The Body in Bloomsbury Read online

  “Here’s the sheet music, if you need it. In fact, this has the sheet music for all the songs on the program,” Pop said.

  “Well, I won’t need that.”

  “Keep it anyway.” Pop strode confidently to the microphone.

  The audience’s applause intensified as she followed him onto the stage, and murmurings sounded. Evidently, some audience members had recognized her.

  And then she noticed them.

  The constables were back. Mr. Darby-Brown was back. They were all in the audience.

  Mr. Darby-Brown was at the front of the stage and gestured for him to stop.

  Pop didn’t stop. Instead, Pop spoke into the microphone, chatting about how pleased he was that his daughter the starlet was here and then proceeding to get the audience excited.

  Pop did not seem to subscribe to the theory of lowering expectations so as to better delight them. He seemed intent on raising expectations, and Cora resisted the urge to run from the stage.

  The detective frowned, and Pop quickly halted his adulations. He nodded to the pianist, and then in the next moment he was singing, and in the next moment after that, Cora had joined him.

  Well.

  She could do this.

  She hadn’t expected to do this. And she certainly would have preferred to be wearing something rather more suitable to performing than a plain blue dress, but she could do this.

  Pop had been right.

  It was almost enjoyable.

  Almost.

  Pop was walking around on the stage, even though during last night’s performance he hadn’t strayed from the microphone. Perhaps he’d decided to approach the song from a new artistic direction.

  Except... It was odd just how much Pop was walking.

  Wait.

  Is he walking...away?

  Cora’s heart thundered, even though that was most inconvenient, since she was trying to sing.

  Why is Pop walking away?

  Cora resisted the urge to frown, concentrating on her lyrics.

  She should have known better.

  Pop had been spooked by the police and the detective, and now he was leaving, even though he’d promised this crowd a whole evening of entertainment.

  Golly.

  He stepped behind the curtain, winked at her, and then disappeared.

  Double golly.

  She had two choices. She could stop the performance and run after him, alerting the detective and constables that he was attempting to run away, or she could stay and pretend that this was all part of the duet, all part of the act.

  In truth, she only had one option.

  Pop was her father, and she was wasn’t going to send the constables on him if she could help it.

  So she sang.

  And sang.

  And sang.

  The sheet music was helpful, and she ignored the startled expression on the pianist’s face, as she proceeded to each new song.

  Finally, she finished the last song.

  No one should have applauded.

  She hadn’t warmed up her voice, and she hadn’t even sung since her last musical.

  And yet, for some reason, the audience still applauded. In fact, some still applauded. Some of them even stood. Most of them stood.

  She blinked at the shadowy figures, blinded by the bright lights.

  She’d been so determined to keep the police constables and detective distracted. She’d worked so hard to make them think she truly belonged on the stage, that she’d forgotten some of her fears.

  She strode from the stage, stopping as people congratulated her. Some people mused on their memories of watching her on the silver screen.

  “Miss Clarke.” Cora stiffened, recognizing the voice immediately.

  It didn’t matter that their conversation had been brief. Nothing could compel her to forget Mr. Darby-Brown’s rounded vowels and excellent articulation.

  She shuddered and turned toward him.

  “I must congratulate you on your remarkable performance.”

  She gave a tight smile.

  “Though I’ve spoken with the manager here, and he said you were not scheduled to sing.”

  “I was a surprise guest.”

  “That is taking surprise to extremes.”

  She was silent.

  “Perhaps more surprising is that your father did not rejoin you.”

  She remained silent, conscious only of the heavier thudding of her heart.

  “Where is he now?” Mr. Darby-Brown asked sternly.

  “I’m afraid I can’t help you,” she said honestly. “Er—perhaps he returned to his hotel room. I—er—believe he wasn’t feeling well.”

  “Balderdash.”

  “What did you want to see him about?” Cora asked. “Perhaps I can help you.”

  “This is a police inquiry, Miss Clarke.”

  “And my father was happy for you to speak in my presence before,” Cora reminded him.

  He sighed. “Well, I’m not going to waste time thinking about what he might prefer. Though I doubt you can help.”

  “Try me,” Cora said the words lightly. She had no intention of revealing to the detective just how interested she was in the case and just how much she knew.

  “Very well,” he said. “Do you know anything about Persian jewels?”

  “I like jewels,” she said honestly. “Though I’m not acquainted with the Persian kind. Are they any different?”

  “No,” the detective said flatly. He then shrugged. “Well, there are some variations in the settings.” He cleared his throat. “But that’s not the focus of the discussion. The important thing is that the victim was carrying these jewels with him from Persia.”

  “Don’t tell me he liked to wear them too.”

  The detective frowned. “Don’t be facetious. Mr. Tehrani was from all accounts an exceptionally proper man. One of the local museums was giving an exhibit on Persian archaeology, goodness knows why. There’s enough interesting things in this current world to ponder about what happened centuries, much less millennia, ago.”

  Cora suspected Miss Greensbody would have an excellent argument against this, but she remained silent. She didn’t need to encourage the detective to take a more open-minded view on history, she only needed to encourage him to divulge more.

  “The jewels?” she prompted.

  “Er—right.” The detective hesitated, as if wondering whether he should tell her anything. He sighed. “I suppose you may as well know. It will probably be in the paper tomorrow anyway. What we need is a good war. That will give the journalists something else to focus on except murders of minor royals from other countries.”

  “He was a royal?” she raised her eyebrow.

  He nodded. “Cousin to the Shah. Not a particularly important person, but close enough to be entrusted with precious jewels.”

  “Have you found the jewels?” she asked.

  “No,” he said bluntly. “The Shah is beginning to ask questions. Claiming the English must have murdered him. What drivel. As if we don’t have enough jewels already. We could raid the Tower of London much easier to get ones more meaningful to us. It’s caused enough of a fuss to get people breathing down my neck to solve this case. Not that it will help without the jewels. Your father, it seems, had money issues.”

  “He doesn’t discuss his finances with me,” Cora said stiffly.

  “Probably a pity,” the detective said. “You seem to have a cooler head.”

  Cora was silent, and it occurred to her that the detective might be trying to flatter her. Did he hope she would reveal information about her father or his possible whereabouts to him?

  He won’t get it.

  “I assure you that my father is no thief.”

  The detective looked coldly at her. “I wonder if you know much about your father at all.”

  “Naturally.” She raised her chin, but a smile seemed to play upon the detective’s face.

  “Have a nice evening, Miss Clarke.” Mr.
Darby-Brown gave a slight bow and then left her.

  Cora smoothed her dress.

  She didn’t know where Pop was and she hoped he was fine. The only consolation she had was that the detective seemed similarly befuddled about his disappearance.

  Pop had really gone and done it now.

  Still.

  She had learned something. Mr. Tehrani’s jewels were missing. Had he gone to meet with Miss Greensbody at her apartment building on that fateful morning? Miss Greensbody was obviously enamored with the jewels. She’d asked everyone else where they’d been, but she’d never asked Miss Greensbody directly.

  “Cora!” Randolph interrupted her musings. “You were brilliant.”

  She shrugged. “I’m worried about Pop.”

  His eyes twinkled, and he took her into his arms. Though she did quite enjoy the sensation of his arms about her, this time she pulled back.

  He smiled, and she narrowed her eyes.

  Why was he smiling? She’d confessed she was worried about her father, and his eyes were twinkling, and his lips were jutting up, as if she’d made a joke.

  “There’s nothing amusing here,” she said.

  “There is actually,” he said. “Somewhat amusing,” he hastened to say. “Only somewhat amusing.”

  “I’m not in the mood for a joke.” She stepped away and crossed her arms, ignoring the sudden sense of coldness when she was away from him.

  “Your father is something of a pickpocketer.”

  “That’s a cruel thing to say,” she said.

  “He stole my keys,” Randolph said.

  “He did?”

  “We were talking about cars,” Randolph said, still smiling. “He asked me what I drove. I don’t think he was very impressed. But sometime, probably when he came to lead you up to the stage, he stole my keys.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  He shrugged. “He’ll return it. I’m happy to help. It would have made it more difficult for the constables to trace him, even once they realized that he wasn’t coming back. You were quite convincing on stage.”

  She smiled.

  “So you think he’s fine?”

  “I think you shouldn’t underestimate him.” He shrugged. “Besides, I know what kind of car I drive. I can always see if it shows up anywhere. I do have access to certain logs.”

  She clutched onto his hand, hoping it would all be fine, and this time they strolled back to her apartment.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Archibald barked. He barked and barked and barked.

  “Archibald,” Cora exclaimed, blinking into the bright light of the morning sun.

  Was she late? Perhaps he was craving his morning walk. Cora scrambled from her bed and rubbed sleep from her eyes.

  “Archibald,” she scolded. “No barking. It’s not polite. And we have neighbors. I’m lucky they’re even letting us live here. Most people don’t tolerate dogs in apartments.”

  A small voice in her told her there was perhaps a good reason why dogs weren’t tolerated in apartments, but she didn’t want to dwell on that now.

  Archibald was mostly a good dog.

  She supposed she may have slept longer than absolutely necessary. She’d arrived back late last night from the club, and she’d only managed to give Archibald a small walk to the square after she returned.

  “One moment, Archibald,” she said, grabbing some clothes. “We’ll go outside soon. Don’t you worry.”

  Archibald continued to bark. No doubt the words she used demanded a higher vocabulary than that which he possessed.

  She sighed. “See? I’m dressed now. You can calm down.”

  Archibald did not calm down and he pawed against a piece of paper near the door.

  Cora froze.

  Why was there a piece of paper inside her apartment? Her heart beat more quickly, and she told herself she was overreacting. She bent down and noticed that entire newspaper words had been cut and pasted to the paper. She read the words: “No more questions.”

  Cora stared at the paper.

  There was nothing particularly bad about the phrase. It had no curse words and no threats to her life.

  And yet, the note still sent a shiver throttling through her spine.

  The words had been evidently cut from a newspaper. The font was slightly pretentious, even though the quality of paper had the same poor standards of any newspaper: thin, gray, and rough. She touched the ink, and it smeared slightly on her finger. She dropped it at once.

  Perhaps she should show the paper to Randolph. Perhaps he might be able to determine who had sent the paper. Perhaps the perpetrator’s fingerprints were still on the page.

  Archibald trotted toward her.

  “Stop,” she whispered. “Sit.”

  He did so obediently, though he tilted his head, as if surprised at her softer voice.

  “I’m sorry I was cross,” she said, striving to sound soothing. “It’s good you showed me.”

  She wished Archibald could tell her who left the paper. He probably had recognized the scent.

  Had the murderer left the paper? Was it one of the people with whom she’d attended the club last night?

  But she’d also asked questions of Miss Greensbody. Had it been her?

  If only she’d paid more attention when Archibald had barked. Perhaps then she could have discovered who had left the note. She bent down and ruffled his coat. “You tried. Let’s go for a walk.”

  Archibald wagged his tail, evidently finding that plan agreeable.

  Cora gritted her teeth together.

  They’d all pretended not to know Mr. Tehrani.

  They couldn’t all not know him.

  Someone had murdered him. Someone had killed him.

  And instead that person had likely just sipped martinis with her the night before last and pretended nothing was the matter.

  She glanced at Bess’s door. Was she inside now? Her throat tightened, and she resisted the temptation to knock on Bess’s door. She had questions to ask her, but she didn’t want to be alone with her when she asked them.

  Cora hurried down the stairs. She took Archibald on a short walk, but after they returned, she took on another walk. She cut across the square, even though she’d just encircled it, and she kept walking, even after she’d exited Bloomsbury.

  Finally she reached Veronica’s hotel.

  Her true friend.

  She strode to the reception and after convincing the receptionist she was indeed who she said she was, she marched to Veronica’s room and knocked on the door.

  “Gracious!” Veronica blinked. “I didn’t expect to see you, honey.”

  Cora shifted from leg to leg. “I think I was just threatened.”

  “You better come inside, honey.”

  Cora nodded and moved past her friend. Gilded furniture sparkled, enhanced by a fire burning in the fireplace.

  “And we’ll need fortifications, honey.” Veronica turned and rang the bell. A maid appeared quickly. “Two mimosas.”

  The maid nodded, and Veronica turned back to Cora. “Now what were you saying?”

  “I’ll show you.” Cora opened her purse, conscious her hands were shaking. She removed the note with her gloved hand and showed it to Veronica.

  Her friend bent down and scrutinized it, scrunching her nose. Finally she lifted her head. “Oh, that’s not very nice.”

  “I didn’t think so.” Cora returned the note to her purse.

  “Who do you think sent it?” Veronica asked.

  “It could have been any of them. I mean, Lionel and Rollo don’t have a connection with Mr. Tehrani. But Miss Greensbody and Bess do.”

  “Bess?” Veronica looked up sharply.

  Cora nodded. “I went to Mr. Tehrani’s hotel room. He had a photograph of her in his blazer.”

  “She did seem quite shaken when she learned about his death last night,” Veronica remarked.

  Cora nodded. Veronica was right.

  The maid arrived with t
heir drinks, and Cora turned the conversation to something that the maid would find more innocuous, should she overhear.

  “I think Rollo is keen on Bess,” Cora said.

  Veronica laughed. “Honey, Rollo is very keen on her. And his cousin did not like it.”

  “You think his cousin fancies her himself?”

  Veronica shrugged. “Though he did seem the disagreeable sort, and it’s difficult to imagine him liking anything. Well, anything except alcohol. The poor thing was quite out of sorts when we visited him.” Veronica giggled and took another sip of her mimosa.

  “Did they notice when the police constables arrived?” Cora asked.

  Veronica laughed. “Oh, everyone noticed. It was quite scandalous. Even though your father did carry on quite well after the intermission.”

  “Oh.”

  “What you should consider,” Veronica said, “is to have a proper investigation.”

  Cora crossed her arms. “I’m not taking this to the police. They’ll only want to suspect my father. I’ll tell them about it when I have some genuine leads.”

  “Honey, I wouldn’t dream of bringing them into it. So much bureaucracy.” She shuddered. “What would the Gal Detective do?”

  Cora blinked. “She would search their apartments.”

  Veronica nodded. “Exactly.”

  “I could see if I can find a newspaper that matches the font used in this note.”

  “Precisely honey,” Veronica said, giving a pleased smile. “Though I wouldn’t recommend you bring Archibald. He’s far too liable to start barking.”

  “Maybe I might even find the jewels,” Cora said.

  “And then you will have found the murderer.” Veronica waved her hand. “And then you can call that awful man in the brown trench coat who insisted on interviewing your poor dear father.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Cora strode from the hotel and into Knightsbridge. People wore nicer clothes. Women swung shopping bags from their hands. A name flashed on one of them, and Cora recognized the department store where Bess worked.

  Harrods.

  The store stretched the entire block, and Cora stared at exquisite window displays. Everything seemed sumptuous. Everything sparkled.