Calamity Under the Chandelier

by Camilla Blythe

  Skis.

  If she skied, she could reach him.

  Or at least, she’d have a better chance of reaching him.

  Her feet crunched against the snow as she raced to the barn where Edmund had shown her the skis. The bitter wind slammed against her face, but she didn’t hesitate. This was her chance. Her one chance.

  Would anyone believe her if she expressed her doubts about Palombi’s authenticity? Would he go off to murder other people?

  Cora wasn’t going to take that chance. She stormed into the barn and grabbed the skis. They seemed long and unwieldy.

  Never mind.

  She had the basic idea.

  Even children skied.

  Surely she could too.

  Cora changed into some ski shoes, carried the skis onto the snow, and put them on.

  She slid her right ski, and then her left ski on the snow.

  Her movements were nowhere near as quick as Signor Palombi’s, but she was moving.

  She was skiing.

  She was doing it.

  Just as if she’d done it all her life.

  Well, perhaps not exactly the same, because then she was quite sure she would be going much more quickly, and she definitely would not be looking at the approaching downward slope with terror.

  Still, there was something pleasant about the breeze against her face, and she quickened her pace.

  Signor Palombi was still visible before her, and she was thankful he was lumbered with a heavy backpack. Archibald’s furry white face peeked out, and she wondered what he made of Signor Palombi speeding over the snow.

  Signor Palombi moved each leg outward, as if he were ice skating, and his skis crossed in a perfect pattern over each other.

  Cora attempted the same move, but despite the abundance of dance classes she’d taken, it only resulted in her right ski firmly keeping her left ski in place.

  She almost toppled.

  She should have toppled.

  But Signor Palombi turned around, and Cora managed to stay upright, even though every inch of her body seemed to desire to swerve toward the ground.

  For a moment, she thought she saw him smile.

  She decided to just keep her skis straight.

  That should work better.

  Hopefully.

  She hurried toward Signor Palombi, focusing on his ever-diminishing figure when—

  She skied over the incline of the hill.

  She’d done so before of course.

  But the slope of this hill was steeper, and she moved downward at an utterly unwelcome speed.

  This was dreadful.

  She’d never moved so quickly.

  She was flying down the hill, and she realized that pointing her skis straight downward was perhaps not helpful in slowing the speed.

  She tried to think.

  Had she seen skiers before on the newsreels?

  Had they done something else?

  She seemed to remember that they’d moved from side to side, and she veered toward her left and—

  She fell.

  On her bottom.

  Not that that prevented her from keeping sliding down the hill, unfortunately.

  Her left ski came undone and toppled downward, and her right ski decided to stay firmly in place so as to best humiliate her when she tried to scramble after the other one.

  Cora grasped hold of her poles and coaxed them into the snow, as if they were the only thing to keep her steady. She supposed they were.

  “What on earth are you doing?” A voice bellowed behind her.

  Randolph.

  She jerked her head to the side and toppled farther into the icy white powder.

  “Cora!” He rushed over the snow, not sinking into it, as if he were some Biblical persona.

  Not that Yorkshire could be the least bit confused with the desert settings of those stories.

  “Are you hurt?” Randolph kneeled beside her and stroked her hair.

  Cora pulled herself up. “You’re wearing snowshoes!”

  “Er—yes. But my question remains—”

  “I’m fine. It’s Signor Palombi,” Cora stammered. “He’s getting away. He’s the murderer!”

  “How do you know?”

  “He’s escaping! He’s guilty. And I saw him sneak into the duke’s library last night. I followed him there.”

  Randolph turned to her sharply. “You shouldn’t have done that. You could have hurt yourself. You could have injured yourself now.”

  “Snow is soft,” Cora grumbled.

  Randolph’s face darkened. “The slopes are steep, and frankly, you don’t know what you’re doing.”

  “He’s not even Italian.”

  “What?” Randolph widened his eyes.

  “He’s just pretending. I think he figured out I knew—and I told him I knew he’d broken into the duke’s library, and now he’s getting away and now he’s going, and my best friend in the entire world might hang and—”

  Randolph’s gaze softened.

  “Don’t worry.” Randolph stood up and offered Cora his hand. “I won’t let him get away. Give me your skis. Now.”

  “But—”

  Randolph scrambled to the ground and undid his show shoes. “Wear these.”

  Cora nodded and bent to remove her remaining ski. Randolph sighed and picked up the one that had fallen off. At last, she stepped onto the snow, unconstrained by those odd Nordic contraptions.

  “I need your boots too,” he said.

  “What?”

  “To wear with the skis.”

  “Oh.” Cora undid them.

  Randolph tore off his scarf and placed it on the ground. “Step onto this.”

  “You won’t fit into my shoes.”

  Randolph grinned, and his green eyes sparkled, like grass on a dewy day. They seemed so lively, and it seemed impossible that he might fail.

  He pulled out a knife, and the blade gleamed under the sun.

  Who carries a knife with them?

  “Former scout,” he said. “Important to keep it sharpened.”

  Randolph sliced through the heel of the boots, shoved his feet through them, and then wrapped string around them.

  “You always carry that?” she asked.

  “The scouts trained us well.” Randolph grabbed hold of the poles, and then he was off, pushing himself forcefully down the slope.

  Golly.

  Cora stared at his receding figure. He seemed a paragon of strength, unfazed by the ever-increasing rapidity of his speed down the hill. On the contrary, he bent his knees and tucked his poles up, so the metal ends pointed into the air, to increase his pace even more.

  The man seemed oblivious to the fact he might be headed into danger.

  Cora wouldn’t let him do it alone.

  Not when she was the one who’d sent him there.

  She slipped her feet into his boots.

  They were far too large.

  She frowned, but then shoved her mittens into the space behind her ankle.

  Better.

  She tied the boots and then put on the snowshoes.

  They seemed absurd. Utterly unwieldy, but when she began walking, she appreciated that she didn’t sink into the drifts. She forced her bare hands into her pockets and quickened her pace, watching as Randolph pursued Signor Palombi.

  Randolph’s athleticism should not have been surprising.

  His broad chest and shirt sleeves that barely disguised the rippled curves of musculature should have been warnings, as were the confident strides he took that highlighted his powerful form.

  Still, his speed was incredible. He scurried down the incline, and for a moment, she didn’t see him, but she soon saw first his hat, and then the dark curls underneath, and finally his coat and legs as he tackled the next hill. He ascended it quickly, as if unconstrained by the skis, seeming to go every bit as fast as he would if there were no snow here and he were merely running. He moved each ski diagonally to the side and evidently, the manne
r in which his skis crisscrossed, which unlike hers never actually touched, seemed sufficient to keep him from sliding down the hill.

  “Signor Palombi!” Randolph hollered. “Stop!”

  Signor Palombi was not stopping.

  The man must hear Randolph. Cora had no difficulty hearing him, even though she was much farther away.

  Finally Randolph closed in and—

  He grabbed the man.

  Relief coursed through Cora.

  Randolph was strong, and Signor Palombi was burdened with an awkwardly sized bag. Perhaps, just perhaps, everything would be fine.

  Cora padded over the snow in the snowshoes. She tried to emulate perfect confidence and calm as best as she could when her coat was splattered with very cold and very wet material.

  A scarf covered Signor Palombi’s face, but it was him.

  “Let me see you,” Randolph said.

  His voice was all triumphant, and Cora beamed.

  They’d caught the murderer.

  Once the police arrived, they could haul him away. Safety was once again restored.

  Signor Palombi unwound his scarf and lowered his hood.

  Randolph stared at him. “It’s you.”

  Cora widened her eyes. Randolph wasn’t supposed to be gazing at Signor Palombi in such a manner. He wasn’t supposed to know the man.

  “What are you doing here?” Randolph demanded.

  Signor Palombi’s eyes drifted to Cora. “Holiday. An—er—important one.”

  Randolph frowned. “This man is not the murderer.”

  “But—” Cora blinked. “He snuck into the man’s library and—”

  “It appears suspicious,” Signor Palombi said amiably.

  “Most suspicious,” she said.

  She’d thought Randolph would help her. She’d found the murderer.

  Didn’t I?

  “I don’t understand,” she said.

  Randolph’s eyes softened. “I’m sorry.”

  “Let me just say that certain people were interested in the late duke’s business dealings,” Signor Palombi said. “War is in the air, whether the British government desires appeasement or not. Some people think it is useful to know what the Germans might have planned.”

  “You wanted plans for weapons? Designs?” Cora asked. “You’re a spy?”

  “He’s not going to confirm that,” Randolph said quickly.

  “I didn’t murder the duke,” Signor Palombi said.

  Cora frowned. “I think that’s for the police to determine. You should still come back.” She turned to Randolph. “Are you a spy too?”

  “Nonsense,” Randolph said breezily.

  “But then who else would have murdered the duke?”

  The two men looked at each other.

  “I think I should inspect the body,” Randolph said finally. “It may not be murder, and Mr.—”

  “You can go on calling me Palombi,” the fake Italian said.

  “Mr. Palombi,” Randolph continued, “will just become the scapegoat if he leaves now.”

  “I can stay a bit longer,” Mr. Palombi said after a pause. “I have grown fond of the manor house and its inhabitants.”

  They turned back toward the manor house, as confusion continued to course through Cora.

  Chapter Eighteen

  RANDOLPH AND SIGNOR Palombi skied slowly beside her. The gray stone of the manor house rose forebodingly over the crisp white snow, casting shadows over the icy moat. The leaves had been stripped from the trees, and gnarly branches stretched outside the manor house, as if to offer protection.

  “I’ll go inside,” Signor Palombi said.

  “Good idea,” Randolph replied.

  Cora gazed at the late duke’s window. Just as the dowager had admitted, the balcony outside extended to her room. But it was also connected to a third room. Signor Palombi could have accessed the duke’s room via the balcony.

  “When did you visit your bedroom?” Cora asked.

  “After dinner. At—er—ten o’clock,” Signor Palombi said.

  “After you had a chance to look through the duke’s things?”

  He nodded. “I heard somebody outside the door and decided not to stay for long.”

  “You heard me,” Cora said.

  He nodded gravely. “After that I went straight to my room.”

  “When did the dowager duchess arrive?”

  He flushed. “She was already there.”

  Randolph raised his eyebrows. Evidently, he did not know Signor Palombi as much as he claimed.

  “Did you hear anything?” Cora asked.

  He shook his head. “No.”

  “Did you leave your chamber at all?”

  “No! Not until I heard the duke scream.” He looked at Randolph. “It was a terrifying noise. It was of someone who truly feared death. And now I will go inside. If I am to stay here, I will at least make certain that dear Archibald is fed.”

  He marched into the house.

  “It was brave of you to go after him,” Randolph said. “But also incredibly foolish.”

  “I wanted to protect my friend.”

  “Let me look at the body. I have some experience in these matters, and I don’t want you to get hurt.” He glanced at the snow-filled road. “Besides, I think we’ll be here for a while.”

  Cora’s lips twitched. “It’s possible.”

  She directed her attention back to the duke’s window. A large tree sat outside. A few stubborn leaves fluttered on the tree’s dark, spidery branches. They drooped downward, as if regretting their insistent perch and contemplating the soft bed of snow beneath them.

  Had someone climbed up this tree to the duke’s room? The branches were slick with frost, and they didn’t seem sturdy enough to hold someone. But perhaps she was wrong.

  If only she’d devoted time to tree climbing as a child. The strength of tree trunks and branches had never seemed of particular interest before, but now it seemed of the utmost importance. She scrutinized the diameter of the branches. Perhaps the murderer had gone to that branch, and then the one diagonally over it, and then—

  “You think someone may have climbed up the tree to enter the duke’s bedroom?” Randolph asked.

  Cora jerked her head toward him.

  Perhaps he was also capable of climbing onto trees, and not just crawling beneath them.

  “That tree wouldn’t hold an adult,” Randolph said, with an air of authority. “Besides, I don’t see any footprints underneath it.”

  “It was snowing all night,” she said.

  “Perhaps,” Randolph said, “though that doesn’t change the fact that the tree wouldn’t hold anyone.”

  She nodded. Maybe she should yield to his expertise.

  Something didn’t feel right, but Randolph tucked a lock of hair behind her ear.

  “It’s windy,” she said apologetically.

  His gaze was more serious. “You have beautiful hair.”

  Heat flooded her cheeks. “It’s too dark. And it doesn’t hold a curl well.”

  “It’s thick and silky,” Randolph said. “And the color is beautiful.”

  She turned away. Her heart pattered in her chest. All talk of trees was forgotten. She couldn’t speak about climbing trees. Not when Randolph’s eyes seemed to gaze at her in wonder. Not when she longed to tuck herself against his broad shoulders as protection against the world.

  “You don’t have to investigate this,” Randolph said. “It’s not your job.”

  “Someone died. He didn’t want that either.”

  They reentered the manor house, and a servant came to assist them in removing their winter outerwear.

  “I’ll get the key to the room,” Randolph whispered. “Meet me up there in ten minutes.”

  Voices sounded from the drawing room, but Cora ascended the steps.

  Perhaps she could see if all the rooms on the corridor were occupied. The dowager duchess’s room might have been on one side of the duke, but who was on the other
? Maybe the duke’s room had not shared a balcony with that room, but was there perhaps an adjoining door?

  She decided to enter the room in question, and Cora opened the door. It was another bedroom, and someone was inside.

  Mrs. Ardingley.

  Except she was...standing.

  Cora swallowed hard.

  Mrs. Ardingley didn’t stand.

  She was in a wheelchair.

  “Who’s there?” Mrs. Ardingley jerked her head in the direction of Cora.

  Instinctively Cora stepped behind the door. She pressed her back against the wall, and her heart hammered.

  The picture rail dug into her spine, and she glanced at the stairs.

  Perhaps Mrs. Ardingley hadn’t seen her.

  Perhaps if she walked on the carpet, Mrs. Ardingley wouldn’t hear her footsteps and she might escape.

  Because if Mrs. Ardingley could stand, if she could walk—she’d had the capability to murder the duke after all.

  Why on earth was she keeping her ability to walk secret? If Cora had been confined to a wheelchair for a period and then recovered, she would be taking every chance to walk.

  Did her husband know?

  “Miss Clarke,” Mrs. Ardingley called out, and Cora stiffened.

  A shiver, not attributable to the lack of central heating, swept through her.

  Should she flee?

  “I know you’re there,” Mrs. Ardingley said.

  It was no use. Mrs. Ardingley had seen her. They were confined to a manor house. Cora could hardly succeed at spending the entirety of the time avoiding her.

  Cora stepped from behind the door.

  Mrs. Ardingley had settled back into the chair.

  It didn’t matter.

  Cora had seen her walking, and Mrs. Ardingley’s reliably icy composure seemed ruffled.

  Cora glanced around the room. For the first time she thought those men in westerns might have a point when they didn’t appear without a pistol. Candlesticks stood on a nearby table. Perhaps she might protect herself with one of those?

  Faint clinking sounded, and she moved her gaze upward.

  A crystal chandelier hung above them, and Cora straightened her back. The clear glass reflected all manner of colors.

  Things are not what they seem.

  How could material devoid of any color under the right circumstances seem in possession of every color? Had someone devoid of any appearance of means killed the duke after all?