The Sleuthing Starlet Mysteries

by Bianca Blythe

  “There, there.” Mrs. Ivanov continued to stroke Mrs. Badger’s shoulder.

  “He was an excellent man,” Mrs. Badger said between sobs. “His morals were magnificent.”

  “Quite,” Mrs. Ivanov said. “We will all miss him.”

  Mr. Fawcett and Mr. Rosenfeld gave strangled sounds as they murmured agreement.

  Everyone was at the breakfast table. The waves of the English Channel still rolled majestically against the shore, and the chalky white cliffs still curved alluring alongside, but this time no one was staring at the view. Sometimes they peered in the direction of the folly, though it was not visible from the table.

  “I suppose the chief inspector spoke with you?” Cora asked.

  “A constable did,” Mrs. Ivanov said. “He also informed everyone not to leave and that there will be more interviews.”

  “A true nuisance,” Mr. Rosenfeld said. “Some of us have positions of importance.”

  “I’m certain you can manage,” Mrs. Ivanov said sternly. “Though I think we all know who committed this crime.”

  “There’s that,” Mr. Rosenfeld said. “Perhaps I can be on the afternoon train back to Victoria Station.”

  “You display an optimism I do not associate with you,” Mr. Fawcett remarked.

  “Nonsense,” Mr. Rosenfeld said. “The butler did it. I’m sure you don’t disagree.”

  “No,” Mr. Fawcett admitted, “much as I would like to put the blame on you. These Eastern Europeans can be quiet troublesome. Hitler isn’t given nearly enough credit for keeping them at bay.”

  “Let’s not get political,” Mrs. Ivanov said lightly. “No conversation for the breakfast table.”

  “You’re only saying that because you married one,” Mr. Fawcett said.

  Mrs. Ivanov averted her eyes.

  “He was an excellent husband,” Mrs. Ivanov said stiffly.

  “You forget I’m your neighbor,” Mr. Fawcett said more gently.

  Mrs. Ivanov cast a wary glance in Cora’s direction and was silent.

  Cora forced a bland expression onto her face, pondering Mr. Fawcett’s words. Was it possible Mr. Ivanov had truly had an affair with Mrs. Badger? Had Mr. Fawcett known about it? Had Mrs. Ivanov?

  “Next time, hire an Englishman,” Mr. Fawcett said.

  “At least you’re not advocating hiring Germans,” Mr. Rosenfeld grumbled.

  “They have an efficiency that might overwhelm your guests,” Mr. Fawcett said. “Besides, I imagine they’re rather enjoying themselves in their own country, driving on their nice new roads and not having to worry about the communists and anarchists that used to plague them.”

  “I understand your impulse to write novels,” Mr. Rosenfeld remarked drily. He slurped his tea and seemed to delight in the irritation that crossed over Mr. Fawcett’s face.

  Why are they talking about hiring a butler?

  Cora turned around. Where is Mr. Mitu?

  He hadn’t answered the door.

  “If you’re looking for the butler,” Mr. Fawcett said, “a constable already hauled him off for questioning.”

  “To the police station?” Cora’s voice squeaked.

  “To the music room,” Mrs. Ivanov said resignedly. “Apparently the police in this district are under the impression that this place serves as a makeshift station.”

  “That’s only because we’ve had two murders here in the past three days.”

  “Well, that’s not my fault,” Mrs. Ivanov said hotly.

  “You either hire murderers or you invite murderers for house parties,” Mr. Fawcett remarked. “Neither quality is beneficial in a hostess.”

  “Perhaps you’re the murderer,” Mr. Rosenfeld remarked, “and she was forced to invite you because you’re her nephew. Or rather, her late husband’s nephew. “

  “I wouldn’t have been here had I not had the very pleasant invitation from Mr. Rosenfeld,” Veronica said.

  “We know you didn’t do it,” Mr. Rosenfeld said. “You didn’t know the man.”

  “Don’t underestimate her,” Mr. Fawcett said. “She could be mad. She could delight in murdering men. This isn’t the first murder she’s attended, after all. Perhaps the wrong person then was caught.”

  “Oh, honey,” Veronica drawled. “I’m no murderess.”

  “My point,” Mr. Fawcett said, “is that any of us could have committed the crime.”

  There was an awkward silence as people seemed to realize that going to the folly at night was something any of them could have done. They’d all complied with the chief inspector’s wishes to stay here. No one had an alibi, not even the insistences of a bedmate.

  “Perhaps,” Cora said, conscious her voice was at a higher pitch than normal. She inhaled and helped herself to a slice of bread. She spread butter on it, striving to maintain an even texture throughout.

  “I think you may consider that toast buttered,” Mr. Fawcett said, and Cora set down her knife.

  “Be nice,” Mr. Rosenfeld said. “She’s had a shock.”

  “I am very eager to learn about it,” Mr. Fawcett said.

  Mr. Rosenfeld tilted his head. “I suppose you must. How difficult it must be for you, a man who writes about murder, to not happen upon an actual body.”

  Mr. Fawcett flushed. “I didn’t come close to discovering it.”

  “But he was discovered at the folly. Don’t you have a tendency to take walks there?”

  “Nonsense,” Mr. Fawcett said hotly.

  “I thought its old-fashioned charm may have appealed to you,” Mr. Rosenfeld said casually. “The lack of imagination in its neo-classical structure can be construed as soothing.”

  Mr. Fawcett scowled, and Mr. Rosenfeld picked up his cup of tea and took a long sip, his eyes continuing to glimmer mischievously over the brim of the elaborately designed cup.

  “Did it look quite gruesome?” Mr. Rosenfeld asked.

  “Our late host looked dreadful at his murder, and it would be most unfair if the accountant looked better,” Mr. Fawcett said, evidently sufficiently recovered from Mr. Rosenfeld’s teasing to commence with his own, even if his ridicule was directed at the dead and defenseless.

  “He will haunt my nightmares.” Natalia shuddered.

  “My poor husband.” Mrs. Badger blew her nose noisily. “The poor sweet man.”

  Cora glanced at Natalia curiously. Natalia had been reluctant to go to the folly in the morning, and her shoes had been stained with recent mud. Was it possible Natalia had discovered the body that morning on her own? Was it possible she’d killed Mr. Badger? But why would she desire to do so?

  The others remained silent, and the momentousness of the event seemed to roll over them. Mr. Badger may not have been charming, and as a guest, he was perhaps wanting, but the others possessed their own faults as well. Mrs. Badger had lost her husband. He should have been around decades longer.

  Cora’s heart squeezed.

  Mr. Badger had been the murderer’s second victim. Had the murderer always intended to kill him? Or had Mr. Badger discovered the identity of the murderer? Or some vital aspect into the motive?

  Had Mr. Badger’s death been impulsive? Mr. Ivanov had been stabbed with a knife, but Mr. Badger had been hit in the head with a stone. Where had the stone come from? And why on earth had Mr. Badger gone to the folly? He’d seemed to despise the house and had seemed eager to leave. Why would he go to the coldest, most isolated part of it?

  Mr. Badger must have discovered something.

  Something last evening had scared the murderer. Something had made the murderer kill again.

  Perhaps Mr. Badger had gone to the folly to check something. Or perhaps he’d had a rendezvous with the murderer? Cora frowned. Mr. Badger was an accountant. He did know the value of money. Perhaps his announcement that he was moving to Argentina had scared the murderer, who’d realized that this night would be the only chance to kill him, rather than to be subjected to decades of blackmail from a place so far away, killing him would be i
mpossible.

  “I suppose the place must be crawling with constables,” Mr. Fawcett said.

  “Yes.”

  “Did they find anything?”

  Something about Mr. Fawcett’s manner was odd. His eyes didn’t meet hers, and he pushed his fork about his plate, touching, but never actually picking up, the ham coiled there. His question was not framed in sarcasm, and his voice had trembled.

  Cora glanced up sharply. Mrs. Ivanov seemed to also be gazing at Mr. Fawcett with a curious expression on her face.

  “Whatever would they find there?” Mrs. Ivanov asked.

  “N-nothing,” Mr. Fawcett said. Then he inhaled and gave a slight smile, as if the mere taking in of breath was an effort that required valor for which he might be commended. “Merely that they may have found a clue. A piece of some dress fabric. A loose button. A—”

  “Are you to name all articles of attire?” Mr. Rosenfeld raised his eyebrows. “I assure you, had they found something so indicative of a possible murderer, the constables would have rushed up here and one of these young ladies might have mentioned the fact instead of gazing in a melancholic manner about the room.”

  Mr. Fawcett flushed, and Cora had the odd impression Mr. Fawcett might have agreed with Mr. Rosenfeld’s words. Something else had been on his mind. Something besides cloth and buttons.

  Randolph’s words echoed in her ears.

  He’d been sent here to fortify Britain’s borders and to ensure no Germans might find this a good landing spot. Was it possible that someone was working to ensure the opposite? And was it possible that person was Mr. Fawcett?

  She needed to speak with Randolph. She needed to tell him her suspicions. Two people had already been murdered. Perhaps Mr. Badger had had the same odd hypothesis and had met his death when he’d gone to investigate.

  She swallowed hard, and her heart thumped wildly in her chest. She forced herself to sound nonchalant. “I think I’ll go visit my aunt.”

  Veronica nodded, and then Cora hastened down the stairs. She needed to see her aunt. She had a question.

  After looking through the housekeeper’s books and verifying the answer, she rushed back up the stairs and made for the foyer. She was conscious that people were watching her, and she slowed her steps consciously. “I’m just going outside again. After all, I didn’t finish my walk.”

  Natalia’s and Veronica’s eyebrows lurched upward, but they remained silent, and Cora found herself blushing. She hurried out the door, wrapping herself in her coat that a startled maid gave her.

  She hurried over the still dewy grass, following the path to the folly. Various rosebushes were on either side of her, and in the summer this must be beautiful, but now all she could see were thorns and dried leaves.

  The constables had abandoned the area. Their navy blue helmets that managed to never blend into any environment, were gone, though they’d cordoned off the folly. The chief inspector stood outside, chatting with Randolph, and Cora forced herself to slow her steps, conscious of how odd her sudden appearance must be.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  It did not take long for Randolph to spot her. His eyebrows rose slightly, and for a horrible second she worried he might see her as a foolish woman. A smile soon appeared on his face, one that could not have derived from the dependable dullness of the chief inspector’s conversation, and he murmured something to the other man.

  The chief inspector turned his gaze toward her. No smile appeared on his face, and Cora faltered. It would not do to waste these men’s time with odd theories.

  “Cora,” Randolph said. “I didn’t think you would come back here.”

  “I-I hadn’t finished my walk,” she said, striving to sound nonchalant before the chief inspector.

  Randolph’s lips turned into a slight smirk, and he leaned toward her. “You forgot Archibald.”

  Her skin flamed at his words.

  “I wanted to see you,” she admitted, and he nodded and led her away from the chief inspector, perhaps conscious of the latter man’s disgruntled expression.

  “Ask anything,” Randolph said.

  She nodded, but the words caught in her throat. Finally, she sighed. “Did you find anything to indicate the Germans might desire to come here? Is that why you were spotted pacing the beach?”

  He nodded solemnly. “There are tunnels here. Some were used by smugglers during the war with Napoleon. Others might be even older.”

  “How curious,” she said.

  The United States may have fought battles with other people within it, and it had certainly fought battles with various American Indian tribes, but it had not had an outside enemy on its soil for a long time. The War of 1812 had been fought on the East Coast, away from California, but that had been a short war.

  She couldn’t imagine living in a place where war had raged on more consistently, where whole businesses had been built to profit from the war.

  The chalky white cliffs seemed unmenacing. The soft slopes of the South Downs appeared gentle, the fact further emphasized by the prevalence of Victorian towns along the seaside filled with holidaymakers. The promenade with its views of the sea at one side and with the assortment of flowers on the other seemed designed for abundant numbers of tourists, often elderly or accompanied by children.

  There were harsher environs in Britain. Scotland and Wales were composed solely of craggy mountains and rugged terrain if one were to believe the proud boasting of the Scotts and Welsh.

  And yet, despite their pleasant appearance, this region had known danger. This was where Normans had first invaded England, and this was where they had feared Napoleon would invade.

  Randolph studied her. “Did you simply want to inquire about the existence of tunnels?”

  She shook her head. “It’s probably nothing.” She frowned, conscious she would never have dashed out of Orchid Manor with such haste had she believed that. “But I think it’s possible Mr. Fawcett may be involved in something nefarious.”

  “Mrs. Ivanov’s nephew?” Randolph raised his eyebrows.

  “He spends a great deal of time berating his aunt for building this home on this precise location. I always thought he bemoaned the money she spent on it, and the manner in which the new home would have ravaged his inheritance. Perhaps, though, he also did not like her chosen location.”

  “That is an interesting thought.” Randolph stroked his chin, and his eyes glimmered, as if they were seeing all manner of wonderful things.

  Cora pulled her gaze away from him. It was too easy to linger her gaze on him and too easy to remember the feel of his lips against hers.

  “If you didn’t suspect Mr. Fawcett,” Cora asked. “Whom did you suspect?”

  “Mrs. Ivanov’s husband of course,” Randolph said.

  Oh.

  Cora turned the information over in her mind.

  “I wouldn’t feel comfortable telling you otherwise, but since he is dead, and since this is important, it feels less terrible to potentially besmirch his name.

  “But why would you suspect him?” Cora asked.

  “He was the one who suggested to build this house here.”

  “Perhaps he only liked this place’s beauty,” Cora said.

  “Perhaps. And yet,” Randolph said, “there has been odd activity occurring here. I’m not certain what you know of his family, but they have expressed sympathies toward Hitler.”

  “As have many of the aristocrats here,” Cora countered. “They fear Stalin and his potential to yank wealth away and redistribute it, far more. They remember what happened to Russia’s aristocrats, and they know what happened to the French aristocrats in the eighteenth century.”

  “You didn’t approach me because you thought nothing was occurring,” Randolph said.

  Cora sighed. “You’re correct.”

  All too much had occurred here.

  “I searched the entire folly this morning,” Cora said, ignoring the manner in which Randolph’s eyebrows lurched upward. “I
didn’t find any sign of what had occurred.”

  “I wouldn’t expect you to do so,” Randolph said.

  “The only part I didn’t search was the closet in which Mr. Badger was found.”

  Randolph was silent, and Cora swallowed hard. “When I found him his face was faced toward the door. Thinking back, I find that odd. He was a large man, and it would be difficult for someone to arrange him in a standing position.”

  “Obviously he was hiding from someone, and the person discovered him.”

  “Yet, why was he hit in the back of his head?”

  Randolph blinked. “Perhaps someone was hiding in the closet?”

  Cora frowned. “That is a possible explanation.”

  “But not the one that had occurred to you,” Randolph said.

  “No,” Cora said. “I think it possible that someone was going through the tunnel and he was approaching the tunnel from the folly entrance.”

  “What tunnel?”

  “The tunnel that leads from the caves of course,” Cora said.

  “I don’t know of one.”

  “But that’s the only thing that makes sense,” Cora said. “The folly was built when the rest of the house was built, and it would have made an ideal location for smugglers.”

  “You believe Mrs. Ivanov’s first husband’s family was involved with smuggling?”

  “Well, it would explain how they kept their money.” Cora sighed. “But it could have easily have been a steward or some ambitious footmen besotted at the prospect of vast riches who built the tunnel.”

  “I see,” Randolph said.

  Cora sighed. “Perhaps I’m wrong. It would though explain the fish.”

  “That fish was put there. It didn’t swim up from the channel through some centuries-old tunnel.”

  Cora frowned. “Naturally not. That would be absurd. You really must follow.”

  Randolph blinked.

  “Perhaps we should check,” Cora said, and she strode toward the folly, conscious of Randolph running behind her.

  The chief inspector was speaking with a constable when she returned to the entrance, and Cora opened the door of the folly.