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THE CHIEF INSPECTOR returned, placing himself beside one of the oversized Chinese vases. His expression was rather less sour than it had been before, and Cora felt an unusual flicker of anger. The man seemed content, as if contemplating his next holiday. As if he were on his next holiday.
Cora rose, ignoring the curious glances from the others. Mr. Badger and his wife had settled around another table in the drawing room that was decked with food. Last night’s murder did not seem to have disturbed their appetite, and a maid brought them a steady stream of tea, cakes, and a hearty mixture of baked beans, eggs, and tomatoes. They’d evidently found Mrs. Ivanov’s copy of The Telegraph and they had it spread between them. Mr. Badger was reading an article with a headline warning of imminent war with Germany, and Mrs. Badger’s eyes glistened less than before.
“I think arresting him may have been overly hasty,” Cora said.
“Nonsense. Mrs. Ivanov’s late husband was Bulgarian, and Mr. Mitu is Bulgarian.” The chief inspector dismissed Cora’s assertion and waved the pamphlet in his hand. “And this is dangerous.”
She must have looked shocked, because he adjusted his face to a more affable expression. She’d found the English were quick to retreat from confrontations, seeing politeness as a solution to everything. “My dear, sometimes we are simply efficient.”
“Anyone could have placed that pamphlet there,” Cora said, refusing to back down. “This is a large house, with many people in it.” She swept her arm about the room, gesturing to the other guests, but rather than nodding their heads in affirmation of their considerable number, they seemed to stiffen and scowl. Only Veronica and Randolph gave her encouraging smiles, and Cora returned her attention to the chief inspector. “And even if Mr. Mitu was in possession of the pamphlet, that does not mean he would be compelled to assassinate his employer.”
“The lady does have a point,” one of the young constables said, nodding his head, so his oval helmet glistened in the bright light that shone in from the south-facing windows. “You wouldn’t believe the number of pamphlets I get handed whenever I walk through the high street in Eastbourne.”
“If someone is distributing radical materials in the center of Eastbourne, it is your duty to inform us and stop them.” The chief inspector’s momentary adherence to the virtues of civility seemed to be forgotten, and his face took on a purple tint. His heavy eyebrows shot together, and his, until now, unremarkable eyes flashed. “Do you want us to end up like Russia, constable?”
“No, sir.” The man lowered his dark eyes, and his large Adam’s apple moved rapidly as he swallowed.
The chief inspector straightened and ran his fingers over his mustache, as if to smooth it. “Good.”
Randolph moved toward them. “I am certain the chief inspector is well aware the butler might not be the true murderer and is only going to take him in for questioning. It would be presumptuous for him to make a formal arrest before interviewing everyone at this party and seeing if they had motive and opportunity.”
“Er—naturally,” the chief inspector sputtered.
Wheels crunched against pebbles, and they turned toward the window. The police car barreled away from the house.
“It would be dashed convenient if he is the murderer, though,” the chief inspector said softly, gazing at the retreating vehicle carrying his suspect.
“But you already arrested ’im,” another constable said, in a heavy East End accent. “That’s why ’e ’ad ’andcuffs on.”
“Oh, balderdash,” the chief inspector grumbled. He returned his attention to Mrs. Ivanov. “I assure you we will find your husband’s murderer and be out of here soon.”
“Good,” Mrs. Ivanov said, sliding into a velvet armchair. She pressed a hand against her throat, and her rings sparkled.
Cora wondered whether Mrs. Ivanov’s husband had gifted them to her, and her stomach formed an uncomfortable knot.
“I do hope you finish with this soon,” Mrs. Ivanov said. “My nerves do create such havoc within me, and I have sought to be generous to the force in the past. I know you policemen are terribly brave. One murder, and I am a nervous wreck.”
“He was your husband,” the chief inspector said kindly. “I would be a wreck myself if my Mollie ever was murdered. Bad enough when she got the flu once.”
Mrs. Ivanov looked up demurely. “How sweet of you to say.”
The chief inspector threw his shoulders back, and the corners of his lips curved up.
“You know,” Mrs. Ivanov said coyly, “I was thinking, now that the construction on the house is finally finished, and since you’re here anyway, we might be able to discuss the Police Force’s Annual Christmas Ball.”
“We’ve been very thankful for your donations in the past,” the chief inspector said, and he lowered his torso in a slight bow.
“I thought this year you might desire to have the ball here,” she said.
“Here?” The chief inspector’s eyebrows shot up again.
“Why not? We do have a ballroom after all. My husband—my late husband, thought it important for any grand house, even a modern one.” She dabbed an embroidered handkerchief against her eyes.
“That is kind of you.” The chief inspector scratched the back of his head. “It might not look right though.”
“Why ever not?” Mrs. Ivanov straightened, and she dropped her hand back to her side.
“Seeing as this is an investigation and all...” The chief inspector shifted his weight, as if hoping the other leg might better hold him up.
“I think he might mean bribery,” Mr. Badger remarked, turning a page of the newspaper.
Mrs. Ivanov blinked. “I’m sure he doesn’t mean bribery.” Then she stopped and tilted her head toward the police inspector. “Do you mean bribery?”
“I—er—” The chief inspector scratched the back of his neck again, and Mrs. Ivanov’s hither-to composed expression wobbled.
“I hope you didn’t mean it,” Mrs. Ivanov said, and her blinks increased in rapidity, as did the speed of her voice. “I certainly didn’t want to insinuate it. I was simply remembering my previous wish to speak to you about it. I have long admired everything you and your boys do, and after witnessing firsthand the dreadfulness of death—”
Her voice crescendoed upward, and the chief inspector’s face whitened.
“There, there,” he said awkwardly, like a man trying to calm a scared kitten. “There, there. Perhaps we’ll see after the case is finished.”
She nodded and squeezed her eyes tightly, as if to constrain a pending deluge of tears, before inhaling. “I’ll show it to you now anyway. It is quite a nice room. My dear husband was so fond of it, and he never got to use it. I told him we didn’t have enough guests to use it at this house party, and I do so regret it.”
The chief inspector nodded solemnly. “Perhaps you can question some of the guests,” he said to the constable nearest him, before he allowed himself to be whisked from the room.
“She’s so very brave,” Mr. Rosenfeld murmured.
“Quite.” Veronica lit a cigarette and puffed a ring of smoke that floated through the room. “And so put together, even under the circumstances.”
“A magnificent woman,” Mr. Rosenfeld remarked.
Mrs. Badger’s face seemed to pale, and she lowered a fork that was topped with sausage and the chewy bacon prevalent here and selected a new fork filled with tomatoes and mushrooms.
“I think that is the power of lady’s maids,” Cora said kindly, making certain her volume was sufficiently loud for even Mrs. Badger to hear.
“Yes, they are spectacular,” Veronica said, though Cora felt her words were more intended for Mr. Rosenfeld’s benefit than to bolster Mrs. Badger’s confidence.
One of the constables cleared his throat and addressed everyone. His voice was soft, as if he was so unaccustomed to public speaking that he remained ignorant of appropriate volumes to be heard. “Who would like to answer some questions?”
The room was still, and the only sounds that could s be heard were those of the occasional scraping of silver forks and knives scraping on Mrs. Ivanov’s Staffordshire china as Mr. and Mrs. Badger continued their meal.
“I don’t think any of them do,” Mr. Fawcett said. “Murder is something most mortals fear.”
Mr. Rosenfeld rolled his eyes, but the others nodded.
“Quite rightly,” Mr. Badger said, scooping a hefty pile of baked beans onto his upturned fork.
“The poor man,” Mrs. Badger lamented.
“You never talked with him,” Mr. Badger said.
His wife flushed. “That doesn’t mean it’s not sad.”
“Austrian Nazis marching about Graz is sad.” Mr. Badger turned the page of his newspaper, and Mr. Rosenfeld’s expression sobered.
“There’s going to be a whole lot more deaths, and of people whose lives were never anywhere near as grand as Mrs. Ivanov’s husband.”
“What a maudlin conversation,” Mr. Fawcett yawned. “Politics have a complexity that you clearly do not understand.” Mr. Badger shrugged. “I hope you’re correct.”
The accountant gave an assessing glance around the room, and it occurred to Cora he might know how much each item in the room cost. Was there a reason, apart from a generous nature, that Mrs. Ivanov had expressed a desire to keep him happy? Just how valuable was the art in the room? And had Mrs. Ivanov asked him to use a more creative and illicit form of accounting?
Mr. Badger seemed far too stodgy to take part in any accounting gymnastics, even if he did seem determined to take the most advantage of Mrs. Ivanov’s breakfast offerings.
“It is still sad her husband died,” Mrs. Badger insisted. “It’s tragic.” She downed her tea and rose abruptly from the table.
Tears prickled Mrs. Badger’s eyes, and the constables looked away. They seemed young, no older than in their twenties, and perhaps had no wife at home to acclimatize them to a woman’s tears.
Cora moved to the side of the sofa, and Mrs. Badger sat down gratefully. One of her legs bounced against the marble floor, as if energy still surged through it, as if her body were anxious to propel her away from this place.
Mrs. Badger glanced up at one of the pimple-ridden men. “Constable, are we free to go?”
“I—er—suppose I could interview you now. Though I’ll have to check with the chief inspector to see if you can leave. He’s the boss.”
“Yes, you obviously are not the boss.” Mr. Fawcett scanned the constable, and a smile curved onto his face. Perhaps he found the scrawniness of the constable’s shoulders amusing, or perhaps his amusement was directed at the lack of polish shown by the man’s buttons.
Cora had long ago discovered snobbery seemed to have no limits, and Mr. Fawcett seemed generously equipped.
“Perhaps you should interview Mr. Fawcett,” Mr. Rosenfeld said casually. “Mr. Fawcett is Mrs. Ivanov’s nephew and will inherit this estate.”
Mr. Fawcett swerved his gaze at Mr. Rosenfeld and scowled. “That was dashed unnecessary for you to say.”
“The sooner they interview everyone, the sooner we can leave. I, for one, would quite care for a cream tea,” Mr. Rosenfeld said. “I’ve heard Alfriston has a quite good tea shop.”
“I didn’t take you for a cream tea enthusiast,” Mr. Badger remarked.
“I don’t tend to be a murder suspect either. But when in the Downs...”
The others nodded.
“You mean to say you intend to proceed with your holiday as normal?” Mr. Fawcett asked.
“Naturally,” Mr. Rosenfeld said.
The constable approached Mr. Fawcett. “Perhaps we should start with you.”
Mr. Fawcett gave an exasperated sigh. “Fine. But it’s not like there would be much motive for me to kill my aunt’s husband. That would not bring me any closer to inheriting this modern monstrosity. Not that there’s much in the family coffers left for me to inherit, as her accountant will no doubt verify.” He gestured to Mr. Badger, who composed his face into a neutral expression and seemed to renew his interest in the dwindling food on his plate.
“You’re her accountant?” the constable asked Mr. Badger, who had an odd smile on his face.
He nodded. “Though Mr. Fawcett is no doubt aware that I won’t share my client’s account details. There’s such a thing as confidentiality, and I take my professionalism seriously.”
“You’ve still got to obey the law,” the constable said, glancing at Mr. Badger’s broadsheet. “Perhaps just one person died here, but that doesn’t mean his death wasn’t important. This is England, and we won’t abide with murder.”
“Meanwhile, your chief inspector is still touring the ballroom,” Mr. Fawcett said drily. He rose. “Come, constable. Let’s get this over with.”
The constable looked at Randolph. “Perhaps you—er...” The constable looked down.
Randolph rose. “Naturally, I’m happy to assist.”
The constables and Randolph exited the room, leaving Cora alone with the other guests for the first time.