The Sleuthing Starlet Mysteries

by Bianca Blythe

  “Just who do you mean to suggest may have murdered him?” Edmund asked quickly. “My darling wife? My mother? The neighbor I’ve known for years? A renowned businessman? Or one of the servants who have served us loyally?”

  “All the servants were in the kitchen,” Wexley said quickly.

  “Perhaps some murderer ventured in from outside,” said the duchess. “Some crazed madman who happened upon my poor husband’s room.”

  Cora’s blush deepened.

  The idea was ridiculous.

  But what if it had it been someone outside? Some madman?

  The duke had died in his bed, in his own home, in what he’d been sure to think of as an oasis of comfort.

  One rather trusted beds not to become death traps, especially when one had lain in one for multiple decades with no poor occurrences.

  “It’s good to be safe,” Cora said.

  Edmund nodded slowly. “Very well. I will lock up the room.” He glanced at the maid. “No need to clear the room after all.”

  The others scattered.

  Chapter Eight

  Cora’s heart beat uncertainly as she exited the duke’s bedroom, as if it had forgotten its rhythm in the turmoil. There could be no normalcy after this.

  A man was dead.

  The concept seemed strange.

  She’d just seen him.

  The duke had been full of life, despite his wrinkles and propensity to stoop.

  The thought that he’d just stopped existing seemed ridiculous.

  Yet his death was anything but ridiculous.

  It seemed horrible to consider returning and lying down on the soft compilation of velvet coverlets and cotton sheets, ignoring that their host had done just that only to succumb to a violent death.

  Had the duke taken in the beauty of his surroundings before he’d gone to bed? Had he admired the rich woodwork on the walls of his room or the shiny porcelain vases decorated with vibrantly colored depictions of Oriental landscapes before he’d gazed at the glittering crystals of the chandelier?

  Poor Edmund.

  She couldn’t imagine what it would be like to lose a parent, especially under such macabre circumstances.

  She glanced at the window in the corridor.

  The snowflakes’ elegant descent to the ground, which had been sufficiently slow so that each snowflake pattern had been distinctly visible, had halted.

  Utterly.

  Now the snow thudded down, as if some eager worker were shoveling them from the sky. The sparkling, ivory landscape, where snow had adorned every branch, had vanished, replaced by an incessant whirl of white. Moisture fogged the windows, as if even the manor house was telling them not to bother to look out.

  Cora retreated to her bedroom and eased onto the four-poster bed. It creaked against her. Updating mattresses was evidently not something prioritized at the manor house, and she glanced uncertainly at the ceiling as if she half-expected to see a chandelier crash down on her.

  The ceiling was resolutely bare, and she turned off the single lamp. The room was thrown into darkness, but the house seemed to not have fallen asleep yet.

  Creaks sounded, perhaps floorboards expanding and constricting, and the whole place seemed to groan. The wind blustered against the house, and the long branches, bare now of any leaves, tapped against the windows, perhaps warning her to leave, or perhaps as if trying to get in.

  Would some madman be sneaking into various rooms now? When the duchess—or would she be the dowager now?—had first suggested that a stranger had done so, it had seemed reassuring that they needn’t imagine a person amongst them to have murderous tendencies.

  Yet the thought of a stranger being here, perhaps clambering on balconies or crouching in wardrobes, was frightening.

  Cora knew the blankets weren’t very heavy, but her chest hurt as if weighted by some invisible, yet powerful force.

  Her fingers itched against the crocheted blanket that someone had made by hand, likely in the Edwardian Era.

  This had not been the calming, peaceful holiday that her friend had told her about.

  Home had never seemed so far removed.

  Chapter Nine

  Something sounded outside Cora’s balcony, and she opened her eyes.

  Footsteps?

  She remembered the murder and clutched her blanket, as if mistaking it for a shield.

  Perhaps the murderer was sneaking away...

  Or perhaps it was the sound of some local madman...

  Cora inhaled, trying to evoke some sense of calm.

  She was probably wrong. Weren’t there animals in the countryside?

  A fox? A deer? Or an owl? Hmm...

  Perhaps an owl had jumped off the balcony above to eat some innocent rabbit. Were there rabbits in the winter? She frowned, uncertain. The countryside was a mystery.

  Cora moved her hand over her chest, as if to calm her heart.

  But it was no use.

  She kept hearing the scream, the powerful, brutal scream.

  The sound would remain with her for the rest of her life.

  It had been a howl, not just of surprise, not just of pain, but of fear.

  One would have thought he’d been facing the reaper himself—and that the grim reaper was threatening to use his scythe to dismember him.

  Memories of the dead body, of the blood, of the crystal, reflecting like some macabre scene flooded her mind, followed by the unwelcome certainty that someone was outside.

  She imagined the person sneaking up to the bed and cutting the chandelier over a sleeping octogenarian until it was too late.

  The whole idea seemed absurd.

  Yet, wasn’t murder something absurd? That life, something so precious yet so taken for granted, could be taken away, not by disease or failure of the heart, but by the simple misfortune of having encountered someone with an evil mind.

  The thought of closing her eyes, of sleeping, when there was a chance that someone could be standing on the other side of the balcony door—

  No.

  She was not remaining here.

  No way.

  Cora had left her book downstairs. It was likely still splayed open where she’d left it after hearing that horrible scream.

  She grabbed her robe and swept it over her nightdress. Her movements were clumsy in the dark, and her legs hit the wall.

  No matter.

  She hurried down the stairs, reassured that the corridor remained the same as before. The same old-fashioned portraits hung from gilt frames, the people in them staring with aristocratic disapproval. The same ornate mirrors dotted the corridor at intervals, allowing her to see the contrasts between herself and the past ancestors of the Holt family seat.

  The modern cut of her satin nightdress seemed flimsy, as if she were missing the frills and pomp of the ancestors of this place.

  No one wanted to murder her, she told herself.

  She was quite certain that she hadn’t insulted anyone irreparably, though Edmund had seemed quite perturbed that she’d dared to suggest his father’s death might not be strictly accidental.

  She entered the drawing room and turned on the light. The room looked completely innocent, if colder than she remembered. How had she ever managed to think it foreboding? It seemed to possess an innocence she was eager to regain.

  She crossed the room and grabbed the Shakespeare volume.

  “Can’t you sleep, cowgirl?” An amused voice rose from the corner of the room.

  Cora froze.

  It wasn’t the voice of Edmund or Signor Palombi.

  It wasn’t the voice of either Mr. or Mrs. Ardingley.

  Nor was it, of course, the sound of the duchess or Veronica or Lady Audrey.

  Perhaps it was a servant who’d taken it upon himself to relax in the drawing room in what she was sure would be termed a flagrant breach of protocol.

  Except...

  It didn’t sound like a servant.

  It sounded like someone she’d met.


  But it was impossible

  It couldn’t be the person in Veronica’s garden.

  That had been in Bel Air, and they were nowhere near there.

  But he was here.

  Thousands of miles away from California.

  She thought again of the dowager duchess’s comment about strange madmen.

  Perhaps the man was a stalker.

  Perhaps he adored Veronica and desired her to be even wealthier than before.

  Perhaps the next person he would kill would be Edmund.

  Or me.

  A shiver rushed through her, and she stepped away.

  Cora kept her eyes on him, as if he were some tiger on the verge of attack.

  Or was eye contact what she wasn’t supposed to do?

  She frowned, uncertain about appropriate wild animal dodging protocol.

  “You’re the photographer!” Cora exclaimed finally.

  His smile wobbled. “I’m not one, actually.”

  Cora frowned. Most photographers didn’t deny their occupations. She glanced behind him. Something that looked awfully like a camera case, along with a bag, was on the sideboard.

  The man was clothed in a not particularly stylish overcoat. The fact did not seem to negate his overall attractiveness.

  Sadly.

  She was certain this was not a moment for strange butterflies to be coursing through her chest.

  Not with a corpse one floor above.

  And not when she wasn’t exactly sure how this man had gotten in, and who he was, and...

  Her breath seemed to quicken, and her legs seemed rather less capable of holding her up than normal.

  His eyes filled with sympathy, and he narrowed the gap between them. “I didn’t think you would be so taken aback by my presence.”

  Cora was conscious of the size difference between them.

  “But what are you doing here?” Cora sputtered. “You’re supposed to be in America.”

  “My home is in Britain,” he said.

  “But not this manor house.”

  “Perhaps not,” he admitted. “But you didn’t give me a chance to outline my holiday plans.”

  “You would have told me?”

  “If I’d known it involved staying at the same place.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Randolph Hall,” he said. “And I believe you’re Cora Clarke.”

  She nodded.

  Randolph tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and tilted her face up. His eyes were soft and warm, and he smoothed her no doubt far too frizzy hair. Concern seemed to flicker over his face. “I’m sorry I scared you. Did I wake you up? I tried to be quiet, but...”

  She was absolutely certain his voice wasn’t supposed to sound so warm and comforting.

  She was conscious of broad shoulders and a firm chest.

  But perhaps he’d murdered the duke and then been waylaid by the snow. Perhaps he’d already robbed the house, and had been so dazzled by his loot, he’d returned in an optimistic attempt to get more. Or perhaps she was being woefully unfair to him.

  He didn’t seem like a murderer.

  He didn’t place his hands in a frightening manner around her collar, nor did he mention any regret that she hadn’t decided to put on a scarf.

  Tears prickled her eyes, and his eyes widened.

  “I didn’t want to frighten you.” His hands stroked her hair, and he murmured reassurances to her in such a calming voice that she could almost imagine that everything really would be all right.

  “You broke in!”

  “I wouldn’t phrase it quite so bluntly. I did try at the servants’ door first, but—”

  “No one answered?”

  He nodded. “No one expects a visitor at this time of the night.”

  “That’s not the reason,” she said.

  “Then what is?”

  The question was said so casually.

  He didn’t know.

  In his world, it was still unknown that someone had killed someone.

  She shook her head. “No. That’s not your fault. Not that you should be breaking into manor houses in the middle of the night. It’s something else.”

  “The people here can be so superior. Just because they forced some of their citizens to leave Britain for a better life abroad, they seem to regard all Americans as nothing more than overly cocky peasants.”

  “It’s not that. Though it would have upset me earlier. The duke died,” she said.

  “What?” His eyes widened. “That’s horrible!”

  She nodded. It was.

  “I suppose... He was an older man, though, and those things are bound to happen.”

  Cora gave a tight smile, unsure whether to say more.

  But it didn’t matter.

  He was inside the house.

  He would learn soon enough.

  “A chandelier fell on top of him,” she said.

  “Truly?” A contemplative expression appeared on his face.

  “Yes.”

  “Well. Dashed older houses.”

  “Yes.” Tears once again threatened Cora’s vision. Talking it over with someone, someone who was so kind and caring, was enough for her to relax, and if she relaxed the fortitude with which she was forcing herself to not cry might completely give way.

  Chapter Ten

  “You should go back to bed,” Randolph said. “It’s the middle of the night.”

  “I should say the same to you.”

  “I’m not supposed to be here,” he reminded her.

  “Nevertheless, you’re here now. I doubt you want to return to the snow.”

  “I wouldn’t be able to make it out. I had to abandon my car. There were huge snow drifts every which way. I don’t remember a winter so bad.”

  “Are you from here?” Cora asked

  “No, lassie. I’m from Inverness, the very top of the world and a top place to be. A much more sensible location with more trucks that took a speedy view of the need to discard snow. I’ll just sleep on a chair here. Or,” Randolph said, his lips moving into a roguish grin, “you could offer me space on your bed. I assure you I am quite good at keeping chandeliers off people.”

  Cora flushed.

  Veronica would laugh if she saw her now. Cora had a vague idea that another woman might bat her eyelashes and perhaps even smooth the lint—or in his case rapidly melting snowflakes—from his coat.

  But that was not to be.

  A creak sounded in the hallway, and Cora stiffened.

  Probably nothing.

  Weren’t the floorboards of houses supposed to be forever expanding and constricting, as if the trees were still fighting the indignity of having had their bark stripped from them, and being cut into thin slivers of their once majestic selves?

  But the noise continued, and Cora recognized the plodding rhythm of careful footsteps.

  The door moved open, and Cora’s breath quickened, and—

  It was the butler, in his impeccable black uniform, and she released her breath.

  “Miss Clarke.” He gave Cora a placid nod, but his serene expression soon wavered. His eyebrows seemed to have had the urge to take flight, for they soared upward. “You have a gentleman caller.”

  The word may have been gentleman, but if he had said the word devil, he could not have had more disdain on his face.

  Cora suddenly felt utterly improper and wanton.

  Cora was a young woman alone with a young man in the middle of the night.

  And she wasn’t even clothed in proper attire.

  “I was not aware that you had brought a guest, Miss Clarke.” Disapproval dripped from his words, with the effectiveness of kindling on a fire. “I am unfamiliar with what strange customs you might have in California, but I can assure you that in this household, the door is only answered by me, no matter your romantic urges.”

  “I am afraid you misunderstood. This young lady—er—Miss Clarke happened upon me in the living room.” Randolph moved away from her.
r />   “I did not let you in,” the butler said.

  “I found another method,” Randolph declared with nonchalance. “No one answered my knock on the front door. I entered through the French doors.” He leaned closer to Wexley. “You will, I am afraid, need to repair those.”

  The butler’s face took on a purple tint. “I cannot permit you to break and enter—”

  “It was cold outside,” Randolph said.

  “Then you are an utter stranger, descending on this house in the middle of the night?” The butler kept his gaze on Randolph, but he stepped backward slightly and stretched a gloved hand to one of the large brass candlesticks.

  Tension soared through the room.

  The butler clutched the candlestick and swept it before him. The occasional strand of gray in the butler’s hair did not hamper his fitness.

  “The Duke of Hawley invited me,” Randolph said. “Miss Clarke just told me that he has passed away. I am so sorry.”

  Cora blinked.

  Randolph hadn’t mentioned he’d been invited.

  The words had an immediate effect on the butler, and suspicion eased from his face. “Still, the duke did not mention other visitors...”

  Surprise seemed to flicker over Randolph’s countenance, and Cora wondered whether he might, in fact, have belonged to one of the swarms of handsome men who descended on Hollywood with regularity, hoping to transform any gift of deceiving others into a monetary value.

  “But perhaps he wouldn’t have mentioned it,” Randolph said. “I was supposed to arrive tomorrow, but I hoped to beat the storm. I tried to call, but—”

  “The lines are down,” the butler said.

  “My car didn’t quite make it. The snowdrifts were rather excessively sized.”

  “You probably drove your car over next years’ roses,” Wexley said, his voice mournful.

  “Look, let me give me you my card.” Randolph shuffled through his pockets and then removed a business card triumphantly.

  The butler took it skeptically and held it to the light. “Randolph Hall, Private Detective.”

  Cora inhaled sharply.

  Was that why he had been hiding under Veronica’s hibiscus?