The Body in Bloomsbury

by Bianca Blythe

“But I suppose I was mistaken,” Cora said quickly. “So I’m just...on edge.”

  Pop nodded. “Moving is difficult.”

  Cora nodded at the platitude.

  “So no one is after you?” Pop gave her a hard stare, as if assessing her face for revealing flinches.

  “What? Nonsense.”

  “Good.” Pop’s shoulders relaxed. “Just making certain.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The next morning, the light that streamed through her windows should have been pleasant, but the sunbeams seemed too harsh, even diminished by England’s abundance of perpetual clouds. Still. She refused to linger in the flat.

  Cora soon stepped onto the pavement with Archibald, relieved to leave the house. There was a newspaper stand nearby, and she approached it warily, half expecting to see the face of the man yesterday splattered across its cover. The broadsheets though were confined to the normal articles of the day: ever rowdier National Socialists in Austria and a growing confidence in the economy.

  Sleep had been no easy achievement. Music had streamed from downstairs. On any other night the jovial big band music may have compelled her to dance, but last night the sounds had seemed to jerk her heart and spine. Pop’s aptitude at breaking into the apartment had not been reassuring. She feared it was a skill others might also possess.

  A noise sounded behind her. Miss Greensbody strode quickly from the townhome, armed with a large purple umbrella and a purple hat trimmed with feathers that seemed to meet all the requirements for outrageousness without meeting any requirements for style.

  “Hello,” Cora said.

  Miss Greensbody raised her eyebrows slightly, as if surprised Cora had deigned to address her. “Good day. Please excuse me, I have a meeting.”

  “Enjoy,” Cora said.

  “It is very important,” Miss Greensbody said.

  “How nice,” Cora said.

  In her experience, important meetings were the worst sort and the most likely to lead to chest tensions, but she’d obviously said the correct thing for Miss Greensbody gave a pleased smile.

  “I am meeting the cousin of the Shah,” Miss Greensbody said. “He’s bringing some royal jewels. It is a great coup of the exhibit.”

  “How impressive.”

  “It is rather,” Miss Greensbody said. “I arranged the meeting.”

  She said the words casually, but her eyes gleamed, and Cora knew it was a very big deal for her.

  “The jewels are proof the Persians had an advanced civilization for millennia. Not just the Egyptians.”

  Cora hid her smile. She doubted jewels were the sole measure of a country’s civilization.

  Cora proceeded on her walk. Archibald wagged his tail merrily, and a few neighbors smiled fondly at him as they walked. She strode past the square, flanked by Georgian homes on one side and leafy trees on the other. Even though the buildings were more ordinary and modest, their age conferred a definite elegance. She ambled past the stone structures, noting how the windows at the top were small as if to bestow a sense of grandeur by playing with the rules of perspective.

  Cora just needed to find a job.

  She turned onto a street with shops placed opposite more regal museums. She looked casually at the windows, looking for a help wanted sign.

  The windows though were empty, and she arrived at Excellent Employment Agency without seeing any other opportunities.

  Rows of men and women sat in chairs that faced a reception desk. Many were clothed in suits that had been creased, perhaps from shifting their position, straining to find a comfortable position in the tightly squeezed, uncomfortable appearing chairs.

  Right.

  Perhaps this wouldn’t be a quick visit to the employment office after all.

  Cora’s heart fluttered, and for a moment she almost wished she were back in Hollywood. She’d auditioned for some roles before, but it had only seemed a fun part of the process. She’d always done well.

  And I’ll do well now too.

  She marched to the receptionist. “I would like to apply for a job.”

  The receptionist did not bother to smile. “Everyone does here. What sort of a job?”

  Cora hesitated. “Well, you see, I don’t know. I’ve never done a job before. Not a proper sort of job. I do have a great deal of experience working. I’m quite dedicated.”

  The only movement on the receptionist’s face was a slight lifting of her eyebrow.

  “If you were serious, you wouldn’t have brought your dog,” the clerk said.

  Archibald seemed to sense the clerk’s disapproval and cuddled against Cora’s legs.

  “Never mind.” The clerk shuffled through some papers. “What were your grades for your Higher School Certificate?”

  “Higher School Certificate?” Cora felt her voice rise.

  Most people in England were so friendly. They called her love and dearie and ducky. But this receptionist seemed only to think her incompetent.

  “You don’t know what a Higher School Certificate is?” The receptionist frowned. “Tell me, did you have any education?”

  Cora’s cheeks warmed. “Not a lot,” she confessed. “I had tutors though. And I did get a high school diploma in the end.”

  The receptionist sighed. “Can you type?”

  Cora hesitated, but then shook her head. “Though I’m sure I can learn.”

  “We have people who have learned. I suggest you do that.”

  “But there must be something else,” Cora said quickly. “Anything else.”

  “Have you worked in a shop before? Do you know how to work a till?”

  “A till?”

  The woman huffed, before Cora recalled a till was the British word for cash register.

  “I’m sure I can—”

  “—learn,” the woman finished for her, giving a condescending smile. “You’ve said it before”

  “And I meant it.”

  “Just what have you learned so far in your life, young lady?”

  “I can sing and dance.”

  “Both skills more suited for indulging in the offerings of night clubs,” the receptionist said. “A lot of quite wild young ladies would say they have the same attributes.”

  “But I’ve been trained!” Cora rushed to say. No one had called her a wild young lady before. “I used to be an actress. In Hollywood. I’m Cora Clarke.”

  Cora hadn’t intended to tell the clerk anything about her past. She was no longer an actress and had no desire to be one.

  Her statement did not succeed in improving the clerk’s already low impression of her.

  “We have no room for liars at Excellent Employment Agency,” the clerk said primly. “If you are so famous, I suggest you use your own contacts. But I suspect you have made them up.”

  Cora flushed.

  Perhaps she could visit a different employment agency, with a different, nicer clerk.

  She stared again at the rows of people.

  People who could type. People who knew shorthand. People who could work a till.

  The clerk was right. These people had the experience, or at least the education, to do these jobs.

  Cora had neither.

  She couldn’t continue to live off her meager savings. She needed to find employment.

  London had seemed like the perfect place to do it. It was the capital, the crown of the British Empire, and a place filled with various businesses.

  Unfortunately, Cora wasn’t qualified to contribute.

  She’d thought Miss Greensbody fussy and overly proud, but perhaps Cora hadn’t given her sufficient respect. Miss Greensbody worked a job she clearly adored and no doubt she’d made certain to do the right education in order to do it.

  Cora left the employment agency. The old buildings around her seemed less charming, representing traditions she had no part of. Archibald turned his head to her, as if sensing her distress.

  “It’s fine,” she told him in her most reassuring tone.

  That wa
s one clerk at one employment agency.

  She would be able to find something else.

  I have to.

  The traffic was higher in this part of Bloomsbury. Red double-decker buses barreled down the streets. Horses clomped through the streets, undeterred by the cars and other vehicles that inched through the heavy traffic.

  Cora’s feet ached, and she wished she’d brought an address for another employment agency.

  Finally she came to the British Museum. The building stretched over a generous block. Wedged between shops and bookstores stood a small building. It didn’t match the grandiose British Museum, but it appeared well maintained.

  Museum of Ancient Antiquities.

  This must be where Miss Greensbody worked. Cora considered going inside, but Archibald barked. In her experience, dogs weren’t welcome accessories in museums. Perhaps she could visit later, when the exhibit opened.

  She proceeded further.

  “Afternoon paper, afternoon paper,” a newsboy shouted. “Murder in Bloomsbury! Mystery man found dead! Read all about it!”

  A strange feeling hit Cora’s stomach.

  She hadn’t considered her time at the employment agency as being blissful, but she’d managed to forget about the body she’d discovered yesterday.

  It could be someone else.

  The words though weren’t reassuring, even in the privacy of her mind.

  Her heart pounded, and she slowed her pace, eyeing the newsboy.

  He’d switched from shouting details about the murder to shouting details about Hitler’s latest aggressions. She decided to approach him.

  He smiled when he saw her. “One penny for a paper, miss.”

  She opened her purse and drew out a coin. “Here you go.”

  The newsboy gave a curt, professional nod and handed her the newspaper, before switching to hollering about the latest misdoings of a criminal family in the US. Normally Cora may have listened to him. She found it interesting to see how the British reported US news. This time, she opened the newspaper hastily, scanning the pages to find the article.

  Not this page.

  She shut the broadsheet to flip open the next one, catching a bemused glance of the newsboy.

  “Nice to see a lady who really enjoys the newspaper.” The newsboy winked, and she realized he was probably only a couple of years younger than her.

  “Say, what are you doing in three hours?” the newsboy asked.

  “I’ll be busy,” Cora squeaked.

  She spotted the article. Mysterious Murder in Bloomsbury.

  Her heart leaped, and she scanned the article hastily.

  A body was found early this morning in Bloomsbury. The identity of the body is still unknown. He appears to be a tall man with dark hair in his thirties. He was found wearing a suit and without any identification.

  The article continued to bemoan the general degeneration of Bloomsbury. It didn’t mention either Cora or Veronica, and Cora gave a faint sigh of relief.

  “Fascinating news!” the newsboy shouted, as more pedestrians strode toward him. He jerked his thumb in her direction. “Just look at this dame here.”

  The words snapped Cora from her reverie, and she closed the broadsheet. “Let’s go, Archibald.”

  “You don’t need to leave,” the newsboy said. “Plenty of room in this corner. You’re good for business. I’ve already sold three other copies. Do you always take such interest in the news?”

  Cora shook her head shyly and then headed down the street. Perhaps she should return home. Perhaps the police were there, wanting to question her. Perhaps they finally believed her.

  She marched back to her apartment, but the place seemed the same as before.

  Wouldn’t there be constables if they’d discovered a body there?

  But perhaps they’d discovered him somewhere else?

  The thought didn’t make sense, but she left the building and decided to visit the police station. If the body was the same one she’d spotted, she would have information to share.

  She was just doing her civic duty, even if she wasn’t technically British.

  Cora spotted a constable outside and hurried toward him. Archibald gave an irritated bark, and she scooped him into her arms. He had walked a lot today.

  And I still don’t have a job.

  Or any prospects.

  “Excuse me,” she said to the constable.

  The man swiveled, lowering his blue helmet slightly as he leaned down toward her.

  It was not the same constable as yesterday.

  Of course it wasn’t.

  That constable had thought her mad for thinking she’d happened upon a body, and this constable would likely think her possessed of a similar degree of insanity for inquiring why there wasn’t a body outside her building.

  She would have to proceed carefully.

  “Excuse me, sir.”

  “How can I help you, miss?”

  “I read in the paper that a body had been discovered in Bloomsbury. I don’t suppose you have any...details?”

  His eyes narrowed, and he shifted his legs. “Why would I have that?”

  “Because you’re a constable...”

  “Now my job is to keep this area safe,” he said, and Cora decided against mentioning that he had not been entirely successful. “I can’t waste my time giving out information. See the police press office.”

  “Then perhaps you know something... It’s just that reading about a murder in the area makes me concerned.” She touched her hand to her throat and noticed her palm was sweaty. Evidently, she didn’t need to feign fear in her effort to gain information: she already possessed it.

  “Nothing to worry about, miss,” the constable said, and his eyes softened. “They found a man’s body. Doubt we’ll have a Jack the Ripper situation ‘ere.”

  “What sort of a man’s body?” she asked. “How did he die?”

  He raised his eyebrows.

  “I mean,” she said hastily, “was it perhaps related to...gang activity? Crossfire?”

  “You’re American,” he said with a chuckle. “We don’t have crimes like that in Bloomsbury. No James Cagney types running around. Though mind you, some of these houses do have jewels. If a James Cagney type, were to run around, they would be able to retire soon.” He gave a slight wink.

  “I thought it was mostly intellectuals who lived here.”

  “The only people who are intellectuals are the supremely foolish, who couldn’t get a proper job in the police force anyway, or those from wealthy families.”

  “Oh.” Cora wondered about the backgrounds of the people she’d met at her flat.

  Lionel had seemed to act foolishly, but his name seemed to radiate wealth, even if his demeanor seemed more intent at emanating slovenliness. Why exactly had Lionel and his cousin been so worried when they’d learned Veronica had called the police? Was it only because Lionel didn’t want police attention on the apartment his mother owned? Or was there another reason?

  Had they moved the body?

  She shook her head. Surely she would have noticed them going upstairs.

  And yet... If the man had truly been dead then, someone had moved the body.

  “Miss?” The constable’s eyes softened further.

  She blinked. “I’m sorry.”

  “Now here I thought you Americans were used to murder and mayhem. I guess the pictures get that wrong.”

  Cora flushed, glad the constable hadn’t recognized her.

  “Now I’m not involved in the case,” the constable said, “but naturally I do know some things.” He ran his fingers over one of the shiny buttons on his coat, as if to preen himself. “The poor man was poisoned.”

  “Golly.”

  The constable leaned toward her, and his eyes sparkled conspiratorially. “The people who reported the body thought he’d died naturally, but the constables knew better. His breath was rife with almonds. That’s a sign of arsenic poisoning. Can’t get much past the British Polic
e Force.”

  “I see not,” Cora said.

  “He also had a daisy sheet draped around him.” The man smirked, as if daisies were cause for amusement.

  Did my old bedding have daisies? She frowned. I don’t remember a top sheet.

  “Which building was he found in?”

  “I can’t tell you that.”

  “Please?” Cora asked.

  The constable gave an apologetic smile.

  “Or at least, can you tell me if it’s near where I live?” Cora asked.

  “And where is that?”

  Cora gave the address.

  The constable shook his head. “No, miss. He wasn’t found anywhere near there. He was found in quite a different place.”

  Cora blinked.

  Perhaps it’s not him.

  She glanced down at the newspaper, suddenly feeling foolish.

  The description said the man had dark hair. But all manner of men had dark hair. She shouldn’t have assumed that it was the same person.

  Perhaps she was too quick to see murder.

  She inhaled.

  This was Bloomsbury, a pleasant neighborhood. She wasn’t in some manor house, filled with people who abhorred one another.

  Was it possible this man had truly walked into the flat, perhaps to see someone, and had been murdered? And that the murderer had whisked the body away while Cora and Veronica had been distracted by greeting the constable?

  She frowned.

  But how could they have removed the body? Wasn’t the only way through the stairs?

  She shook her head.

  It was the only way. Obviously, Cora had been mistaken before. The man had seemed dead, but Cora must have made a mistake. The man’s rigid posture, oblivious to sound and his cold hands must have been coincidences.

  “Was there anything else?” the constable asked.

  She shook her head. “Thank you. That was helpful.”

  The man beamed and touched his hand to his helmet, as if for a moment thinking he could tip it to her.

  “Come Archibald,” Cora said, and they moved toward her new apartment.

  No doubt the constable thought she was an overly anxious female. She rounded the corner, thankful for Archibald at her side.

  She wished she’d found some job lead at the employment agency.

  She inhaled.