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WHEN THEY RETURNED to the house, the others were once again in the drawing room.
“Ah? Did you have a nice walk?” Mr. Rosenfeld asked with his customary joviality.
Cora murmured something in agreement, and the man beamed, as if he’d personally ordered the sun.
“Splendid. Then I suggest we all have a ramble,” Mr. Rosenfeld said. “There’s supposed to be a delightful place for cream tea in one of the local villages.”
Mr. Fawcett’s face darkened, as if affronted at the possibility of squeezing into a tea shop with the non-lofty, but he nodded. “Anything to leave this place.”
“We are going home,” Mr. Badger declared. “We should have left long ago.”
“Why didn’t you?” Mr. Fawcett asked.
“Something about constables swarming the house and wanting to interview us. All absolute balderdash.”
“Yes. What does my husband have to do with Bulgarian anarchists?” Mrs. Badger crinkled her nose.
“Well. I intend to go,” Mr. Rosenfeld said. “Who will join us?”
“I will,” Cora said hastily.
Veronica’s gaze narrowed momentarily, but she rose and slipped an arm through Mr. Rosenfeld’s. “As shall I. I am ever so fond of cream tea.”
Cora hid her smile. Veronica wasn’t fond of anything that hindered her efforts at reduction. She’d ranted at Cora that donuts and cakes should be denounced with the same vehemence as Bolsheviks, but that was the sort of thing one didn’t want to admit before a man. Effortlessness was prized.
They decided to simply take a taxi, and before long, they were moving along at a brisk pace over the winding road. Sheep frolicked in the green hills that seemed suited as backdrops for chocolate tins.
Mr. Rosenfeld rode in the front with the driver, effusing about the charm of the countryside and providing frequent qualifications about how he’d never give up the superior magnificence of London. The others were squeezed in the back seat, and Cora found herself sitting beside Natalia.
The vehicle followed the curves of the cliffs, swerving occasionally, and Cora wondered if this was where Mr. Ivanov had experienced a brakes failure.
“Were you present at your brother’s accident?” Cora asked Natalia.
Natalia shook her head, rustling the black netting of her hat. “It seems so ominous now. He made quite light of the fact that he lost control of the car. It seemed all quite fun, but now...”
Cora smiled sympathetically.
Natalia was quiet, perhaps musing over the fact someone had desired to kill her brother, had tried multiple times and then had succeeded. Then she lifted a gloved hand and pointed at a nearby farm. “I believe it happened there.”
Cora followed Natalia’s gaze to a fence that looked freshly repaired. The slabs of wood looked new compared to the weathered and dull color of the rest of the fence.
“Had the other guests arrived at Orchid Manor then?”
“Anyone could have entered the garage.” Natalia edged away from Cora slightly. “I hope you wouldn’t suggest that I made the car malfunction. What would I know about the inner machinery of automobiles?”
“Ladies, if you’re going to fight, perhaps it can wait until you return to Orchid Manor, and then you can proceed, preferably with pillows and rather less attire,” Mr. Rosenfeld said airily.
Natalia stiffened.
“Forgive me,” Cora said gently. “I know he was your brother.”
“Yes.” Her shoulders relaxed. “Naturally. My brother.”
“I suppose it will be difficult to break that news to your parents,” Cora said.
Natalia’s face whitened, but she only shook her head. “They’re dead.”
“I’m sorry.” This time Cora’s voice wobbled, and her cheeks warmed.
The taxi slowed and turned away from the coastline. Fields were on either side of them, and for a moment, Cora was distracted by the utter beauty of the scenery. It seemed impossible to conceive that any death could take place here. Even the strands of grass seemed to glisten under the bright light of the sun, now unobscured by even the smallest of clouds.
Gradually the open fields vanished, replaced by trees. This was still March, and the trees were still mostly bare. Gray gnarly branches seemed to tangle with each other. The road twisted, and Cora was relieved when the driver turned into a village. Stone and half-timbered buildings that appeared like they’d been there since the middle ages lined the square. Some were painted pastel colors, perhaps to ensure some brightness lest rain decide to make one of its frequent journeys here.
This was the England she’d imagined before she’d arrived. This was the fairytale version of Europe, and all it needed was some prince. But then, Mr. Ivanov might have come close to inheriting a throne, and he’d turned up dead.
The taxi stopped before a cottage that had been converted into a tearoom.
Mr. Rosenfeld bounded outside. “This way!”
There was nothing quite like the eagerness of an Englishman in anticipation of tea. She exited the taxi with the others. Mr. Rosenfeld shoved some money in the taxi driver’s hand.
The ceilings of the tea room were low. Evidently, the original owner had not anticipated the size of its guests in a few centuries, and even Natalia had to duck her head as she entered.
They followed a hallway and then stepped into a tiny room filled with round tables. Contented people sat at them, sipping from vibrantly colored teacups with elaborate floral designs. Towers of scones, cakes, and crustless sandwiches sat at some of the tables.
A server led them to a tiny table, and they settled around it. Clearly, the taxi had simply been practice for them to cram together. It seemed wrong to indulge in sweets when someone had just been killed, but perhaps they were at least not requiring Mrs. Ivanov to perform hostess duties.
“Now you seemed awfully cozy with a certain policeman,” Mr. Fawcett said to Cora. “I’ve seen him snooping around the seaside before.”
Mr. Rosenfeld winked. “Fast work.”
“Are you looking to learn what the police might say?” Mr. Fawcett asked. “Please tell me if I’m a suspect. I would want advance notice to flee to Brazil. Packing is such a bother. My valet gets quite overwhelmed.”
“Not to speak about booking the travel,” Mr. Rosenfeld said.
“He’s not a policeman,” Cora said quickly.
“No, he seems to be rather more important than those blue-helmeted constables.” Mr. Rosenfeld grinned and then leaned conspiratorially toward Cora, though he didn’t lower the volume of his voice. “Now tell us, who is the murderer?”
“Don’t be so morbid,” Natalia said, perusing the menu. “Obviously, none of us are. The butler did it. The butler told him to go into that room for the phone call anyway.”
“Do the police know whom he was calling?” Mr. Fawcett’s voice sounded uncharacteristically hoarse, and Cora looked at him sharply.
“I haven’t heard anything.”
“No doubt he was murdered before he made the phone call,” Mr. Rosenfeld said airily. “Or it was to someone unimportant.”
A server appeared, and Mr. Fawcett ordered afternoon teas for them all. The server gave a somewhat strained smile, possibly contemplating how he would fit the afternoon teas on the small table they shared, and soon departed before they could decide to add anything else to their order.
“It is most amusing that the man who is the epitome of Englishness will acquire such a modern estate,” Mr. Rosenfeld said.
Mr. Fawcett’s face turned a rosy shade that resembled some of the more feminine teacups.
“Then again, I’m sure the gentleman will be quite old by the time he inherits,” Mr. Rosenfeld said.
“You’re goading him,” Natalia said.
“I’m only telling the truth,” Mr. Rosenfeld said. “If the truth were out more, perhaps fewer murders would be committed in the aim of preserving certain secrets.”
Natalia’s frown only deepened, though it seemed to partially lift when the server appeared with their afternoon tea. Since Natalia only took one of the tiny crustless sandwiches and refrained from adding either milk or honey to her tea, Cora suspected her happiness stemmed more from gratefulness at the distraction from Mr. Rosenfeld’s ever more aggressive musings than an actual interest in the food.
Mr. Rosenfeld grabbed a scone and slathered it with clotted cream.
“Before your sandwich?” Mr. Fawcett smirked.
“There are some things one can do when one has achieved fame and stature,” Mr. Rosenfeld said, and Mr. Fawcett scowled.
“I thought perhaps that you were worried you might be killed next,” Mr. Fawcett said, finally summoning a response. “And so had decided to enjoy what little you could when the opportunity presented itself.”
“That’s nonsense.” Mr. Rosenfeld added a red jam to the scone. “Besides, the murderer has been caught. They just had to ask us questions as a formality. Quite tiresome. At least one does not encounter much wearisome bureaucracy on the stage.”
“Yes, your profession is most thrilling,” Veronica said quickly, seizing an opportunity for flattery. “I am really so curious about the West End.”
“But you’re a movie star,” Natalia said. “Who needs the West End then?”
This time Mr. Rosenfeld scowled. “Nothing compares to the West End. Veronica is quite correct. Broadway might consider itself similar, but we all know that’s just a place for strutting chorus girls. Drama belongs to London, as it has for centuries. And everyone knows anyone can act in movies. After twenty takes for each line, it eventually has to be correct. On the stage, every moment has to be perfect.”
“How very enticing.” Veronica continued to bat her eyelashes. “Though I assure you, we starlets do bring some benefits.”
“Your looks for one,” Mr. Rosenfeld said, kissing her hand in an attempt at an elegant motion, as if he’d not just insulted her acting and that of all her colleagues.
The motion was not entirely elegant for his arm came precariously near the teapot. In fact, Cora suspected his arm may actually have touched the teapot, for he jerked it away and made a muffled yelp sound she had not previously associated with him. The romantic moment with Veronica was evidently lost, and a new gloominess pervaded.
“I’m certain the killer was Mr. Mitu,” Natalia said firmly, breaking the silence. “There is nothing we should worry about.”
“Just the police delving into all our secrets,” Mr. Rosenfeld said glumly.
Mr. Fawcett raised his chin, and his shoulders seemed to widen. “I for one have no secrets.”
“How very well planned of you,” Mr. Rosenfeld said. “It rather accounts for your dullness.”
Mr. Fawcett’s face reddened. “My life is never dull. Simply because I do not feign interest in various modern monstrosities, my taste is seen as plebeian.”
“That is because people are rather more intelligent than you give them credit for.”
“Yes, I seem to remember you came from one of the more questionable families.” Mr. Fawcett twisted his nose into a sneer. “I suppose you would be compelled to make that statement. Though one rather wonders how intelligent the son of a pig farmer can ever be.”
Mr. Rosenfeld didn’t draw back, but his lips did droop down, and his eyes glowered.
“You are a self-made man?” Veronica said brightly, addressing Mr. Rosenfeld. “How lovely.”
“It’s rather less lovely in England,” Mr. Fawcett said. “Classes still hold importance. We haven’t fallen into utter degeneracy.”
“Well, I think it’s grand,” Veronica said. “Much more interesting,” and Mr. Rosenfeld’s shoulders took on a decidedly less sharp angle.
“My intelligence tells me you are quite a fascinating woman,” Mr. Rosenfeld murmured to Veronica.
Veronica smiled sweetly, and her shawl dropped, exposing the planes of her bare back. Veronica might be wearing funeral black, but she retained her sultry manner.
Mr. Fawcett’s rolled his eyes, but he restrained himself from making another comment. Perhaps, Cora mused, that was because he had finished eating his cucumber sandwiches and had proceeded on to scones.
Scones, Cora had discovered long ago, were quite the nicest thing about English cuisine. No meat pie or Queen Victoria sponge cake had yet managed to supersede them. Listening to these absurd barbs and pitiful flirtations became much more tolerable when she had this treat to keep her happy.
The rest of the afternoon was more mundane. Everyone felt compelled to pronounce English tea superior over any other sort, even though the tea itself was grown in faraway places, and after they finished, they strolled toward the village green.
Natalia fell into step beside Cora. “Why were you asking questions about my brother’s accident? Do you suspect it was connected with his murder?”
“Perhaps an unsuccessful attempt,” Cora said nonchalantly, hoping to convey a lack of true seriousness. For all she knew, Natalia was responsible. She was Bulgarian. She might have come across Bulgarian anarchist pamphlets to plant in rooms.
“Perhaps it would behoove you two to converse on less ghastly topics,” Mr. Fawcett said. “Unlike you, I do often drive on the South Downs.”
“Then you believe the failure with Mr. Ivanov’s brakes was an accident?” Cora asked.
“Naturally it was,” Mr. Rosenfeld said, cutting into the conversation.
“You’re quick to say that,” Mr. Fawcett said. “Is that your guilty conscience?”
Mr. Rosenfeld gave an odd smile. “I’d only just arrived. It would be an odd sort of thing to come and start cutting wires.”
Mr. Fawcett laughed. “You mean, you would prefer tea first? It seems to me your presence in the garage would be less noticeable if you didn’t greet your intended victim on the way inside.”
“I leave all the finer details of murders to you,” Mr. Rosenfeld said.
Cora waited for Mr. Fawcett to laugh, but when it finally came, it seemed strained.
Mr. Fawcett’s home bordered that of Mrs. Ivanov. How easy would it be for him to cross over the land and enter the garage? Unlike Mr. Rosenfeld, he’d probably even visited the garage before. Not that Cora imagined that Mr. Rosenfeld would find the process of locating the garage particularly challenging. It was removed from the building in a low rectangular building that the modern architect had not decided to tear down and rebuild with glass and steel.
Cora wondered what might have compelled Mr. Fawcett to murder his aunt’s new husband. Was he worried his aunt might have a child with Mr. Ivanov and prevent him from inheriting? She shook her head, thinking of what she knew of British inheritance laws. No, that shouldn’t affect him.
The taxis arrived, and she continued to contemplate the matter as they returned over the winding country roads.