“He was a royal?” she raised her eyebrow.
He nodded. “Cousin to the Shah. Not a particularly important person, but close enough to be entrusted with precious jewels.”
“Have you found the jewels?” she asked.
“No,” he said bluntly. “The Shah is beginning to ask questions. Claiming the English must have murdered him. What drivel. As if we don’t have enough jewels already. We could raid the Tower of London much easier to get ones more meaningful to us. It’s caused enough of a fuss to get people breathing down my neck to solve this case. Not that it will help without the jewels. Your father, it seems, had money issues.”
“He doesn’t discuss his finances with me,” Cora said stiffly.
“Probably a pity,” the detective said. “You seem to have a cooler head.”
Cora was silent, and it occurred to her that the detective might be trying to flatter her. Did he hope she would reveal information about her father or his possible whereabouts to him?
He won’t get it.
“I assure you my father is no thief.”
The detective looked coldly at her. “I wonder if you know much about your father at all.”
“Naturally.” She raised her chin, but a smile seemed to play upon the detective’s face.
“Have a nice evening, Miss Clarke.” Mr. Darby-Brown gave a slight bow and then left her.
Cora smoothed her dress.
She didn’t know where Pop was and she hoped he was fine. The only consolation she had was that the detective seemed similarly befuddled about his disappearance.
Pop had really gone and done it now.
Still.
She had learned something. Mr. Tehrani’s jewels were missing. Had he gone to meet with Miss Greensbody at her apartment building on that fateful morning? Miss Greensbody was obviously enamored with the jewels. She’d asked everyone else where they’d been, but she’d never asked Miss Greensbody directly.
“Cora!” Randolph interrupted her musings. “You were brilliant.”
She shrugged. “I’m worried about Pop.”
His eyes twinkled, and he took her into his arms. Though she did quite enjoy the sensation of his arms about her, this time she pulled back.
He smiled, and she narrowed her eyes.
Why was he smiling? She’d confessed she was worried about her father, and his eyes were twinkling, and his lips were jutting up, as if she’d made a joke.
“There’s nothing amusing here,” she said.
“There is actually,” he said. “Somewhat amusing,” he hastened to say. “Only somewhat amusing.”
“I’m not in the mood for a joke.” She stepped away and crossed her arms, ignoring the sudden sense of coldness when she was away from him.
“Your father is something of a pickpocketer.”
“That’s a cruel thing to say,” she said.
“He stole my keys,” Randolph said.
“He did?”
“We were talking about cars,” Randolph said, still smiling. “He asked me what I drove. I don’t think he was very impressed. But sometime, probably when he came to lead you up to the stage, he stole my keys.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
He shrugged. “He’ll return it. I’m happy to help. It would have made it more difficult for the constables to trace him, even once they realized that he wasn’t coming back. You were quite convincing on stage.”
She smiled.
“So you think he’s fine?”
“I think you shouldn’t underestimate him.” He shrugged. “Besides, I know what kind of car I drive. I can always see if it shows up anywhere. I do have access to certain logs.”
She clutched onto his hand, hoping it would all be fine, and this time they strolled back to her apartment.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Archibald barked. He barked and barked and barked.
“Archibald,” Cora exclaimed, blinking into the bright light of the morning sun.
Was she late? Perhaps he was craving his morning walk. Cora scrambled from her bed and rubbed sleep from her eyes.
“Archibald,” she scolded. “No barking. It’s not polite. And we have neighbors. I’m lucky they’re even letting us live here. Most people don’t tolerate dogs in apartments.”
A small voice in her told her there was perhaps a good reason why dogs weren’t tolerated in apartments, but she didn’t want to dwell on that now.
Archibald was mostly a good dog.
She supposed she may have slept longer than absolutely necessary. She’d arrived back late last night from the club, and she’d only managed to give Archibald a small walk to the square after she returned.
“One moment, Archibald,” she said, grabbing some clothes. “We’ll go outside soon. Don’t you worry.”
Archibald continued to bark. No doubt the words she used demanded a higher vocabulary than that which he possessed.
She sighed. “See? I’m dressed now. You can calm down.”
Archibald did not calm down and he pawed against a piece of paper near the door.
Cora froze.
Why was there a piece of paper inside her apartment? Her heart beat more quickly, and she told herself she was overreacting. She bent down and noticed that entire newspaper words had been cut and pasted to the paper. She read the words: “No more questions.”
Cora stared at the paper.
There was nothing particularly bad about the phrase. It had no curse words and no threats to her life.
And yet, the note still sent a shiver throttling through her spine.
The words had been evidently cut from a newspaper. The font was slightly pretentious, even though the quality of paper had the same poor standards of any newspaper: thin, gray, and rough. She touched the ink, and it smeared slightly on her finger. She dropped it at once.
Perhaps she should show the paper to Randolph. Perhaps he might be able to determine who had sent the paper. Perhaps the perpetrator’s fingerprints were still on the page.
Archibald trotted toward her.
“Stop,” she whispered. “Sit.”
He did so obediently, though he tilted his head, as if surprised at her softer voice.
“I’m sorry I was cross,” she said, striving to sound soothing. “It’s good you showed me.”
She wished Archibald could tell her who left the paper. He probably had recognized the scent.
Had the murderer left the paper? Was it one of the people with whom she’d attended the club last night?
But she’d also asked questions of Miss Greensbody. Had it been her?
If only she’d paid more attention when Archibald had barked. Perhaps then she could have discovered who had left the note. She bent down and ruffled his coat. “You tried. Let’s go for a walk.”
Archibald wagged his tail, evidently finding that plan agreeable.
Cora gritted her teeth together.
They’d all pretended not to know Mr. Tehrani.
They couldn’t all not know him.
Someone had murdered him. Someone had killed him.
And instead that person had likely just sipped martinis with her the night before last and pretended nothing was the matter.
She glanced at Bess’s door. Was she inside now? Her throat tightened, and she resisted the temptation to knock on Bess’s door. She had questions to ask her, but she didn’t want to be alone with her when she asked them.
Cora hurried down the stairs. She took Archibald on a short walk, but after they returned, she took on another walk. She cut across the square, even though she’d just encircled it, and she kept walking, even after she’d exited Bloomsbury.
Finally she reached Veronica’s hotel.
Her true friend.
She strode to the reception and after convincing the receptionist she was indeed who she said she was, she marched to Veronica’s room and knocked on the door.
“Gracious!” Veronica blinked. “I didn’t expect to see you, honey.”
Cor
a shifted from leg to leg. “I think I was just threatened.”
“You better come inside, honey.”
Cora nodded and moved past her friend. Gilded furniture sparkled, enhanced by a fire burning in the fireplace.
“And we’ll need fortifications, honey.” Veronica turned and rang the bell. A maid appeared quickly. “Two mimosas.”
The maid nodded, and Veronica turned back to Cora. “Now what were you saying?”
“I’ll show you.” Cora opened her purse, conscious her hands were shaking. She removed the note with her gloved hand and showed it to Veronica.
Her friend bent down and scrutinized it, scrunching her nose. Finally she lifted her head. “Oh, that’s not very nice.”
“I didn’t think so.” Cora returned the note to her purse.
“Who do you think sent it?” Veronica asked.
“It could have been any of them. I mean, Lionel and Rollo don’t have a connection with Mr. Tehrani. But Miss Greensbody and Bess do.”
“Bess?” Veronica looked up sharply.
Cora nodded. “I went to Mr. Tehrani’s hotel room. He had a photograph of her in his blazer.”
“She did seem quite shaken when she learned about his death last night,” Veronica remarked.
Cora nodded. Veronica was right.
The maid arrived with their drinks, and Cora turned the conversation to something that the maid would find more innocuous, should she overhear.
“I think Rollo is keen on Bess,” Cora said.
Veronica laughed. “Honey, Rollo is very keen on her. And his cousin did not like it.”
“You think his cousin fancies her himself?”
Veronica shrugged. “Though he did seem the disagreeable sort, and it’s difficult to imagine him liking anything. Well, anything except alcohol. The poor thing was quite out of sorts when we visited him.” Veronica giggled and took another sip of her mimosa.
“Did they notice when the police constables arrived?” Cora asked.
Veronica laughed. “Oh, everyone noticed. It was quite scandalous. Even though your father did carry on quite well after the intermission.”
“Oh.”
“What you should consider,” Veronica said, “is to have a proper investigation.”
Cora crossed her arms. “I’m not taking this to the police. They’ll only want to suspect my father. I’ll tell them about it when I have some genuine leads.”
“Honey, I wouldn’t dream of bringing them into it. So much bureaucracy.” She shuddered. “What would the Gal Detective do?”
Cora blinked. “She would search their apartments.”
Veronica nodded. “Exactly.”
“I could see if I can find a newspaper that matches the font used in this note.”
“Precisely honey,” Veronica said, giving a pleased smile. “Though I wouldn’t recommend you bring Archibald. He’s far too liable to start barking.”
“Maybe I might even find the jewels,” Cora said.
“And then you will have found the murderer.” Veronica waved her hand. “And then you can call that awful man in the brown trench coat who insisted on interviewing your poor dear father.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Cora strode from the hotel and into Knightsbridge. People wore nicer clothes. Women swung shopping bags from their hands. A name flashed on one of them, and Cora recognized the department store where Bess worked.
Harrods.
The store stretched the entire block, and Cora stared at exquisite window displays. Everything seemed sumptuous. Everything sparkled.
Bess worked here. She must adore her position.
The building was beautiful.
Cora couldn’t imagine a nicer place to be.
Perhaps she should visit. She didn’t want to speak with Bess in private, but what setting was more public than this? Women flitted from counter to counter, trying on gloves and scarves.
Surely, Bess wouldn’t mind. And if she was busy, it wouldn’t matter. There was plenty for Cora to occupy herself with anyway. This might be a store, but it was practically a tourist destination of its own.
Cora strolled through the doors, following a well-dressed group of chattering middle-aged women. Even the famous English reserve seemed to be no match for this department store. Everything was exquisite, and Cora found herself wanting to remark to others about a particularly fabulous emerald green purse and an equally charming lace trimmed pink cloche.
She’d never considered herself to have a particular interest in fashion, but she suddenly understood why other women opined about it.
This was a haven from London’s dull gray sky, endless battering of rain and wind, and abundance of sour-faced commuters, all intimidated by the throngs of people between them and the tube station.
Cora strolled by the counters. Even makeup was sold in glossy packages that made them resemble actual artwork.
Now. Where was Bess?
Cora wove through the counters. Women chatted with sales ladies, and Cora inhaled the various perfumes, not minding in the least that their scents clashed.
“May I help you with something?” A middle-aged woman in a dark woolen dress stopped her. Large pearls hung from her ears, and if Cora had not seen her nametag, she may have assumed she was another wealthy woman out shopping.
Perhaps this woman was a manager. Though her features were stern, giving the appearance of a headmistress in the midst of a particularly rebuking speech to her student body, her face was also exquisitely powdered and contoured as if to display the finery of Harrods makeup counters. She wore a delightful rose scent at odds with her strict demeanor that conjured images of frolicking through floral gardens. It was sweet, feminine, and perhaps a perfume the department store was encouraging people to buy.
“You’ve been wandering our aisles quite methodically,” the woman observed. “Perhaps I can help direct you. Or are you just browsing?” The woman steeled her eyes. “I would suggest a new hat.”
Cora flushed and raised a hand to her felt hat.
“The cut’s not exactly unfashionable,” the woman said, “but I would suggest something brighter. Something cheerful. Something like that pink cloche hat.”
“Oh. It is beautiful.”
“Naturally it is. It’s at Harrods. Everything here is perfect. We have very strict quality controls.”
The woman assessed her, and Cora stiffened. The woman seemed satisfied, and she snapped her fingers, and soon a staff member came running toward her. “Martha, please fetch that so this young lady may try it on.”
“Yes, Mrs. Abraham.” The woman gave a slight curtsy and then scurried off. Soon she returned with the hat.
Though Cora had been pleased with the shape of the cloche and intrigued by its vibrant color when she’d first spotted it, she only truly appreciated its high quality and detailing when it was held before her.
“How lovely,” she murmured, running her finger over the cloche’s rolled brim.
“Put it on,” Mrs. Abraham said sternly.
Cora did so obediently.
“Perfection,” Mrs. Abraham enthused. “Absolute perfection.”
“Yes,” Martha echoed. “Absolute perfection.”
Mrs. Abraham gave a stern look to Martha, who flushed and scampered away, presumably to assist someone else, and perhaps also so Cora wouldn’t be tempted to try on other hats that would make her grapple over color and cut and trip options that might prove too difficult and hinder her from completing her purchase.
“I actually wasn’t planning on buying anything here,” Cora confessed.
“Ah, but now you’ve been enticed,” the woman said.
“Yes,” Cora said. “But perhaps you can help me on the other matter. You see, I came to visit one of my friends. She works at one of the counters, but I’m not sure which one.”
“What’s her name?”
“Elizabeth Smith,” Cora said, remembering the name on the mailbox. “But she goes by Bess.”
Th
e woman gave her a hard stare.
“Er—but of course, there are so many people here. Why would you know her?” Cora gave a small laugh. It sounded awkward, even to her, and heat prickled the back of her neck.
“I know all my girls,” Mrs. Abraham said sternly.
“Naturally,” Cora said quickly.
Though the woman had seemed strict before, her demeanor had shifted. Perhaps Mrs. Abraham merely believed Cora would purchase the cloche and that the efforts of politeness could be discarded. But Cora sensed something else was troubling her. Something which caused her to risk the advancement of future wrinkles and scowl.
Cora shifted her legs. She felt suddenly very American, unfamiliar with British nuances, and unsure how she’d managed to so deeply offend.
“I imagine she’s busy with her customers,” Cora said. “Sorry.”
“Bess is not busy with customers,” Mrs. Abraham said. “Bess does not work here anymore.”
Cora blinked. “Truly?”
Bess hadn’t mentioned a new job.
“It was a sudden change.”
“I see,” Cora nodded, as if she truly did understand.
“Shall I ring up your order?” Martha appeared with the hat.
“I suppose,” Cora said, and Mrs. Abraham gave a curt nod before sailing away, presumably to assist another customer or ensure another employee felt intimidated.
Cora removed her purse. Part of her was irritated with Mrs. Abraham’s sudden descent into unfriendliness. Mrs. Abraham had made her feel small and insignificant and curiously like a criminal.
Was that how she’d treated Bess? Had Bess quit?
Cora felt a sudden wave of sympathy for her.
Mrs. Abraham must have been horrid to compel Bess to leave.
Unless...
Cora frowned. “Martha, do you remember a Bess who used to work here? Miss Elizabeth Smith?”
Martha’s fingers quivered. “Why?”
“Mrs. Abraham behaved most curiously when I mentioned I was looking for her.”
“Is she a friend of yours?” Martha asked, her voice strangely wary.
“A neighbor,” Cora said.
“Oh, it’s none of my business,” Martha said. She’d evidently decided to send Cora on her way and opened a bag with an unnecessary force, as if she were attempting to drown out the sound of the rest of the story from the manner in which the bag rustled.
The Sleuthing Starlet Mysteries Page 49