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“Lie still, you little fool,” he whispered, looking almost as handsome as Rudolph himself.

Even though Rudolph was dead, it was a great comfort to Ruby to know that he lived on at 12 The Cedars.

“Yes, it’s probably me.” Harold gave a cursory look at the newspaper picture on his return on the Monday evening.

Ruby, who had assumed by now that the man in the photograph could not possibly have been her husband, was flabbergasted. “But you said you were going to York.”

New York, I said.”

Ruby tried to take this in, and fastened on the one salient point. “But why go to the funeral parlour? You didn’t even like Rudolph.” Then a warm glow spread through her. “Oh, Harold, did you do it for me?”

“No, Ruby. I killed him, you see. Then I thought I’d take a last look at my handiwork.”

Ruby didn’t understand. “What do you mean, killed him?”

“I murdered him.”

With this pronouncement, Harold sat down with the Daily Mail as though he were asking for a cup of tea.

“Who?” she shrieked.

“Your precious Rudolph Valentino.”

“Don’t make fun of me, Harold.”

“I’m not, Ruby. You said I should be more masterful, so I went out there and murdered him.”

The room spun around her. “You’d never kill anyone.”

“I never wanted to before.” There was a touch of complacency in Harold’s voice. He was smiling in a most peculiar way, and Ruby felt quite uneasy. The newspapers said Rudolph died of complications after the operation, so were they covering something up? If so, what was it? And if Harold had murdered him, what was her husband doing safely back home instead of being locked up in Sing Sing like in the films?

Then she realised this was all nonsense. Harold was pulling her leg. “He died of complications after a gastric ulcer and appendicitis,” she said scornfully, “and anyway he was in hospital when he died.”

“Recuperating on the ninth floor of the Polyclinic Hospital. Armed guards all around.”

“There you are, then. You couldn’t have murdered him.” Not that Ruby had really thought he had, but all the same it was a relief to know he couldn’t possibly have done so. But why was he still grinning at her?

“Ah, but it wasn’t a gastric ulcer, was it? It was arsenic,” Harold informed her.

“Arsenic?” she shrieked. “That’s poison.”

“Yes, and it doesn’t half do nasty things to your stomach.”

“How could you get close enough to Rudolph to poison him?” Ruby hardly dared breathe his sacred name in company with such an outrage.

“It was easy. He was taken ill at a party, and I was there.”

“How did you get to a party with Rudolph?” She couldn’t believe it, no, she couldn’t.

“I met this fellow in the hotel who told me he was a chum of your precious Rudy. He said he was off to a party in an hour or two being given for him by a friend of his, Barclay something or other. So I told him my wife was a fan and she’d never forgive me if I let an opportunity to meet him slip by.” Harold giggled. “I got this rat poison easily enough, and poured it into this drink I handed him.” Ruby gave a faint cry. “When the party broke up, I followed the Great Lover back to his hotel and waited outside for a while. Sure enough, an ambulance was called an hour or two later and off he went to hospital. I bet he didn’t look so handsome then.” He glanced at her stupefied face. “Shall I show you the tin? Would that convince you?”

“Harold,” she moaned, backing away from him. She was already convinced. There was his picture in the newspaper and he knew details the papers hadn’t revealed. She, Ruby Smart of Blackheath (well, Woolwich really, only it was nearly Blackheath) was responsible for the death of Rudolph Valentino. There’d be a trial. She’d have to give evidence. She would call it Blackheath then. All these thoughts raced through her mind and then her brain clarified.

“I’ll have to go to the police.”

Harold looked serious. “Of course, Ruby. I’d expect you to. It’s only right. I’m ready to face the consequences like a man.”

Feeling the whole weight of the world on her shoulders, Ruby put on her best dress next morning and took the 11:18 train to Charing Cross. This was too serious a matter for the Woolwich police station. She had to go to the top. She walked self-consciously to Scotland Yard on the Embankment. She wasn’t even nervous. She was doing this for Rudolph, sacrificing her own husband for justice.

The gentleman at the desk was very polite when she said she’d come to report a murder. Had it just happened, he asked? No, she explained, about two weeks ago in America. She was asked to wait and another gentleman came almost straightaway, though he wasn’t in uniform, which rather disappointed her.

Ruby sat primly on the chair, smoothing her skirt down. It would never do to display too much thigh here. It would be letting Rudolph down.

“You tell me about it, Mrs. Smart,” the policeman said encouragingly. “Who’s dead?”

And so she explained everything.

“Rudolph Valentino, eh?” was all he commented.

To her great indignation, she could see he was trying not to laugh.

“Well, Mrs. Smart, I think your husband is having you on, don’t you?”

“No,” she said truthfully. “He wouldn’t do that.” But then she wondered whether perhaps he was right. After all, she had been so sure it was York Harold was going to. The policeman then sent for someone to make her a nice cup of tea, and assured her, as he ushered her out, that he would make enquiries with the FBI in America.

That sounded right to Ruby, but she ventured to ask, “When will you arrest Harold? I’ll have to pack something for him, you see.”

“We’ll let you know,” he replied gravely. “It’ll be out of my hands, Mrs. Smart.”

Greatly relieved, Ruby had her tea and left. After all, Harold knew she was coming here, so she wasn’t worried about getting home quickly — even though she suddenly realised it was Tuesday and she’d forgotten to cancel Cyril’s visit. Harold must have been at work, though, and even if he were home early Cyril would have thought up some excuse. When she got back home, Harold was indeed there, however. He was watering the tomatoes. A keen gardener, was Harold.

“I’ve done it,” she announced, just a little uncertain of her reception.

“Oh, good. By the way, Ruby, I’ve put a little memento from New York for you in the spare room.”

She flew upstairs, half expecting to find Rudolph’s dead body, maybe even something personal to him. Heart aflame, she could see just a single red rose, very withered — as one would expect if Rudolph had handed it to Harold two or three weeks ago. Underneath, however, was a little note from Harold:

“Ha, ha, I was joking, Ruby.”

She didn’t know whether to be furious or relieved. She decided on fury for tonight and then she’d relent tomorrow.

The next morning she duly relented. First of all, she’d found the receipts from his hotel while he’d been away, and that had been in York, not America. So it was a joke, although one in very poor taste. Never mind. Perhaps since he was disappointed yesterday, her very own Rudolph in the form of Cyril would come this afternoon instead. After all, she and Gladys had agreed Valentino was immortal, and so she could mourn him through Cyril. That’s what Gladys was going to do anyway.

Strangely, no milk had been delivered that morning. It didn’t arrive until lunchtime, and was then delivered by a new unknown milkman. “Where’s our usual man?” Ruby asked, trying to sound as if she didn’t care.