The Sleuthing Starlet Mysteries

by Bianca Blythe

  “Is that so?” she asked.

  “That is exactly so,” he said sternly. “Your friend gave me such a fright when she said you were in trouble. I don’t ever want that to be real.”

  The man said it with such ardor her heart quickened, even though she knew kisses and gentle caresses between them were in the past.

  If this had been December, and he’d been looking at her with such intensity, she would have imagined he might kiss her now. After all, his torso did seem to be somewhat closer than before.

  As were his legs.

  As were his hands.

  As was his—heavens—his face.

  Randolph brushed his lips against hers, and for a moment, she forgot a corpse was on the other side of the room. He pulled away gently. “Take care of yourself.”

  The man managed to look so handsome, even early in the morning, and it should have been enough to make her heart sing.

  Instead, she felt her eyes narrow. “What are you doing?”

  “That, my dear, was a kiss,” he said with such suavity, that had he said it on screen, any gossip columnist would have promptly declared him top heartthrob.

  She rose, wishing she hadn’t chosen to sit on the floor, and wishing she’d mastered the art of standing rapidly. She had a horrible feeling she may be appearing rather more clumsy than was her natural state.

  No matter.

  She directed her gaze at Randolph, who had also risen. “You should have gotten in touch with me earlier.”

  She despised conflict, and it seemed absurd to in any manner admonish Randolph. He’d saved her life before and he was protecting her now.

  The body on the other side of the room seemed to fortify her. There were worse things than unpleasant conversations.

  “I find it confusing,” she admitted.

  He stared at her, his eyes still wide. Finally, he sighed. “Then, I apologize. I’ll aim to be less confusing.”

  “An admirable motive,” she said.

  “One which I will achieve,” he said quickly, and she found herself smiling.

  “You should know,” he said, standing up beside herself, “that my job is unconventional.”

  “You seem to be everywhere,” she remarked.

  “Governments find me useful,” he said.

  “Now tell me, why exactly did you find yourself in this seaside town? You managed to arrive very quickly after the murder.”

  “You noticed,” he said.

  “I did.”

  He remained infuriatingly silent.

  “Look,” she said, “if you’re concerned about my safety, it might be best to tell me what exactly is going on here.”

  “It’s really not that important,” he said.

  “Two people have died,” she said, and he nodded.

  He raked his hand through his hair. “Fine. I’ll tell you. But keep it quiet. This is just for your safety.”

  She nodded solemnly.

  “The British government is concerned about the possibility of war with Germany. There are rumors the Germans have not been content with the recent broadening of their country.”

  She nodded.

  “The South Downs sits directly on the English Channel. The broad expanses of secluded land are an ideal place for Germans to land, should there be an invasion. They’ll expect us to watch our ports, but these areas are far more vulnerable. And East Sussex is closer to Germany than Portsmouth.”

  She stiffened. “They wouldn’t dare invade.”

  He nodded thoughtfully. “Yes. This is the center of the British Empire. It seems absurd to imagine that they would be able to cross the channel.”

  “They’d have to get through France first,” Cora said.

  “Indeed,” Randolph said, “though, between us, there are many times some of us wish not quite so many of the most valiant French officers had died in the Great War. For all their vast supply of weapons and soldiers, the French officers now are a timid sort. They’re in charge now because of their expertise of avoiding conflict in their youth.”

  “They appreciate the importance of peace,” Cora said. “That’s a good thing. Nothing is more important.”

  “Ah,” Randolph said. “I forget you’re American. You are an isolationist country with strong moral ideals. Personally, I would rather have an easy war now than a more difficult one later.”

  “War is never the answer.”

  “Perhaps,” Randolph said. “Though my job is not to create a British army in the Downs,” he said with a smile. “It’s only to ascertain if attempts have been made by the Germans to foster valuable connections here.”

  “You want to determine just how nefarious Hitler is.”

  “Precisely.”

  “So you’ve been living in Eastbourne,” she said.

  “It doesn’t have the romantic Dales,” he said. “But it is tolerable. It’s no longer the seaside paradise it was in the last century, but the old buildings are still there, and I personally am quite fond of the views of the channel and the chalky cliffs that have guarded England against intruders for millennia.”

  “Mr. Fawcett mentioned he saw you tramping about the beach,” Cora mused.

  “He did?” Randolph’s eyes widened. “I wasn’t aware he’d noticed.”

  “You must spend a lot of time there,” Cora said. “Mr. Fawcett is not fond of the channel. Mrs. Ivanov said it’s because he’s a terrible swimmer.”

  Randolph seemed to contemplate her words. Then he took her hand. “Cora, please believe me I would never have left you for this place for only the pleasure of a few degrees’ increase. I wasn’t supposed to let anyone know I was here. These people don’t know me, but the people who do might suspect the government was concerned about the fortification of this district.”

  “I see,” Cora said.

  “I’m going to kiss you again,” Randolph said softly.

  “Okay,” Cora said weakly, and butterflies fluttered within her as their lips touched.

  This time she did not dismiss Randolph as a rogue, toying with her emotions or celebrating her as an unattached female with a tolerable appearance. This time she enjoyed the kiss.

  And it was lovely.

  Chapter Twenty

  “Cora! Cora!” A woman’s voice soared through the air.

  Cora barely had time to move from Randolph before the door swung open.

  Aunt Maggie stood before her, waving a knife.

  She wore her maid’s uniform and no coat, and guilt rushed through Cora.

  “Step away from my niece,” Aunt Maggie said, pointing the curved knife at Randolph.

  Randolph widened his eyes but scrambled up.

  “Hands where I can see them,” Aunt Maggie barked.

  “Aunt Maggie!” Cora said. “That’s not necessary.”

  “Some fancy American guest was telephoning the police and said you were in big trouble over in the folly,” Aunt Maggie said.

  “That would be Veronica,” Cora said.

  “Hmph.” Aunt Maggie sniffed. “So this gentleman is not the trouble?”

  “No,” Cora said emphatically, and Randolph grinned.

  Perhaps it hadn’t been necessary to be that forceful.

  “I believe Miss Veronica’s concern was about that man.” Randolph pointed his finger across the room, at the figure of Mr. Badger.

  “Good heavens,” Aunt Maggie shrieked. “Is he...sick?”

  “He’s dead,” Cora said.

  Aunt Maggie widened her eyes. “Did you—?”

  Cora sprang up. “No! Of course not. He was dead when I found him. I suspect he’s been dead all night.”

  “Oh,” Aunt Maggie said, and her shoulders relaxed a fraction.

  “I would be most appreciative if you put down that knife,” Randolph said.

  Aunt Maggie blinked and then lowered her hand. “Oh, my. You really must forgive me. I was just so worried.”

  Cora gazed at the knife. The hilt was fancier than anything she suspected was in the ki
tchen. “Where did you find that knife?”

  Aunt Maggie’s face turned a ruddy color. “Oh, I shouldn’t have taken it. It’s not mine.”

  “That’s good,” Randolph said. “I would have thought it troubling if you’d acquired a habit of collecting Nepalese knives.”

  “It’s Nepalese?” Aunt Maggie asked. “I was wondering why it was curved.”

  Cora stared at the gold and black lines. “The hilt is beautiful.”

  “It’s a kukri knife,” Randolph said. “It’s used by the Gurkhas.”

  “It resembles a machete.” Cora wondered just what encounters the knife had had.

  “A knife good at cutting through thick plants can also be good for cutting through people,” Randolph said, and Cora shivered.

  Aunt Maggie’s mouth widened. “Oh... I shouldn’t have taken it.”

  “Where did you find it, Aunt Maggie?” Cora asked.

  Randolph seemed to be intently listening for the answer as well. No doubt, he’d had the same thought Cora had: this was the weapon that had killed Mr. Ivanov.

  “I shouldn’t have taken it. You see, I was in the library, cleaning, when that American floozy—” Aunt Maggie, said giving a sharp look at Cora, “begging your pardon, called. I’d seen the knife before—oh, it was in a most unusual place, and I grabbed it when I heard you were in the folly and in trouble. Normally, I wouldn’t, but with these murders...”

  “I can understand your concern,” Randolph said solemnly.

  “I do hope I won’t get in trouble,” Aunt Maggie said. “I just thought it was a funny looking knife. But if it was Nepalese... Well, maybe it’s quite fancy? There aren’t any Nepalese running about here.”

  “I imagine whoever bought it appreciated its beauty,” Randolph said.

  “So the curved blade,” Cora said, “what exactly are the benefits of that?”

  “It’s good for slashing. The curved blade can penetrate more deeply with less force.”

  “Suitable for a quick murder,” Cora said.

  “And not necessarily by someone very strong,” Randolph added.

  “I-I didn’t kill that sweet Bulgarian gentleman,” Aunt Maggie cried. “I swear it.”

  “We believe you,” Cora said, glad Randolph refrained from contradicting her. “But where did you find it?”

  “I still didn’t tell you?” Aunt Maggie’s eyes were round. “It was in a vase. One of the big Chinese ones. I was dusting and I’m afraid my feather duster fell into the vase. It doesn’t do that normally, but I was awfully jumpy.”

  “And the knife was inside?” Randolph asked.

  “Isn’t it curious? I didn’t want to trouble Mrs. Ivanov with it right when she’d had such a terrible shock. I thought it could stay there a bit longer. But when I thought I might need a weapon—”

  “—you thought of it,” Cora finished.

  Aunt Maggie nodded. “That’s right, dearie.”

  “I think you’re going to have to tell the chief inspector that,” Randolph said.

  “Oh, I am in trouble,” Aunt Maggie moaned.

  “You’re not,” Cora said firmly. “That’s very helpful information.”

  Footfalls on the ground crunched in the distance, and soon they heard shouts.

  “The constables are here,” Randolph said.

  “Thank goodness,” Cora said.

  She wanted to be outside of this folly. She never wanted to enter it again.

  The old-fashioned architecture was no longer charming.

  One of the constables barged into the room.

  “You’re looking for the dead man.” Aunt Maggie pointed at Mr. Badger.

  The constable nodded and rushed to him. Soon a bevy of constables were swarming around.

  “That’s an odd scent in here,” the chief inspector said. “I thought it was a dead body, but—”

  “—he hasn’t been dead that long,” Cora finished. “A fish is attached underneath one of the chairs.”

  Cora pointed at the chair in question, and the chief inspector raised his eyebrows.

  “How curious,” he said. “I’ve never seen that before.”

  “Oh, we make our murders interesting here,” Aunt Maggie said, giving a nervous giggle.

  He narrowed his eyes. “Just what are you doing here?”

  “She’s very important,” Randolph said. “She found the murder weapon.”

  The chief inspector blinked.

  “Show it to him,” Cora whispered, and Aunt Maggie pulled it from the pocket of her apron.

  “It’s Nepalese,” Aunt Maggie said.

  “That is most interesting,” the chief inspector said. “Where did you find it?”

  Aunt Maggie told her story, and the chief inspector looked suitably impressed. This was something major, and Cora’s heart began to move at a more even pace.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  CORA STRODE BACK TO the house, away from the bevy of activity at the folly, accompanied by Aunt Maggie and Archibald. The thin mist that had hovered over the dewy grass had disappeared, and when they entered the house, many people were about.

  Clearly, the arrival of the chief inspector and his crew of constables had not gone without notice.

  Mrs. Ivanov appeared rather less polished than before, as if she had not bothered to wait for her maid and had simply slid into the dress she’d had with the fewest buttons.

  “What happened?” Mrs. Ivanov asked, pulling the door open and greeting Cora herself. “Something must have happened. They’re all at the folly. Why are they at the folly?”

  “I’m afraid there has been another tragedy,” Cora said.

  Mrs. Ivanov paled. “What form of a tragedy?”

  “Mr. Badger is dead.”

  “My accountant? But who would desire to kill him?” She sat down and clasped her hands together. “One is beginning to think this place is cursed.”

  “Perhaps it is,” Mr. Fawcett remarked, turning a page of the newspaper.

  Mrs. Ivanov blinked, and for a moment Cora believed she was assessing the likelihood her nephew might be correct.

  “That’s absurd,” she said finally.

  Mr. Fawcett gave a wry smile.

  Cora had observed this conversation before. Mr. Fawcett never seemed to quite forgive his aunt for building a home on the seafront. She’d assumed Mr. Fawcett regretted his aunt’s extravagance, but perhaps his annoyance was not entirely on the prospect of a thinner ledger filled solely with scarlet numbers.

  Perhaps his annoyance was on the location she’d chosen.

  Did he desire to have easy access to the seafront for a nefarious purpose? Did he desire to communicate easily with the Germans?

  She shivered. The thought was absurd. The Germans were not going to invade England. They might have marched into Austria, but that had seemed to be at Austria’s instigation. After all, Germany shared a common language and border with Austria. Nothing like that would ever happen in England over the channel. If Germany were truly the enemy, British royals would be rather less enthusiastic about Hitler. He’d freed Germany from poverty and, perhaps more importantly, from the prospect of communism. Germany was an effective barrier against Stalin’s relentless cruelty.

  But perhaps fortifying a country against war did not solely involve amassing a stockpile of weapons and the expert harshness of a drill sergeant. Perhaps it also involved ensuring borders were protected from the influence of its inhabitants.

  Mr. Fawcett did not have much money, and only recently had his prospects improved. Could he have been swayed by bribery? Would he care enough about his country to not get involved with Germans, were he asked? The upper class after all seemed enthusiastic about the funny little German with the ridiculous mustache and the passionate speeches.

  Mr. Fawcett had spotted Randolph walking by the cliffs. Why had Mr. Fawcett, who seemed eager to enumerate the negative parts of having a home that overlooked the channel, spent time there? Mr. Fawcett had pontificated about the splendors of walks i
nside the Downs, away from the brutality of the ocean and the salty sting of sea spray.

  She hurried inside the house and toward the breakfast room. The spread was less magnificent, and Cora remembered the house party was supposed to have finished yesterday. The housekeeper had evidently not anticipated when she ordered food that the chief inspector would demand the house party be prolonged.

  Archibald yawned and headed for one of the luxurious furs that dotted the marble floor, obviously pleased at no longer being in the frigid, foul-odored folly.

  Cora settled at the breakfast table, eager to distract herself from thoughts of Mr. Badger’s gruesome fate. Any conversation, no matter how unpleasant, would be an improvement upon that.

  Mr. Fawcett leaned toward her, his eyes shining. “Natalia tells us there was a new murder.”

  “Are you quite certain he’s dead?” Mrs. Badger asked hopefully, clutching a handkerchief in her hand.

  Cora’s heart panged. “I’m so sorry. I—”

  Mrs. Badger’s face crumpled, and she stumbled back into her seat at the breakfast table. “My poor husband. The sweet man.”

  “I wish it weren’t so,” Cora said.

  “You needn’t be melodramatic,” Mr. Rosenfeld said. “Even Mrs. Badger doesn’t truly wish that. Anyone could see he was a cruel man.”

  Mrs. Badger gasped. “That’s not true. He was upset last night. But that was not his normal state.”

  “Oh?” Mr. Rosenfeld appeared puzzled and he drew his eyebrows together, as if the action might rearrange the memories of Mr. Badger in his mind. “He certainly appeared to have all the signs of a wife beater.”

  “Then it appears you are a quite terrible judge of character,” Mrs. Ivanov said, stroking Mrs. Badger’s shoulder. “Please ignore the man. He deals with the theatrical. Reality is rather more of a challenge.”

  Mr. Rosenfeld’s face turned a ruddier color. “I do apologize. I assumed.”

  “Perhaps to alleviate your bad conscience at having murdered the good accountant,” Mr. Fawcett remarked.

  “Nonsense,” Mr. Rosenfeld said sharply, before redirecting his attention to the now sobbing Mrs. Badger. “I suppose this is a tragedy.”

  “Naturally,” Mrs. Badger said. “Of the utmost order.”