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RIGHT. Cora was in a folly with a dead man.
She paced the small room, wondering if she should have insisted on going with Veronica and Natalia.
She wished the chief inspector hadn’t been on his way back to the station. Cora took a chair and moved it to the farthest section of the folly, near the entrance. Then she wondered if the murderer returned, she would simply be closest to him. She decided to move the chair back to where she found it after all.
Someone had died, and not peacefully in his sleep after a long life and a particularly hearty meal. Mr. Badger’s death had been violent.
Perhaps there was some indication of who the murderer was. She stood and paced the folly, clutching Archibald to her and scrutinizing whether the killer had left behind some clue.
Unfortunately, unlike in the Gal Detective films, the killer had not abandoned a button or brooch that would signal the person’s identity. Similarly, there was no lipstick-stained cigarette or sullied set of wine glasses.
There was nothing, only the raw fish, though since it was evident that the murderer had placed that on purpose, Cora wasn’t certain it could count as a clue.
She peered again at the body, moving her face slowly toward it, hoping she’d imagined this entire situation. Unfortunately, the body was still very much present.
How long had Mr. Badger been dead? His body had seemed rigid, and his skin had taken on a decided unpleasant pallor. Why would he be here? Had he been meeting someone?
There was something delightfully eccentric about the folly, but Mr. Badger did not seem the type of man who would delight in such things. Accountants entered the field because of a desire for practicality and a reverence for order. She would have thought Mr. Badger to have appreciated the practicality of meeting someone inside the house, in one of its many rooms, none of which required one to go outside in the rain and possibly sprain one’s ankle at some rabbit’s hole.
Had he interrupted a meeting? Had he been murdered by an accident of his location, and not because of some negative aspects of his personality? Had the killer decided to keep him quiet?
She pulled her arms against her, as if they might form some protection from imagining the deadly encounter.
Gravel crunched outside, and Cora relaxed her shoulders at the sound of a vehicle. The constables must have arrived.
Footsteps stomped over the stones, and she felt a prickle of fear it might be the murderer. Or murderers.
She swallowed hard, and her heartbeat quickened, seeming to thunder within her.
In the next moment, the door opened.
“Cora?” It wasn’t Veronica’s voice and none of the constables would refer to her in such a manner.
It was Randolph.
She practically leaped toward the door and yanked it open. The man stood before her, his eyes round with obvious concern. She assessed him, longing to leap into his arms and for him to tell her that nothing would ever happen to her and that no one else would be harmed.
He couldn’t promise her that, and she couldn’t leap into his arms.
She stiffened and gave him a polite nod. “You’re here. How opportune.”
“Your friend was rather insistent.”
She stiffened further.
Veronica’s histrionic nature served her well in her acting career. If she could convince people she was Cleopatra for a few hours, she could convince Randolph to see Cora.
“I am afraid Mr. Badger has passed away,” she said.
She glanced toward the body, and Randolph followed her gaze.
“God in heaven,” he murmured.
She gave him a wobbly smile. “I thought he’d murdered Mrs. Ivanov’s husband. I was...wrong.” She pulled the shawl closer to her, and Archibald tipped in her arms. She set him on the ground, keeping him on a short lead, lest he decide to investigate the body again. “I’ve been so foolish. So utterly foolish.”
“Stop,” he murmured. “Don’t talk about yourself in such a manner. You’re insulting a very clever woman. You.”
She kept her eyes averted. If only she hadn’t been convinced of Mr. Badger’s guilt. Perhaps then, she might have noticed the strange behavior of someone else.
“Besides,” Randolph continued, stroking her shoulder. “It’s not your job to discover who the murderer is.”
She tilted her head up. He was still looking at her, and his eyes still emanated concern.
She stepped away and raised her chin. “Forgive me. I’ve—”
“—had a shock,” he finished for her. “I’m surprised to find you here.”
“I thought someone should protect the body. It was probably foolish.”
“Next time you stumble on a crime, just call a constable.” He shrugged. “Not that I don’t mind getting here before the chief inspector and his crew. No doubt they’ll arrive soon.” Randolph strode toward the body. “That is a nasty wound.” He moved his gaze to the open closet door.
“He was inside,” Cora said. “I opened it, and he fell out. It was horrible. Poor man. And his poor wife...”
Randolph squeezed her hand. “There was nothing you could do.” He returned his gaze to the closet. “The person putting him inside it would have to be strong.”
“Especially since he was standing.”
“Hmm... It’s odd to rearrange the body like that.”
She sat down on the floor, suddenly exhausted. “I looked around. I didn’t see any clues.”
“Those are only for the truly lucky detectives,” Randolph said, sitting down beside her.
“Are you saying the answer might only be answered by the mind?” she asked.
“I was going to say some things are best left to the professionals, lassie. Once the constables arrive, and you give your statement, you’re to go back to your room and be very, very unobtrusive. And then I’ll get you out of here, no matter what the chief inspector says about not leaving.”
“Is that so?” she asked.
“That is exactly so,” he said sternly. “Your friend gave me such a fright when she said you were in trouble. I don’t ever want that to be real.”
The man said it with such ardor her heart quickened, even though she knew kisses and gentle caresses between them were in the past.
If this had been December, and he’d been looking at her with such intensity, she would have imagined he might kiss her now. After all, his torso did seem to be somewhat closer than before.
As were his legs.
As were his hands.
As was his—heavens—his face.
Randolph brushed his lips against hers, and for a moment, she forgot a corpse was on the other side of the room. He pulled away gently. “Take care of yourself.”
The man managed to look so handsome, even early in the morning, and it should have been enough to make her heart sing.
Instead, she felt her eyes narrow. “What are you doing?”
“That, my dear, was a kiss,” he said with such suavity, that had he said it on screen, any gossip columnist would have promptly declared him top heartthrob.
She rose, wishing she hadn’t chosen to sit on the floor, and wishing she’d mastered the art of standing rapidly. She had a horrible feeling she may be appearing rather more clumsy than was her natural state.
No matter.
She directed her gaze at Randolph, who had also risen. “You should have gotten in touch with me earlier.”
She despised conflict, and it seemed absurd to in any manner admonish Randolph. He’d saved her life before and he was protecting her now.
The body on the other side of the room seemed to fortify her. There were worse things than unpleasant conversations.
“I find it confusing,” she admitted.
He stared at her, his eyes still wide. Finally, he sighed. “Then, I apologize. I’ll aim to be less confusing.”
“An admirable motive,” she said.
“One which I will achieve,” he said quickly, and she found herself smiling.
“You should know,” he said, standing up beside herself, “that my job is unconventional.”
“You seem to be everywhere,” she remarked.
“Governments find me useful,” he said.
“Now tell me, why exactly did you find yourself in this seaside town? You managed to arrive very quickly after the murder.”
“You noticed,” he said.
“I did.”
He remained infuriatingly silent.
“Look,” she said, “if you’re concerned about my safety, it might be best to tell me what exactly is going on here.”
“It’s really not that important,” he said.
“Two people have died,” she said, and he nodded.
He raked his hand through his hair. “Fine. I’ll tell you. But keep it quiet. This is just for your safety.”
She nodded solemnly.
“The British government is concerned about the possibility of war with Germany. There are rumors the Germans have not been content with the recent broadening of their country.”
She nodded.
“The South Downs sits directly on the English Channel. The broad expanses of secluded land are an ideal place for Germans to land, should there be an invasion. They’ll expect us to watch our ports, but these areas are far more vulnerable. And East Sussex is closer to Germany than Portsmouth.”
She stiffened. “They wouldn’t dare invade.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “Yes. This is the center of the British Empire. It seems absurd to imagine that they would be able to cross the channel.”
“They’d have to get through France first,” Cora said.
“Indeed,” Randolph said, “though, between us, there are many times some of us wish not quite so many of the most valiant French officers had died in the Great War. For all their vast supply of weapons and soldiers, the French officers now are a timid sort. They’re in charge now because of their expertise of avoiding conflict in their youth.”
“They appreciate the importance of peace,” Cora said. “That’s a good thing. Nothing is more important.”
“Ah,” Randolph said. “I forget you’re American. You are an isolationist country with strong moral ideals. Personally, I would rather have an easy war now than a more difficult one later.”
“War is never the answer.”
“Perhaps,” Randolph said. “Though my job is not to create a British army in the Downs,” he said with a smile. “It’s only to ascertain if attempts have been made by the Germans to foster valuable connections here.”
“You want to determine just how nefarious Hitler is.”
“Precisely.”
“So you’ve been living in Eastbourne,” she said.
“It doesn’t have the romantic Dales,” he said. “But it is tolerable. It’s no longer the seaside paradise it was in the last century, but the old buildings are still there, and I personally am quite fond of the views of the channel and the chalky cliffs that have guarded England against intruders for millennia.”
“Mr. Fawcett mentioned he saw you tramping about the beach,” Cora mused.
“He did?” Randolph’s eyes widened. “I wasn’t aware he’d noticed.”
“You must spend a lot of time there,” Cora said. “Mr. Fawcett is not fond of the channel. Mrs. Ivanov said it’s because he’s a terrible swimmer.”
Randolph seemed to contemplate her words. Then he took her hand. “Cora, please believe me I would never have left you for this place for only the pleasure of a few degrees’ increase. I wasn’t supposed to let anyone know I was here. These people don’t know me, but the people who do might suspect the government was concerned about the fortification of this district.”
“I see,” Cora said.
“I’m going to kiss you again,” Randolph said softly.
“Okay,” Cora said weakly, and butterflies fluttered within her as their lips touched.
This time she did not dismiss Randolph as a rogue, toying with her emotions or celebrating her as an unattached female with a tolerable appearance. This time she enjoyed the kiss.
And it was lovely.