Table of Contents
Murder in London...
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
EPILOGUE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Murder in London...
Former Hollywood starlet Cora Clarke is eager to move into a flat in Bloomsbury with her pet bichon Archibald. Unfortunately, when she enters her new bedroom, a man is already there.
And he's dead.
Someone in Cora's building is a murderer. Can she discover who it is before she becomes the next victim?
CHAPTER ONE
POP WAS NOT SUPPOSED to be in London.
He was supposed to be in Los Angeles, or possibly Palm Springs or Las Vegas. London was not his home, even though it was Cora’s now.
Still.
That was definitely Mr. Nick Valenti.
Pop.
Cora stared at the set of posters outside Club Paradiso in Soho. His name was emblazed in a joyful font together with dates of a performance, and he tilted his head toward a microphone. Pop’s perpetually black hair gleamed, and he gave a wide smile that showcased his equally well-maintained teeth. He was dressed in one of his impeccable suits. Other men might shy from wearing scarlet, but Pop was not most men.
Pop was an entertainer.
Pop was a singer.
Pop was famous.
Veronica elbowed her. “Gee, isn’t that your father?”
“Yes,” Cora said quietly. “That’s him.”
“I didn’t know he was here.”
“I didn’t either.”
Archibald pulled against his lead, no doubt desiring to continue their walk through Soho, but Cora continued to stare at the poster.
Veronica didn’t raise an eyebrow. Veronica was an orphan. They’d been child stars together, back in Hollywood, but now Veronica was newly single and eager to put scandal behind her, and Cora was eager to put Hollywood behind her.
London offered an opportunity for a new beginning, one not only filled with people who said boot instead of trunk, queue instead of line, and pavement instead of sidewalk, but of a place with a long history, where she could be anonymous.
Her father evidently did not harbor the same dreams for anonymity.
Cora found her lips turning up. She hadn’t realized how much she missed him, even if his presence was unexpected. “Do you think he’s there now?”
“Let’s see.” Veronica grabbed her hand, and they headed inside Club Paradiso. The performance was not until eight pm, but when they entered the club, the sound of Pop’s lilting voice was immediately recognizable.
Whatever her father’s faults were, he knew how to sing.
A coat check girl swayed softly before empty hangers to the music. “We’re not open for another four hours.”
“She’s the entertainment’s daughter,” Veronica announced.
The coat check girl’s eyes widened. “You’re Veronica James.”
Veronica gave a cursory nod. “Indeed.”
The coat check girl assessed Cora. “And you’re his daughter.” Her forehead wrinkled slightly, as it always did when people met her after they met Cora’s father.
Pop was suave, charming and debonair.
Cary Grant could take lessons from him.
Pop didn’t let his ever increasing age impede being an idol for millions of women.
Cora, in the prime of her life, was slightly more disappointing. She was too shy, and her features too ordinary to warrant stardom. Petiteness was not a common trait in starlets.
“Let me ring his manager.” The woman scrambled through some papers.
“We can hear him,” Veronica said. “We’ll just go in.”
The coat check girl halted her search, and a rigidity her face had not possessed before appeared. “I’m under strict instructions not to let anyone see him.”
“Nonsense.” Veronica grabbed Cora’s arm, and her always abundant collection of bracelets jangled. “Let’s go, honey.”
“But Miss James—”
Veronica marched through a glossy black door, and they entered the club. It seemed composed of all rich dark wood and claret colored walls and furnishings. Scents of cocktails lingered in the air. Tables faced the stage, and on the stage, stood Pop.
He wore a dapper suit, even though the poster had clearly stated his show didn’t start until tomorrow night. Cora felt an instant sense of uncertainty. But he halted his singing and rushed down the steps from the stage to see them.
“Honey bunny.” Pop swept her into a hug.
“What are you doing in London?” she asked.
“Oh, California’s too small for me,” Pop said amiably. He turned to Veronica. “And how are you?”
“Splendid,” Veronica said.
“Managing not being a duchess instead anymore?”
“Technically, I am still a duchess,” Veronica said icily.
The dissolution of her marriage was a sore spot for Veronica. She’d left Hollywood last year, declaring her intentions to become an English aristocrat to the sorrow of many audience goers. She’d been reluctant to return to Hollywood quickly, even though everyone knew the duke lacked the magnificence his title indicated.
. “So grand!” Pop grinned, unperturbed by Veronica’s proclivity toward frostiness
“You should have told me you were coming to London,” Cora said.
Her father’s cheeks turned an uncharacteristic ruddy shade, and he lowered his voice. “It was a sudden trip. I called the number you’d given, but it seemed you’d already left.”
“Oh. I just moved into a new apartment. Or at least, I’ll move in this afternoon. I just procured the keys, and we’re going there now.”
“That’s swell.” Her father’s gaze drifted to Archibald. “Say, you got a dog.”
“Archibald, meet my father,” Cora said formally, and Archibald offered him his paw.
Pop slipped from his chair and settled onto the ground opposite her bichon. Her father shook Archibald’s paw, and Archibald offered him his other paw. Pop shook that one as well, and her dog wagged his tail.
“You’re a pretty pup.” Pop ruffled Archibald’s white coat.
Archibald continued to wag his tail and he settled into Pop’s lap.
“He likes you,” Cora said.
“Most people do,” Pop said with a shrug.
It was true.
Most people adored her father.
He’d been a singer in Las Vegas when Cora was a child, and when they’d moved to Los Angeles so she could become a child star in the pictures, Pop’s career had exploded.
Everyone loved Pop. He was handsome, much handsomer than Cora was pretty, and women adored his chiseled cheeks and propensity to swagger.
“Yes,” Cora said.
“Looks like a perfect Bichon Frisé specimen,” Pop said. “Have you taken him to dog shows?”
Pop’s eyes gleamed, and visions of Archibald at various dog shows filled her mind. She
stepped away. “I don’t have his birth information. He might not even be a purebred.”
“Never mind then. You should attend tomorrow night’s performance.”
“I’d love to,” Cora said sincerely, and Veronica concurred.
Pop grinned. “I’m staying at the Savoy.” He leaned closer. “Though tell the front desk you’re looking for Mr. Adam Jones.”
Cora blinked. It was unlike Pop to go by a different name. He’d always lauded the virtues of publicity, and it seemed uncharacteristic for him to not indulge in any improved room service his name might offer him.
“Are you quite alright?” she asked.
“Naturally,” Pop said, a bit too forcefully. “Now tell me, where are you staying?”
Right.
Cora scrambled in her purse for a piece of paper and wrote her new address and number. “You’re welcome to join Veronica and me now.”
A short man with a stocky build stepped from behind the red velvet curtains that surrounded the stage.
“I better not,” Pop said hastily. “I’m a trifle occupied.”
“What’s all this?” The man scowled and yanked his cigar from his mouth. Ash fluttered to the floor. “No visitors now. Club Paradiso is closed.”
“Not necessary, Vinny,” Pop said. “This is my daughter and her good friend Veronica James.”
Vinny’s eyes remained narrowed, but he slowed his pace. “Are you sure, Mr. Valenti?”
The man’s accent was American, and Cora fought the urge to frown. Wouldn’t it be more likely that club security would be British? This was London, after all. Was it possible Vinny was Pop’s personal security? Why would he see the need for that?
Something seemed to trouble her father, and when Veronica and Cora left, Cora felt unsettled.
CHAPTER TWO
Cora and Veronica took a black cab in Soho and headed toward Cora’s new flat. They passed a bevy of clubs until they entered the leafy streets and squares of Bloomsbury. The hack drove by the columned magnificence of the British Museum and exquisitely maintained building housing societies with pretentious names. Cora shivered, pondering whether she would be better suited in another section of London after all.
She shook her head. That thought was nonsense. This was Bloomsbury, and it was her new home.
After all, there was a pleasant normalcy about this part of London that Cora adored. Horses’ trotted over the road. No heavy traffic impeded their path, and no mud or sharp cliffs put the success of their journey in question. The terraced houses that overlooked leafy squares were pleasant, but not pleasant enough to draw tourists from the shiny ebony lions that defended Trafalgar Square or the birds that dotted the landscaped Saint James Park and offered views of Buckingham Palace.
Bloomsbury possessed no palace views.
Cora thought that fine. The grandiose structure had never appealed to her. It seemed to intimidate with space rather than beauty.
“You truly mean to live in Bloomsbury?” Veronica’s nose wrinkled slightly, complicating her attempt to reapply powder in the privacy of the hack. “You will be with quite the intellectual set, honey.”
“I don’t intend to be with any set at all,” Cora said, conscious of the feel of Archibald’s soft white coat against her legs. Archibald lay curled at her feet, enjoying the soothing drive.
This would be the first time in her life she would not be working long hours on a film.
Perhaps Randolph might even visit her one day. He’d been so sweet when he’d said goodbye to her in Sussex.
Now though she intended to enjoy life.
Once she got a job.
She dismissed a trickle of worry. The Great Depression was rather less great than it had been at the beginning of the decade, and London was a large city, filled with people who worked. How difficult could it be to join them? After all, she’d worked since she was little.
Cora had spent the money Mrs. Ivanov had given her on the apartment. It hadn’t been simple to find a flat that accepted pets, but she’d finally procured the perfect place.
“You won’t be able to avoid the intellectuals.” Veronica smoothed her mint-colored fox fur stole over her cobalt-colored lace dress. “And think of the artists. The only thing worse than wild artists are those following in the footsteps of wild artists.”
Even though Veronica might be mistaken for a wild artist, given her predilection in experimenting in fashion and in pairing colors in combinations that would never appear on the rigid mannequins in Selfridge’s, Veronica had toiled all her life. Cora suspected Veronica did not bestow the same Calvinist ethic to artists, no matter how many vibrant canvases they produced.
Veronica was an actress, one accustomed to performing before a large studio crew, and who was conscious her work sustained that of others. Cora had been an actress as well, but unlike Veronica, she hadn’t transitioned well from being a child actress. Apparently, there was more to acting than the ability to memorize lines, and her petite figure might have given her more years starring in the Gal Detective series on the silver screen, but she hadn’t managed to in any way emulate tall, sultry actresses like Hedy Lamarr, Greta Garbo and Veronica James.
No matter.
The hack drove by the columned magnificence of the British Museum and exquisitely maintained building housing societies with pretentious names. Cora shivered, pondering whether she would be better suited in another section of London after all.
She shook her head. That thought was nonsense. This was Bloomsbury, and it was her new home.
Finally, the hack stopped before one of the more modest townhomes on the already modest street. The facade was devoid of a single Grecian god, and no laurels or other floral plasters adorned the exterior wall. The two columns that flanked the door were the Doric sort, and Cora suspected they’d been chosen over the flashier Corinthian ones for financial purposes, rather than taste. The builder had seemed to prize economy, if the home materials were any indication.
No matter.
Brown brick was perfectly respectable. This was still London, and Cora still adored it.
“That’s the building.” Cora pointed at the tall house wedged between similarly tall houses that overlooked a leafy square.
“They all look alike,” Veronica said.
“I know,” Cora said. “It’s perfect.
Veronica’s thin eyebrow rose even higher than the place she’d drawn them, but then she flashed a smile. “You really mean it. You like it here.”
Cora shrugged. Veronica may have suggested Cora visit her in England, but at some point, Cora had come to see the country as her home. She’d always felt ill-at-ease in California, feeling she didn’t chatter with the expected upon frequency, didn’t boast with the appropriate bravada, and could survive happily without the long, hot summers everyone extolled.
Cora clasped the key to her apartment.
My very own.
“Do tell me you’ll at least have many rooms,” Veronica said.
“There’s one,” Cora said. “It’s quite small, actually. In fact the bed comes down from the wall. Rather brilliant.”
“Hmph.” Veronica looked loftily about her. “You do know the British came to our great country centuries ago precisely to acquire more space?”
Cora gestured at the tight rows of houses. “Not all of them left.”
Veronica shrugged. “Evidently. Though honey, you know you can always stay with me.”
“Nonsense.”
She’d viewed the house a week ago. The landlady had been frazzled and eager to catch a train home, informing Cora she could direct any issues to her son.
Despite Cora’s insistence to her friend that she’d found the perfect home, nervousness prickled her skin, as if wary of discovering the stairs were steeper, the rooms smaller, and the light more nonexistent than in her memories.
“I’ll have a view of the square,” Cora said.
“Well, that’s certainly something,” Veronica said. “Which floor?”
/> Cora raised her hand to point and then dropped it abruptly. She stared at her window.
Her open window.
Why on earth would her window be open? Was the landlady’s son there?
That was probably it. Still, tension didn’t leave her chest.
“It’s on the second floor,” Cora said finally.
Veronica pulled her fur stole tightly about her. “Not the most secure.”
A woman in a plaid dress, severe bun and nondescript hat marched past them, before climbing up the short set of stairs to the building.
“It’s never a good idea to take one’s fashion cues from Catholic schoolgirls,” Veronica muttered.
“Most likely she was equally appalled by your outfit.”
“She probably thought I was having airs better suited for film stars.” Veronica’s lips curled into a decidedly smug smile.
Veronica was the real thing.
She was a film star. And though she could be brusque, she’d also climbed her way to stardom and seemed from time to time perturbed people who’d started on a much higher flight, had not managed to move even a few steps higher.
Cora opened her purse, removed the key, and placed it in the lock. Archibald wagged his tail expectantly. He darted inside once she opened the door, and Cora and Veronica followed. Faded floral wallpaper lined the corridor, as if some Victorian had made an optimistic attempt to make the entire place resemble a garden, instead of a building in a great city. Evidently, no other vision had occurred to any of the later occupants.
Big band music played from the next floor. Joyful tunes
“I don’t think that apartment belongs to that stodgy looking woman,” Veronica said.
“Be good,” Cora said. “I don’t want you upsetting my neighbors.”
“You’re saying that because you have definite stodgy tendencies yourself,” Veronica said. “I do try though. Oh, you really must come to a party. Mr. Rosenfeld is hosting it.”
“I don’t care for parties.”
The last time Cora had accepted an invitation to a party, she’d found a dead body. That had been at a house party on the South Downs in Sussex, and Cora resolved to have higher expectations of London.
“I’m never going to accept another invitation again,” she said.
The Body in Bloomsbury Page 1
