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CORA’S HEART TOPPLED, as if attempting to hide in her stomach.
Archibald was not combatting the effects of nausea. He barreled toward the body, barking.
Normally, Cora would urge Archibald to hush.
Normally, Cora would tell Archibald that people did not generally enjoy his barks.
But this person was dead. Archibald could not get this person to wake, no matter how loud and how frequent his barks.
“So he just came in here and died?” Veronica’s voice wobbled, and she glanced at the window, as if to ponder if noxious fumes might have killed him despite the obvious influx of air. “How do you suppose he died?”
Cora assessed the gray face. The man’s skin was smooth, devoid of wrinkles, and she supposed he’d been in his mid-thirties. His foppish double breasted-jacket seemed to be of good quality and implied someone whose main criteria when procuring new items for his wardrobe was no longer a bargain price.
“I don’t see any marks on him,” Cora said.
“Yes, no knife sticking out.”
Cora glanced at the crisp white sheets. “And no blood stains. Perhaps he suffered from a weak heart.”
“Doubtful.” Veronica eyed the man’s upper arms. “I know he’s wearing a suit jacket, and a good tailor can conjure illusions, but his frame is muscular. I do not associate a man of his age and appearance with heart attacks.”
“We’ll need to call someone.” Cora’s voice sounded small, as if fighting against the rapid beating of her heart.
“Is there any chance you have a telephone set up yet?”
“I don’t.”
“Then we’ll need to ask the neighbors.” Veronica marched from the apartment.
“Wait!” Cora hurried after her, Archibald running at her side. She didn’t want to remain in the flat.
Perhaps the murderer was still there, clutching whatever weapon ensured bloodless murders in his hand.
She swallowed hard and grabbed a frying pan the previous tenant must have left behind. “One moment.”
She searched the apartment. The process did not take long: no one was there, and Cora rushed back to the landing.
The floral wallpaper no longer compelled her to smile. Everything was horrible.
A man had died. He’d entered her apartment and then died.
Evidently Bloomsbury was less sedate than Veronica supposed.
“Hello! Hello!” Veronica knocked on the apartment across from Cora’s. No one answered, and she shrugged. “I’m going to try downstairs.”
Cora nodded. At least someone was there. The big band music wafted through the landing, its tempo consistently quick, and its tone consistently happy, ushering a world Cora did not entirely recognize.
No doubt she should just scream. Yet, her chest felt heavy, as if squeezing her lungs and diaphragm, and though the temperature had seemed unremarkable, it now seemed alternatively too hot or too cold. She clutched the banister and descended the steps after her friend.
Veronica knocked on the door, and it swung open.
“I can assure you, Miss Greensbody, the music is—” A male voice sounded from inside the apartment, then halted abruptly.
A tall man stood before them. He had shaggy hair and wrinkled clothes, though his appearance did not otherwise resemble the professorial. His hair was devoid of gray, and his skin was smooth and clear, without even a beard to stroke while pondering complex problems that Cora associated with professors.
“My name is not Miss Greensbody,” Veronica said.
“It’s Veronica James.” The man’s voice roughened, and his Adam’s apple leaped against his throat. “Is my music too loud?” His skin paled, as if a makeup artist had prepared him to take on the role of a ghost. “Sometimes my neighbor thinks it’s too loud.” He turned. “Lionel! Turn that off.”
“I thought it quite the perfect volume,” Veronica purred, evidently enjoying meeting a fan.
The man continued to blink, and his lower lip had not found its way back to his upper lip yet. “I say, it is truly you? It can’t be. But you’re the spitting image of—”
“Me.” Veronica offered him her hand, and the man brushed his lips against it. His legs wobbled somewhat, as if he weren’t accustomed to the gesture.
Cora cleared her throat. “Veronica!”
The man’s eyes widened as he noticed her. “And you’re famous too! You’re the Gal Detective!”
Cora didn’t blush. She only nodded curtly. They could make conversations about her past life later. “Do you have a phone?”
“I’ve seen your movies!” the man said breathlessly. “I love them! You are both so talented! Magnificent! Wonderful!”
Cora exchanged glances with Veronica. They’d both seen this before. Some people had a strange tendency to replace normal words for platitudes in their presence, as if they could only remember the more exuberant words in the dictionary.
“He’s not listening,” Veronica whispered.
“No.”
“You are so kind.” Veronica gave a regal smile and slipped past Cora’s new neighbor. Her necklaces and bracelets jangled together as she strolled into the apartment, and she wove expertly around piles of books. “Now where did you put your phone?”
The man’s eyes goggled. “Veronica James is in my apartment. Veronica James is in my apartment!”
“Searching for your phone,” Cora reminded him. “Perhaps you can help her.”
“Right.” He blinked. “I suppose you Americans really are always on the phone. I thought that was a myth. But clearly—”
“She needs to call the police,” Cora said hastily.
“The police!” The man’s voice rose sharply, as if he were practicing for a role that required a falsetto, and he stepped back. Cora did not fail to notice that he was not as successful as Veronica at evading the scholarly obstructions placed haphazardly about the room, and he collided with a pile of medical books.
“There’s a body in my bedroom,” Cora said. “A dead body.”
“What’s going on, Rollo?” a man appeared from the other room. He was rather less clothed than his roommate and he clutched a bottle of gin in his hand, as if he imagined it could serve as a replacement. The robe he wore exposed several inches of bare calves. “There are girls in here. Strange girls.”
“Famous girls,” Rollo said.
Cora scrutinized the other person. “You must be Lionel.”
“Er—yes.”
“Golly, she is a detective,” Rollo said behind her, and Cora found her cheeks warming.
“I’m not,” she said quickly. “You mentioned his name earlier. And I do beg your pardon for being in your apartment like this. I know it’s most inappropriate.”
“Nonsense. Mother owns this property,” Lionel said.
“You’re Mr. Addington!”
“We’re both Mr. Addington,” Rollo said behind her. “But my cousin is older.”
“You must be Miss Clarke, the new tenant in Apartment Six,” Lionel said, showing a surprising capacity for numbers, despite his hungover state. “Mother said we should expect you. I’m pleased to meet you.”
Cora had the distinct impression both men were nice, despite their confusion and morning mannerisms, even though it was past noon, and quite too late for bathrobes and unbrushed hair.
“Golly,” Rollo said. “We’ll have a celebrity living with us. A Hollywood one.”
“Rollo’s a film student,” Lionel remarked. “You must forgive him.”
“How interesting,” Cora said. It seemed odd to consider that anyone could study film. “Is that common here?”
“Not at all,” Rollo said, managing to inhale sufficient air to speak, “but the nice thing about university is that one can write a dissertation on positively anything. The more obscure the better.”
“So you consider us obscure?” Veronica’s voice wobbled.
“Of course not,” Rollo said hurriedly, and his cheeks once again adopted a ruddy color, as if it were a permanent sign of deference.
Deference was always a good idea in Veronica’s presence.
“And she’s Veronica James.” Rollo pointed at Veronica, who had evidently found the phone and was speaking.
His eyes widened again.
Veronica had the ability to cause pupils to enlarge.
“I’m afraid there’s a dead body in my room,” Cora said.
Lionel threw back his head and chuckled. “Good one.”
“I’m being serious,” Cora said, and her horror at the discovery was quickly replaced by irritation at not being believed.
“Is it murder?” The man’s eyes glimmered, and he seemed perilously close to winking. She moved past him, thankful for her petite size.
The apartment was larger than Cora’s own, and music still sounded from another room. Its tempo remained upbeat and lively, and Cora could imagine it might irritate Miss Greensbody. If this man celebrated with this vigor at the joys of a Wednesday afternoon, how might he celebrate a Saturday night?
Perhaps some things shouldn’t be pondered.
“What sort of body? A bird? Another dog?” Lionel glanced at Archibald and slurred his words. He swayed, as if attempting to slow dance with a ghost.
“A stranger’s body,” Veronica said. “A stranger’s human body. It’s dreadful.”
“It wouldn’t be better if I knew the person,” Cora said.
“No,” Veronica said, “I suppose that’s true. Especially since there’s a high percentage that I would be the body.”
“I’m not following,” Lionel said.
“I’m Cora’s best friend,” Veronica explained. “And since she is less social than I am, it would be statistically likely—”
“That’s not important,” Cora said hurriedly. No need for everyone to know the extent of her introversion. She was living in London now, and she wasn’t going to miss out on life and normal experiences anymore.
“The police will be here soon,” Veronica said.
“Police?” Lionel scrunched his eyes together, as if the word were a novel concept.
Cora wondered if Lionel was in university as well. Perhaps it was wrong to suppose continual education was a sign of a lofty intellect. Perhaps it was simply a sign of someone in need of an intellect.
The doorbell rang, and Lionel’s face whitened. “You better meet him.”
Cora gave a curt nod and exited the flat with Veronica.