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THE SCREAM SOARED THROUGH the manor house.
Cora had never heard the sound of terror so clearly.
But they were alone.
King Kong hadn’t wandered into the room.
Cora glanced at Edmund and Mr. Ardingley, as if to confirm the scream had really sounded.
Their eyes were wide, fearful.
“It’s Father!” Mr. Ardingley jumped to his feet and rushed from the drawing room.
Edmund and Cora followed him. They hurried up the grand staircase, and Cora cursed the curves in the stairs, which had clearly been designed more for beauty than efficiency.
They sprinted over the carpeted hallway, past carved oak cabinets and painted vases depicting faraway lands. Signor Palombi and the duchess stood outside one of the doors, still attired in their evening wear. Signor Palombi jiggled the door’s handle, and Lady Audrey, Mrs. Ardingley and Veronica approached from the other end of the corridor.
“Your Grace?” Signor Palombi shouted. “What’s going on? Open the door.”
The scream continued to sound, but then it stopped abruptly.
Edmund brushed past the others.
“Father!” He banged on the door. “Father!”
The room remained silent.
Perhaps it was good.
Perhaps a mouse had appeared, but it had hopped away, and the duke was no longer frightened.
But dread crept along Cora’s spine. The duke didn’t seem to be the type of person to be unnerved by a mouse, not with his comfort in confronting others, and certainly not with his history of questionable business dealings with foreign powers.
“What’s going on?” Mr. Ardingley yelled. “Papa?”
“I’ll enter via the balcony.” Edmund dashed through the next door which Cora realized must belong to the duchess. They heard another door slam, and then utter silence.
Dread moved through Cora.
“Edmund!” Veronica shrieked. “Are you all right? How is your father?”
Finally, Edmund swung open the door. His face was pale and somber.
The duchess pushed past him.
Edmund tried to catch her. “Don’t go there—”
“Horace!” screamed the duchess, and the others entered the room.
And then Cora gasped.
The curtains were open, as were the French windows leading to the balcony. Moonlight shone over the bed. Shards of crystal and broken glass tubes lay shattered. They glimmered under the strength of the moonlight.
But that was not what drew horror. Horror came from the curve of the blanket that indicated someone was lying underneath, and horror came from the scrapes of dark liquid over white, wrinkled, unmoving flesh.
“Oh, my God,” Mrs. Ardingley exclaimed.
“My husband,” the duchess wailed. “Remove that chandelier. Rescue him!”
She tossed pieces of the chandelier behind her.
Edmund nodded and swept off large pieces of the chandelier to the floor.
“He can’t just die,” the duchess shrieked. “Not like this.”
Unfortunately, it looked horribly like he’d already died. His eyes were glassy and unseeing.
“Do something, someone,” demanded the duchess.
“I’ll call the doctor.” Mr. Ardingley rushed from the room, and the pounding of his footsteps echoed in the corridor.
“Cora, what would you have done in the Gal Detective movies?” Veronica asked.
“That’s hardly relevant,” the duchess wailed.
“She’s right,” Cora said.
“But there’s no doctor,” Veronica said. “There’s no one else.”
Cora approached the bed and inhaled.
She put her fingers on the duke’s pulse. She had done it before in one of The Gal Detective movies. There it had been almost amusing, since she’d recited her lines on camera saying that she couldn’t feel anything, when in fact the pulse of the actor who had played the corpse had vibrated beneath her fingers.
The duke’s wrist was cold beneath her touch, and there was no pulse.
Cora swallowed hard and moved her hand. She brushed some chandelier shards from his heart and tried to listen, but there was nothing, no sound. She was touching somebody who no longer existed.
Cora drew back abruptly. “I’m afraid he’s dead.”
“He can’t be,” insisted the duchess. “He was just alive.”
The others stared dumbly at her. Even Signor Palombi’s face was white, and he was silent, evidently unable to conjure the power to launch into a speech on the swiftness and finality of death.
Wexley arrived and lit the candles in the room, and Veronica took a candle from him. She resembled a Victorian woman in her gown, and even though Cora knew the dress was a modern mint, it appeared white under the incessant golden flickers of the candle.
Lady Audrey and Mrs. Ardingley were also wearing clothes better suited for sleep. Mrs. Ardingley wore a long negligee. The polka dotted fabric and pink ruffles on the square shoulder yoke seemed absurdly cheerful. Lady Audrey was clothed in a nightgown, though the long bishop sleeves afforded her some privacy. A lace-trimmed silk eye mask perched on her head.
Cora could tell in the light that even the Duchess of Hawley looked less polished than she’d seemed initially. She wore slippers with her evening gown, and her slippers had snow on them.
How odd.
Lady Audrey was silent, and Cora exchanged glances with her. Neither of them were supposed to be here. They were joint intruders in this family tragedy.
Cora had never even seen a dead person before. Her visit wasn’t supposed to start with a blood-spattered host.
Mr. Ardingley soon arrived back.
“No good, I’m afraid,” Mr. Ardingley said. “The lines aren’t working.”
“Not working?” Cora blinked.
Mrs. Ardingley smiled. “You poor American darling. So unfamiliar with snow.”
“And rightfully assuming a proper infrastructure,” Signor Palombi said. “England is behind the times.”
“Now is not the time to talk about that,” admonished the duchess.
“No, of course not,” Mr. Ardingley said, his face once again white, as if seeking to match the salty strands in his hair.
“When will the telephone work again?” Cora asked.
“Most likely at some point when there is less snow,” said the butler.
“Perhaps one of the servants should go into town to fetch the police,” the duchess said.
“And someone should remove the body,” Veronica said. “It is terribly grizzly.”
“Be that as it may,” the butler said, “I would prefer to limit the death count to one tonight. I’ll send one of the footmen to the village when it’s light.”
“Of course, Wexley,” the duchess said smoothly. “You are clever.”
“I say,” said Mr. Ardingley. “Is that mustard on your face, Wexley?”
The butler’s face reddened, and he removed a handkerchief. “Forgive me. We were having dinner in the kitchen. Cook makes a very good sausage.”
“Were all the servants there?” Cora asked.
“Yes. No one misses dinner.”
Edmund knelt beside the bed. His voice was solemn. “I can’t believe it. It can’t be true.”
Cora and the others lingered, as if unsure what to do now that their host had been crushed to death.