Murder at Rough Point (23 page)

* * *

Jesse rushed into Uncle Frederick's office and shut the door, while Mrs. Wharton and I waited in the dining room, anxious to know the details of the call. In the meantime, she and I returned to our discussion about Miss Marcus.

“Do you really think Josephine is a murderess?” she asked me.

“She held grudges against all three of them. I saw it firsthand. Jesse only needs to find a pair of gloves among her things. . . .”

“Do you think whoever attacked Niccolo simply tucked those gloves back in among his or her things?”

I started to reply, then, confounded, blew out a breath. “I don't know what I think anymore.”

“Well, I shall tell you what I think. Let us sit.”

“We're supposed to go to the drawing room with the others,” I reminded her.

She dismissed this with a shrug. “Jesse won't arrest us for delaying that order, will he?”

I conceded her point and we turned our chairs to face each other. Rain streamed in thick rivulets down the mullioned windows while the shrubbery beneath swayed this way and that as if held by the roots and shaken. Mrs. Wharton leaned forward and spoke just above a whisper. “I've detected a pattern to these killings. An artistic sensibility.”

“You mean because Niccolo was attacked with part of his own instrument?”

“Not only that. Randall was murdered at the cliffs—cliffs made of stone and earth, and where saplings take root in the crevices and grow. Stone, earth, wood—these are the tools of a sculptor. And Claude drowned in a saltwater bath with a pebble lodged in his mouth. These are the tools of an actor's trade, and as a stage director, he would have instructed his actors to gargle with salt water after rehearsals to preserve their voices, and put pebbles in their mouths to learn to enunciate more clearly. And now, yes, as you said, Niccolo was nearly strangled with his own cello string.”

“Then . . .” I gasped as the pattern became clear to me. “My father . . . if he were to be next . . .” I shuddered as possibilities took monstrous shape in my mind. “Perhaps poisoned by his own painting chemicals. And Vasili . . .”

After a moment's hesitation, Mrs. Wharton shrugged. “I'm afraid I haven't the imagination to envision how one might do away with a dancer. Or an opera singer, for that matter. Or”—she shuddered—“an aspiring writer.”

By that last she meant herself, and I placed a hand over hers. “If your husband leaves, you should give serious thought to accompanying him.”

“Are you certain my husband is innocent?”

The question startled me into remembering that I
had
entertained the notion that Teddy Wharton killed Sir Randall. There had been the matter of wet grass clinging to his shoes the night Sir Randall went missing, following close on the heels of his obvious anger at finding his wife alone with the Englishman. Yet I had found nothing significant linking him to the other two victims.

That didn't stop me from asking, “Do you fear your husband?” I watched her face closely as she formed her answer.

She took me aback a second time. “Yes, at times I do. But not because I believe him guilty of murder. I fear I no longer fully know my husband or understand the darkness that is slowly taking over his mind. He is no longer the man I married.”

“Because of his melancholia.”

She nodded. “With each passing week he sinks deeper and deeper into himself, and the gap between us widens.”

“Do you fear he might hurt you?”

“I don't think he would . . . Still, his behavior can be unsettling.”

“He was not fond of Sir Randall, that much was obvious,” I said. “But what about the others?”

“I honestly don't know what he thought of Claude and Niccolo, if he particularly thought of them at all. He went along with me rather docilely at first, and later with growing resentments that made no sense at all. I suppose he stopped trusting me, not that I ever gave him reason to doubt me.”

I made a decision, and said, “I noticed grass on Mr. Wharton's shoes the night Niccolo played for us. He had obviously been outside. Why wouldn't he have changed into house shoes?”

She thought about this. “I couldn't say. I hadn't noticed.”

“Were you with your husband when Claude was killed?”

“Yes, Miss Cross, I was. We were all dripping from Josephine's broken pipe and he and I went to our room to change. He helped me with the buttons on my dress.” Her brow wrinkled. “Now that I think about it, Teddy finished changing before I did, and when I said I wouldn't need any further assistance he left me. I assumed he went downstairs. But—” Her eyes became circles, but then just as quickly resumed their natural shape. “No, he wouldn't have had time. I'm sure he would not have.”

“And today . . .”

“I was with you and Detective Whyte. I don't know where Teddy was in the house.” She gave an adamant shake of her head. “He didn't do it. He had no reason to want Niccolo dead. Or Claude for that matter, and in all honesty, though he might have resented Randall, I cannot imagine my husband doing anything so . . . so . . .”

“Dreadful?”

“Cunning or hazardous,” she corrected me. “You witnessed Teddy's little tantrum when he interrupted my conversation with Randall. He often behaved so, and then whatever it was would blow over. He is reactive, but never particularly proactive. It isn't in his nature. I'm sorry to say that at heart, my husband is something of a coward. He would not have risked pushing a man off that footbridge, not when there might be any chance he himself could fall.”

She sounded so positive, I found myself trusting her judgment. “Then we are back to Vasili and Miss Marcus.”

From the Stair Hall came a
thump-thumping
as someone apparently dragged an object down each step. A moment later a voice called out, “I'm leaving now, Edith. You can either come home where it's safe, or you can take your chances here—without me.”

“E
dith, I'm really leaving,” came another shout from the Stair Hall, followed by the sound of that same heavy object being dragged across the floor. “The footman is bringing a carriage around now. You have ten seconds to make up your mind.”

Mrs. Wharton sighed and went to the doorway. “I'm not leaving, Teddy, and rest assured you won't get very far. All you're going to succeed in doing is jeopardizing the welfare of a carriage horse. And shame on you for sending Carl out in this weather. You're endangering his health as well.”

Mr. Wharton's disembodied voice, for I could not see him from where I sat, took on a whining note. “What about
my
life, Edith? And yours?”

“I'm not going to argue with you, Teddy. Good-bye for now, and good luck. Try telephoning should you happen to make it home.” With that Mrs. Wharton pivoted and returned to me.

We both jumped when Jesse abruptly opened the office door and stepped out. “Eavesdropping, ladies?”

“We, uh . . . No, though not for lack of trying.” I smiled apologetically. “We were hoping you'd have new information. Thank goodness the telephone lines have been repaired.”

“For the time being. The problem stemmed from a line near town. It's been temporarily patched, but might not hold. I was able to request a telegram be sent overseas to both James Clifford and Sir Randall's solicitor.”

“To discover the identity of
AC
?” I asked.

“That's right.” Jesse gestured toward the Stair Hall. “What was that shouting I heard?”

Mrs. Wharton sighed. “My husband is leaving, returning to Land's End.”

“What? Is he mad?” Jesse hurried into the Stair Hall, but his continuing tread signified that Mr. Wharton had already passed through to the front entry hall. Mrs. Wharton and I traded a glance and followed.

We found a dripping Carl making his way through the front door, while Mr. Wharton squeezed by him, ran hunched through the rain, and took his place in the covered phaeton Uncle Frederick kept in his carriage house. The suitcase was already on the seat beside him. He had obviously had Carl carry it out first. The footman unbuttoned the mackintosh he wore and hung it on the coatrack in the vestibule, where it would drip on the stone tiles.

“Mr. Wharton,” Jesse called out into the rain. “This isn't a good idea. I've made other arrangements, if you'll just wait.”

Outside, Mr. Wharton huddled into his own mackintosh as the rain pelted him from the carriage's open sides. He flipped the reins. The vehicle lurched into motion and started down the drive.

Jesse laughed softly, without mirth. “I'm sorry I couldn't stop him, Mrs. Wharton. It's doubtful he'll make it down Ledge Road. I only hope he has the sense to turn back before—” He broke off, reddening.

“It's all right, Detective,” she said. “I hope he turns back before it's too late, too.”

“What do you mean, you've made other arrangements?” I asked him.

Jesse closed the front door against a gust of wind. “I'm getting everyone out of here. Two police coaches are on their way, along with an ambulance.”

“Isn't it too dangerous?”

Even with Mrs. Wharton watching, Jesse framed my face in his hands. “Certainly no more dangerous than remaining here at Rough Point. Signore Lionetti needs to be at the hospital. And Miss Marcus was correct. I have been useless in protecting you.”

“Jesse, no . . .”

“We're leaving as soon as possible, assuming the coaches make it here.”

* * *

In the next couple of hours the storm showed some slight signs of abating, though out beyond the cliffs the ocean continued to thrash. When the coaches finally wound their way up the front drive, they brought with them an unexpected arrival.

Uncle Frederick let himself out of the first vehicle. His head bowed and shoulders hunched to the rain, he picked his way carefully across the puddles to the front door. Once he was inside, I took his hat while Carl helped him off with his overcoat. Two police officers followed him inside. Before I closed the door, the ambulance pulled up.

“Uncle Frederick, I never expected to see you today,” I said.

“As soon as I had word from Howard Dunn I started out from Hyde Park. The weather kept me from being here sooner, though it only turned fierce once I reached North Kingstown. Good heavens, Emmaline, Howard only told me there had been an accidental death—bad enough, happening here on my property. Now I'm told it was murder, and that there's been another. Good grief, what the blazes has been going on among these people, and what the devil are you still doing here?”

“No one has been able to leave because of the storm. How were the roads on the way from town?”

“Treacherous. I suppose you don't dare travel along Ocean Avenue.” He glanced over my shoulder. “Arthur! I had no idea you were here. No one told me.”

“Our decision to make the crossing was rather last-minute.” My father and the others spilled into the entry foyer.

“I'll wager it's a decision you've come to regret, given the circumstances.” Uncle Frederick moved past me to greet my parents. I stayed by the door and opened it again to a wind-borne spray on my face, until the doctor and nurse from the ambulance made it safely inside.

Hannah Hanson reached out to give my forearm a reassuring squeeze. Somehow, her arrival renewed a sense of hope in me. We had reunited only that summer after several years of Hannah living in Providence, but ever since we were little girls growing up on the Point together, she had been able to brighten any mood with the simple power of her smile. The rain had darkened tendrils of blond hair that floated free of her nurse's veil, and cornflower blue eyes held me in their steady gaze.

We clasped hands. “Thank goodness you're here,” I said.

Dr. Kennison, whom I had also known all my life, wasted no time on pleasantries. “Has the patient awakened at all?”

“No,” I said. “He's been unconscious since we found him.”

“Where is he?”

“Follow me.” I led them upstairs to Niccolo's bedroom. Mrs. Harris slipped out, but Carl had returned with us and Dr. Kennison asked him to remain.

“I'll need help getting him into the ambulance,” he said. Then he opened his medical bag and leaned over the patient to check his vital signs. He let out a sigh. “His pulse is weak.” He examined the wound along Niccolo's neck, shaking his head all the while. “It's a miracle he survived this. Miss Hanson, will you and the footman please bring up the stretcher?”

I waited with Dr. Kennison until Hannah and Carl returned bearing the wood and canvas litter. They placed it on the bed beside Niccolo's inert form, and together the doctor and Hannah rolled him until he lay on the stretcher on his back. My father came into the room then.

“I'll help you carry him down.” Father and Carl each took an end of the stretcher, while Dr. Kennison walked alongside them. Hannah and I lingered in the room.

“Does Brady know your parents are here?” she asked.

“Not yet. The telephone connection has been tenuous, so I've been unable to send a wire. I'll try again this afternoon.”

“If you like, I can send it.” Color blossomed on her round, pretty cheeks.

“I know the two of you have kept in touch,” I said. “I'm glad, Hannah. Very glad.”

She shook her head. “We're friends. But . . . I mustn't keep Dr. Kennison waiting.”

I walked her downstairs. “We'll all be leaving Rough Point now. I'm not sure where we'll be staying but—”

Jesse stood waiting for us in the Stair Hall. “There is no longer any reason to leave. Come with me.”

“I'd better go. I'll see you soon, Emma.” Hannah gave me a quick hug, and then, ducking against the rain, made her way out to the ambulance.

Frowning my questions at Jesse, I allowed him to precede me through the Great Hall into the drawing room. All but my father and Rough Point's four staff members were present. Jesse bade me sit, and I squeezed in between Mrs. Wharton and my mother on the settee. Miss Marcus sat across from us in one of the armchairs. Uncle Frederick sat beside her, and the two police officers who arrived with him stood behind their chairs.

Vasili paced the room with a scowl. “I wish you would cease being mysterious, Detective Whyte.”

“Detective Whyte enjoys his sport.” Miss Marcus gave a derisive snort. “It makes him feel important.”

My ire rose and must have been obvious, for Jesse caught my eye and very calmly shook his head, a slight, humorless smile playing about his lips. From the front hall came the sound of the door closing, and moments later my father entered the room. “You wanted to see everyone again, Jesse?”

“Please, have a seat.” Once Father complied, Jesse moved to the center of the room. “I wanted to let you all know that although you may leave Rough Point, there is no longer any urgency to do so. In fact, I advise you to remain here until the roads are drier and safer.”

This announcement was met with momentary silence, and then a chorus of voices spoke at once, firing questions. Uncle Frederick's was loudest among them. “You've discovered the identity of the murderer, then. Well, sir, who is it?”

“Does this mean Niccolo woke up and told you who attacked him?” Mrs. Wharton sounded desperately hopeful, but I knew Jesse would disappoint her.

“Let me explain.” He held up his hands and waited until the room quieted. “A discovery was made here thanks to a wire from Sir Randall's son. We found his diary, hidden in his room. However, that only led to more questions, prompting me to order another wire sent to England only this morning as soon as I could use the telephone. I needn't have. It seems Sir Randall's solicitor had already contacted James Clifford with information unknown to his client, concerning a recent change to his father's will.”

Vasili dragged a hand through his hair, standing it on end. He looked worse than ever with his sunken, reddened eyes, colorless features, and his clothes a mass of wrinkles. “Is this to lead somewhere?”

“It is.” Jesse paced a couple of steps and stopped. “It seems James Clifford's and my wires crossed in transit. For even as I sent mine, his arrived with information regarding his suspicions about his father's death and the identity of a certain individual possessing the initials
AC.
”

A gasp interrupted Jesse's narrative, and I glanced over to see Miss Marcus flushing and pressing her hand to her mouth. Before I could make sense of this, Mother asked, “And who is this individual?”

If I didn't know Jesse to be the straightforward, sensible police detective he was, I'd have accused him of drawing out the moment for dramatic effect. At length he said, “Sir Randall Clifford's wife.”

“But . . . his wife is deceased.” Mrs. Wharton looked mystified, as did the others. “And her name didn't begin with
A
. Randall told us her name was Minerva.”

“Yes, you must be speaking of his first wife,” Jesse said. “In his wire, James Clifford was referring to his father's second wife.”

“What do you mean, second wife?” Father let out a bark of laughter. “Trust me, Jesse, if Randall had remarried, we would all know about it.”

“That's true.” Mother looked scandalized, close to devastated. “We were his closest friends. If there had been a wedding, Randall would have wanted us all there.” She turned an appeal on the others. “Edith, wouldn't we have known?”

Mrs. Wharton gave no answer, but merely returned Mother's stricken expression with one of her own. Vasili gazed out the French doors into the covered porch and beyond, where the storm continued to dwindle. He shook his head as if Jesse had taken leave of his senses and was wasting everyone's time. I continued to watch Miss Marcus carefully. Her face was splotched and ruddy, and she emitted little coughs that made her nose run and her eyes tear. I went to the brandy cart and poured a glass of water from the pitcher, kept fresh each day.

“You seem upset, Miss Marcus,” I said as I handed her the glass.

The others ignored me, all except Jesse, who watched us closely. Father spoke again.

“Well, Jesse, are you going to enlighten us as to the identity of this mystery wife? Surely James Clifford is mistaken.”

“James Clifford might have been, but I highly doubt Sir Randall's solicitor could have gotten such a detail wrong. The legal name of the woman in question is Anna Markstrom Clifford.”

“I've never heard of such a person.” Mrs. Wharton turned to my mother. “Did you ever hear of Randall speaking of an Anna?”

“Let me be more specific.” Jesse moved to stand directly in front of Miss Marcus's chair. “Sir Randall's second wife's full maiden name is Anna Josephine Markstrom, more commonly known to the world as Josephine Marcus.”