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THE LIBRARY WAS FILLED with thick jewel-colored leather tomes. A large globe perched on a table, and busts dotted the room. The windows were stained glass, as if the architect had confused the solemnity of books with the solemnity of the church.
The walls were painted a deep garnet, and the ceilings were paneled. The room looked warm and almost cozy, and utterly different from anything Cora had seen in Hollywood before.
Veronica glided into the room, all elegance. “Cora, darling. The butler said you wanted to see me in here. Whatever for?”
“We had some questions about the murder. Randolph Hall will be assisting.”
“Oh.”
Cora waited for outrage to spurt from Veronica’s mouth, but she only smiled prettily.
“You must be the photographer who trespassed onto my property,” Veronica said.
“Private investigator.”
“Not an improvement, honey.” She shrugged. “Well, Cora, if you find it important, I suppose we could chat. Heaven knows there’s nothing else to do here.”
“Could you tell me about the events of yesterday?” Randolph asked. “We want to make sure everyone’s facts match.”
“Oh, I do hope mine match! This is really not something I’m used to. One doesn’t expect to have to remember everything. Would you like some whisky? My husband thinks I don’t know why his father liked going to the library.” She strolled to fetch the alcohol.
“It’s not necessary,” Randolph said.
“Oh, but it’s my pleasure!” She poured three fingers.
Randolph did not take a sip. Instead, he moved to the next question.
“What time did you arrive here?”
“Early afternoon. We’d missed lunch, but they sent us some cold food to our rooms.” She wrinkled her nose. “Not that I am a big eater. I have other vices.” Veronica grasped hold of the crystal tumbler and brought it elegantly to her mouth. “Scottish. So divine. So delicious. So decadent.”
“What did you do after you arrived?” Randolph asked.
“I took a nap.” She looked at Cora. “I’m sorry I was such bad company.”
“Oh, no,” Cora said quickly. “I did the same.”
Veronica smiled.
“And then what happened?” Randolph pressed.
“I woke up.”
“Anything unusual about the evening?”
“Well, it was dreadfully dull,” Veronica said. “At least until the scream sounded, and then it was just dreadful.”
She blinked. She’d stopped smiling, and her eyes widened as if still seeing the horror.
“Why didn’t you join your husband and friend in the drawing room after dinner?”
Veronica narrowed her eyes, and Cora remembered that Veronica was now a duchess. “Oh, I intended to. I went to change my clothes.”
“For hours?”
“I was waiting for my maid,” Veronica said. “I really didn’t want to wear my silk gown when velvet was there, newly hung up. Far too chilly. It would have been quite wasted on Edmund and Cora. My maid never appeared though—apparently, I’d been forgotten.”
“So you heard the scream,” Randolph continued. “What did it sound like?”
“Oh, it was dreadful. Ghastly. I rushed from my room into the corridor.”
“Who was first in the room?”
“I’m not sure. It was locked. We were trying to get in. We were banging on the door and shouting. I hope those weren’t the last things he heard.” She gave a brave smile. “And then it was dark, though the balcony door was open which provided sufficient moonlight for us to know something very wrong had occurred.”
“Describe the scene.”
“It was really too dreadful. The chandelier was splayed over the bed. Crystal shards everywhere. Some still sticking into his skin. And his eyes—they were wide open.” She gave a slight sob. “He was dead. He might have been a man with a very large voice and a dismissive manner, but he—really, he was quite frail when it came down to it. So thin. Quite pathetic, actually. The chandelier was just sitting on him, crushing him. There was so much blood.”
“It’s odd the crystal could do that.”
She shrugged. “I’m an actress, honey. Not a physicist. The chandelier bars helped. Bad luck that he didn’t move. I suppose you can’t help how chandeliers are going to fall, and it’s just so terribly unfortunate that the shattered crystals pierced him in a, well, fatal manner.”
“It’s possible the chandelier may have been tampered with.”
“It is sweet that you’re concerned, but my husband assures me the inquest will declare it entirely accidental.”
Randolph leaned back. “We did expect you to say that.”
“It wouldn’t be right if I sat here across from you and divulged suspicions that my husband, mother-in-law, or one of their guests committed the murder.”
“I understand.” Randolph gave Veronica a curt, businesslike nod. His expression remained neutral: despite his occasional boyish behavior, these conversations suited him.
“I shall never forget the sight as long as I live,” Veronica said. “It was so dreadful.”
“And then you all went straight to bed?”
“Yes.”
“Did your husband join you?”
“Naturally.”
“If it was murder, who do you think did it?” Cora asked.
“I don’t believe anyone here did it,” Veronica said. “He was a nasty man. One would rather imagine he’d had enemies of his own from his business dealings.”
“What did he think of you?” Randolph asked.
“I believe you are more aware of his disdain for me than anyone. After all, he hired you to search for sordid secrets from my past.”
Randolph flushed.
“My father-in-law didn’t approve of my fame. He likely would have preferred for his son to marry someone more prim and proper.”
“Is Lady Audrey prim and proper?” Randolph asked.
Veronica straightened. “What makes you ask?”
“She’s the only unattached woman here.”
“Besides Cora,” Veronica said.
“The late duke had not had the pleasure of meeting Cora before this gathering.”
“Lady Audrey is really quite dull,” Veronica said. “One does tend to have higher expectations of outrageousness for artists. I suppose it might be difficult for them to live up to them.”
“I take it you do not find her to have bohemian tendencies.”
“The woman wears tweed. Need I say more?”
Randolph was silent, and Veronica downed her whisky in a quick, elegant move. “Personally, I think Lady Audrey uses her portrait painting as an excuse to gain entry to all these great houses. Modern art has made it possible for anyone to declare themselves an artist, no matter how little training they’ve had or if they are even able to paint a straight line.”
“I see.”
Veronica shrugged. “On the other hand... I’m sure some women find it unnerving to have an artist do one’s portrait when one is well aware that artist is in the habit of having prostitutes splay before him for months without as much as a fig leaf to cover them.”
“Tell me about the dowager duchess.”
“I presume you would like me to cut to the chase and tell you if I think her capable of murder? Because I really can’t sit around and accuse my mother-in-law of such heinous acts. They didn’t seem particularly happy, but I can’t imagine her sneaking into his room to murder him.”
Cora recalled the duchess’s damp slippers. “She had the most opportunity of anyone.”
“She was wealthy before the murder, and she will remain wealthy after,” Veronica said. “I’m not sure that being bored with one’s aging husband is enough to compel one to murder him, no matter how conveniently chandeliers are placed.”
“She is also not British,” Randolph said.
“As someone who is not British,” Veronica said, “I resist the implication that not being British would make her more murderous.”
“Did she talk often of Czechoslovakia?”
“No.”
“Tell me about Mr. Ardingley.”
“He’s charming.” She frowned. “Though he has a surprising temper.”
“And his wife?”
“Is less charming, though I believe she possesses the same temper. Of course, Mrs. Ardingley is less capable of demonstrating the sort of physical prowess that could lead to murder.”
“Did they strike you as a good couple?”
“Not in particular, though I’ve wondered if they are fonder of each other than they let on. They’re certainly never indifferent.”
“Do you believe either of them would have had a motive for murder?” Randolph asked, not dwelling on Mrs. Ardingley’s ambulatory abilities.
Veronica glanced at the filing cabinet. “It depends what was in his will. Rhys wanted to be recognized—I’m not sure he was. I don’t think he knew.”
“You’ve been very helpful,” Randolph said and strode to the filing cabinet.
“Oh, good,” Veronica said. “If you want to reward me, you can always destroy any evidence you have of my improper upbringing. For some reason, people seem to find rags-to-riches stories far more compelling for men, even though it’s harder for us women to make our way.”
Veronica tossed her hair and exited the library. Cora and Randolph were alone.
“What are you doing?” a voice asked.
Edmund stood in the entrance to the library with Lady Audrey behind him.