Murder at Rough Point Page 15

  “It is none of my business.” And yet curiosity rose up inside me. This morning wasn’t the first time I’d found Teddy Wharton’s behavior bordering on abominable.

  “We had the bad taste to make it everyone’s business, unfortunately. I regret that. But you see, he often drives me to my wits’ end, and you’ve seen only a small bit of it. It isn’t his fault, really. My husband suffers from acute melancholia, as his physician calls it, and I try to be tolerant. If only I’d been blessed with a more patient nature.”

  I bit my tongue to keep from questioning her. If this melancholy caused her husband to lash out verbally, what about physically? Was he prone to sudden acts of violence? I needed to learn more about this, but not here in the rain, when we had other matters to attend to. “You don’t need to apologize, Mrs. Wharton.”

  “Perhaps not, but I wished you to understand. Now then . . .” She followed me into the garden and latched the gate behind us. “What are we looking for?”

  “First, whether or not we would be visible from the house as we traverse the main garden paths.” I scrubbed droplets from my eyes and held my umbrella to shield me as much as possible. Head down, I moved to the outer path on the right side. “And also anything someone might have dropped or disturbed as they made their way from one end to the other. You take the left-hand path, and we’ll simply study the ground at each step.”

  “Sounds rather tedious.”

  I straightened to regard her. “It’s all right if you’d prefer to return to the house. I wouldn’t mind, truly.”

  She was already shaking her head and grinning, even as she moved to the path I had indicated. “Not a bit of it, Miss Cross. We all agreed none of us should be alone and I must admit I’m rather flattered you thought to include me in your intrigue. Do you do this sort of thing often?”

  I briefly wondered about the earnestness of her question, or whether Brady informed my parents of my activities these past two summers, and they in turn had regaled their friends with my exploits. Would they have done such a thing—used the dangers I’d faced as a source of amusement?

  “What is it, Miss Cross? You look perturbed. Did I say something?”

  “No, I’m sorry, it’s nothing. And yes, I seem to do this more often than one would wish.”

  She nodded as if only now realizing the gravity of the situation, that this was not a game but an attempt to discover who might have pushed Sir Randall to his death. “Then let’s get on with it, shall we?”

  With rows of vegetation separating us, we painstakingly made our way along the garden’s length. I paid particular attention to the first of the stepping-stones that connected the two walkways, where Claude and Vasili had stood talking yesterday. The rain had washed away all signs of their having been there. Not a footprint had survived the onslaught, and one could no longer distinguish whether either man had trod on the foliage, or if the rain had flattened the plants.

  Mrs. Wharton appeared at my shoulder. “Did you find something?”

  “Only the suggestion that our efforts will be in vain.” I shook my head. “I already knew Monsieur Baptiste and Mr. Pavlenko were out here yesterday, but today’s rain has washed away all signs of their presence. I can only surmise evidence of anyone else who passed this way to have met with a similar fate.”

  “What on earth would Claude and Vasili be doing out here? I hardly think either of them has an interest in horticulture, nor are they the sort to find pleasure in plucking vegetables like a kitchen hand.”

  “I suspect they wished for privacy, and where better on the estate? I have to admit, their friendship puzzled me.”

  She made her way back to the left-hand path, saying as she went, “They were an odd match, I’ll give you that. But it was Claude who coaxed Vasili to begin caring about his life again after the accident. . . .”

  “Can you tell me what happened?”

  “A train derailment. Teddy and I weren’t in Europe at the time. We were in New York. The others don’t like to talk about it, and Vasili won’t speak of it at all.”

  Her words triggered the memory of Miss Marcus’s accusation that Claude refused to cast her as Carmen because he and Vasili blamed them all for what happened. “Does Mr. Pavlenko blame the others for the accident?”

  “I don’t see why he would. None of the others were on the train with him that night, so it isn’t as if anyone could have helped him when the train derailed.”

  We continued our visual sweep of the garden paths, every so often turning and assessing whether we could be seen from the house. The garden’s tall hedges even shielded much of the view from the upper story, proving my theory correct: that someone could have made his or her way down to the Cliff Walk from the house without being spotted.

  By the time we reached the far gate we had discovered nothing of interest in our inspection, nor did I expect to find anything once we stepped back out onto the lawn. The gate creaked and then clanged shut behind us. Mrs. Wharton and I stood side by side staring down at nothing but gleaming spikes of grass. I let out a sigh.

  Mrs. Wharton was not to be deterred, however, and took several strides before coming to a halt. Then she turned about and gazed up at the house. “Only someone on the third floor could see us from here. I believe you are correct in your assumption that this would have been the route taken by someone intent on harming Randall.”

  “Yes, I see that. But I still have no proof of that having occurred.”

  Suddenly my companion leaned over, holding her umbrella, not over her head, but over whatever had caught her attention on the ground. “Miss Cross, come here.”

  I closed the distance in several steps and followed the line of Mrs. Wharton’s pointing finger. “Is this something?” she asked.

  Balancing my umbrella against my shoulder, I sank to a crouch and reached out, carefully grasping the item in question between my thumb and forefinger. It immediately threatened to dissolve at my touch, so I let it fall into my palm and cupped it gently. Mrs. Wharton took hold of my elbow to help me up, and then we both stood beneath our umbrellas squinting down at the sodden roll of brown paper stuffed with shreds of partially charred tobacco.

  “A cigarette,” she said.

  “Indeed.” My pulse jumped. Had I found my clue? I whirled about to judge the distance between us and the garden. For a more accurate measure, I walked back to the gate and counted my paces.

  “Someone may have tossed it over the gate,” Mrs. Wharton suggested.

  I had immediately thought of that, too. “It’s not impossible,” I hated to admit, “though it would have been a far toss.”

  “Perhaps Vasili or Claude.”

  “Possibly . . .”

  “Or the last time the gardener was here.”

  “No, definitely not the gardener,” I said quickly.

  “How do you know?”

  “Because no one who works for my uncle Frederick would dare litter his lawn, not even with a morsel as small as this.”

  Mrs. Wharton nodded in understanding. “I don’t suppose they would at that.”

  “It’s possible whoever pushed Sir Randall crept through the garden to avoid being seen on his way to the footbridge, and to calm his nerves he smoked a cigarette along the way, dropping it here before continuing on.” I slipped the morsel into the pocket of my mackintosh.

  “You believe it was one of us, then.” She didn’t pose this as a question, but rather a calm statement of fact.

  “Or one of the servants,” I murmured, but without much conviction. With the group only recently arrived from Europe, I could not imagine Mrs. Harris, Irene, Carl, or even surly Mr. Dunn having had the time to develop a grudge against any of the guests.

  Which left the guests themselves, among whom grudges seemed to flourish like barnacles on a hull. As to which member of the group, I couldn’t begin to guess. Most of them smoked these vile cigarettes, even Miss Marcus. And considering the temperamental nature of these artists and the tangle of rancor that existed
between them, who could say which of them finally snapped. There was Vasili with his mysterious resentments concerning his accident; Miss Marcus with her bitterness over her fading career; Niccolo Lionetti, perhaps in love with Josephine Marcus and acting on her behalf; Teddy Wharton and his acute melancholia, seeming always to find fault in his wife and obviously jealous of other men; my own father, who had angered a black market art dealer and put the entire group of his friends at risk. As for my mother and Mrs. Wharton, I could not find enough reason to suspect either of them.

  “If the same person killed both men,” I said to Mrs. Wharton, “he must have had access to the house.”

  “Has access.”

  “Yes.”

  “And your thoughts concerning the staff?”

  I frowned. “What motive could a member of the staff have to murder someone they’ve never met before? Their lives depend on their positions, as they would have little recourse if they were to be dismissed. Servants may grumble, but most are grateful for their employment, and I cannot see any of them doing anything to risk that.”

  I half expected Mrs. Wharton to resolve then and there to quit Rough Point, flooded roads or no. She did not, but as the raindrops became plumper, making loud, plop-plop sounds on our umbrellas, she increased my admiration of her by stoically saying, “Come, the storm is picking up again. We’d best get back.”

  * * *

  Mr. Dunn had intercepted me in the Stair Hall as Mrs. Wharton and I were about to return to our rooms to change into dry clothing. “Miss Cross, a telephone call for you. You may use Mr. Vanderbilt’s office. The connection is most tenuous so I suggest you hurry.”

  I could hear quiet murmurs and the clicking of ivory balls coming from the billiard room. Other voices drifted down the staircase from the sitting room upstairs. Mrs. Wharton scampered up the steps ahead of me, eager to be dry. I felt the same eagerness, as well as wishing to stash away the bit of evidence I had found outside. I held it now in a small tea leaf tin Mrs. Harris found for me in a cupboard.

  “Who is it, Mr. Dunn?”

  He eyed my wet hems but only said, “A Mrs. O’Neal.”

  I hurried past him. In my uncle’s office I came to an abrupt halt, my shoes skidding slightly on the polished wood floor. I hadn’t expected to find my father standing before the desk, with the receiver in hand. “Father—Mr. Dunn said Nanny called. Is that her you’re speaking to?”

  Nodding, he held the handset of the brass and ebony desk phone to his ear and spoke into the receiver. “Emma’s here, Nanny, so I’ll pass you over to her. Good speaking to you.” To me he said, “I was just attempting to contact the Western Union office in town to send a wire to your brother in New York. The operator interrupted with Nanny’s call. Here you are.”

  As he passed by me he paused and reached his arms around me. He said nothing, just squeezed me a moment before smiling down at me, then let go and strode away.

  A glow spread inside me the likes of which I hadn’t felt in a good many years. Tears misted my eyes as I recalled what it had been like, upon occasion, to be the absolute center of someone else’s world—my father’s world. For there had been times when he had set aside his artistic endeavors and made time for me. As I grew older and his career began to flourish, those times became fewer and farther between, until I’d learned to live without his attentions. But I realized now I had never stopped missing them.

  Blinking and even wiping a damp sleeve across my eyes, I set down the tea tin and snatched up the telephone receiver. “Hello, Nanny? Is everything all right? Are you all right?”

  “We’re fine here, sweetie.” Her voice crackled and popped across the wire. “We’ve plenty of stores in the larder and canned goods in the cupboards. I’m calling to say you mustn’t even think of attempting . . .” Here static enveloped her words, and I called her name into the mouthpiece. After a moment, I heard her again. “Did you hear?”

  “We were cut off for a moment.”

  “I said you mustn’t try to come home until the storm is over. The waves are engulfing parts of Ocean Avenue. Almy Pond is overflowing. You’ll never make it.”

  “All right, Nanny, I’ll stay put.”

  “Good. And one other thing—”

  The line went dead. I tapped the switch hook several times and was rewarded by another burst of static followed by dead air. Whatever else Nanny wished to tell me would have to wait. At least I knew she and Katie were safe.

  Thus assured, I began the climb to the second story. I saw no sign of either of my parents, but I met Miss Marcus and Niccolo on their way down. At the landing I hesitated, still clutching my tea tin in one hand. The dampness from outside clung to my clothing, but the warmth of my father’s embrace lingered. I remembered what my mother had said about Father being hurt by my aloofness, and a burning guilt spread from my heart outward. Mother had also mentioned Aunt Sadie as part of the reason they felt confident I would be all right when they left for Paris. Had I, in my desire to prove myself as independent as my great-aunt, led my parents to believe I simply hadn’t needed them anymore . . . in effect, pushed them away?

  No one could lay claim to a perfect life. I certainly couldn’t. Whatever their faults, whatever misdeeds drove them from Paris back to America, they were still my parents. They loved me in their way, and I loved them in return. Perhaps it was time I ceased judging and learned to forgive and accept them as they were. I crossed the landing and knocked at their door. Although I heard their voices inside, muffled through the door, I received no answer. I knocked again, louder, and this time distinctly heard a bustle of shuffling feet, the thump of a heavy object, and a door closing. From inside, the key turned in the lock, and my mother cracked the bedroom door a few inches.

  “Oh, it’s you, Emma. Uh . . . do you need something, darling?” It didn’t escape my notice that she didn’t widen the door, or that my father hovered several feet behind her, looking rather like a thief who had been interrupted on his nightly prowl. He didn’t greet me or invite me in. What happened to the affectionate father I’d met in Uncle Frederick’s office? My suspicions emerged to all but obliterate my daughterly resolve of moments ago.

  “What are you doing?” I asked bluntly.

  “Nothing. We merely wanted a few moments away from the others. You understand, darling. It’s been so stressful.”

  Yes, it had, but stress didn’t explain my mother’s wide-eyed, nervous look or my father’s continued impersonation of a thief confronted by the night watchman.

  “May I come in?” I didn’t wait for an answer, but thrust my arm into the gap and elbowed the door wider. Mother hesitated an instant, but apparently when she saw I would not be deterred she stepped aside so I could enter. “What was all that noise I heard before you came to the door?”

  Father still hadn’t moved from his startled stance. “Emmaline, I don’t believe I like your tone. Are you accusing your mother and me of something?”

  “Should I be?” With that I went to the wardrobe and flung the doors open. Not a stitch hung from the rod, but two valises occupied the floor of the piece. That had been the thump I’d heard. I pivoted on my heel. “Going somewhere?”

  Neither of them said anything. Color suffused Mother’s cheeks, and Father’s lips flattened.

  “Jesse said no one may leave Newport,” I reminded them.

  “Now, Emma, we have no intention of leaving Newport,” my mother assured me.

  “That’s right, Emmaline.” His features tight, Father slipped his cigarette case from his breast pocket, opened it, and then closed it with a snap without having removed one of its contents. “There are plenty of places to stay right here in Newport.” His expression softened. “If what has happened has anything to do with that . . . you know, that painting . . . then your mother and I might be better off somewhere else rather than staying here and endangering another of our friends.”

  “We all agreed, Father, that remaining here together was safer than splitting up. Besides, Nanny tel
ls me Ocean Avenue is flooded. There is no saying what condition other roads are in. Bellevue might very well be reduced to a sea of mud. It would be dangerous to go anywhere at present.”

  “We don’t plan to go very far,” Mother said.

  I narrowed my eyes at her, and then at my father. “Just where were you planning to go, then?” Did this have anything to do with my father’s attempted telephone call?

  They traded a look, and Father said, “The Breakers, where else? Your mother and I are always welcome.”

  “You can’t go there. You know you can’t. The house has been shut down for the winter. Even the chandeliers and wall sconces will be wrapped in linen. What will you do, stumble around in the dark, sit on covered furniture, and sleep on stripped beds? Not to mention the kitchen larders will be bare, with only enough stores for a skeleton staff.”

  “I’m sure with one wire to New York—”

  “You cannot!” My voice rose and I took a moment to collect my composure. More calmly I said, “You cannot bother Aunt Alice about anything, not with Uncle Cornelius still so ill.”

  My uncle, the recognized head of the Vanderbilt family, had suffered a stroke of apoplexy in July. The circumstances had been deplorable and it still made me cringe inwardly to remember the awful scene moments before he collapsed. The attack had left him considerably weakened and partially paralyzed. The thought of disturbing my aunt and uncle with any matter, great or small, raised my protective hackles. I would not allow it.

  “He’s as bad as that, darling? We thought after all this time . . .”

  I swung around to face my mother so abruptly she flinched and trailed off. “He is very bad. His physicians have forbidden him to work, which they needn’t have bothered doing since he is in no condition to walk up and down stairs, much less manage his railroads. Uncle William and Alfred have taken charge.”

  “Alfred? Not Neily?” Father frowned in puzzlement.

  I shook my head sadly. Father was correct. Ordinarily Neily, as firstborn son, should have stepped in for his father. But in this case, it was his younger brother, Alfred, whom his parents had chosen for the task. “Not Neily,” I said, “not after his elopement with Grace Wilson. News of Neily’s engagement is what brought on the stroke in the first place, and now that they’re married Uncle Cornelius has cast him off and written him out of his will.”