| |
TREE BRANCHES RATTLED against the walls of the manor house, the tapping sound evident despite the howl and whistle of the wind as it thrust through the trees. Snow fell outside, visible through the large windows framed by green velvet drapes that stretched onto the wooden floor, settling into luxurious piles.
The sumptuous surroundings contrasted with the mangled body of the duke. Nausea threatened Cora’s throat, and she swallowed hard.
Edmund brushed off the shards of the crystal on the bed, and they slid onto the floor, clanging as they collided with the floorboards.
“I’ll send for a maid, Your Grace.” Wexley left the room.
Mrs. Ardingley drew in her breath sharply.
And then Cora realized it.
Your Grace.
Edmund was a duke now.
Veronica was a duchess.
All of this now belonged to them, and any tiffs Edmund had had with his father over money were irrelevant. His fortune was large and could not be disputed.
Some aristocrats’ possessions did not amount to anything beyond that of their title and property. The latter often acted as an impediment to the aristocrats as they struggled to maintain their estates and pay governmental fees. Veronica had told her that the duke—the late duke—had not belonged to this category. The Duke of Hawley had managed to continue his wealth, investing in weapons during the Great War and unafraid to make deals with other countries to further the interests of his family.
Veronica and she had marveled that the scruffy, determined girl she’d met all those years ago could be transformed into an English aristocrat. She’d made good on such a large scale, surpassing even the ostensibly impossible dream of becoming a Hollywood actress. The gossip columnists had marveled over her success and the magnificence of her future title. How had no one contemplated the horrors of death that must accompany any such change in title and fortune?
A maid arrived with a pail. Her face was grim, and she approached the bed with obvious trepidation.
“Please clear the bed as much as you can,” the butler said. “The late duke should retain some modicum of dignity.”
The maid nodded and placed the pail beside the bed.
Unease coursed through Cora.
Every Gal Detective film had mentioned the importance of not disturbing the crime scene.
Of course, this wasn’t like those films.
This wasn’t a crime scene.
The fact would be absurd.
Except...
The poor man had seemed utterly terrified when he’d screamed.
Perhaps the chandelier had not fallen on him simply because of an accident? Perhaps somebody had been irritated by his constant harangues and had taken matters into his own hands.
“Stop,” Cora said abruptly.
Everyone stared at her.
“Why?” Edmund asked. “We can’t let him lie under this.”
“The police might want to see it,” Cora said.
“To declare the death,” he said. “Naturally. But he doesn’t have to appear so—”
“Undignified,” the duchess finished for him.
“A victim of the brutality of chandelier accidents.” Mrs. Ardingley smirked.
No one joined her in laughter.
The horror of this could not be overstated.
“But what if his death wasn’t accidental?” Cora asked.
Veronica widened her eyes. “Do you think it might be murder?”
The word clung to the air, and the others stiffened, their expressions aghast.
“I might be wrong of course,” Cora said.
“I assure you that you are,” the duchess said. “What possible evidence is there to even suspect a crime? Who would want to kill my husband?”
The silence that followed was of the awkward variety.
Cora had dined with them.
None of them had liked the duke. A great many people did gain from the death, including his widow. She obviously hadn’t cared much for the duke. Devoted wives did not have a habit of bringing their lovers to their home for the holidays.
“I think the police should examine the crime scene,” Cora said. “I think it’s possible someone dropped the chandelier on him on purpose.”
“You desire me to leave my husband’s body with remnants of Venetian crystal sticking out of it? I should pay him such disrespect?” The duchess glowered.
“There’s nothing we can do for him now,” Lady Audrey said.
Likely she was eager to dismiss the tension swirling in the room. Clearly, she was managing to be more effective at it than Cora, for the duchess’s shoulders relaxed.
“Well, honey. If you think there’s a problem, I think it’s worth investigating,” Veronica said.
“I’m happy to send the maid away,” Wexley said, turning a questioning gaze on Edmund, “if you do not have an objection, Your Grace.”
“Of course I have an objection.” Edmund scowled at Cora. “What did you mean about the police?”
Cora frowned. “I mean, he died—didn’t he?”
“But it was an accident,” Mr. Ardingley said. “You can’t mean to imply something untoward occurred.”
Edmund nodded and pulled Veronica toward him, and she leaned against his shoulder. For that moment, they looked every bit as wonderful a couple as the gossip columnists proclaimed.
Had it been an accident?
One didn’t hear about chandelier deaths.
Could someone have forced it to fall?
The man had sounded as if he’d known what would happen—and feared it.
Was it possible that the scream had occurred before the chandelier crash? Would he have been able to see something?
Could he have screamed so loudly with a chandelier on top of him? Perhaps. After all, the man had seemed in control of his vocal chords. He’d certainly been able to berate Veronica and then his own son with the same efficiency as a much younger Hollywood director.
Edmund drew in his breath. “I know you are a friend of my wife’s, but I do not appreciate that you are in my house and standing over my father’s lifeless body and insinuating that somebody must have despised him enough to murder him.”
Cora’s shoulders sank an inch. He was right.
This person had just died, and all Cora had contributed to the alleviation of their grief was pondering whether he had been murdered.
She shouldn’t be here.
She should be in LA, where icy wind did not batter against the buildings and not where even fires in every room could not mitigate the incessant cold. She wasn’t supposed to be pondering investigations. She may have played a detective once, but that had been for the camera.
She could give in.
She could say she was probably wrong.
But what if she wasn’t wrong? What if he’d really been murdered? And she’d just walked away? He might have been unpleasant to be around, but no one deserved to be murdered, and no one should go about murdering others.
“Just who do you mean to suggest may have murdered him?” Edmund asked quickly. “My darling wife? My mother? The neighbor I’ve known for years? A renowned businessman? Or one of the servants who have served us loyally?”
“All the servants were in the kitchen,” Wexley said hastily.
“Perhaps some murderer ventured in from outside,” said the duchess. “Some crazed madman who happened upon my poor husband’s room.”
Cora’s blush deepened.
The idea was ridiculous. But what if some intruder had murdered him?
The duke had died in his bed, in his own home, in what he’d been sure to think of as an oasis of comfort.
One rather trusted beds not to become death traps, especially when one had lain in one for multiple decades with no poor occurrences.
“It’s good to be safe,” Cora said.
Edmund nodded slowly. “Very well. I will lock up the room.” He glanced at the maid. “No need to clear the room after all.”
The others scattered.