The Body in Bloomsbury Read online

  “I didn’t find the photograph particularly grainy,” Cora said.

  “No?” Bess fiddled with the clasp of her bracelet. “I suppose it may have been the pose. Yes, definitely the pose. It was so rigid. You see, when I saw him, he looked quite...alive. Very energetic. Definitely dashing.” There was a curious wistful sound to her voice that made Cora turn sharply toward her.

  “You mean you found the painting of Mr. Tehrani to be more dashing?” Cora asked.

  Bess’s face turned a distinct red shade, the color visible despite the room’s dim lights.

  “It’s all Miss Greensbody will talk about,” Bess said apologetically. “I was curious and went to the exhibit.”

  “With Miss Greensbody?”

  “Er—no. I believe she was at lunch,” Bess said. “I didn’t see her. But the portrait was—er—flattering.”

  “I see,” Cora said, even though she did not.

  The tension in Bess’s shoulders eased.

  “Miss Greensbody did seem most eager to meet Mr. Tehrani,” Rollo said. “It’s a pity he died.”

  There was an awkward silence, not saved by the music. Perhaps the others realized Miss Greensbody would be unlikely to kill the man whom she’d been so eager to see.

  “Apparently, the man was carrying the most brilliant jewels.” Bess’s voice was at a somewhat higher pitch than normal, and Cora regretted she was making her uncomfortable.

  She liked Bess.

  She liked all of them, with the possible exception of Lionel, who possessed an abundance of grumpiness that could be frustrating. Still, he was also jovial.

  “Perhaps someone stole them who needed money,” Lionel mused. “I wonder if the police found the jewels.”

  Cora glanced at Veronica. “That’s an interesting thought.”

  “That’s why I’m in medical school,” Lionel said with a smile.

  Perhaps Cora could find out if the police had discovered the jewels. They hadn’t seemed to be on Mr. Tehrani’s body. She hadn’t even found identification on his body, though that in itself was odd.

  Perhaps she could ask Randolph if he could make discreet inquiries about the jewels.

  Her shoulders eased, and she leaned back.

  “Are the police certain he was murdered?” Rollo asked.

  Lionel pushed the article toward him. “It says he was poisoned.”

  “How curious.” Rollo took a long sip of his cocktail. “Though it could have been suicide.”

  “If I were to commit suicide,” Lionel declared, “I would choose a quicker method.”

  “Not everyone has your efficiency,” Rollo said.

  Bess shuddered. “Let’s speak about something else.”

  “Where do you come from originally?” Cora asked, trying to change the conversation to something that might be taken as being less aggressive.

  “Peterborough,” Lionel said. “Not too far from here.”

  Cora tried to nod authoritatively, but her British geography was still imperfect.

  Rollo’s eyes softened. “It’s north of here. About an hour away on the train.”

  “I live farther away,” Bess said. “Though, I’m going to Cotswolds this weekend.”

  “Mother owns several apartments in London,” Lionel said. “I manage all of them.”

  “And your father?”

  “Father died in the last war,” Rollo said stiffly.

  “I’m sorry,” Cora said, feeling vaguely guilty she’d brought them to see her father. “Pop was too young to fight.”

  “If there’s another war with Germany,” Lionel said, “we’ll be just the right age to fight.”

  Cora swallowed hard.

  Most concerns had a habit of seeming petty compared to the prospect of going to war. The boys back home hadn’t worried about war. War was something some of their fathers had had to do, but Americans had made it clear they desired no more part in European battles. They’d had to step in at the end of the Great War, but war had continued in many countries in Europe since then, as they’d argued over their newly drawn borders with violence.

  “He’s just using that as an excuse to drink more,” Rollo said. “Chamberlain is on top of it. He won’t allow another war. England is just finished recovering from the last one.”

  It was true.

  Though some newspaper articles spoke chidingly about how nearly a quarter of the British population were living below subsistence levels, even when they possessed jobs, many people were doing well. Estates had sprung up in the suburbs, and when Cora traveled by train through the countryside, she’d spotted rows of new, matching buildings. Many of them were half-timbered, hearkening back to a romanticized time, while others took pride in displaying the large, curved glass windows that signified the latest in building techniques. The depression had been good for some people, who’d taken advantage of the falling prices to secure their own futures.

  No one wanted to lose everything for another war.

  A few people were dancing, and Lionel nudged his cousin. Rollo’s face grew a distinct ruddy color, but he turned to Bess. “Let’s go for a whirl.”

  Bess bit her lower lip. Cora had the impression her neighbor didn’t return Rollo’s obvious affections, but Bess made no polite refusal. Instead, she raised her chin and extended her hand. “Very well.”

  Rollo helped her from her seat and led her to the small dance floor. Bess’s dress didn’t shimmer like other dresses did, and her back was not exposed in the modern manner, but Rollo still gazed at her as if she were the loveliest creature he’d ever happened across.

  “Pathetic,” Lionel muttered. He staggered to his feet and approached Veronica. “May I have this dance?”

  Veronica stubbed out her cigarette. “Sure, honey.” She glanced at Cora. “You won’t mind being alone?”

  “I’ll be fine,” Cora said.

  Veronica flashed a smile, and in the next moment Cora was alone at the table, surrounded by mostly empty cocktail glasses. The lingering scents of the various alcoholic concoctions wafted through the air, some sweet, some sour, and now all unpleasant.

  She’d hoped she would be able to find a new, more normal life in London. She had a pleasant apartment, and she’d met pleasant people, but she’d spent her evening with them badgering them with questions that all possessed the same implication: she believed one of them might be a murderer.

  No matter.

  Some questions needed to be asked.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  A taxi had carried them home last night from the bright lights of Soho to the not very bright lights of Bloomsbury.

  Interrogating subjects hadn’t been of much use. All she’d learned was that Lionel had been hungover, Rollo had been studying in a library, and Bess had been working. Since Lionel had been by himself, he was the most likely murderer.

  The problem was, he had no motive.

  But then, none of them did.

  Perhaps it was simply a matter of verifying alibis. Lionel had certainly acted hungover, though she couldn’t drag him to a doctor to verify the exact amount of alcohol he’d consumed then.

  But perhaps it was also a matter of seeing if she could learn more about Mr. Tehrani. She tapped her fingers on the table.

  “Come on, Archibald,” she said. “We’re going to eat and then go on a short walk.” She frowned. “And then you’ll have to watch the apartment. Museums are not for dogs.”

  Soon she headed off to the museum alone. Music roared from Lionel’s and Rollo’s apartment. Evidently, Lionel did not always sleep late.

  Though the sun wasn’t in full force, and anyone in Hollywood would have declared the day horrid, the gray sky was simply gray. There was no rain, and Cora could manage the slight unpleasantness of the wind.

  The weather suited London. It certainly suited Bloomsbury. It made all the intellectual museums and libraries appear especially enticing. Cora would have thought spending the day wandering about the British Museum would be a most wonderful thing.<
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  Not that she was going to visit the British Museum. No, she was going to visit the much smaller exhibit on Persia. She hadn’t spent sufficient time there yesterday. The painting of Mr. Tehrani had compelled her to leave hastily, when she should have been learning all about him.

  After all, when she played the Gal Detective on screen, her character had always learned about the person to whom the crime took place. Those crimes had been nonviolent and had mostly involved stealing, but learning about the victim was always beneficial.

  Miss Greensbody might think it odd if she asked too many questions about him in her apartment, but she would think it less odd if she asked questions inside the exhibit.

  The Londoners hurried to their workplaces, their bus stops, and their tube stops. They strode briskly in gray flannel suits. The more adventurous of them wore brown.

  She stepped inside the Persian Antiquities Exhibit at the Museum of Ancient Antiquities on Great Russell Street.

  Miss Greensbody peered from a desk. “It’s you.”

  “I didn’t finish the exhibit,” she said.

  “No, you fled,” Miss Greensbody said bluntly.

  Cora shifted her legs.

  The plan had been for her to ask questions. The plan had not been for Miss Greensbody to berate her, and Cora fought to keep her expression pleasant, even though her lips threatened to descend into a frown.

  “Do you think you can show me around?” Cora asked.

  Miss Greensbody gave her a harsh stare, and Cora shifted her legs.

  “I mean, naturally if you’re busy—” Cora said.

  “I’m always busy,” Miss Greensbody said, straightening her spine.

  “Right.” Cora nodded, but she was conscious the exhibit was almost empty. No doubt they hadn’t had the rush of tourists yet. This was still early morning, and the tourists would be in their bed and breakfasts, eating beans on toast and wishing they were on the continent, where the breakfasts were rumored to be better. Some of them might even be still asleep.

  “So you’ve developed a sudden passion for Persian artifacts?” Miss Greensbody turned a page of an intimidating leather-bound book.

  “Not Persian specifically,” Cora admitted. “And not artifacts specifically either.”

  “I see,” Miss Greensbody said. “At least you’re not lying about that.”

  Cora blinked. “Is there something wrong?”

  “It seems you neglected to tell me the other day that Mr. Tehrani was the same man whom you professed to have found dead in your bedroom.”

  Cora stiffened.

  Had the police told Miss Greensbody that? Was she going to tell the police? Cora’s heartbeat quickened, and she forced herself to inhale deeply.

  “You needn’t look so pale,” Miss Greensbody said. “This is a time for me to feel shocked, and not you.”

  “Who told you?” Cora asked carefully. Perhaps Miss Greensbody had known all along, because she’d murdered the man.

  “Bess,” Miss Greensbody said. “It seemed she finally had some news that exceeded even shopping in interest.”

  “What a nice change for you.”

  “Well, it would have been nicer to know Mr. Tehrani was murdered. We did correspond, and it is sad to know he passed away so prematurely.”

  It was sad. Cora had forgotten that, and her cheeks warmed.

  “It also would have been helpful to know he’d died. That is an excusable reason for him not to have returned the jewels. Truly, I could not have hoped for a better reason.”

  “Oh.”

  Miss Greensbody leaned closer to her. “I would hate for anyone to suspect I’d inadvertently intimidated him with my knowledge of his country.”

  “Oh?”

  Miss Greensbody gave a casual shrug. “I have been studying Persian culture with great intensity for years. I can be intimidating even when corresponding on something I have not studied for years.”

  “I can imagine that,” Cora said.

  Miss Greensbody might give every indication of preferring books to people, but she was quite capable of speaking to people. She did not seem overly timid.

  “Though,” Cora said, “I imagine he also knew quite a lot about his country.”

  Miss Greensbody shrugged. “Perhaps. It must have been an honor for him to have been able to come here to deliver them personally. It is a pity he failed in his task.”

  “He didn’t mean to,” Cora said gently.

  “No one means to fail.” Miss Greensbody narrowed her eyes. “With the possible exception of some American sports teams.”

  “Have the police come here yet?”

  “No,” Miss Greensbody said. “Which means there’s still some time to find those jewels.”

  Cora blinked. “You want to look for them?”

  “I consider it vital,” Miss Greensbody said. “My task was to procure the jewels. That doesn’t stop just because the man tasked to bring it is dead. The people of London, indeed the people of the world, deserve to see the jewels.”

  “Splendid,” Cora said weakly.

  She had intended to learn information on Mr. Tehrani, but she hadn’t intended to steal them.

  “Do you know where he was staying?” Cora asked.

  “The Savoy.”

  Cora blinked.

  “You needn’t look appalled. It is a very nice hotel.”

  “I know,” Cora said. “I’ve been there.”

  Pop was staying in that hotel. Of all the hotels in London, Mr. Tehrani had to have chosen that one.

  Cora had hoped that even if the detective managed to trace the body to Pop, he wouldn’t be able to find any connection between Mr. Tehrani and Pop.

  She could not cling to that hope anymore.

  “I have his room number,” Miss Greensbody said, fiddling through some papers. “It’s Room 1128.”

  “The police will be there,” Cora said, even though she hoped they would not have identified Mr. Tehrani yet.

  “Oh.” Miss Greensbody’s shoulders drooped uncharacteristically.

  “I can’t help you,” Cora said.

  The last thing she wanted to do was to break into the victim’s room to help somebody who may have murdered the man.

  Miss Greensbody sniffed. “No surprise.”

  Cora wasn’t certain whether she should apologize more, but Miss Greensbody returned to her research book.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Cora assessed The Savoy.

  The building soared before her in all of its finery, and everything inside her seemed to tremble. Well-dressed people glided through the hotel’s grand entrance.

  A doorman wearing a top hat ushered her inside, and she raised her chin and quickened her speed, lest she be too recognizable. She hurried over the black and white marble floor in the lobby, and she refrained from marveling at the elaborate gold-colored columns.

  I’m just going to visit Pop. I have every reason to be here.

  She may have told Miss Greensbody she would never enter the room, but as she’d exited the exhibit, her moral convictions had wavered.

  After all, snooping might be frowned upon, but murder exceeded that in horribleness. Cora had snooped in Gal Detective films before. She knew the general concept and she’d even mastered the art of using a hairpin to break and enter.

  Still, she’d find a way. Besides, in this case the victim of the crime was already dead. Mr. Tehrani wouldn’t care if she went through his things.

  She marched through the corridor, passing various elegant sideboards and armchairs that seemed to serve no other purpose than to display the management’s consistently exquisite taste.

  Room 1128.

  Mr. Tehrani’s room was nowhere near Pop’s. Pop’s room had been at the very top of the Savoy. The top floors seemed to expand and be composed entirely of suites.

  The doors on this corridor seemed closer together. Mr. Tehrani, despite his connection to the Shah, had been in London more in the role of a courier. Despite the Museum of Ancien
t Antiquities respectable address near other museums in Bloomsbury, it most likely did not have the funds to host him in a nicer room.

  Cora had half-expected to see a constable outside the room, but when she spotted the brass numbers on the door and realized she was at the correct location, there was nothing to distinguish this room from any other one. No doubt the Metropolitan Police Force was vital for solving other cases as well.

  Some maids in black dresses and crisp white aprons strolled down the corridor in her direction, and Cora swiveled and stared at the wall before her, feigning deep interest at a painting of a daisy, even though she’d seen dozens upon dozens of daisies before in their natural settings.

  The maids, unfortunately, ambled slowly, pushing a laundry cart, and Cora’s heartbeat quickened. She was conscious she might appear ridiculous, as if she’d mistaken the corridor for a museum, and as if she’d mistaken this mass produced picture for art.

  Still, she refrained from removing her gaze.

  Finally, their footsteps grew fainter, and she studied the door of room 1128. It seemed fairly thick, and she hadn’t heard noises from the room. Perhaps she could use her trick for opening doors anyway. It had worked on set when she starred in the Gal Detective films. Perhaps it would work here.

  She looked both ways, but the corridor was empty.

  It was bound not to remain empty, and she tore a bobby pin from her bun. Her updo wobbled slightly, and she wished she’d placed a more liberal number of pins in her hair.

  Never mind.

  She inhaled, though the gesture did not manage to still her heart from hammering fiercely, and she set to work on the lock. She’d scarcely put it in, when footsteps sounded.

  The footsteps did not come from either side of her, nor did they come from behind her.

  The footsteps came from inside the room.

  Her heart sank.

  Naturally, the room wouldn’t be empty. The police were bound to have discovered the man’s identity.

  The doorknob turned, and she yanked the hairpin from the door. She clasped her palm over it, so it dug into her flesh.

  She wanted to flee. She wanted to scurry from the door, and if she didn’t manage to leave the corridor, she wanted to be pretending to be admiring another painting. Perhaps this time she could even plant herself before a depiction of an orchid.