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CORA RETURNED TO HER room, walking past the now empty rooms of Mr. Fawcett and Not-Natalia. Her footsteps clicked against the marble floor.
She glanced around. It was impossible to ignore the sleek perfection of Orchid Manor. The wide windows overlooked the channel and Downs, the size not constrained by an old-fashioned attention to facades and other architectural flourishes that might impede the view.
She would almost miss the place.
Almost.
She opened the wardrobe. Her clothes were arranged nicely. She wouldn’t even need Georgie’s help. She turned to find her suitcase and then realized she would perhaps need Mrs. Ivanov’s maid’s help after all. The suitcase was not under the bed and it was not on top of the wardrobe.
Archibald gazed at her curiously, but when she opened the door, he sprang into action and scurried into the hallway.
“We’re going to find the maid,” she said.
She doubted he recognized the name, but he evidently did recognize she hadn’t said “walk.” He gave a slight accusatory look before he marched down the hallway, glancing behind him every now and then to ascertain that he was being followed.
She called for the maid, but the doors were heavy.
She’s probably in Mrs. Ivanov’s room.
She knocked on the door, and in a few moments, it opened. Mrs. Ivanov appeared. She’d covered her honey blond hair in a silk scarf and she’d put on a matching silk negligee. Glamour was evidently something she did not abandon even in sleep.
“I’m sorry to disturb you,” Cora said. “I just wanted to speak with your maid. Is she up here?”
Mrs. Ivanov turned. “Oh, she must have gone downstairs.”
“I’m sorry to disturb you,” Cora said. “I’m just packing. Or at least, I wanted to start packing.”
Mrs. Ivanov nodded. “I’ll ring the bell for her.”
“Thank you,” Cora said.
“It’s no trouble at all.” Mrs. Ivanov smiled sweetly. “I wish you could have been here at a better time.”
“I only wish I could have stopped your husband’s murder,” Cora said.
“I couldn’t stop it either,” Mrs. Ivanov said.
Cora nodded.
It would always be awkward between them.
She pondered how it must have felt for Mrs. Ivanov to know her husband, the man she adored, had been living with his mistress under her roof for years. And then to think that the same mistress would kill him—
She paused.
Why would Natalia—Zina, she corrected herself, have killed her lover, the man she supposedly adored? Had Mr. Ivanov been cruel to her? It seemed dubious, but Cora knew men sometimes differed when they found privacy. When men were not being adored by a public, they might change. What had Mr. Ivanov been like, when he was not attending parties, comfortable in his role as playboy? Mr. Rosenfeld certainly had not liked their business arrangements.
Yet, what had compelled Zina to murder him? Was it because of his family? And what had compelled her to murder him then? Amidst a crowd of people?
Had she grown tired of making accidents for him? Why would she desire to risk being discovered? Surely, she would have feared people would have looked into her background. People would examine a murder more than an obvious accident.
Cora frowned.
Zina had struck her as being intelligent. Whatever hatred she’d had for Ivan, she’d hidden well.
In fact...
Something tightened in Cora’s chest. Perhaps she’d gotten it all wrong. She’d suspected Zina of lying. She’d even suspected she’d visited the folly in the morning. But when the chief inspector and the constable had hauled her away, Cora hadn’t experienced the sense of relief that she should have.
Zina may have had secrets, but had her secrets involved killing Ivan? She’d lived in the same home as Mr. Ivanov. She would have had many opportunities to murder him, in more subtle ways that looked like actual accidents.
Perhaps the person who would have murdered him was not Zina. Perhaps Zina benefited too much from Mr. Ivanov being alive to consider murdering him. Perhaps she’d even loved him. After all, she’d been happy to play the role of sibling.
Mr. Ivanov had blackmailed Mrs. Ivanov’s accountant’s wife, he’d gotten Mrs. Ivanov’s friend involved in poor business investments, and he’d had an affair under Mrs. Ivanov’s nose for years.
Mr. Ivanov was not the only man to have a mistress, but most men who had mistresses were more discrete about it. Most men did not invite their mistresses to live with them, assigning them false identities.
“You seem thoughtful,” Mrs. Ivanov said.
“Just thinking over the events,” Cora confessed.
“I see.” Mrs. Ivanov’s eyes narrowed slightly, and a chill descended over Cora’s spine.
She shouldn’t be here.
Not in Mrs. Ivanov’s suite.
Not when the house was empty, not when the constables and the chief inspector had left, not when everyone else had gone.
Zina was going to hang for Ivan’s and Mr. Badger’s murder, but perhaps she had not really killed anyone.
Perhaps her morals had been lacking, but that did not make her a murderess.
Cora’s stomach hurt, and Archibald trotted toward her, perhaps reading something in her demeanor.
She’d never suspected Mrs. Ivanov. What person would invite a sleuth to a dinner party where she planned to murder someone?
But I’m not a real detective.
She’d played one in the movies, and perhaps she’d been flattered by Mrs. Ivanov’s request. She’d accepted Mrs. Ivanov’s fee.
But if Mrs. Ivanov had truly worried about her husband’s safety, she would have hired a bodyguard.
Perhaps Mrs. Ivanov had counted on the fact that Cora was not trained. Cora hadn’t even attended school. Her tutors had hastily taught her things during breaks on the set while the adult actors and actresses indulged in cigarettes.
She’d never considered that Mrs. Ivanov might be responsible. She’d spoken with Randolph and the chief inspector about all the other people in the house. She’d discovered things that implicated them.
But who had easier access to Mr. Mitu’s room that Mrs. Ivanov? She’d probably hidden the pamphlet in his room when she knew he would be away, picking Cora up from the station. That was probably why she’d been in the servant’s quarters. She’d probably asked him to fetch Cora less out of concern for her great aunt than a knowledge he might mention his Bulgarian heritage, and then she’d had tea with Cora, musing over the Bulgarian nationals that might desire to harm her husband.
As owner of Orchid Manor, she should have known about the tunnel at the folly just as well as her nephew. Mrs. Ivanov would have known about the strangely shaped Nepalese knife that would make killing her husband easier.
Perhaps when Cora had told Mrs. Ivanov that she needed to make a phone call, implying that she knew the killer, Mrs. Ivanov had been compelled to act quickly, lest the chief inspector interview Mr. Badger again. Perhaps Mrs. Ivanov had told Cora to wait twenty minutes so that Mrs. Ivanov would have time to hide in the tunnel so she could kill Mr. Badger there when they met.
Mrs. Ivanov smoked cigarettes and Mrs. Ivanov wore strong perfume, two things Mr. Badger did not do. Perhaps the fish had been chosen to mask those scents.
Something tightened in Cora’s chest, and Mrs. Ivanov cast her an assessing look.
A knock on the door interrupted them, and Cora fought the strange urge to scramble toward it. She wanted to leave this place and never come back.
Yet, she couldn’t slink away and feign ignorance.
She’d compelled people to investigate Zina, and now she could hardly let her hang. Would Cora’s suspicions suffice in absolving her?
Mrs. Ivanov had been cozy with the chief inspector. No one would want the wealthy woman, patron to the police force, to be accused of such a crime without absolute evidence. Zina was convenient, just as Mr. Mitu had been convenient. They were both foreigners, in a land that quickly seemed to be increasingly wary of them.
Mrs. Ivanov answered the door in a regal tone. Aunt Maggie stood outside.
“How may I help, your ladyship?” Aunt Maggie asked.
“Please pack Miss Clarke’s things,” Mrs. Ivanov said. “She is leaving.”
“Very well.” Aunt Maggie curtsied and left the room.
This was when she should make her exit, yet Cora seemed rooted to the spot, as if she’d been left with as little mobility as any of the furniture.
Cora was alone with Mrs. Ivanov.
“It must have been shocking for you to discover your late husband’s infidelity.” Cora tried to show careful interest and pity, aware that mentioning this could be risky.
Mrs. Ivanov gave a tight smile. “I would prefer not to dwell on it.”
“When did you first find out about your husband’s affair?” Cora asked, forcing the question to be casual.
She knew Mrs. Ivanov must have learned about it before today.
Randolph had not mentioned Mr. Ivanov’s affair in front of Mrs. Ivanov.
“Does it matter?” Mrs. Ivanov asked sweetly.
“I think it does to Zina.”
“You mean, the woman who called herself Natalia.” Mrs. Ivanov’s normally sweet expression turned sour. “My husband’s mistress.”
“You’re not supposed to know that about her,” Cora said.
“Darling,” Mrs. Ivanov’s disgruntled expression was swiftly replaced with a charming one, “I am privy to rather more details from this investigation than you are aware of. After all, I was Anton’s wife, and you are someone who used to play a detective on the silver screen.”
“No,” Cora said. “I told the chief inspector about my suspicions of her identity only this morning. I was with you the entire time after that. You would not have known about it from him.”
Mrs. Ivanov was silent, and Cora cast a hard look at the other woman. “Why are you lying?”
“Perhaps it pains me that my husband was unfaithful.”
“Or perhaps you killed your husband?” Cora knew it was true the instant the words left her mouth.
For a moment, Mrs. Ivanov widened her eyes and then she yawned lazily. “One would rather think seeing Mr. Badger’s body would make you more careful.”
“You won’t kill me inside your room.”
“No?”
Cora glanced around the bedroom. A weapon would be most useful. She took comfort in a vase beside her. Perhaps she could throw it at Mrs. Ivanov if necessary.
Mrs. Ivanov seemed to have the same thought for in the next moment she lunged toward the porcelain vase and clutched it toward herself. Her pretty lips turned into a sneer, and Archibald barked ferociously.
Was this it?
Were these her last moments before death?
Cora’s heartbeat quickened and ratcheted, moving hastily like a film set on the wrong speed.
“Why did you kill him?” she asked. “You loved him.”
“He betrayed me.”
“Many men betray their wives. They don’t deserve death.”
“He was also betraying my country,” Mrs. Ivanov said. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“Is this about the tunnels?” Cora asked.
Mrs. Ivanov paused and then nodded. “How do you know about them?”
“They led from the folly. I imagine Mr. Badger also discovered them last night.”
“Silly man wanted to blackmail me before he moved to Argentina,” Mrs. Ivanov said. “He was my accountant. He knew more than anyone how expensive this place is to run. Servants should be loyal.”
“What made you frame Mr. Mitu? Had he betrayed you?”
“He wasn’t important, darling. I knew Anton’s mistress deserved to be framed more, but one does not desire a scandal. Still, I’m glad she’ll hang now, even if Mr. Rosenfeld will be happy to tell everyone in London about my late husband’s foibles.”
“How nice that you take such an optimistic look on things,” Cora said, imbuing her voice with sarcasm.
Mrs. Ivanov didn’t blink. “Indeed.”
“I imagine you won’t even have nightmares,” Cora said.
“Those would be unladylike,” Mrs. Ivanov said.
“But I do wonder,” Cora said, “how you feel that your husband was not working with the Germans to make this a location for a possible invasion.”
“Pardon?” This time, Mrs. Ivanov did blink, and Cora allowed herself a smile, even though Mrs. Ivanov was still holding a very heavy vase in very close proximity to Cora.
“No,” Cora said. “I suppose the chief inspector didn’t tell you that. That was all your nephew’s doing.”
“Not Anton’s?” Mrs. Ivanov’s voice wobbled.
“Everyone in high society would have forgiven you a bad marriage,” Cora continued. “But murder? For something your relative did? That is untoward.”
Mrs. Ivanov’s face contorted. “It doesn’t matter. He was still disloyal.” The vase swayed in her hands, though, as if she were realizing its heaviness.
Cora snatched it from her and put it away.
In the next moment, the door swung open and Randolph, the chief inspector, and Aunt Maggie marched into the room.
“Mrs. Ivanov,” the chief inspector said. “I am arresting you for the murders of your husband and Mr. Badger.”
“But—” Mrs. Ivanov seemed to gain fresh energy and she ran toward the dressing room. Randolph tackled her, holding her back.
“Were you listening at the door?” Cora asked.
“Best way to get a confession.” Randolph grinned.
“But I had no idea.”
“We thought Mrs. Ivanov would be more talkative thinking that no one was there.”
“But she could have hurt me!” Cora said.
The chief inspector glanced at the vase. “Seems like you were doing quite well on your own, little lady. You should thank your aunt. She knew something was wrong when she came to the door and called us in.”
“Oh.” Cora glanced at Aunt Maggie. “Th-thank you.”
“My poor darling,” Aunt Maggie said, sweeping Cora into her arms. “I’m so happy that you are fine.”
And Cora knew then that she would be.