“Perhaps,” Cora said doubtfully. “It wouldn’t hurt to learn about the neighbors.”
“Splendid,” Veronica said.
“Let’s take a walk, Archibald,” Cora said, grateful for the company as she made her way down the stairs.
She’d lied to Veronica.
She didn’t feel the least bit brave about living in this place.
But she didn’t want to go rushing to live in Veronica’s hotel. Veronica had helped her sufficiently in England. This was Cora’s chance to be independent and form her own life. She wasn’t going to run away now.
She lifted her chin and strode down the stairs. When she turned onto the next landing, she nearly collided with someone ascending the stairs.
Uncertainty barreled through her, and Archibald barked at the new presence, but when she gazed at the person before her, she only saw a woman about her own age with dark hair, curlier than Cora’s own. Tension eased from her shoulders.
“Are you the new girl?” the woman asked.
“New girl?”
“Lionel said there’d be another girl moving in across from me. I’m so glad. The boys below are dears, but I’m quite convinced male eardrums must be entirely different from female eardrums. They insist on playing such noisy music, and I’d rather not have to listen to Miss Greensbody argue about it with them.”
Cora smiled. There was something about this new woman that was pleasant. “I’m Cora.”
“And I’m Bess.” She returned Cora’s smile. “Welcome to Bloomsbury.”
“Thank you,” Cora said, and some of that excitement she’d once felt about the prospect of moving here managed to fill her again.
“Is it your first time living in London?” Bess asked.
Cora nodded. “Yes.”
The door opened, and Rollo poked his head out. “Hello, Bess. I thought I heard you. How are you?”
“I’ll be living opposite an American,” Bess exclaimed. “Have you met her? This is exciting.”
“She’s a film star,” Rollo said, and Bess widened her eyes.
“Is that so?” Bess asked Cora.
Cora smiled. She probably wouldn’t have trusted Rollo either.
“A rather melodramatic one,” Lionel grumbled, stepping into the landing.
“Who lives in the other apartments?” Cora asked.
“Let’s see,” Bess said. “Both of us have the top floor. Lionel and Rollo have flat three, below me, and Miss Greensbody lives in flat four.”
“And the bottom apartments?”
“They used to be the kitchen,” Lionel said. “No one is living there.”
“We’re going out to the pub. Care to join us?” There was an odd hopeful tone in Rollo’s voice.
“No, thank you,” Bess said primly.
“I see.” Rollo’s shoulders slumped down slightly. “Next time.”
“Perhaps,” Bess replied, not meeting his eyes.
“I didn’t know we were going to the pub,” Lionel said.
“I just thought of it.”
“My head aches.” Lionel raked a hand through his hair. “I didn’t think I drank so much yesterday.”
“You’re getting old,” Rollo said with a grin, and Lionel scowled and punched him playfully on the shoulder.
Bess and Cora watched them go down the stairs. Finally, Cora turned to Bess. “Who was the previous tenant? Was it a young man by any chance?”
Bess gave her a strange look. “A young lady. Not that I would mind if there were young men here. Rollo and Lionel are pleasant, but not exactly husband-worthy. One doesn’t come across many eligible men at the perfume counter of Harrods either behind or in front of the counters.” Bess leaned closer to her. “The men who do show up are buying perfume for another woman.”
“Oh.”
Bess’s eyes sparkled, and she grinned. “I think we’re going to be friends.”
“I’d like that,” Cora said, and her chest felt somewhat lighter than before.
Perhaps the constable was correct.
Perhaps she’d only imagined that the person on her bed was dead.
Perhaps imagining dead bodies was only a regrettable side effect from her time on the South Downs and in the Yorkshire Dales, when people had truly been murdered.
Murder could not be so common.
Bess, Lionel and Rollo seemed delightfully normal, and though Miss Greensbody was eccentric, there were no doubt equally dedicated and eccentric curators.
“Would you consider this a safe neighborhood?” Cora asked carefully.
“Very,” Bess said. “Father would never have stood for it if I’d moved elsewhere. But it’s fine, you’ll see. There are some nice parties with all the people in university, and the museums are nice.”
“You like art.”
“I like everything beautiful,” Bess announced.
Archibald barked as if in agreement, and Cora and Bess giggled.
Cora said goodbye to her new neighbor and stepped outside.
Chapter Six
Cora wandered the city.
It was glorious.
London was everything she could have ever imagined.
The Thames might not sparkle, and the murky waters seemed a strange mixture of gray and brown, neither color a traditional choice for rivers, but Cora still felt awe at the wide river that divided the city. She strolled over Tower Bridge, imagining the ships and shore boats that had filled it for centuries. She ambled beside the river until she came to the Parliament buildings. The sky turned golden as the sun toppled downward, casting the buildings in a tangerine and rose colored glow.
She inhaled.
Her first day at her new home may have been unideal, but there was plenty here to enjoy.
She felt anonymous. No crew members would send her pitying glances, aware she was not excelling in her position, and no other actors and actresses would smile at her smugly, aware they were succeeding over someone who’d been in the business for longer.
No one recognized her.
Men and women in heavy overcoats marched over the streets, toward the tube station. Work must have ended.
Archibald looked at her curiously from time to time, and she realized this was the longest walk she’d given him.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured, reaching down to pet him. “You must be tired. I’m just not eager to return home.”
She gathered him in her arms, worried someone in the swarm of people leaving the Houses of Parliament might step on him, and searched for a black cab. She didn’t think Archibald was ready for the tube yet. He’d had sufficient adventures.
The black cab was comfortable, but a knot in her stomach that could not be attributed to hunger grew as the cab inched toward Bloomsbury. She pulled Archibald onto her lap. At least he seemed to find the ride enjoyable and wagged his tail.
Finally, the cab stopped. She paid the driver and exited the cab.
Nightfall had not improved the area. A steady wind swept against her back. The leafy square seemed menacing, as if evil lurked behind the large trees.
Her heart pounded in her chest.
Perhaps I imagined the body. Perhaps I imagined he was dead.
She tried to quell her earlier protestations.
Music sounded from an open window. Evidently Rollo and Lionel were having a party. She strode up the steps, grateful for the upbeat tempo of the music that seemed distant from death, though even the joyous strains couldn’t keep her heart from ratcheting.
Perhaps I should have accepted Veronica’s offer.
She almost considered leaving straight away, but instead she inhaled and marched resolutely up the steps.
No one wanted her dead, and she did have Archibald. He might be small, but an intruder who entered the room in the dark wouldn’t know that. He’d only hear Archibald’s bark, which was considerable.
She strode past Rollo’s and Lionel’s apartment and up the stairs to her own.
This was her home.
She wasn’t g
oing to allow anyone to make her feel unwanted.
She removed her key, thrust it inside the keyhole, and opened the door sharply.
There.
She’d done it.
Nothing to be scared of.
Obviously.
She ignored the rapid beat of her heart and moved her hand toward the light switch. Her skin bristled, as if some animal instinct in her was aware of something her mind was not.
Someone’s here.
She jerked her hand back and refrained from turning on the light switch.
Archibald trotted to the next room.
He didn’t bark.
Shouldn’t he be barking?
I’m being foolish.
She closed the door quietly. Her heart beat quickened, and she grabbed the frying pan from the kitchen and tiptoed after Archibald. She had the definite sense she was being ridiculous, but it didn’t matter. Only her safety, and Archibald’s, mattered.
She moved into the room, making out the dark outline of the bed.
There didn’t seem to be a person in it. Her limbs were still stiff, and she tightened her grip on the handle of the frying pan. She seemed to sense another person. The murderer? Or some demonic ghost? Perhaps a serial killer, someone intent on murdering everyone who deigned to enter this room?
The idea sounded ridiculous in her mind, but tension still swept through her.
“Do you always enter this room with a frying pan in your hand?” A cool voice broke through the darkness.
The voice should have terrified her.
This was everything she’d feared.
Someone had broken into the room.
But she recognized the voice at once.
She’d heard it for years. Most people had heard it for years. The voice was silky, smooth and American.
“Pop?” she squeaked.
“Hi sweetie,” her father said. “Why don’t you turn on the light?”
“You could have turned it on,” Cora said.
“I was taking a nap,” Pop said casually. “This time difference is brutal.”
“What are you doing here, Pop? And how did you get inside?”
Her father narrowed her eyes. “You should be glad I’m here. And I thought I taught you better manners on how to greet a guest.”
Cora’s knees wobbled, and she sank onto the bed. “I am glad to see you.”
“Good.” Pop beamed. “That’s more like it, honey bunny.”
Pop’s gaze dropped to the frying pan in Cora’s hand. “You know, if you’re not adapting well to living on your own, you can always move back. I’m sure we could find you another job in Hollywood. I have many friends.”
Cora shook her head. “No, thank you.”
Archibald lay down on the floor, curled beside Cora’s feet, as if to emphasize that Cora was not going anywhere.
“You’d tell me if you were in trouble?” Pop asked carefully.
Cora stiffened.
What would Pop say if she confessed she’d thought she’d discovered a murder? In this very room? Would he insist she leave?
He’d never seemed overly burdened by fatherly instincts.
“I thought I saw something bad,” Cora confessed.
“Oh.” Pop watched her intently.
More intently than she would have anticipated.
Pop did seem warier than he’d been in Hollywood. He certainly had heightened his security.
“But I suppose I was mistaken,” Cora said quickly. “So I’m just...on edge.”
Pop nodded. “Moving is difficult.”
Cora nodded at the platitude.
“So no one is after you?” Pop gave her a hard stare, as if assessing her face for revealing flinches.
“What? Nonsense.”
“Good.” Pop’s shoulders relaxed. “Just making certain.”
Chapter Seven
The next morning, the light that streamed through her windows should have been pleasant, but the sunbeams seemed too harsh, even diminished by England’s abundance of perpetual clouds. Still. She refused to linger in the flat.
Cora soon stepped onto the pavement with Archibald, relieved to leave the house. There was a newspaper stand nearby, and she approached it warily, half expecting to see the face of the man yesterday splattered across its cover. The broadsheets though were confined to the normal articles of the day: ever rowdier National Socialists in Austria and a growing confidence in the economy.
Sleep had been no easy achievement. Music had streamed from downstairs. On any other night the jovial big band music may have compelled her to dance, but last night the sounds had seemed to jerk her heart and spine. Pop’s aptitude at breaking into the apartment had not been reassuring. She feared it was a skill others might also possess.
A noise sounded behind her. Miss Greensbody strode quickly from the townhome, armed with a large purple umbrella and a purple hat trimmed with feathers that seemed to meet all the requirements for outrageousness without meeting any requirements for style.
“Hello,” Cora said.
Miss Greensbody raised her eyebrows slightly, as if surprised Cora had deigned to address her. “Good day. Please excuse me, I have a meeting.”
“Enjoy,” Cora said.
“It is very important,” Miss Greensbody said.
“How nice,” Cora said.
In her experience, important meetings were the worst sort and the most likely to lead to chest tensions, but she’d obviously said the correct thing for Miss Greensbody gave a pleased smile.
“I am meeting the cousin of the Shah,” Miss Greensbody said. “He’s bringing some royal jewels. It is a great coup of the exhibit.”
“How impressive.”
“It is rather,” Miss Greensbody said. “I arranged the meeting.”
She said the words casually, but her eyes gleamed, and Cora knew it was a very big deal for her.
“The jewels are proof the Persians had an advanced civilization for millennia. Not just the Egyptians.”
Cora hid her smile. She doubted jewels were the sole measure of a country’s civilization.
Cora proceeded on her walk. Archibald wagged his tail merrily, and a few neighbors smiled fondly at him as they walked. She strode past the square, flanked by Georgian homes on one side and leafy trees on the other. Even though the buildings were more ordinary and modest, their age conferred a definite elegance. She ambled past the stone structures, noting how the windows at the top were small as if to bestow a sense of grandeur by playing with the rules of perspective.
Cora just needed to find a job.
She turned onto a street with shops placed opposite more regal museums. She looked casually at the windows, looking for a help wanted sign.
The windows though were empty, and she arrived at Excellent Employment Agency without seeing any other opportunities.
Rows of men and women sat in chairs that faced a reception desk. Many were clothed in suits that had been creased, perhaps from shifting their position, straining to find a comfortable position in the tightly squeezed, uncomfortable appearing chairs.
Right.
Perhaps this wouldn’t be a quick visit to the employment office after all.
Cora’s heart fluttered, and for a moment she almost wished she were back in Hollywood. She’d auditioned for some roles before, but it had only seemed a fun part of the process. She’d always done well.
And I’ll do well now too.
She marched to the receptionist. “I would like to apply for a job.”
The receptionist did not bother to smile. “Everyone does here. What sort of a job?”
Cora hesitated. “Well, you see, I don’t know. I’ve never done a job before. Not a proper sort of job. I do have a great deal of experience working. I’m quite dedicated.”
The only movement on the receptionist’s face was a slight lifting of her eyebrow.
“If you were serious, you wouldn’t have brought your dog,” the clerk said.
Archibald seemed to
sense the clerk’s disapproval and cuddled against Cora’s legs.
“Never mind.” The clerk shuffled through some papers. “What were your grades for your Higher School Certificate?”
“Higher School Certificate?” Cora felt her voice rise.
Most people in England were so friendly. They called her love and dearie and ducky. But this receptionist seemed only to think her incompetent.
“You don’t know what a Higher School Certificate is?” The receptionist frowned. “Tell me, did you have any education?”
Cora’s cheeks warmed. “Not a lot,” she confessed. “I had tutors though. And I did get a high school diploma in the end.”
The receptionist sighed. “Can you type?”
Cora hesitated, but then shook her head. “Though I’m sure I can learn.”
“We have people who have learned. I suggest you do that.”
“But there must be something else,” Cora said quickly. “Anything else.”
“Have you worked in a shop before? Do you know how to work a till?”
“A till?”
The woman huffed, before Cora recalled a till was the British word for cash register.
“I’m sure I can—”
“—learn,” the woman finished for her, giving a condescending smile. “You’ve said it before”
“And I meant it.”
“Just what have you learned so far in your life, young lady?”
“I can sing and dance.”
“Both skills more suited for indulging in the offerings of night clubs,” the receptionist said. “A lot of quite wild young ladies would say they have the same attributes.”
“But I’ve been trained!” Cora rushed to say. No one had called her a wild young lady before. “I used to be an actress. In Hollywood. I’m Cora Clarke.”
Cora hadn’t intended to tell the clerk anything about her past. She was no longer an actress and had no desire to be one.
Her statement did not succeed in improving the clerk’s already low impression of her.
“We have no room for liars at Excellent Employment Agency,” the clerk said primly. “If you are so famous, I suggest you use your own contacts. But I suspect you have made them up.”
The Sleuthing Starlet Mysteries Page 39