Murder at Rough Point (21 page)

I returned to Vasili's bedside and placed the cold washcloth across his forehead. Then I stepped back, for all purposes out of sight, and let Mrs. Wharton do the talking.

“You cannot continue on this self-destructive course,” she said. “Whatever were you thinking last night? You might have been killed.”

Her admonishment met with a grunt.

“Is this what Claude would have wanted?” she asked bluntly.

“What difference does it make?”

“Very much of a difference. If you are truly his friend, you'll continue as he would have wished.”

Nothing moved but his eyes as he took her in. “And how is that?”

“As a man who lives to his potential.”

He muttered in Russian, and I guessed this would be another comment Mrs. Wharton would not repeat. “My potential is dead. It died on a train between Paris and Versailles.”

“That's not true—”

He sprang upright, prompting Mrs. Wharton to recoil. Yet to her credit she stood her ground as his features twisted and he began to rail. “A choreographer? I was a rising star of the ballet. By now I would have been the principal male lead—choreographers would have staged their work for me. Me! Now I am nothing.” Like a sail abandoned by the wind, he fell back against the pillows, limp and pale. “I did not wish to go. I wished to remain in Paris. They would have been back soon enough. But they would not leave me alone. They insisted. How I hate them for that. All of them. They destroyed me, left me with nothing.”

Mrs. Wharton, too, had paled, but she continued to speak calmly. “They could not have known what would happen, Vasili. They certainly never meant you harm. . . .” She trailed off at the adamant shaking of his head.

“No, they were selfish. They cared only about themselves. Josephine . . . Niccolo . . .” His voice became so low I almost didn't hear the last name he spoke. “Claude.”

Mrs. Wharton darted a glance at me, one I hardly dared return lest Vasili notice my incredulity and refuse to say more. I barely breathed. He went on, his vehemence growing.

“Claude, he denied it, but he wished to meet her—Yelana—as much as the others did. She was all they cared about. Her money. Her connections. Claude, Niccolo . . .” He turned his head and pinned me with an accusing glare. “Your father.”

“But Claude was your friend,” I couldn't stop myself from saying. “You're grieving over him. . . .”

I'd made a mistake—make that two. The second was in speaking, in challenging his assertions. But the first mistake I'd made was to leave the cup, saucer, and teapot on the end table beside him. He reached out and in one swift motion grabbed the handle of the pot and flung it in a spray of russet liquid across the room. It hit the front of the bureau with an explosion of shards and tea, splattering the drawers, the wall, the floor and rug. I barely managed to lurch out of harm's way.

At the same time the door burst open. Mother stood in the doorway, the fire poker raised like a sword. She took one step before a pair of hands gripped her shoulders from behind and moved her aside. Before she could react beyond her expression of surprise, Jesse strode into the room. He took in the scene—the shattered teapot, Mrs. Wharton's and my astonished faces, and Vasili, half on and half off the bed, looking enraged and ready to spring at the closest victim.

Jesse's appearance stopped us all cold, even Vasili. For a second or two no one moved, until Jesse somehow diffused the situation merely by asking, “Is everything all right in here?”

In his left hand he gripped a book bound in dark brown leather.

* * *

The broken teapot brought Niccolo and my father rushing into Vasili's room. Josephine and Teddy Wharton came hurrying in moments later as well. I let them all, my mother included, endeavor to soothe their young friend and used the opportunity to steal away. Jesse followed me and we made our way back downstairs to my uncle's office at the front of the house. It was only as I was closing the door that I realized Mrs. Wharton had trailed us as well.

“Don't shut me out, Miss Cross. You've asked for my help twice now. I am engaged in this matter and what is more, I believe I can be of further assistance.”

My reply was to silently seek Jesse's concurrence. The room was dark and chilly, an extension of the continuing storm outside. I could make out little of his features but his nod conveyed his permission to allow Mrs. Wharton to join us. I locked the door behind her. Jesse attempted to switch on the electric desk lamp, to no avail.

“The power's been out all morning,” I reminded him. I went to the corner cabinet and found a hurricane lamp and matches inside. “Uncle Frederick doesn't believe in putting one's faith entirely in electricity,” I explained as I brought the lantern over to the desk.

Mrs. Wharton gestured to the hymnal-sized tome Jesse held. “That looks familiar. I recognize the red and gold ribbon place holder. That's Randall's, isn't it?”

“You knew he had a diary?” Jesse spoke sharply, and Mrs. Wharton, noticing, raised her chin.

“I would have mentioned it if I had remembered. I only saw him writing in it once, a couple of years ago. It surprised me, a man like Randall keeping a journal.”

“How so?” Jesse asked.

“So few men do,” she said, “unless they happen to be writers by profession. Men like Randall keep records, mostly lists of engagements, business dealings, estate improvements, that sort of thing, but I had the distinct impression at the time that this was quite different. You see, he snapped it closed rather quickly when I came upon him. We were all at Breighton Lodge at the time—that's Randall's estate in Suffolk. I haven't seen it or thought of it since.”

“Have you looked through it yet?” I asked Jesse.

“I had only just discovered it tucked into a corner of the armoire, high on the top shelf. It was missed during the initial search due to the interior of the armoire and the leather being about the same color. At a glance it blended perfectly with the shelf, and lay beyond arm's reach.”

He picked it up, but I placed a hand on the cover to keep him from opening it. “Before we get to this, Mrs. Wharton, can you explain what happened in Vasili's room? Why he accused Claude Baptiste as he did? Had you ever detected a hint of acrimony between them before? Because I certainly hadn't.”

I took a moment to enlighten Jesse about Mrs. Wharton's conversation with Vasili, ending in the broken teapot. Her features grew taut as she considered my question. “They did argue, sometimes frequently. But none of us ever thought much of it. They were contentious in the way close friends often are, if you see what I mean.”

I thought about that. Brady and I certainly argued on a regular basis, usually with me scolding him for ill-advised behavior while he defended his actions and insisted I mind my business. There had been heated episodes between us in the past, but that didn't mean we loved each other any less for it.

“What we saw minutes ago was not the habitual squabbling between friends,” I pointed out.

“No,” she agreed, “it seemed more the outburst of sentiments that had long been suppressed.”

“Perhaps Mr. Pavlenko was conflicted in his friendship with Monsieur Baptiste,” Jesse said. “Perhaps he blamed him as much as the others for his accident but didn't know how to set about expressing his anger.”

“That makes sense.” Mrs. Wharton steepled her fingers beneath her chin and paced a few steps. “Vasili was in a very bad way after the accident. Very depressed. It was Claude who convinced him he still had a life worth living. But perhaps beneath that optimism, Vasili continued to partly blame him for what happened.” She stopped pacing and turned to us, her jaw hardening. “This is all but another way to say Vasili had a motive to murder Claude, isn't it?”

“It's merely a possibility,” Jesse said. He didn't elaborate, but I knew he was also considering what I had told him about Josephine Marcus, how she had turned her enmity on both Sir Randall and Claude Baptiste. “Can you think of any motive Vasili might had had to kill Sir Randall?”

“None,” Mrs. Wharton said without hesitation.

I remembered something. “Vasili never mentioned Sir Randall during his rant. He specifically named Niccolo, Miss Marcus, my father, and Claude . . . but not Sir Randall.”

“Well, Randall had his own money and wouldn't have needed or cared about Countess Morekova's patronage, would he?” Mrs. Wharton gave a slight shrug. “He might have lent his voice to the others in persuading Vasili to join them in Versailles, but he wouldn't have had any other motive than wishing their friend to be present.”

“So we might be able to link Vasili to Monsieur Baptiste's death, but not Sir Randall's, at least not presently.” Jesse glanced down at the journal. “Perhaps this might shed some light.”

He circled the desk to sit in Uncle Frederick's leather armchair. Mrs. Wharton and I stood on either side of him, leaning to read over his shoulder. He opened the book to where the ribbon marked Sir Randall's last entry.

The rest of the entry went on in a similar vein, ending with Sir Randall's intention of studying the cliffs for inspiration. A shiver went through me at the thought of him scribbling this entry only minutes before he returned to the Cliff Walk with his sketch pad.

Jesse flipped backward several entries to where Sir Randall and my parents had first arrived in New York. Though a distinctly gloomy tone pervaded, we read nothing to signify either an intention of suicide or an insufferable clash with any of his friends. Jesse flipped back another several entries. He leaned his chin on his hands and stared down at the pages.

“I might need to pore through the entire journal.”

I gave a little groan of sympathy. “We could take turns going through it—wait. What is this?” Standing out against the uniform cut of the journal's pages about midway through, a single sheet protruded a hair's width beyond the rest. I opened to the place to discover a folded page that had been inserted. I unfolded it. “It's a letter . . . addressed to a solicitor in London.”

Jesse was on his feet in an instant. He slid the paper closer to the lantern and all three of us craned our necks to read the words.

“Who is AC?” I mused. “Not his son, James. Did Sir Randall have a brother? Good heavens,
why
didn't he spell out the name?”

“This is only a draft,” Mrs. Wharton said. “Leaving one to wonder if he ever sent the original, and if so, when.”

Jesse turned to stare out the window at the thrashing foliage and driving sheets of rain. “This could be important. I need to wire his son again, and that solicitor.” He breathed out heavily, in lieu, I guessed, of swearing.

I touched his shoulder. “You can't go out there again.”

“I have to.”

A
s it turned out, Jesse didn't leave when he wished to, but it wasn't the storm that kept him at Rough Point.

As we exited Uncle Frederick's office a lovely melody drifted softly through the house. We met Miss Marcus in the Stair Hall.

Surprised to see her alone, I asked, “Where is everyone?”

She looked almost affronted by my question and for a moment I thought she would decline to answer or rebuff me in some way. Perhaps Mrs. Wharton's presence beside me caused her to relent. “Your parents are sitting with Vasili, and your mother suggested Niccolo return to his room to play, but that he leave his door open so Vasili would be soothed by the music.”

No wonder I could hear his playing from so far away. “A good idea,” I said to her, and then to Mrs. Wharton, “Perhaps we should join the others. Miss Marcus? Will you join us as well?”

“There
are
no others, Miss Cross,” she said haughtily, “or had you forgotten? The only people downstairs at present are Teddy and myself, and the servants, of course.” She sniffed disdainfully. “Teddy is in the drawing room, but he was being morose so I left him. As if matters aren't deplorable enough. Perhaps I'll practice my billiards.”

“We shouldn't be alone. We all agreed about that,” I reminded her.

“Yes, well, if you should hear my screams, please come running.” With that, she swept past us into the billiard room, and a moment later I heard the strike of a match on friction. A wisp of smoke drifted through the doorway to tickle my nose. Mrs. Wharton and I traded shrugs, and as we headed to the drawing room, I heard the light clicking of the billiard balls being arranged in the triangular rack.

“She certainly marches to the beat of her own drum, doesn't she?” I commented as we passed through the Great Hall.

Mrs. Wharton chuckled. “Is that necessarily a bad thing?”

“No, it's one of the few things I admire about her.”

“Admire about whom?” In the drawing room, Teddy Wharton occupied the settee beside the hearth, the one facing the French doors. He didn't look up as we entered the room, but continued staring out the doors. Water cascaded from the roof of the covered veranda, all but obscuring the view of the lawns.

“Josephine,” his wife informed him. “We were noting how she skirts convention at every turn.

“Does she,” he murmured back, “or does she simply pretend to?”

“Why, Teddy, what an odd thing to say. I don't see how there is a difference. Her behavior is what it is.”

But Mr. Wharton's offhand observation produced its impact on me. The notion of pretending, not in a momentary situation, but constantly, as an act of simply being . . . could someone keep that up indefinitely? Show the world an outer self that bore little or no resemblance to the person within? I could almost point to examples of such individuals, but no, even with the most insincere personality, there had been signs, warnings. Whether or not others choose to heed those warnings was another matter. Was I failing to heed a warning now?

Was Miss Marcus pretending, and if so, to be what and for what purpose? What about the others? My parents had tried to pretend nothing was wrong but I saw through their charade quickly enough. Vasili seemed incapable of pretense, for he wore his heart on his sleeve. Niccolo, too, appeared genuine in the persona he presented the world. Even in his puzzling relationship with Miss Marcus, he wished for honesty, as the argument I had overheard between them in the piazza attested. It had been Miss Marcus who had insisted on secrecy.

My thoughts had distracted me from the conversation between the Whartons, but a sharp retort from Teddy reclaimed my attention.

“I don't see what business it is of yours, Edith.”

“What business?” She made a sound of impatience in her throat. “Vasili is a friend. He is your friend, too.”

“Ha. None of these people would give half a fig for me were they not all so utterly enamored of you, my dear. As it is, they merely tolerate me.”

“Don't be ridiculous. I see now why Josephine chose to play billiards alone rather than remain here.”

“Remain here
with me
?” Teddy's voice rose in challenge. “Is that what you mean to say, Edith?”

With a sigh Mrs. Wharton sat on the cushion beside him. “Oh, Teddy. I certainly do not
wish
to say such things. I do not like to. But please, can you not
try
to be more amiable?”

Her hand slid over his where it rested on his thigh. He flinched as though her touch burned him and abruptly stood. “I see I am not welcome here until I achieve a state of amiability deemed acceptable by the present company. If you will both excuse me. Miss Cross.” He tipped his head without looking at me and marched away into the Great Hall.

My lips compressed against my sense of mortification, I darted a glance at Mrs. Wharton. If I could un-see and un-hear what had just occurred and spare her the humiliation, I would have.

She met my gaze with a dismayed one of her own. “I'm terribly sorry about that.”

“Please don't apologize.” I left my own seat in the armchair and circled the sofa table to sit beside her. “Are you all right?”

Looking down at her lap, she nodded. “But you see what I mean about Teddy. His state of mind sometimes borders on irrational. And the worst part is that his surliness
is
driving the others away, along with others of our friends. They have tried to be understanding, but I fear their patience is reaching its limit.”

We talked a while longer, with the rain and wind providing a backdrop as Mrs. Wharton recounted her courtship and early marriage. Mr. Wharton, she said, had seemed an entirely different kind of man then, and she had believed she found a kindred spirit, someone who loved traveling and the arts more than the accumulation of wealth, and with whom she might laugh at the vagaries of the Four Hundred.

The darkness, she explained, had crept in on their lives so gradually as to be imperceptible at first, but for a trying day here and there. But having once taken hold, there had been no banishing the melancholy, and while they did still experience happier moments, the current state of things at Rough Point was dragging heavily at Mr. Wharton's psyche. And perhaps we could not blame him for that.

Finally, she gave the cushion between us a firm pat. “That is quite enough of that. I fear I've fallen into my own state of melancholy.”

I agreed that my companion could do with a change of focus. “Perhaps we should go up to check on how Vasili is faring,” I suggested. “His outburst was my fault. I should have remained silent and allowed you to do the talking.”

“You meant well,” she replied. “There are many questions that still need answering and you were merely attempting to loosen his tongue.”

Together we retraced our steps through the house. I heard no click of billiards as we entered the Stair Hall, but dismissed the absence as Mrs. Wharton and I started up. The stairs were dark, the upper hallway darker. As we entered the gallery with its wall of paintings on one side and the depths of the Great Hall on the other, a swath of ghostly white, thin and elongated, moved toward us from the opposite side. The two-story bay of windows in the Great Hall shed a gray, watery light over the image, making it seem to shimmy from side to side even as it approached. Mrs. Wharton and I halted abruptly and on instinct reached for each other's hands.

“What is it?” she whispered.

A deathly specter came to mind, and why wouldn't it in a house that had seen two deaths in so short a time? But my logical side wouldn't accept the fanciful notion, and I squinted to make out more of the figure in the dimness. It ceased moving at the center of the gallery, where the light from outside, however paltry, shined its strongest. A human form took shape. It proved not to be a rail-thin wraith cloaked in white, for now I clearly saw the outlines of the black dress beneath the starched pinafore.

“Irene?” I thought to chastise her for moving about the house in so mysterious a manner, but a hiccup of a sob burst from her lips just before her knees buckled and she sank to the floor.

Mrs. Wharton and I released our grip on each other and hurried to the maid. By the time we reached her she had fallen onto her side, senseless. We crouched beside her.

I lifted her hand and held it to my cheek. “She's as cold as ice.”

“Is she . . . is she . . .”

In reply to Mrs. Wharton's unspoken question I held my free hand in front of Irene's nose, while I also scrutinized the shallow rise and fall of her chest. “No, thank heavens.” Still holding her hand, I patted it gently, then harder. “Irene? Irene, it's Miss Cross. Irene!”

“I'll get help.” Mrs. Wharton pushed to her feet and scurried back the way we had come.

I continued patting the woman's hand and prodding her shoulder. She stirred but didn't awaken. I took my shawl from around my shoulders and laid it over her, even as I searched for signs of injury. None were apparent—no bruises and no blood—and her uniform, though rumpled from her fall, appeared sound enough. She suddenly drew in a trembling breath and her eyes fluttered.

“Irene. It's Miss Cross. You fainted, but you're safe, I'm here with you. Can you open your eyes, please?”

She struggled to do so, her eyelids continuing to flutter open and close. But her fingers closed tightly around my own, and with an effort she managed to lever an elbow beneath her and sit partially upright. Her eyes opened fully then, and she looked about dazedly, blinking as she took in her surroundings.

“What happened?”

“You fainted. Are you feeling ill?”

“No, I don't . . . don't think so . . .” Her hand came away from mine and she pressed the backs of her knuckles against her brow, then her mouth. She frowned deeply and shook her head. Terror dawned in her eyes. “Oh, Miss Cross.”

“What is it, Irene? What happened to disturb you so?”

From the south wing came sounds of people approaching. I heard Mrs. Wharton directing whoever it was to hurry, and then the voices of Mrs. Harris and Mr. Dunn. They must have come up the servants' staircase. Irene went very still, but it was not the south end of the corridor that held her attention. No, she was craning her neck to see over her shoulder, into the north wing that disappeared from view after turning the corner off the gallery. Her hand found mine again and squeezed, and once again she tremulously whispered my name.

And then it struck me. Niccolo had been playing his cello for Vasili. Now there was only silence coming from the north wing.

When Mrs. Wharton and the other two reached us, my own voice trembled. “Mr. Dunn, please find Detective Whyte.”

* * *

An eternity seemed to pass before Jesse appeared, though it could only have been a few minutes. My parents arrived before him, coming from their bedroom.

“I thought you were sitting with Vasili,” I said when they reached the gallery. Did I sound accusing? I must have, for my mother pulled back and my father's eyes sparked with defensiveness, as did his tone.

“He fell fast asleep again, and we saw no harm in leaving him for a few minutes. We found his alcohol, you see, and brought it to our room to hide it.”

“Both of you?”

“Emmaline, I didn't wish to leave your mother alone with Vasili given his state of mind, and neither did I wish to send her across the house alone. We were about to return when we heard people rushing by our door in the corridor.”

“Is something wrong, Emma?” My mother only then seemed to comprehend the scene before her. I had managed to help Irene to her feet, and she and I stood together at the center of the gallery, my arm about her waist. I feared if I released her she would not be steady enough to stand on her own.

“Has anyone seen Niccolo?” I asked, rather than answer Mother's question.

“He was playing in his room. . . .” Furrows deepened between my father's eyes. “He must have grown tired of playing.”

Irene let out a whimper, and whispered, “No . . .” Her legs threatened to give way again and I tightened my hold on her. “He . . . he . . .”

I dreaded hearing the end of that utterance. “Don't, Irene. Wait for Detective Whyte.”

His footsteps thudded on the runner of the main staircase, and in a moment he came along the corridor, his face gripped with concern. I quickly looked about at the others and realized Mr. Dunn was no longer among us. My father must have realized it too, for he strode past and continued into the north wing.

Jesse breathed hard when he reached me, as if he had run from across the house. “What happened, Emma?”

“I think it's Niccolo. Something has happened to Niccolo.” To confirm my guess, Irene cried out and sagged against me. I wished to bring her into a room where she could sit, but I also wanted to know what lurked in the north wing. “Mrs. Harris, would you take Irene into the sitting room, please?”

The maid passively let me pass her into Mrs. Harris's plump arms, but when the cook attempted to lead her out of the gallery, she stiffened and refused to budge.

“I knocked on his door. I had extra linens for him. When he didn't answer I thought he had gone below. I never thought . . . Oh . . . it was awful. . . .”

I caught Mrs. Harris's eye and nodded, and the woman gently but firmly led Irene away. Irene could tell us what she witnessed later, after we had seen with our own eyes the sight that had greeted her upon entering Niccolo's room. I exhaled and met Jesse's gaze.

“You should wait here,” he said, but with little conviction. He knew I would follow.