Unless... She felt the lining, running her fingers against the coarse fabric. Was there something there?
Yes.
Something was tucked beneath the lining. It felt like paper. Was it financial documentation? Identity documents? Was he blackmailing someone? She dashed to the paperweight where she’d found the sewing kit and brought it with her. She examined the lining thread. One section did look recently repaired, and the thought of the Bulgarian near royal furrowing his brow, undoing the lining and resewing it back up almost made her smile. She moved to the other section of the curtain, just in case the chief inspector needed to observe it.
Cora had a moment of guilt. Should she simply usher in the chief inspector and tell him she thought something of importance might be in the lining of the curtain? But she might be wrong. He’d already berated her for meddling. He might even suspect her of planting something there herself.
She might as well check. She took out a small pair of scissors from the sewing kit and cut the thread that connected the lining to the curtain. She pulled on the thread and when there was a hole large enough for her to slip her hand into, she reached into it to remove the piece of paper.
It was a letter.
Not identification or some sort of financial document. For a wild moment, she’d imagined Mr. Ivanov may have been blackmailing people, but he’d hardly seemed in need of money and if he had an urge to be discourteous, he could simply have adopted less gentlemanly behavior.
She smoothed the edges. It was handwritten, and it took a moment for her eyes to grow accustomed to the slanting text. The page wasn’t yellow, and she estimated it must have been written in the last year or so since there wasn’t any discernable aging. She settled down on the floor beneath the window. The satin edges of the curtain were temptingly soft, but she leaned against the rather less soft wall, lest someone spot her from outside. Sunbeams shone through the room, even if the light had grown more muted and subtle, as if to prepare for its evening sunset extravaganza.
My Dear Mr. Ivanov,
It seems strange to say those words to you. “Dear.” How short, how sweet. It’s a word a shopkeeper might use and it’s a word I might say to my husband. And yet, I feel it only belongs to you. You are my dear. You are the most brilliant person I’ve ever met, and it seems only right to let you know that my heart belongs entirely to you.
You may not want my heart. You are married yourself. But it seems a terrible thought to imagine you should not know how very much my heart yearns for you. A simple smile from you is everything.
Yours forever,
Evangeline Badger
Cora folded the letter carefully. She hadn’t expected to read such emotion from Mrs. Badger, and her chest hurt, besieged by both empathy and guilt. The letter had not been intended for her. It had been intended for Mr. Ivanov, but she didn’t like to imagine what the man would have thought. He’d barely spoken to Mrs. Badger, and not because he’d seemed afraid of her husband.
Had Mr. Badger known of his wife’s illicit passion for the husband of his wealthy client? Had the fact brought him distress? Was this the reason why Mrs. Ivanov had said it was important to keep him happy? Had everyone known?
And why on earth had Mrs. Ivanov’s husband hidden the letter in this manner? If he’d wanted to peruse it for mawkish reasons on days when his self-worth was at a lower ebb that customary, he could have chosen a more accessible location than the lining of a curtain.
Cora frowned and tucked the letter back into the lining. She didn’t bother to sew it back up. She might need to inform the inspector about this.
Her heart panged. The letter was embarrassing. She could not imagine that Mr. Ivanov had returned Mrs. Badger’s unwarranted affections.
Cora stood up and smoothed the folds of her dress.
Was it possible Mr. Ivanov had decided the letter might be suitable blackmail material? Mr. and Mrs. Badger had hardly emanated wealth, but Mr. Badger was an accountant, and perhaps Ivanov had suspected Mrs. Badger had a healthy bank account from years of precise penny-pinching.
It seemed ridiculous to imagine that Mr. Ivanov was in need of funds. Mrs. Ivanov provided for him. Had Mr. Ivanov required funds hidden from Mrs. Ivanov? He was a man after all. It seemed plausible he might possess some habits he would not want his wife to know he indulged in. Perhaps he raced or gambled. Had he ventured into other projects with Mr. Rosenfeld? The man had seemed very surprised that Mr. Ivanov had no desire to devote funds to the production of his new play.
Had Mr. Ivanov embarked into an affair with Mrs. Badger, happy to have more choice in satisfying his masculine urges? Or had he had a gentle conversation with Mrs. Badger, signaling his overall disinterest? Had he simply avoided her, hoping she might direct her fascination at someone else? Or had he threatened to ruin her marriage by revealing the letter to her husband?
What sort of man was Mr. Ivanov really? What was in his nature? Would the murderer have felt threatened by him? And if so, was the murderer Mrs. Badger?
Cora’s heart beat rapidly, and it did not cease its pounding when she crept into the dining room.
Chapter Fifteen
Cora closed the door of the study.
“Were you admiring my late husband’s things?” a voice said behind her.
Tension flared through Cora’s back, and she turned around.
Mrs. Ivanov stood before her.
At least, Cora assumed it was Mrs. Ivanov. She had Mrs. Ivanov’s voice and Mrs. Ivanov’s height, but this woman had also clothed herself in all black. A dark veil obscured her face.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Ivanov,” she said. “His room was lovely. Quite clean.”
“That is an observation of the housekeeping,” Mrs. Ivanov sniffed.
“I am sorry about your husband’s death,” she said somberly in an effort to distract from her snooping.
Mrs. Ivanov averted her gaze. “I heard you went to Alfriston for cream tea.”
“Yes. We—er—wanted to give you some time alone.”
Mrs. Ivanov exhaled. “I suppose that instinct was not entirely unwarranted. Though I would prefer it to not have guests rummaging through his things.”
“I was hoping I could find a clue,” Cora said. “I feel guilty that—”
“You didn’t perform the task I’d asked you to do?” Mrs. Ivanov said abruptly, and Cora stiffened.
“I wanted you to discover who was going to kill him,” she said. “Now that the deed is done, it hardly matters, does it?”
“But justice—”
“Balderdash,” Mrs. Ivanov said, and Cora blinked. “I don’t care about that. It’s too late.”
“But surely you must desire to see the person punished?”
“I do and that person is currently sitting at the police station.” Mrs. Ivanov sighed. “I did ask you to observe the other guests, not the servants. Perhaps I was overhasty at criticizing you.”
“But perhaps Mr. Mitu is innocent...”
“Then the murderer is one of my friends, perhaps one of my relatives.” She inhaled sharply. “I-I can’t lose more people. I hope you understand that.”
Cora nodded slowly. She couldn’t imagine preferring to not know the murderer’s identity. But how would it be to discover that someone close to one had murdered someone one cared about? It would change everything, and perhaps Mrs. Ivanov simply didn’t desire more change.
Cora ascended the stairs to the next floor.
Archibald greeted her when she came into the room and she bent to pet him. Then she opened up a notebook. Now was a time for organization in her amateur investigation.
DINNER PARTY ATTENDEES:
1.) Me
2.) Mrs. Ivanov
3.) Veronica
4.) Mr. Fawcett
5.) Mr. Rosenfeld
6.) Natalia
7.) Mr. Badger
8.) Mrs. Badger
She tapped her hand on the paper. She crossed out her name and Veronica’s. She’d been with Veronic
a when Mr. Ivanov had been murdered, not that she thought Veronica would have felt compelled to murder him anyway.
Mr. Fawcett, though... He’d been the most obviously defiant person and he did write crime novels. It was an unusual vocation, and she suspected he might have more than the average person’s knowledge of murder methods. He also lived nearby, and out of anyone, he could have most easily tampered with Mrs. Ivanov’s husband’s vehicle. No doubt he stood to inherit from Mrs. Ivanov after she died, now that her new husband was disposed of. Might he intend to do away with Mrs. Ivanov later? Cora shivered and pulled Archibald closer to her.
Mr. Rosenfeld had a less obvious potential motive. Was he perhaps involved with any business dealings with Mr. Ivanov? Perhaps Mr. Ivanov had not belonged to a particular profession, but that didn’t mean he was devoid of hobbies, particularly the sort that might make money.
Natalia, on the other hand, was the victim’s sister. Would Natalia be in the line for the throne if her brother was gone? Or did Bulgaria require its rulers to be male?
Mrs. Badger seemed an unlikely murderer. She was, after all, in love with the victim. Perhaps she’d been humiliated, though, at the man’s rejection. Perhaps Mr. Ivanov had threatened to tell her husband? Perhaps he was even blackmailing her?
Cora sighed. She’d read the letter. It seemed difficult to imagine a woman filled with such adoration stabbing the man in question.
It seemed much more possible to imagine that Mr. Badger, the possibly cuckolded, but definitely humiliated, husband had decided to murder Mr. Ivanov. Perhaps Mr. Badger had tried to quit working for Mrs. Ivanov in an effort to distance him and his wife from Mr. Ivanov, and Mrs. Ivanov’s attempts at placating him had been destructive. That would explain his sullen behavior at the dinner party.
A gong echoed throughout the house, and before long, a knock sounded, and Georgie entered again.
“I suppose you’re here to help me dress?” Cora asked.
“Yes, Miss Clarke.”
“At least it shouldn’t take long,” Cora said.
The maid didn’t ask why. They both knew Cora only had one dress dark enough to be at least somewhat suitable for this evening’s dinner.
Cora was almost going to ask the maid what she thought of the murder of her master, when the door swung open again and
Veronica strolled through. She was carrying various bags with her. “I’ve come with gifts.”
“Indeed?”
Veronica nodded lackadaisically. She opened a bag, rustling the tissue paper.
Cora furrowed her brow. “It’s not my birthday.”
“But someone did die yesterday, which means today is a day for black.” Veronica pulled out a black cashmere scarf. “Here you go, honey.”
Cora stared at the luxurious fabric. “You needn’t have,” Cora said.
“Nonsense. I had fun.” Veronica continued to pull out garments from her bag and fling them onto the bed. “Now you’ll be more appropriate.”
“Well. Thank you. I thought you’d gone back upstairs.”
“Oh, that was only to dissuade Mr. Rosenfeld from suggesting he join me for the shopping excursion. Where were you? I couldn’t find you.”
Cora was silent, not wanting to mention her investigation in front of the maid.
Veronica simply shrugged and continued her chatter. “The place was really quite dull. No Harrods or Selfridges. Still, I thought you wouldn’t be horrified by a slightly provincial look. At least this is near the Channel. One can hope they at least get some of their fashions more quickly from France.”
Cora picked up a black satin dress with puffed sleeves and ran her finger over the soft material. “This is beautiful.”
Veronica beamed. “Fortunately, my taste is excellent.”
Cora bit back a smile. She was grateful for Veronica.
“I also spotted a certain Bulgarian butler wandering the halls,” Veronica said.
“Mr. Mitu!” A smile spread over Cora’s face. Aunt Maggie would be so very happy.
Veronica shrugged. “That may be his name. Personally I would prefer if suspects remained in custody.”
“They must have realized they didn’t have the evidence to hold him.” Cora clapped her hands together. “The man must be so relieved.”
“I’m not convinced he wasn’t the murderer,” Veronica said. “Far better to imagine that than someone on this corridor.”
Cora’s smile wobbled slightly, but she only picked up the evening gown. “Help me into this,” she told the maid. “I’m going to need to visit my aunt.”
Soon, Veronica bade farewell, Cora thanked the maid and then down the steps to the kitchen, Archibald at her heels. Mr. Mitu was there, surrounded by kitchen staff.
Cora’s heart soared.
“I believe I owe you some thanks,” Mr. Mitu said in his kindly voice.
“I only urged the chief inspector to consider every possibility,” she said.
“Well, I am grateful. I wasn’t certain I would ever come back. This isn’t a good time to not be English.”
“Justice prevailed,” Cora said. “Is the chief inspector still here?”
Mr. Mitu shuddered. “He was at the station.” He tilted his head. “Why?”
“No, reason,” Cora said. She had her suspicions on Mr. Badger, but as of now they were only suspicions.
After more chat, the kitchen staff began to bustle about the stove and make the final touches to the meal.
Archibald wagged his tail, sensing the jubilation in the room.
“Oh, you darling boy.” Aunt Maggie reached down and petted him. She gazed coyly at Mr. Mitu and then returned her attention to the dog. “I think I’m going to take you on a walk.”
Archibald wagged his tail with greater ferocity.
“Would you care to join me, Mr. Mitu?” Aunt Maggie asked.
“That sounds splendid,” Mr. Mitu said.
Cora smiled and returned to the main floor. Her steps felt light despite the stairs.
Mr. Badger stood on the landing, and nervousness prickled through Cora. She wished that she hadn’t let Archibald remain with her aunt. His presence would be appreciated, even if he resembled a lamb more than a lion.
Chapter Sixteen
“Good evening, Mr. Badger,” Cora said, putting on her best smile. “I didn’t expect to see you.”
“I didn’t expect to be here,” he grumbled. “Seems the chief inspector was not convinced he’d caught the criminal after all.”
“Oh.”
“Positively disgraceful,” Mr. Badger muttered. “My wife and I were planning to head abroad. This will take quite a damper to our trip.”
“I didn’t realize you were going to travel.”
“That’s because you spent most of your evening speaking to Mrs. Ivanov’s late husband,” Mr. Badger said brusquely. “Women are all the same. Quite foolish creatures.”
Cora decided to take some comfort in the fact that moments before, Mr. Badger had been berating the chief inspector, though Mr. Badger’s complaints about the chief inspector had not been ascribed to the entire male gender.
“Where are you going?”
“Argentina,” he said.
Cora widened her eyes, thinking of Mr. Fawcett’s earlier joke about fleeing to Brazil. “How far away.”
“It’s warm,” Mr. Badger said brusquely.
“It will be winter soon,” she said.
“Oh?” The man lifted his bushy eyebrows and twirled his mustache thoughtfully. “I suppose you’re right. Blast that southern hemisphere business. Well, at least it will be Argentina. If the police are incompetent there, at least I won’t be able to understand them.”
“Will you be taking your wife?” she asked carefully.
“Naturally!” Mr. Badger said. His eyes seemed to grow a brighter shade of green. “Why ever would I not?”
She tensed and realized she had to reassure him. “Only that it’s quite far away, and your wife seems most...English.”
She worried she’d said the wrong thing, but his shoulders seemed to relax. “Yes, she won’t be in her natural habitat. She’ll have to stay closer to me.”
He smiled, and she wondered if that was the whole purpose of the trip.
“Argentina is quite far away,” Cora said.
“Indeed.” He looked down and seemed to assess her with the careful scrutiny he might give a potentially flawed ledger, and the back of her neck prickled underneath his unwavering gaze. “You are a most inquisitive young lady. It is a most unbecoming quality.”
The guests drifted into the room, dressed in evening gear and chitchatting to one another. If they hadn’t been wearing black, Cora would have thought the evening was like any other dinner at a house party. Cora had found both Mr. Fawcett and Mr. Rosenfeld of questionable morals and had considered Mr. and Mrs. Badger to ascribe to higher ethics. Class seemed to have an inverse relationship with good behavior, and she’d confused Mr. and Mrs. Badger’s dullness with goodness.
Cora was relieved when Veronica came down the stairs, appreciating her directness even if she seemed to delight in displaying blatant materialism and feigning disinterest in others.
Natalia arrived and took a place near the gramophone, holding a drink. This time neither Natalia nor anybody else danced. The music had no lyrics, and Cora was relieved for Mrs. Ivanov’s sake that no one was crooning the virtues of love.
Cora excused herself. Veronica was deep in conversation with Mr. Fawcett, and Cora joined Natalia. “This must be difficult for you.”
“Ah, yes.” Natalia gave a sad smile. “Is it true the chief inspector will not let us leave yet?”
“That’s the rumor,” Cora said, “though I haven’t spoken to him myself.”
“As I worried,” Natalia said, looking distraught.
Heavens.
Her brother had died. “Have you broken the news to your family yet?”
“My family?” Her voice squeaked, and she took a deep sip of her martini and the olive bounced against the rims of her glass. “Er—no, not yet.”
“Uncles? Aunts? Surely someone must desire to come to the funeral?” Cora asked.
The Sleuthing Starlet Mysteries Page 29