“He’s not a policeman,” Cora said quickly.
“No, he seems to be rather more important than those blue-helmeted constables.” Mr. Rosenfeld grinned and then leaned conspiratorially toward Cora, though he didn’t lower the volume of his voice. “Now tell us, who is the murderer?”
“Don’t be so morbid,” Natalia said, perusing the menu. “Obviously, none of us are. The butler did it. The butler told him to go into that room for the phone call anyway.”
“Do the police know whom he was calling?” Mr. Fawcett’s voice sounded uncharacteristically hoarse, and Cora looked at him sharply.
“I haven’t heard anything.”
“No doubt he was murdered before he made the phone call,” Mr. Rosenfeld said airily. “Or it was to someone unimportant.”
A server appeared, and Mr. Fawcett ordered afternoon teas for them all. The server gave a somewhat strained smile, possibly contemplating how he would fit the afternoon teas on the small table they shared, and soon departed before they could decide to add anything else to their order.
“It is most amusing that the man who is the epitome of Englishness will acquire such a modern estate,” Mr. Rosenfeld said.
Mr. Fawcett’s face turned a rosy shade that resembled some of the more feminine teacups.
“Then again, I’m sure the gentleman will be quite old by the time he inherits,” Mr. Rosenfeld said.
“You’re goading him,” Natalia said.
“I’m only telling the truth,” Mr. Rosenfeld said. “If the truth were out more, perhaps fewer murders would be committed in the aim of preserving certain secrets.”
Natalia’s frown only deepened, though it seemed to partially lift when the server appeared with their afternoon tea. Since Natalia only took one of the tiny crustless sandwiches and refrained from adding either milk or honey to her tea, Cora suspected her happiness stemmed more from gratefulness at the distraction from Mr. Rosenfeld’s ever more aggressive musings than an actual interest in the food.
Mr. Rosenfeld grabbed a scone and slathered it with clotted cream.
“Before your sandwich?” Mr. Fawcett smirked.
“There are some things one can do when one has achieved fame and stature,” Mr. Rosenfeld said, and Mr. Fawcett scowled.
“I thought perhaps that you were worried you might be killed next,” Mr. Fawcett said, finally summoning a response. “And so had decided to enjoy what little you could when the opportunity presented itself.”
“That’s nonsense.” Mr. Rosenfeld added a red jam to the scone. “Besides, the murderer has been caught. They just had to ask us questions as a formality. Quite tiresome. At least one does not encounter much wearisome bureaucracy on the stage.”
“Yes, your profession is most thrilling,” Veronica said quickly, seizing an opportunity for flattery. “I am really so curious about the West End.”
“But you’re a movie star,” Natalia said. “Who needs the West End then?”
This time Mr. Rosenfeld scowled. “Nothing compares to the West End. Veronica is quite correct. Broadway might consider itself similar, but we all know that’s just a place for strutting chorus girls. Drama belongs to London, as it has for centuries. And everyone knows anyone can act in movies. After twenty takes for each line, it eventually has to be correct. On the stage, every moment has to be perfect.”
“How very enticing.” Veronica continued to bat her eyelashes. “Though I assure you, we starlets do bring some benefits.”
“Your looks for one,” Mr. Rosenfeld said, kissing her hand in an attempt at an elegant motion, as if he’d not just insulted her acting and that of all her colleagues.
The motion was not entirely elegant for his arm came precariously near the teapot. In fact, Cora suspected his arm may actually have touched the teapot, for he jerked it away and made a muffled yelp sound she had not previously associated with him. The romantic moment with Veronica was evidently lost, and a new gloominess pervaded.
“I’m certain the killer was Mr. Mitu,” Natalia said firmly, breaking the silence. “There is nothing we should worry about.”
“Just the police delving into all our secrets,” Mr. Rosenfeld said glumly.
Mr. Fawcett raised his chin, and his shoulders seemed to widen. “I for one have no secrets.”
“How very well planned of you,” Mr. Rosenfeld said. “It rather accounts for your dullness.”
Mr. Fawcett’s face reddened. “My life is never dull. Simply because I do not feign interest in various modern monstrosities, my taste is seen as plebeian.”
“That is because people are rather more intelligent than you give them credit for.”
“Yes, I seem to remember you came from one of the more questionable families.” Mr. Fawcett twisted his nose into a sneer. “I suppose you would be compelled to make that statement. Though one rather wonders how intelligent the son of a pig farmer can ever be.”
Mr. Rosenfeld didn’t draw back, but his lips did droop down, and his eyes glowered.
“You are a self-made man?” Veronica said brightly, addressing Mr. Rosenfeld. “How lovely.”
“It’s rather less lovely in England,” Mr. Fawcett said. “Classes still hold importance. We haven’t fallen into utter degeneracy.”
“Well, I think it’s grand,” Veronica said. “Much more interesting,” and Mr. Rosenfeld’s shoulders took on a decidedly less sharp angle.
“My intelligence tells me you are quite a fascinating woman,” Mr. Rosenfeld murmured to Veronica.
Veronica smiled sweetly, and her shawl dropped, exposing the planes of her bare back. Veronica might be wearing funeral black, but she retained her sultry manner.
Mr. Fawcett’s rolled his eyes, but he restrained himself from making another comment. Perhaps, Cora mused, that was because he had finished eating his cucumber sandwiches and had proceeded on to scones.
Scones, Cora had discovered long ago, were quite the nicest thing about English cuisine. No meat pie or Queen Victoria sponge cake had yet managed to supersede them. Listening to these absurd barbs and pitiful flirtations became much more tolerable when she had this treat to keep her happy.
The rest of the afternoon was more mundane. Everyone felt compelled to pronounce English tea superior over any other sort, even though the tea itself was grown in faraway places, and after they finished, they strolled toward the village green.
Natalia fell into step beside Cora. “Why were you asking questions about my brother’s accident? Do you suspect it was connected with his murder?”
“Perhaps an unsuccessful attempt,” Cora said nonchalantly, hoping to convey a lack of true seriousness. For all she knew, Natalia was responsible. She was Bulgarian. She might have come across Bulgarian anarchist pamphlets to plant in rooms.
“Perhaps it would behoove you two to converse on less ghastly topics,” Mr. Fawcett said. “Unlike you, I do often drive on the South Downs.”
“Then you believe the failure with Mr. Ivanov’s brakes was an accident?” Cora asked.
“Naturally it was,” Mr. Rosenfeld said, cutting into the conversation.
“You’re quick to say that,” Mr. Fawcett said. “Is that your guilty conscience?”
Mr. Rosenfeld gave an odd smile. “I’d only just arrived. It would be an odd sort of thing to come and start cutting wires.”
Mr. Fawcett laughed. “You mean, you would prefer tea first? It seems to me your presence in the garage would be less noticeable if you didn’t greet your intended victim on the way inside.”
“I leave all the finer details of murders to you,” Mr. Rosenfeld said.
Cora waited for Mr. Fawcett to laugh, but when it finally came, it seemed strained.
Mr. Fawcett’s home bordered that of Mrs. Ivanov. How easy would it be for him to cross over the land and enter the garage? Unlike Mr. Rosenfeld, he’d probably even visited the garage before. Not that Cora imagined that Mr. Rosenfeld would find the process of locating the garage particularly challenging. It was removed from the bui
lding in a low rectangular building that the modern architect had not decided to tear down and rebuild with glass and steel.
Cora wondered what might have compelled Mr. Fawcett to murder his aunt’s new husband. Was he worried his aunt might have a child with Mr. Ivanov and prevent him from inheriting? She shook her head, thinking of what she knew of British inheritance laws. No, that shouldn’t affect him.
The taxis arrived, and she continued to contemplate the matter as they returned over the winding country roads.
Chapter Fourteen
The taxi pulled in front of Orchid Manor, and a constable approached them as they exited. His eyes were drawn together. “You look festive.”
“Just grabbing a bite to eat,” Mr. Rosenfeld said smoothly. “We didn’t go far away.”
The man nodded, though his gaze remained somewhat dubious, and Cora wondered whether they would receive a stern talk from the chief inspector about their temporary absence.
They entered Orchid Manor. The place was quiet, contrasting to the bustle of the village.
“I am going to retire to my room.” Veronica yawned. “I must get my beauty sleep.”
The others also parted, but Cora lingered downstairs. She glanced toward the dining hall, wondering if she may have overlooked a clue.
She must ask Randolph whether the police had found the weapon.
She strode over the floor, grateful marble was not prone to expanding and creaking at sudden moments so as to not make her walking obvious to others in the house. She would not want her desire to help to be confused with a morose curiosity or a suspicious desire to manipulate the crime scene. She peered out the window, but the constable seemed to have decided to stay at the front entrance, and his gaze was not directed toward the rooms inside.
Splendid.
Cora eased the door of the dining room open, seeing the familiar table and chairs. The footmen hadn’t cleared the table, and it was left in the same disarray as before. Napkins lay haphazardly on the table, differing from the elaborate folded swan shapes they’d been in the night before, and the scents of the food, that had seemed to merge so exquisitely the night before, were foul.
Cora stepped into the room hastily and then closed the door with care, wishing it were not quite so heavy. Evidently, the architect had not designed this home with the benefits of intruders in mind.
Guilt moved through her, settling in her chest, and she did her best to dismiss the sensation. Had she missed anything?
She had the curious sensation she was being watched, and she shivered, even though it was three in the afternoon, and the day was at its very warmest. She glanced slowly around the room, looking for the source of this sensation.
Her search was not prolonged.
Two female shoes were visible on the other side of the cabinet. The shoes were attached to stockings, and presumably, a whole person who was standing behind the cabinet.
Perhaps entering this room had been reckless.
Was it Mrs. Ivanov, perhaps mourning her late husband? Or someone else entirely? The murderer?
A maid. It must be a maid.
Perhaps Cora’s entrance had frightened her in the midst of her work.
Cora tried to feel comforted by the thought, but uncertainty still coursed through her.
She could hardly slink out now and pretend nothing had happened. If the other person knew who she was, and it seemed probable, then Cora desired to know who was here too.
She moved toward the cabinet and heard a sudden intake of breath.
Mrs. Badger stood, pressed against the wall. Her eyes shifted this way and that, the epitome of unease.
Was Mrs. Badger the murderer? Was she in this room to retrieve something related to Mr. Ivanov’s death?
Cora forced her lips to broaden into a smile. “Hello.”
Mrs. Badger did not reciprocate her smile. “I-I suppose you’re wondering what I’m doing here.”
Cora nodded, hoped answering in the affirmative was unlikely to inspire Mrs. Badger to stab her.
The answer didn’t seem to soothe Mrs. Badger, and the accountant’s wife gave a tight smile. Perhaps an appropriate excuse hadn’t occurred to her yet. Mrs. Badger had not seemed burdened by an overly sharp mind.
“I-I...” Mrs. Badger looked down at the floor, and then she beamed. “I was looking for an earring. But it’s gone.”
“Oh?”
“Yes.” Mrs. Badger nodded multiple times and her lips spread farther up. “It’s quite valuable and—er—that’s why I didn’t want to wait.”
Cora doubted any earrings Mrs. Badger owned possessed much value. She also doubted Mrs. Badger had lost an earring. She appeared far too happy at the thought. Besides, she was wearing two earrings now. Why would she have brought other earrings with her to attend a dinner party?
What had Mrs. Badger truly been looking for?
“You could have asked the constable when you arrived to help you search,” Cora said.
Mrs. Badger flushed. “I didn’t want to trouble him. So I came in through the French doors.”
“They weren’t locked?”
Mrs. Badger’s smile wobbled. “Someone must have forgotten to do so. But now I must really go. My darling husband awaits. Maybe he’s had luck finding the earring in our room.”
Mrs. Badger practically scurried from the room. Cora followed after her and watched her disappear through French doors into the garden.
How curious.
Mrs. Badger hadn’t seemed one for wild expressions of daring or, for that matter, of expressions of affections for her husband. What would have compelled a quiet accountant’s wife to sneak into the room where a murder had just occurred, knowing such activities would be seen as most suspicious?
Cora frowned and headed back into the dining room. Beside the cabinet was the door to Mr. Ivanov’s study. Had Mrs. Badger been in there? Had she desired to remove something from the room? Cora shook her head. That was nonsense. She must have known the constables would have cleared the room of any evidence. She would have thought if Mrs. Badger was the murderer she would have had the foresight to remove anything necessary when they’d discovered the body and the room had been in chaos.
Last night, the sight of Mr. Ivanov’s lifeless body had drawn Cora’s attention from anything else in the room.
Mr. Ivanov’s body was now removed, and Cora scrutinized the room. It was tidier than one would expect a study to be. The built-in bookshelves were mostly devoid of books, and some rounded paperweights were placed haphazardly on the shelves instead.
Had Mrs. Badger visited this room for sentimental purposes? The woman had been prone to blushing in the Bulgarian’s presence. Perhaps that was why she had seemed reluctant to make eye contact with him. There was much about Mr. Ivanov to consider charming after all.
Was it possible something else had developed between them? Mrs. Badger did not seem a likely woman with whom to conduct an illicit affair. Her old-fashioned dresses, the waistlines several inches too low, and the cut not becoming to her full bosom, had not made Cora think of her as a potential mistress. But perhaps Mr. Ivanov had enjoyed the convenience of her company, and perhaps her utter adoration of him and potential biscuit-making skills had made up for her lack of natural beauty.
Cora surveyed the room. Perhaps, if Mrs. Badger had had an affair with the dashing Bulgarian, she had not only visited the room out of sentiment and nostalgia. Perhaps, she had been searching for something. Perhaps there was something that might implicate her.
It might still be here.
Cora stood still. There were no noises. The others must indeed be taking a nap upstairs. The important thing was that no one should have been in the adjoining rooms to the study.
Cora could search.
She moved first to the desk. It seemed to have been designed more for elegance than its ability to hold paper. No doubt when they’d chosen the desk, neither Mrs. Ivanov nor her husband had been under illusions of his requirements to conduct work. There
weren’t even any drawers, though Cora did have to admire the curve of the French-inspired legs and the glossiness of the desk’s material.
A globe sat on the desk. Most likely it had been chosen as a nod to Mr. Ivanov’s international status and the attractiveness of the globe’s gilt stand and the ebony oceans, but Cora was reminded of old memento mori, and something in her chest tightened.
She moved past the globe to the bookcases. She removed a book, grateful for her gloves, and leafed through its pages. Nothing.
She put it back and removed its companion. Also nothing.
She finished leafing through all the books quickly. Perhaps Mrs. Badger had found whatever she was looking for after all.
Cora glanced at the paperweights. Some were of colored glass, shaped into animals. Others were bronze, and she smiled at the aggressive stance of a British bulldog. It reminded her of the chief inspector, even if it did lack that man’s elaborate mustache.
Was there anything that might contain a compartment? She lifted some of the paperweights up, working quickly. One paperweight contained a tiny compartment, and her heart sped. She opened it quickly, too easily for it to serve as a true hiding spot.
There was only a small sewing kit containing needles, thread, and small scissors, and disappointment welled through her.
No.
She sighed. Perhaps she’d been overly suspicious. Perhaps Mrs. Badger had simply lost an earring and was happy to admit she hadn’t had another reason to break into the room.
Cora’s shoulders drooped. No doubt, she should join the others upstairs after all. There was nothing in this room, not even a carpet. The only embellishments were some black and white curtains and some heavy mirrors, perhaps to allow Mr. Ivanov to admire himself even if he walked to disparate sides of the room.
She returned her gaze to the drapes. The fabric was heavy. Were they lined?
She moved quickly to the other side of the desk and inspected the curtains. They drooped onto the floor in a luxurious manner and seemed to emanate modern sumptuousness. Why had Mr. Ivanov hidden a sewing kit in his room? Surely, the whole point of having servants was not to have to mend things.
The Sleuthing Starlet Mysteries Page 28