Murder at Marble House (17 page)

“Yes, I saw you, Mr. Rutherfurd, and let me say that you are not cut out for a life of subterfuge.”

“No, I don’t suppose I am. But Stanford here agreed to pay off a couple of debts for me . . .” Winty stared at the ground.

Derrick cleared his throat. “So what’s your story, Stanford?”

“I don’t see why I have to tell you anything.”

I raised an eyebrow and smiled. “Because if you don’t, I’ll go to your wife with what I know. Your temperance-leader wife.”

“See here, Hope has her diversions and I have mine. If you would refrain from sticking your nose in other people’s business, you won’t need to worry about men trying to kill you. Which I had nothing to do with, I might add.” He mirrored my own yes-I’ve-got-you-trumped smile. “How did they try to do you in, if I might ask?”

“They rammed their steamer into our rowboat.” The memory sent a shudder through me. “We jumped overboard at the last minute.”

The man had the audacity to laugh—to wrap both arms around his stomach, lean over, and let go a belly laugh that resounded against the houses and made the rest of us cringe. “My dear Miss Cross, that was nothing more than a warning. If those vagabonds had wanted you dead, you’d not now be standing here speaking to me.”

Derrick shot by me in a blur of overcoat and outstretched arms. Before anyone could react, his hands wrapped around Stanford’s throat, and with the force of his stride he slammed the man up against the side of an arch and pinned him in place.

“No more games, Stanford. Did you or did you not give the order to have witnesses murdered?”

Winty let out a whimper.

His hands coming up to grip Derrick’s wrists, Stanford rasped and sputtered. Derrick loosened his hold a fraction. The older man worked his head from side to side and dragged in a breath before speaking. “Of course . . . I didn’t . . . you madman. I’m out to make money, and the quickest way to attract the police is to leave a trail of bodies in one’s wake.”

“He does have a point,” I said. But then I strode to them and set my hands on my hips. “What about three days ago? Where were you the afternoon Madame Devereaux died?”

When Stanford didn’t answer immediately, Derrick gave him a shove, his fists still knotted around the man’s coat collar. “Answer the lady.”

“I was at the Newport Casino . . . with several of your town councilmen.” Stanford’s thick lips pulled back in a self-satisfied sneer. “I’d be happy to give you their names if you require proof.”

“I might at that, Mr. Stanford,” I said.

Slowly Derrick’s grip slackened and his hands fell to his sides. “I believe you. I’m not sure why, but I do.” He stepped away from Stanford, his lips in a shrewd slant. “It occurs to me that if your wife gets
her
way, you’ll make your money—plenty of it.”

Stanford brushed at his lapels and smirked.

During the exchange Winty had stood as stiff as a pillar. Now his body sagged as he visibly relaxed. “Miss Cross, what were you doing on Rose Island?”

I shot a look at Stanford, then pulled Winty outside the tower. “Looking for Consuelo,” I whispered once we’d moved several yards away. “When I saw you drop the marker into the water that afternoon, I thought perhaps it might have something to do with her. That maybe you were marking a rendezvous point to take her out of Newport.”

“I told you I hadn’t seen her. That still holds true.”

“Yes, but it occurred to me you might be lying. You were behaving strangely the morning I came to see you.” I flicked a glance at Stanford through the archway. “Now I know why. He was somewhere in your house, wasn’t he?”

“Upstairs. And no, it would not have been a good idea for you to see him, not that it matters now.” Winty frowned. “Do you mean to say you still haven’t found Miss Vanderbilt?”

“No, I haven’t. But I’ve got Detective Whyte involved in the search now.” I briefly touched the back of Winty’s hand. “We’ll find her soon, I’m sure of it.”

“Damn that mother of hers. . . .”

“Now, Mr. Rutherfurd—”

“No!” His eyes sparked fire, and his vehemence sent me back a step. I’d never seen him so impassioned. “If anything has happened . . . or happens . . . to Consuelo, it’ll be Alva’s fault. I wasn’t good enough for her . . . Consuelo herself was never good enough for
her.
She drove her daughter away as surely as if she’d pushed her out the door.”

I couldn’t argue with him, but neither did I agree. I didn’t feel it would be prudent to discuss family matters with him any more than I already had. That being the case, we had little more to say to each other.

We walked back into the tower. It seemed everything that could be said had been, and the four of us engaged in a kind of glaring standoff for several long moments.

It was Derrick who ended it. “Just remember that we know who you are and what you’re doing. We’ll be watching the two of you.”

Winty opened his mouth as if to protest his innocence once more, but in the end he clamped his lips together and nodded. Stanford seethed through eyes gone narrow within pockets of sagging flesh. Obviously he was a man who didn’t like being bested or not knowing exactly where he stood. Unfortunately for him neither Derrick nor I was about to offer any reassurances. Better to keep the man wondering what we might do with the information we had.

We parted ways with terse wishes for a good evening. Winty and Stanford walked together to the edge of the park, where they separated and went in opposite directions on Bellevue Avenue.

Beside me, Derrick let out a labored breath. “Well, that was interesting. Not sure we learned much, though.”

“We learned you were correct about the rum. And I believe those men on Rose Island acted on their own when they came after us.”

“Maybe.” Derrick stared pensively off into the distance. “Come, it’s time I got you home.”

“Oh, no, it isn’t.” When he shot me a puzzled frown I grinned. “It’s time you took me to a tavern. Or several. I have a new theory that needs exploring.”

Derrick groaned.

 

Against Derrick’s protests, I managed to persuade him to accompany me to several dockside taverns. Quite simply, I told him if he didn’t wish to come with me, I’d go alone. The first, a place frequented by ruffians off the scrod boats and crews from the various steam freighters putting into harbor, yielded us little information. Yes, Hope Stanford had been in several nights ago. She had raised a ruckus, banged her hammer on the bar top, but had left upon realizing her proselytizing was landing on deaf ears. Also, a large man had threatened to pick her up, carry her outside, and toss her over the nearby dock into the bay. But just as this rough-hewn crowd of mostly out-of-towners had no interest in being saved by Hope’s radical views on the evils of alcohol, neither were they particularly eager to answer my questions. In fact, I believe they viewed my intrusion into their inner sanctum with the same mixture of suspicion and disdainful amusement with which they had viewed Hope’s. And having the well-dressed Derrick beside me proved that a gentleman held no more sway here than a woman.

Our next stop brought us to The Red Mariner, a watering hole popular with local fishermen and dock workers. Here I spotted some familiar faces, young men I’d grown up with on the Point, others I knew from church, or from having attended school with their sisters. But one face in particular stood out, or, I should say, his bright red hair penetrated the gloom of pipe smoke and dim kerosene lighting. Grasping Derrick’s coat sleeve I directed us toward a table in a corner near the bar.

“Good evening, Angus.”

The boatman hunched on his elbows over the little square table, a mug of muddy-looking beer bracketed between his hands. “Emma? What the he—er—what are you doing here?”

“Is it all right if we sit with you?” Without waiting for permission I pulled out the seat opposite him and slid into it. Derrick reached for an unoccupied chair at a neighboring table, dragged it over, and straddled it backward. “Angus, this is Derrick Andrews. He’s a friend of mine.”

Unlike Hope Stanford’s husband, Angus MacPhearson showed no hint of recognition at either Derrick’s name or his countenance. He merely nodded in greeting.

“I was hoping to ask you a couple of questions, if you don’t mind, Angus.” I leaned a bit over the table to be heard over the low roar of voices and the occasional burst of masculine laughter behind me. A hush had fallen over the pub when Derrick and I walked in and a good twenty or so astonished faces had turned in our direction. Our novelty had worn off quickly enough, however, and the patrons had resumed their boasting, arguing, dicing, and dart throwing.

Angus leaned back in his chair, bringing his beer with him. He took a measured draft while studying me with his weather-crinkled eyes. Then he used his sleeve to wipe the suds from his mustache. “Are you hiring me to answer these couple of questions, Emma?”

I flicked a glance at Derrick, who dug into a pocket and produced another fifty-cent piece. He flipped it in the air; Angus reached out and snatched it.

“Ask away,” he said.

Without further ado I said, “Were you here several nights ago when an older woman came barging in with a sledgehammer?”

The question clearly delighted Angus. He raised his mug as if in a toast. “Sure enough. I hadn’t had that much fun in years. Crazy bi—ah—hellion, that one.”

“Can you tell me what went on?”

“Sure. She shouted up a storm and swung that hammer of hers around like a castaway who’s been sucking down seawater. Put at least half a dozen dents in the bar before Spence Arnold came up behind her and wrenched the hammer right out of her hands.”

Derrick, who’d been scanning the establishment like an on-duty sentry, suddenly returned his attention to the conversation. “Spence Arnold?”

Angus gestured with his chin. Derrick and I both turned and craned our necks. I impatiently waved away curls of smoke drifting from the next table. Through the crowd I spotted a man a good head taller than anyone near him, his silvery hair thinning and his profile reminiscent of a primitive stone carving.

I pointed. “There he is. That’s Spence. He’s a carpenter. Does a lot of work on the houses on the Point.” I turned back to Angus. “Any idea why Spence and no one else decided to disarm Mrs. Stanford?” At Angus’s puzzled look, I clarified. “The crazy hellion with the sledgehammer.”

“Oh. Well, most of us were too shocked at first to do anything but stare like a bunch of simpletons. I mean, what the he—er—what on earth? But Spence, he’d just gotten here. He took one look at her and said, ‘Lady, I had enough of you over at the Oyster Club.’ Then he stepped right in the way of that swinging sledgehammer—right where I wouldn’t have stepped for all the free grog in Christendom—grabbed the thing and yanked it right out of her hands. You should have seen her face. Ooh wee, if Spence weren’t the giant he is, I think she might have swung a punch at ’im. As it was, she turned on her heel and stomped her way out the door. Old Spence, he followed her—I thought to make good and sure she left. But out on the sidewalk—I could see ’em through the window—he just give her back her sledgehammer and told her don’t come back. Ever.” Angus slapped his knee and let go a laugh.

“So it wasn’t the first time Spence encountered the woman?” I asked.

At yet another questioning look, I clarified once again. “It wasn’t the first time he’d run into this woman.”

“No, but I hope for her sake it’s the last.”

“And no one else spoke to her at all?”

“Only Ted, the barkeep, and I can’t repeat what
he
said to her . . . not to you at any rate.” Angus scratched his chin through his abundant growth of beard. “Brady would have my hide if I talked to his baby sister like that.”

I sat back. “I wonder if Spence will talk with us.”

“Do you think he might have more to add about what happened at this other establishment . . . the . . .” Derrick groped for the name.

“The Oyster Club,” Angus said.

I came to my feet. “Thank you, Angus. You’ve earned your fifty cents.”

“Am I going to have to pay this Spence, too?” Derrick asked as he followed me through the crowd.

I merely shrugged and wound a circuitous path to avoid spilled beer and wobbly men. Spence Arnold, along with several others clad in plaid shirts and worn denims, had taken up position in front of one of the dartboards; money was exchanging hands at the surrounding tables.

“Mr. Arnold?” I called. “Yes, good evening . . . over here . . . oh, excuse me, sir, if I could just get by . . . ex
cuse
me!” I tugged my skirts out from between the back of one man’s chair and the right hip of another who sidestepped too close, then nudged aside another fellow blocking my way. “Mr. Arnold!”

Spence finally turned, one hand raised to propel the dart clutched in his fingers. He squinted a moment before recognition dawned. “Arthur Cross’s girl?”

“Yes, Mr. Arnold, it’s me, Emma Cross. Might I have a word with you? It’ll just take a moment.”

A rumble of protest erupted around me. “I’ve got money on him!” one man shouted.

“And I’ve got money
against
him,” another yelled.

I looked over my shoulder at Derrick. “Can you throw?”

“I’ve been known to hit the target upon occasion.”

“Well, then, gentlemen, how about if my friend takes Mr. Arnold’s place for just a few moments?”

My suggestion met with vigorous and deafening debate. Someone demanded that Derrick throw a dart to give them a preview of his talents. He smoothly stepped forward and without even removing his coat sent a dart hissing almost invisibly through the air. My next sight of the red and white feathered object was as it came to a trembling stop a fraction to the right of the target’s dead center.

The onlookers fell into a hush that lasted all of five seconds before shouts rose, quoting odds and probabilities; fistfuls of money once again exchanged hands.