Cora flushed.
Perhaps she could visit a different employment agency, with a different, nicer clerk.
She stared again at the rows of people.
People who could type. People who knew shorthand. People who could work a till.
The clerk was right. These people had the experience, or at least the education, to do these jobs.
Cora had neither.
She couldn’t continue to live off her meager savings. She needed to find employment.
London had seemed like the perfect place to do it. It was the capital, the crown of the British Empire, and a place filled with various businesses.
Unfortunately, Cora wasn’t qualified to contribute.
She’d thought Miss Greensbody fussy and overly proud, but perhaps Cora hadn’t given her sufficient respect. Miss Greensbody worked a job she clearly adored and no doubt she’d made certain to do the right education in order to do it.
Cora left the employment agency. The old buildings around her seemed less charming, representing traditions she had no part of. Archibald turned his head to her, as if sensing her distress.
“It’s fine,” she told him in her most reassuring tone.
That was one clerk at one employment agency.
She would be able to find something else.
I have to.
The traffic was higher in this part of Bloomsbury. Red double-decker buses barreled down the streets. Horses clomped their hooves, undeterred by the cars and other vehicles that inched through the heavy traffic.
Cora’s feet ached, and she wished she’d brought an address for another employment agency.
Finally she came to the British Museum. The building stretched over a generous block. Wedged between shops and bookstores opposite the famous museum stood a small building. It didn’t match the grandiose British Museum, but it appeared well maintained.
Museum of Ancient Antiquities.
This must be where Miss Greensbody worked. Cora considered going inside, but Archibald barked. In her experience, dogs weren’t welcome accessories in museums. Perhaps she could visit later, when the exhibit opened.
She proceeded further.
“Afternoon paper, afternoon paper,” a newsboy shouted. “Murder in Bloomsbury! Mystery man found dead! Read all about it!”
A strange feeling hit Cora’s stomach.
She hadn’t considered her time at the employment agency as being blissful, but she’d managed to forget about the body she’d discovered yesterday.
It could be someone else.
The words though weren’t reassuring, even in the privacy of her mind.
Her heart pounded, and she slowed her pace, eyeing the newsboy.
He’d switched from shouting details about the murder to shouting details about Hitler’s latest aggressions. She decided to approach him.
He smiled when he saw her. “One penny for a paper, miss.”
She opened her purse and drew out a coin. “Here you go.”
The newsboy gave a curt, professional nod and handed her the newspaper, before switching to hollering about the latest misdoings of a criminal family in the US. Normally Cora may have listened to him. She found it interesting to see how the British reported US news. This time, she opened the newspaper hastily, scanning the pages to find the article.
Not this page.
She shut the broadsheet to flip open the next one, catching a bemused glance of the newsboy.
“Nice to see a lady who really enjoys the newspaper.” The newsboy winked, and she realized he was probably only a couple of years younger than her.
“Say, what are you doing in three hours?” the newsboy asked.
“I’ll be busy,” Cora squeaked.
She spotted the article. Mysterious Murder in Bloomsbury.
Her heart leaped, and she scanned the article hastily.
A body was found early this morning in Bloomsbury. The identity of the body is still unknown. He appears to be a tall man with dark hair in his thirties. He was found wearing a suit and without any identification.
The article continued to bemoan the general degeneration of Bloomsbury. It didn’t mention either Cora or Veronica, and Cora gave a faint sigh of relief.
“Fascinating news!” the newsboy shouted, as more pedestrians strode toward him. He jerked his thumb in her direction. “Just look at this dame here.”
The words snapped Cora from her reverie, and she closed the broadsheet. “Let’s go, Archibald.”
“You don’t need to leave,” the newsboy said. “Plenty of room in this corner. You’re good for business. I’ve already sold three other copies. Do you always take such interest in the news?”
Cora shook her head shyly and then headed down the street. Perhaps she should return home. Perhaps the police were there, wanting to question her. Perhaps they finally believed her.
She marched back to her apartment, but the place seemed the same as before.
Wouldn’t there be constables if they’d discovered a body there?
But perhaps they’d discovered him somewhere else?
The thought didn’t make sense, but she left the building and decided to visit the police station. If the body was the same one she’d spotted, she would have information to share.
She was just doing her civic duty, even if she wasn’t technically British.
Cora spotted a constable outside and hurried toward him. Archibald gave an irritated bark, and she scooped him into her arms. He had walked a lot today.
And I still don’t have a job.
Or any prospects.
“Excuse me,” she said to the constable.
The man swiveled, lowering his blue helmet slightly as he leaned down toward her.
It was not the same constable as yesterday.
Of course it wasn’t.
That constable had thought her mad for thinking she’d happened upon a body, and this constable would likely think her possessed of a similar degree of insanity for inquiring why there wasn’t a body outside her building.
She would have to proceed carefully.
“Excuse me, sir.”
“How can I help you, miss?”
“I read in the paper that a body had been discovered in Bloomsbury. I don’t suppose you have any...details?”
His eyes narrowed, and he shifted his legs. “Why would I have that?”
“Because you’re a constable...”
“Now my job is to keep this area safe,” he said, and Cora decided against mentioning that he had not been entirely successful. “I can’t waste my time giving out information. See the police press office.”
“Then perhaps you know something... It’s just that reading about a murder in the area makes me concerned.” She touched her hand to her throat and noticed her palm was sweaty. Evidently, she didn’t need to feign fear in her effort to gain information: she already possessed it.
“Nothing to worry about, miss,” the constable said, and his eyes softened. “They found a man’s body. Doubt we’ll have a Jack the Ripper situation ‘ere.”
“What sort of a man’s body?” she asked. “How did he die?”
He raised his eyebrows.
“I mean,” she said hastily, “was it perhaps related to...gang activity? Crossfire?”
“You’re American,” he said with a chuckle. “We don’t have crimes like that in Bloomsbury. No James Cagney types running around. Though mind you, some of these houses do have jewels. If a James Cagney type were to run around, he would be able to retire soon.” He gave a slight wink.
“I thought it was mostly intellectuals who lived here.”
“The only people who are intellectuals are the supremely foolish, who couldn’t get a proper job in the police force anyway, or those from wealthy families.”
“Oh.” Cora wondered about the backgrounds of the people she’d met at her flat.
Lionel had seemed to act foolishly, but his name seemed to radiate wealth, even if his demeanor seemed more intent at
emanating slovenliness. Why exactly had Lionel and his cousin been so worried when they’d learned Veronica had called the police? Was it only because Lionel didn’t want police attention on the apartment his mother owned? Or was there another reason?
Had they moved the body?
She shook her head. Surely she would have noticed them going upstairs.
And yet... If the man had truly been dead then, someone had moved the body.
“Miss?” The constable’s eyes softened further.
She blinked. “I’m sorry.”
“Now here I thought you Americans were used to murder and mayhem. I guess the pictures get that wrong.”
Cora flushed, glad the constable hadn’t recognized her.
“Now I’m not involved in the case,” the constable said, “but naturally I do know some things.” He ran his fingers over one of the shiny buttons on his coat, as if to preen himself. “The poor man was poisoned.”
“Golly.”
The constable leaned toward her, and his eyes sparkled conspiratorially. “The people who reported the body thought he’d died naturally, but the constables knew better. His breath was rife with almonds. That’s a sign of arsenic poisoning. Can’t get much past the British Police Force.”
“I see not,” Cora said.
“He also had a daisy sheet draped around him.” The man smirked, as if daisies were cause for amusement.
Did my old bedding have daisies? She frowned, realizing she couldn’t recall a top sheet when she’d hastily exchanged it for her newly purchased bedding. “Which building was he found in?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“Please?” Cora asked.
The constable gave an apologetic smile.
“Or at least, can you tell me if it’s near where I live?” Cora asked.
“And where is that?”
Cora gave the address.
The constable shook his head. “No, miss. He wasn’t found anywhere near there. He was found in quite a different place.”
Cora blinked.
Perhaps it’s not him.
She glanced down at the newspaper, suddenly feeling foolish.
The description said the man had dark hair. But all manner of men had dark hair. She shouldn’t have assumed it was the same person.
Perhaps she was too quick to see murder.
She inhaled.
This was Bloomsbury, a pleasant neighborhood. She wasn’t in some manor house, filled with people who abhorred one another.
Was it possible this man had truly walked into the flat, perhaps to see someone, and had been murdered? And that the murderer had whisked the body away while Cora and Veronica had been distracted by greeting the constable?
She frowned.
But how could they have removed the body? Wasn’t the only way through the stairs?
She shook her head.
It was the only way. Obviously, Cora had been mistaken before. The man had seemed dead, but Cora must have made a mistake. The man’s rigid posture, oblivious to sound and his cold hands must have been coincidences.
“Was there anything else?” the constable asked.
She shook her head. “Thank you. That was helpful.”
The man beamed and touched his hand to his helmet, as if for a moment thinking he could tip it to her.
“Come Archibald,” Cora said, and they moved toward her new apartment.
No doubt the constable thought she was an overly anxious female. She rounded the corner, thankful for Archibald at her side.
She wished she’d found some job lead at the employment agency.
She inhaled.
Never mind.
She would be able to look through the phone book to find a new employment agency. Then she could have lunch and go out in the afternoon, sans Archibald.
Chapter Eight
The second employment agency was unfortunately no more helpful than the first one, and the third one managed to surpass both employment agencies in general horribleness.
She sighed.
Everyone had always extolled her when she was a child star, but for all her experience of working, she wasn’t qualified to do anything.
She would be more qualified if she’d just finished high school properly and taken a shorthand class.
She trudged back to the building.
Raindrops fell as Cora made her way back.
The poor weather shouldn’t have surprised her. Everyone had been remarking how pleasant the weather had been in London, and yet, somehow she’d managed to take the sunshine and clear skies for granted.
They were gone now.
The skies turned a gray more commonly found in weapons, and then everything turned wet and cold and ghastly.
Cora hurried through the streets, happy Archibald was safe and warm in her flat.
The double-decker buses remained a vibrant red, though rather than conjuring cheerfulness, they seemed intent on competing with one another to see which of them might splash puddles at pedestrians with the greatest force.
The Londoners seemed unperturbed by the rain, opening umbrellas and removing glossy raincoats from bags. Cora wished she’d brought an umbrella, though the umbrellas did not seem overly useful as the rain increased in intensity and blew the rain under their rims. The pitter-patter of raindrops changed to a waterfallesque sound, as if they were touring Niagara Falls or one of the more grandiose waterfalls in the Amazon.
She hastened her speed, weaving through the crowded streets. Finally, she arrived at her building and proceeded toward the steps.
“Cora!”
Her name was only whispered.
She shouldn’t have been able to know who it was.
But the faint Scottish lilt was unmistakable.
Her heart thumped.
Randolph.
She swung around quickly.
He’s here.
Randolph was approaching her. He carried a bouquet in his hand, and her heart soared.
“You’re here,” she said dumbly.
“So are you.” His baritone voice sounded warm, like the stronger drinks served after dinner at some elaborate dinner parties, and her heart thrummed pleasantly.
Randolph was the sort of man women were warned against. He was handsome and accomplished, traits that were good in theory, though which might leave a lingering sense he might easily flit away.
It didn’t help that Randolph’s job truly did take him everywhere.
Cora had first met him in Bel Air, and then in Yorkshire and Sussex.
But now he was standing outside her home with flowers.
“For you, sweetheart.” Randolph handed her the bouquet. The rain decided to cease, and the wet petals sparkled under the sunbeams.
She inhaled the floral scent. “Thank you.”
“I only wish I’d brought you an umbrella.” Mirth filled his voice, and his eyes gleamed.
She laughed. “I prefer this.”
Randolph.
He was here.
In London. Outside her apartment building.
And they were talking as if no time had passed at all.
“How did you know I was here?” Cora asked.
“I have my ways,” Randolph said casually.
Perhaps the phrase might make her worry if another person said it, but instead she smiled. Randolph’s job was top secret, but he worked closely with the British government and its intelligence circles.
“How is Eastbourne?” she asked.
“Eastbourne is fine,” Randolph said. “The channel still glistens, lambs still frolic on the Downs, and your Aunt Maggie really is a great cook.”
“You’ve seen her?” Cora widened her eyes, suddenly missing her great aunt.
“I have,” Randolph said. “I went to say goodbye to her.”
“Goodbye?” Cora’s voice sounded higher. This was when he told her he was off to Latin America or Indochina or wherever the British government needed people like him. This is when he told her he’d nev
er see her again. She forced herself to smile.
He echoed her smile.
Well. He didn’t need to put on a brave face.
He was the person who was leaving!
“Are you going to say goodbye to me now?” she asked, despising that her voice seemed to have decided to stay firmly in a higher octave.
His eyebrows sailed upward. But then he took her hands in his.
As far as gestures went, it was of the more innocent sort. How many times had she shaken hands with people each day in Hollywood? And yet, his skin set hers aflame, even though her hands were encased in gloves, and even though she was sufficiently cold from the recent showers for it to seem impossible that anything as meager as a touch could warm her.
“I’d rather hoped the opposite,” he said.
She must have blinked, for this time he smiled.
“No goodbyes.”
She was silent, hoping she was about to hear something good, but not quite believing it.
Butterflies had invaded her the first time she’d met him. They’d fluttered through her in Bel Air, and they’d continued to flutter in Yorkshire and then Sussex.
They’d kissed, and the world had been wonderful, but she’d always known their time together was limited.
“I’m moving to London,” he continued.
“Oh?” Her heartbeat quickened, and she waited for him to continue.
He was going to be here.
“So I expect, my dear, to see much more of you.”
“Oh.” This time the word didn’t come out as a question. This time it came out curiously like a moan, and Randolph clasped her to him, even though they were outside, and anyone on the square might see them.
“Well, well.” Lionel’s voice interrupted them, and Randolph pulled away.
“Smooching on the front stairs,” Lionel continued with bemusement.
“I’m sorry.” Cora stepped away. Her heart still beat quickly, and she smoothed her dress, as if desiring to do something with the extra energy that swirled inside her.
“There’s nothing to be sorry about,” Randolph said sternly.
“Mother wouldn’t approve,” Lionel said, raising his chin. “She’s the landlady. Luckily, you just saw me.”
The Sleuthing Starlet Mysteries Page 40