Murder at Rough Point (26 page)

“Your husband, then. He is half mad, isn't he?”

Her composure unwavering, Mrs. Wharton returned to her place at the table, lifted her water glass, and splashed the contents into the young man's face. He drew back with a yelp, then fell to spluttering and wiping at his face with his coat sleeve. “Perhaps that will help sober you.”

“You are as mad as he is.”

Mrs. Wharton stood over him like an avenging angel. “Say what you wish about me, but do not talk about my husband, nor any other person not present to defend himself, in such vile terms again. You make me ill, Vasili. Look at you. Drunk all day and night, turning your anger toward the very people who have supported you all these years—” She broke off at his first word of protest, threw her hands in the air, and shook her head vehemently. “Oh, save your self-pity, please. Your friends wished you to join them in Versailles. And yes, they wanted an introduction to a patroness of the arts. What of it? Whatever favor they asked of you, they had returned several times over in countless ways. That is what we do for one another. Furthermore, they didn't force you onto that train. They didn't cause the train to derail. You shame yourself with your behavior, and you shame Claude.”

Vasili sprang to his feet and I tensed, ready to hurry around the table and intervene. But he hesitated, and if he'd had any intention of retaliating physically, that intention became lost in the moment. Instead he sank back into his chair, let his chin sink to his chest, and began to sob quietly. Mrs. Wharton silently leaned over him and circled her arms around his shoulders. He tilted his head, crying against her sleeve.

“I, uh . . . if you'll excuse me.” Uncle Frederick pushed stiffly to his feet and strode from the room into the Stair Hall. A moment later Father helped Mother to her feet and they trailed after him.

Jesse caught my eye. “What now?”

It was a rhetorical question, I knew, for what answer could there be? I fully believed Miss Marcus to be innocent, and that led us back where we had started, with victims and no suspect in sight. “Will you release Miss Marcus?”

I knew the answer before the question had fully left my lips, so I was not surprised when Jesse shook his head. “You know I can't do that. Not without solid proof of her innocence.”

“But you do believe me, don't you?”

“I do, Emma. Now I have to find a way to convince my chief and the prosecutor. If we could only find something concrete, like those gloves, and link them to an individual.”

Mrs. Wharton, still leaning over Vasili, raised her head to regard us. “You have the stub of a cigarette, a wet rug, and a broken cello string that must have been torn loose by someone wearing gloves. There must be a pattern there that we aren't seeing.”

“Yes, Mrs. Wharton, that is the point. We are failing to see the pattern.” Jesse pinched the bridge of his nose.

“It could still be someone from outside the house,” she said. “Perhaps whoever entered Claude's bedroom hadn't come from Josephine's bathroom, but from outside in the rain. Likewise, whoever dropped that cigarette might have simply walked onto the estate from any direction, most likely the Cliff Walk.”

“And Niccolo? Are you suggesting whoever killed Claude took yet another risk of discovery by entering the house again?” Even with a black market art dealer wishing to take his revenge on my father, Mrs. Wharton's theory didn't ring true to me.

She straightened, but kept her hands on Vasili's shoulders. He seemed lost in his own world, no longer paying us any heed. “Miss Cross, Emma if I may, we are left with Vasili, me, you, and your parents.”

“And the servants,” Jesse murmured.

I shook my head. “What motive could any of Uncle Frederick's servants have to murder people they have never met before? And they have all been in my uncle's service for years.”

Mrs. Wharton raised a speculative eyebrow. “Perhaps one of them didn't wish your uncle to sell the house.”

“A rather drastic solution, don't you think? Besides, if the new owners wish to replace them, my uncle will find positions for them at one of his other estates. As estate manager Mr. Dunn is already involved in the administration of the Long Island and Hyde Park properties in addition to this one, and I believe Mrs. Harris has also worked at the Hyde Park house. At any rate, that might be a motive to dispatch Sir Randall, who planned to purchase Rough Point, but certainly not Monsieur Baptiste or Niccolo. Neither of them showed any interest in buying the property, did they?”

“No,” Mrs. Wharton conceded. “In fact Claude commented that he almost hoped the production at the Metropolitan fell through so he could return to France sooner rather than later. And neither he nor Niccolo possessed that kind of money.”

A memory worked its way through my speculations. “At one point, I did come upon Carl testing the locks on the bedroom doors. He said Mr. Dunn had sent him. Do you think he might have been lying?”

“Carl is a local boy,” Jesse said, “and might have feared being dismissed. But I can't imagine him committing murder over a footman's position. With his height and looks and a good recommendation, he would secure new employment immediately.”

Mrs. Wharton stepped slightly away from Vasili. “What if he knew Mr. Vanderbilt wouldn't write him a good recommendation?”

“Then he wouldn't be here now,” I said. “Uncle Frederick, like all my Vanderbilt relatives, would not retain an employee whose work they did not deem acceptable. But if there is any question, we can simply ask him.”

“Then there is still Teddy.” Mrs. Wharton said this in a murmur as she stared down at the table. She traced the damask design in the tablecloth. “Teddy is not himself these days. And he was in a terrible hurry to leave here after Niccolo's attack.”

Although I didn't span the distance between us, I nonetheless stretched out my hand to her. “I understand what it cost you to say that.”

Jesse said nothing at first, but seemed to be gathering his thoughts. Then he regarded me. “You said there was grass on Mr. Wharton's shoes the night Sir Randall was pushed from the bridge.”

I nodded.

“Mrs. Wharton, when Monsieur Baptiste was drowned, you remained with Miss Marcus to help her change into dry clothes, yes?”

She nodded with a resigned air. “That is correct.”

“So your husband was presumably alone for some time following the water pipe incident.”

She nodded again.

“And during Signore Lionetti's attack he was where—do you know?”

She paused, a frown etching lines between her eyebrows. “As a matter of fact, I don't know where Teddy was at the time.” She turned to me. “Emma, if you'll remember, we came upon Miss Marcus on her way into the billiard room, and then found my husband sitting alone in the drawing room. He and I had that row, and he left us. . . .”

“And not long afterward,” I continued for her when she trailed off, “we returned upstairs to discover Niccolo had been attacked.”

Jesse raised an eyebrow. “Could they both have been in the billiard room?”

I thought back, remembering the waft of cigarette smoke and the clicking of the balls after Miss Marcus entered the billiard room. When Mrs. Wharton and I returned upstairs . . . “It had been quiet in the room when we passed by that second time. I didn't think to peek inside—why would I?”

“Then it sounds to me,” Jesse said, “as if you cannot account for the whereabouts of either Mr. Wharton or Miss Marcus at the time of the attack. And we discovered Miss Marcus in her bedroom, only a room away from Signore Lionetti's. That's awfully convenient.”

Jesse was right. No matter how one viewed the evidence, Miss Marcus still appeared guilty. I had only gut instinct to rely upon, and that would not be enough for the prosecutor.

“Emma, given the alternatives, have you considered that you might be mistaken when it comes to Miss Marcus?” Before I could object Jesse went on, “She might well have smoked that cigarette on her way out to the Cliff Walk. Inhaling or no, the act might still have brought her a measure of courage. Perhaps the wet rug in Monsieur Baptiste's room was merely the result of me and my men tracking in rain from outside. And the cello string . . .” He trailed off, obviously grasping for an explanation.

“We all saw her hands,” I reminded him. “Even if she would stoop to damaging a priceless instrument—which I am certain she would not—she could not have pried the string loose without the aid of some kind of pliers or other tool, nor wrapped it around Niccolo's neck without thick gloves. You remember how your own hands bled after working the string free.”

Jesse swore softly. “We're back to those gloves again. So much seems to hinge on those blasted things. If they even exist.”

M
other's suitcase sat gaping on the bed, silks and laces spilling out in bursts of color. The rain had ceased almost entirely but the clouds proved more stubborn, as if unwilling to relinquish their claim over the island. Still, present conditions promised that travel would soon be safe, and the remaining group had decided to vacate Rough Point as soon as possible.

I looked forward to returning to the orderly routines of Gull Manor. Although phone service between Rough Point and town had been restored, I still couldn't reach Nanny at home and I wondered what havoc the wind and ocean had wreaked on my kitchen garden, or whether shingles would need replacing on the house or barn, or if a small lake had replaced my cellar floor. But I took comfort in knowing such damage would prove trivial enough, for my solid old house had withstood nearly a hundred years of angry ocean waves and punishing winds, and provided stalwart shelter for Nanny and Katie.

My parents would accompany me, while Mrs. Wharton and Vasili planned to make their way to Land's End. But we still needed confirmation that the roads were drivable.

“Are you all packed?” my mother asked as she emptied a drawer in her dressing table.

I smiled. “I didn't bring much with me, so yes, I'm ready.”

She paused a moment in her packing, standing with a silk scarf half unfurled from her hands. “I never thought I'd be so eager to leave a place.”

“You must have been relieved to leave Paris when you did. Everything considered, I mean.”

She laid the scarf on the bed amid a small pile of lace collars, hair combs, and embroidered handkerchiefs. “You're still angry with your father and me, aren't you, darling?”

“No, Mother, I'm not angry.”

She lowered her chin and gazed at me from beneath her lashes.

“I'm disappointed,” I clarified. I fingered the latch on her open suitcase. “I'm sorry, I can't help it. But it isn't so much Father's prank that disturbs me, it was your lack of candor after so much time away. It felt as though you'd returned in body only, but left the people I call my parents back in France.”

She came around the bed and sat beside me. “Oh, Emma, if you don't wish us to leave again we won't. Your father and I can resettle in Newport—”

“No, I won't hold you here if you wish to be elsewhere. And Father needs to be part of the art world, not buried in this tiny New England town.”

“Newport is hardly tiny and neither is it obscure. He made a living here before and he could do it again.” She placed her open palm on my cheek and held it there, allowing its warmth to sink into me.

I enjoyed the familiar sensation, so long denied me, before lifting my face away. Firmly I said, “You and Father belong in Paris.”

“Then come back with us.” She beamed at me. “Darling, it would be wonderful. You'd adore Paris.”

For an instant my heart leapt. From Paris, it was only a short trip to Italy . . . and Derrick. The idea barely formed completion before I rejected it. Vital family matters had sent Derrick to Italy—heartbreaking matters. I had no business intruding on his life and distracting him from his purpose there. I had to believe that when he deemed the time right, he would return to America . . . and perhaps to me.

To my mother I said, “I belong here. I would have no function in Paris.”

“You could write.”

“I am writing here, and someday I'll be recognized as a valid journalist—an American journalist who is unafraid to write the truth.” For a moment a sense of hypocrisy dealt me a staggering blow. More than once over the past year I had taken license with the truth when reporting on hard news.

But I had done so to protect the private lives of cherished family members. I was no gossip columnist. In all other matters, when finally given the chance I would report the facts with neither omissions nor embellishments, and proudly sign my full name to every article.

“I cannot write news stories about America for Americans if I'm living in Paris,” I summed up in simple terms.

Mother's lips flattened, and she shook her head. “As stubborn as your father.”

“Yes, it's a Vanderbilt trait.”

She touched my cheek again, then turned my chin toward her with her fingertips. She showed me a shrewd smile. “Is there another reason you won't leave Newport?”

“Well, yes. Besides my job there is Gull Manor, and Nanny, and the women we take in—”

“Yes, yes, besides all that.”

Mystified, I frowned. “Such as what?”

That cunning smile reappeared. “Tell me about you and Jesse.”

“Wh-what do you mean?”

“Come now, darling. I see the two of you together. The looks between you, the way you seem so attuned to each other.” She pulled back to regard me. “Don't look so surprised. Even your father has noticed. We'd be delighted with Jesse as a son-in-law.”

It occurred to me that my parents had no inkling about Derrick Andrews. “Mother, you're letting your imagination get away with you.”

“Nonsense. Jesse's a wonderful catch. Why, I have no doubt he'll be chief of police someday, and after that, who knows? He could enter politics and become a representative, even a state senator. Just think of the future you could have with him, Emma.”

No one needed to point out to me how right Jesse and I could be together. Socially, we were a perfect match. And yes, our future held a world of potential. When I thought about it in those terms, of Jesse becoming a man of influence, and me, as a journalist, having firsthand access to the machinations of change and progress, my heart raced and my stomach flipped with eagerness.

But marrying a man for his opportunities was as wrong as marrying a man for his money. I could bring myself to do neither. If something lasting, something beyond friendship were to develop between Jesse and me, my heart must race and my stomach flip for purer reasons.

* * *

Downstairs, I searched for my uncle Frederick to let him know we would all be leaving soon, if he hadn't already been told, and to invite him to Gull Manor for the remainder of his time in Newport. He would probably choose to remain at his hotel in town, but I wished to extend the courtesy nonetheless.

After checking the other rooms to no avail, I thought perhaps he might be in his office. Instead I discovered Jesse there, speaking on the telephone. As I peered in the open door he caught my eye and gestured for me to enter. I stood waiting while he finished his call.

“I spoke to Dr. Kennison,” he said as he replaced the receiver on its hook. “Signore Lionetti had regained consciousness.”

“Oh, Jesse, that's wonderful!” Without thinking I threw my arms around his neck. His own went around me, and I felt myself pressed to his coat front. He smelled of rain and his morning shave, and he rested his chin on my head in such a way as to tuck my face against his collar. Through it I felt the curve of his neck, and I couldn't help but notice how easy and smooth a fit we made.

Though neither of us seemed to instigate the act, we drew apart simultaneously but in no rush, putting space between us even as our arms were slower to let go. I glanced up to find him staring down at me, and for the first time I felt no burden in the sentiments he communicated silently to me, nor an urge to slide my gaze away or conceal my own emotions. For in that unguarded moment, something inside me changed . . . or
eased
is perhaps the better word. Did it have to do with my conversation with Mother? Perhaps, and if so I owed her a great debt. For I saw, finally, that I had choices, and for once I perceived those choices as a blessing rather than a curse. Two men, two very different sets of circumstances, both worthy of heartfelt consideration.

But I realized something else as well. For the past year I had felt put upon, pressured to make a choice, torn in opposite directions whether I willed or no. Now I saw, quite clearly, that the decision was mine to make—or not to make. Admitting I might have feelings for Jesse, as well as Derrick, somehow brought me a measure of control over my life most women never enjoyed, because most women had their lives handed to them by their parents and were told to make do.

Somehow, in Jesse's sincere yet undemanding embrace, I had found my equilibrium.

His breath tickled my cheek and made me smile. We released each other fully but our smiles persisted, mutually, and without the unspoken questions that might have produced an intolerable awkwardness. I gestured at the telephone.

“Was Niccolo able to say what happened to him?”

“He doesn't remember anything, not yet.”

“Oh.” That came as a letdown. “What did Dr. Kennison say? Will he remember, in time?”

“We can't be sure, Emma. If brain damage occurred, then perhaps not.”

I clutched my hands together. “At least he's alive. We have that to be grateful for.” Jesse nodded, and I asked, “When must you leave? Don't you have to be at your meeting?”

“I telephoned in and arranged to meet with the prosecutor later this afternoon. He didn't like it—neither did Chief Rogers—but I explained there were recent developments, along with the hope that Signore Lionetti might be able to identify his attacker.”

“You just said he can't.”

“Yes, but the prosecutor doesn't know that. At least not yet,” he added with a rueful look.

“The others are preparing to leave.”

“Let them. I'll know where to find them. I especially have questions for Mr. Wharton. And once everyone is gone I plan to go over the bedrooms again with white gloves and a microscope.”

I laughed. “That might not be a bad idea. My parents are moving over to Gull Manor, but I'll stay to help you, if you like.”

“I'd like that very much.” He hesitated, seeming to weigh his words, before adding, “I could use another pair of eyes.”

“I should let my uncle know what everyone's plans are. Have you seen him?”

“With his estate manager, I would think. I saw them pass by a little while ago.”

“Perhaps I shouldn't interrupt them, then. They're probably discussing how to proceed with Uncle Frederick's plans to sell the estate.” The sound of distant barking sent me across the threshold into the dining room. I listened for a moment to orient myself to the direction of the noise, and said to Jesse, “I fear they're already being interrupted. I'd better go and get Patch under control. I wonder what has gotten into him now. . . .”

With a shove at the heavy door separating the servants' wing from the rest of the house, I stepped into the serving pantry. Patch's barking immediately grew louder. From here I entered the narrow corridor that flanked the kitchen, storage pantries, and the servants' hall. The butler's office sat off to my right, but upon peeking in I discovered the room to be empty. This puzzled me, for if Mr. Dunn and Uncle Frederick had business to conduct, it would most likely be in that room. I started down the corridor, following the echoes of my dog's misbehavior. The kitchen proved empty as well, but I could hear Mrs. Harris humming a tune and puttering away in the cook's pantry. I passed the servants' hall, the large room deserted and lonely. Patch stopped barking, but his low growl drew me on until I reached the dry goods pantry.

“Patch, what on earth are you—” I broke off. Patch stood several feet inside the door with his back to me, his tail pressed between his legs and his hackles spiking. Beyond him, Mr. Dunn cowered against a bank of cupboards, his fearful gaze fixed on my dog. I hurried in. “Mr. Dunn, I'm so sorry. Patch, you naughty boy. What have you got there?”

Something brown stuck out from either side of Patch's spotted muzzle. Obviously he had gotten hold of something he shouldn't have and when Mr. Dunn attempted to retrieve it, the wayward pup decided to play the bully.

“Give that to me this instant,” I commanded, but Patch swiveled his head away from me and growled between his clenched teeth. “You will
not
talk to me that way, sir.” I grabbed his collar in one hand and with the other hand tugged the item from his mouth. This time he relinquished his hold, and I found myself staring down at a glove.

A brown leather work glove, caked with dirt, with deep score marks across the palm.

I frowned. “Where did he get this . . . ?” I studied the dirt—mud, really—clinging to the seams and folds. “He must have dug it up from outside. Someone must have buried it—my goodness—Mr. Dunn, do you realize this must be one of the gloves—” I broke off, for as I glanced up I saw that the estate manager, too, held a glove, the mate to the one I gripped. He held it in his left hand, while with his right he opened a drawer beside him and thrust a hand inside. “Mr. Dunn?”

He lurched away from the cupboards. Before I could understand or react, he grabbed me, spun me around, and yanked me up against him. An arm clamped across the front of my shoulders, rendering me immobile. Patch barked, and something cold and sharp pressed against my throat.

“Tell him to stop or so help me, I'll prevent him from ever yapping again.” When all I could do was gasp, that pointy instrument poked painfully. “Tell him.”

“Patch, quiet, boy. Be quiet.” He quieted to a low, grinding growl. A desperate urge to shout for help came over me, but the pricking at my throat and the thought of endangering Mrs. Harris kept me silent. “Don't hurt my dog. Please. He's just a pup, and he hasn't done anything to you.”

“That's entirely up to you, Miss Cross.” Mr. Dunn prodded my legs with his knee. “Let's go.”

“Wh-where are you taking me?”

He said nothing but I didn't have long to wonder. He forced me back along the corridor until we came to a door. Mr. Dunn ordered me to open it. A flight of cement steps plunged into darkness. “Start down.”