Murder at Marble House (18 page)

I could barely suppress my proud smile as I led Spence Arnold between tables to the other side of the room. When I turned to regard him he didn’t look at all pleased at having been upstaged. I made a mental note to have Derrick compensate him for his time.

“Sorry to interrupt your fun, Mr. Arnold. I would never have done so if it weren’t vitally important.”

He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the wall. “Miss Cross, what would your father say if he saw you here?” His eyes remained kindly despite the admonishment. “This is no fit place for a nice young lady like yourself.”

I didn’t tell him that if my father cared so much about my safety, he wouldn’t have gone to live in Paris, now would he? I still hadn’t gotten over how neither of my parents had indicated any intention of returning home upon learning Brady had been accused of murder, but with an effort I hid my frown.

“Mr. Arnold, I understand you’re familiar with a woman named Hope Stanford. Is that correct?”

“Mrs. Sledgehammer?”

I nodded. “Angus told me what happened here, but I wondered if you would tell me what occurred earlier that night at the Oyster Club.”

A chorus of cheers went up from the vicinity of the dartboards. I couldn’t see what had occurred, but Spence glanced over heads with a look of impatience, prompting me to add, “Please, it’s very important.”

“How important can it be? She came in hollering just like she did here. Slammed that hammer of hers against the bar. Said the demon spirits was destroying the moral fiber of the whole country. As if us islanders could give a hoot what happens beyond our shores.”

I let that pass. “And were you the one who stopped her, like you did here?”

“Me? Nah, didn’t have to—” Another roar went up, once again claiming Spence’s attention.

“Why not?” I pressed, attempting to force him to focus.

“What? Oh . . . right. Because Ellie shoved her aside and took the hammer away.”

“Ellie?”

“Yeah, the fortune-teller.”

“Fortune-teller . . .” My heart began to pound. “Do you mean Madame Devereaux? Eleanora Devereaux?”

“Yeah, that’s her name. Nice gal. Pity what happened to her.”

“So, you knew her?” My fingertips trembled with each beat of my pulse. “How well?”

“She was a regular at the Oyster Club. Sometimes came here, too, but she preferred the taverns where the crowd changed from night to night.”

“And why was that?”

“Business, Miss Cross. See, she’d wait till the customers had a few drinks in ’em, then go round offering to read fortunes. Made a tidy living that way. Can’t say I blamed her.”

“No . . . So what happened after she took Mrs. Stanford’s sledgehammer?”

“Oh, she told that teetotaler off good and well. Said she had no stomach for hoity-toity upstarts imposing their prudish ways on a city like Newport. And then . . . this is where things got a little strange.”

“How so?”

“The fortune-teller went into some kind of weird trance. At first I thought the apoplexy got her and she’d keel over. But she just stood there, staring at the other woman like she could see straight through her. And real quiet, she said something. Something that made Mrs. Sledgehammer turn all kinds of red. I’ve never seen that shade of red on a person before.”

“What did the medium say?” I could scarcely curb my excitement or my impatience.

But Spence disappointed me with a shake of his head. “Couldn’t hear the words. Just her voice, all low and strained, like she was trying to whisper while someone had their hands around her throat. The next thing I knew, the other woman grabbed her sledgehammer back and fled out the door. ’Bout an hour later I came over here, and there she was, ranting and carrying on like nothing ever happened at the Oyster.”

Minutes later Spence rejoined his friends and resumed his dart game, and I strode out to the sidewalk with Derrick in tow.

“I’ll have you know I was making tidy sums for a number of those fellows inside,” he said. “I may have missed my calling.”

We reached a dusty pool of light beneath a street lantern. I stopped and gripped his sleeve. “Madame Devereaux was at the Oyster Club the night Hope Stanford walked in with her sledgehammer.”

Derrick’s features remained impassive. “I would imagine a lot of others were there as well.”

“True. But not many others have the ability to seal Hope Stanford’s mouth with a mere whisper.”

“W
hat secret did Madame Devereaux know about Hope Stanford?” I pondered aloud as Derrick drove his carriage toward Gull Manor, my seaside home.

“One might wager the same secret we discovered.” He adjusted his grip on the reins and steered the horse around a deep gouge in the dirt road. The carriage lanterns swung and sputtered, then burned steadily on. “Her husband is chin-deep in illegal activities. Whether Hope Stanford was privy to his little endeavor or not, she wouldn’t have been happy to learn that an outsider knew. Especially if that someone threatened to go public with the information.”

“Precisely.” I turned to glance at him beside me on the curricle seat. The fog-tinged moonlight smoothed his features, making him appear younger, almost boyish. My heart gave a little skip before I shifted my gaze back to the road I knew so much better than he. “They knew each other in Providence,” I said. “And Mrs. Stanford knew that the medium’s name was actually Ellen Deere. I wonder what else Mrs. Stanford might have known about the woman.”

“You think they each knew secrets about the other, and were using them against each other?”

“It’s a very good possibility, given they have a common history to some extent. If only I could determine what that history is.” Memory served me and I pointed straight ahead. “There’s a sharp bend just after those trees, and then the turn onto Ocean Avenue. The road dips there, so be careful.”

“Would you care to drive?” he asked with a note of sarcasm. But he slowed the horse’s pace nonetheless.

“If only we could learn what the medium said to Hope Stanford that night at the Oyster Club.” I tapped my fingers against the span of leather seat between us. “But if, in an attempt to make Hope stop her temperance efforts in Newport, Madame Devereaux threatened to expose her husband, it’s not much of a stretch to believe Hope would want to silence her. After all, such exposure would discredit Hope forever. She’d lose all of her political influence.”

“Maybe her husband did the medium in.”

“It’s altogether possible. Though how he would have gotten onto the estate without anyone seeing him . . . His wife might have helped, but I’d seen her in the garden with the other ladies just minutes before the murder. If they acted together, they acted with lightning speed.”

“The same would hold true for Clara Parker and Anthony Dobbs,” Derrick reminded me.

Calvin and Hope . . . Anthony and Clara. I sighed. “But what of Consuelo? It can’t be mere coincidence that she disappeared immediately after the murder. I know there must be a connection. Somewhere, there’s a link and if I could only find it, I’d find both Consuelo and the murderer.”

“Then perhaps you need to refocus your efforts.” He shot me a pointed glance.

I pursed my lips. “Another attempt to persuade me to leave the investigation to the police?”

“Not exactly. But you’ve been focusing on people, and all that’s done is lead you—us—round and round in circles. Why not focus on the clues instead, and see where
they
lead?”

We reached the turn onto Ocean Avenue, where the sudden hollow in the road bounced the carriage and knocked our shoulders together. Derrick’s arm shot out in front of me—an attempt to hold me in the seat, I suppose—but in another yard or two the road smoothed and the carriage righted itself. The horse had slowed as well, and some ungovernable impulse sent me reaching out to grasp the sides of Derrick’s face and pull him toward me for a kiss—quick, yes, but fully on the lips. My better sense looked on, horrified yet ineffectually mute, as I pulled away with a grin.

“You, sir, are a genius. That’s exactly what I should do.”

Wry bewilderment played on his features, but he nodded. For the next several minutes I ran through the list of clues while Derrick seemed to be concentrating uncommonly hard on the road. Occasionally he spared me a nod or a syllable that sounded like agreement with whatever I said.

“There is the murder weapon itself, the scarf belonging to Lady Amelia. Then there was the murder scene, which suggested to me that Madame Devereaux had been in the middle of reading someone’s fortune right before she was murdered. The broken azalea bushes were probably where the murderer made his or her escape, and also suggested the murderer wore durable clothing, something not easily torn, because there were no scraps or threads found among the branches. The obvious conclusion is that the murderer was a man, yet a woman like Hope Stanford doesn’t dress in silks or fine muslin. She wears thick cottons and sturdy serge. Nothing too frilly or feminine.”

My deductions once again met with nods from Derrick.

“And then there are those flower petals I found inside the pavilion. The gardeners weren’t able to identify them, so I handed them over to the police, who’ll have a botanist examine them. But maybe I need to take another walk around the estate. Surely those flowers had to come from somewhere nearby. Yes, so first thing tomorrow . . .”

We came to my driveway and the carriage bumped over the rocky, pitted surface. This time, I noticed how Derrick held himself stiffly and kept firmly to his side of the seat. All at once, thoughts of evidence and clues slid away and the memory of what I’d done slammed into me, sending wave after wave of fire to my cheeks.

Had I actually kissed him? His suggestion had been so . . . well . . . ingenious . . . and it had quite taken me by surprise. I’d been going about this investigation all wrong, hoping someone might slip up and inadvertently admit the truth. But evidence doesn’t lie. Clues don’t make excuses. They lay out a trail from crime to culprit, if one is clever enough to follow them.

Was I?

Apparently not, if I couldn’t decide on a proper course now. Should I apologize for my brash action? Say nothing? Make pleasant small talk? The heavy silence that fell over us seemed to make my decision for me.

Derrick turned the horse in a wide arc and brought the curricle to a stop in front of the house. Before I could make a move, he leaped to the ground and came around to help me down. My hand in his, we stood facing each other in the light spilling from my front parlor. Muffled from the other side of the house, ocean waves broke against the foot of the property.

I cleared my throat. “I . . . ah . . . well . . . thank you for all your help today.”

“You’re welcome, Emma.”

“Would you . . . um . . . like to come inside?”

“No, thank you. It’s late and I should be getting back.”

But he didn’t release my hand, or make any other move to leave. I stared into his face, into his eyes, which suddenly seemed darker than the sky overhead—dark with whatever thoughts he didn’t see fit to share with me. The moment stretched, became uncomfortable, nearly unbearable, yet just as he didn’t move, neither did I try to slide my hand free and step away. I wished he would say something. Was he waiting for me to do the same? To tell him, perhaps, why I’d kissed him when I’d made it clear we had no future together?

“I . . . it was such a good idea you had . . . about the clues . . . and . . . well . . . I didn’t mean to—”

“You didn’t,” he said firmly. “And you don’t have to explain.”

“Oh, but—”

“It’s much more fun if we keep each other guessing.” The lamplight from inside caught the gleam of his teeth as he smiled.

“Is it now?” I slapped a hand on my hip. “Is that why we’re standing here as though we’re waiting for . . . for I don’t know what?”

“Don’t you?” Was it my imagination, or did he lean in, crowding me and depriving me of oxygen?

My instinct was to retreat a step, but my legs no longer seemed adequate to support me. It was my turn to be mute. I shook my head.

He grasped my chin and raised it, then brushed his lips against mine. “Good night, Emma.”

With that he swung up into the curricle and drove away. I watched him go until he turned onto Ocean Avenue and disappeared into the darkness. My fingertips quivered; my heart fluttered. My mind conjured a single word that summed up Derrick Andrews.

Fiend.

 

I was up with the sun next morning. When Nanny found me in the front parlor, I was sitting cross-legged on the braided oval rug in my dressing gown, with a tablet and pencil beside me and several items ranged in front of me.

Nanny hovered in the doorway, eyeing me with obvious puzzlement.

“Don’t worry,” I said, without looking up, “there is a method to my madness.”

“To undo the work Katie did cleaning in here yesterday?”

I sat back, propped on my hands behind me, and contemplated my array of improvised evidence: a silk scarf, a deck of playing cards in lieu of actual tarot cards, several unlit candles, a small pile of coins, one of the men’s flannel work shirts Aunt Sadie used to wear with her trousers when she did the gardening, and a handful of dusky pink blossoms I’d gathered from the lawn beyond our kitchen garden. These were merely tea roses, not the same as those I’d found in the pavilion, but today they would serve my purposes.

Nanny’s worn, embroidered slippers entered my view. “What on earth are you doing?”

“Deducing, Nanny dear.” I turned my face up to her. “These all represent the clues in Madame Devereaux’s murder.” I gestured at my little collection. “Up until now I’ve considered each one separately. But if they are to lead to the guilty party, they must be taken as a whole, all linked together. The same person has to have a link to each and every item.”

She moved across the rug to perch on the edge of the wingback chair. “How is a candle connected to a flower?”

“My theory is this: Whoever murdered Madame Devereaux wore some sort of heavy fabric that didn’t tear when he or she broke through the azalea hedges to make their escape. This may suggest a man and does tend to rule out most of Aunt Alva’s guests that day. All but one of the ladies present wore silks, ruffles, and delicate pleats.

“Now,” I went on, “the person also brought coins, which were found strewn across the table and spilled onto the floor.” The coins in front of me clinked as I ran my fingers over them. “This, and the lighted candles, suggest the person had asked the medium to read his or her fortune, and had to have time to do so before the ladies and I went out to the pavilion.” Next, I fingered the playing cards. “This theory is supported by the fact that we found tarot cards spread out on the table.”

I paused and once again contemplated the scenario I’d devised. “So, either a man or someone dressed as, say, Mrs. Stanford went to the pavilion and asked for their fortune to be read. This person carried money, either in a purse or in a pocket, along with Amelia Beaumont’s silk scarf. At the same time, he or she had been somewhere where pink wildflowers grow and managed to track them in, most likely on their shoes.”

“Or in the cuffs of his trousers,” Nanny said, “or the train of her dress.”

“Yes!” I hadn’t actually thought of that and rewarded Nanny with a grateful smile.

“Have you checked the Cliff Walk?” she asked. “For the flowers, I mean.”

“Not yet, but I’m going back to Marble House later today. I’m hoping these flowers were
not
from the cliffs.”

“Why not?”

I sighed. “Because if they are, they no longer stand up as a clue.” Her frown prompted me to continue. “You see, anyone entering the estate from the Cliff Walk could easily have been seen walking across the lawns to the pavilion. The murderer would have been taking quite a risk of discovery. Plus, if the flower grows on the cliffs, how likely is it our murderer was scaling the precipices directly before killing Madame Devereaux? It doesn’t make sense and yet . . .” I sat back again. “And yet I believe the flowers to be a key bit of evidence. Link these flowers to a person, and I truly believe I’ll find both the murderer and Consuelo.”

“You think the murderer has Consuelo?” Nanny’s voice was grave, echoing my own inner sentiments.

“I didn’t at first, and as much as I wish it were otherwise, yes, I do. And that terrifies me.” I dropped my head into my hands. “And the thing is, the police won’t believe it, not if they think Anthony Dobbs and Clara Parker are guilty. Oh, Nanny, why can’t I figure this out?”

“I can tell you something that might possibly be of some help.”

My head shot up. “Yes?”

“It’s about that Lady Amelia. She’s not what she pretends to be, that one.”

I remembered Lady Amelia staring down at me from her window as I discussed the petals with Mr. Delgado and Jamie Reilly. For the most part, I’d believed her to be filling an idle moment. Could she, from that distance, have seen the petals in my palm and have cause to be concerned?

I returned my attention to Nanny. “What
is
she, then?”

Approaching footsteps sounded in the foyer and a moment later Brady stood in the doorway. He wore his blue and silver damask dressing gown, his flaxen hair tousled. “Em, you’re awake. Good. I need you.”

I’d barely seen my brother in the past several days. Since his exoneration and release from jail, he’d caught up on a lot of missed sleep while I’d kept busy tracking down Consuelo and a murderer.

Who could blame him? He still looked tired, yet the heavy shadows that had haunted his features were slowly fading beneath restored color and the sparkle that typically resided in his gaze, as though he expected a delightful surprise at any given moment. Yet now I detected something in his expression that convinced me he was about to toss a barricade between me and my plans today.

“What are you doing up so early?” I asked, not completely sure I wanted to know.

“I have been summoned,” he said in an ominous tone. “To the big house.”

Both Nanny’s and my eyebrows shot up in astonishment. “Uncle Cornelius wants to see you?”

“Mm-hmm.” He released a long breath. “What do you think he could want, Em? You don’t think he’s decided to press charges, do you?”