Murder at Rough Point (13 page)

I took hold of the jeweled piece and snapped the backing into place, remembering with a start that I used to do so for my father. “Everything is all right. Just a broken water pipe in Miss Marcus's bathroom. It was quite a mess and rather traumatizing for her.”

“That I do not doubt.” He inspected my handiwork and gave the sapphire-studded link a slight turn. He jerked his chin in the direction of my hemline. “You are wet.”

“A little, but not nearly as bad as some of the others. If you'll excuse me, I need to change again before dinner. Everyone does, so if I were you I wouldn't hurry down to the dining room.”

“No, I should think not,” he said with an amused chuckle.

S
ome forty-five minutes later, eight of us, in dry clothes, gathered around the dining table. No one sat, but remained standing and trading wary looks. A horrible sinking sensation robbed me of my appetite.

The table had been set for nine. Like a nightmarish repetition of last night, someone was missing.

“I'll wager Claude couldn't decide which cravat to wear.” Mrs. Wharton gave a weak laugh. “You all know how he can be.”

“Was he there with the rest of us in Josephine's room?” My father gripped the back of his chair. “Does anyone remember seeing him?”

Heads shook in reply. Miss Marcus raised a hand to lightly touch a reset curl. “I certainly wouldn't remember if he'd been there or not. It's all a blur.”

“He may have fallen asleep,” Vasili Pavlenko said with an eagerness that hinted at desperation.

Apparently I wasn't the only one experiencing doubts coupled with a sense of dread. Last night, a man had gone missing at dinner, and the next morning we found Sir Randall at the bottom of the cliff....

“Perhaps we should go check on him,” Mother suggested.

No one moved. Rain splattered the windows, and gusts of wind sent sheets of water angling across the dusky rear lawns. In the distance, thunder rumbled, and Miss Marcus shivered. “How I hate this weather.”

“I will check on him.” Vasili stepped away from the table and, in a motion nearly as graceful as his earlier pirouettes, turned about and started for the doorway. A flurry of activity broke out behind him as first the Whartons and then the rest of the company abandoned the table and bustled to follow. I took up the rear. The stairs creaked beneath the weight of the small stampede. At the upper landing the group came to a halt and waited as Vasili approached Claude Baptiste's bedroom door. He knocked and called out the man's name.

“No answer,” he said to us unnecessarily.

“Try the door,” my father said.

Mother sidestepped toward the upper gallery. “Perhaps we ladies should wait farther along the hallway. He might have fallen asleep in a state of dishabille.”

When neither Mrs. Wharton, Miss Marcus, nor I moved to join her, Mother moved back to my side and slipped her hand into mine. Vasili opened the bedroom door and called Claude's name again, and everyone craned their necks to see inside. Just as with Miss Marcus earlier, I saw no sign of him. The bedclothes lay perfectly unrumpled, just as Irene had left them this morning after cleaning the room. A suit of clothing draped the mahogany valet stand. Unlike the earlier scene, however, not a sound met our ears.

“He might have gone for a walk.” Miss Marcus's voice quavered slightly.

“Claude? Are you here?” Vasili ventured farther into the room, and the rest of us filed through behind him. It was then I noticed the bathroom door stood ajar. Vasili reached it and pushed the door inward.

His cry echoed off the tiled walls. Russian words tore from his throat. The men—my father, Niccolo, and Teddy Wharton—scrambled into the bathroom. Miss Marcus trembled violently, and at another anguished cry from Vasili, she let out a scream. My mother and Mrs. Wharton immediately flanked her. With their faces filled with horror and their eyes wide with questions, they turned her about, tugging gently when her feet didn't move.

“Come away, Josephine.” My mother glanced over her shoulder at me. “You too, Emma.”

But I had already set my course. Mother called out to me again, but too late. I stepped into the bathroom, the marble seemingly alive with the echoes of Vasili's grief. He had sunk to his knees, moaning, his head resting on the rim of the ornate tub. Beside his own face lay that of Claude Baptiste—his eyes open but sightless, his skin as pale as the surrounding marble of the tub.

“He is cold . . . he is dead. . . .”

My father bent over Vasili and half coaxed, half hauled him to his feet. His body slack, Monsieur Baptiste's head and shoulders slid down into the water with a splash.

“Nyet—
nyet
!” Shouting in his native tongue, the former dancer broke away from my father and threw himself back onto the floor beside the tub. Pathetically, he reached in, soaking his sleeves to the elbows, and raised the Frenchman's torso until his shoulders and head again rested on the side of the tub. My father turned around, I presumed, to seek the help of the other men. He spotted me.

“Emmaline, go. You don't belong here.” He closed his hands over Vasili's shaking shoulders even as he addressed me.

I ignored Father's command and inched closer. For reasons I would never understand, Fate had decreed this kind of tragedy to be exactly where I belonged. Claude Baptiste's body lay submerged in the spacious tub except for his head and shoulders, held upright by a shaking Vasili. From what I could see of the Frenchman, he appeared to be fully undressed. Out of respect I didn't confirm that myself.

“Is he wearing anything?” I asked my father.

His face stony, he shook his head. “He must have been taking a bath and dozed off. Someone needs to alert the police.”

Wearily I nodded. “I'll telephone Jesse. Father, you and the others need to leave.”

“Yes. After we carry him into the bedroom.”

“No.” I spoke sharply, and each man viewed me with varying degrees of perplexity. Except Vasili, who glared up at me from beneath his brows. His eyes were red and already swollen; he wiped his nose on his wet sleeve. “You cannot move him yet,” I said more gently.

“We cannot leave him,” Vasili shouted, his voice rough with tears. Father again closed his hands over the younger man's shoulders.

“We must. The police must be able to examine the . . .” I almost said
body
but caught myself in time. “. . . The scene, and we've already done enough damage.”

“Are you saying . . .” Teddy Wharton stepped in front of me, essentially blocking my way into the bedroom. “Are you calling this a . . .”

“I'm not calling it anything, Mr. Wharton. Whatever happened here is for the police to determine, and the less we interfere the better. Now if you'll excuse me, I had better make that telephone call.”

* * *

Jesse and two policemen arrived over three quarters of an hour later, citing the rain for the delay. He brought with him a waft of cold air when he stepped inside, for in the past hours our lovely late summer had abandoned us to the chill of an autumn storm. Jesse's shoes scattered droplets as he stamped them on the mat in the front vestibule, and his coat sleeves gleamed with moisture where the open sides of the police buggy had let the rain in. His red hair hung in a fringe of dark, sodden russet over his forehead and around his ears, and with one hand he swept it back.

“Upstairs?” he asked without preamble.

“Monsieur Baptiste's bedroom,” I told him just as bluntly. “I'm afraid several of us traipsed into that bathroom. There's no telling what evidence we disturbed.”

Jesse nodded to his men, who shuffled by and made their way to the stairs. “So you don't believe this could have been an accident . . . or a suicide, perhaps brought on by Sir Randall's death?”

“Do you?” It wasn't a question really, but a firm guess that Jesse and I shared the same view.

His hand rose, the backs of his fingers grazing my cheek. It was a gesture he'd repeated countless times in the past, beginning when I was a child and he my father's young friend, a rookie policeman, and our neighbor on the Point. I had grown up in the ensuing years and Jesse had come to see me differently, so that what had once been an offhand gesture of affection had taken on a great deal more meaning. Though instinct urged me to look away, I held his gaze, saw sentiments I wasn't sure I wished to see, and smiled sadly.

He met my smile with one that held equal melancholy. “I'm sorry this is happening again.”

I merely nodded and helped him off with his overcoat. “Come,” I said, “I'll lead the way.”

When we reached the Stair Hall we were immediately surrounded by the others and the deafening jumble of their voices. It seemed no one viewed this second death as an accident and they demanded to know what Jesse intended to do about it. Loudest and most bitter among them, Vasili leaned like a broken man against the wide doorway of the Great Hall, his arms held tight around him, his handsome features almost feral.

Mrs. Wharton alone attempted to use reason to calm them, raising her voice above theirs to remind them we didn't yet know how Claude died. Miss Marcus turned to snap at her with impatient words that bordered on hysteria. Only my parents looked on silently, their gazes swimming with foreboding and speculation. The dealer in black market art—is that what they feared? Had that man—or men—traced my parents and Sir Randall all the way to Newport? But why then murder Claude Baptiste, who had nothing to do with the hoax, at least as far as my parents knew . . . or had admitted.

Jesse raised his hands for silence. The uproar dwindled and then ceased altogether. But it was a silence fraught with tension ready to reignite at any moment.

“Please don't panic,” he said. “Leave this to my men and me.”

“Much good you have done so far.” Vasili spat the words and hugged himself tighter. “You leave us here to be picked off one by one.”

“There can be no satisfaction for them at present,” I whispered in Jesse's ear. He turned at my urging and we started up the stairs. The grumbling that broke out below followed us up to the second-floor landing. There I quickly led Jesse to Claude's bedroom door, but a sudden barking and the sound of Irene's voice stopped us from stepping through.

Patch came loping in from the servants' wing—he must have come up the back stairs—and trotted down the hall to me. He sniffed at my hand, gave a lick, and then bounced to Jesse to convey similar greetings.

Irene appeared a second or two later. “I'm so sorry, Miss Cross. I'd left the stairwell door open and he slipped past me.” She stooped to seize his collar but he was too quick for her, circling Jesse's legs and squeezing between us.

“It's all right, Irene.” I sighed ruefully down at him. “I'll look after him now, thank you.”

Irene curtsied and retraced her steps. Jesse and I, with Patch trotting between us, entered the bedroom and went through to the bathroom. I admonished Patch in my firmest voice to stay in the bedroom. Now that he had apparently gotten his way he seemed content to obey me, although his eyes remained alert and his ears twitched with interest.

Without Vasili to hold him, Monsieur Baptiste lay submerged. Upon seeing me enter the room with Jesse, one of the uniformed policemen stretched a towel across the middle portion of the tub, effectively shielding the man's private parts from view. Jesse addressed one of the officers. “Have you found anything significant?”

A heavyset man with small blue eyes and a double chin, Officer Eubanks removed his domed cap and ran a hand through curly blond hair in need of a barber's skills. “As you can see, there's no mess to signify a struggle, other than these few small puddles around the tub. But they could have been the result of the victim reaching for the soap or his shaving kit.”

“Where's the razor?” Jesse scanned the room, taking in details I had missed earlier in my initial shock and in my haste to clear the room. A shaving kit occupied a stool pulled close to the tub. Jesse went to it and lifted the embossed leather case in his hands. He ran a finger lightly down the flat surface of the straight razor. “Dry as a bone. So is the velvet lining.” He examined the glass shelf along the wall above the tub. “Here are his shaving soap and brush, but neither looks as if it had been used.” He studied the items with a frown that steadily deepened. “This seems to rule out suicide, doesn't it?”

“Sir?” another of the policemen said, but I deduced Jesse's meaning and replied for him.

“A man intent on suicide doesn't bother to ready his shaving kit. What happened, then?” I found myself hoping for another possibility than the one currently prodding my insides until I felt vaguely nauseated. “An accident? Perhaps he fell asleep and slid under. With large tubs like this, it's altogether possible.” Not like my tub at home, whose short length made it necessary for the bather to sit with bent knees.

“Hmm . . .” Jesse didn't look up as he absently acknowledged my question, but stared fixedly down at the body. He placed himself between me and the victim, essentially blocking my view, and used his thumb and forefinger to lift the towel. He peered beneath and then let the towel drop back into place. Then he dipped a hand into the water and lifted his wet fingers close to his nose. “Appears he used the seawater taps for a salt bath.”

I glanced at the double faucets. I had of course seen this before, as most of the summer cottages lining Bellevue Avenue contained baths equipped for both freshwater and the therapeutic benefits of salt.

Jesse next moved to the far end of the tub and peered down into the water at Claude's feet, or so I thought. I grew puzzled but remained silent, waiting for him to complete his examination. Finally, he straightened. “I can't be sure, but there appears to be slight redness around both ankles.”

“Could he have been resting his feet on the rim of the tub?” I asked.

Jesse and Officer Eubanks exchanged ominous looks that provided a very different answer.

“You mean, he was yanked under . . . by his ankles?” The brutality of such an act drew a gasp from me.

“It would have been a quick death,” Officer Eubanks said.

“What makes you say that?” I demanded, taken aback by the almost nonchalant pronouncement.