“I-I think everyone is traveling,” Natalia said hastily.
“Oh.” Cora narrowed her eyes.
“In Africa,” Natalia continued hastily. “I wouldn’t even know how to reach them.”
“How terrible,” Cora said drily. Cora was sympathetic toward the instinct to be reserved. Cora didn’t like discussing her family either. Her father had achieved considerable fame as a singer, one matched only by his propensity to embarrass her. Natalia, it was clear, was naturally quiet.
“But this is a modern age,” Cora said. “With planes and fast ships and—”
“Bulgaria is not like your country,” Natalia said. “And Africa certainly isn’t.”
“Which part are they in?”
“I—er—believe the southern part.” Natalia set her glass down. “I should go say hello to Mrs. Ivanov. Will you excuse me?”
“Naturally,” Cora said.
She wished Randolph were here. It wouldn’t be appropriate for him to join the dinner party, and yet the fact he was nearby made her heart yearn. There seemed to be more for them to discuss. There seemed to be more walks for them to have together, and more chatting about more benign topics than death and deceit.
Cora noticed Natalia hadn’t in fact gone to Mrs. Ivanov after all. She would have thought the two women closest to the victim may have sought comfort in each other, but then, they hadn’t seemed to speak together when he’d still been alive either.
How long would Mrs. Ivanov let Natalia remain?
The dinner gong blasted, and they filed into the dining room. Trees branches rattled against the windows, filling the room with the efficiency of a gramophone, but with a great deal more stamina.
“It would be rather less blustery, Aunt, if you’d chosen not to build a grand house facing the English Channel.”
“I don’t mind it,” Mrs. Ivanov said. “Gusts are no concern. And your dislike of the ocean stems from your inability as a child to ever learn how to swim properly.”
Mr. Fawcett managed to look embarrassed and was silent, though that could have been because the footmen distracted him with placing food before him.
“Your cook is splendid,” Mr. Rosenfeld said gallantly, moving his fork between the paté and gherkins.
“Tell me, Mr. Badger,” Cora said, anxious to speak with him before he left. “What compelled you to move to Argentina?”
“Argentina?” Mrs. Ivanov’s eyebrows shot up. “Why are you going there?”
“England has been a disappointment,” Mr. Badger said.
Mrs. Ivanov’s eyebrows may have fallen, but her eyes had not yet fallen to their natural place. They seemed to have narrowed and were scrutinizing Mr. Badger carefully.
“I find it extraordinary you did not tell me,” Mrs. Ivanov said.
“I—er—didn’t think it necessary,” Mr. Badger said more meekly, and Cora was reminded that Mrs. Ivanov paid Mr. Badger’s salary. “It won’t be at once.”
“Good,” Mrs. Ivanov said, keeping her voice firm.
“The poor woman has had sufficient change in her life,” Mr. Fawcett said.
“Poverty has nothing to do with it,” Mrs. Ivanov said primly.
“Are you planning to continue your work overseas?” Cora asked Mr. Badger.
“Why, yes.”
“Would you by any chance work with me?” she asked.
The man’s face brightened. “Naturally.”
“Then you can leave me information on how I might get in touch with you,” Cora said.
“Splendid,” Mr. Badger said.
Veronica raised her eyebrows, and Cora shook her head. Veronica knew Cora didn’t need an accountant. Cora didn’t even have a job. But this was her chance to at least get an address for Mr. Badger in Argentina.
The dinner passed quickly. It was less elaborate than last night’s dinner, and only consisted of three courses. Mr. Mitu appeared with the liqueurs. He must have finished his walk with Archibald and Aunt Maggie.
Mr. Badger cast a wary look at Mr. Mitu who was standing with the footmen. “Should he be here?”
Mr. Mitu gave a pained expression, but was appropriately silent.
Mr. Badger scowled and strode toward his wife. He yanked her hand. “We’re leaving.”
“We are not supposed to leave.” Mrs. Badger shook her head and firmed her gaze, a form of discipline Cora associated with more gentle-minded kindergarten teachers, and Mr. Badger sent her an annoyed glance.
“I’m not risking our lives because the chief inspector can’t even retain custody of a murderer.”
Mr. Mitu sighed and addressed Mr. Badger. “I want to assure you I in no manner murdered my dear late employer. I know you might not believe me—”
“Fine,” Mr. Badger huffed. “We won’t march out.” He turned to Cora. “This is your fault, isn’t it? You’re American. You don’t know what things are like in Europe. You just go about disrupting order.”
After an awkward silence, everyone jumped up and expressed a desire to sleep rather than indulge in Mrs. Ivanov’s brandy and port. They left the room, perhaps content at least that they were all still alive and had not met the fate of their host.
Just who was the murderer?
Mr. Badger.
The name seemed to roar in Cora’s mind.
Cora had thought him suspicious before, but he’d declared his intention to leave for Argentina. Mr. Fawcett might grumble about Mrs. Ivanov’s expensive taste, but there was no reason for him to murder her husband. Mr. Rosenfeld had barely known Mrs. Ivanov’s husband. Natalia had only shown sorrow at her brother’s death. Mrs. Badger and, for that matter, Mrs. Ivanov, had both loved Mr. Ivanov.
But Mr. Badger had not loved Ivanov.
He’d kept his distance from him during the party, and at breakfast, he was the only person who’d maintained his appetite. He seemed to display a predisposition toward anger, not quieted by his no doubt long days of scrutinizing rows of numbers.
Cora lingered as the others made their way up to their rooms. She spotted Mrs. Ivanov and approached her.
“It was a lovely meal,” she said. “It was kind of you to have it.”
Mrs. Ivanov gave a sad smile. “The rest of us must eat. My late husband was no proponent of starvation.”
“I’m certain,” Cora nodded. “Still. It was pleasant.”
“Thank you, my dear,” Mrs. Ivanov said.
There was a certain awkwardness between them that made Cora even more determined to have the killer caught. She wanted to tell Mrs. Ivanov her theory about Mr. Badger. She wanted to assure her everything would soon be fine.
But she still didn’t have proof. She had a maudlin letter from his wife to the victim, as well as reason to suspect the victim was using it to demand money. Lastly, she had Mr. Badger’s sudden announcement he was moving with his wife to Argentina, far away from the jurisdiction of the police.
The chief inspector should certainly be informed.
“May I please use your phone?” Cora asked.
Mrs. Ivanov’s eyes widened, and she drew Cora to the side of the room.
“Have you found anything out? I know I told you not to look, but...” Her tone was eager.
“I can’t promise anything...” Cora said.
Mrs. Ivanov winked. “Naturally you can use the phone. There’s one in the music room.” She leaned closer. “Though I advise you wait twenty minutes until people are in bed. You wouldn’t believe how many of my guests wander about, searching for books as if this were some Victorian manor house, before bed.
Cora nodded, and Mrs. Ivanov’s eyes twinkled conspiratorially.
Chapter Seventeen
Cora joined Veronica on the landing. “Would you care for a brandy?” Veronica asked. “I have some in my room.”
“No, thank you.”
“I know,” Veronica said. “Gives me the creeps now. I just imagine that poor handsome man being stabbed as he drank it in his study. If I’d been an alcoholic, I would be cured. Unfort
unately, that was not one of my vices, and I don’t think anything can cure me of a desire for a good bedtime companion.”
“Veronica!” Cora whispered.
“Now what do you think of Mr. Fawcett?” Veronica asked. “He actually is quite handsome.”
“Particularly when candlelight is involved,” Cora said.
“Now come, we can’t all have handsome mysterious men wandering to greet us in the morning. Mr. Fawcett’s features are tolerable, and apparently, now that Ivanov is dead, he should be getting much more money.”
“Is that so?”
Veronica nodded with pride. “You wouldn’t believe the kinds of conversation people bring up when attempting to woo something. It really was quite adorable. I thought he was going to show me the projections for his bank account, though he did state again that it was a shame Mrs. Ivanov had decided to build a new property.”
“I’m sure,” Cora said, thinking it curious that he had made a point of earlier declaring in front of the constables that his finances would not improve after Mr. Ivanov’s death. Had he been eager to distance himself from a motive? Or was he simply clumsily wooing Veronica with false information?
“You needn’t look so worried,” Veronica said. “I know he seems far too in favor of highly questionable foreign governments. I have no interest in him. But I thought you might find his statement of interest.”
“I do,” Cora said. “I suppose that’s why he didn’t throw a fuss about Mr. Rosenfeld taking us all for afternoon tea. He wanted to spend time with you.”
“Afternoon tea is delicious,” Veronica said sternly. “I think he may have gone just to eat scones. It’s one of the reasons I really must leave this country.” She assessed her hips. “Still, at least Mr. Fawcett’s healthier bank account can’t widen these.”
“Just why were you saying that Mr. Fawcett will become wealthier through Ivanov’s death?”
“Honey, Mr. Fawcett inherits. His uncle, Mrs. Ivanov’s first husband, owned all this property. It’s just Mr. Fawcett’s bad luck his uncle loved his wife and gave her a healthy sum before he died. Mr. Fawcett resents that Mrs. Ivanov was not just sensible and lived off the interest, which would leave an even nicer sum for Mr. Fawcett to inherit, but the dashing and now dead Mr. Ivanov had a passion for the more maddening of business ideas and an expensive taste Mr. Fawcett did not find tasteful.”
“You found all of that out?”
Veronica beamed. “Indeed. I’m good with money. It’s one of my best qualities.”
“Mm...hmm.”
Veronica gave her a stern look. “But you don’t need an accountant,” Veronica whispered to Cora as they strode up the corridor.
“One of the benefits of not having a job,” Cora said.
“So you told him you wanted an accountant out of an abundance of optimism?” Veronica narrowed her eyes.
“I thought it was useful to have his address,” Cora said, clutching the card he’d given her with his forwarding address in Buenos Aires.
“You are an odd thing,” Veronica said.
Cora just smiled. Hopefully, the information didn’t come in useful. She intended to call the chief inspector tonight and tell him her concerns about Mr. Badger.
She said goodnight to Veronica, and then, when the hallway was quiet, she took Archibald out.
Everyone had retired. This was no night for music or dancing, and she cast a glance at the corridor of closed doors on the hallway. The lights were on, even Mrs. Ivanov’s, and she wondered how many of them were attempting to read books in which they had no interest.
She hurried down the corridor, lest anyone follow. She didn’t want to make small talk about the duration of the police investigation or England’s general wetness, and how it had even tonight began to rain, and probably California was still pleasantly dry.
She needed to call the chief inspector before it was too late.
She removed his card from her purse, conscious that her hands were shaking. She dialed the number and waited to be connected.
Finally, the chief inspector’s voice came over the phone. Cora should have felt relieved, but the man’s overall weariness and exasperation remained frustrating.
“This is Miss Clarke,” she said.
“The unemployed actress?” The chief inspector sighed. “I remember. We don’t have many of them in this region.”
“Er—I suppose not,” Cora said, wondering if she was supposed to giggle at the man’s not-so-very keen observation.
“Is there a particular reason that you’re calling?” the chief inspector asked. “Is everyone in Hollywood sleeping?”
Cora straightened. “No. They’re all awake. California is behind us in time.”
“Fancy that. They’re behind us, and they give us all these airs anyway.”
Cora decided to ignore the man’s statement.
“I suppose you’re calling me so late for a good reason,” he said. “Perhaps you’ve solved the case.”
“Perhaps,” she said primly, allowing herself to smile.
“Oh?” The man sounded more interested. “What do you know?”
She related her discoveries about Mr. Badger to the chief inspector, bracing herself for him to denigrate them.
“That’s rather interesting,” he said calmly, and his tone seemed curiously devoid of its typical condescension.
“I thought you might find it so.” Cora straightened and she had the distinct impression that her eyes might be twinkling. She was grateful the chief inspector could not see her.
“Now, where is Mr. Badger now?”
“He’s still here,” Cora said.
“Didn’t like that we’d released Mr. Mitu?”
“Not in particular,” Cora admitted. “Though that’s most likely because he knows his attempt at framing him didn’t pass muster with the intelligence of the police force.”
“Mm...hmm...”
“That’s curious, isn’t it? One would almost have thought he would have rushed home.”
“Well, I’ll get onto it right away,” the chief inspector said. “Thanks for the tip. We can interview him again in the morning.”
“In the morning?” Cora asked, almost leaping from her seat.
“Naturally. It’s late now.”
“But he could be a criminal. A murderer. The vilest kind!”
“You mean, we have a possible motive for him,” the chief inspector said. “We had that for Mr. Mitu too, and I admit, we may have proceeded too hastily on him.”
“But he can’t stay here overnight! With all of us!”
The chief inspector let out a long sigh. “I suggest you lock your door. No murderer is going to want to take a hatchet to break it down. It’s the sort of thing that might wake up others.”
“How reassuring,” Cora remarked, hoping that she conveyed in her tone just how truly little she was reassured.
“We’ll be here in the morning,” the chief inspector said again. “Good night.”
A click in her ear signaled the inspector had disconnected the call, and Cora stared at the receiver for a moment. Finally, she hung up the phone. “Come, Archibald.”
Archibald stood and wagged his tail, perhaps still hopeful he would get a walk that involved going outside, and not only going down some stairs.
She stepped from the room, Archibald at her heel, into the now dark corridor. She shivered and then became conscious of a presence in the dark.
A large presence.
She felt on the wall for the light switch and turned it on. Light glowed over Mr. Badger. The man was taller than she remembered, and her mouth dried.
“What are you doing here?” Mr. Badger glowered. “Snooping more? Don’t tell me you wanted to borrow a musical instrument before bed? A trumpet? A violin?”
Cora took a step back, hitting the wall.
Archibald barked, and she inhaled. “I’m going outside to walk my dog. I just wanted to see the collection before I went outside.”
“Oh.
” Mr. Badger’s face became rather less purple.
“I’m sure you don’t have an issue with that, Mr. Badger.”
“No.” The man raked a hand through his hair. “Naturally not. That would be absurd.”
“Indeed it would be.” She smiled and then bent to pet Archibald, grateful for his presence. “Let’s go outside.”
Archibald trotted merrily toward the exit, and happiness flitted through Cora.
Perhaps Mr. Badger had killed Mrs. Ivanov’s husband, but Archibald had just saved her from Mr. Badger’s suspicion. The chief inspector would arrest Mr. Badger, and no one else would be hurt.
She stepped outside and Archibald wandered into the grass. He seemed to sniff the air happily. The salty scent from the English Channel wafted in the air, portending promise and hope. Soon flowers would bloom in the garden, but before then, evil would be expelled.
Chapter Eighteen
Cora woke to the sound of Archibald scratching on the door.
“One moment.” She scrambled to put on some clothes. She chose a soft gray dress and flung the cashmere shawl Veronica had purchased over her shoulders.
Life would continue, and she soon led Archibald down the corridor. A door swung open, and Veronica poked her head out.
“Honey, I was hoping that was you,” Veronica drawled. “I thought I heard Archibald’s paws. Are you going outside?”
“Yes.”
“Wait. I’ll join you.”
Cora didn’t have to wait long before Veronica opened the door fully and stepped out. She wore a long black and silver kimono over wide ebony satin trousers. A silver turban covered her head, managing to look both majestic and, perhaps more importantly, covering her not-yet-done hair.
“You don’t look like you’re in mourning,” Cora whispered.
“I’m wearing black and gray,” Veronica said primly. “Now let’s hurry.”
They strode down the corridor and then down the stairs.
Cora was relieved to see the chief inspector in the hallway, even though his presence caused Veronica to scowl.
The man approached Cora. “May I speak to you alone?”
Veronica looked questioning at Cora, as if prepared to not permit the chief inspector to speak with her.
The Sleuthing Starlet Mysteries Page 30