| |
THE REST OF THE PERFORMANCE was a blur. Pop sang about diamonds and daffodils, when Cora’s mind was on nothing as nice.
If Pop had gotten himself into some trouble, perhaps that explained his hasty and ill-advised disposal of Mr. Tehrani’s body. He may have thought he’d been framed, or he may just have been anxious to have one less thing for these men to hold over him.
Cora finished the rest of her drink, savoring the sharp fiery taste, and Veronica’s eyes widened slightly.
Let her be surprised. Cora wasn’t going to be naïve anymore.
She needed to solve this murder so Mr. Tehrani’s death wasn’t hanging over them like some modern boulder.
She rose and marched from the table and toward the coat check girl. “Good evening.”
“Miss Clarke, how may I help you?”
“I need to purchase the most recent edition of The Daily Mail. It’s important. Can you please see that it’s delivered to my table?”
The woman’s eyebrows shot up, and for a moment she looked like she might protest. Newspaper reading was an unusual activity at the club, particularly during nighttime performances.
“It’s important,” Cora urged, handing her a generous amount of money.
“Naturally, I’ll get it for you,” the woman said, though Cora thought she may have laughed, had Cora’s father not been Club Paradiso’s lead performer.
“I have a copy of The Times,” the woman said. “Will that do?”
Cora frowned. “May I see it?” She rifled through the pages and came to an article about the newly discovered body.
There was no accompanying picture. It was good taste of the newspaper, but unfortunately not very useful for Cora’s current purposes.
“No,” she said. “It must be The Daily Mail.”
“Right.” The woman nodded, but Cora noticed the flicker of displeasure on her face.
“Or perhaps I should get it myself.”
“No,” the woman said quickly. “I’ll get it. Enjoy the performance.”
Cora returned to her seat. She attempted to enjoy the performance, just as she had before, just as everyone else at Club Paradiso was now enjoying themselves, but her back suddenly felt too stiff, and her shoulders for some reason ached. When she reached for her martini glass, her fingers trembled and the bubbly cocktail did nothing to sooth the flutters in her stomach.
Perhaps it was mad to show the others the picture.
Perhaps she should change apartments after all and make sure there was no connection between her family and the place in Bloomsbury anymore.
And yet...
She couldn’t have this hanging over her and her father for the rest of their lives. She couldn’t worry that at some point a police constable or investigator would make a connection. What if someone had seen Pop?
And more than all of that, she couldn’t let the poor man whom she’d found in her room die unavenged.
People weren’t supposed to murder other people. A life was the most sacred thing a person had. Sometimes it was the only thing a person had.
She’d only met two murderers before, but both ones had seemed to take a curious trivial outlook on the importance of a person’s life. They’d seen their actions to end a life as relatively minute, a necessary temporary unpleasantness that could be equated to a few nights in the trenches. They’d seemed to see the act almost as a sign of valor and bravery, one that should be rewarded for having gotten past a certain squeamishness most people, in similar circumstances, never would have gotten past.
No, when the paper arrived, she would show them the photograph. Perhaps one of them would admit to having seen the man.
“Oh, there comes the waiter,” Veronica said happily.
The waiter placed the newspaper before Cora. “As you requested.”
“You requested a newspaper?” Veronica widened her eyes. “I know you enjoy reading, but this is rather supposed to be the definition of a place to have a good time. You don’t need to read.” Veronica shuddered slightly as she said the last word.
Normally Cora might have found her friend’s consistent abhorrence of anything to have to do with reading amusing, but Cora simply snatched the newspaper, murmured a quick thank you to the waiter.
Lionel moved her cocktail glass away hastily. “Wouldn’t want to have any nasty spillage.”
“Thank you.” Cora turned the pages until she came to the article.
Yes.
This was the one.
Murder in Bloomsbury.
She shoved the paper in Lionel’s direction.
“I’m afraid I’m as disinclined to reading as your friend,” Lionel said.
Cora didn’t have to glance at him to know he was smirking. It was obvious from his voice. She didn’t flush. She was going to get to the bottom of this. No matter how amusing people thought her.
Pop started a new solo. It was a soft song, almost sentimental. It wasn’t a song in his normal repertoire, but she soon recognized Italian words. She gazed at the bulky men who followed him around, they smiled approvingly at him, and their eyes misted.
Good music was good music, no matter the language, but Cora had the curious sensation Pop hadn’t chosen this precise song. A few of the audience members looked bored, perhaps perplexed by the new words,
People in Britain were warier of Mussolini than Americans. In the US Mussolini was much lauded in communities for his ability to improve the country’s economy. People in Britain seemed to take a more pessimistic view to Italy’s invasion of Ethiopia and Mussolini’s close relationship to Hitler.
Some audience members shifted in their seats, and Pop seemed to sense that and sang with more force, more passion, than perhaps the songwriter had intended.
It worked.
The audience continued to gaze at him, once more only in adoration.
Cora pressed the paper to Lionel. Ideally, she would have shown it to Rollo or Bess first. They were more amiable. She was still somewhat intimidated by Lionel, ever since she’d realized he took his responsibilities to act as a landlord seriously, despite his penchant for extending morning activities into the afternoon.
“This was the man whose body I discovered,” she murmured, keeping her voice low and her gaze on her father. Pop was beaming at her, and she felt guilty for using his performance as a place to speak about murder.
Still, when else would she have so many neighbors around her? Bess worked, and Lionel and Rollo attended graduate school. Besides, what if one of the people she asked was the murderer? They might feel compelled to silence her if they thought themselves the only people who knew the identity of the dead body. This way, they would all know everyone knew the identity of the person in question. Cora would be safer. Her concerns would be that of any person who happened to find the body of someone murdered in their bedroom. Perhaps her questions might annoy the murderer, but now she had asked them, her death wouldn’t unask the questions.
Furthermore, Rollo and Lionel knew she’d seen the body. She hadn’t discussed the murder with Bess yet, but it was possible she would learn soon from the two cousins even if she didn’t bring it up. Rollo did seem to be gazing at Bess with quite open adoration, and Cora smiled. She wondered how long it would be for them to become a couple.
Still, what would Randolph think of her brandishing about the paper and asking nosy questions? She didn’t have to ask him. He would no doubt disapprove. He seemed to hold her safety as being more important than the course of justice. It was a most infuriating quality.
Lionel had already taken the paper. “Murder in Bloomsbury?”
He fumbled in his pocket for some spectacles and then placed them on his nose. “Oh.” He turned to her abruptly. “That’s the body you saw.”
“Yes.”
Lionel frowned. Despite his proclivity to drinking which indicated some habits of going out, Lionel was more withdrawn than either Rollo or Bess. But then Rollo simply seemed overjoyed to be in the company of Bess, and Bess seemed to be consistently pleasant company. That was one of the reasons why Cora was happy she was living opposite Bess, and one of the reasons she knew she’d made the right decision to choose this apartment and stay in it.
“Do you recognize him?” she asked.
He continued to pause. Finally he sighed. “No. I never saw him before in my life.”
“I-I don’t believe you.”
“Well, you should. And frankly, I see most of the people who come to the building.”
“You would if you interrogated everyone’s guests with the passion you did my friend,” she murmured, remembering his tiff with Randolph.
He handed the paper back to her. “So this really isn’t necessary.”
She cleared her throat. “Please pass it to the person beside you.”
He gave her a hard stare. “Fine.” He shoved it at Bess, who stared at it bemused.
“Are we reading newspapers now?” she giggled. “It’s a bit after breakfast.”
Cora leaned over and pointed at the picture of Mr. Tehrani. “I saw this man on my bed the other day. He was dead.”
Bess’s eyes widened comically.
“Do you know him?”
“No, of course not.” Her face though paled, and her fingers trembled. She clasped the stem of her martini glass, as if the action might hide her sudden quivering.
“Are you certain?”
“She’s certain,” Rollo said. “You heard her.”
“Er—yes.” Cora felt suddenly self-conscious. “I don’t suppose you...know?”
His eyes softened, but he shook his head. “No. And I would urge you to stop worrying about him. He’s not your concern.”
Right.
She pulled back, and Veronica looked at her with concern.
“Look,” Rollo said. “Perhaps this gentleman just took ill or something and died elsewhere.”
“He was dead,” she said sullenly.
“He was,” Veronica said.
“You’re not doctors.” Rollo looked at his cousin. “They must be mistaken, right?”
Lionel nodded gravely. “Of course. They’re not doctors.” His voice was surprisingly soothing, and he stood up. “I’m getting us more drinks.”
It had seemed like a good idea to get them all to look at the newspaper clipping when they were together, but they didn’t know Mr. Tehrani. They thought her crazy.
When the waiter arrived with fresh drinks, Cora took a deep sip, but it didn’t rid her of the feeling of embarrassment.
This evening had been going so well. These were the people she lived with, and she’d wanted to make them into friends. They’d been impressed with Club Paradiso, impressed with her father’s presence—well, Lionel’s opinion might have been less positive, but now they were only mystified.
Veronica gave her a sympathetic smile. “It’s alright.”
Cora was quite certain it wasn’t.