Calamity Under the Chandelier

by Camilla Blythe

  At least not with Signor Palombi here.

  The duchess met Cora’s gaze. “Wexley informed me that a strange man is sleeping in one of my guest rooms.”

  “I happened upon him in the drawing room,” Cora said. “He said your husband had invited him.”

  “What? Horace did that?” The dowager duchess’s voice broke. “My late husband was not prone to including me in business relationships.”

  “A good thing, my dear,” Signor Palombi said hastily. “His ties were not always appropriate.”

  Cora tore her roll and spread butter on it, wondering if the Italian would mention more. Veronica had also referred to the late duke’s deeds in an opaque, though decidedly negative, fashion.

  “Perhaps this strange man’s some enemy of Father’s who murdered him and then, when the snow impeded his escape, decided to reenter the house,” Mrs. Ardingley mused.

  Veronica gasped. “How horrible!”

  “Wexley should have ushered him out.” Mrs. Ardingley said.

  “It was snowing awfully hard, and it was the middle of the night,” Cora said. “Besides, he mentioned he was a private detective. He had a business card.”

  “Anyone can call themselves a PI,” Mr. Ardingley said.

  “I had met him before,” Cora said.

  “Truly?” Veronica laughed. “When did you manage to do that? I thought we were always together in this country.”

  “I didn’t meet him in this country.”

  “Surely he’s not the Scotsman under the hibiscus?” Veronica smiled, as if certain the answer would be no.

  Cora lowered her gaze, and Veronica’s face whitened.

  “At least I can vouch he’s not an ax murderer or anything like that,” Cora said.

  “You can do no such thing, my dear,” the dowager duchess said. “Just because you met a person on one occasion, and he did not take out a shining piece of sharpened metal and start brandishing it about like some medieval maniac transported from the past, does not mean he will not do it on another occasion.”

  “He’s apparently handsome,” Veronica said.

  The dowager duchess frowned. “A man’s possession of handsomeness does not signify a possession of honesty. In fact, I have found there can be a distinct negative correlation between a man’s looks and the veracity of his words.” She gave a pointed look at her son. “Naturally, the same applies for women.”

  Veronica flushed, and Edmund’s eyes narrowed. “Just what are you implying, Mother?”

  The dowager duchess gave an innocent smile. “Merely that this strange guest may be the mad man I was warning you about. Or did my comment remind you of anything else?” She glanced at Veronica again. “There were no strangers here, but one has appeared. Voila. Now if only Wexley can get the telephone working, we can get Scotland Yard to whisk him away in whatever hideous vehicle they drive about in.”

  The others laughed, but Cora remained silent.

  She hadn’t trusted Randolph when she’d first seen him. Why was she doing so now? The dowager was correct. He had been outside in the middle of the night. Perhaps she should have woken up everyone in the house when she’d encountered him in the drawing room.

  “At least the police should be able to clear this up,” Veronica said.

  Wexley cleared his throat. “There is still a problem with the phone, Your Grace.”

  “You mean no one is coming from the police?” Veronica asked. “But there’s a body!”

  “Not a body. My husband. Yes, he is lying there, but he will keep. The coldness will see to that.” The dowager frowned. “I hope the maids will not light the fire in the bedroom.”

  “The maids can be quite willing to watch the most macabre things in the cinema,” Wexley said with a pained expression, “but that delight does not extend toward actual corpses.”

  “Sounds like an excuse not to clean the room,” Mrs. Ardingley said. “Sloth is a sin. Let’s leave this place soon, Rhys.”

  “I think it is perhaps wise if no one leaves,” Cora said. “The police might want to interview you.”

  Veronica sniffed. “You have far too much faith in the police, my dear. You do remember Constable Kirby? It will just be an utter bother and waste of time.”

  “Exactly.” Signor Palombi twirled his mustache. “How tragic that the country’s greatest detective—Sherlock Holmes—never actually existed.”

  Mr. Ardingley yawned. “The girl has a point. Let the police come. We’ve got nothing to hide. If there is a mad man terrorizing this region, we should at least let them investigate.”

  “Yes, yes,” the dowager duchess waved dismissively and bracelets jangled from her wrists. “How am I supposed to believe this man truly came to meet with my late husband? Perhaps he’s some horrid journalist. You wouldn’t believe the number of people who knocked on this door after the elopement.”

  Veronica’s face paled. “In that case, we cannot throw him out. Not in this weather. I wouldn’t like to imagine what he would write about us then.”

  “Christmas is next week,” the dowager said. “It’s the period renowned for people denying entry into their homes, no matter the emergency.”

  “Mother, that was not the moral of the Christmas story.” Edmund rolled his eyes in obvious exasperation. “If Veronica believes we could create worse problems by not hosting him, I have no inclination to do that. We have plenty of rooms in this manor house. We don’t need to have anyone freezing to death on our conscience.”

  “This is a tiresome conversation,” Mr. Ardingley said. “Shouldn’t we have mimosas for breakfast? I find that a delightful tradition that we should emulate.”

  “Most people consider champagne a festive drink,” the dowager said. “I’m certain your father’s death does not count as a celebratory occasion.”

  “Don’t be too sure,” Mr. Ardingley murmured.

  “There are some drinks in the bar, Rhys,” Edmund said.

  “I know where they are,” Mr. Ardingley grumbled. “This was my father’s place too.”

  There was an awkward silence while Mr. Ardingley poured whisky into a glass.

  The dowager duchess turned toward Cora. “Perhaps you’re the murderer.”

  “Me?” The word came out too similarly to a laugh.

  “Indeed.” The dowager’s voice was icy, as if the cold weather had affected more than the outside of the manor house.

  “But I just met him,” Cora stammered.

  “You are American.” The dowager duchess flinched slightly as she said the word, in the same manner that others might refer to communists or fascists. “Do not Americans adore violence?”

  “Nonsense,” Cora said. “No one likes violence.”

  “Perhaps.” The dowager duchess’s voice was calm. “But Veronica told me you were in a Western. Isn’t that one of those films where you wear suede and shoot up desert towns?”

  “We are not in a desert, Mother,” Edmund said.

  “She might still feel the urge to see violence. That’s probably why she insisted my dear husband was murdered. You were in detective films, weren’t you? Probably piqued your interest in murder.”

  “Those films were confined to missing jewels and secret passageways,” Veronica said, rather unhelpfully.

  “I only met your husband yesterday,” Cora said.

  “That would suffice in inspiring lesser mortals to begin serial murder careers,” Mrs. Ardingley said blithely.

  “That’s absurd,” Cora sputtered.

  The dowager duchess frowned. “It’s no more absurd than suggesting that someone he knew, someone he trusted, had killed him. Someone like—”

  “You?” Cora finished. “Forgive me.”

  The dowager duchess retained a pained expression on her face.

  “Besides Mother, I was with Miss Clarke when Father screamed,” Edmund said. “It couldn’t have been her. American or not.”

  The dowager duchess’s shoulders slouched. “I forgot.”

  “It’s
fine,” Cora said, uncomfortably.

  The dowager shouldn’t have looked so distressed at the thought Cora was not a murderer.

  Or is there someone else she thinks committed the crime?

  “I think one question is,” Lady Audrey asked, “why did the late duke hire a private detective? Who’s got something to hide?”

  Chapter Twelve

  “FOR AN ARTIST YOU ARE revoltingly scandal free,” Mr. Ardingley said, addressing Lady Audrey. “You just had the misfortunate luck to accept my little brother’s invitation to come here for Christmas.”

  Lady Audrey glanced out the window. “Well, I was right that it would be pretty at least.”

  “I know why Father hired a detective,” Mr. Ardingley announced.

  “Indeed?” Edmund asked.

  “He’s been complaining about your rash elopement for months. I suspect he put a private detective on your new wife. Miss Clarke did say she saw him in America.”

  Veronica’s face became stony.

  “Was your new wife too racy for Father, brother dear?” Mr. Ardingley’s eyes sparkled.

  Edmund’s face pinkened. “That can’t be the reason. Veronica is—er—positively angelic.”

  “You’re not going to tell me that she was a virgin.” Mr. Ardingley laughed again and downed the amber-colored liquid in his crystal tumbler. He marched to the bar.

  Mrs. Ardingley pursed her lips. “Considering that it’s morning, I think you’ve had enough. Otherwise you won’t remember anything.”

  “And why would that be dreadful?” Mr. Ardingley swung around, and his eyes blazed with a strange ferocity. “My father died. Why on earth would I want to linger on that memory?”

  “Calm down,” Edmund said. “It was just an accident.”

  “Oh, you’re in denial.” Mr. Ardingley flung up his hands. “It’s murder.”

  “Because a former starlet says so? Someone who played a detective for the silver screen?” Mrs. Ardingley lifted her eyebrow to a lofty level. Walking might pose difficulties for her, but she obviously excelled in eyebrow movement. “I would hardly take her opinion seriously, Rhys dear. I’m not even sure Miss Clarke finished high school.”

  “I did!” Cora exclaimed.

  “Is that so?” Mrs. Ardingley’s eyebrow did not move downward.

  “Yes,” Cora stammered. “With—er—tutors.”

  Mrs. Ardingley gave a smug smile. “Hardly the same thing though.”

  “Let’s find out what your wife did,” Mr. Ardingley said. “Or just tell us now, Veronica.”

  Veronica’s face whitened, but she only laughed. “Obviously it was nothing.”

  “Don’t lie to me,” Mr. Ardingley said. “I’m not in the mood.”

  Edmund moved to his feet. “Come, Rhys. We know your mood doesn’t extend to anything nonalcoholic now.”

  Mr. Ardingley frowned. He picked up his newly refilled glass and flung it onto the ground. It shattered into many pieces, and the scent of whisky permeated the room.

  “Happy, brother?” Mr. Ardingley drawled. He turned to the others. “Shall we go to the library? I know where Father stores his files.”

  “Stored,” Edmund said.

  Mr. Ardingley flushed. “Er—yes.”

  “Let’s go read them,” Mr. Ardingley said. “Perhaps your wife has a crime record.”

  “I don’t have a crime record,” Veronica insisted. “Anything in there would be lies!”

  “I think you’re lying,” Mr. Ardingley said.

  “Well, not a current one. Not as an adult.”

  “You’ve only been an adult for two years,” Mr. Ardingley pointed out. “Two years without a record is hardly a great occasion for celebration.”

  Veronica’s smile wobbled. “Perhaps I should have some of that whisky, Rhys.”

  “No one is drinking anymore,” Edmund said sternly. “Perhaps Father was hoping to find something. But that didn’t mean he did. And now it doesn’t matter, because he’s dead.”

  Veronica smiled. “Thank you, dear.”

  “Perhaps you murdered him,” suggested the dowager duchess.

  “Mother!” Edmund widened his eyes. “Please don’t accuse my new wife.”

  “I heard what your father had found out about her,” the dowager duchess said. “He wanted to expose her.”

  “Expose what?” Mr. Ardingley said.

  The dowager shrugged. “Oh, just that she lived on the streets for a while. When she was twelve. And eleven. And I believe also when she was ten. Three years in total. Who knows what could have happened then? Not the proper background for a duchess.”

  Veronica gritted her teeth together. “That’s a lie.”

  “I don’t think so, dear. I read the reports too.”

  “But—” Mr. Ardingley stammered. “How—? Why—?”

  “Well, I imagine she had no choice,” said the dowager. “That is what happens if you’re homeless. As for how... I believe it involved some singing on the streets. Some dancing. Quite indecent.”

  “It wasn’t three whole years,” Veronica said slowly. “And I had a roof over my head—mostly. And I worked. I entertained people.”

  The dowager duchess shrugged. “Clearly your life has improved. Though I think it would be good to destroy whatever documents Horace had. You might want to also see if you can pay off that inspector. I’ve never much cared for scandals, and I really don’t have the patience for them at my advanced age.”

  “But how did you manage to recover from that period?” Lady Audrey asked.

  “It’s not important,” Edmund said quickly.

  “But it’s impressive,” Mrs. Ardingley said. “I must admit to being curious too.”

  Edmund raked his hand through his hair. “She doesn’t want to talk about it.”

  “I entered a beauty queen competition,” Veronica said. “First prize was a screen test for Hollywood. And I won. That’s all. Utterly uninteresting.”

  “And the criminal record?”

  “Was for stealing clothes from a local department store,” the dowager duchess said.

  “It worked,” Veronica said. “I had to look nice and I did.”

  “That’s amazing,” Cora breathed.

  The others seemed similarly awed.

  Veronica shrugged. “It was the start of this dreadful depression. You had to do what you had to do.”

  “Still. It’s a motive for murder. Father wanted to destroy you for having the gall to marry into the family,” Mr. Ardingley said. “I imagine the new duchess wouldn’t want that sort of thing to get out.”

  The mood was broken.

  “I thought we were friends, Rhys,” Veronica said.

  Rhys folded his arms across his chest. “My father died. And apparently somebody killed him. That matters to me.”

  “I didn’t do it,” Veronica said softly.

  “Where were you when he died?” Mr. Ardingley asked.

  “In my room.”

  “Did anyone see you?”

  Veronica shook her head.

  “I think the police are likely to see you as the most likely suspect too.”

  “But I didn’t—”

  “So you said.” Mr. Ardingley rose and left the room.

  “I’ll follow him,” Mrs. Ardingley moved her hands to her wheelchair.

  “I’ll send a footman to assist you up the stairs,” Wexley said.

  Mrs. Ardingley nodded gratefully.

  Murmurs of excuses to go drifted through the room, and it soon emptied.

  Cora swallowed hard. If only she hadn’t informed everybody of her suspicions that the duke had been murdered. Now her dearest friend was in trouble, and it was all her fault.

  She reminded herself that the police would sort everything out. Perhaps the village constable didn’t exude competence, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t solve the case.

  Except he’d likely never had to investigate a murder. The village didn’t seem large enough to have them often.

  And
he’s not even here.

  Perhaps Cora could discover who the murderer was herself. She would need to speak with Edmund. He knew everyone more than Veronica did, and perhaps she would be able to discover other motives.

  They needed to speak in private.

  Cora found Edmund in the drawing room with Lady Audrey.

  “I believe the snow has finished, Edmund,” Cora said. “Would you perhaps show me around outside?”

  Edmund blinked.

  “I mean, there’s nothing else to do now.”

  He sighed. “Shakespeare is not that interesting? I suppose I could show you the barn. We have some skis and snowshoes there.”

  “Splendid,” Cora said.

  She was not going to spend the day inside, not when there was a chance she could help Veronica and make sure the duke’s murderer would not remain free.

  “Would you like me to join you?” Lady Audrey asked. “Edmund is not the best skier.”

  “No need,” Cora said quickly.

  “Well, do enjoy yourselves.”

  Cora followed Edmund to the foyer, and a footman brought them winter garments.

  Chapter Thirteen

  CORA’S RELIEF AT NOT having Lady Audrey with them soon gave way to discomfort. Edmund’s demeanor met all the minimums for politeness, but he made no attempt at friendliness.

  She followed Edmund outside, and frigid wind prickled her skin. “It’s cold.”

  “Indeed.”

  Cora had met other gentleman callers of Veronica’s of course. Most of them had been movie stars, though some had gained entry to the finest establishments because of their bulging bank accounts, rather than because of any talent or even because of the good looks that so often substituted for talent in Hollywood. She missed their cocky enthusiasm for the future and gleeful embrace of the present.

  Though she had known there would be snow-covered fields and had even looked forward to them, the cold had seemed an abstract concept. In Los Angeles, a chilly day had required a sweater. It certainly hadn’t required three sweaters, an overcoat, some excellent boots, thick socks, and a woolen hat would still make her feel underdressed and cold and miserable.