The Body in Bloomsbury

by Bianca Blythe

  “Are you certain?”

  “She’s certain,” Rollo said. “You heard her.”

  “Er—yes.” Cora felt suddenly self-conscious. “I don’t suppose you...know?”

  His eyes softened, but he shook his head. “No. And I would urge you to stop worrying about him. He’s not your concern.”

  Right.

  She pulled back, and Veronica looked at her with concern.

  “Look,” Rollo said. “Perhaps this gentleman just took ill or something and died elsewhere.”

  “He was dead,” she said sullenly.

  “He was,” Veronica said.

  “You’re not doctors.” Rollo looked at his cousin. “They must be mistaken, right?”

  Lionel nodded gravely. “Of course. They’re not doctors.” His voice was surprisingly soothing, and he stood up. “I’m getting us more drinks.”

  It had seemed like a good idea to get them all to look at the newspaper clipping when they were together, but they didn’t know Mr. Tehrani. They thought her crazy.

  When the waiter arrived with fresh drinks, Cora took a deep sip, but it didn’t rid her of the feeling of embarrassment.

  This evening had been going so well. These were the people she lived with, and she’d wanted to make them into friends. They’d been impressed with Club Paradiso, impressed with her father’s presence—well, Lionel’s opinion might have been less positive, but now they were only mystified.

  Veronica gave her a sympathetic smile. “It’s alright.”

  Cora was quite certain it wasn’t.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Cora wasn’t the only one who seemed unsettled.

  Some people murmured in the crowd, and Pop missed a note. This was uncharacteristic, and Cora frowned. His face seemed a trifle whiter than before, even under the glare of the spotlight, and a sour feeling hit Cora’s stomach that she wished could be attributed to the uncharacteristic second cocktail.

  “I had no idea so many police constables like music,” Veronica mused. “They are quite adorable with their helmets. I suppose people are correct when they term London a cultured city.”

  Cora swung her head around.

  Veronica was right. There were about ten police constables in the room. Some leaned against the wall, arms crossed, and feet tapping, as if hoping to act. Others had found seats on the roundtables. They stared glumly at the stage, unabashed that their presence was causing the swankily attired guests at their table discomfort.

  She hoped Pop had added a police constable act to the performance. Perhaps the men would stand up from their corners of the room and then proceed to the stage, Busby Berkeley style, into an intricate tap dance that would end with them hoisting Pop above them. Their blue helmets matched Pop’s blue suit far too much for Cora’s taste, but choreography and costume design had never been her father’s thing.

  But no matter how much she hoped the men were part of the act, she couldn’t actually believe it.

  These men hadn’t been here when she’d spoken with the coat check girl. They’d just arrived.

  They must know.

  She shifted on her chair. Pop had moved a body, and then the constables had found the body. They weren’t going to suspect anyone in the apartment. They were going to suspect him.

  Her heart beat uncomfortably. Her dress seemed too tight, and the bodice seemed to dig into her chest, as if she’d accidentally put on a corset.

  Pop’s gaze met hers. She could read the worry in his eyes. Her father wasn’t supposed to worry. That was an occupation he’d always said was for other people.

  The song was going to end soon. Pop’s breath seemed to be longer, and the pianist slowed the tempo, confusion on his face. This wasn’t Pop’s moment of triumph in London.

  Cora gritted her teeth. These men were ruining the act. They weren’t supposed to be here. If they wanted to ask questions, they could have done so before he got on stage for his performance.

  Still, Mr. Tehrani’s body had just been discovered. They were already acting quickly in speaking with him. No doubt some witness had directed them at Pop. It was a pity his face was on so many billboards in London.

  Finally, the song ended. Pop leaned toward the microphone. “We’ll take a short intermission. Grab a new drink. I know I want one.”

  The pianist’s eyebrows rose, and Cora was certain there wasn’t supposed to be an intermission here.

  She gazed as a man in a long Darby-Brown trench coat approached the stage. The constables seemed to defer to him.

  “Excuse me,” Cora said quickly and rose, nearly toppling her drink.

  “Cora?” Veronica looked concerned, but Cora didn’t have time to explain. She forced herself to send a reassuring smile and then marched to the stage.

  “I’m Detective Inspector Darby-Brown,” the man was telling her father.

  Pop surveyed him, and his gaze drifted to the man’s coat. “How unimaginative.”

  Cora hastened her steps. Her father was going to get himself into trouble.

  The detective inspector gave her a cold look when she appeared at Pop’s side and then returned his gaze to her father. “Can we please speak backstage? This is not a topic for the club’s guests.”

  The man’s manner was brusque even though Cora knew enough about British accents to know his accent generally belonged to the elite. She suspected his elevated position on the police force had less to do with a man who’d managed to scrounge his way up the ladder through sheer determination and intellect, than a man who’d been born well, educated at the best schools, and then had to make his own way in the world because of his status as a younger child in a family prone to having sons or a father’s predilection for gambling.

  “This is no guest,” Pop said.

  “Oh?” The detective elevated one eyebrow, though his demeanor still emanated casual indifference. Cora felt unimportant in his presence. She was suddenly self-conscious of her dress. American dresses tended to lack the sophistication the British prided themselves in. “Are you his...date?”

  The word seemed coarse, and Cora stiffened.

  “She’s my daughter,” Pop growled.

  Cora smiled. The words were probably painful for her father to admit. He didn’t like drawing attention to his age.

  Pop narrowed his eyes. “You can’t be much of a detective if you don’t know this is Cora Clarke, the world-famous actress.”

  The detective’s cheeks managed to flush. He turned to her, as if considering an apology, but remained silent, perhaps wary of drawing attention to his faux pas. Finally, he sighed. “Pleased to meet you, Miss Clarke. This matter remains private though.”

  Pop huffed and seemed determined to root himself to the stage.

  Cora was conscious of murmurings in the audience. It wouldn’t do Pop any good if people were to overhear. “Perhaps the detective inspector is correct.”

  Mr. Darby-Brown sent her a smug look.

  Pop gritted his teeth. “I have a dressing room backstage.”

  “Splendid,” Mr. Darby-Brown said.

  Pop’s nostrils flared, and he marched off stage. Cora had forgotten how long his legs were. She hurried after him, brushing past sumptuous red velvet curtains and into a rather paler, more faded corridor.

  Vinny rushed toward them, a scowl on his face. “What’s all this? Why did you stop the performance?”

  “It’s a small intermission,” Pop said breezily. “Good for the manager to sell more drinks.”

  “No intermission was planned.”

  “Oh, it was added. Too few guests were ordering drinks. They didn’t want to miss a single note.”

  “She was talking at her table.” Vinny jerked his thumb in Cora’s direction.

  For a moment disappointment flickered on her father’s face and her cheeks warmed, but then Pop laughed. “Cora was setting a good impression.” He lowered his voice conspiratorially. “Other singers will claim they’re artists, but the difference between the successful and the unsuccess
ful is I know it’s all about business. What club is going to hire a singer to perform if they’re just going to hamper people from buying drinks?”

  Mr. Darby-Brown frowned. “I did spot waiters.”

  “Ah, the Brits are too polite to speak during a show,” Pop said, answering quickly. He patted her shoulder. “Good job, honey bunny.”

  Pop must be scared to have a detective visit him. It didn’t bode well that the detective thought it necessary to interrupt Pop’s performance. And yet, Pop was still sweet-talking. His wits were as strong as his voice.

  “I did not come here to discuss the intricacies of intermission etiquette,” Mr. Darby-Brown said stiffly.

  “Say, what did you come here to discuss? Who are you?” Vinny stepped toward the detective inspector, invading his space.

  Pop cleared his throat hastily. “It’s a family matter, I’m afraid. It—er—concerns my daughter.”

  He entered his dressing room and ushered Mr. Darby-Brown and Cora into it before slamming it shut.

  “Obviously, it doesn’t concern my daughter,” he said gallantly, keeping his voice low. “I just thought you would prefer more privacy. Vinny can be intimidating. Most likely his family had a bulldog when he was a small child, and he accidentally imprinted on it.”

  The detective gave him a hard stare. “When I show up most people say they don’t know the reason. You haven’t said that. Do you know why I’m here?”

  “Right.” Pop looked down, as if he were an actor who’d flubbed his lines during rehearsal again. “I’m afraid I’m similarly flummoxed at your presence, detective. How can I help you?” He gave his broad beam again, but perhaps because they were in a closer space, or perhaps simply because the fluorescent light was unflattering, he appeared older and more uncertain. For the first time, Cora realized his golden skin, particularly unusual in the drizzly March weather of London, was abetted by makeup.

  “We found a body near the crematorium by the British Museum,” Mr. Darby-Brown said abruptly.

  Cora straightened.

  “It was a man dressed in a suit and wrapped in a daisy covered sheet,” Mr. Darby-Brown continued.

  Her heart thudded, and she forced her facial features to remain calm. She was glad she’d changed her bedding. She only hoped the police didn’t come after it, brandishing her matching daisy printed pillowcase in triumph.

  “Oh?” Pop kept his face calm, though Cora doubted that was enough to persuade Mr. Darby-Brown of his innocence.

  “Some tourists reported the...er...package was dropped off by a man in a red sports car. The car description matches one you own.”

  “Now what does this have to do with me?”

  The detective cleared his throat. “The implication, of course, is that you left the body there.” He shot Pop a strange look, as if assessing whether Pop truly had not understood.

  “Ah, I wouldn’t be caught anywhere near a museum,” Pop said easily.

  “And a crematorium?”

  “I’m far too healthy for those things.” Pop winked. “Besides, much as I like to think I’m the only man in London with good taste, we all know that’s not true. So some bad guy has a similar car. So what?”

  Mr. Darby-Brown gritted his teeth. “Is there anyone who might have access to your car?”

  “Yes.” Pop nodded solemnly.

  “Oh?” The detective looked interested and took out his notepad. “Who is that? Can I have their name?”

  Even Cora found herself looking at her father curiously, wondering whom he might implicate.

  “No one is allowed to drive my car but me,” Pop said. “But obviously it would be attractive to thieves who would desire to borrow it for a spin.”

  “Thieves?” The detective sputtered and then slammed his notepad shut.

  Pop nodded. “Precisely. After all, it’s a very nice vehicle.”

  “So you have nothing cooperative to say?” the detective asked.

  A knock sounded at the door.

  “That will be my call.” Pop rose. “The intermission has gone on for long enough.” His face sobered, and he looked at the detective. “I assure you I would not have anything to do with anyone’s death.”

  Pop sauntered off, and Cora found herself smiling apologetically at the detective.

  “He is quite busy,” she said.

  “And unhelpful.” Mr. Darby-Brown’s frown did not dissipate, and a shiver ran through Cora.

  She rose, restraining the instinct to confess everything to the detective. The story was unbelievable, and he would only be further convinced her father had somehow murdered the man.

  “I should go,” she said hastily. She moved through backstage. Her father was already singing when she reached the stage, singing lightly about love, and she paused, wondering if there was another way she could join her table.

  “Please let me escort you, Miss Clarke,” an American voice said.

  She turned.

  Vinny stood before her.

  “Th-thank you,” she said.

  “This way.”

  She followed him through another corridor that led to the front of the club.

  “I trust you can find your table from here?”

  “Naturally.” She nodded, eager to leave.

  “You’re not very much like your father, Miss Clarke.”

  She gave a tight smile. It was an observation many others had made.

  “See that your father doesn’t get himself into trouble,” Vinny said. “We wouldn’t want any unfortunate incidents.”

  She swallowed hard, and he smiled, as if amused by her not very well hidden distress.

  She hurried to her seat. The other audience members seemed transfixed once again by her father’s singing, and fresh drinks sat on the tables.

  Pop had handled the police inquiry well. The police constables had left with the detective inspector, but a sudden tightness in Cora’s chest did not ease, not even when she sat down between Veronica and Lionel again.

  Perhaps Pop had managed to avoid being hauled away to jail, but Cora expected the detective would come back with more questions.

  No matter.

  She would just have to discover who killed Mr. Tehrani first.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Pop’s set ended, but the pianist continued to play. Cora allowed the melody to flit over her, but she resisted the urge to suggest they dance. This was no time to forget her troubles.

  Cora picked up the paper and looked at her new neighbors. “I never asked you. What were you doing the morning I arrived?”

  “What a curious question.” Bess took a long sip of martini, and Cora almost worried, but in the next moment Bess’s eyes glimmered, and in the moment after that, Bess’s lips broke into a wide smile. “It’s almost like we’re suspects. So very exciting. Just like in the pictures.”

  “You do have to see the Gal Detective films,” Rollo said. “They are charming.”

  “And you are for saying that,” Cora said, forcing her voice to remain light.

  “Personally, I find being a murder suspect highly overrated,” Lionel said.

  “Nonsense,” Rollo said. “You are enjoying the music and the martinis.”

  Lionel offered a small smile and shrugged. “Perhaps.”

  “I think Lionel has a point,” Bess said, placing a cigarette into a cigarette holder. She struck a match, illuminating her exquisite scarlet manicure for a brief second before she lit her cigarette and crushed the match into the ashtray. “It is grizzly. You’re a man, and perhaps you don’t understand, Rollo.” She gave a slight shudder. “You must be certain to keep your windows locked, Cora.”

  “Her window was open when we discovered the body,” Veronica said.

  There was an uncomfortable silence. At least, it would have been uncomfortable, had the pianist not continued to play such lovely music.

  Lionel glanced at his cousin and then turned back to Cora. “I’m afraid I must apologize. I was airing the room out before your arrival. The
victim and the murderer must have snuck in through the window. I’m afraid I should have known that even Bloomsbury is not immune to murder. No doubt the police will find he was some heroin-addicted person. Poor chap.”

  “You didn’t answer my question,” Cora said, and the others’ faces paled. Annoyance flickered on Lionel’s face, though the others seemed mostly surprised. She inhaled. “I mean, I’m simply curious.”

  Rollo laughed. “My cousin was sleeping.” He leaned closer to her. “He was hungover.”

  “He’s right,” Lionel said. “I didn’t hear a thing. I hope this doesn’t get back to Mother. It will be dashed embarrassing if she learns I was out of commission. I didn’t think I’d drunk so much the night before the incident, but I suppose I must have.”

  “He might be a medical student, but he’s astonishingly bad at math sometimes. You were drinking heavily.”

  Lionel raked his hand through his hair. “I don’t get examinations on how many shots I get through.”

  The others laughed, and tension eased from the table.

  “I was in the library,” Rollo said. “And Bess, you were at work, right?”

  “Er—yes.” Bess gave a wobbly smile. “All rather dull.”

  “I’m afraid we didn’t hear anything,” Rollo said.

  “Right,” Cora said. “How unfortunate.”

  Bess peered at the newspaper clipping and turned it over. “Mr. Tehrani is the person who was going to meet with Miss Greensbody.”

  “You know his name?” Cora raised her eyebrows involuntarily, and then took a hasty sip of martini.

  Bess shouldn’t know the man’s name. That hadn’t been in the newspaper clipping. Even Mr. Darby-Brown hadn’t mentioned the victim’s name, and Cora had not offered it.

  “Miss Greensbody had a picture of him for her exhibit,” Rollo said, offering Bess a new cigarette. “That’s probably where Bess saw him.”

  “Right,” Bess said hastily. “That picture is ever so grainy. Naturally, I didn’t recognize him at first. But after musing it over, it all comes back to me.”

  “Naturally,” Rollo echoed. “Perfectly understandable.”