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CORA AND VERONICA TOOK a black cab in Soho and headed toward Cora’s new flat. They passed a bevy of clubs until they entered the leafy streets and squares of Bloomsbury. The hack drove by the columned magnificence of the British Museum and the exquisitely maintained buildings that housed societies with pretentious names. Cora shivered, pondering whether she would be better suited in another section of London after all.
She shook her head. That thought was nonsense. This was Bloomsbury, and it was her new home.
After all, there was a pleasant normalcy about this part of London that Cora adored. Horses’ trotted over the road. No heavy traffic impeded their path, and no mud or sharp cliffs put the success of their journey in question. The terraced houses that overlooked leafy squares were pleasant, but not pleasant enough to draw tourists from the shiny ebony lions that defended Trafalgar Square or the birds that dotted the landscaped Saint James Park and offered views of Buckingham Palace.
Bloomsbury possessed no palace views.
Cora thought that fine. The grandiose structure had never appealed to her. It seemed to intimidate with space rather than beauty.
“You truly mean to live in Bloomsbury?” Veronica’s nose wrinkled slightly, complicating her attempt to reapply powder in the privacy of the hack. “You will be with quite the intellectual set, honey.”
“I don’t intend to be with any set at all,” Cora said, conscious of the feel of Archibald’s soft white coat against her legs. Archibald lay curled at her feet, enjoying the soothing drive.
This would be the first time in her life she would not be working long hours on a film.
Perhaps Randolph might even visit her one day. He’d been so sweet when he’d said goodbye to her in Sussex.
Now though she intended to enjoy life.
Once she got a job.
She dismissed a trickle of worry. The Great Depression was rather less great than it had been at the beginning of the decade, and London was a large city, filled with people who worked. How difficult could it be to join them? After all, she’d worked since she was little.
Cora had spent the money Mrs. Ivanov had given her on the apartment. It hadn’t been simple to find a flat that accepted pets, but she’d finally procured the perfect place.
“You won’t be able to avoid the intellectuals.” Veronica smoothed her mint-colored fox fur stole over her cobalt-colored lace dress. “And think of the artists. The only thing worse than wild artists are those following in the footsteps of wild artists.”
Even though Veronica might be mistaken for a wild artist, given her predilection in experimenting in fashion and in pairing colors in combinations that would never appear on the rigid mannequins in Selfridge’s, Veronica had toiled all her life. Cora suspected Veronica did not bestow the same Calvinist ethic to artists, no matter how many vibrant canvases they produced.
Veronica was an actress, one accustomed to performing before a large studio crew, and who was conscious her work sustained that of others. Cora had been an actress as well, but unlike Veronica, she hadn’t transitioned well from being a child actress. Apparently, there was more to acting than the ability to memorize lines, and her petite figure might have given her more years starring in the Gal Detective series on the silver screen, but she hadn’t managed to transition to in any way emulate tall, sultry actresses like Hedy Lamarr, Greta Garbo and Veronica James.
No matter.
The hack drove by the columned magnificence of the British Museum and exquisitely maintained building housing societies with pretentious names. Cora shivered, pondering whether she would be better suited in another section of London after all.
She shook her head. That thought was nonsense. This was Bloomsbury, and it was her new home.
Finally, the hack stopped before one of the more modest townhomes on the already modest street. The facade was devoid of a single Grecian god, and no laurels or other floral plasters adorned the exterior wall. The two columns that flanked the door were the Doric sort, and Cora suspected they’d been chosen over the flashier Corinthian ones for financial purposes, rather than taste. The builder had seemed to prize economy, if the home materials were any indication.
No matter.
Brown brick was perfectly respectable. This was still London, and Cora still adored it.
“That’s the building.” Cora pointed at the tall house wedged between similarly tall houses that overlooked a leafy square.
“They all look alike,” Veronica said.
“I know,” Cora said. “It’s perfect.
Veronica’s thin eyebrow rose even higher than the place she’d drawn them, but then she flashed a smile. “You really mean it. You like it here.”
Cora shrugged. Veronica may have suggested Cora visit her in England, but at some point, Cora had come to see the country as her home. She’d always felt ill-at-ease in California, feeling she didn’t chatter with the expected upon frequency, didn’t boast with the appropriate bravada, and could survive happily without the long, hot summers everyone extolled.
Cora clasped the key to her apartment.
My very own.
“Do tell me you’ll at least have many rooms,” Veronica said.
“There’s one,” Cora said. “It’s quite small, actually. In fact the bed comes down from the wall. Rather brilliant.”
“Hmph.” Veronica looked loftily about her. “You do know the British came to our great country centuries ago precisely to acquire more space?”
Cora gestured at the tight rows of houses. “Not all of them left.”
Veronica shrugged. “Evidently. Though honey, you know you can always stay with me.”
“Nonsense.”
She’d viewed the house a week ago. The landlady had been frazzled and eager to catch a train home, informing Cora she could direct any issues to her son.
Despite Cora’s insistence to her friend that she’d found the perfect home, nervousness prickled her skin, as if wary of discovering the stairs were steeper, the rooms smaller, and the light more nonexistent than in her memories.
“I’ll have a view of the square,” Cora said.
“Well, that’s certainly something,” Veronica said. “Which floor?”
Cora raised her hand to point, then dropped it abruptly. She stared at her window.
Her open window.
Why on earth would her window be open? Was the landlady’s son there?
That was probably it. Still, tension didn’t leave her chest.
“It’s on the second floor,” Cora said finally.
Veronica pulled her fur stole tightly about her. “Not the most secure.”
A woman in a plaid dress, severe bun and nondescript hat marched past them, before climbing up the short set of stairs to the building.
“It’s never a good idea to take one’s fashion cues from Catholic schoolgirls,” Veronica muttered.
“Most likely she was equally appalled by your outfit.”
“She probably thought I was having airs better suited for film stars.” Veronica’s lips curled into a decidedly smug smile.
Veronica was the real thing.
She was a film star. And though she could be brusque, she’d also climbed her way to stardom and seemed from time to time perturbed people who’d started on a much higher flight, had not managed to move even a few steps higher.
Cora opened her purse, removed the key, and placed it in the lock. Archibald wagged his tail expectantly. He darted inside once she opened the door, and Cora and Veronica followed. Faded floral wallpaper lined the corridor, as if some Victorian had made an optimistic attempt to make the entire place resemble a garden, instead of a building in a great city. Evidently, no other vision had occurred to any of the later occupants.
Big band music played from the next floor.
“I don’t think that apartment belongs to that stodgy looking woman,” Veronica said.
“Be good,” Cora said. “I don’t want you upsetting my neighbors.”
“You’re saying that because you have definite stodgy tendencies yourself,” Veronica said. “I do try though. Oh, you really must come to a party. Mr. Rosenfeld is hosting it.”
“I don’t care for parties.”
The last time Cora had accepted an invitation to a party, she’d found a dead body. That had been at a house party on the South Downs in Sussex, and Cora resolved to have higher expectations of London.
“I’m never going to accept another invitation again,” she said.
Veronica laughed. “You don’t mean it.”
Finally they reached the landing, and Cora removed her key and unlocked the door.
“Let’s see that exciting bed,” Veronica said.
They strode into the apartment. The light shone from the windows in the manner she remembered, and she moved instinctively toward the light. Some paintings of landscapes and a large mirror decorated the wall. She would be able to survey the square from her window, to see the flurry of servants and shopkeepers’ assistants heading for their jobs in the early morning, followed by the more leisurely departure of students and the tweed and plaid enthusiasts who tended to work in the nearby museums, seeking art in everything else except their fashion.
Archibald started to bark.
“Hush,” Cora said, attempting to soothe him. “This is our new home, Archibald. Isn’t it nice?”
Archibald barked more.
Veronica rounded the corner. “That bed is on the ground.”
Her footsteps halted abruptly. “Cora?”
Cora turned around. Obviously, Veronica really had been drawn to the bed, since she was pointing in that direction. “You said the place would be empty.” Veronica elbowed her. “Don’t tell me you’ve already acquired a lover.”
Cora followed the direction of her finger.
There was a man in the room. Perhaps, were he in another capacity, he would even serve some woman well as a lover. He was tall with broad shoulders and the fabric of his business suit seemed excellent.
She tiptoed nearer the man. His face pointed away from them, and Cora clasped the key in her hand, as if to remind herself this was her apartment, and no one, absolutely no one, should be there.
The man’s face remained unnaturally stiff, and his eyes, though open, did not meet theirs.
A chill descended through Cora’s spine, and Veronica clasped onto her sleeve. “Don’t tell me...”
“He’s dead,” Cora said shortly. “There’s a dead man in my new home.”