“How exciting. It’s just like in a detective novel.” Mr. Rosenfeld elbowed Mr. Fawcett. “You can take notes.”
Mr. Fawcett scowled, but Mr. Rosenfeld’s eyes continued to light up at each movement by the constables and chief inspector, as if working out how he might one day stage a similar scene for the theater.
The others refrained from making similar expressions of amusement, even of the sarcastic variety. Instead, they shuffled toward the armchairs and couches, their faces grim.
The modern curves of the home seemed cold and disorienting, and Cora squeezed into a seat beside Veronica, taking comfort in her friend’s presence.
The chief inspector stroked his mustache. It was large, much like himself, and drooped downward in a style once worn by proper English gentlemen of the last century and now seemed purely the domain of Texans and other aficionados of the once Wild West.
Fashion was perhaps not one of the chief inspector’s talents. She hoped solving crimes was.
Mrs. Badger sniffed noisily and dabbed her handkerchief over her face. Her eyes were red, and her eyelashes wet. She still wore yesterday’s evening gown. Evidently, Mrs. Ivanov had given her and her husband a place to stay over the night.
Mr. Badger glowered at the chief inspector, crossing his arms. His skin clearly had a propensity for developing a ruddy color even when he was not consuming alcohol, and his bushy brows were scrunched together. Cora wasn’t certain whether his anger was directed at the chief inspector’s desire to ask questions, some eagerness to go back to his rows of numbers, or irritation at his wife’s tears.
Though both Natalia and Mrs. Ivanov clutched handkerchiefs, they did not dab their faces with the same frequency as Mrs. Badger. Natalia had a rigid, stoic look about her, and Mrs. Ivanov’s face was completely obscured by the thick black netting of her hat, even though they were indoors. Both women were attired in black taffeta that seemed to creak whenever they moved, as if to emphasize their distress.
Mr. Fawcett seemed to share Mr. Badger’s irritation with the chief inspector, and his lips seemed to have descended into a permanent downward direction, which, given his mood last night, could hardly have been difficult.
“We’re going to do everything we can to catch this murderer. But it’s going to take time and it’s going to take help. Please remain here to be available. I rather wish some of you had waited until after I arrived to go to bed. Perhaps then we would have found the knife.”
“It sounds like the planned proceedings today will more than make up for that lost time,” Mr. Fawcett remarked, settling beside his aunt. He lit a cigarette. Mr. Fawcett hadn’t smoked before, but he seemed to take pleasure in puffing the ashy smoke into the general direction of the chief inspector. “I am afraid all of you have come for no reason.”
“This is my time to talk,” the chief inspector said. “And I demand quiet.”
“You assume that the killer is unknown.” Mr. Fawcett placed a hand on Mrs. Ivanov’s shoulder. “The process is much less lengthy when he is known.”
“You mean to say you know who the killer is?” The chief inspector narrowed his eyes, and sarcasm was evident in his voice.
“To be honest, I only just learned,” Mr. Fawcett said. “Otherwise, trust me, I would have preferred to avoid this parlor meeting. All quite awkward.”
The chief inspector raised a bushy eyebrow. “Is that so?”
“Quite.” Mr. Fawcett gave a perfunctory nod. “Your services are unnecessary. Even though I am certain my aunt has contributed sizably through her taxes for services such as these. What I am trying to say is that we know who did it.”
“Oh?” For a moment, something like a glimmer of happiness appeared on the chief inspector’s face, but it was soon replaced with suspicion.
Cora supposed suspicion most likely ranked high on the list of emotions for the chief inspector to experience.
“He was assassinated.” Mrs. Ivanov dabbed her brow with a lace handkerchief and tilted her head in the direction of the heavens. “Poor dear sweet Mr. Ivanov. To think he met such a fate here. The countryside is supposed to be a haven of peace. The closest thing to heaven on earth, and the only thing like heaven for those of us who do not believe.”
The chief inspector gave Mrs. Ivanov a wry smile, the kind that seemed to indicate both a willingness to not correct her, as well as a sense he did not subscribe to her illusions on the virtues of country life.
Cora shivered. What else had the inspector seen over the years? Perhaps some madman had decided to while away a few minutes of his evening to make use of his knife to kill Mr. Ivanov. Wasn’t murder, like other forms of death, at times only random? Mr. Ivanov would have been the first to say he’d been lucky in his life. Perhaps his luck had simply run out, but unlike drawing a bad hand of cards, no controlling of his facial expression, no folding, could let him get out of this.
Cora’s heart continued to pound, and she waited to hear what Mr. Fawcett had to say.
She wanted this to be over. She wanted Mr. Fawcett to be correct and she wanted to leave this place. Perhaps Aunt Maggie would agree to meet somewhere in town. She could book a hotel in one of those grand Victorian and Edwardian white buildings that faced the seafront in Eastbourne, the large town in the area, and meet Aunt Maggie over afternoon tea, the kind where Aunt Maggie could enjoy her scones and not simply serve Cora.
“Mr. Ivanov is, as you might be aware, a Bulgarian. You also might be aware that he is close to the throne,” Mr. Fawcett began.
The chief inspector nodded.
“One of my aunt’s guests, Miss Cora Clarke, informed her that one of the servants is Bulgarian. I took the precaution of inspecting his room and found this pamphlet.” Mr. Fawcett removed a leaflet from his pocket and passed it to the chief inspector.
“Anarchist propaganda,” the chief inspector practically growled.
“It’s a horrible thing,” Mrs. Ivanov said.
Cora stiffened. The butler had done this? The sweet, kind butler who’d picked her up at Polegate Station? Did he just consider it to be one of his work tasks before he went to kill his employer’s husband?
The butler hadn’t seemed to be harboring such evil intent.
But would she have noticed? She’d learned long ago that evil was not simply conducted by those in dark capes who had habits of twirling their mustaches, like pantomimes and plays suggested. If so, the chief inspector would have been the prime suspect.
Poor Aunt Maggie.
She would have sworn Mr. Mitu was sweet on her. Her heart thundered in her chest. Why did men believe such horrible things? Why did they go about killing one another?
She glanced in the direction of the sea. Everyone said war was coming in Europe, and would be coming here.
The chief inspector turned the pamphlet over, and his eyes narrowed. “I think we should have a chat with this Mr. Mitu. If that is his real name.”
“Please do,” Mrs. Ivanov said. “This explains so much. All the accidents. There was one to the car—”
“The car?” The chief inspector’s eyebrows rose.
Mrs. Ivanov nodded. “There was a problem with the car’s brakes, and another time he was nearly electrocuted. My husband, dear man, brushed the events off, but perhaps this was not Mr. Mitu’s first attempt.”
“Yes, I can see why he decided to stab him. He wanted to be certain,” Mr. Fawcett said.
“Yes, death would have been quick,” the chief inspector said.
“I suppose that’s some comfort,” Mr. Rosenfeld said in an avuncular manner.
“Ah, yes,” Mr. Badger said awkwardly. “Quite the best way to go.”
Mrs. Badger’s sniffs grew louder.
The chief inspector whispered something to a constable, and the constable opened the door to the staircase that led to the kitchen.
“He’s going to arrest the butler.” Mr. Fawcett said, squeezing his aunt’s hand. “It will all be over soon.”
Mrs. Ivanov gave a wobbly smile. �
�My poor darling husband.”
Guilt coursed through Cora. She’d been the one to mention to Mr. Rosenfeld that Mr. Mitu was Bulgarian. Now the man was to be arrested.
Well.
If he was a murderer and an anarchist, he should not be conversing with her great aunt. That was obvious.
And yet, despite her thought, her heart heavied, and she resisted the urge to run after the chief inspector.
A door slammed and jolted her from her musings.
“They’re arresting him,” Mr. Badger said, and everyone joined him at the window overlooking the courtyard.
“Thank goodness,” Mr. Fawcett said. “We can return to some normalcy.”
“There will never be any normalcy again,” Mrs. Ivanov said.
From the window, Cora could see Mr. Mitu being ushered into a police car. Aunt Maggie was outside, saying goodbye to him. Aunt Maggie flung her arms about Mr. Mitu, and then a constable dragged the butler away and pushed him into the police car.
Was Mr. Mitu truly the murderer? The police would properly investigate and find out... But what if they didn’t? Suddenly Cora was no longer so eager to leave.
Chapter Eight
The chief inspector returned, placing himself beside one of the oversized Chinese vases. His expression was rather less sour than it had been before, and Cora felt an unusual flicker of anger. The man seemed content, as if contemplating his next holiday. As if he were on his next holiday.
Cora rose, ignoring the curious glances from the others. Mr. Badger and his wife had settled around another table in the drawing room that was decked with food. Last night’s murder did not seem to have disturbed their appetite, and a maid brought them a steady stream of tea, cakes, and a hearty mixture of baked beans, eggs, and tomatoes. They’d evidently found Mrs. Ivanov’s copy of The Telegraph and they had it spread between them. Mr. Badger was reading an article with a headline warning of imminent war with Germany, and Mrs. Badger’s eyes glistened less than before.
“I think arresting him may have been overly hasty,” Cora said.
“Nonsense. Mrs. Ivanov’s late husband was Bulgarian, and Mr. Mitu is Bulgarian.” The chief inspector dismissed Cora’s assertion and waved the pamphlet in his hand. “And this is dangerous.”
She must have looked shocked, because he adjusted his face to a more affable expression. She’d found the English were quick to retreat from confrontations, seeing politeness as a solution to everything. “My dear, sometimes we are simply efficient.”
“Anyone could have placed that pamphlet there,” Cora said, refusing to back down. “This is a large house, with many people in it.” She swept her arm about the room, gesturing to the other guests, but rather than nodding their heads in affirmation of their considerable number, they seemed to stiffen and scowl. Only Veronica and Randolph gave her encouraging smiles, and Cora returned her attention to the chief inspector. “And even if Mr. Mitu was in possession of the pamphlet, that does not mean he would be compelled to assassinate his employer.”
“The lady does have a point,” one of the young constables said, nodding his head, so his oval helmet glistened in the bright light that shone in from the south-facing windows. “You wouldn’t believe the number of pamphlets I get handed whenever I walk through the high street in Eastbourne.”
“If someone is distributing radical materials in the center of Eastbourne, it is your duty to inform us and stop them.” The chief inspector’s momentary adherence to the virtues of civility seemed to be forgotten, and his face took on a purple tint. His heavy eyebrows shot together, and his, until now, unremarkable eyes flashed. “Do you want us to end up like Russia, constable?”
“No, sir.” The man lowered his dark eyes, and his large Adam’s apple moved rapidly as he swallowed.
The chief inspector straightened and ran his fingers over his mustache, as if to smooth it. “Good.”
Randolph moved toward them. “I am certain the chief inspector is well aware the butler might not be the true murderer and is only going to take him in for questioning. It would be presumptuous for him to make a formal arrest before interviewing everyone at this party and seeing if they had motive and opportunity.”
“Er—naturally,” the chief inspector sputtered.
Wheels crunched against pebbles, and they turned toward the window. The police car barreled away from the house.
“It would be dashed convenient if he is the murderer, though,” the chief inspector said softly, gazing at the retreating vehicle carrying his suspect.
“But you already arrested ’im,” another constable said, in a heavy East End accent. “That’s why ’e ’ad ’andcuffs on.”
“Oh, balderdash,” the chief inspector grumbled. He returned his attention to Mrs. Ivanov. “I assure you we will find your husband’s murderer and be out of here soon.”
“Good,” Mrs. Ivanov said, sliding into a velvet armchair. She pressed a hand against her throat, and her rings sparkled.
Cora wondered whether Mrs. Ivanov’s husband had gifted them to her, and her stomach formed an uncomfortable knot.
“I do hope you finish with this soon,” Mrs. Ivanov said. “My nerves do create such havoc within me, and I have sought to be generous to the force in the past. I know you policemen are terribly brave. One murder, and I am a nervous wreck.”
“He was your husband,” the chief inspector said kindly. “I would be a wreck myself if my Mollie ever was murdered. Bad enough when she got the flu once.”
Mrs. Ivanov looked up demurely. “How sweet of you to say.”
The chief inspector threw his shoulders back, and the corners of his lips curved up.
“You know,” Mrs. Ivanov said coyly, “I was thinking, now that the construction on the house is finally finished, and since you’re here anyway, we might be able to discuss the Police Force’s Annual Christmas Ball.”
“We’ve been very thankful for your donations in the past,” the chief inspector said, and he lowered his torso in a slight bow.
“I thought this year you might desire to have the ball here,” she said.
“Here?” The chief inspector’s eyebrows shot up again.
“Why not? We do have a ballroom after all. My husband—my late husband, thought it important for any grand house, even a modern one.” She dabbed an embroidered handkerchief against her eyes.
“That is kind of you.” The chief inspector scratched the back of his head. “It might not look right though.”
“Why ever not?” Mrs. Ivanov straightened, and she dropped her hand back to her side.
“Seeing as this is an investigation and all...” The chief inspector shifted his weight, as if hoping the other leg might better hold him up.
“I think he might mean bribery,” Mr. Badger remarked, turning a page of the newspaper.
Mrs. Ivanov blinked. “I’m sure he doesn’t mean bribery.” Then she stopped and tilted her head toward the police inspector. “Do you mean bribery?”
“I—er—” The chief inspector scratched the back of his neck again, and Mrs. Ivanov’s hither-to composed expression wobbled.
“I hope you didn’t mean it,” Mrs. Ivanov said, and her blinks increased in rapidity, as did the speed of her voice. “I certainly didn’t want to insinuate it. I was simply remembering my previous wish to speak to you about it. I have long admired everything you and your boys do, and after witnessing firsthand the dreadfulness of death—”
Her voice crescendoed upward, and the chief inspector’s face whitened.
“There, there,” he said awkwardly, like a man trying to calm a scared kitten. “There, there. Perhaps we’ll see after the case is finished.”
She nodded and squeezed her eyes tightly, as if to constrain a pending deluge of tears, before inhaling. “I’ll show it to you now anyway. It is quite a nice room. My dear husband was so fond of it, and he never got to use it. I told him we didn’t have enough guests to use it at this house party, and I do so regret it.”
The chief inspec
tor nodded solemnly. “Perhaps you can question some of the guests,” he said to the constable nearest him, before he allowed himself to be whisked from the room.
“She’s so very brave,” Mr. Rosenfeld murmured.
“Quite.” Veronica lit a cigarette and puffed a ring of smoke that floated through the room. “And so put together, even under the circumstances.”
“A magnificent woman,” Mr. Rosenfeld remarked.
Mrs. Badger’s face seemed to pale, and she lowered a fork that was topped with sausage and the chewy bacon prevalent here and selected a new fork filled with tomatoes and mushrooms.
“I think that is the power of lady’s maids,” Cora said kindly, making certain her volume was sufficiently loud for even Mrs. Badger to hear.
“Yes, they are spectacular,” Veronica said, though Cora felt her words were more intended for Mr. Rosenfeld’s benefit than to bolster Mrs. Badger’s confidence.
One of the constables cleared his throat and addressed everyone. His voice was soft, as if he was so unaccustomed to public speaking that he remained ignorant of appropriate volumes to be heard. “Who would like to answer some questions?”
The room was still, and the only sounds that could s be heard were those of the occasional scraping of silver forks and knives scraping on Mrs. Ivanov’s Staffordshire china as Mr. and Mrs. Badger continued their meal.
“I don’t think any of them do,” Mr. Fawcett said. “Murder is something most mortals fear.”
Mr. Rosenfeld rolled his eyes, but the others nodded.
“Quite rightly,” Mr. Badger said, scooping a hefty pile of baked beans onto his upturned fork.
“The poor man,” Mrs. Badger lamented.
“You never talked with him,” Mr. Badger said.
His wife flushed. “That doesn’t mean it’s not sad.”
“Austrian Nazis marching about Graz is sad.” Mr. Badger turned the page of his newspaper, and Mr. Rosenfeld’s expression sobered.
The Sleuthing Starlet Mysteries Page 24