“I did warn you,” Cora said.
He smiled. “So you did. No, I did not kill the duke. I had only just met him.”
It was tempting to make an excuse to leave, but Cora refused to do so. Not when asking Signor Palombi questions might help Veronica.
“How was your business meeting with him?” she asked.
“We hadn’t had it yet.”
“Why were you in his library shortly before his murder?”
He was silent.
This time she did see a flicker of emotion cross his face.
It was of guilt and fear.
He raised his chin though. “I was going to meet him there.”
A door opened behind Cora, and Signor Palombi grabbed Archibald.
“I shouldn’t keep you.” Signor Palombi strolled away from Cora quickly. She turned around and saw him enter his room. Whoever had opened the door had disappeared, and Cora frowned.
Who except Signor Palombi would be in his room? The maid?
Cora hesitated for a moment, but no sound came from behind the thick wooden doors.
Not that I should be eavesdropping.
This wasn’t one of the Gal Detective films.
Cora wrapped her arms around herself.
The one thing she was certain of was that Signor Palombi was not what he seemed.
Chapter Fifteen
“MISS CLARKE!” A VOICE bellowed across the corridor, and the dowager duchess strode into view.
Her auburn hair was partially obscured by her veil, which extended to cover her face.
“I heard you interrogated my son,” said the dowager.
“He showed me the barn.”
“Apparently you asked him many questions.”
“Just conversation, Your Grace.”
“I do not appreciate it. That boy does not understand how easy it is for him to get into the papers.”
Cora glanced at the other doors. Who might be listening behind one of them?
“Perhaps we should talk in a more private setting,” Cora said.
“Very well, Miss Clarke.” The dowager duchess marched into a small sewing room off the corridor, with Cora following behind, and then sat down. Her back remained rigid, as if she wore an old-fashioned corset, despite the fact even the most traditional women’s magazines had likely long since ceased advocating their use.
She exuded elegance.
Cora sat on a chair opposite.
Somehow, Cora had assumed she would know what to say. One could hardly begin a conversation by asking a woman if she’d happened to murder her husband. Some things were not appropriate, no matter what class one belonged to, and undoubtedly the dowager duchess had a refined knowledge of what questions belonged to the strictures of decorum.
Last night the action might have caused the dowager to arch an eyebrow, but at the moment her eyebrows remained in place. Her eyes seemed vacant, as if they were not seeing Cora, but perhaps reliving happening upon the scene of her husband’s death.
The dowager duchess was the first to break the silence. “Who did my son think was guilty?”
“He didn’t know.”
The dowager sniffed. “Well, Edmund never was the intelligent sort. Or the athletic sort or even the partying sort for that matter. It’s obvious who killed him.”
“It wasn’t Veronica. She barely knew him.”
“You should have heard the way my late husband spoke about her. She would have been clever to hasten the end of his life if she wanted to remain married to Edmund.”
“I assure you that Veronica is no murderess.”
The dowager duchess sighed. “Perhaps. Though you should feel sorry for my son. He got entrapped by that horrid actress.”
“If you could just detail the events of last night. Perhaps you remember something that might be helpful.”
“That’s the sort of question a constable might ask.”
“Then consider it practice.”
The dowager duchess shrugged. “Very well. It really was all terribly dull. Horace was arguing and making a dreadful fool of himself all through dinner. It was quite unpleasant.”
“Was that unusual?”
“No, though it had become rare for him to have the opportunity to act unpleasantly before so many people at once.”
“Did you go straight to bed after dinner?”
“Yes.”
“And how was the duke’s mood?”
“Bad. Not that that was unusual.”
“Did you see or hear anything last night?” Cora asked.
“No.”
“But you were in the room beside him. Surely you must have—”
“I didn’t,” said the dowager.
“Did you go outside? Perhaps on your balcony?”
The dowager duchess’s eyes drifted to the side. “Of course not.”
“It’s just—” Cora wavered, wondering how much she should say. She was supposed to nod and act demurely. She was fairly certain she was not even supposed to venture into the dowager’s room, lest she cause her to miss some stitches on her embroidery.
But it didn’t matter.
She was not some debutante, anxious to win the dowager duchess’s approval.
She was an American, and the sort already presumed to possess poor habits.
“Your Grace,” Cora said, more determinedly. “I saw snow on your slippers.”
She was glad she’d faced the dowager, noting how her eyes widened.
The action could not have taken more than a second, before the dowager resumed her look of casual nonchalance. She sipped her tea, seeming to savor it, even though it must have been placed in the room following breakfast, long enough for the temperature to fall to an unpleasantly cool degree, and long enough for the milk to taste worrisomely unappealing.
“You must be mistaken,” the dowager said.
“My memory is excellent,” Cora said. “Remember, I was an actress.”
“I see.” The dowager took another lengthy sip. The china clattered when she returned the cup to the saucer. “I do remember. I was outside. But it was inconsequential.”
“Why were you outside?”
“I desired some fresh air.”
“In the courtyard?”
“Nonsense. Simply my balcony.”
Cora nodded, as if the information were indeed inconsequential, but she hadn’t realized that the duchess and the duke shared a balcony. She could have slipped in and murdered him. Perhaps she’d done so.
“Your balcony extends to the late duke’s room.”
The dowager sniffed. “I assure you I did not sneak to his room like some besotted ingénue, intent on being deflowered to be able to boast about my sophistication to the other girls. I knew the duke. Heavens, I married that man. There was nothing to be besotted about.”
“Was there something to be angry about?”
The dowager lowered her gaze and took another lengthy sip of her tea. “We had a good marriage. A proper marriage.”
“A happy one?”
The dowager duchess sighed and gestured about the room. “Do you see anything here to be unhappy about?”
The marble busts and gilt-framed portraits seemed to stare back.
Everything was perfect.
“I thought not,” said the dowager with a condescending smile. “You Americans value money.”
“But did you love your husband?” Cora asked.
“Darling, does anyone love their husband?” This time the mirth that danced in the dowager’s eyes was unmistakable. “This is life, my dear. Not whatever fanciful notion you know from some script. He made me rich. He gave me a healthy son and provided for him. I was content. I’d be a fool not to be. Do you know what life was like in Czechoslovakia? Do you know what life is even like there now?”
“Did you have an argument with the duke last night?”
“He was my husband. Naturally we did.”
“What did you argue about?”
She sighed. “I thoug
ht he was too harsh on Edmund. The boy never cared for dogs. No reason to humiliate him. Horace was distressed at the whims of the younger generation. He thought Edmund’s bride utterly unsuitable.”
“I see. But you thought otherwise?”
“She’s horrid. One only had to take a cursory glance at her to determine that she was far too young and famous for him. And her past! It was a great torment that our son did not have the good taste or analytical capability to recognize it. But perhaps there are some benefits to the marriage. He can start with the business of procuring an heir and some spares. At least Veronica’s features are pleasing, even if her bloodline is no better than any of the chamber maids.”
“What did you think about your husband’s business affairs?”
“They’re none of my concern.”
“You mentioned that you came from Czechoslovakia.”
“I’ve been living in England for decades.”
“Yet do you have an opinion on your husband’s eagerness to capitalize on Germany’s desire to rearm itself? That must be worrisome for you.”
“Miss Clarke.” The dowager duchess inhaled sharply. “Horace is my late husband, and I cannot comment on any of his business dealings. It would not be appropriate for me to do so in any case.”
“And what about personal matters?” Cora asked.
“I don’t understand.”
“Were you having an affair?”
The dowager duchess pressed her lips into a firm line. “That is none of your business. Not that anyone would have blamed me.”
“You seemed to be very cozy with Signor Palombi.”
“Nonsense.” She met Cora’s gaze defiantly, but the dowager duchess’s shocked tone seemed forced.
“Did you know him before?”
“Signor Palombi? Naturally not.” The dowager’s skin grew pink.
“And the balcony—would it be possible for any other person to access it? Is not his room beside yours?”
“I won’t tolerate this interrogation.”
“I’m only trying to have a better idea of what happened.”
“Whatever happened did not involve Signor Palombi. Of that I am absolutely certain.”
Cora blinked.
The dowager duchess’s answer was very firm.
“What was your opinion on Mr. Ardingley and his wife?”
The dowager duchess’s shoulders relaxed somewhat, as if relieved to no longer be questioned about the Italian businessman. “Rhys has always been much like his father. Far too arrogant for his own good.”
“And his wife?”
The dowager shrugged. “It’s a pity about the chair. There was one time when I thought they would be quite suited together.”
“Not anymore?”
“I imagine Rhys consoles himself about his wife’s poor health and even poorer temper in all sorts of biblically unapproved manners. Now, excuse me. Perhaps you are not tired, but I am.”
The dowager swept past her and exited the room. Nothing about her gait seemed slow or unsteady. Indeed, she seemed bequeathed with bountiful supplies of energy.
Perhaps she would have been able to murder her husband. Could she have entered the duke’s bed through the balcony, locked his door, climbed onto the duke’s bed when he was sleeping, unscrewed the chandelier and dropped it on her husband? Could she then have hurried back into her room through the balcony and then feigned surprise and grief with everyone else?
Cora sank into the armchair. The snow continued to cascade down, and the flames leaped in the hearth.
Perhaps all the Europeans cowered to the dowager duchess, but Cora was not going to take her statement as truth. Heaving a sigh, Cora departed the sewing room.
Chapter Sixteen
“HEAVENS.” VERONICA widened her eyes as Cora stepped into the corridor. “What on earth were you doing with Edmund’s mother?”
“I thought she might be able to give a clearer picture on the late duke and who may have murdered him.”
“Hmph.” Veronica frowned. “Simply because your father is Catholic does not mean you should feel compelled to imitate a martyr. One would think looking at all those gruesome crosses with blood practically dripping off that poor man’s wounds would suffice.”
“She’s your mother-in-law,” Cora said. “I’m hardly burning myself at the stake like Joan of Arc.”
“It couldn’t have been a pleasant experience, though.”
“No,” Cora agreed. “You know, she quite reminds me of you.”
“Impossible.”
“Pretty and very determined.”
Veronica gave her a tight smile and paced the corridor. Energy seemed to rush through her. Finally, she halted. “I must apologize. This is not the quiet countryside holiday I imagined for us.”
“Well, it is quiet.”
“Come to my room. Edmund doesn’t like me smoking in the corridor.”
Cora followed her into a large bedroom. Dark wooden paneling lined the walls, and Oriental carpets covered the floor.
“It’s rather grand, isn’t it?” Veronica asked.
Cora nodded, still taking in the damask curtains that seemed to have been made with gold thread, and the elaborate mirrors with frames that appeared gold-plated.
Veronica took out a thin cigarette and placed it onto her cigarette holder. “Goodness. I don’t know whether to be eager for the police to arrive or not.”
Her hand wobbled, and Cora narrowed her eyes. Nervousness had never been one of Veronica’s traits. Not when she had such an abundance of self-confidence.
“They’re going to think I did it,” Veronica said.
“Nonsense.”
“You heard them at breakfast. Even Rhys thinks so, and I always got along well with him.” Tension didn’t ease from Veronica’s features, and her jaw seemed to stiffen in a manner one might associate more with the eponymous character from Tchaikovsky’s most famous ballet than with Hollywood actresses.
“I’ve never known you to worry about things,” Cora said.
“This isn’t a small thing.”
“You have no motive.”
Veronica gave her a strained smile. “That’s not true. I would have hated for any of my horrid past to come out. Just the thought of it now being released makes me nearly swoon.”
“You didn’t know he was looking for reasons to annul the marriage.”
“You’re too sweet, Cora. But I did know. I did worry about it. I didn’t kill him, but I could have. I was there in that hallway. Maybe people will believe I entered his room—nobody ever locks them, lest they decide to call for a servant—and unhooked that chandelier and killed him.”
“And exited from the balcony? That’s nonsense.”
“I could have exited from the dowager duchess’s room. I heard her laughing and cavorting with that Italian fellow. I knew she was in that room.”
Oh.
“If you heard, other people did,” Cora speculated.
“Perhaps Lady Audrey murdered him. Perhaps the duke insulted her painting.”
“Perhaps,” Cora said, though they both knew that Lady Audrey and the duke had seemed to get on well, and that Lady Audrey stood to make no financial gain from the man’s death.
“It’s hopeless,” Veronica said. “The village would be happy to have me be the chief suspect. They’d hardly want to imagine that someone they knew had done it. And who wants to have one’s relative arrested? Something like that would cast a shadow over future birthdays and holiday gatherings. One moment one is reminiscing about someone, and the next moment one’s remembering that the person in question spent his last moments on earth dangling from a noose.” She sighed. “The servants were all eating when the murder took place. None of them left the kitchen then. Somebody can attest to it for all of them. Not that any of them would have left. The cook’s food is delicious, especially around the holidays, and leftovers are not a concept that I imagine the servants are aware of.”
“We don’t get leftovers eith
er.”
“No, not with these formal dinners.” Veronica giggled. “We could always sneak into the larder if we get too hungry. I just wish the tabloids hadn’t delighted so much in smearing my reputation. The wedding was supposed to make me more respectable, and instead the journalists delighted in contrasting me in the most negative way to my so very proper husband.”
Cora didn’t mention that Veronica’s past was rather more scandalous than even the most determined journalists had discovered. “Police officers don’t read tabloids.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure,” Veronica said. “And they definitely watch movies. Honey, they’ve probably seen me be arrested half a dozen times by tough coppers or gumshoes on the silver screen.”
“At least Constable Kirby is unaware of your repertoire.”
Veronica’s lips twitched.
For a moment, all seemed well, and Veronica settled against the window seat. “I think I should have gone outside with Edmund and you. This house is giving me the creeps.” She peered through the window. “Honey, is that that funny Italian? Why is he carrying such a huge knapsack?”
“What do you mean?” Cora followed Veronica’s glance.
And swallowed hard.
Signor Palombi was skiing away from the manor house.
He’s fleeing.
Chapter Seventeen
CORA RUSHED FROM THE room.
“Where are you going?” Veronica called after her.
“I’ll explain later,” Cora said over her shoulder.
She raced down the stairs, sliding a hand along the polished banister.
It all made sense.
Mr. Palombi had come to kill the duke.
Or perhaps he’d intended to steal some documents, something from his library, and the duke had found out.
Cora threw on her coat and slid on her other winter garments.
If only it weren’t winter and going outside didn’t involve such complexity. She sprinted from the house and gazed into the distance at Signor Palombi’s receding form.
“Signor!” she shouted. “Signor Palombi!”
If he heard her, he didn’t answer.
But then it was unlikely his last name was even Palombi. No true Italian would make so many mistakes with the Italian language.
Calamity Under the Chandelier Page 10
