She strode from the platform to a small, Italian-style building. All train stations seemed to be adorned with flourish, as if to make its visitors believe they’d landed in a grandiose location, alleviating the chore of travel with columns and crown molding.
“Cora? Is that you?” A female voice pierced through the raindrops, and Cora quickened her steps.
“I’m Cora,” she said. Her voice seemed small, swallowed by the storm.
This must be Great Aunt Maggie. She’d only spoken to her on the phone. She’d half expected to see an aging woman in scarlet hair topped with a turban. Mother had been a chorus dancer after all.
But the woman before her had curly gray hair and a practical dark coat and a rather less practical pastel scarf. Her face was similarly plump, and her mere presence managed to conjure images of hot apple crumbles and clotted cream covered scones, and Cora’s shoulders eased.
“Oh, my dear. My sweet child.” The woman’s eyes crinkled, and in the next moment, Cora was clasped into her arms. “I’m your great aunt.”
Cora’s heart seemed to glow, and her shoulders eased.
“I’m so happy to meet you, my dear,” Great Aunt Maggie murmured, pulling her even closer into the rather un-English hug.
But then Great Aunt Maggie wasn’t truly English. She was Irish. When Cora’s mother had moved to America, Great Aunt Maggie had opted for the rather shorter boat ride to England to seek her own opportunities.
Finally, her great aunt stepped away. She gazed down at Archibald, who had halted his exploration of the Polegate Station weed offerings, and was now gazing at them with something like curiosity.
“This must be Archibald,” Great Aunt Maggie said solemnly.
Archibald sat and offered her his paw.
“And he’s clever,” Great Aunt Maggie said.
“Yes.” Cora smiled in Archibald’s direction. Her dog’s previous owner had given him an extensive education, and Archibald seemed to take pleasure in displaying his knowledge.
“Well, let’s get you inside,” Great Aunt Maggie said. “Mrs. Ivanov insisted we bring the car. She is ever so eager to make your acquaintance.”
They scurried from the train station to an elegant dark vehicle. A man popped out and opened the door to her. She was vaguely aware of white hair and a herringbone ivy cap.
“Pleased to meet you, Miss Clarke,” the man said.
Archibald leaped into the car and found a space on the back seat. He gave a contented yawn, nestling into a woolen blanket.
“That was Archibald,” Cora said.
“I’m Mr. Mitu,” the man said.
“He’s the butler at Orchid Manor,” Great Aunt Maggie said as they entered the car, and her voice had a hint of pride in it.
“Your Great Aunt Maggie works upstairs. Though she could be in the kitchen. Her food is most delicious,” Mr. Mitu said. “Scrumptious, as the English say.”
“Mr. Mitu is Bulgarian,” Great Aunt Maggie explained.
“But I’ve been here for years,” Mr. Mitu said proudly. “Even before Mrs. Ivanov decided to build her new property.”
Cora noted a look of fondness between them, and she wondered if she was visiting a particularly collegial place, or if there might possibly be something between them.
“I’m excited to spend time with you, Great Aunt Maggie,” Cora said.
Great Aunt Maggie turned around. “You’re quite welcome to refer to me as your aunt,”
“Though you should never doubt your aunt’s greatness,” Mr. Mitu said gallantly.
“I’m beginning to see that,” Cora said. They continued their introductions, and the car soon made its way from the town.
The windshield wipers worked furiously, and the town became visible. Brick buildings, their colors not managed to be obscured by the rain, lined the mostly empty streets. Then the car pulled away from the town and headed through farmland. The fields were not yet green, but the vast spaces of various shades of brown managed to still be beautiful.
They passed grandiose, half-timbered brick farmhouses from past centuries. Some of them had thatched roofs.
“What is Orchid Manor like?” Cora asked hesitantly. “Is it quite old?”
She’d had an imperfect experience with manor homes recently.
“Not like any manor home you’ve ever seen,” Aunt Maggie said, and Cora’s shoulders relaxed a fraction.
“My mistress is far too modern to live in one of those old homes with gargoyles and columns and such,” Aunt Maggie said.
Mr. Mitu joined her in laughter.
“It is a splendid house,” he said, and his shoulders seemed broader and his back straighter. “It’s right on the seaside.”
“Indeed. They were going to build the house inland, near the old house,” Aunt Maggie explained. “But last year they announced they would build it on the coast. Personally, I’m quite happy with it here. The view is special, even if it does get colder in the winter. I am so excited about having you here. You’ll love it.”
“I’m sure I will,” Cora said. “Where is Mrs. Ivanov from?”
“Oh, she’s English,” her great aunt said with a smile. “She was married to a baron before. His family has lived on this property for centuries. Now she’s married to a rather dashing Bulgarian.”
As they began to climb a steep hill, Cora was able to spot the English Channel through the rain. The waves were gray and furious, but Cora loved it at once.
“I present Orchid Manor to you.” Mr. Mitu gestured to their right.
“Oh.” Cora stared for a moment.
The house was not half-timber, and the roof was decidedly not composed of any straw. Glass gleamed and curved beside crisp white concrete, jutting in novel directions.
“It’s very modern,” Cora said.
“Isn’t it? Mrs. Ivanov’s first husband may be dead, but her ability to spend money is still strong,” Aunt Maggie said.
“Clearly,” Cora said, still staring at the house.
This was the sort of home that belonged on the cover of an architectural magazine. It probably had graced the cover of an architectural magazine.
A small structure stood near the house. Unlike the main house, this structure emanated the beauty and grace that ancient Greeks had once lauded. Columns that looked like they would be equally at home in a temple in Athens flanked the entrance, and urns, formed of the same stone as the rest of the building, sat on the roof, bestowing it with a no doubt unnecessary ominous look.
“Oh, that’s the folly,” Aunt Maggie said, noticing the direction of Cora’s gaze. “Isn’t it pretty? That’s the oldest building here. It was built during the Napoleonic Wars. The estate’s original building is farther back.”
Perhaps the urns had been intended to intimidate invading French soldiers, though even a soldier without a familiarity with geometry should have been sufficiently intimidated by the length of the steep cliffs that separated the English Channel from the Downs.
Mr. Mitu stopped the car at a small entrance in the back, and Aunt Maggie ushered Archibald and her inside the house. Mr. Mitu drove farther, presumably to park the car.
“Come,” Aunt Maggie said. “Let me introduce you to everyone.”
They rounded the corner and came to the kitchen. Its black and white checkerboard floor gleamed. A series of servants in crisp black dresses and white aprons that matched the floor worked furiously, and Cora bent to attach her dog to his lead, lest Archibald decide to explore the kitchen and inadvertently decorate it with muddy footprints and strands of curly white hair.
“There’s a house party going on,” Aunt Maggie explained.
“Does Mrs. Ivanov have many such parties?” Cora asked, impressed at the servants’ relentless efficiency.
“Oh, indeed.” Aunt Maggie’s face brightened. “You wouldn’t believe the delicious meals. Leftovers have never been so good. I worked in a house before where the person only wanted meat pie.”
“I’m glad you are taking pleasure i
n the food,” a cool voice said from behind.
Aunt Maggie stiffened and she turned around. “Mrs. Ivanov.”
Cora turned her head.
There, amidst the other kitchen staff, and looking decidedly out of place, was a glamorous woman. She wore a sea green day dress with a long, sheer peplum overjacket that appeared as if the slightest touch might unravel it. Cora suspected the overjacket’s price was not lessened by the garment’s fragileness. A gold and enamel chain bead bracelet gleamed from one wrist. The woman held a scarlet cigarette holder in her other hand, though the ashy scent was generously masked by a heavy floral perfume. Puffs of smoke coiled from her mouth, as if seeking to compete with the steam being emitted from the cook’s pots and pans.
“Mrs. Ivanov.” Aunt Maggie curtsied. “Is there something with which I may help you?”
Mrs. Ivanov extended a placid smile. Her honey-colored hair, visible even beneath a glossy turban, was arranged in immaculate waves and suggested an intimacy with a hairstylists’ entire arsenal.
She ignored Aunt Maggie and addressed Cora. “You’re Cora Clarke? I’ve heard about your detective films.”
“That’s my girl,” Aunt Maggie said fondly, and Cora felt a prickle of gratitude.
Had her parents even expressed such pride? Cora thought not. It had always been part of her life, and of course, Pop was a performer as well.
Mrs. Ivanov seemed to scrutinize her and then she smiled. “I thought Maggie must have been fibbing, but it’s really you. How incredible to find you in my kitchen. Quite marvelous. And fortunate.”
“Fortunate?” Cora asked with cool politeness.
Mrs. Ivanov nodded vigorously. “I’m having a party tonight. You must come. In fact, why don’t we have tea together now?”
Cora glanced at her aunt. “I’m here on a visit.”
“Maggie has work to do,” Mrs. Ivanov said.
Well.
“It’s fine, dearie,” Aunt Maggie said with a strained smile. “You go ahead. I’ll watch Archibald.”
Cora hardly wanted to upset her aunt’s employer. “Very well.”
“Oh, good.” Mrs. Ivanov led her away from the kitchen and her aunt. They strode up a winding set of stairs and then entered a wide room with a marble floor. A colorful chandelier dangled in the entryway, and Cora gave a wary glance at it. Bright expressionist paintings, their vibrant colors at odds with their morbid scenes, dotted the walls.
“You don’t approve?” Mrs. Ivanov asked.
“It’s lovely,” Cora said honestly. The studio executives in Hollywood would have adored a place like this. The large windows overlooked the sea, but unlike at the Malibu homes of top directors, the view was not of a calm, azure ocean. Gray waves crashed against each other in incessant rolls, spewing chalky foam. Some ships tumbled up in the sea, but mostly it was empty.
Cora could have stared at it for hours, and she forced her gaze away.
“Let’s sit in the parlor.” Mrs. Ivanov gestured to a polished chrome and glass table. Its glossy surface glistened under the abundance of crystal lamps that were lit, even though the space was devoid of people. Two teal tufted couches sat regally on either side of the coffee table, their curved backs unmarred by pillows. “We can have tea. Or coffee.” Mrs. Ivanov gave her a quick smile. “I do believe in efficiency. And the caffeine is truly far more effective in coffee. No doubt that is why Americans favor it.”
Cora glanced at the servants bustling about, wondering exactly what efficiency was required of Mrs. Ivanov.
“Tea is fine,” Cora said, aware that despite any praise for coffee’s prowess that an Englishperson might muse upon, every Englishperson still seemed to favor tea over all other substances.
“Very well,” Mrs. Ivanov beamed. “Oh, Mr. Mitu! Can you have some tea brought up for us?”
Mr. Mitu appeared and gave a deep bow. “Very well.”
Mrs. Ivanov gestured to an armchair, and Cora sat in it obediently, conscious she was having tea with her relative’s boss.
“Now tell me,” Mrs. Ivanov said, “How do you like England?”
“It’s nice,” she said, as she did to anyone who asked. She shifted her legs. The armchair’s generous size was not particularly suited to her, and she felt lost between the two armrests.
Mrs. Ivanov narrowed her eyes. “I see small talk isn’t one of your skills.”
Cora felt her cheeks warm.
“But that’s fine,” Mrs. Ivanov said breezily. “I can talk enough for the both of us, and I have some things to ask you.”
“About Hollywood?” Cora asked cautiously.
Cora had been a child star, playing the title character in the Gal Detective movies for years, until the studio had to stop since it was no longer believable that eighteen-year-old Cora, even with her petite frame, was a girl anymore. Other child stars had transferred to adult roles years before, but when Cora attempted to play an adult, her girlish voice and slight frame seemed so unbelievable in a heroine that her contract had been swiftly terminated. Memorizing lines and dance steps had been a feat as a child, but it was rather less remarkable as an adult.
Mrs. Ivanov leaned toward her. “Someone is trying to kill my husband.”
Chapter Two
Most women did not declare upon meeting someone over tea that their husbands were about to be murdered, and Cora widened her eyes.
Mrs. Ivanov moved her hand toward her chest, and the sound of her bracelet jangling seemed to loom in the newly awkward silence. “Oh, my. I cannot believe I was brave enough to say that. I do hope I didn’t scare you. It’s no good having guests if I’m just going to frighten them.”
Cora decided against reminding Mrs. Ivanov that she was her great aunt’s guest and that Mrs. Ivanov was not responsible for entertaining her.
Aunt Maggie entered the room, and Cora straightened, wondering if she was going to call Cora away. Her aunt’s smile was less wide than before, and Cora realized her great aunt was carrying a silver tray with tea.
Oh.
Cora waited as Aunt Maggie set the tray on the table. Cora didn’t like the thought of being here, having her family serve her tea. She should be with her relative.
Aunt Maggie removed a teapot, two teacups and saucers from the tray. Delectable macaroons sat on another plate, their delicate pastel-colored shells practically shimmering.
“Help yourself,” Mrs. Ivanov said. “Cook comes all the way from France. He will be most disappointed if they’re not devoured. One really doesn’t desire to succumb oneself to his pouts. Artists are really so temperamental, do you not find?”
Cora stiffened.
“I’ve forgotten,” Mrs. Ivanov said. “You’re an actress. Or at least, you were. It is most odd that you find yourself in England, isn’t it? One rather would think that California must be an improvement. That is why so many of our best and brightest fled isn’t it?”
“My family wasn't English,” Cora said.
Mrs. Ivanov assessed her. “And yet your surname is ‘Clarke.’”
“A stage name,” Cora explained.
“How quaint.” Mrs. Ivanov picked up her tea and sipped it. “I was an actress too. On the stage. Naturally.”
Cora suspected the profession would have suited her. Mrs. Ivanov’s elocution was perfect, and she enunciated each word. Her voice filled the room easily, not lost in the wide open spaces. For a woman who insisted on speaking to her in private, she hadn’t kept much of the conversation secret.
“You were saying you feared someone desires to kill your husband,” Cora reminded her.
“No.” Mrs. Ivanov shook her head vehemently, and her silk turban shifted. She inhaled and touched her turban, ascertaining that it was not in imminent risk of unraveling. “I meant to say,” Mrs. Ivanov was speaking more calmly, but with such force, that Cora wondered at the countess’ success as an actress. “That someone is trying to kill my husband.”
“Oh.” Cora blinked, confused.
“The grammar is, in this cas
e, vital,” Mrs. Ivanov said, her tone more apologetic.
“But that’s dreadful,” Cora said, still dubious. “Has he been...shot?”
Mrs. Ivanov laughed. “Darling, this isn’t America. Though if someone had actually fired a pistol at him, it might be easier. People might believe me. My husband might believe me.”
“So he doesn’t feel that attempts have been made on his life?”
“Indeed not,” Mrs. Ivanov said. “Intelligence is perhaps not one of his virtues.”
Cora attempted to hide her shock, apparently without success, for Mrs. Ivanov’s lips curled. “I assure you that he has many favorable traits. His virility, for instance, is not the least bit lacking.”
A wobbly smile tugged at Cora’s lips. She was always uncertain how to act during these conversations. The knowing looks and giggles of other woman made her feel awkward and conscious of her own lack of experience.
“I would like to have you attend my house party this weekend,” Mrs. Ivanov said.
“But I’m visiting my great aunt.”
“And you can nip down to the kitchen and help her mend clothes or whatever else it is she does all day. Work on your knife skills. You might require them to help me catch whoever is trying to kill my husband.”
“I’m not a policeman,” Cora said.
“Nor are you a constable,” Mrs. Ivanov said, “which is what we have here. But that is fortunate, since I certainly do not want to have one at my house party. And more importantly,” she said hastily, “my husband does not want one.”
“Oh,” Cora replied, taking a macaroon. She pondered whether Mrs. Ivanov might be in possession of an extreme form of psychosomaticism. Perhaps when one had a sufficient amount of wealth and was guaranteed excellent care by doctors, one focused one’s nervous injuries on invisible attacks rather than invisible illnesses.
“The chief inspector would probably just laugh anyway,” Mrs. Ivanov said wistfully, and her gaze wandered to the channel. “Or he would feign interest, since I was once married to a baron, and I’m still the most important person in this region.”
The Sleuthing Starlet Mysteries Page 20