Murder at Marble House (20 page)

The aroma of cigars enveloped me as I followed the old gentleman into the inner sanctum so rarely open to visitors. Cornelius Vanderbilt was a man of middling stature, sagging about the shoulders and middle, so ordinary looking few would ever guess he controlled a fortune, a dynasty, and countless individuals. Yet, when he wished, he projected an authority that sped one’s step in an eager effort to please. His ‘Emmaline, a word’ had prompted me to obey without hesitation. It surprised me, then, that once the office door closed he fidgeted and avoided my gaze.

To fill the awkward silence, I said, “Uncle Cornelius, thank you so much for giving Brady a second chance. I know it means so much to him, and to m—”

Here he cut me off with a piercing gaze. “It was for you, Emmaline. I forgave him for your sake. And only for your sake.”

“Oh . . . I . . . Uncle Cornelius . . . I don’t know what to say . . .”

“You don’t have to say anything. If you were a man, I’d have you work for me, Emmaline. I’ve never said that to a woman before, but it’s the truth. Dang shame you weren’t born a man. As it is, you’re a good, sensible girl saddled with a dunderhead of a half brother.” When I opened my mouth to protest, he held up his hand. “I’m sorry, but it’s true. Oh, he’s not stupid—far from it—but common sense? Not a speck! Just like his father. Thank heaven you’re Arthur Cross’s daughter and not the offspring of Stuart Braden Gale the Third. Even if he hadn’t been lost at sea, that man never would have amounted to anything but the wastrel he was. A fortunate day for your mother when his yacht went down.”

I gasped. “Uncle Cornelius!”

“Sorry.” He had the good grace to look contrite. “I won’t keep you any longer. I just . . . just wanted you to know . . . Well, dang it, you’re like a daughter to me, Emmaline.”

The poor man blushed to the tips of his ears. Like his wife, he wasn’t one to express his emotions—not the tender ones, at any rate. I believe they both held demonstrations of affection as detrimental to their children, as if too much praise and kindness might produce slackers and weaklings.

His clumsy confession made him all the more dear to me in that moment, so much so I went to him, held his shoulders as I rose up on tiptoe, and kissed his cheek. “Thank you, Uncle Cornelius,” I whispered, and hurried out the door.

Brady met me downstairs in the Great Hall. I seized his hand and tugged. “Come. Next stop, Marble House.”

S
ome ten minutes later Brady and I stood braced against a battering summer wind that plastered our clothes to our bodies. I held my hat in place; he held his at his side and squinted against the salty, sandy gusts. My stomach sank in disappointment.

“Well, that’s it, then. I was wrong.”

Below us, bright pink rugosa roses dotted the cliff face, pouring from between the rocks in cheerful bursts of color. I’d found my wildflowers.

“Are you sure?” Brady leaned a bit over the edge, prompting me to grab on to his forearm. “The nearest ones are still a good distance away. They might merely resemble the petals you found.”

That inspired a moment’s hope, but then I shook my head. “As Jesse said on the telephone, there aren’t many flowers that continue to bloom this late in the summer. And considering their size and color . . . No, it’s the same. And this proves to me the wind carried them into the pavilion, and not the murderer.”

“Don’t despair, you’ve still got all the other clues.”

“You don’t understand. I’d thought this one would result in a breakthrough.” Why had I believed that? Why had I put so much stock in a tiny, wind-borne flower that happened to wedge itself beneath the pavilion railings? The ocean breeze slapped my cheeks as though to slap sense into my head.

Brady had continued leaning over, scanning the promontory that fell away in dizzying heights to the ocean beneath us. I tapped his arm. “Let’s go to the house. You can still be of help to me there.”

We found Aunt Alva in her morning room, and the fact that she wasn’t alone restored my spirits a fraction. Lady Amelia sat with her, enjoying a breakfast of pancakes, sausages, and fruit. Today she wore an ivory morning dress topped with an impossibly expensive, flowing caftan gown of beige silk stamped with a burgundy velvet design, and her beautiful golden curls were pinned at the crown of her head, encircled by a velvet ribbon that matched the gown. Amelia Beaumont looked the epitome of an aristocratic lady relaxing at home. She appeared so at home, in fact, that for a moment I wondered if Aunt Alva had had any inkling of what might be in store for her when she invited the younger woman here.

A permanent guest?

“Emmaline! And Brady . . .” Aunt Alva seemed genuinely pleased to see us. “Lady Amelia, may I present Miss Cross’s half brother, Mr. Gale . . . Stuart Braden Gale the Fourth.”

Brady, having removed his straw boater upon entering the house, waved it with a little flourish as he bowed to the ladies. At mention of his full name and numeral, Lady Amelia had sat up a little straighter, lifted her chin a little higher, and fully inspected Brady from head to toe. Yes, his was an impressive-sounding name, one that indicated an old Newport pedigree along with old Newport money. Unfortunately for Brady, as Lady Amelia would eventually learn, he possessed little of the former and none of the latter. While Gale
was
an old Newport name, and although Brady’s father had styled himself Stuart Braden Gale III, no one could ever find evidence of either Stuart Braden Junior or Senior.

Still, on that particular morning, Amelia didn’t need to know any of that. At her invitation Brady took the seat beside her at the round cherry-wood table and helped himself to an array of breakfast items. Aunt Alma seemed pleased enough with the arrangement and came to her feet.

“Yes, good, Brady, make yourself quite at home. I need to speak with Emmaline.”

Brady and Amelia’s murmured conversation followed us out of the room and down the sunny hall. Turning into the main portion of the house, she led me into the library. I’d wished to avoid this kind of detour to my plans, for all I’d wanted was to install Brady in the morning room to keep Aunt Alva occupied while I hurried upstairs to inspect Amelia’s room and, if my luck held, ask Hope Stanford a few pointed questions.

Aunt Alva closed the library door, effectively sealing us in. “Why haven’t you found her yet, Emmaline?”

The terse question took me aback and left me momentarily speechless.

“You promised you’d find her before anyone found out. That silly, foolish girl, running off, worrying me so. Vexing me beyond endurance. And so you are, too, Emmaline.”

“I certainly don’t mean to,” I said. “I’ve been trying.” Dared I tell her I’d enlisted Jesse Whyte’s assistance? The thunderheads simmering in her expression warned me not to. I scrambled for the right words to placate her. “It hasn’t been all that long, Aunt Alva. I realize every day she isn’t here seems like an eternity, but she’ll be back soon.”

“How can you know that?”

I wandered to the camelback sofa near the window but didn’t sit. Instead, I clasped my hands at my waist—an effort to appear calm—and faced Aunt Alva. “Consuelo has been terribly upset. You know that. She hated the thought of marrying the Duke, and sending me to persuade her backfired horribly. I believe she had been planning her escape, as it were, for days or perhaps weeks. The murder and the chaos that followed provided her with just the opportunity she needed to steal away . . . probably to a friend’s home as we originally thought.”

Did I believe that? The first part, yes. But my theory about Consuelo’s disappearance? No. Not anymore. But I knew of no other way to prevent Aunt Alva from panicking.

“Then, why . . .” Her voice trembled and caught. She coughed, swallowed, began again. “Then why didn’t you find her? You said you inquired with her friends.”

“That’s true, but either someone lied, or she has a friend we don’t know about. Is that possible?”

“Of course it’s not possible,” she snapped. But then she compressed her lips and clearly considered the question. “I suppose . . . she hasn’t always been with me. Before her little rebellion began I allowed her to mix with friends. Who knows whom she might have met last spring, someone who is here in Newport now.”

“You see, then. All is not lost.”

“How is it not lost?” Her voice rose to a wail. “Oh, Emmaline! She could be held somewhere against her will. Or she might believe she’s safe while being led unspeakably astray.”

She stumbled her way to the sofa and, as she sank to the cushions, grabbed my hand and pulled me down beside her. The sheer curtains in the morning room had been drawn, as Aunt Alva always insisted, so as not to reveal too harsh a reality before one was fully awake and ready for the day. But here, the daylight from the open window lighted her features to disclose the strain I hadn’t detected before. Redness rimmed her eyes and she seemed somehow diminished—smaller, less robust, almost downright frail.

For the first time in my life, I saw not the formidable society matron who’d stop at nothing to reign supreme among the Four Hundred, but merely a mother who loved her child, who wanted only to hold her and know she was safe.

I set my hand on her shoulder. “I’ll find her, Aunt Alva, I promise.”

“No, Emmaline. I was wrong to insist.” She broke off and a small sob escaped her. “I was wicked to burden you, but I’d thought . . .” She squeezed my hand, then released it and squared her shoulders. “I think it’s time we went to the police.”

“Yes!” My enthusiastic reply jolted her, and I hastened to temper my meaning before she guessed I’d already acted on the matter without her permission. “This is very wise of you. If you wish, I’ll speak with my friend Detective Whyte—”

“Oh, would you, Emmaline?”

“Certainly.”

“And can you guarantee that he’ll be discreet?”

So much for the softer, more genuine Aunt Alva. “I’ll do my best,” I said, keeping the cynicism from my voice. And then, in a strategy she herself wouldn’t have balked at, I twisted the situation to my advantage. “The reason I came today was to take another look at Consuelo’s room. It would help if I could provide Detective Whyte with any further insight into her frame of mind when she left.”

She nodded. “I’ll come with you.”

“Oh, but if you wouldn’t mind, I’d rather go up alone. The fewer distractions the better as I look around.”

“All right, then. If you need anything, just pull the bell and have someone come get me.”

Need I say I had no intention of poking through Consuelo’s room? Instead, I ran upstairs and quickly detoured into Lady Amelia’s vacant suite. Wasting no time—for who knew how quickly she might tire of Brady’s company?—I closed the door behind me and hurried to the armoire. The contents confirmed what Nanny had told me. The dresses were exquisite, but there were precious few of them, and with a little shuffling through the clothespress I discovered clever means of stretching a sparse wardrobe: lace collars and cuffs, silk blouses, embroidered and beaded overskirts—items meant to refresh and disguise previously worn gowns. I knew all about this; my own wardrobe consisted more of such add-ons than actual substance.

The caftan. I suddenly realized Amelia’s outfit today was another means of being able to wear the same undergown more than once.

I closed the drawer in which I’d been rummaging and stood, arms folded, a finger tapping my chin. What, if anything, did this mean? So what if circumstances had forced Lady Amelia to play a charade? If her childhood fortune had been lost, what other measures could she have resorted to? If I knew anything about the wealthy, it was that they didn’t know how to be poor. If Lady Amelia wished to live in the style to which she had become accustomed, she’d need a rich husband and she’d need him fast. But that didn’t make her a criminal; it simply made her determined to survive. And who was I to judge? I’d been lucky enough to inherit a house and a modest annuity from my aunt Sadie. Most women had no such benefactor.

A wash of shame heated my face and I very determinedly turned to the door . . . upon which a knock sounded. In the next instant the door opened and Hope Stanford scowled at me.

“What are you doing in here?”

I could have lied. I could simply have told the truth. I did neither.

“That’s none of your business,” I said coldly. “As a matter of fact, however, I’m glad you’re here. I’ve been wanting to speak with you.”

Her lips thinned at my sharpness. Obviously she was used to far more deference than I was inclined to show her. “Why, you impertinent girl. What can you possibly have to say to me in that tone of voice?”

“Impertinent? Mrs. Stanford, impertinent is running molasses into the area for the express purpose of manufacturing black-market rum.”

“What
are
you talking about?”

“Impertinent,” I continued, ignoring her question but noting the tic that suddenly tightened her left cheek, “is being chased by brigands who object to anyone witnessing their crimes.”

“What has this got to do with me?”

“The question, Mrs. Stanford, is what has this got to do with your husband? And whether Madame Devereaux knew about his little secret.”

“Oh dear . . .” One hand clutched her throat as her color drained away in a big whoosh. On unsteady legs she made her way to a tufted chair in the corner and fell into it with a thud.

I moved closer to her, standing practically toe-to-toe, forcing her to look up at me. “Well, Mrs. Stanford, what do you have to say? And no use denying your husband’s involvement. He’s already admitted it to me.”

Her mouth opened, formed a trembling O. “He . . . he did? Oh, that stupid, sinful man.”

Leaning low, I grasped the arms of the chair and brought my face close to hers, so close I saw the fear flickering in her eyes, smelled it emanating from her skin. “So the real question here, Mrs. Stanford, is how much do you know about your husband’s activities, and to what extent do you approve of them?”

“Approve? You’re talking nonsense.”

“Am I? What better way to make tremendous profits selling black-market rum than if all alcoholic beverages are illegal?”

She pushed forward so suddenly I was forced to straighten and step back. A moment later she was on her feet. Her eyes swam with tears, but also with a fierceness that sent me another stride backward. “I swear to you my temperance efforts are completely sincere and wholly aimed at what is best for this nation.”

“Your husband apparently doesn’t agree,” I said, somewhat cruelly I must admit.

“No, he doesn’t, much to his shame, if he had any. What am I to do? Stop working for sobriety? Abandon my life’s work? No, Miss Cross, that I will not do, not as long as I have a breath in me. And if Calvin wishes to twist my work for his own selfish purposes, it’s his sin, isn’t it?”

“Why don’t you turn him in?”

She raised her chin. “Because I firmly believe I don’t have to. God will see to my husband. Eventually Calvin will be caught, if he doesn’t mend his ways.”

“And Madame Devereaux?” I whispered.

Hope turned away from me, showing me her straight, inflexible back. “She knew. Of course she knew, the busybody.” She spun back around. Her color had returned, showing an angry, mottled red. “She was a
medium,
in touch with the spirits. Ha! She was a gossip and the worst kind of meddler. She knew just how many drinks to ply her victims with before she wheedled them with questions. She found out what she needed to know about Calvin up in Providence, and then she came to
me
with her demands.”

“Money for silence,” I said.

She nodded.

Very low, I asked her, “And did you decide to silence her in another way?”

Her chuckles took me by surprise. “In addition to being impertinent, Miss Cross, you are also highly amusing. Murder Madame Devereaux . . . for Calvin’s sake?”

“For your own sake.”

“Didn’t I just say I’ll leave Calvin’s fate to God? I’ll neither turn him in nor protect him.”

“You’ll profit if he profits,” I pointed out, “but if he falls, you’ll fall with him. Who would put any stock in a temperance leader whose own husband is in the illegal liquor trade?”

Once again, she laughed. “You underestimate me, Miss Cross. As for profits, I have what I need in this life. Greed is not one of my vices.”