The Sleuthing Starlet Mysteries

by Bianca Blythe

“I don’t think you should do that,” Randolph said behind her.

  She turned to him and gave him a stern glance. “I’m solving the crime. I think everyone would agree it should be solved, even the chief inspector.”

  Randolph flushed, but thankfully, the man decided to be silent. Finding a hidden tunnel was no simple task, and conversation was to be limited, particularly the sort of conversation that demanded her to repeat certain facts and express wonder at others.

  Cora was good at observing, and though a prickle of uncertainty moved through her at the prospect she might not be able to find a secret passageway, she was bolstered by the certainty there must be one here.

  The body was missing, no doubt whisked to some office or laboratory in Eastbourne for further inspection. The chair with the fish had also been removed.

  “What I don’t understand,” Randolph said, “is the fish.”

  “Truly? That was the one thing that made the case make sense.”

  Randolph continued to stare at her dubiously, and she sighed. She was going to have to explain it.

  “The fish reminded me of calling cards of the mob,” Cora said. “In movies, killers always leave some form of autograph.”

  “So the chief inspector should expect to be called out to a variety of crimes in the coming years that contain rotting fish?” Randolph asked.

  She gave him a hard stare. “Nonsense. This crime relates to the people in this house. There would be no reason for them to go about murdering people in other houses, and if they do have that inclination, one would rather hope the chief inspector would take them to prison beforehand.”

  Randolph nodded, but even though he rather emanated confidence and calm and intelligence, his eyes flickered in a manner that made Cora think he hadn’t understood after all.

  “The first clue was the fish. The killer is clever, and the fish was a mistake. I understand why the killer added the fish, but the killer really should have used a different fish.”

  Randolph widened his eyes. “The fish didn’t come from Orchid Manor.”

  Cora nodded. “I checked with Aunt Maggie, and I looked through the housekeeper’s books to double check. The housekeeper ordered fish this week, but it was all freshwater fish. That means the fish also didn’t come from the pond.”

  Randolph nodded. “So the killer would have had to have brought the fish with him, or he would have had to have gone down to the ocean and hoped that he would have found one.”

  “He would have found one,” Cora said, “there were all sorts of fish that were washed up after the storm. The murderer would have known that. And yet, this is a smart killer. I cannot believe that the murderer would have been walking around the South Downs clutching a fish simply in case he happened to kill someone. Mr. Badger, after all, wasn’t supposed to be at the folly.”

  “But you don’t think the murderer walked down to the ocean, grabbed a fish, and then came back up?”

  Cora smiled at him. “I do not. Not with Orchid Manor’s large windows that overlook the folly. It might have been night, but someone could have seen from the window. The killer wouldn’t have made that mistake.”

  “I see,” Randolph said.

  “Obviously we are assuming the killer was not some madman who happened upon the folly and Mr. Badger. I do believe Mr. Badger’s murder was linked with Mrs. Ivanov’s husband’s murder, and I am also confident no stranger could have entered Orchid Manor, made his way to Mr. Ivanov’s study and murdered Mrs. Ivanov’s husband with a kukri knife that belonged in Orchid Manor. So in that case, there must be a passageway from the folly to the seafront.” Cora frowned and began to pat the wall, uncertain exactly what she was searching for, but desperate to find it all the same.

  It was beginning to occur to her that her theory might still sound odd to Randolph, despite all her efforts to clarify it. No one would believe her unless she actually found a passageway.

  “I’ll help you,” Randolph said, running his hand over the wall, and Cora’s heart soared.

  “Thank you.” Cora moved toward the closet in which Mr. Badger had been found.

  “You are aware that constables searched this room,” Randolph said. “We may not find anything.”

  She raised her chin. “That may be, but the constables were not looking for a secret passageway. I am.”

  She remembered a scene in Gal Detective and the Secret Passageway. In that film, thieves had accessed a bedroom that contained jewels by entering through a passageway by pressing a loose brick. She surveyed the small closet. “Closets are not common in England, are they?”

  “No, we’re more wardrobe people,” Randolph said airily.

  “I think it’s possible your ancestors had the same distaste for closets,” Cora said, dropping to the floor. “This closet could have been added later.”

  “Oh?” Randolph moved toward her. He moved to the floor as well, tapping his fingers against the bricks.

  The smell of fish remained in the air, though thankfully, it was fainter now, and Cora had the urge to once again kiss Randolph. Perhaps he was thinking something similar, for in the next moment she felt his sturdy arm about her shoulder. In the moment after that though, something clicked beneath her hand and a trapdoor opened.

  Cora nearly fell through the hole and onto the steps. Randolph clutched her shoulder more tightly.

  “I did it.” Cora scrambled up, staring at the hole. “I did it.”

  “I wasn’t certain whether to believe you,” Randolph said.

  She swung around, still smiling, still triumphant. “Always believe me.”

  Randolph rose. “I’m beginning to see that.”

  She shivered.

  Perhaps she’d been correct, and perhaps that was wonderful, but if so, Cora and Randolph were staring at the hole in which the killer had climbed through to murder Mr. Badger.

  Randolph must have had that same realization, for he stroked her back gently. “You can go back. This is a job for the chief inspector.”

  She shook her head. “No. We need to do this now.”

  And with that, she stepped onto the staircase in the secret passageway.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  She shivered but continued downward.

  “I don’t think you should be here,” Randolph said again.

  “Nonsense.” Cora touched the wall with her hand, steadying herself as she proceeded. The stone steps were rickety and must have been pressed into the ground decades ago. As they walked farther, the steps became more sporadic, as the incline’s steepness varied. “Now is the perfect time for me to be here.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because the murderer is inside Orchid Manor, having breakfast.”

  “Are you going to reveal the name of the murderer?”

  Cora frowned. “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because that would involve knowing for certain, and I don’t.”

  “It’s not your job to know,” Randolph said.

  “Actually... It is my job. Or at least...it was. Mrs. Ivanov recruited me.” Cora was glad the tunnel was dark. She’d been afraid Randolph would laugh. She’d been afraid Randolph would realize just how poor of a job she’d done, since Mr. Ivanov had died shortly after she’d been hired.

  “Mrs. Ivanov hired you to discover who her husband’s killer was?” Randolph sounded astounded. “Because this place was rather swarming of constables all better prepared to tackle danger than you.”

  “Mrs. Ivanov was concerned for her husband’s well-being before his death,” Cora said.

  “And she thought you would rectify that? What on earth was she thinking?”

  “It’s not that absurd,” Cora said hotly. “There are lady detectives.”

  “Usually the victim has actually died. Otherwise, the person is simply hiring a bodyguard...which you are not.”

  “Mrs. Ivanov would rather have hired a bodyguard,” Cora said. “Unfortunately her husband could not be convinced of the severit
y of his position. He believed his accidents to be simply that.”

  “Mrs. Ivanov shouldn’t have confused the silver screen with the not very silvery reality,” Randolph said. “Still, I wonder whom Mrs. Ivanov suspects.”

  “She seemed convinced Mr. Mitu committed the crime,” Cora said.

  She stumbled, and Randolph caught her arm. The tunnel had turned to stairs again. Her mind continued to muse over Randolph’s question. Had Mrs. Ivanov had an inkling on which of her guests had perhaps desired to harm her husband before?

  “Hiring someone to observe other guests seemed like an extraordinary step,” Randolph said. “Were they all her friends?”

  “No,” Cora said. “In fact, I don’t believe any of them were truly close to her. With the exception of Mr. Rosenfeld of course. Mr. Fawcett was a relation of her late husband, Natalia was a relation of her current husband, and she knew Mr. Badger in a professional capacity and seemed hardly close to his wife. She could have held each of them in suspicion. After all, Mr. Rosenfeld was known to her, but he’d also ventured into a series of unpleasant business ventures with her husband. Mr. Fawcett resented her husband, since he was anxious to remain first in line to inherit. She would have felt more comfortable with Mr. and Mrs. Badger, and perhaps that’s one reason they were invited, but that does not mean they did not have reasons to be angry with Mr. Ivanov.”

  “So I suppose only Natalia had a reason to not murder her brother.”

  “Fratricide is not a frequent occurrence,” Cora agreed.

  She frowned, wondering if there was any proof Natalia was actually Ivan’s sister. Mr. Fawcett had hinted that Mr. Ivanov had been an imperfect husband. Mr. Ivanov had hidden Mrs. Badger’s love letter to him, in a way that made Cora suspected he intended to blackmail her.

  Perhaps he already had.

  Cora shivered, remembering being alone with Mrs. Ivanov. The woman might not be as meek as she acted. It might be possible for her to be driven to desperation.

  She might not have lived in England long, but she suspected the differences in languages and governmental bureaucracies between countries in Europe must make it much easier to take on a new identity and be believed than it might be from moving to a new state in the United States.

  For now though her focus was on the secret passageway. Waves hissed against the rocks, and she must be nearing the bottom of the cliff. They climbed down a ladder and came to a small room that no doubt had been hollowed out by the ocean at some point in history, but which was now dry.

  “You found it,” Randolph said, his voice awestruck. “Mr. Badger must have discovered this last night, just like we did.”

  “Yes,” Cora said regretfully.

  The man hadn’t seemed particularly pleasant, but he hadn’t deserved to be bludgeoned to death.

  “It’s not proof though that this was used for nefarious deeds,” Cora said. “And it doesn’t prove Mr. Fawcett was responsible.”

  She felt suddenly very tired. She gazed around the room. What had she imagined? National Socialist propaganda? Stern looking eagles and swastikas? Every country’s national symbols could seem odd when gathered together. After all, wasn’t every country’s national symbols designed to intimidate those that did not belong in the country and bolster the confidence of those that did? Wales had a habit of brandishing dragons, and most countries seemed to favor lions and serpents.

  Personally, Cora would prefer to encounter an eagle.

  This room was empty.

  “I’ll make a note about this place to the home guard,” Randolph said. “They’ll be sure to close it off if war ever happens.”

  “Good,” Cora said faintly.

  Randolph turned to her. “You’ve had a shock. Let’s get you back to the house.”

  Cora nodded.

  The exploration hadn’t been exactly unsuccessful. She’d thought there was a passageway to the bottom of the cliffs even when Randolph had scoffed at the notion. But it hardly proved murder. There were no bloody footprints and certainly nothing as decisive as photographs of Mr. Fawcett doing the deed.

  Would discovery of this place have sufficed in ensuring Mr. Badger’s death? Cora thought it dubious.

  She sighed and continued up the slope toward the folly. Ascending was less pleasant than descending, and her calves soon ached.

  Randolph was quieter as well on the journey. Success had seemed imminent, but there was much they still did not know.

  The chief inspector was inside the folly, and his eyebrows rose when he saw them. Evidently, he’d not expected them to emerge from the closet and he peered into the distance behind them. “Is that a passageway?”

  Randolph nodded. “Miss Clarke discovered it.”

  If he’d meant to bolster Cora’s reputation with the chief inspector, he only served to lessen the importance of the discovery.

  The chief inspector’s face settled into a scowl, the look intensified by the drooping dark mustache that dangled over both sides of his mouth, as if to frame it. “You shouldn’t be here. This is a crime scene.”

  “Well, now you know there was another entry point.”

  “Hmph.” The chief inspector continued to scowl, but his eyes glimmered and in the next moment, his scowl had disappeared, replaced by a pensive expression. “That would explain the position of the man’s body.”

  “Indeed,” Randolph said.

  “Not bad,” the chief inspector said reluctantly, turning to Cora. “Still, in the future, you should see crime scenes as strictly off limits.”

  “In the future I hope to not see crime scenes,” Cora said.

  The chief inspector gave a perfunctory nod. “Good girl.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Cora returned to the breakfast room. The others had finished, moving on from the hot delights of eggs and bacon to solely sipping tea.

  “Did you enjoy your walk?” Mrs. Ivanov asked.

  Mr. Rosenfeld shot her an accusatory glance, and heat rushed to Cora’s face.

  “It was fine,” she said finally.

  “How lovely,” Mrs. Ivanov said. “I’m glad you can take so much enjoyment from the property, even in the face of these travails.”

  “It wasn’t purely enjoyable,” Cora said hastily, but the others’ eyes remained cold.

  “Mrs. Badger is in the music room with the chief inspector,” Mrs. Ivanov said. “It seems he would like us all to return there so we may relay information on this new death.”

  “Obviously it is Mr. Mitu,” Mr. Rosenfeld said. “The man had just returned, and Mr. Badger was noticeably unpleasant to him. These temperamental foreigners.”

  “You are quite keen on blaming him,” Veronica said thoughtfully.

  “Don’t say those sorts of things,” Natalia said. “Perhaps pondering the murderer is what got Mr. Badger killed.”

  There was a silence in the room.

  “I want to leave,” Natalia said finally.

  “Yes, two years of hospitality is just about enough.” Mrs. Ivanov’s voice was uncharacteristically sharp, and two red stains formed on Natalia’s perfectly applied face.

  Cora at first thought Natalia seemed embarrassed, but she rose abruptly and her hands shook with such force that Cora realized that anger was the Bulgarian’s primary emotion.

  “He never should have died. You didn’t protect him.” Natalia swept from the room, her skirts brushing against the gleaming chrome legs of a modern side table.

  The tension between Natalia and Mrs. Ivanov was palpable. The two women had seldom spoken during the house party, even though they lived under the same roof, and even though they’d both deeply cared about the man who’d died.

  What had instigated Mrs. Ivanov’s anger? Natalia was beautiful in a way Mrs. Ivanov was not. Was it possible Natalia was not really Mr. Ivanov’s sister? Was she the woman Mr. Ivanov was having an affair with? Perhaps she’d been a lover in Bulgaria who continued to be one in England?

  Cora cast her mind to the rows of photographs i
n the corridor in the music room. Was it possible there might be a clue in one of those? There had been one framed newspaper clipping...

  Cora rose and headed toward the small corridor. The police were inside, questioning Mr. Mitu. A constable outside gave her a wary glance, as if to assess the likelihood she might decide to barge into the music room and issue another defense about the butler.

  Instead, she gazed at the photographs. “Mind if I look at these? I do so like art.” She adopted a girlish tone, one easy to do given the higher octave that her voice seemed perpetually stuck in, and the constable nodded.

  “Go right ahead.” He beamed, perhaps happy to have been asked something which he could permit, possibly a rarity for the constable.

  She wandered until she saw the photograph of Mr. Ivanov. It was slightly faded, and unlike most of the others, had been cut from a newspaper, rather than shot in a no doubt luxurious Soho studio. He was holding a trophy in his hand, likely the reason for the picture. Perhaps he’d won a competition.

  “Rogers!” The chief inspector’s voice emanated from the music room, and the constable ducked from the hallway.

  She examined the photograph, wishing the article were not written in Bulgarian. A thought entered her mind. An absurd thought.

  If only she could have someone translate the words... Quickly, she took the picture from the wall and shoved it underneath her sweater.

  “Miss Clarke?” A new voice said, and she turned.

  Mr. Mitu stood before her, looking tired and befuddled.

  She flushed, realizing she was most likely the reason for the latter emotion. “I—”

  “What are you doing?” This time there was a decided suspicious tone in Mr. Mitu’s voice, as if he’d been hauled into questioning for a crime that just possibly she may have committed.

  “I’m glad to see you out,” she said overly brightly.

  “For now,” Mr. Mitu said. “They were asking me strange questions about the folly and then they dismissed me with very strict warnings not to leave this place.” He shrugged. “I imagine Mrs. Ivanov will want to dismiss me next. No good inviting guests over when they’re scared of the servants.”