Veronica laughed. “You don’t mean it.”
Finally they reached the landing, and Cora removed her key and unlocked the door.
“Let’s see that exiting bed,” Veronica said.
They strode into the apartment. The light shone from the windows in the manner she remembered, and she moved instinctively toward the light. Some paintings of landscapes and a large mirror decorated the wall. She would be able to survey the square from her window, to see the flurry of servants and shopkeepers’ assistants heading for their jobs in the early morning, followed by the more leisurely departure of students and the tweed and plaid enthusiasts who tended to work in the nearby museums, seeking art in everything else except their fashion.
Archibald started to bark.
“Hush,” Cora said, attempting to soothe him. “This is our new home, Archibald. Isn’t it nice?”
Archibald barked more.
Veronica rounded the corner. “That bed is on the ground.”
Her footsteps halted abruptly. “Cora?”
Cora turned around. Obviously, Veronica really had been drawn to the bed, since she was pointing in that direction. “You said the place would be empty.” Veronica elbowed her. “Don’t tell me you’ve already acquired a lover.”
Cora followed the direction of her finger.
There was a man in the room. Perhaps, were he in another capacity, he would even serve some woman well as a lover. He was tall with broad shoulders and the fabric of his business suit seemed excellent.
She tiptoed nearer the man. His face pointed away from them, and Cora clasped the key in her hand, as if to remind herself this was her apartment, and no one, absolutely no one, should be there.
The man’s face remained unnaturally stiff, and his eyes, though open, did not meet theirs.
A chill descended through Cora’s spine, and Veronica clasped onto her sleeve. “Don’t tell me...”
“He’s dead,” Cora said shortly. “There’s a dead man in my new home.”
CHAPTER THREE
Cora’s heart toppled, as if attempting to hide in her stomach.
Archibald was not combatting the effects of nausea. He barreled toward the body, barking.
Normally, Cora would urge Archibald to hush.
Normally, Cora would tell Archibald that people did not generally enjoy his barks.
But this person was dead. Archibald could not get this person to wake, no matter how loud and how frequent his barks.
“So he just came in here and died?” Veronica’s voice wobbled, and she glanced at the window, as if to ponder if noxious fumes might have killed him despite the obvious influx of air. “How do you suppose he died?”
Cora assessed the gray face. The man’s skin was smooth, devoid of wrinkles, and she supposed he’d been in his mid-thirties. His foppish double breasted-jacket seemed to be of good quality and implied someone whose main criteria when procuring new items for his wardrobe was no longer a bargain price.
“I don’t see any marks on him,” Cora said.
“Yes, no knife sticking out.”
Cora glanced at the crisp white sheets. “And no blood stains. Perhaps he suffered from a weak heart.”
“Doubtful.” Veronica eyed the man’s upper arms. “I know he’s wearing a suit jacket, and a good tailor can conjure illusions, but his frame is muscular. I do not associate a man of his age and appearance with heart attacks.”
“We’ll need to call someone.” Cora’s voice sounded small, as if fighting against the rapid beating of her heart.
“Is there any chance you have a telephone set up yet?”
“I don’t.”
“Then we’ll need to ask the neighbors.” Veronica marched from the apartment.
“Wait!” Cora hurried after her, Archibald running at her side. She didn’t want to remain in the flat.
And yet...
Perhaps the murderer was still there, clutching whatever weapon ensured bloodless murders in his hand.
She swallowed hard and grabbed a frying pan the previous tenant must have left behind. “One moment.”
She searched the apartment. The process did not take long: no one was there, and Cora rushed back to the landing.
The floral wallpaper no longer compelled her to smile. Everything was horrible.
A man had died. He’d entered her apartment and then died.
Evidently Bloomsbury was less sedate than Veronica supposed.
“Hello! Hello!” Veronica knocked on the apartment across from Cora’s. No one answered, and she shrugged. “I’m going to try downstairs.”
Cora nodded. At least someone was there. The big band music wafted through the landing, its tempo consistently quick, and its tone consistently happy, ushering a world Cora did not entirely recognize.
No doubt she should just scream. Yet, her chest felt heavy, as if squeezing her lungs and diaphragm, and though the temperature had seemed unremarkable, it now seemed alternatively too hot or too cold. She clutched the banister and descended the steps after her friend.
Veronica knocked on the door, and it swung open.
“I can assure you, Miss Greensbody, the music is—” A male voice sounded from inside the apartment and then halted abruptly. He blinked.
A tall man stood before them. He had shaggy hair and wrinkled clothes, though his appearance did not otherwise resemble the professorial. His hair was devoid of gray, and his skin was smooth and clear, without even a beard to stroke while pondering complex problems that Cora associated with professors.
“My name is not Miss Greensbody,” Veronica said.
“It’s Veronica James.” The man’s voice roughened, and his Adam’s apple leaped against his throat. “Is my music too loud?” His skin paled, as if a makeup artist had prepared him to take on the role of a ghost. “Sometimes my neighbor thinks it’s too loud.” He turned. “Lionel! Turn that off.”
“I thought it quite the perfect volume,” Veronica purred, evidently enjoying meeting a fan.
The man continued to blink, and his lower lip had not found its way back to his upper lip yet. “I say, it is truly you? It can’t be. But you’re the spitting image of—”
“Me.” Veronica offered him her hand, and the man brushed his lips against it. His legs wobbled somewhat, as if he weren’t accustomed to the gesture.
Cora cleared her throat. “Veronica!”
The man’s eyes widened as he noticed her. “And you’re famous too! You’re the Gal Detective!”
Cora didn’t blush. She only nodded curtly. They could make conversations about her past life later. “Do you have a phone?”
“I’ve seen your movies!” the man said breathlessly. “I love them! You are both so talented! Magnificent! Wonderful!”
Cora exchanged glances with Veronica. They’d both seen this before. Some people had a strange tendency to replace normal words for platitudes in their presence, as if they could only remember the more exuberant words in the dictionary.
“He’s not listening,” Veronica whispered.
“No.”
“You are so kind.” Veronica gave a regal smile and slipped past Cora’s new neighbor. Her necklaces and bracelets jangled together as she strolled into the apartment, and she wove expertly around piles of books. “Now where did you put your phone?”
The man’s eyes goggled. “Veronica James is in my apartment. Veronica James is in my apartment!”
“Searching for your phone,” Cora reminded him. “Perhaps you can help her.”
“Right.” He blinked. “I suppose you Americans really are always on the phone. I thought that was a myth. But clearly—”
“She needs to call the police,” Cora said hastily.
“The police!” The man’s voice rose sharply, as if he were practicing for a role that required a falsetto and he stepped back. Cora did not fail to notice that he was not as successful as Veronica at evading the scholarly obstructions placed haphazardly about the room, and he collided with a pile of medical
books.
“There’s a body in my bedroom,” Cora said. “A dead body.”
“What’s going on, Rollo?” a man appeared from the other room. He was rather less clothed than his roommate and he clutched a bottle of gin in his hand, as if he imagined it could serve as a replacement. The robe he wore exposed several inches of bare calves. “There are girls in here. Strange girls.”
“Famous girls,” Rollo said.
Cora scrutinized the other person. “You must be Lionel.”
“Er—yes.”
“Golly, she is a detective,” Rollo said behind her, and Cora found her cheeks warming.
“I’m not,” she said quickly. “You mentioned his name earlier. And I do beg your pardon for being in your apartment like this. I know it’s most inappropriate.”
“Nonsense. Mother owns this property,” Lionel said.
“You’re Mr. Addington!”
“We’re both Mr. Addington,” Rollo said behind her. “But my cousin is older.”
“You must be Miss Clarke, the new tenant in Apartment Six,” Lionel said, showing a surprising capacity for numbers, despite his hungover state. “Mother said we should expect you. I’m pleased to meet you.”
Cora had the distinct impression both men were nice, despite their confusion and morning mannerisms, even though it was past noon, and quite too late for bathrobes and unbrushed hair.
“Golly,” Rollo said. “We’ll have a celebrity living with us. A Hollywood one.”
“Rollo’s a film student,” Lionel remarked. “You must forgive him.”
“How interesting,” Cora said. It seemed odd to consider that anyone could study film. “Is that common here?”
“Not at all,” Rollo said, managing to inhale sufficient air to speak, “but the nice thing about university is that one can write a dissertation on positively anything. The more obscure the better.”
“So you consider us obscure?” Veronica’s voice wobbled.
“Of course not,” Rollo said hurriedly, and his cheeks once again adopted a ruddy color, as if it were a permanent sign of deference.
Deference was always a good idea in Veronica’s presence.
“And she’s Veronica James.” Rollo pointed at Veronica, who had evidently found the phone and was speaking.
His eyes widened again.
Veronica had the ability to cause pupils to enlarge.
“I’m afraid there’s a dead body in my room,” Cora said.
Lionel threw back his head and chuckled. “Good one.”
“I’m being serious,” Cora said, and her horror at the discovery was quickly replaced by irritation at not being believed.
“Is it murder?” The man’s eyes glimmered, and he seemed perilously close to winking. She moved past him, thankful for her petite size.
The apartment was larger than Cora’s own, and music still sounded from another room. Its tempo remained upbeat and lively, and Cora could imagine it might irritate Miss Greensbody. If this man celebrated with this vigor at the joys of a Wednesday afternoon, how might he celebrate a Saturday night?
Perhaps some things shouldn’t be pondered.
“What sort of body? A bird? Another dog?” Lionel glanced at Archibald and slurred his words. He swayed, as if attempting to slow dance with a ghost.
“A stranger’s body,” Veronica said. “A stranger’s human body. It’s dreadful.”
“It wouldn’t be better if I knew the person,” Cora said.
“No,” Veronica said, “I suppose that’s true. Especially since there’s a high percentage that I would be the body.”
“I’m not following,” Lionel said.
“I’m Cora’s best friend,” Veronica explained. “And since she is less social than I am, it would be statistically likely—”
“That’s not important,” Cora said hurriedly. No need for everyone to know the extent of her introversion. She was living in London now, and she wasn’t going to miss out on life and normal experiences anymore.
“The police will be here soon,” Veronica said.
“Police?” Lionel scrunched his eyes together, as if the word were a novel concept.
Cora wondered if Lionel was in university as well. Perhaps it was wrong to suppose continual education was a sign of a lofty intellect. Perhaps it was simply a sign of someone in need of an intellect.
The doorbell rang, and Lionel’s face whitened. “You better meet him.”
Cora gave a curt nod and exited the flat with Veronica.
CHAPTER FOUR
Cora and Veronica descended the steps of the building to answer the door. Cora took Archibald into her arms, lest he scamper into the street, and opened the door.
A middle-aged man in a constable’s uniform stood outside. Rain speckled his shiny navy helmet. “You rang?”
“A man has been murdered,” Veronica said in her customary cool voice, and Cora’s shoulders eased.
This will all be over soon.
“His body is upstairs,” Cora explained.
“Very well.” The constable peered upward as he entered, as if thinking the building an unlikely location for a murder. No blood-stained killer loitered in the foyer, and the faded floral wallpaper conjured idyllic countryside visions rather than nightmares.
Veronica ascended the steps, and her lace dress swished against the dark banister.
“Er—yes.” The constable scrunched his face, and for a moment his square-shaped face appeared rather less square. “I say, you look just like Veronica James.”
Veronica gave him a patient smile. “I am Veronica James.”
“Golly,” the constable sputtered. “I’m—er—Police Constable Meeks. At your service.”
The door on the same level as Lionel and Rollo opened, and the matronly attired woman Cora and Veronica had spotted when they entered poked her head out.
“What is this dreadful commotion?” She rolled her r slightly and exchanged a soft e sound for where a soft i sound was customarily used, revealing a Welsh accent. The lenses of her glasses flickered, caught in the light of the grimy chandelier.
“You must be Miss Greensbody.” Veronica extended her hand. “I’m Veronica James.”
“The Veronica James,” the constable said, wonder still in his voice as he headed upstairs.
Veronica gave a smug smile, and even though there was a dead body in the apartment upstairs, Cora knew Veronica was musing about the wonders of her position, and how much she’d achieved.
“The movie star?” Miss Greensbody asked.
Veronica nodded, and her smile broadened. “You’re supposed to shake my hand. Many people would be delighted to be offered it. Some people would even kiss it.”
“I’m not kissing your hand,” Miss Greensbody said.
“May I?” the constable breathed.
Veronica and Cora swiveled toward him, and his face reddened.
“Naturally not,” the constable said hastily. “That would be absurd. Utterly inappropriate. Ha, ha, ha, ha.”
“You may kiss my hand,” Veronica said regally, thrusting her gloved hand in the direction of the constable.”
“Better not,” the constable said, though his voice sounded hoarse. “This is an—er—business call.”
“Very well,” Veronica said stiffly.
“Gracious,” Miss Greensbody said. “What is he doing here?”
Veronica’s face sobered, perhaps remembering the dead person upstairs. “I’m afraid there’s been a tragedy.”
The constable nodded, grateful to be returned to his task. “Murder.”
Miss Greensbody sucked in her breath.
“Upstairs,” Veronica said graciously. “He’s lying on my friend’s bed. In Apartment Six.”
“Did you see the death?” the constable asked.
“Nonsense,” Veronica said. “He was dead when we found him.”
“And his name is—?”
“We don’t know. But it’s not as important as removing him,” Veronica said. “My
friend needs to move into her new apartment. She was excited about it, though goodness knows why.” Veronica glided her gaze about the stairwell, raising her eyebrows loftily.
The constable’s expression did not change. Most likely he thought this was a perfectly respectable place in which to live. Cora thought it a perfectly respectable place.
The constable restarted his path up the stairs, and Veronica and Cora followed.
“Wait.” Miss Greensbody followed them. “I’m coming with you.”
“It might be a terrible sight,” the constable warned.
“And it’s not your apartment,” Veronica said.
“From what I understand,” Miss Greensbody said, “it is not yours either, Miss James.”
“Your Grace,” Veronica corrected, even though she normally did not dwell on the fact she’d married a duke. Their separation had been unpleasant, and the duke’s activities were not of the sort that would cast a rosier light on Veronica.
Still, her husband was a duke.
Miss Greensbody’s eyes narrowed. “I remember reading about you in The Telegraph. You’re not the right sort of people for this house.”
“Are you saying you have an advantage over me?” Veronica asked, her tone incredulous.
“Yes,” Miss Greensbody said simply.
“That is absolute nonsense,” Veronica said.
“I have lived here for ten years. Peacefully. Your visit of ten minutes has proved significantly more disruptive. The people at the Museum of Ancient Antiquities will agree with me.”
“Perhaps she will recognize the body,” Cora murmured to Veronica.
“Oh.” Veronica frowned. “I suppose you can come.”
“Good heavens,” Miss Greensbody said. “Thank you for your permission. And I thought someone who’d failed out of university made for a poor neighbor.”
“Number Seven?” the constable called from above.
“The door should be open,” Cora said hurriedly, and they dashed upstairs. Evidently Veronica and Miss Greensbody had deciding arguing would only delay their arrival.
Perhaps the person’s death had been of natural causes and nothing suspicious.
Not murder.
The Body in Bloomsbury Page 2