The Body in Bloomsbury

by Bianca Blythe

  Cora swallowed hard. “Tell me about Great Aunt Maggie.”

  They chatted further, laughing occasionally, and life seemed quite normal.

  CHAPTER TEN

  At the end of their stroll, Cora returned upstairs. Lionel’s and Rollo’s apartment was quiet. Perhaps Lionel had decided to visit a club or attend a student gathering rather than risk Randolph’s scolding again.

  Randolph could be intimidating.

  Normally, Cora considered sleep a thing to look forward to, but a prickle of uncertainty still ran through her as she approached her door. Her hands shook, and it took several tries to enter correctly. Finally, she did so.

  She blinked into the dark light.

  There were no signs of any intrusions, either of the dead, or, like her father, of the still living.

  Thank goodness.

  Cora made herself a cup of tea and settled onto her small settee with a book. Archibald curled at her feet and soon slept.

  It was very still.

  Cora shivered.

  She wouldn’t mind if she did hear...something.

  The rain had perhaps scared some passers-by, and the streets outside were quieter than the night before.

  All of a sudden she heard a sound from the window.

  She trembled.

  Someone was coming in. Someone was truly coming in.

  Her heart leaped and sputtered.

  Archibald snored softly, and she hesitated to wake him.

  I’m probably being foolish.

  The thought should have comforted her. She’d been called foolish before, but usually when somebody was saying she was too nice or not sufficiently besotted at the delights of parties.

  Where’s that frying pan?

  Cora rose and headed toward the kitchen. The nice thing about small apartments was she did not have far to go. Unfortunately, the sound outside her window had shifted. It had become louder.

  Much louder.

  Someone’s entering.

  Cora grabbed the frying pan, wishing she’d had the presence to grab Archibald and flee with him outside the house when she’d first felt uneasy.

  She’d never despised her occasional proclivity toward optimism more.

  Golly.

  A hand appeared at the window, followed by a shoulder and then more of a man’s back.

  She frowned.

  The outline should have been intimidating.

  The shoulder and back seemed strong, and the hand was hardly flimsy.

  And yet...

  She swallowed hard.

  Randolph?

  In the next moment he’d opened the window and was peering inside. His eyes drifted to her frying pan, and he grinned. “I like a gal with a sense of protection.”

  “Randolph!” she exclaimed, shoving the frying pan back onto the tiny kitchen counter. It made a loud clatter, and she cringed, hoping Miss Greensbody would not come barging up.

  She rushed toward him. “You shouldn’t be here!”

  “No,” he said casually, as he extended a long leg into the room and then entered the room, more gracefully than should have been possible. “This window is not secure.”

  “There’s a lock on it.”

  “But I managed to open it with some strategic wiggling from the outside.”

  “But someone could have you seen you. They might be calling the police now!”

  His lips quirked up. “Do you hear sirens?”

  A dull feeling settled in Cora’s stomach, and she shook her head.

  “I don’t either.” Randolph shut the window.

  “Well, they’ll come later,” Cora insisted.

  Randolph settled onto the settee, the one seat in the room. “You are adorable.”

  Cora sat gingerly on the bed.

  “You mustn’t look so frightened,” Randolph said. “I promise I won’t ravage you.” His eyes sparkled. “Though the action would be delightful.”

  Were his eyebrows waggling? Cora looked at her lap, conscious of heat attacking her cheeks.

  Cora felt awkward and naïve. Veronica would have known just what to do with him.

  “It’s ok,” Randolph said, more seriously. “I know you’re an innocent.”

  She stiffened.

  “It’s written all over your face. It’s always been written all over your face.” He smiled. “I think it’s cute.” He shrugged. “And admirable.”

  Her mouth dried, and she shifted her legs over the bare floorboards.

  “I didn’t come into your bedroom to do anything untoward,” he said. “I was worried about your safety. Quite rightly, it seems.”

  Cora turned her head toward the street.

  There were no sirens.

  No footsteps and people shouting.

  No constables banging on the door.

  “There are so many people outside,” she said. “Not as many as during the day, but it’s still crowded. You must have been seen.”

  “And everyone is too polite to do something,” Randolph said. “Besides, just because I snuck in through the window does not make me evil. After all, I might have forgotten my key. I also might be visiting my sweetheart, whose landlord doesn’t allow late night visitors. I’m not necessarily a robber or murderer.”

  Cora inhaled.

  He was right.

  Of course.

  Cora suddenly felt very alone. Randolph was here now, but soon he would go. If something happened to her, like something had happened to the previous person in this room, would anyone know? Would they hear her scream? Would they ignore it?

  She drew her legs up. It wasn’t the most ladylike position, and Randolph’s eyes softened.

  “It will be fine,” he promised. “Just let me fix the window.”

  “Do you think the body was removed from the window?” The thought seemed absurd, and she flushed.

  “That’s a good question,” Randolph said. “There may be another way into the room.”

  He looked around, surveying every corner with an unusual intensity. “This is quite a nice room.”

  “Thank you,” Cora said, surprised.

  “Mm...hmm... I wonder if it used to be larger.”

  “Larger?”

  “Perhaps this building was divided into multiple apartments later. Your kitchen, for instance, hasn’t been here for long.” He glanced out the window. Lights from buildings from the other side of the square sparkled in the distance. “This would have made an excellent dining room once.”

  “Oh.” Cora blinked and a thought occurred to her. “I see. You think there might be a dumbwaiter here?”

  “It wouldn’t surprise me.”

  Cora had never seen a dumbwaiter before, but she’d heard about them. Apparently some houses possessed them so servants might transfer food easily from the kitchen downstairs to the dining room.

  “Let’s check behind the paintings.” Cora scrambled toward a reproduced landscape.

  Only floral wallpaper was behind it, and Cora sighed. She turned, surveying the room. “Perhaps there’s something behind the mirror?”

  “Right. I’m on it.” Randolph rushed to the mirror and lifted it up.

  This time, there was no floral wallpaper.

  “Bingo,” Randolph said gleefully. He ran his fingers over a smooth surface. There was a small latch, and he pulled it open.

  “Oh.”

  It was a simple hole in the wall that tunneled downward. Some ropes dangled on either side.

  Randolph grabbed hold of the ropes and pulled on them. Creaking sounded, and then a tray appeared.

  Cora blinked. “Amazing.”

  “Do you think he could have fit inside?” Randolph asked.

  “Yes,” Cora said, in awe. “Though it would have been tight. And he would have risked it falling completely. I’m not sure what the weight limit for this is.”

  “If he was dead, it wouldn’t have mattered,” Randolph remarked wryly.

  “Oh.”

  “But who would have hidden him?” Cora
asked.

  “The murderer,” Randolph said. “He must have been interrupted. He must have killed the guy, thought the room was a good hiding place because it was empty, and then panicked when he heard you and Veronica speaking with the constable.”

  Excitement rushed through Cora. “Lionel and Rollo were very surprised when we came to their flat to call the police.”

  “And Lionel did not seem overly friendly,” Randolph said.

  Cora shivered.

  “Don’t worry,” Randolph said quickly. “I may have mentioned you were important to me. And that I’ve been trained in various martial arts.” He wiggled his eyebrows again.

  Cora settled back onto the bed.

  “So you think Lionel killed him?” she asked.

  “He’s the landlord.”

  “Landlady’s son,” Cora corrected.

  Randolph shrugged. “He would have known about the dumbwaiter.”

  Cora laughed. “He really did not make a good impression on you.”

  “Anyone who insults you makes it impossible to give me a good impression,” Randolph said.

  “He has no motive,” Cora said.

  “Drug deal gone wrong?” Randolph asked. “Or perhaps they were both interested in the same girl.”

  “You’re just making up possibilities.”

  “They could all have happened,” Randolph said more seriously, and Cora nodded.

  He was right.

  They all were possible.

  “There’s no proof of anything,” Cora said. “There’s no blood on that dumbwaiter or anything that would tie him here. The poor man was poisoned.”

  Randolph was silent. He couldn’t deny the lack of evidence.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to leave now?” Randolph asked.

  Cora shook her head.

  It was tempting. But she’d paid her rent in advance. This was a fine apartment. She’d been lucky to find one in such a lovely area that accepted dogs.

  Was it truly so dangerous?

  The murderer might know Cora had seen a body, but the body had been removed. There had been no picture of the man in the papers, perhaps as a concession to the squeamish, and perhaps because they didn’t know his identity yet. Cora had already told her concerns to the constable. Would the murderer risk more attention to kill Cora? Veronica had also seen the body. Was she also in danger?

  Cora shivered.

  “Just fix the window,” Cora said. “And—er—make certain the lock on the door works.”

  “Very well.” Randolph set to work. He then climbed from the window, and Cora secured it in the manner he suggested.

  Her heart still beat uncomfortably, and she resisted the urge to run after him.

  This was her home.

  This was her dream.

  She wasn’t going to allow anyone to talk her out of staying in it.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Sleep had been elusive during the night, despite Randolph’s efforts at increasing the security in the room.

  She’d clung to the belief the man on her bed had not been truly dead, since he would have had to have walked from the room.

  But Randolph had shown it could have been possible.

  She frowned.

  She wanted to forget everything.

  A thought occurred to her. She’d thrown the old bed linen into the waste bin. Perhaps she could check it. She thought she would have remembered a daisy print, but she’d ripped the bedding off hastily. She ignored the sharp feeling of dread and searched the waste bin, grateful she’d done a miniscule of cooking in the room. Unemployment did not lend itself to elaborate meals, even if Cora had been able to cook.

  It was there.

  The fitted sheet was white and the pillows were white, save for a small daisy strip that ran on them.

  It must have been a set.

  She swallowed hard. Whoever had deposited the body must have taken care to not use the coverlet, as if determined to not arouse suspicion.

  If only she hadn’t spotted the dead body.

  She shivered, not wanting to imagine the man taking his final breaths.

  She frowned and decided to rearrange the furniture. She couldn’t move the bed, since it hung from the wall, but she could move the settee and the coffee table. She moved them a foot farther from the window.

  Well. Perhaps this wasn’t vastly different.

  Even worse, she couldn’t erase her memories. She inhaled, trying not to imagine that it was the same air that the dead man had taken, back when he was alive, back when he’d felt safe.

  Had he gone to her room to hide?

  She sighed. Perhaps some gang had gone after him, and it truly was ludicrous to imagine Lionel, even in his grumpiness, or anyone else in the apartment, to have committed the murder.

  She wished she knew the identity of the murderer.

  Perhaps she could buy a newspaper today to see if the police had made more progress on their investigation on her way to visit a new employment agency.

  She took Archibald for a short walk, and then proceeded on a longer one.

  No doubt once she found a job, things would seem more normal.

  Unfortunately, jobs were evidently difficult to come by, and when she returned to her apartment, she still did not have any leads.

  She marched up the stairs. She hadn’t gotten very far when the front door opened behind her.

  She ignored the sudden prickle of fear that rushed up her spine and turned around.

  It was Miss Greensbody.

  Her hair was less immaculate before. Though she hadn’t previously sported a fashionable coiffure, her bun had been pristine, every strand of mousy hair in perfect place. Now strands of her hair lay horizontally against her forehead, as if she’d raked her fingers through it.

  “Hello!” Cora forced her voice to remain bright. “Lovely weather.”

  “I wasn’t looking at the sky.”

  “How was your meeting yesterday?” Cora asked.

  Miss Greensbody frowned slightly, but raised her chin. “Everything was fine. No need to trouble yourself.”

  Something about Miss Greensbody’s brave smile and wobbly chin made Cora’s heart ache. She couldn’t just go to her room. “Are you certain you’re fine?”

  “Any casual observation should tell you I’m not.” Miss Greensbody sniffed, clutching a handkerchief to her face.

  “I’m so sorry,” Cora said.

  Miss Greensbody blinked rapidly and then jerked her handkerchief toward her eyes.

  “Would you like to talk about it?” Cora asked.

  “I wouldn’t,” Miss Greensbody said, “but it seems everyone else is speaking about it.”

  Cora blinked, and Miss Greensbody tossed her a newspaper in a show of athleticism that she hadn’t expected from the assistant curator.

  “There, right there,” Miss Greensbody said dramatically. “Under New Exhibit at the Museum of Ancient Antiquities.”

  Cora read a short column and then raised her gaze. “What seems to be the problem?”

  “The Times declared the exhibit an adequate glimpse at Persian culture.”

  “You’d rather it was more effusive in its praise?” Cora sighed. “Reviews are not always good. I know, as an actress—”

  Miss Greensbody waved her hand dismissively. “No, no. The Times’ article was justified. The exhibit wasn’t supposed to be adequate. And it certainly wasn’t supposed to be a glimpse at Persian culture. It was supposed to be magnificent.”

  Cora made sympathetic noises. They usually worked when Archibald seemed stressed, but Miss Greensbody only sent her a regal glare.

  “We were supposed to receive precious jewels about Cyrus the Great,” Miss Greensbody said. “They were supposed to be the center point of the exhibit. Unfortunately, the man who was supposed to bring them never showed up. What use is an exhibit that constantly references something that does not appear?”

  “An educational exhibit?” Cora attempted.

  Miss Gr
eensbody sent her a lofty scowl. “Miss Clarke, you fail to grasp the pressures of being a curator in Bloomsbury. We must display our finds. Otherwise we can just direct people to the British Library. After all, this is the center of all culture.”

  “I imagine parts of the world would disagree with that statement,” Cora said lightly.

  “That is not a testament to the intelligence of other cultures.” Miss Greensbody’s pince-nez drifted down her nose, and she shoved it back up.

  “I had wanted to visit the British Museum,” Cora admitted.

  “It’s too large,” Miss Greensbody said. “The museum cannot give everything the attention it deserves.”

  “Then the Persian Antiquities Exhibit at the Museum of Ancient Antiquities sounds even nicer,” Cora said.

  “There are no jewels,” Miss Greensbody warned her.

  “That’s quite fine,” Cora said.

  After all, Cora was in need of something to fill her day. Something so she did not solely muse about the body that had appeared in her bedroom or her lack of employment.

  Miss Greensbody gave her a wary look, perhaps remembering how she’d first met Cora. Finally, she nodded. “Everyone will benefit from culture.”

  “How did you get involved with studying Persian culture?”

  “Everyone else was studying Egyptian culture,” Miss Greensbody said. “I wanted something new. You wouldn’t understand the pressures of academe.”

  Cora nodded amiably, even though people here did seem to have a definite high regard for the past. Much of the architecture in London seemed intent on replicating classical lines and flourishes. Miss Greensbody turned to her sharply. “Your sympathy is endearing, my dear.”

  They strode up the stairs. Miss Greensbody continued to speak about the greatness of her vision for the exhibition and the deep tragedy that had been befallen her

  Miss Greensbody couldn’t have been that old. Despite her bun, perched on the part of her head that seemed to be most unflattering to her profile, her skin was devoid of the wrinkles and creases that so often came with added age. Her hair might be mousy, but it was not in possession of the silver strands people tended to confuse with respectability. Her dress was slightly too long to be fashionable, and though Miss Greensbody’s attire was in possession of color, the colors possessed a uniform murkiness, as if they’d all been washed together too many times. No doubt Miss Greensbody thought perusing research tomes was a more worthy occupation than mastering laundry techniques.