Edmund’s cheeks flamed. “I’m sorry, Mother.”
“It’s too late,” she said softly. “I didn’t teach you the difference between right or wrong well enough.”
“That boy was sent away to school when he was seven,” Mr. Ardingley said sternly. “I will not have you berate yourself.”
“That’s sweet of you,” the dowager said.
“I am not dead yet. You’ll have plenty of time to talk amongst yourselves as if I’m not here, once I’m actually not here.” Edmund set his face into a scowl. “Look. Perhaps I was callous. But I would never have killed Gladys if I didn’t have to.”
“And why did you have to?” his mother asked. “Was Gladys brandishing some frightful weapon, vowing to use you as target practice?”
Edmund blinked. “What? Of course not.”
“She found out about our love,” Lady Audrey said smoothly.
“Caught you in the act?” Mr. Ardingley said. “Did she have a camera? Was she threatening to send the images to the tabloids?”
“Of course not,” Edmund sputtered. “Maids don’t carry cameras. Their hands are occupied with other materials. The—er—cleaning sort.”
There was an awkward pause while the others waited to see if he would elaborate, though evidently Edmund’s Harrow and Oxford education had not extended to the development of a vocabulary for cleaning supplies.
“But she still could have mentioned it to someone,” Edmund said. “And that would have—er—been suspicious.”
Mr. Ardingley laughed. “You never did get around much. The policemen wouldn’t have wasted the energy to raise a single eyebrow. They rather expect us to be Dionysian men, not that they would term it that, whether we wanted to be or not.” He kissed his wife’s hand. “Some of us do not delight in such experiences.”
Cora tilted her head and assessed them. It was hard to see Mr. Ardingley as a devoted husband, but perhaps he was simply bored with the role of playing an non-devoted one.
Mrs. Ardingley still seemed suspicious, but Cora noted that she did smile when Mr. Ardingley kissed her hand.
Perhaps Mrs. Ardingley’s sacrifice had awakened something inside Mr. Ardingley. Cora hoped for both their sakes that it lasted.
Her gaze found Randolph, and she drew back, embarrassed. He’d saved her life, but the encounter they’d had before he’d flung himself into an icy moat from a turret had been when she’d accused him of two murders.
He was bound to hold her in suspicion. Certainly, he would hardly be sending her the sort of besotted glances that Mr. Ardingley was sending Mrs. Ardingley.
Cora’s chest hurt, as the now familiar guilt moved through her, sending pain through her body with expertise.
A dark vehicle moved slowly over the snow, sliding over the ice.
“That must be the English police,” Signor Palombi said.
“They are positively creeping,” Lady Audrey said disdainfully and pulled on her constraints.
“You’re not going anywhere,” Mr. Ardingley said, crossing his arms. “You killed my father.”
Lady Audrey blinked and looked away.
“Perhaps you can donate your Rolls Royce to the police department,” Mrs. Ardingley said sweetly. “You won’t be using it ever again.”
Lady Audrey’s face whitened, but she turned toward Edmund. “Good bye, my darling.”
Her features froze.
Edmund wasn’t looking at her.
He was looking at Veronica.
“Good bye,” he murmured to her.
Golly.
Edmund didn’t even care for Lady Audrey. He’d second guessed his relationship with Veronica, after the papers and his friends had mocked it.
Finally, the vehicle pulled up, and a man in a uniform exited.
It was the constable.
The same one they’d met at the station.
Constable Kirby.
“What’s going on here?” Kirby asked.
“My husband and one of my maids have been murdered,” the dowager duchess said in her most regal voice.
Kirby frowned. “I was hoping it was a prank call.”
“One does not jest about such things.” The dowager duchess sniffed and flung her fur stole around her shoulders again.
“Don’t you worry, your grace,” the constable said. “I’ll find the murderer. I’ve packed my bag.” He snapped it open and pulled out a magnifying glass and a pair of gloves. We won’t let the murderer run free. Not in this village.”
“We’ve already determined who the murderers are,” the dowager informed him.
“Murderers?” the constable gasped. “Multiple ones?”
“Two. But yes. This young lady solved the case. The murderers were my son and my former neighbor, Lady Audrey.”
“Are you sure?”
“Unfortunately, yes,” Lady Denisa said. “I think you’ll find the courts will agree.”
“Well, then.” The constable took out a pair of handcuffs. “I only brought one pair,” he said mournfully.
“We’ve improvised.” Mr. Ardingley pointed to the rope.
“Right. Good.” The constable took out a book, flipped through the pages and put on a pair of glasses. “My first arrest. I’m honored I can do it before you, your grace.”
“Hurry up,” Mr. Ardingley said.
The constable’s face grew ruddy, and after reading them the relevant page, he soon hauled them to the police car.
Cora watched the dark car move down the hill, and for the first time she allowed herself a small sigh of relief.
Chapter Twenty-nine
A somber mood had overtaken the group after Edmund and Lady Audrey were ushered off by the constable and the others dispersed. Cora returned to her room. Her legs still felt unsteady, the memory of being thrust into the icy moat still imprinted on them. Cora drew herself a bath and sank into the warm water, trying not to conjure up images of the moat. She didn’t linger in the water and soon dressed.
She was alive.
Joy cascaded through her, even as she clutched hold of the woolen blanket she’d been given.
How marvelous that she had not succumbed in the moat.
If Veronica hadn’t gone back to Hollywood to finalize things, if she’d stayed with her husband, would nothing have changed? If Edmund’s father had not despised her and hadn’t threatened Edmund with removing him from his will, would things have changed?
Was Edmund evil? If he hadn’t killed the duke, would he have killed someone else later on—for example, Veronica?
Or could all of this have been avoided?
Cora hadn’t truly believed in evil.
People had told her it existed, but it had seemed to be an abstract concept.
Yet she had seen the duke’s murdered body and the maid.
The thing was...Edmund did not seem like a murderer.
He scowled at times, but he was not alone in that habit.
He also could be charming and he talked pleasantly on a whole manner of subjects.
And yet he’d murdered.
Not once, but twice.
Perhaps Veronica would always say that Lady Audrey had influenced him negatively, but at what point was the decision to murder simply in a person’s psyche?
Was it something that any person could be persuaded to do, given sufficient pressures and temptations?
Edmund would be tried in court and in all likelihood hanged.
Cora didn’t know if that would be a deterrent to keep other people from succumbing to their own peculiar combination of pressures and temptations that might lead them to such a dishonorable path, but at least he would not be able to harm anyone else.
Cora would have to content herself with that.
Randolph seemed comfortable amidst the grand furniture, now his hair was not slick with snow, and his suit was not speckled with dirt and hibiscus petals.
The man had evidently managed to take a bath as well, and he looked once again refreshed, as if he couldn’t possib
ly have spent the afternoon battling for her life and his.
“I wanted to say goodbye,” Randolph said. “Shall we walk outside?”
“Oh.” She nodded and followed him through the heavy doors after they put on the appropriate outerwear. The sun glinted over the snow, and the breeze felt cool against her face. “How did you rescue me?”
“I heard your scream. You’d given me your Shakespeare volume, and I smashed it through the window. It made a good substitute for a brick.” He frowned. “It must be at the bottom of the moat now.”
“So you’ve also saved me from finishing it.”
“Two birds with one stone.”
She laughed.
“I could have escaped earlier,” he said, “but I didn’t like the idea of being on the run for the rest of my life.”
“Shocking.”
“You probably would have thought me even more suspicious if I’d broken from a tower and clambered down it like I was practicing for a role in some English pantomime.”
“So instead you just lunged in.”
“You seemed worth it.”
His face was so near hers. Their conversation had somehow changed to become more serious, and the air seemed thicker, more magnificent.
To think that she’d accused him of murder.
When she owed her life to him.
“I should never have thought ill of you,” she said.
He shrugged. “Don’t worry. I was perhaps acting suspiciously when you first met me.”
“Why were you hiding in the hibiscus plants? Were you really a private detective, scrounging up negative information on Veronica?”
“Certain people wanted me to see what the duke’s plans were. They thought if I gained his confidence as a private investigator, I might gain access to his house. I was already in California for another matter when I received the assignment, and I thought some photos of Veronica’s house might make me seem more realistic.”
“Oh.”
“The original private investigator had already sent the duke information on Veronica.”
“So you’re really not a photographer.”
“No, lassie. And I didn’t need to be locked in that turret.” His eyes sparkled. “Though I intend to tease you about it.”
“Oh?” Relief coursed through her, and she smiled at him.
“Yes.” He nodded solemnly. “For a very long time.”
She shivered under his gaze, and he grabbed hold of her hand. Thick woolen gloves might have separated their fingers, but the firmness of his grip could not be masked. Energy rushed through her body.
He pulled her nearer to him. His lips brushed against hers, and then their lips danced together.
Fire throttled through her, despite the icy chill.
It didn’t matter that they were standing before a manor house where two people had been murdered. The killers were in prison, and Cora could concentrate on the feel of strong, supple lips against hers.
Archibald barked, and Cora and Randolph parted.
“May I speak with you, Miss Clarke?” Signor Palombi asked.
“Certainly,” Cora said.
“I’ll be inside, lassie,” Randolph said, and Cora nodded.
“The police will soon be directing their questions to everyone,” Signor Palombi said. “And I would prefer not to be here. It looks like Hitler might attempt to control Czechoslovakia, and I will do my utmost to stop it.”
“I’m so sorry,” Cora said.
“You should have Archibald,” Signor Palombi said.
“Me?” Cora widened her eyes. “But I’ve never had a dog. Or a cat. Or even a lizard.”
“Archibald is quite unlike a lizard,” Signor Palombi said evenly. “He won’t mind in the least if your lizard caretaking skills are mediocre.”
“Nonexistent,” Cora said.
Signor Palombi assessed her, and she wondered if he might change his mind after all. But then he waved his hand in a dismissive fashion. “No, you’ll do quite well.”
“A dog is a large responsibility.”
“You’ve managed to show that you are responsible. Besides, I wouldn’t give him to you if I suspected you wouldn’t get along.” His smile wobbled. “Actually, I might do just that. But with instructions on how to find another home for him. I can’t take care of him. Not anymore. I must make ze travel.”
Cora nodded. Signor Palombi made no attempt at having an Italian accent now. He was Czech, and Czechoslovakia was in grave trouble. It’s location and abundance of factories made it a good target for Germany, and Hitler had been speaking more and more about the supposed plight of those in the Sudetenland and the need to control it.
“My—er—employers won’t let me have a dog. And as much as I would like to keep Archibald, if I had to choose—and I must—”
“You would choose your country,” Cora finished. “I understand.”
Signor Palombi nodded.
“And you mustn’t worry,” she said. “I will take care of him.”
“A dog is a wonderful companion,” Signor Palombi said. “But an Archibald—” He broke off, as if not knowing the English words that would most emphasize their relationship. “Why, it is spectacular.”
Signor Palombi knelt on the ground.
Archibald moved toward him. He tilted his head toward Cora, as if flummoxed by Signor Palombi’s position.
Sadness inundated Cora. Signor Palombi shouldn’t have to give up his dog. Archibald shouldn’t have to be parted from the man he’d shared his life with.
“Be a good boy.” Signor Palombi stroked Archibald’s coat, and the dog wagged his tail. “I would stay with you if I could, but I’m afraid I cannot.”
Archibald seemed to assess him, as if attempting to interpret the seriousness of Signor Palombi’s voice.
“Miss Clarke will take care of you now,” Signor Palombi said. “You’re going to belong to a starlet.”
Archibald tilted his head up at Cora.
“You’ve always been a good boy,” Signor Palombi said softly, and murmured some words in Czech.
The lump in Cora’s throat thickened. “It’s not fair.”
“Perhaps not,” Signor Palombi said, standing up. “And I could choose to do nothing. But there will be more people harmed than Archibald and me. I wish a separation from a dog was the worst that will happen, but I very much fear it will not be. You’ll have to be brave too, miss Clarke. War is brewing, and not just for Czechoslovakia.”
Cora scooped Archibald into her arms. He gazed at her uncertainly, but he still wagged his tail.
“Good,” Signor Palombi said. “You’ll get along fine. I was hoping you would agree. In fact—” He rustled through his coat and took out a piece of paper and unfolded it.
He handed it to her, and Cora noted the small, carefully printed letters. “You’ll find everything you might need to know about Archibald there.”
“Thank you.”
Perhaps she’d never planned to have a dog, but everything had changed. She no longer was an actress in Hollywood, working sixteen-hour days. She could find a normal job. And she could care for Archibald.
She pressed his warm body against her chest. It would be nice to have company. Even the four-legged variety.
“Ah, Archibald’s always been suspicious of strangers. He had a premonition about you.”
Cora smiled, but Signor Palombi’s face remained sober.
“He’s very clever. He can be quite helpful. You’ll see.”
Cora nodded, startled.
A horn honked, and Signor Palombi sighed. “I suppose that’s my taxi. I should go now.”
“Good bye” Cora said.
“Good bye, young lady.” Signor Palombi shook Archibald’s paw solemnly and then departed.
Cora watched Signor Palombi’s figure recede, and Archibald barked, perhaps realizing that something might not be quite right.
The taxi moved away from the manor house, and Archibald whimpered.
“It will b
e fine,” Cora said, stroking the dog’s curly coat.
Chapter Thirty
The next day, servants whisked her trunk downstairs. Perhaps they’d seen the Americans’ arrival as bad luck, something the universe should never have allowed, and that it was not surprising their arrival had accompanied two deaths.
Murdered dukes had a habit of making the news, and a reporter had learned that she’d been thrust into the moat by the new duke.
A shot of Cora’s figure was on every major newspaper.
Cora didn’t want to think about how much Mr. Bellomo would despise the scandal.
She hadn’t run off with some woman’s husband, and she hadn’t been arrested for drunk and disorderly behavior, but she had spent Christmas with a murderer.
It hadn’t actually been the calm holiday Veronica had promised.
It seemed outrageous that the flowers could still look pretty in their vases, the petals still intact. It seemed ludicrous that mistletoe still dangled from the doors. The marriages in this home had been tainted by evil. And yet aristocrats still smiled placidly from their portraits in gilt frames.
The snow had halted, and no mist obscured the view.
The phone rang.
“The lines must be working again,” somebody called out joyously.
“Excuse me,” the butler said.
“Poor Wexley despises that invention,” the dowager duchess said. “Door answering has always been sufficient frustration for him.”
“Oh,” Cora said.
A smile stole over the dowager’s face. “You mustn’t appear so shocked. He’s quite gifted at other things, and I haven’t seen such a regal glower since my days in Czechoslovakia. And sadly, the aristocrats there will not be doing that anytime soon.”
“It is horrible about Hitler,” Cora ventured.
“Indeed,” said the dowager duchess. “And this country is not doing a single thing about it. Appeasement. Ha.”
The butler appeared before Cora could respond to the dowager’s remark. She had so many questions.
Back in Hollywood, war had seemed purely hypothetical, an excuse for stylists to put actors in uniforms, and on occasion, to smear their faces with dirt.
The Sleuthing Starlet Mysteries Page 18