Interrogating subjects hadn’t been of much use. All she’d learned was that Lionel had been hungover, Rollo had been studying in a library, and Bess had been working. Since Lionel had been by himself, he was the most likely murderer.
The problem was, he had no motive.
But then, none of them did.
Perhaps it was simply a matter of verifying alibis. Lionel had certainly acted hungover, though she couldn’t drag him to a doctor to verify the exact amount of alcohol he’d consumed then.
But perhaps it was also a matter of seeing if she could learn more about Mr. Tehrani. She tapped her fingers on the table.
“Come on, Archibald,” she said. “We’re going to eat and then go on a short walk.” She frowned. “And then you’ll have to watch the apartment. Museums are not for dogs.”
Soon she headed off to the museum alone. Music roared from Lionel’s and Rollo’s apartment. Evidently, Lionel did not always sleep late.
Though the sun wasn’t in full force, and anyone in Hollywood would have declared the day horrid, the gray sky was simply gray. There was no rain, and Cora could manage the slight unpleasantness of the wind.
The weather suited London. It certainly suited Bloomsbury. It made all the intellectual museums and libraries appear especially enticing. Cora would have thought spending the day wandering about the British Museum would be a most wonderful thing.
Not that she was going to visit the British Museum. No, she was going to visit the much smaller exhibit on Persia. She hadn’t spent sufficient time there yesterday. The painting of Mr. Tehrani had compelled her to leave hastily, when she should have been learning all about him.
After all, when she played the Gal Detective on screen, her character had always learned about the person to whom the crime took place. Those crimes had been nonviolent and had mostly involved stealing, but learning about the victim was always beneficial.
Miss Greensbody might think it odd if she asked too many questions about him in her apartment, but she would think it less odd if she asked questions inside the exhibit.
The Londoners hurried to their workplaces, their bus stops, and their tube stops. They strode briskly in gray flannel suits. The more adventurous of them wore brown.
She stepped inside the Persian Antiquities Exhibit at the Museum of Ancient Antiquities on Great Russell Street.
Miss Greensbody peered from a desk. “It’s you.”
“I didn’t finish the exhibit,” she said.
“No, you fled,” Miss Greensbody said bluntly.
Cora shifted her legs.
The plan had been for her to ask questions. The plan had not been for Miss Greensbody to berate her, and Cora fought to keep her expression pleasant, even though her lips threatened to descend into a frown.
“Do you think you can show me around?” Cora asked.
Miss Greensbody gave her a harsh stare, and Cora shifted her legs.
“I mean, naturally if you’re busy—” Cora said.
“I’m always busy,” Miss Greensbody said, straightening her spine.
“Right.” Cora nodded, but she was conscious the exhibit was almost empty. No doubt they hadn’t had the rush of tourists yet. This was still early morning, and the tourists would be in their bed and breakfasts, eating beans on toast and wishing they were on the continent, where the breakfasts were rumored to be better. Some of them might even be still asleep.
“So you’ve developed a sudden passion for Persian artifacts?” Miss Greensbody turned a page of an intimidating leather-bound book.
“Not Persian specifically,” Cora admitted. “And not artifacts specifically either.”
“I see,” Miss Greensbody said. “At least you’re not lying about that.”
Cora blinked. “Is there something wrong?”
“It seems you neglected to tell me the other day that Mr. Tehrani was the same man whom you professed to have found dead in your bedroom.”
Cora stiffened.
Had the police told Miss Greensbody that? Was she going to tell the police? Cora’s heartbeat quickened, and she forced herself to inhale deeply.
“You needn’t look so pale,” Miss Greensbody said. “This is a time for me to feel shocked, and not you.”
“Who told you?” Cora asked carefully. Perhaps Miss Greensbody had known all along, because she’d murdered the man.
“Bess,” Miss Greensbody said. “It seemed she finally had some news that exceeded even shopping in interest.”
“What a nice change for you.”
“Well, it would have been nicer to know Mr. Tehrani was murdered. We did correspond, and it is sad to know he passed away so prematurely.”
It was sad. Cora had forgotten that, and her cheeks warmed.
“It also would have been helpful to know he’d died. That is an excusable reason for him not to have returned the jewels. Truly, I could not have hoped for a better reason.”
“Oh.”
Miss Greensbody leaned closer to her. “I would hate for anyone to suspect I’d inadvertently intimidated him with my knowledge of his country.”
“Oh?”
Miss Greensbody gave a casual shrug. “I have been studying Persian culture with great intensity for years. I can be intimidating even when corresponding on something I have not studied for years.”
“I can imagine that,” Cora said.
Miss Greensbody might give every indication of preferring books to people, but she was quite capable of speaking to people. She did not seem overly timid.
“Though,” Cora said, “I imagine he also knew quite a lot about his country.”
Miss Greensbody shrugged. “Perhaps. It must have been an honor for him to have been able to come here to deliver them personally. It is a pity he failed in his task.”
“He didn’t mean to,” Cora said gently.
“No one means to fail.” Miss Greensbody narrowed her eyes. “With the possible exception of some American sports teams.”
“Have the police come here yet?”
“No,” Miss Greensbody said. “Which means there’s still some time to find those jewels.”
Cora blinked. “You want to look for them?”
“I consider it vital,” Miss Greensbody said. “My task was to procure the jewels. That doesn’t stop just because the man tasked to bring it is dead. The people of London, indeed the people of the world, deserve to see the jewels.”
“Splendid,” Cora said weakly.
She had intended to learn information on Mr. Tehrani, but she hadn’t intended to steal them.
“Do you know where he was staying?” Cora asked.
“The Savoy.”
Cora blinked.
“You needn’t look appalled. It is a very nice hotel.”
“I know,” Cora said. “I’ve been there.”
Pop was staying in that hotel. Of all the hotels in London, Mr. Tehrani had to have chosen that one.
Cora had hoped that even if the detective managed to trace the body to Pop, he wouldn’t be able to find any connection between Mr. Tehrani and Pop.
She could not cling to that hope anymore.
“I have his room number,” Miss Greensbody said, fiddling through some papers. “It’s Room 1128.”
“The police will be there,” Cora said, even though she hoped they would not have identified Mr. Tehrani yet.
“Oh.” Miss Greensbody’s shoulders drooped uncharacteristically.
“I can’t help you,” Cora said.
The last thing she wanted to do was to break into the victim’s room to help somebody who may have murdered the man.
Miss Greensbody sniffed. “No surprise.”
Cora wasn’t certain whether she should apologize more, but Miss Greensbody returned to her research book.
Chapter Nineteen
Cora assessed The Savoy.
The building soared before her in all of its finery, and everything inside her seemed to tremble. Well-dressed people glided through the hotel’s grand entr
ance.
A doorman wearing a top hat ushered her inside, and she raised her chin and quickened her speed, lest she be too recognizable. She hurried over the black and white marble floor in the lobby, and she refrained from marveling at the elaborate gold-colored columns.
I’m just going to visit Pop. I have every reason to be here.
She may have told Miss Greensbody she would never enter the room, but as she’d exited the exhibit, her moral convictions had wavered.
After all, snooping might be frowned upon, but murder exceeded that in horribleness. Cora had snooped in Gal Detective films before. She knew the general concept and she’d even mastered the art of using a hairpin to break and enter.
Still, she’d find a way. Besides, in this case the victim of the crime was already dead. Mr. Tehrani wouldn’t care if she went through his things.
She marched through the corridor, passing various elegant sideboards and armchairs that seemed to serve no other purpose than to display the management’s consistently exquisite taste.
Room 1128.
Mr. Tehrani’s room was nowhere near Pop’s. Pop’s room had been at the very top of the Savoy. The top floors seemed to expand and be composed entirely of suites.
The doors on this corridor seemed closer together. Mr. Tehrani, despite his connection to the Shah, had been in London more in the role of a courier. Despite the Museum of Ancient Antiquities respectable address near other museums in Bloomsbury, it most likely did not have the funds to host him in a nicer room.
Cora had half-expected to see a constable outside the room, but when she spotted the brass numbers on the door and realized she was at the correct location, there was nothing to distinguish this room from any other one. No doubt the Metropolitan Police Force was vital for solving other cases as well.
Some maids in black dresses and crisp white aprons strolled down the corridor in her direction, and Cora swiveled and stared at the wall before her, feigning deep interest at a painting of a daisy, even though she’d seen dozens upon dozens of daisies before in their natural settings.
The maids, unfortunately, ambled slowly, pushing a laundry cart, and Cora’s heartbeat quickened. She was conscious she might appear ridiculous, as if she’d mistaken the corridor for a museum, and as if she’d mistaken this mass produced picture for art.
Still, she refrained from removing her gaze.
Finally, their footsteps grew fainter, and she studied the door of room 1128. It seemed fairly thick, and she hadn’t heard noises from the room. Perhaps she could use her trick for opening doors anyway. It had worked on set when she starred in the Gal Detective films. Perhaps it would work here.
She looked both ways, but the corridor was empty.
It was bound not to remain empty, and she tore a bobby pin from her bun. Her updo wobbled slightly, and she wished she’d placed a more liberal number of pins in her hair.
Never mind.
She inhaled, though the gesture did not manage to still her heart from hammering fiercely, and she set to work on the lock. She’d scarcely put it in, when footsteps sounded.
The footsteps did not come from either side of her, nor did they come from behind her.
The footsteps came from inside the room.
Her heart sank.
Naturally, the room wouldn’t be empty. The police were bound to have discovered the man’s identity.
The doorknob turned, and she yanked the hairpin from the door. She clasped her palm over it, so it dug into her flesh.
She wanted to flee. She wanted to scurry from the door, and if she didn’t manage to leave the corridor, she wanted to be pretending to be admiring another painting. Perhaps this time she could even plant herself before a depiction of an orchid.
But she couldn’t leave. She didn’t have time. All she could do was tighten her clasp on her bobby pin.
The door opened.
Cora braced herself for seeing the surprised, and then suspicious, gaze of a police constable. She braced herself for a sober looking detective, no less dangerous because he was not in uniform. She even braced herself for seeing a hotel staff member, and she prepared herself to murmur some nonsense about being in the wrong room.
Instead, she saw a maid, and Cora’s shoulders relaxed. The maid was taller than her, and heavily made up.
The maid gasped.
“I’m sorry I frightened you,” Cora said hastily.
The maid gave a tight smile and then shrank back.
“Er—thank you,” Cora said. “I was just coming back to my room. This is good timing. It—er—looks very clean.”
The maid didn’t turn back and hurried away, her tight blue dress and white ruffled apron swaying from her sudden speed.
Cora sighed. That’s what she had come to—scaring the staff.
At least she was inside though. She placed her hairpin back in her hair and moved methodically through the room.
The room was clean. Cora had not had to lie about that, but it was not entirely empty, and Cora’s heart thudded.
She’d have to work quickly. At some point the police would discover Mr. Tehrani’s identity, and at some point after that, they would discover he was staying at this hotel, in this room.
Fortunately, that hadn’t occurred yet.
Cora opened one of the drawers, ruffling through underwear and shirts. She’d never touched male undergarments before, and guilt rushed through her.
He’s dead. He won’t mind.
Somehow her stern words did not utterly alleviate her worry. Well, she’d never developed taskmaster skills. That was another type of job the employment agencies wouldn’t send her on.
She opened the next drawer. The clothes were wrinkled, as if he’d put them in himself and not made use of a valet. He had a sufficient variety to make it evident he’d intended to make the most of his time in the capital. Evening clothes and more casual attire touched, and when she opened a wardrobe, she found rows of smart jackets and blazers.
Her chest tightened. What events had he planned to go to? What had he already done, not realizing it would be the last thing he would do?
She searched for the jewels, but they weren’t here.
Hmm... Perhaps someone had stolen them.
She searched for other clues. Unfortunately, the clothes were no help.
What had she expected she would find? Perhaps she’d been naive to think Mr. Tehrani might have kept a calendar or notebook with an appointment scrawled on it that would lead her to the killer.
There was nothing of that sort here, only a few books that seemed to be fiction, given the colorful images on the cover, though Cora couldn’t read the strange looping Persian letters.
A guidebook on London made her heart sink. Had this been his first time here? Had he looked forward to visiting?
She picked it up. There was much in London that she still hadn’t seen. Some pages were folded down.
How curious.
She turned to the folded pages quickly. The British Museum. She smiled. Well, that place seemed to be on the top of many people’s list. The other folded page though was about Bloomsbury, and she frowned slightly, reading a short description of her square.
Had Mr. Tehrani intended to read about Bloomsbury because of its proximity to the British Museum? Or had he known he was going to visit that square? There would be no reason to visit Miss Greensbody at her home, and though the square was pleasant, it also lacked the monuments and historical importance that would have made it a natural priority for a visitor to London to see.
Perhaps... Cora frowned. She hadn’t checked the pockets of the man’s blazers. This was a hotel, and one in a new city. The man wouldn’t necessarily have done dry cleaning.
She returned to the wardrobe and checked the pockets of the man’s blazers. The first two ones were empty, but in the third one, she came to a glossy paper. It seemed sturdier than normal paper, and her heartbeat quickened. Was it a business card? The shape seemed wrong, and she removed it gently.
Most likely it was some flier for an art exhibit.
But when she looked at it, it definitely was no flier. It was a photograph.
Of Bess.
What on earth was Mr. Tehrani doing with a photograph of Bess in his pocket? Had he met her? Was he one of the wealthy gentleman Bess liked to go out in the town with?
Voices sounded in the corridor, reminding her that she should leave.
She slipped the photograph back in the jacket pocket.
Evidently, Miss Greensbody was not the only person in the building who had a connection with the dead man.
Chapter Twenty
The streets and people blurred as she returned to her flat. Bess had known Mr. Tehrani. In fact, Bess had known Mr. Tehrani so well he’d carried a picture of her in his jacket pocket.
Had he snapped the photograph of her? Or had Bess given the photograph to him?
The photograph had been glossy and the background had been neutral. It was the sort of photograph that might be taken at a studio, the sort of photograph only Bess could have given him.
Her heart tightened.
Perhaps Mr. Tehrani and Bess had known each other. That didn’t mean she’d tried to murder him.
But Bess’s room was opposite Cora’s.
She headed up the steps leading to the building and nearly bumped into someone. Cora gave a slight scream.
“Though the vivacious greeting is flattering, I don’t fancy the hint of terror,” a voice said. The voice was silky and smooth and sent a smile soaring up her lips.
She stepped back. “Randolph!”
“‘Tis I.” He grinned. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I was coming. I had some spare time, and there’s no one with whom I would rather spend it.”
“How lovely,” she breathed.
“Now,” Randolph said, “how are you?”
Her smile wobbled, and Randolph’s eyes softened. “I’m quite happy to whisk you away from here.”
“There’s been...a lot,” she said. “The police came to visit Pop’s club last night. They insisted on interviewing him, even though he was performing.”
Randolph raised his eyebrows.
“Pop just called an impromptu intermission,” she said hastily. “It was fine.”
The Sleuthing Starlet Mysteries Page 47