Murder at Rough Point (9 page)

“It fits,” Jesse said, scrubbing a weary hand across his eyes. What was it about a tragic death that sapped all the energy from those left behind? I felt as though I'd toiled endlessly for days, could barely hold myself upright in my seat at the table. Even Patch turned his head to rest his chin on my knee. I absently stroked between his ears and down his neck.

“Can you be certain?” My father's nose was pinched, his jaws tight. He reached for the silver cigarette case lying in front of Monsieur Baptiste next to him. At a nod from the Frenchman, Father plucked a cigarette and held it between his lips as he scraped a wooden matchstick against the striker on the side of the case. I remembered him smoking the occasional cigar in days past, but I wondered when he had taken up cigarettes. Or did he simply crave a way to keep his hands busy? His first puff came out in a rolling ball of white. Then he inhaled deeply and released a stream of leaden vapor.

“Each of you has basically repeated the same story.” Jesse shook his head no when my father held out the silver case to him. “You've all corroborated that Sir Randall had been deeply depressed by his recent disappointments, and several of you witnessed him walking out to the cliffs alone. So far my men and I find no evidence of foul play. We'll continue to comb the area. I've also sent two men upstairs to go through his things.”

“What about that gash in his forehead?” I asked him. “Could someone have bludgeoned him before pushing him off the bridge?”

Jesse shook his head again. “I don't believe so. The wound looks consistent with his head having hit the rocks as he fell. And don't forget the waves probably thrashed him against the cliff face quite a bit before he became lodged in the crevice. The coroner will have to confirm this, but it seems the most logical conclusion.”

Mr. Dunn stood apart from the rest of us, off to one side of the rear-facing windows. “May I notify Mr. Vanderbilt of your conclusions, Detective?” The estate agent stood at attention, his slicked hair flawless and his expression grim. “He will need to know of this.”

Jesse mulled over the question. Then he nodded. “Yes, inform him we are still investigating, but at this time Sir Randall's death appears . . .” Again, he hesitated. “Tell him for now we are calling this an accident.”

“Not suicide?” Across the table from me, Josephine Marcus puffed heavily on her own cigarette, touching it to her lips and pulling it away with nervous, jerking motions. White clouds surrounded her face like an autumn fog. Several of the guests were smoking now, filling the room with the noxious scents of an assortment of tobacco, from the mundane to the exotic, and I longed to escape into the fresh air. From my mother's taut expression I surmised she felt the same discomfort as I. “You just finished saying he was depressed. Are you doubting your own verdict, Detective?”

Jesse's gaze turned sharp. “I make no verdicts, Miss Marcus. That's for judge and jury. It does appear to be a suicide, but I see no reason to release that information to the general public, or Mr. Vanderbilt, until we're absolutely certain. For all we know at this point, Sir Randall might have slipped and fallen over the cliff. He might not have been on the bridge at all, but was washed into the gap by the waves. We have to notify the next of kin, Sir Randall's . . .” He paused, and my father filled in the missing words.

“His son, James. Randall was a widower with no surviving brothers or sisters.”

“His son should be notified before news of this gets out.” Jesse cast a glance at me. “It would be wrong to release details we're not yet sure of.”

“I don't intend reporting on half a story,” I assured him, somewhat defensively. “That's Ed Billings's style, not mine.”

Jesse looked contrite. “Of course.”

“What if you can never prove what happened to Randall?” Miss Marcus's question shot out like a challenge.

“We'll do our best,” was all he said.

“Who was with him last?” Sitting beside my father, Mother looked tearfully around the table. “He shouldn't have been allowed to venture out alone. We knew he was terribly unhappy. Someone should have gone with him. Someone should have—”

“Beatrice.” Father reached over to place his hand on hers. “There is no point in that.”

“No point?” My mother snatched her hand away. “Of course there's a point. No one knows for certain what happened. Jesse just said so himself. For all we know . . .” Her voice becoming shrill, she broke off, looking disconcerted, and then gathered herself and said fiercely, “Emma should not be here. Edith should have consulted us before inviting her. Emma should leave at once before—”

“Beatrice!” My father's sharp retort made several of those around the table cringe, myself included. Even Patch let out a throaty whine. “Beatrice,” Father repeated in a murmur. “That is quite enough. Please calm yourself.”

“Yes, do,” Miss Marcus said with a flourish of her cigarette. “Hysterics won't help anyone.”

Mother's jaw flexed, and she ground out, “I am not hysterical.”

A dubious claim. Mother's agitation was as plain as it was understandable. What I didn't understand was her reference to me. Did she continue to see me as a child, too delicate to withstand the shock of a man's unfortunate death? The worst had occurred, hadn't it, so from what else did she seek to protect me?

That question gnawed at my insides until the discomfort of it grew in proportion to a mounting distrust. What were my parents hiding?

“I'm sorry if I overstepped my bounds when I asked your daughter to stay here during our retreat.” Mrs. Wharton clutched the lace neckline of the morning gown she had hastily donned earlier.

Mother looked about to retort, so I quickly said, “You didn't. And the decision to stay was entirely my own.”

While that appeared to appease Mrs. Wharton, my mother's posture stiffened as though she had been slapped or unpardonably insulted. By Mrs. Wharton, or me? My father reached for her hand again, and this time Mother didn't pull away. Some message seemed to pass between them, and Mother relaxed her shoulders a fraction. An uneasy silence settled over the room, broken after several awkward moments by Vasili Pavlenko.

“What do we do now?” The young man looked drained. Fatigue dragged at the pretty features Miss Marcus had admired.

Jesse, whose heightened color revealed how uncomfortable he had become in the last few minutes, pushed back his chair and stood. “I'll—uh—leave you to discuss that. I must ask that no one leave Newport in the next day or so, in case I have more questions for you.” He bobbed his head in my direction and took his leave of the group. Before he had quite exited the room, however, he cast me one more glance, one that conveyed a silent message:
Find out what you can.
I blinked once in response.

“You heard the detective.” Niccolo Lionetti combed his fingers through his dark curls. “We wait to see if we must be questioned again.”

A sound of impatience ground in Vasili's throat. “Yes, but after that. Our plan was to stay here for a fortnight.”

“We take wing the moment that policeman opens this cage.” Josephine Marcus studied her fingernails. “Of course.”

“And go where?” Vasili snapped.

“Wherever you want.” The opera singer's features turned suddenly sharp, shrewish. “Does it matter?”

“It matters to us.” Niccolo reached for another cigarette. “To those of us who are not from this country. Where do we go?”

Monsieur Baptiste shrugged. “I will travel down to New York, where there are countless charming hotels at our disposal. Vasili, you could come with me. You too, Niccolo,” he added as an afterthought, but grudgingly, I thought.

Mrs. Wharton stood and leaned with her palms on the table. “Any of you are welcome at Land's End if need be, but why must anyone go anywhere? We came here to conduct an artistic retreat. If Randall indeed died for his art, don't we owe it to him to carry on as planned? Wouldn't he wish us to do just that?”

“How very poetic, my dear,” Teddy Wharton said half under his breath, although I heard him clearly enough. Had the others? If so, they ignored him.

Finally, my father leaned back in his chair. “I agree, we should stay put and carry on in Randall's name, as a tribute to a good friend and an innovative artist. Anything productive that emerges from our time here will be dedicated to him. He'd appreciate that, I think.”

Mrs. Wharton patted a hand lightly on the tabletop. “I believe he would, very much. We will celebrate our comrade even as we mourn him. What do the rest of you say?” She turned to me and smiled sadly. “Miss Cross, you'll have a most poignant story when all is said and done.”

I didn't doubt it, although I found myself faced with an enormous hurdle. Observing and interviewing these artists after such a tragedy now seemed trite, almost cruel, when surely they would rather be left alone with their grief, which would surely be considerable once the shock wore off. But I had also made Jesse an unspoken promise to find out as much about Sir Randall's death as I could. I wondered, how forthcoming would this group be now?

* * *

The inhabitants of Rough Point went about the rest of that day in near silence. Occasional whispers traveled through the marble-tiled rooms, hissing along the elaborate woodwork. For the most part, the group scattered, sitting pensively alone or wandering the grounds aimlessly. Even at luncheon, they filled their plates and retreated to the private nooks and corners they had made for themselves throughout the house. This surprised me, for I'd have thought they would wish to keep company and trade thoughts and memories of their friend. Perhaps this was an artist's way, however. An artist's endeavors are, for the most part, solitary ones.

I took their cue and maintained my distance as well, but kept Patch with me as I moved about the house. After coming upon Teddy Wharton sitting at the desk in Uncle Frederick's office, I used the telephone in the butler's pantry to call home to Nanny. My news was met with a long silence, and then she said, “Well, I don't suppose it would do any good to suggest you come home?”

“Mother and Father are here as well.” I went on to explain the artists' wish to continue their retreat in tribute to Sir Randall.

Another weighty silence was followed by a sigh. “I'm glad. Your parents have been away too long.”

I didn't tell her my parents' visit came fraught with secretive undercurrents, but I let her believe the Cross family's reunion a happy one, for now.

I also used the time to mull over—and write notes on—the various responses to the morning's events. Niccolo Lionetti had seemed more concerned about where to go once they vacated Rough Point, as if he might be cast out into the street, rather than about Sir Randall's unhappy fate. Josephine Marcus behaved with her usual acerbic wit. Teddy Wharton imposed a distance between himself and the others, including his wife. Monsieur Baptiste and Vasili Pavlenko had appeared less than devastated, and the Frenchman's mention of New York hotels held a hint of yearning, as if he longed to be away from here.

And my parents . . . once again, they left me with a certainty they were being less than straightforward. In fact, I had asked Mother point blank what she meant earlier in the dining room when she said I shouldn't be there, and she had shown me a wide look of surprise.

“I merely meant these are hardly circumstances for a young girl like you.”

“I've already explained to Father that I'm no longer a child. And you mustn't blame Mrs. Wharton for my being here.”

“I certainly do not blame Edith.” But the hiss of her breath told me differently.

I decided it was time to seek out Mrs. Wharton and ask her some pointed questions. Leaving Mother to her own devices in the second-floor sitting room, Patch and I went below. I'd last seen Mrs. Wharton on the covered veranda outside the billiard room. I headed there now, but in the Stair Hall, I was stopped by the estate manager, Mr. Dunn.

“Miss Cross, a word if you please.” The beginnings of a disapproving frown appeared as he glanced down at Patch, but he made no comment.

“Certainly, Mr. Dunn.” I hid my surprise that he would wish to speak to me. “What may I do for you? If it has something to do with Mr. Vanderbilt or the house, you should really speak with my father. I defer all decisions concerning the property to him, now that he's here.”

“No, Miss Cross, it's you I mean to speak with. It's about your article. Is there any way you might leave out this unfortunate business when you write about the retreat?”

I balked for the briefest instant. “Mr. Dunn . . . you mean pretend nothing happened? How can I? Once the police have finished their investigation and the body has been released, this will all be a matter of public record.”

He sighed. “Yes, but the average citizen doesn't always concern himself with public record, and newspapers are quite well known for exaggerating details. We all know it is the sensational story and the sordid details that sell copies—that can even propel a small-town paper to national prominence.”

The insinuation reminded me of my rival, Ed Billings, and made my hackles rise. “Are you accusing me of unethical journalism? I would never—”

“No, Miss Cross. I apologize if that seemed to be the case. But do understand that Mr. Vanderbilt has my every loyalty. You know he wishes to sell the property. Think of the potential damage of a story like this. How many people will be willing to purchase the site of a man's death? And a suicide at that. The property will be all but cursed. Its value will plummet.”

“Really, sir, this is 1896, not 1698. No one believes in curses anymore.”