Calamity Under the Chandelier

by Camilla Blythe

  Edmund led the way to the barn. The snow drifts were not as large on this side of the manor house, though her boots sank nearly all the way through the snow, and the flat stone barn on the next hill seemed unimaginably distant.

  “Tell me more about your father,” Cora said.

  “You met him.”

  “I didn’t have the pleasure of his company for very long.”

  “No.”

  “You must miss him,” she said.

  “It hasn’t been that long.” Edmund lengthened his strides over the snow.

  “I suppose that’s true.” Cora scrambled after him, her breath coming out in smoky puffs. “Do you spend much time in the country?”

  “I try to avoid it,” Edmund said. “Mayfair exceeds this place in charm.”

  “But you made an exception.”

  “Yes. Everyone goes home for Christmastime, and Lord knows this is pleasant enough, if one can avoid the people inside.”

  “Whom would you want to avoid?”

  He frowned, and warmth cascaded over Cora’s cheeks, despite the air’s frigidity.

  “If you were your father, whom would you have wanted to avoid?”

  “Are you asking me whom do I think killed my father?”

  “Hypothetically.”

  “I think it was an accident,” he said tersely, and Cora flushed.

  “Tell me more about your mother. Was she close to your father? I mean, obviously they had you—” Cora gave an awkward laugh, but the tips of Edmund’s lips plunged into a deeper frown.

  “They were no different than any married couple,” Edmund said stiffly.

  “She’s not English, is she?”

  “She’s from Czechoslovakia,” Edmund said. “At least, that’s what it’s called now.”

  Cora did not inquire whether he referred to the country’s comparable youth or whether he was hinting that Germans might, as some feared, invade it.

  “How did she and your father meet?” Cora asked.

  “In London.”

  “Why did they marry?”

  “He probably thought she was pretty. He was rich, and he liked that she was the daughter of a count.” He smirked. “Though in the end he outranked his father-in-law.”

  “And why did she marry him?”

  Edmund frowned. “Would you prefer to be going on a walk with my mother?”

  “Er—no,” Cora said hastily. “I was simply making conversation. Not very good conversation, I’m afraid.”

  He nodded. “You’re accustomed to someone giving you scripts to read out loud in advance.”

  “Er—yes.” Cora’s face warmed. No doubt it was the color of one of Veronica’s more dramatic lipsticks. “What sort of business activities was your father involved in?”

  “My brother Rhys would say unsavory ones.”

  “And you would say?”

  “Well, he helped people. If somebody wanted something, even something their governments might not be allowed to let them do, Father would find a way to assist them.”

  “Oh,” Cora said, not entirely understanding.

  “I suppose it’s possible someone outside might have been angry with Father,” Edmund mused.

  “What had he been working on?”

  “He met mostly with Germans this decade. They’re upset they’re not allowed to develop their army as much as they would like, but fortunately Father was able to cut through some of that international red tape. He helped them in the past work out ways to manufacture different parts at different factories so no regulators grew suspicious. He’s quite open-minded, after all. He did marry a Central European.”

  “He arranged this with favorable interest rates for himself, I imagine?”

  “Naturally.” Edmund beamed. “He was very clever.”

  “I imagine others might feel differently.”

  “Yes. People are prone to grumble when they see Germans rebuilding their army, even though Hitler has assured people multiple times he just desires peace. It’s all simple prejudice, of course. The last king was far more favorable to Germans. More enlightened.”

  “Was that the king who was never crowned?”

  “Yes,” Edmund said curtly. “A tainted past is not something Englishmen can forgive.”

  Cora jerked her head toward him. What did Edmund make of Veronica? She might not have been a divorcée, but Veronica’s scandalous past must cause the man pain.

  “Quite a few of your countrymen are helping Germany,” Edmund said, changing the conversation to the more neutral topic of arms transactions. “Some people will always make money in arms production. Why not my father?”

  “And is Signor Palombi involved in these business dealings?”

  “Yes.”

  “Would he have had a reason to be upset with your father?”

  “Nonsense.” Edmund pushed open a door of the barn. “Signor Palombi is Italian. Italians are quite accepting of the German desire to secure their position. Mussolini is an ally.”

  Cora half imagined they would be confronted by a row of hungry looking horses and cows, but she followed Edmund into a small room. The livestock must be on the other side, and instead there were neatly lined up snowshoes, skis, and skates. On the other side of the wall was summer athletic equipment: a boat, some actual badminton and tennis rackets, not the type that went on feet, and variously shaped balls for all manner of activities that she was sure included plenty of unknown rules.

  Edmund took her cursory exclamations of wonder with the disinterest Cora’s murmurs probably deserved. “Do you want to use anything? Snowshoes, perhaps?”

  The idea of strapping something that resembled tennis rackets onto her feet was not the most appealing of suggestions, especially when a murderer might be on the loose.

  “Oh, perhaps not,” Cora said.

  “You just wanted to see them?” He raised an eyebrow.

  “Yes.” Cora scrutinized them. “They—er—look similar to the American sort. I—er—just wanted to check.”

  “Then I will return to the manor house,” Edmund said.

  “I’ll come with you,” Cora said quickly.

  Upon reentering the manor house, she considered the fact that there had been no great revelations.

  “I’ll see if I can find Veronica,” Edmund said.

  “Of course,” Cora said quickly, and she was almost relieved when he went up the stairs.

  Footsteps approached her. “It’s the cowgirl.”

  Cora turned toward the man’s voice.

  Randolph stood at the entrance to the foyer, munching on a roll.

  The light flickered from the stained-glass windows ahead, giving him an angelic appearance Cora hoped he deserved.

  “You’re quiet,” he said, narrowing the distance between them.

  “Sorry,” she said quickly. “It’s the murder. It’s—”

  “Upsetting?”

  “Indeed.”

  “Just leave it be,” he said. “Enjoy Britain. Perhaps we can take a walk together?”

  It would be easy to give in.

  But she knew so little about him and so shook her head. “I’m just going to enjoy my time here.”

  “No investigating?”

  “Naturally not,” she said, feigning affront. “That would be foolish. And besides, perhaps the duke wasn’t even murdered after all.”

  “That’s not what you said last night.”

  “Last night I was sleepy,” she said. “My mind is clearer now. More—”

  “Well-teaed?”

  She tossed her hair. “I’ll just go upstairs.”

  “So early in the day?”

  “Yes,” she said and ascended the steps before he could ask her more questions.

  She wouldn’t be able to find out anything if she spent time on walks with him, likely marveling at the splendor of the icy gables and turrets of the manor house.

  She moved over the corridor, glancing at the paintings and sculptures that decorated it.

  �
�Miss Clarke,” Mrs. Ardingley called out, and Cora jumped. “You are wandering the upstairs alone. Did going outdoors with my brother-in-law exhaust you so much you felt compelled to take a nap? I didn’t know he was such a fast skier.”

  “We didn’t do any skiing.” Cora shifted her legs over the carpet, absentmindedly noticing the thick pile and wondering if Mrs. Ardingley found the multitude of carpets irritating.

  “Yet you still desire a nap?” Mrs. Ardingley smirked.

  “I-I was actually hoping to see the maid.”

  It was the first excuse she thought of, but it seemed the wrong thing to say. Mrs. Ardingley’s expression shifted at once.

  “Such concern for fashion,” Mrs. Ardingley said, and Cora knew she didn’t mean the words as a compliment. “You should ask her to press your black clothes and remind her to do your hair in a style with some sobriety.”

  Cora touched her hair, conscious of her loose locks.

  “Curls are not somber,” Mrs. Ardingley said firmly. She set her teeth into a thin line, and her hands moved to the sides of her wheelchair. In the next moment, she rolled away.

  Cora remembered to be polite and hastened after her. “I could help you.”

  Mrs. Ardingley turned her head sharply. “Of course. You can do many things, can’t you?”

  Cora’s cheeks warmed.

  “Acting and walking,” Mrs. Ardingley continued. “Though I heard lately you haven’t been good at the former, even though you’ve been doing it for all your life.”

  Heat continued to spread over Cora’s face.

  “Don’t mind me,” Mrs. Ardingley said. “No one does. I’m an invalid. I can be ignored.”

  “I don’t want to ignore you.”

  Mrs. Ardingley’s lips sneered, and other actors might be impressed with the malice she displayed. “You do.”

  The wheels rattled over the hardwood floors, and Mrs. Ardingley was not impeded by the occasional Oriental carpet, presumably priceless, that dotted the floors. Mrs. Ardingley might be in a wheelchair, but she was strong.

  Strong enough to kill someone.

  “Where were you when the late duke died?” Cora asked.

  Mrs. Ardingley smirked. “I suppose I should feel flattered you think I could have anything to do with his death.” She gestured to the wheelchair. “This keeps me away from following any impulse to murder people.”

  “How long have you been in the chair?”

  “Since Easter.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “So am I.” She shrugged. “Not that I was the best match for him anyway.”

  “You’re in the same circles as him.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  Mrs. Ardingley fixed accusing eyes on Cora. “And you shouldn’t pretend you don’t know what I mean.”

  Cora needed to change the subject.

  She did know.

  Of course she knew.

  It was obvious to anyone, even if Cora’s time in Hollywood would have made her more conscious.

  Mrs. Ardingley’s nose was too large, and her chin too defined. Her brows were bushy, something she could have changed with relative ease, but perhaps she’d given up on any attempt to mimic basic fashion. Her hair was thick, but rather than appearing luxurious, the strands seemed frizzy.

  “He thought I had money,” Mrs. Ardingley said. “A reasonable assumption. But then twenty-nine happened, and I lost the use of my bank accounts.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Mrs. Ardingley shrugged. “I shouldn’t complain. It’s less of a struggle than any of the village boys went through in the last war. But Rhys expected more. I don’t blame him.”

  “He told me he was the first-born son of his father.”

  “He would have made a delightful duke,” Mrs. Ardingley said. “So good at galas. Edmund’s much too timid.”

  “Do you think anyone wanted your father-in-law dead?” Cora asked.

  Mrs. Ardingley pursed her lips together and for a moment Cora thought she might leave all together. “No, naturally not. At least...”

  “At least?”

  “Most of my father-in-law’s enemies tended to be somewhat abstract. Corporations. Governments. Not people. But your friend had a reason. I find her a more likely killer. Edmund and Veronica’s room was near the duke’s. It would have been easier for her to slip in there than anyone else. Of course Signor Palombi is a stranger too, but why would an Italian businessman want to kill someone who supported Italy’s chief ally?”

  “Did you hear your father-in-law scream?”

  “My ears aren’t gone yet,” Mrs. Ardingley said. “I did.”

  “And then you—”

  “I stayed in my room. It’s not like I could do anything,” she stressed.

  “Were you alone?”

  She glanced at her watch and tucked the blanket that covered her legs more firmly about her. “I was alone. Rhys was in the drawing room, I believe.”

  “He was,” Cora confirmed.

  Could Mrs. Ardingley have made a chandelier come down?

  Cora sighed.

  No.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “HELLO, LADIES.” SIGNOR Palombi waved to Cora and Mrs. Ardingley from the other side of the hallway.

  Mrs. Ardingley frowned. “It’s that beastly Italian. And his dog.”

  Archibald raced toward them, wagging his tail with much eagerness as he moved his legs. He stopped before the wheelchair.

  “One of the few good qualities of this place was always the lack of a dog running about and spreading all manner of germs,” Mrs. Ardingley said, placing her hands on the wheels. “Go away! Shoo!”

  Archibald’s tail did not cease wagging, and he sniffed about Mrs. Ardingley’s feet.

  “Dogs are either terrified or delighted with my chair,” Mrs. Ardingley said, her voice strained. “I’m afraid Archibald belongs to the latter quality of beasts. Far too curious.”

  “Archibald!” Signor Palombi said. “Come back.”

  Archibald continued to lick Mrs. Ardingley’s legs, and for a moment, it seemed her leg moved.

  Cora blinked.

  That couldn’t be right.

  “Well, I should be going.” Mrs. Ardingley put her hands on her wheels and rolled away quickly.

  Cora stared after her. Was it possible Mrs. Ardingley had the use of her legs after all? But why would she be in a chair? She’d had the impression that Mrs. Ardingley was paralyzed.

  “Miss Clarke,” Signor Palombi said. “I see you do not share Mrs. Ardingley’s unease with dogs.”

  “She was tired.”

  “I appreciate the attempt at a lie. The English can be trying, no?”

  “But there are many people here who are not English,” Cora said.

  “Yes, you are American,” Signor Palombi said.

  “And you are Italian.”

  Some expression Cora couldn’t place flitted across the man’s face, but he soon gave a cocky smile. “Certo. Though...” He paused, and Cora found herself leaning forward. “Archibald is English.”

  The dog tilted his head upward, as if unsure about the veracity of the signor’s statement.

  “He is adorable,” Cora said. “Amidst all this uncertainty.”

  Signor Palombi’s eyes softened. “Would you like to hold him?”

  “Oh, I suppose—”

  Signor Palombi scooped Archibald up and placed him in Cora’s arms.

  Cora stroked Archibald’s fur. The curly white locks felt silky beneath her touch, and Archibald gave her his paw.

  Cora shook Archibald’s paw, noting the leathery texture.

  “His nails need clipped,” Signor Palombi said apologetically. “I’ve been traveling.”

  “A nice trip?” Cora asked.

  “Indeed.”

  “Which part of Italy are you from?” Cora asked.

  “Are you very familiar with the country?”

  “I’ve never been there.”

  Though Pop is from the
re.

  “I’m from the pretty part,” the Italian said. “Vineyards and ocean. Multo bellissimo.”

  “Tuscany?” Cora ventured.

  He beamed. “Exactimento.”

  She blinked.

  Her father always said esattamente or sometimes just esatto.

  But perhaps the Italian language had simply changed since her father had last been there.

  “I hope you were able to conduct some of your discussions with the duke before his death.”

  “The trip was not entirely worthless.”

  “What is the exact nature of your business?” Cora asked.

  “Imports, exports.”

  “Weapons?”

  The word hung in the air, and Signor Palombi frowned. “What makes you ask that?”

  “Just a hunch.”

  “Those can be dangerous, young lady.”

  “I was simply curious,” she said.

  “Hmph. Death does make one contemplative.”

  “It is horrible what happened.” She assessed the man’s face. Would she find a flicker of guilt?

  But the man simply frowned and fixed a stern stare on Cora. “Any death is tragic. But it would be perhaps a mistake to assume that all deaths are equally tragic.”

  “No one should die before their time.”

  “I agree,” he said, his voice firmer than she would have imagined. He had not seemed to espouse a desire for justice for the late duke. “But accidents happen, do they not? I assume you’ve dropped something in the past. Even if you’re still very much in your youth.”

  “Well—”

  “Perhaps you’ve even heard something fall before, when no one dismantled it and crushed it into the space below.”

  Cora’s cheeks flamed. “Naturally. Where were you when you heard the duke’s scream?”

  “What a curious question.”

  “We Americans aren’t known for being subtle,” she said.

  Signor Palombi’s lips twitched. “No, you are not. I was in my room. You saw me when you came up the stairs, did you not?”

  “Yes,” Cora said.

  “I suppose you want to know if I killed him.”

  “Did you?”

  “That was meant to be a rhetorical question.” He shrugged. “You Americans really are not subtle.”