Calamity Under the Chandelier

by Camilla Blythe

SOMETHING SOUNDED OUTSIDE Cora’s balcony, and she snapped open her eyes.

  Footsteps?

  She remembered the murder and clutched her blanket, as if mistaking it for a shield.

  Perhaps the murderer was sneaking away...

  Or perhaps it was the sound of some local madman...

  Cora inhaled, trying to evoke some sense of calm.

  She was probably wrong. Weren’t there animals in the countryside?

  A fox? A deer? Or an owl? Hmm...

  Perhaps an owl had jumped off the balcony above to eat some innocent rabbit. Were there rabbits in the winter? She frowned, uncertain. The countryside was a mystery.

  Cora moved her hand to her chest, as if to calm her heart.

  But it was no use.

  She kept hearing the scream, the powerful, brutal scream.

  The sound would remain with her for the rest of her life.

  It had been a howl, not just of surprise, not just of pain, but of fear.

  One would have thought the duke had been facing the reaper himself—and that the grim reaper was threatening to use his scythe to dismember him.

  Memories of the dead body, of the blood, of the crystal, reflecting like some macabre scene flooded her mind, followed by the unwelcome certainty that someone was outside.

  She imagined the murderer sneaking up to the bed and cutting the chandelier over a sleeping octogenarian until it was too late.

  The whole idea seemed absurd.

  Yet, wasn’t murder something absurd? That life, something so precious yet so taken for granted, could be snatched away, not by disease or failure of the heart, but by the simple misfortune of having encountered someone with an evil mind.

  The thought of closing her eyes, of sleeping, when there was a chance someone could be standing on the other side of the balcony door—

  No.

  She was not remaining here.

  No way.

  Cora had left her book downstairs. Most likely it was still splayed open where she’d left it after hearing that horrible scream.

  She grabbed her robe and swept it over her nightdress. Her movements were clumsy in the dark, and her legs hit the wall.

  No matter.

  She hurried down the stairs, reassured the corridor remained the same as before. The same old-fashioned portraits hung from gilt frames, the people in them staring with aristocratic disapproval. The same ornate mirrors dotted the corridor at intervals, allowing her to see the contrasts between herself and the duke’s past ancestors.

  The modern cut of her satin nightdress seemed flimsy, as if she were missing the frills and pomp of the ancestors of this place.

  No one wanted to murder her, she told herself.

  She was quite certain that she hadn’t insulted anyone irreparably, though Edmund had seemed quite perturbed that she’d dared to suggest his father’s death might not be strictly accidental.

  She entered the drawing room and turned on the light. The room looked completely innocent, if colder than she remembered. How had she ever managed to think it foreboding? It seemed to possess an innocence she was eager to regain.

  She crossed the room and grabbed the Shakespeare volume.

  “Can’t you sleep, cowgirl?” An amused voice drifted from the corner of the room.

  Cora froze.

  It wasn’t the voice of Edmund or Signor Palombi.

  It wasn’t the voice of either Mr. or Mrs. Ardingley.

  Nor was it, of course, the sound of the duchess or Veronica or Lady Audrey.

  Perhaps it was a servant who’d taken it upon himself to relax in the drawing room in what she was sure would be termed a flagrant breach of protocol.

  Except...

  The voice sounded familiar.

  But it was impossible

  It couldn’t be the person in Veronica’s garden. That had been in Bel Air, and they were nowhere near there.

  But he was here, thousands of miles away from California.

  She thought again of the dowager duchess’s comment about strange madmen.

  Perhaps the man was a stalker.

  Perhaps he adored Veronica and desired her to be even wealthier than before.

  Perhaps the next person he would kill would be Edmund.

  Or me.

  A shiver rushed through her, and she stepped away.

  Cora kept her eyes on him, as if he were some tiger on the verge of attack.

  Or was eye contact what she wasn’t supposed to do?

  She frowned, uncertain about appropriate wild animal dodging protocol.

  “You’re the photographer!” Cora exclaimed finally.

  His smile wobbled. “I’m not one, actually.”

  Cora frowned. Most photographers didn’t deny their occupations. She glanced behind him. Something that looked awfully like a camera case, along with a bag, sat on the sideboard.

  The man was clothed in a not particularly stylish overcoat. The fact did not seem to negate his overall attractiveness.

  Sadly.

  She was certain this was not a moment for strange butterflies to be coursing through her chest.

  Not with a corpse one floor above.

  And not when she wasn’t exactly sure how this man had gotten in, and who he was, and...

  Her breath quickened, and her legs seemed less capable of holding her up than normal.

  His eyes filled with sympathy, and he narrowed the gap between them. “I didn’t think you would be so taken aback by my presence.”

  Cora was conscious of the size difference between them.

  “But what are you doing here?” Cora sputtered. “You’re supposed to be in America.”

  “My home is in Britain,” he said.

  “But not this manor house.”

  “Perhaps not,” he admitted. “But you didn’t give me a chance to outline my holiday plans.”

  “You would have told me?”

  “If I’d known it involved staying at the same place.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Randolph Hall,” he said. “And I believe you’re Cora Clarke.”

  She nodded.

  Randolph tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and tilted her face up. His eyes were soft and warm, and he smoothed her no doubt far too frizzy hair. Concern seemed to flicker over his face. “I’m sorry I scared you. Did I wake you up? I tried to be quiet, but...”

  She was absolutely certain his voice wasn’t supposed to sound so warm and comforting.

  She was conscious of broad shoulders and a firm chest.

  But perhaps he’d murdered the duke and then been hindered from escaping by the snow. Perhaps he’d already robbed the house, and had been so dazzled by his loot, he’d returned in an optimistic attempt to get more. Or perhaps she was being woefully unfair to him.

  He didn’t seem like a murderer.

  He didn’t place his hands in a frightening manner around her collar, nor did he mention any regret she hadn’t decided to put on a scarf.

  Tears prickled her eyes, and his eyes widened.

  “I didn’t want to frighten you.” His hands stroked her hair, and he murmured reassurances to her in such a calming voice she could almost imagine everything really would be all right.

  “You broke in!”

  “I wouldn’t phrase it so bluntly. I did try at the servants’ door first, but—”

  “No one answered?”

  He nodded. “I suppose no one expects a visitor at this time of the night.”

  “That’s not the reason,” she said.

  “Then what is?”

  The question was said so casually.

  He didn’t know.

  In his world, it was still unknown that someone had killed someone.

  “I’m afraid the duke died,” she said.

  “What?” His eyes widened. “That’s horrible!”

  She nodded. It was.

  “I suppose... He was an older man, though, and those things are bound to happen.”

  Cora gave a t
ight smile, unsure whether to say more.

  But it didn’t matter.

  He was inside the house.

  He would learn soon enough.

  “A chandelier fell on top of him,” she blurted.

  “Truly?” A contemplative expression appeared on his face.

  “Yes.”

  “Well. Dashed older houses.”

  “Yes.” Tears once again threatened Cora’s vision. Talking it over with someone, someone who was so kind and caring, was enough for her to relax, and if she relaxed the fortitude with which she was forcing herself to not cry might completely give way.

  Chapter Ten

  “YOU SHOULD GO BACK to bed,” Randolph said. “It’s the middle of the night.”

  “I should say the same to you.”

  “I’m not supposed to be here,” he reminded her.

  “Nevertheless, you’re here now. I doubt you want to return to the snow.”

  “I wouldn’t be able to make it out. I had to abandon my car. There were huge snow drifts every which way. I don’t remember a winter so bad.”

  “Are you from here?” Cora asked

  “No, lassie. I’m from Inverness, the very top of the world and a top place to be. A much more sensible location with more trucks that took a speedy view of the need to discard snow. I’ll just sleep on a chair here. Or,” Randolph said, his lips moving into a roguish grin, “you could offer me space on your bed. I assure you I am quite good at keeping chandeliers off people.”

  Cora flushed.

  Veronica would laugh if she saw her now. Cora had a vague idea that another woman might bat her eyelashes and perhaps even smooth the lint—or in his case rapidly melting snowflakes—from his coat.

  But that was not to be.

  A creak sounded in the hallway, and Cora stiffened.

  Probably nothing.

  Weren’t the floorboards of houses supposed to be forever expanding and constricting, as if the trees were still fighting the indignity of having their bark stripped from them, and of being cut into thin slivers of their once majestic selves?

  But the noise continued, and Cora recognized the plodding rhythm of careful footsteps.

  The door moved open, and Cora’s breath quickened, and—

  It was the butler, in his impeccable black uniform, and she released her breath.

  “Miss Clarke.” He gave Cora a placid nod, but his serene expression wavered. His eyebrows seemed to have had the urge to take flight, for they soared upward. “You have a gentleman caller.”

  The word may have been gentleman, but if he had said the word devil, he could not have had more disdain on his face.

  Cora suddenly felt utterly improper and wanton.

  Cora was a young woman alone with a young man in the middle of the night.

  And she wasn’t even clothed in proper attire.

  “I was not aware you had brought a guest, Miss Clarke.” Disapproval dripped from his words, with the effectiveness of kindling on a fire. “I am unfamiliar with what strange customs you might have in California, but I can assure you that in this household, the door is only answered by me, no matter your romantic urges.”

  Randolph moved away from Cora. “I am afraid you misunderstood. This young lady—er—Miss Clarke happened upon me in the living room.”

  “I did not let you in,” the butler said.

  “I found another method,” Randolph declared with nonchalance. “No one answered my knock on the front door. I entered through the French doors.” He leaned closer to Wexley. “You will, I am afraid, need to repair those.”

  The butler’s face took on a purple tint. “I cannot permit you to break and enter—”

  “It was cold outside,” Randolph said.

  “You mean you are an utter stranger, descending on this house in the middle of the night?” The butler kept his gaze on Randolph, but he stepped backward slightly and stretched a gloved hand to one of the large brass candlesticks.

  Tension soared through the room.

  The butler clutched the candlestick and swept it before him. The occasional strand of gray in the butler’s hair did not hamper his fitness.

  “The Duke of Hawley invited me,” Randolph said. “Miss Clarke just told me he has passed away. I am so sorry.”

  The words had an immediate effect on the butler, and suspicion eased from his face.

  Cora blinked.

  Randolph hadn’t mentioned he’d been invited.

  “Still, the duke did not mention other visitors...” the butler said.

  Surprise seemed to flicker over Randolph’s countenance, and Cora wondered whether he might, in fact, have belonged to one of the swarms of handsome men who descended on Hollywood with regularity, hoping to transform any gift of deceiving others into a monetary value.

  “But perhaps he wouldn’t have mentioned it,” Randolph said. “I was supposed to arrive tomorrow, but I hoped to beat the storm. I tried to call, but—”

  “The lines are down,” the butler said.

  “My car didn’t quite make it. The snowdrifts were excessively sized.”

  “You probably drove your car over next years’ roses,” Wexley said, his voice mournful.

  “Look, let me give me you my card.” Randolph shuffled through his pockets and then removed a business card triumphantly.

  The butler took it skeptically and held it to the light. “Randolph Hall, Private Detective.”

  Cora inhaled sharply.

  Was that why he had been hiding under Veronica’s hibiscus? 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. “You’re a detective?”

  “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.”

  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 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.”

  “You poor thing,” Gladys 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 w
as 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 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 probable it could resist 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 of the duchess’s dress 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.