Murder at Marble House (12 page)

“I’ll do that,” she mumbled to my back.

Some twenty minutes later, I brought my rig to a stop at the end of Walnut Street, near the train tracks that separated the street from the cemetery beyond it. My old home sat a few dozen yards away. We rented out the first two floors and Brady, when not staying with me or working in New York with our relatives, occupied the garret apartment. Tonight the windows were dark but for a glow on the ground floor overlooking the back garden. I set the brake and slipped the straps of Barney’s feedbag over his head. That would keep him contented until my return. I didn’t worry for his safety or about the prospect of someone stealing the carriage. Such crimes occurred rarely on the island, for any thief would be caught long before he could make his getaway on the morning ferry.

With the unaccustomed sensation of trousers encasing my legs and producing a disconcerting
woof-woof
sound as I walked, I proceeded toward the harbor. There I discovered Nanny’s cautions were unfounded; the McPaddens’ rowboat appeared sound enough, drifting to the length of its twine from the short dock behind their house. All appeared quiet in the house. Noiselessly I made my way across the weathered planks, went down on one knee, and reached to tug the boat closer through the blackened water. Out in the bay the Rose Light burned brightly, a beacon to warn incoming ships away from the dangerous shoals near the shoreline.

A thwack of boots hitting the timbers behind me nearly sent me tumbling head over heels into the water. I’d barely caught my balance—and caught a splinter in my middle finger—when a stern voice sent my heartbeat careening.

“Emma Cross, you are incorrigible.”

 

For a brief moment eyes darker than the surrounding night held me immobile. My heart continued to thump, but no longer from fear; from a multitude of other emotions, however, desire and exasperation not the least among them.

“Derrick.” I released the boat line and pressed to my feet. “What in the devil’s name are you doing here?” I demanded, making a monumental effort not to allow my voice to rise above a whisper lest the McPaddens come to investigate. “You’re supposed to be back in Providence by now.”

“Am I, Emma?” He strode closer, taking care to muffle his footsteps now that his dramatic appearance had effectively captured my full attention. “And leave you to your own devices?”

“My de—” My chin hefted in the air of its own accord. “You’ve been spying on me, haven’t you?”

The scoundrel had the audacity to smile, the fog-tinged moonlight caressing his lips with a silver glint. At the sight of that now-familiar gesture a slight tremor went through me, and I pressed my own lips together. “My plans changed the moment I got wind of what happened at Marble House yesterday.” His gaze swept me up and down, and a chuckle blended with the light slap of the water against the seawall. “Oh, Emma, how predictable you are. Did you think I’d let you investigate another murder on your own?”

Predictable? Why—I opened my mouth to protest but quickly realized the futility of arguing the point, at least there on that little dock, with my errand waiting to be accomplished. However . . . “That shows how much you know, then. Because it so happens I am not investigating a murder.”

“Ah, then you’re dressed like a boy and stealing a boat . . . because you’re off to a costume ball on your uncle William’s yacht?” He reached out to graze my chin with his fingertips, then held them up so we could both see the coal dust smudging them.

“Borrowing, not stealing,” I said with a huff. “And it so happens I’m looking for someone, and I can assure you that someone is
not
a murderer.”

I expected a return quip; I did not expect Derrick to grip my shoulders and pull me closer. “Stop playing games with me, Emma. Yes, the moment I heard about the murder at Marble House I began following you. You mean to tell me you never sensed it?”

In a whirl of confusion fueled as much by the scent of his shaving soap as by his anger, I could only stare wide-eyed up at him and shake my head.

“Then maybe you’re not as good at this as you think you are. Didn’t getting mixed up in one murder and nearly getting yourself killed teach you anything?”

That time I did intend to answer him, but before I could gather the words his face dipped, bringing with it the scent of his skin, the heat of his breath, and the press of his lips against mine. His evening stubble was rough against my cheek; his mouth was hard, punishing. All at once I felt myself spinning as if the dock had broken loose from its pilings, leaving us at the mercy of the tide.

But then he released me, his face tight, pained, his own chin now shadowed by traces of that dratted coal dust. Slowly he pulled back from me, though his fingers continued their vise grip on my shoulders. “I’m sorry.” He looked away. “That was uncalled for.”

“Derrick . . . I . . .”

“No, leave it, Emma. You don’t need to repeat the things you said the other morning. There is no need for either of us to be redundant.” He released me, his arms swinging to his sides. As the cool air claimed my neck, I couldn’t remember the things I’d said to him that morning, or why on earth I
would
have said them. I only wanted him to hold me again.

Kiss me again.

He shoved his hands into his coat pockets and eyed me levelly, all hint of turmoil gone from his gaze. “So . . . who is this mystery person we’re off to find?”

“It’s my . . .” Aunt Alva’s admonitions stilled my tongue, but then Derrick’s choice of words struck me. “We? Who said anything about you and I . . . ?”

His cool amusement returned. “Come, Emma. It’s you and I or nothing. I’m not letting you row off across the bay or wherever you’re going alone. So start talking. Now. Or I take you home.”

It was all I could do to keep from stomping my foot. “Impossible man.”

“Yes, now, as we say in the newspaper business, who, what, where, and why?”

I heaved a sigh. “My cousin Consuelo. She’s missing—been missing since right after the murder.”

“And no one saw fit to call the police?”

I explained the reasons why not. “And before you decided to take ten years off my life moments ago, I was on my way to Rose Island. I think she might be there, or might be going there tonight, possibly to meet up with another boat to take her off the island.”

“Sounds rather cloak-and-dagger, don’t you think?”

“It’s just a hunch, but one backed up by a strange coincidence.” I told him about seeing Winthrop Rutherfurd out by the island today, how his companions had dropped some sort of marker into the water. And how, with the light glaring its beams out across the water, anything happening directly below the lighthouse would be draped in shadow.

As I fell silent he regarded me for such a long moment I nearly squirmed. Then he shrugged out of his coat and tossed it to the deck of the boat, his shirtsleeves glowing white in the darkness. “All right, then, let’s go.”

Moments later we shoved off, Derrick manning the oars.

W
e put in on the east side of Rose Island. Derrick let our small craft drift the last few yards before hopping out—ruining his half boots and trousers in the process—and almost noiselessly pulling the dinghy up onto a spit of sand. Taking his offered hand, I crept out and we set off across the island, heading thirty or so yards down from the lighthouse.

I’d been right. Beyond the lighthouse proper and wan light spilling from the windows of the keeper’s cottage, the island lay in inky darkness. We stopped at intervals, listening but hearing nothing but the waves rippling against the island’s banks.

Finally, a low murmur brought us to an abrupt halt. We were nearing the westward shore, and here Derrick immediately tugged me down behind a rocky outcropping. I pricked my ears, again hearing nothing, until the breeze carried a throaty whisper that could not have originated from nature. Derrick held up a hand to me, signaling me to stay while he proceeded, but I snatched his wrist and shook my head no. He hesitated, his annoyance felt rather than seen, but then he nodded and we crawled forward together, bellies close to the ground.

We came to the low wall that surrounded the cottage grounds, extending some fifty yards out from the house itself. The property encompassed a neat kitchen garden, several sheds, and pens for small livestock. Just beyond the wall a steep, rocky shoreline tumbled into the bay. There a single-masted catamaran sat anchored, exactly where Winty’s skipjack had lingered earlier. Like Winty’s boat, this vessel had a flat bottom that wouldn’t scrape the rocks hidden beneath the waves. Now, as then, men stood at the railing—I counted four of them—but instead of dropping anything into the water, they were carefully lowering, by means of ropes and pulleys, what appeared to be barrels that were caught by two more men standing on the rocks at the water’s edge.

I attempted to creep over the wall, but Derrick grabbed the back of my coat and held me fast.

“I want to be able to hear them,” I whispered.

His only answer was to press a finger to his lips.

Soon the lines were hoisted and the men onshore climbed back into the boat via a rope ladder. The anchor was raised and the boat turned about. Once again I started to rise, my intent to slip down to the water’s edge to see if I could discern what type of barrels and how many now sat waiting on the shore. Once again Derrick tugged me back.

“It’s none of our business, Emma. Whatever’s going on here obviously has nothing to do with your cousin.”

“Aren’t you the least bit curious?”

“No, and you shouldn’t be either. You know what they say about curiosity and the cat, don’t you?”

“But the men have gone. There’s no one to see . . .”

I trailed off at the putter of a steam engine. The sound became progressively louder and soon a small freighter, no larger than twenty-five feet in length, rounded the north end of the island, the farthest point from the lighthouse. About halfway between there and Derrick’s and my position, they cut the engine and drifted the rest of the way, dropping anchor exactly where the catamaran had been.

“What the . . .” Derrick seemed to have forgotten his eagerness to leave the scene, for now he craned his neck. I didn’t prod him; I was just as interested in this new development as he.

Would Consuelo make an appearance now?

Another rope ladder was dropped over the side of the boat and a pair of rough-looking men clambered partway down and leaped onto the rocky shore. Ropes were tossed over from the deck. Working together, the two men coiled the rope around the first of the barrels, which was then hoisted up the side of the boat. Another pair of men reached over the rail and hauled it the rest of the way, carefully unwinding the rope from around the stout cask and lowering it to the deck. Then they leaned over to await the next piece of cargo.

“What do you suppose is in those barrels?” I whispered to Derrick.

He glanced at me, then stared back at the activity on the water. I made a decision and before Derrick could react, I scrambled over our stone wall.

“Emma!” His frantic whisper grazed my back, but I kept going. I had to learn as much as I could about these goings-on. That they were somehow connected to Winthrop Rutherfurd meant they could also be connected to Consuelo. Quickly, stooping low to keep myself small, I made my way closer to the waterline.

“Hurry it up, dammit. Stanford’s waiting. Said he’d dock our pay for every minute we delay.”

I stopped in the shadow of a clump of scrub pine and crouched. Stanford. I knew that name. Hope Stanford . . . Oh, but that was ridiculous. What would the temperance leader be doing consorting with midnight brigands? Stanford was a common enough name—

A presence at my back nearly forced a gasp from my lips, but I swallowed it down. Derrick had followed me and now he slipped a hand around my forearm and squeezed. He didn’t have to speak to convey his meaning. He wanted us gone from there. I turned back to the steamer, hoping to catch a glimpse of something that made sense before Derrick dragged me away.

“D’ya see that?”

“What? Where?”

“Up there! I think someone’s there.”

“Shit!”

More expletives followed, but Derrick and I didn’t wait around to hear them. Our feet were in motion taking us back the way we’d come, heedless now of how much racket we raised. Footsteps pounded behind us. Derrick’s hand clamped around my own and he pulled me along over the wall, then over rocks, dips, and hillocks. My feet protested inside Aunt Sadie’s boots, which pinched my toes. My cap flew off and bits of my hair came loose and flopped in my face. I gasped for breath and ran blindly, until Derrick’s arm went around me, scooped me off my feet, and I was tossed to the deck of our little boat.

The dinghy rocked with Derrick’s weight as he jumped in after me. Our pursuers reached the narrow beach, their strides sending pebbles skittering across the sand to ping against our oaken hull. Fear clawed at my throat and clouded my thinking. Just as groping hands reached out to catch hold of the boat, we shoved away from the shore.

Derrick rowed madly, grunting with the effort. And I . . . I could only sit and watch the island recede, with those men standing on the sand, their fists raised in our direction.

My breath of relief was drowned out by the chugging of a steam engine.

Like some hulking sea monster angry to be awakened from its slumber, the freighter rounded the island and headed straight for us. It cut through the water, gaining momentum, and within seconds Derrick and I both knew he could not out-paddle the larger craft. We knew, too, that it would not swerve away at the last minute.

I thought to lean out over the water and paddle with my hands, anything to help Derrick bring us to land faster. But each instant brought the freighter closer, the water it displaced sending a bulging wave beneath us that hindered our progress even more. Soon, the freighter was nearly upon us, and, heart surging to my throat, I glimpsed one of those men standing at the center of the prow, grinning fiendlike as he anticipated our demise.

“Emma, jump!”

Derrick’s shout filled me with terror. He dropped the oars, one hitting the deck, the other sliding ineffectually through its rowlock and into the water. Jump? I shook my head. But at the same time I realized there was no other way, no other hope.

“To your right! Go deep!” As if he didn’t trust me to understand, Derrick lunged to his feet, locked a hand around my shoulder, and shoved me even as he sprang over the side of the dinghy himself. Together we went in headfirst, and in the last instant before we hit the water I sucked in a breath.

Instinct took over; I kicked my feet and flapped my arms. I searched frantically for the surface, but Derrick tugged me lower and lower still. Boulders struck my sides and scraped my legs through my trousers. For a moment I fought him, but then I remembered his command and realized the sense in allowing him to tow me as deep as we dared for as long as our breath held out.

A sound like distant thunder boomed in my ears, eerily muffled but no less violent. A shock wave followed, pitching us sideways into the currents. Through the darkness, with my eyes shut tight against the brine, I rolled, spiraled, then thudded side-first into Derrick. His arms went around me briefly before falling away. In that instant I panicked. But his hand found mine and he held on as never to let me go.

My lungs shrieked for air, but I resisted the urge to surface. When cruel talons tore at my lungs and I thought I could stand it no longer, Derrick kicked away from the rocks we clung to and began our ascent—too slowly for my comfort, but I trusted him. We didn’t know what we’d find when we broke the surface. Would those awful men be waiting?

But it was the quiet night, disturbed only by the wistful tolling of a buoy bell, that greeted us. My mouth surged open and I dragged in precious oxygen, filling my lungs painfully but gratefully. The freighter was nowhere in sight, and any sound from its engine now merged with the tide, the breeze, and the other ordinary sounds carrying across the water. Perhaps they’d circled back around the island, or perhaps they’d sailed farther along the coastline to blend in with the other vessels moored in the harbor. Would Uncle William gaze out from
The Valiant,
glimpse the men who had almost killed us, and, with an aristocrat’s indifference to the commonplace, think nothing of them?

At that moment I couldn’t summon the strength to care. I realized the only thing holding me above the waterline was Derrick; I’d collapsed against him, my cheek sunk against his shoulder. He kept tight hold of me, his own panting breaths heaving me up and down. I searched the water for the dinghy. Splintered boards littered the gentle tide, no more useful to us now than driftwood.

“Grab hold of a board,” he whispered, “it’ll help us float.” With one arm around me, Derrick dragged his other through the water to pull us in the direction of the shore. “We’ve got to swim for it.”

I lifted my head and nodded, still too exhausted to speak. Together, both of us kicking and using the broken board as a floatation device, we struggled toward land. Thank goodness I’d worn trousers; with skirts and petticoats holding us back—well, I wouldn’t like to contemplate what might have happened.

We reached the shore some half mile from where we’d started, no longer at the McPaddens’ dock but farther north, near where the Point gave way to the shipyards.

“Dear God, Emma,” Derrick managed between panting breaths, “we need to double back south.”

We’d reached the seawall, which soared some twenty feet above our heads, creating a slick, vertical barricade between us and land. “It’s all right.” I had barely enough strength left to croak the words. “Just a little farther north. Trust me.”

Derrick apparently did trust me, because without another word we felt our way along that slippery barrier until my outstretched hand found what I was searching for—steps built into the wall, rising up and out of the water.

With our remaining strength we yanked our ankles free of tangling seaweed and pulled ourselves up. I went first, crab-walking on all fours to avoid slipping off the steps. Derrick followed close behind me, his hands never fully releasing their hold on the back of my waist. Finally, we pulled ourselves up and over, and fell facedown onto a weed-choked mound of earth beside the road that ran along the seawall.

My eyes fell closed, and when I opened them again I was no longer sprawled on the ground with the sandy grit between my teeth, but lying with my cheek on Derrick’s chest, his hard body like a shield beneath mine protecting me from the elements. His arms once more encircled me tightly, I might even say forcefully. I let out a sigh deeper and longer than I believe I’d ever sighed before, a trembling breath of relief and gratitude and, yes, tremendous affection for the man who was somehow always there when I most needed him. And then I promptly passed out.

When I awoke sometime later, the stars were gone and the sky had turned a tarnished silver color. Dawn couldn’t be far off. I stirred, disoriented and half-disbelieving the memories that rose up like a sudden squall. But I held no illusions as to where I was: on a sandy, narrow bank beside the harbor, cradled by the man who had saved my life.

I still lay on top of him; his arms still held me, though looser now, as though he slept. Yet when I slid one hand to the ground and pushed up to peer into his patrician features, his dark eyes were open and staring into my own. His lips curved into a smile. Good heavens, that he found both the energy and the frame of mind to reassure me with that small gesture . . . I can’t say how much that meant to me, how it warmed me despite the predawn chill.

Our clothes had dried, leaving them stiff and caked with salt and bits of seaweed. My skin itched everywhere, and my hair clung to my cheeks, neck, and the underside of my chin. With one hand I swept back the encrusted strands. Then I summoned a smile for Derrick.