Danger on the Downs Read online

  Table of Contents

  DANGER ON THE DOWNS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  EPILOGUE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Murder at the Manor House

  DANGER ON THE DOWNS

  Sussex, 1938.

  Former Hollywood starlet Cora Clarke may be new to England, but she does know that visiting the seaside is supposed to be a soothing experience. The snowy white cliffs and foamy ocean are indeed idyllic, but when her great aunt’s employer insists someone is trying to murder her husband, Cora is whisked off to a house party with her pet bichon. When someone soon turns up dead, Cora discovers Sussex might possess scandals that exceed anything a Hollywood director might conjure for the silver screen...

  CHAPTER ONE

  March, 1938

  Sussex

  The rain probably wasn’t a harbinger, but Cora Clarke still shivered.

  There’d been little rain in Los Angeles where Cora had been a movie star for fifteen years, and there’d been still less rain in Las Vegas, where she’d lived prior.

  The directors, though, had always included rain at ominous moments. Any hint of sorrow, even the impending kind, seemed to cause them to bark out instructions to wheel in rain machines.

  Unfortunately, this rain couldn’t be stopped by pressing a button. This rain was serious.

  The rain thudded against the train’s carriage, as if seeking to compete with the clatter of the wheels moving over the track. The view outside had been blurry, as rain sloshed down the windows, but now condensation obscured even that. Archibald lay lackadaisically at her feet, and Cora bent to stroke his curly white coat.

  “You’re used to England,” she said.

  Archibald rolled onto his back, as if triumphant at the accomplishment, and she ruffled the hair on his belly.

  The rain had descended throughout her journey from London Victoria Station, and it seemed unlikely to stop before she exited the carriage onto the platform in Polegate. She inhaled, quelling the strange nervousness that ran through her, and urged Archibald to follow her.

  He wagged his tail, and his feet pitter-patted over the corridor of the now mostly empty train. Most of the passengers had been well-dressed businessmen, attired in six-button double-breasted suit jackets with wide lapels and wider shoulders, who had departed at Lewes.

  The men who were left seemed more tired, and their cheaper suits gleamed at times in the fluorescent light.

  The conductor announced Polegate, emphasizing each hard vowel in a manner typically found in vaudeville showmen, and Cora hoisted up her trunk and stepped from the door of the carriage. Archibald followed, wagging his tail despite the onslaught of rain, and rushed to investigate the weeds that poked from the platform.

  Cora’s transparent oiled silk coat might stretch past her knees, and the sleeves might reach her wrists, but it still managed to seem too short when confronted with the sudden surge of rain which seemed to be of a strange horizontal variety.

  Cora supposed the rain might be an improvement on the snow that had blanketed Yorkshire. The snow had covered every slope, accompanied by icicles that dangled from every roof, like makeshift crystals. Thankfully, the snow had vanished as she traveled south.

  Nothing sparkled on the platform in Polegate. The sky was a gunmetal gray, accompanied by the slightly less-gray clouds that sailed over it with great speed, as if seeking to intimidate the German army, rumored to be intending invasion. Rain tumbled down with equal force, striking against the worn platform with a noise more suited to the particularly violent scenes in certain James Cagney films.

  She strode from the platform to a small, Italian-style building. All train stations seemed to be adorned with flourish, as if to make its visitors believe they’d landed in a grandiose location, alleviating the chore of travel with columns and crown molding.

  “Cora? Is that you?” A female voice pierced through the raindrops, and Cora quickened her steps.

  “I’m Cora,” she said. Her voice seemed small, swallowed by the storm.

  This must be Great Aunt Maggie. She’d only spoken to her on the phone. She’d half expected to see an aging woman in scarlet hair topped with a turban. Mother had been a chorus dancer after all.

  But the woman before her had curly gray hair and a practical dark coat and a rather less practical pastel scarf. Her face was similarly plump, and her mere presence managed to conjure images of hot apple crumbles and clotted cream covered scones, and Cora’s shoulders eased.

  “Oh, my dear. My sweet child.” The woman’s eyes crinkled, and in the next moment, Cora was clasped into her arms. “I’m your great aunt.”

  Cora’s heart seemed to glow.

  “I’m so happy to meet you, my dear,” Great Aunt Maggie murmured, pulling her even closer into the rather un-English hug.

  But then Great Aunt Maggie wasn’t truly English. She was Irish. When Cora’s mother had moved to America, Great Aunt Maggie had opted for the rather shorter boat ride to England to seek her own opportunities.

  Finally, her great aunt stepped away. She gazed down at Archibald, who had halted his exploration of the Polegate Station weed offerings, and was now gazing at them with something like curiosity.

  “This must be Archibald,” Great Aunt Maggie said solemnly.

  Archibald sat and offered her his paw.

  “And he’s clever,” Great Aunt Maggie said.

  “Yes.” Cora smiled in Archibald’s direction. Her dog’s previous owner had given him an extensive education, and Archibald seemed to take pleasure in displaying his knowledge.

  “Well, let’s get you inside,” Great Aunt Maggie said. “Mrs. Ivanov insisted we bring the car. She is ever so eager to make your acquaintance.”

  They scurried from the train station to an elegant dark vehicle. A man popped out and opened the door to her. She was vaguely aware of white hair and a herringbone ivy cap.

  “Pleased to meet you, Miss Clarke,” the man said in an Eastern European accent.

  Archibald leaped into the car and found a space on the back seat. He gave a contented yawn, nestling into a woolen blanket.

  “That was Archibald,” Cora said.

  “I’m Mr. Mitu,” the man said.

  “He’s the butler at Orchid Manor,” Great Aunt Maggie said as they entered the car, and her voice had a hint of pride in it.

  “Your Great Aunt Maggie works upstairs. Though she could be in the kitchen. Her food is most delicious,” Mr. Mitu said. “Scrumptious, as the English say.”

  “Mr. Mitu is Bulgarian,” Great Aunt Maggie explained.

  “But I’ve been here for years,” Mr. Mitu said proudly. “Even before Mrs. Ivanov decided to build her new property.”

  Cora noted a look of fondness between them, and she wondered if she was visiting a particularly collegial place, or if there might possibly be something between them.

  “I’m excited to spend time with you, Great Aunt Maggie,” Cora said.

  Great Aunt Maggie turned around. “You’re qu
ite welcome to refer to me as your aunt.”

  “Though you should never doubt your aunt’s greatness,” Mr. Mitu said gallantly.

  “I’m beginning to see that,” Cora said.

  They continued their introductions, and the car soon made its way from the town.

  The windshield wipers worked furiously, and the town became visible. Brick buildings, their colors not managed to be obscured by the rain, lined the mostly empty streets. Then the car pulled away from the town and headed through farmland. The fields were not yet green, but the vast spaces of various shades of brown managed to still be beautiful.

  They passed grandiose, half-timbered brick farmhouses from past centuries. Some of them had thatched roofs.

  “What is Orchid Manor like?” Cora asked hesitantly. “Is it quite old?”

  She’d had an imperfect experience with manor homes recently.

  “Not like any manor home you’ve ever seen,” Aunt Maggie said, and Cora’s shoulders relaxed a fraction.

  “My mistress is far too modern to live in one of those old homes with gargoyles and columns and such,” Aunt Maggie said.

  Mr. Mitu joined her in laughter.

  “It is a splendid house,” he said, and his shoulders seemed broader and his back straighter. “It’s right on the seaside.”

  “Indeed. They were going to build the house inland, near the old house,” Aunt Maggie explained. “But last year they announced they would build it on the coast. Personally, I’m quite happy with it here. The view is special, even if it does get colder in the winter. I am so excited about having you here. You’ll love it.”

  “I’m sure I will,” Cora said. “Where is Mrs. Ivanov from?”

  “Oh, she’s English,” her great aunt said with a smile. “She was married to a baron before. His family has lived on this property for centuries. Now she’s married to a rather dashing Bulgarian.”

  As they began to climb a steep hill, Cora was able to spot the English Channel through the rain. The waves were gray and furious, but Cora loved it at once.

  “I present Orchid Manor to you.” Mr. Mitu gestured to their right.

  “Oh.” Cora stared for a moment.

  The house was not half-timber, and the roof was decidedly not composed of any straw. Glass gleamed and curved beside crisp white concrete, jutting in novel directions.

  “It’s very modern,” Cora said.

  “Isn’t it? Mrs. Ivanov’s first husband may be dead, but her ability to spend money is still strong,” Aunt Maggie said.

  “Clearly,” Cora said, still staring at the house.

  This was the sort of home that belonged on the cover of an architectural magazine. It probably had graced the cover of an architectural magazine.

  A small structure stood near the house. Unlike the main house, this structure emanated the beauty and grace that ancient Greeks had once lauded. Columns that looked like they would be equally at home in a temple in Athens flanked the entrance, and urns, formed of the same stone as the rest of the building, sat on the roof, bestowing it with a no doubt unnecessary ominous look.

  “Oh, that’s the folly,” Aunt Maggie said, noticing the direction of Cora’s gaze. “Isn’t it pretty? That’s the oldest building here. It was built during the Napoleonic Wars. The estate’s original building is farther back.”

  Perhaps the urns had been intended to intimidate invading French soldiers, though even a soldier without a familiarity with geometry should have been sufficiently intimidated by the length of the steep cliffs that separated the English Channel from the Downs.

  Mr. Mitu stopped the car at a small entrance in the back, and Aunt Maggie ushered Archibald and her inside the house. Mr. Mitu drove farther, presumably to park the car.

  “Come,” Aunt Maggie said. “Let me introduce you to everyone.”

  They rounded the corner and came to the kitchen. Its black and white checkerboard floor gleamed. A series of servants in crisp black dresses and white aprons that matched the floor worked furiously, and Cora bent to attach her dog to his lead, lest Archibald decide to explore the kitchen and inadvertently decorate it with muddy footprints and strands of curly white hair.

  “There’s a house party going on,” Aunt Maggie explained.

  “Does Mrs. Ivanov have many such parties?” Cora asked, impressed at the servants’ relentless efficiency.

  “Oh, indeed.” Aunt Maggie’s face brightened. “You wouldn’t believe the delicious meals. Leftovers have never been so good. I worked in a house before where the person only wanted meat pie.”

  “I’m glad you are taking pleasure in the food,” a cool voice said from behind.

  Aunt Maggie stiffened and she turned around. “Mrs. Ivanov.”

  Cora turned her head.

  There, amidst the other kitchen staff, and looking decidedly out of place, was a glamorous woman. She wore a sea green day dress with a long, sheer peplum overjacket that appeared as if the slightest touch might unravel it. Cora suspected the overjacket’s price was not lessened by the garment’s fragileness. A gold and enamel chain bead bracelet gleamed from one wrist. The woman held a scarlet cigarette holder in her other hand, though the ashy scent was generously masked by a heavy floral perfume. Puffs of smoke coiled from her mouth, as if seeking to compete with the steam being emitted from the cook’s pots and pans.

  “Mrs. Ivanov.” Aunt Maggie curtsied. “Is there something with which I may help you?”

  Mrs. Ivanov extended a placid smile. Her honey-colored hair, visible even beneath a glossy turban, was arranged in immaculate waves and suggested an intimacy with a hairstylists’ entire arsenal.

  She ignored Aunt Maggie and addressed Cora. “You’re Cora Clarke? I’ve heard about your detective films.”

  “That’s my girl,” Aunt Maggie said fondly, and Cora felt a prickle of gratitude.

  Had her parents even expressed such pride? Cora thought not. It had always been part of her life, and of course, Pop was a performer as well.

  Mrs. Ivanov seemed to scrutinize her and then she smiled. “I thought Maggie must have been fibbing, but it’s really you. How incredible to find you in my kitchen. Quite marvelous. And fortunate.”

  “Fortunate?” Cora asked with cool politeness.

  Mrs. Ivanov nodded vigorously. “I’m having a party tonight. You must come. In fact, why don’t we have tea together now?”

  Cora glanced at her aunt. “I’m here on a visit.”

  “Maggie has work to do,” Mrs. Ivanov said.

  Well.

  “It’s fine, dearie,” Aunt Maggie said with a strained smile. “You go ahead. I’ll watch Archibald.”

  Cora hardly wanted to upset her aunt’s employer. “Very well.”

  “Oh, good.” Mrs. Ivanov led her away from the kitchen and her aunt. They strode up a winding set of stairs and then entered a wide room with a marble floor. A colorful chandelier dangled in the entryway, and Cora gave a wary glance at it. Bright expressionist paintings, their vibrant colors at odds with their morbid scenes, dotted the walls.

  “You don’t approve?” Mrs. Ivanov asked.

  “It’s lovely,” Cora said honestly. The studio executives in Hollywood would have adored a place like this. The large windows overlooked the sea, but unlike at the Malibu homes of top directors, the view was not of a calm, azure ocean. Gray waves crashed against each other in incessant rolls, spewing chalky foam. Some ships tumbled up in the sea, but mostly it was empty.

  Cora could have stared at it for hours, and she forced her gaze away.

  “Let’s sit in the parlor.” Mrs. Ivanov gestured to a polished chrome and glass table. Its glossy surface glistened under the abundance of crystal lamps that were lit, even though the space was devoid of people. Two teal tufted couches sat regally on either side of the coffee table, their curved backs unmarred by pillows. “We can have tea. Or coffee.” Mrs. Ivanov gave her a quick smile. “I do believe in efficiency. And the caffeine is truly far more effective in coffee. No doubt that is why Americans
favor it.”

  Cora glanced at the servants bustling about, wondering exactly what efficiency was required of Mrs. Ivanov.

  “Tea is fine,” Cora said, aware that despite any praise for coffee’s prowess that an Englishperson might muse upon, every Englishperson still seemed to favor tea over all other substances.

  “Very well,” Mrs. Ivanov beamed. “Oh, Mr. Mitu! Can you have some tea brought up for us?”

  Mr. Mitu appeared and gave a deep bow. “Very well.”

  Mrs. Ivanov gestured to an armchair, and Cora sat in it obediently, conscious she was having tea with her relative’s boss.

  “Now tell me,” Mrs. Ivanov said, “How do you like England?”

  “It’s nice,” she said, as she did to anyone who asked. She shifted her legs. The armchair’s generous size was not particularly suited to her, and she felt lost between the two armrests.

  Mrs. Ivanov narrowed her eyes. “I see small talk isn’t one of your skills.”

  Cora felt her cheeks warm.

  “But that’s fine,” Mrs. Ivanov said breezily. “I can talk enough for the both of us, and I have some things to ask you.”

  “About Hollywood?” Cora asked cautiously.

  Cora had been a child star, playing the title character in the Gal Detective movies for years, until the studio had to stop since it was no longer believable that eighteen-year-old Cora, even with her petite frame, was a girl anymore. Other child stars had transferred to adult roles years before, but when Cora attempted to play an adult, her girlish voice and slight frame seemed so unbelievable in a heroine that her contract had been swiftly terminated. Memorizing lines and dance steps had been a feat as a child, but it was rather less remarkable as an adult.

  Mrs. Ivanov leaned toward her. “Someone is trying to kill my husband.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Most women did not declare upon meeting someone over tea that their husbands were about to be murdered, and Cora widened her eyes.

  Mrs. Ivanov moved her hand toward her chest, and the sound of her bracelet jangling seemed to loom in the newly awkward silence. “Oh, my. I cannot believe I was brave enough to say that. I do hope I didn’t scare you. It’s no good having guests if I’m just going to frighten them.”