back, her eyes wide with shock. Bruises ravaged her neck.

  “It’s ’er,” the new maid wailed. She sank her head down. “Can you save ’er, miss?”

  Cora shook her head. “No one can. See how stiff her body is? She must have been dead for hours. Perhaps all night.”

  “Oh, Lord.” The servant sank to her knees. “Poor Gladys.”

  “Yes.”

  It was tragic.

  Oh, so tragic.

  Guilt surged through Cora.

  Gladys had wanted to tell her something yesterday evening, but she’d allowed Wexley to chase her away. Gladys had termed it gossip, and Cora had acquiesced to Gladys’s belief that it might not be important and was perhaps needlessly ridiculous.

  Footsteps pattered in the corridor, no doubt alerted by Becky’s scream, and soon everyone stood in Cora’s room, assessing the maid’s body.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  “Two murders in two days,” the dowager duchess bemoaned. “That is outrageous.”

  Cora frowned. “You weren’t sure the late duke’s death was a murder—”

  “I’m certain now,” said the dowager duchess. “And please refer to him as your father. Not his occupation, no matter how much pride he found in it.”

  Everyone gathered around the body, and Cora wrapped her robe more tightly around her.

  She’d been sad when the duke had died, but she hadn’t particularly liked him, and he’d had decades of partaking in sumptuous pleasure behind him.

  Gladys, though, had scarcely lived. She’d wanted to do so, to be sure. She’d been bright and curious. Gladys hadn’t been involved in selling arms to a country that had fought a long and bloody battle with Britain a generation ago, and was rumored to be interested in having another go at a war, though this time with the intention of winning. Gladys didn’t have children to whom she was cruel.

  Gladys had had her whole life before her, and even if others might make snide comments about her inability to stay quiet and her enthusiasm for everything fashionable, Cora was certain that Gladys had never intended to harm anyone.

  It seemed unimaginably cruel that someone had harmed Gladys in this manner.

  “She wanted to see me yesterday,” Cora said sadly. “And then she changed her mind and had to return to the kitchen. If only I had insisted she tell me what was troubling her.”

  “You think she was killed because she had information against someone?” Randolph asked.

  Cora gave a miserable nod.

  “What’s that in the chimney?” Lady Audrey asked.

  “I don’t see—”

  Lady Audrey bent down and pulled up a long piece of leather.

  “That’s hardly elegant,” Veronica said. “Is that some horrid belt?”

  “Gladys had excellent taste,” Becky said defensively.

  “I don’t think Gladys would have used that as a belt.” She picked up the fabric. It looked—familiar.

  Too familiar.

  She glanced at Randolph. “Do you have your camera?”

  “It’s in my room,”

  “Why do you ask?” Edmund asked.

  “I just think—it might be, I mean it looks awfully similar to—”

  “A camera strap” Veronica finished for her. “Honey, you really needn’t stammer so much. I’m quite sure you added all sorts of extra words that you didn’t need.”

  “I think someone else should search Randolph’s room,” Lady Audrey said.

  “You don’t mean to think I would have done anything? That’s nonsense.”

  Distress moved through Cora.

  Randolph knew spies—even the foreign ones.

  Perhaps someone had hired Randolph to murder the duke.

  He had arrived in the middle of the night.

  Perhaps it was just like the dowager duchess had said—he was the strange man who’d killed the duke and then had had second thoughts about attempting to leave the property because of the snow.

  “Becky, please bring us Mr. Hall’s camera,” the dowager ordered.

  “Very well, your grace.” Becky curtsied and hurried from the room.

  She came back quickly carrying a camera. Half of the strap was missing.

  “She must have pulled it from his hand when he was killing her,” Mr. Ardingley said.

  “How dreadful!” Mrs. Ardingley buried her head on her husband’s shoulder.

  It is horrible.

  Randolph had been perhaps an illusion.

  Too perfect, too exquisite, too charming.

  Cora’s throat tightened, as if she’d managed to swallow some strychnine.

  There was no way for anyone except a stranger to kill the duke.

  They’d investigated, but found no one guilty.

  There was a tree outside the window.

  Naturally, Randolph would have said it was impossible for someone to have climbed it.

  He’d been feeding her false information.

  Gladys must have noticed something.

  That’s why she’d wanted to talk with Cora in private.

  And Cora had been so foolish that she’d mentioned it to Randolph, sealing that poor maid’s fate.

  When she’d fallen, it had been Randolph who’d appeared.

  Because he’d been right there.

  Perhaps he hadn’t wanted her to see where he’d come from, since he’d just slipped away to kill Gladys.

  Randolph’s eyes were thoughtful, and Cora despised them. He should be acting more afraid. She knew. The fact should make his body quiver, though Cora thought it possible he’d never had an unconfident moment in his life. The man oozed self-assurance...the sort only found in the murderers in the pictures.

  “Maybe Randolph is the murderer,” Cora said.

  “Nonsense.” Randolph gave a strangled laugh. “I wasn’t even in the house when the murder took place.”

  “You climbed the tree. Or perhaps you even brought a ladder over from the barn. I don’t know how you got inside, but you did.”

  “I didn’t do it,” he said solemnly. “I-I value life.”

  It would be so easy to believe him. He’d been her support over the past few days, but she shouldn’t have been leaning against him. He was dangerous, as unstable as a drawstring bridge.

  “You’re coming with me,” Edmund said.

  “What are you doing?” Randolph’s voice sounded almost desperate, but Edmund swept his arms behind him and tightened his grip.

  “Don’t run away,” Edmund thundered.

  Veronica looked like she was about to swoon. “You’re so heroic, darling.”

  Edmund smiled. His face remained grave. “We won’t have you murder anyone else here.”

  “But look,” Randolph said desperately. “I didn’t do it. You must believe me.”

  “You must have been hiding out,” Cora said somberly. “And you had access to murder Gladys. And motive. Why else would she have your camera cord?”

  “Evidently someone planted it there,” he said.

  “I agree,” Signor Palombi said.

  Cora glared at him. “You would. The police can decide when they arrive.”

  “Yes,” Edmund said. “In the mean time we’ll put you in the South Tower.”

  “This is when a dungeon would come in handy,” Lady Denisa said. “It’s a shame none of the former Holts ever took on the role of magistrate.”

  “You’ll suffer for this.” Edmund’s voice was icy and cold. “Breaking into our house? Murdering my father? And then sitting in the drawing room and convincing Cora to arrange a bedroom for yo
u? Interrogating all of us—pretending to help?”

  “That poor sweet servant girl,” the dowager wailed.

  She’d probably never said so many nice things about a servant before.

  “B-but,” Randolph stammered. “Do something, Cora. Tell them!”

  “I can’t,” Cora said sadly. She picked up the Shakespeare volume. “Take this with you. You can read it while you wait for the police.”

  Chapter Twenty-six

  The snow had stopped, content with their transformation of the landscape. Pink and orange light sparkled over the slabs of snow. Some servants had ventured outside with shovels, and the sound of scraping and crunching snow passed through even the thick centuries-old glass windows.

  “Let’s get out of this dreary house,” Veronica said. “It reeks of death and despair.”

  “What would you propose, darling?” Edmund asked.

  “We could go ice skating,” Veronica said. “We can’t simply wait for the police to arrive.”

  “I think that’s precisely what we should do,” Cora said.

  Edmund gave her a gentle smile. “We have the murderer already.”

  Cora’s heart gave her a pang.

  She’d liked Randolph...far too much.

  But she’d clearly been utterly wrong about him.

  “Look,” Veronica said. “I’m sorry about him.”

  “He seemed so sweet,” Cora said mournfully.

  “It’s still good we discovered him,” she told Cora in a stern tone. “He was a murderer. Don’t spend any time worrying about his fate. He doesn’t deserve it. He didn’t spend much time worrying about Gladys’s fate.”

  “Maybe he wasn’t really the murderer—”

  “But there’s still a strong chance he was, and if so, he should be locked up until the police arrive.”

  “You’re right.”

  Veronica beamed. “Of course I am.”

  “Darling, you go and take anyone who wants to go ice skating with you,” Edmund said. “I’ll wait for the police to arrive.”

  “And I’ll work on the dowager duchess’s portrait,” Lady Audrey said.

  “Oh, yes, you stay,” Veronica said. “Now. Who’s going to go with me?”

  Signor Palombi, the dowager, and Mr. and Mrs. Ardingley all expressed various degrees of enthusiasm.

  “It’s cold outside,” Cora hedged. She didn’t want to attempt to have a good time. Not now. Not when the first man she’d felt close to her in her whole life was locked in a tower. Not when he’d murdered two people.

  “You’d probably prefer to lie in bed. But don’t worry,” Veronica said airily. “You can borrow a cashmere sweater from me. It is very cold out there.”

  Cora went to the room and opened Veronica’s wardrobe. There were several cashmere options. Gladys had arranged everything neatly. Cora brushed her hand against the soft furs and silks and velvets, organized in a perfect display of colors starting at ivory and a silvery blue to the most vibrant crimson and emerald colors. There was no black.

  Veronica was, despite everything, an optimist.

  It was one of the many things Cora admired about her.

  Clearly, she was wearing her only black clothes to honor her father-in-law’s passing.

  She grabbed a cashmere sweater and slid it over her shoulders. The material was so luxurious, and she twirled before the mirror.

  She noticed the record box.

  And frowned.

  Where was Horror Most Dreadful? The main reason Veronica had brought the gramophone had been to listen to it. Why did she only have music records? Had she hidden it? And if so—why?

  The police should arrive soon, she hoped. The roads were beginning to clear, and Veronica and her husband were already speaking about visiting Latin America for a holiday.

  Cora frowned.

  Veronica couldn’t have used the record and gramophone to mimic the late duke’s death.

  Was it possible that...

  Cora needed to listen to the record.

  That scream hadn’t sounded natural. But perhaps it could be heard on the record?

  If the scream was on the record, then the murder could have happened earlier than they’d thought. The murderer could have killed the duke, perhaps by stabbing him and then removing the chandelier in the hopes of successfully making the murder appear like an accident.

  Veronica could have murdered him.

  Not some mysterious stranger.

  She shook her head.

  Veronica was Cora’s friend.

  She couldn’t suspect her.

  But how well did Cora really know her?

  The duke had been trying to get dirt on Veronica. Perhaps he’d been blackmailing her. Perhaps she’d been pressed too far.

  I need to find that record.

  Cora searched the closet.

  And then underneath the bed.

  And finally, underneath the chest of drawers—and it was there.

  She’d found it.

  Cora tucked the record underneath her sweater and hurried downstairs.

  “There you are,” Veronica said.

  “Yes,” Cora squeaked.

  She couldn’t just accuse her friend of murder.

  The police would arrive, and she could tell them of her suspicions... But they might laugh at her. It did seem ridiculous. And she didn’t even know if such a scream appeared on the record.

  If Cora could only be sure.

  If only the gramophone were not broken. If only the roads were clear and she could purchase a gramophone in town.

  Cora suddenly missed Los Angeles.

  But perhaps...If she could find another one.

  Lady Audrey.

  Her home was nearby.

  Perhaps her parents had one.

  “I had such a dreadful experience skiing,” Cora said. “I’m really not up for more new winter activities, I’m afraid.”

  “Oh, you poor dear,” Veronica said. “It will be such fun.”

  Cora tried not to wince.

  Two people had just been murdered.

  No fun was supposed to take place now.

  Cora had thought Veronica’s flippancy somewhat of an act, but perhaps Cora had assumed what she’d desired to believe. Perhaps she’d added hidden motives and secret feelings to all Veronica’s remarks, for the only reason that they were friends.

  And even that had been an act.

  The studio had insisted that Veronica and Cora spend time together, so Cora’s straight-laced reputation could make Veronica more proper, back when the studio considered such things important.

  “I’ll be fine,” Cora said.

  “You always were an odd thing,” Veronica said. “Very well. Most of the servants went to the village. They don’t want to hang around here, and since the weather is nice, we didn’t stop them.”

  “That’s fine,” Cora said.

  “Very well,” Veronica said breezily and waved goodbye.

  Cora headed down the corridor to Lady Audrey’s room at once and knocked on the door.

  “Come in,” Lady Audrey said cheerfully, and Cora entered.

  “Miss Clarke!” A flicker of surprise seemed to pass over Lady Audrey’s face.

  Lady Audrey was in dark, wide-legged trousers and a flowing cream-colored blouse. Her hair was tied up out of her way. Her face was red, and paint splattered her clothes.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you,” Cora said.

  “What is it?” Lady Audrey said uncertainly.

  Cora regretted how passionately Randolph and she had followed her when she’d attempted to go home. “Can you help me? I-I need a gramophone.”

  Her eyes filled with suspicion for a moment, but then she nodded. “Yes. My parents have one. We can visit Oak Manor. It’s really quite close.” Lady Audrey grinned. “Besides, there must be some advantage to not having Mr. Hall scowling at us when we strode too near the foyer.”

  Cora nodded, and guilt moved through her. “We may have been overly hasty in loc
king him up.”

  Lady Audrey paused and scrutinized her. “Men can mislead one.”

  “Naturally,” Cora said quickly, as if to adopt some of the worldliness Lady Audrey seemed to possess. “But Randolph—”

  “Is certainly a suspect.”

  “You’re right,” Cora admitted, but Lady Audrey did not look boastful.

  “It’s difficult,” Lady Audrey said. “I understand. And perhaps Randolph is not the killer.”

  Cora nodded, clasping the record more tightly to her.

  “After all these horrible deaths,” Lady Audrey continued, “it would be dreadful if the police were to arrest the wrong person.”

  They strode through the corridors, down the stairs and into the foyer.

  “It’s so quiet here,” Cora remarked.

  “One of their own died this time.”

  Lady Audrey and Cora put on their various fortifications against the cold and departed the manor house.

  The gray sky had turned a brilliant blue, and all the world sparkled. The sun glowed, and its bright rays illuminated each icy branch, each crystal-covered statue, and even each glistening block of ice in the moat with such vigor, as if to boast of nature’s earlier prowess at having created the blizzard. Some snow settled on them in places, though they could not mask the glare of the sun’s reflection on the ice. The snow sparkled under the sunlight, and the wind had swept it into pleasing shapes, as if seeking to bring nature nearer the heavens. It seemed impossible to dwell on any negative consequences of the storm, even though the manor house had been as isolated as if they’d been barricaded by the best army.

  “It’s so lovely,” Cora breathed.

  “Yes,” Lady Audrey said. “There’s not a murder here every day.”

  Cora nodded. The sun shone brightly through the trees, as if life was wonderful, as if no one had died at all. Perhaps she should return inside. She was likely wrong. Surely Veronica couldn’t really have murdered her father-in-law. But the thought didn’t feel right. It seemed to twist its way into her stomach.

  Because, of everyone Cora had ever known, wasn’t Veronica perhaps the least unexpected person? Veronica had strong opinions. She’d clawed her way to the top of Hollywood, all in perfect manicures. She’d stormed British society, toppling the various rules of decorum that suggested a future duke should only marry a debutante. The skills an English woman was supposed to have to become a good wife to an aristocrat included a knowledge of tableware and ability to make benign conversation, instead of an ability to acquire worldwide renown.