The Sleuthing Starlet Mysteries

by Bianca Blythe

  He wasn’t a photographer at all?

  But he was, perhaps, far more dangerous?

  Why on earth would the duke have hired a private detective to investigate Veronica?

  And why would he have followed her all the way here?

  Wexley tapped his fingers against Randolph’s business card. “Detective? What is this about?”

  “The duke was adamant that he needed to speak with me in person.” His tone was suave, and perhaps it reassured the butler.

  Wexley sighed. “I suppose you’ll need to speak with the young duke. Given the snowstorm, I cannot turn you out. Follow me. One body on these premises is enough.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Sunbeams flooded Cora’s room, and she blinked into the bright light.

  “Oh good, miss. You woke up.” Gladys smiled at her from the window. “I hope you don’t mind me drawing the curtains.”

  “Not at all, Gladys.”

  It took Cora a moment to remember that her host had died, and another yet to remember Randolph’s mysterious appearance.

  Gladys handed Cora a cup of tea, which she accepted gratefully. She downed a lengthy swallow of the hot drink and set to work on the rest. If only British tea were as strong as American coffee. No wonder the duke had spent his lifetime complaining; it was likely inevitable while drinking such weak liquid.

  “I heard the duke was killed. How gruesome!” Gladys’s tone was almost cheerful, as one might discuss a particularly bad impending storm when one had neither farmland nor property about which to worry.

  “It’s true,” Cora said.

  “You poor thing,” she said. “Lady Audrey said you were one of the first to see the body.”

  Cora nodded. “Lord Holt...er, His Grace and I came up from the parlor together when we heard the scream.”

  “So terribly frightening,” Gladys said, but her eyes glistened even more than they had when she’d quizzed Cora about her experience in pictures. “I suppose you’ll need to wear black clothes. Do you have any? The village shops are closed for Christmas, and of course, with this snow, you’d have to ski there.”

  “I don’t ski,” Cora said. “But I do have one black dress—”

  “Ah.” Gladys opened the wardrobe and evidently found it. She held it out triumphantly before her. “Here it is.”

  The black cocktail dress had seemed overly conservative in Hollywood. The sleeves didn’t billow in an interesting manner, and there was no large satin ribbon in the front that Cora could tie into an exuberant bow. But now the material seemed too shiny, and the hem seemed too short. It was intended more for cocktails than breakfast, but it would have to do.

  Gladys helped Cora into the dress, even though that seemed unnecessary. The dress was rather lacking in buttons and ties to make dressing her a two-person endeavor. Cora had never once failed to successfully put on her normal clothes, and she thought it unlikely she would begin now. She’d never felt an inclination to wear a corset, like some members from the older generations.

  Gladys frowned. “It is rather short.”

  “I think I might have brought some black stockings...”

  “Good thing it’s the old duke who’s dead. He’s the one who would have criticized you.”

  “Gladys!”

  The maid shrugged. “It’s true.”

  “Perhaps,” Cora admitted. “Though you mustn’t speak ill of him. It may not have been an accident.”

  Gladys widened her eyes. “How exciting! Just like in the pictures. You could call it The Case of the Dead Duke.”

  “If only it were a film.”

  Gladys rummaged through the chest of drawers and picked up the black stockings.

  After Cora’s attire looked reasonably somber, Gladys gave her directions to the conservatory, where the others would be taking breakfast.

  Cora strode through dark wood paneled corridors until she reached a cheerful room with large windows. The wind roared, and the glass panes seemed too delicate to serve as any sort of barrier.

  Cora reminded herself that the manor house had been standing for decades and it was likely it could overcome any unconventional wind patterns.

  It might be the height of winter, but potted plants were neatly lined up, and Cora inhaled their pleasing scents.

  Perhaps the room was a haven from the cold, but she wasn’t certain it was also a breakfast room.

  When she rounded the corner, the others were sitting stiffly around a table covered with various breads and cheeses and some other items of shades of yellow and red that likely comprised the English breakfast.

  “Miss Clarke. Sit beside me,” the duchess said.

  Cora nodded and settled into a wicker chair that seemed better suited for summer. She glanced at her breakfast companion.

  Carefully coiffed auburn curls lay elegantly over the duchess’s head. She’d changed into an ebony colored dress. Perhaps the shine in the taffeta material was not strictly mourning appropriate, but the manner in which it rustled seemed definitely old worldly. Perhaps her husband had died, but she’d not seen any necessity to diminish the elegance of her attire.

  At least not with Signor Palombi here.

  The duchess met Cora’s gaze. “Wexley informed me that a strange man is sleeping in one of my guest rooms.”

  Oh.

  “I happened upon him in the drawing room,” Cora said. “He said your husband had invited him.”

  “What? Horace did that?” The dowager duchess’s voice broke. “My late husband was not prone to including me in business relationships.”

  “A good thing, my dear,” Signor Palombi said hastily. “His ties were not always appropriate.”

  Cora tore her roll and spread butter on it, wondering if the Italian would mention more. Veronica had also referred to the late duke’s deeds in an opaque, though decidedly negative, fashion.

  “Perhaps this strange man’s some enemy of Father’s who murdered him and then, when the snow impeded his escape, decided to reenter the house,” Mrs. Ardingley mused.

  “How horrible!” Veronica gasped.

  “Wexley should have ushered him out.” Mrs. Ardingley said.

  “It was snowing awfully hard, and it was the middle of the night,” Cora said. “Besides, he mentioned he was a private detective. He had a business card.”

  “Anyone can call themselves a PI,” Mr. Ardingley said.

  “I had met him before,” Cora said.

  “Truly?” Veronica laughed. “When did you manage to do that? I thought we were always together in this country.”

  “I didn’t meet him in this country.”

  “Surely he’s not the Scotsman under the hibiscus?” Veronica smiled, as if certain the answer would be no.

  Cora lowered her gaze, and Veronica’s face whitened.

  “At least I can vouch that he’s not an ax murderer or anything like that,” Cora said.

  “You can do no such thing, my dear,” the duchess said. “Just because you met a person on one occasion, and he did not take out a shining piece of sharpened metal and start brandishing it about like some medieval maniac transported from the past, does not mean he will not do it on another occasion.”

  “He’s apparently handsome,” Veronica said.

  The duchess frowned. “And a man’s possession of handsomeness does not signify a possession of honesty. In fact, I have found there can be a distinct negative correlation between a man’s looks and the veracity of his words.” She gave a pointed look at her son. “Naturally, the same applies for women.”

  Veronica flushed, and Edmund’s eyes narrowed. “Just what are you implying, Mother?”

  The dowager duchess gave an innocent smile. “Merely that this strange guest may be the mad man I was warning you about. Or did my comment remind you of anything else?” She glanced at Veronica again. “There were no strangers here, but one has appeared. Voila. Now if only Wexley can get the telephone working, we can get Scotland Yard to whisk him away in whatever hideous vehicle
they drive about in.”

  The others laughed, but Cora was silent.

  She hadn’t trusted Randolph when she’d first seen him. Why was she doing so now? The dowager was correct. He had been outside in the middle of the night.

  Perhaps she should have woken up everyone in the house when she’d encountered him in the drawing room.

  “At least the police should be able to clear this up,” Veronica said.

  Wexley cleared his throat. “There is still a problem with the phone, your grace.”

  “You mean no one is coming from the police?” Veronica asked. “But there’s a body!”

  “Not a body. My husband. Yes, he is lying there, but he will keep. The coldness will see to that.” The dowager frowned. “I hope the maids will not light the fire in the bedroom.”

  “The maids can be quite willing to watch the most macabre things in the cinema,” Wexley said with a pained expression, “but that delight does not extend toward actual corpses.”

  “Sounds like an excuse not to clean the room,” Mrs. Ardingley said. “Sloth is a sin. Let’s leave this place soon, Rhys.”

  “I think it is perhaps wise if no one leaves,” Cora said. “The police might want to interview you.”

  Veronica sniffed. “You have far too much faith in the police, my dear. You do remember Constable Kirby? It will just be an utter bother and waste of time.”

  “Exactly,” Signor Palombi said, twirling his mustache. “How tragic that the country’s greatest detective—Sherlock Holmes—never actually existed.”

  Mr. Ardingley yawned. “The girl has a point. Let the police come. We’ve got nothing to hide. If there is a mad man terrorizing this region, we should at least let them investigate.”

  “Yes, yes,” the duchess waved dismissively and bracelets jangled from her wrists. “How am I supposed to believe,” Lady Denisa continued, “that this man truly came to meet with my late husband? Perhaps he’s some horrid journalist. You wouldn’t believe the number of people who knocked on this door after the elopement.”

  “We cannot throw him out of here,” Veronica said. “Not in this weather. I wouldn’t like to imagine what he would write about us then.”

  “Christmas is next week,” Lady Denisa said. “It’s the period renowned for people denying entry into their homes, no matter the emergency.”

  “Mother, that was not the moral of the Christmas story.” Edmund rolled his eyes in obvious exasperation. “If Veronica believes we could create worse problems by not hosting him, I have no inclination to do that. We have plenty of rooms in this manor house. We don’t need to have anyone freezing to death on our conscience.”

  “This is a tiresome conversation,” Mr. Ardingley said. “Shouldn’t we have mimosas for breakfast? I find that a delightful tradition that we should emulate.”

  “Most people consider champagne a festive drink,” Lady Denisa said. “I’m certain your father’s death does not count as a celebratory occasion.”

  “Don’t be too sure,” Mr. Ardingley murmured.

  “There are some drinks in the bar, Rhys,” Edmund said.

  “I know where they are,” Mr. Ardingley grumbled. “This was my father’s place too.”

  There was an awkward silence while Mr. Ardingley poured whisky into a glass.

  Lady Denisa turned toward Cora. “Perhaps you’re the murderer.”

  “Me?” The word came out too similarly to a laugh.

  “Indeed.” Lady Denisa’s voice was icy, as if the cold weather had affected more than the outside of the manor house.

  “But I just met him,” Cora stammered.

  “You are American.” Lady Denisa flinched slightly as she said the word, in the same manner that others might refer to communists or fascists. “Do not Americans adore violence?”

  “Nonsense,” Cora said. “No one likes violence.”

  “Perhaps.” Lady Denisa’s voice was calm. “But Veronica told me you were in a Western. Isn’t that one of those films where you wear suede and shoot up desert towns?”

  “We are not in a desert, Mother,” Edmund said.

  “Oh, but she might still be feeling the urge to see violence. That’s probably why she insisted my dear husband was murdered. You were in detective films, weren’t you? Probably piqued your interest in murder.”

  “Those films were confined to missing jewels and secret passageways,” Veronica said, rather unhelpfully.

  “I only met your husband yesterday,” Cora said.

  “That would suffice in inspiring lesser mortals to begin serial murder careers,” Mrs. Ardingley said blithely.

  “That’s absurd,” Cora sputtered.

  Lady Denisa frowned. “It’s no more absurd than suggesting that someone he knew, someone he trusted, had killed him. Someone like—”

  “You?” Cora finished. “Forgive me.”

  Lady Denisa retained a pained expression on her face.

  “Besides Mother, I was with Miss Clarke when Father screamed,” Edmund said. “It couldn’t have been her. American or not.”

  “Oh.” Lady Denisa sighed. “I forgot.”

  Her shoulders slouched.

  “It’s fine,” Cora said, uncomfortably.

  The dowager duchess shouldn’t have looked so distressed at the thought Cora was not a murderer.

  Or is there someone else she thinks committed the crime?

  “I think one question is,” Lady Audrey asked, “why did the late duke hire a private detective? Who’s got something to hide?”

  Chapter Twelve

  “FOR AN ARTIST YOU ARE revoltingly scandal free,” Mr. Ardingley said, addressing Lady Audrey. “You just had the unfortunate bad luck to accept my little brother’s invitation to come here for Christmas.”

  Lady Audrey glanced out the window. “Well, I was right that it would be pretty at least.”

  “I know why Father hired one,” Mr. Ardingley said.

  “Indeed?” Lady Denisa asked.

  “He’s been complaining about Edmund’s rash elopement for months. I suspect he put a private detective on your new wife. Miss Clarke did say she saw him in America.”

  Oh, no.

  Veronica’s face became stony.

  “Was your new wife too racy for Father, brother dear?” Mr. Ardingley’s eyes sparkled.

  Edmund’s face pinkened. “That can’t be the reason. Veronica is—er—positively angelic.”

  “You’re not going to tell me that she was a virgin.” Mr. Ardingley laughed again and downed the amber-colored liquid in his crystal tumbler. He marched to the bar.

  “Considering that it’s morning, I think you’ve had enough.” Mrs. Ardingley pursed her lips. “Otherwise you won’t remember anything.”

  “And why would that be bad?” Mr. Ardingley swung around, and his eyes blazed with a strange ferocity. “My father died,” Mr. Ardingley reminded them, as if they might possibly have forgotten. “Why on earth would I want to linger on that memory?”

  “Calm down,” Edmund said. “It was just an accident.”

  “Oh, you’re in denial,” Mr. Ardingley said. “It’s murder.”

  “Because a former starlet says so? Someone who played a detective for the silver screen?” Mrs. Ardingley lifted her eyebrow to a lofty level. Walking might pose difficulties for her, but she obviously excelled in eyebrow movement. “I would hardly take her opinion seriously, Rhys dear. I’m not even sure Miss Clarke finished high school.”

  “I did!” Cora exclaimed.

  “Is that so?” Mrs. Ardingley’s eyebrow did not move downward.

  “Yes,” Cora stammered. “With—er—tutors.”

  Mrs. Ardingley gave a smug smile. “Hardly the same thing though.”

  “Let’s find out what your wife did,” Mr. Ardingley said. “Or just tell us now, Veronica.”

  Veronica’s face whitened, but she only laughed. “Obviously it was nothing.”

  “Don’t lie to me,” Mr. Ardingley said. “I’m not in the mood.”

&n
bsp; Edmund rose. “Come, Rhys. We know your mood doesn’t extend to anything nonalcoholic now.”

  Mr. Ardingley frowned. He picked up his newly refilled glass and flung it onto the ground. It shattered into many pieces, and the scent of whisky permeated the room.

  “Happy, brother?” Mr. Ardingley drawled. He turned to the others. “Shall we go to the library? I know where Father stores his files.”

  “Stored,” Edmund said.

  Mr. Ardingley flushed. “Er—yes.”

  “Let’s go read them,” Mr. Ardingley said he added cheerfully. “Perhaps you have a crime record.”

  “I don’t have a crime record,” Veronica insisted. “Anything in there would be lies!”

  “I think you’re lying,” Mr. Ardingley said.

  “Well, not a current one. Not as an adult.”

  “You’ve only been an adult for two years,” Mr. Ardingley pointed out. “Two years without a record is hardly a great occasion for celebration.”

  Veronica’s smile wobbled. “Perhaps I should have some of that whisky, Rhys.”

  “No one is drinking anymore,” Edmund said sternly. “Perhaps Father was hoping to find something. But that didn’t mean he did. And now it doesn’t matter, because he’s dead.”

  Veronica smiled. “Thank you, dear.”

  “Perhaps you murdered him,” suggested the dowager duchess.

  “Mother!” Edmund widened his eyes. “Please don’t accuse my new wife.”

  “I heard what your father had found out about her,” the dowager duchess said. “He wanted to expose her.”

  “Expose what?” Mr. Ardingley said.

  The dowager duchess shrugged. “Oh, just that she lived on the streets for a while. When she was twelve. And eleven. And I believe also when she was ten. Three years in total. Who knows what could have happened then? Not exactly the proper background for a duchess.”

  Veronica gritted her teeth together. “That’s a lie.”

  “I don’t think so, dear. I read the reports too.”

  “But—” Mr. Ardingley stammered. “How—? Why—?”

  “Well, I imagine she had no choice,” said the dowager. “That is rather what happens if you’re homeless. As for how... I believe it involved some singing on the streets. Some dancing. Not very decent at all.”