Murder at Rough Point Read online

  My articles. Had Edith Wharton been untruthful? Perhaps it had been my parents who asked for me to report on the retreat—not someone who knew of me by reputation, but my own mother and father, well-meaning but unintentionally reducing a professional triumph to a vast disappointment. With an inner sigh I let my hopes of becoming the next Nellie Bly flitter away.

  I concealed my letdown with a shrug and answered Mother’s question. “Mrs. Wharton convinced me it would be a good idea to stay and . . . how did she put it? Ah, yes, and immerse myself in your artistic world.”

  “Perhaps Edith should learn to mind her own business,” my father murmured.

  Mother glanced over at him. “What was that, dear?”

  “Nothing.”

  I pretended I hadn’t heard him. “Will you be painting while you’re here, Father?”

  “I certainly plan to. Would you care to sit for me?”

  Mother’s face lit up at the suggestion. “Yes, Emma, you must. Let your father capture you as you are now. Darling, you’ve grown so beautiful. But still, I wonder at the wisdom of your staying at Rough Point.”

  “Why? Is there something I should know about your friends, Mother? Or perhaps something you don’t wish me to know?”

  “Oh, they’re a lively bunch, to be sure,” she replied, evading the question.

  “Yes, Miss Marcus mentioned that earlier. But she certainly didn’t indicate I’d be in any sort of peril.” I said this only half jokingly, for my curiosity and determination to uncover facts had indeed led me into peril in the past. Mother and Father didn’t know that. I had always glossed over such details in my letters.

  “You might find us distracting,” Father said, “when you’re writing.”

  “That shouldn’t be a problem. While I’m here, I’ll primarily be taking notes. I’ve been instructed not to submit my article until the retreat is over.” I paused to study them both. They were trying their hardest to appear natural, but there were volumes being left unsaid. I was more confused than ever. Why have the Observer send me here by day, only to send me packing each night with flimsy warnings of distractions and unruly friends?

  I stood, prompting Mother to assume a look of mild alarm.

  “Where are you going?”

  I smiled down at her and offered my hand to help her to her feet. “To luncheon, of course. You do realize the others must be famished by now.” And since I thoroughly doubted I would be enlightened any further at the present time, remaining upstairs would serve no good purpose.

  * * *

  The group, now complete with all nine of its members having settled in, gathered for luncheon in the dining room, which faced the rear lawns. Unlike Gull Manor, which occupied a promontory only yards above sea level, Rough Point sat high on the cliffs, away from the briny reek of low tide. Open windows admitted cool breezes that carried the distant lull of the ocean and the hum of bees in the elaborate flowerbeds closer to the house.

  Although I had been allocated a servant’s bedroom, my role had subtly changed since I had first entered the estate. This morning I came as a journalist to write about the retreat and set each participant in a noteworthy light. My function in publicizing each of these artists had even superseded my relation to the owner of the house. My parents’ presence here, however, elevated me virtually to the status of guest.

  As Irene and the footman, Carl, served the food, I was introduced to two more guests: Mrs. Wharton’s husband, Edward, or Teddy as she called him; and Sir Randall Clifford, the man revealed to me earlier as interested in purchasing the estate.

  Mr. Wharton made little impression on me, for he seemed a mere shadow lost in the blaze of his wife’s outspokenness. He nodded and made noises of agreement whenever she spoke, but added little to the substance of the conversation. I mainly knew him from reputation. He was not an artist of any sort, but a banker from an old Boston family. He seemed a well-bred gentleman and twice or thrice made references to yachting. It was all I could do to keep my sentiments about that sport to myself. I’d had enough of yachting in July. The subject no longer held any appeal for me.

  Between the soup course and the main entree of baked haddock, potato croquettes, and stewed cucumbers, I turned my attentions to Sir Randall. He was undoubtedly the eldest of the group, past fifty if one were to judge by the wisps of peppered hair that stuck out in tufts around his ears. Only a few inches taller than I, he sported a stocky physique and was much narrower across the shoulders than the hips. I wondered if he had a wife and family back in England, and how on earth a member of the gentry had found his way into my parents’ hodgepodge band of “bohemians,” as Uncle Frederick had termed them.

  When Sir Randall commented that the views here were sure to inspire my father’s next painting, I found the cue I had been waiting for, as so far no one had told me much about this Englishman.

  “What is your preferred art form, Sir Randall? Are you also a painter? Or perhaps a musician?”

  “Good heavens, neither. I dabble a bit with paints, but that is merely a form of relaxation for me. I could never sell a painting as your father does. No one would give my unfortunate squigglings a second look.”

  Something happened then. I couldn’t quite identify it, but a look slithered its way around the table: the flicker of an eye, a twitch of the mouth, the compression of Mother’s lips. The emotion, whatever it was, touched all but the Whartons, who continued their meal without the slightest pause. Then, with a collective clattering of flatware, the others resumed eating.

  Sir Randall spoke again as if nothing unusual had occurred. “As for music, I’m afraid I’ve no ear at all.”

  “That’s not true, Randall,” Mrs. Wharton said. “You love listening to Niccolo play. We all do.” She smiled at the young Italian, who nodded appreciatively. Teddy Wharton shot a glance across the table at him, then sucked in his cheeks and sipped his wine.

  “I am a good listener, that is true,” Sir Randall clarified. “But never a maker of music. Perhaps never a maker of anything worth having,” he added in an undertone.

  “I’m sorry?” I was about to ask what he meant, when Miss Marcus spoke up.

  “There you go again. One exhibit and you’re quite ready to throw it all away.”

  Sir Randall’s gaze had fallen to his plate. Now it swung upward, aiming ill-concealed ire in Miss Marcus’s direction. “It was not one exhibit, Josephine. It was several. London, Paris, Barcelona—I’m a failure in every major city in Europe.”

  “Stop exaggerating and don’t make out to be the only artist who has ever fallen into disfavor.” Josephine glanced around the table for approbation, which she received from several quarters, though not all. The Whartons appeared appalled at this turn in the conversation, and Niccolo Lionetti looked apologetic, as though he’d like to agree with Miss Marcus but had never yet experienced the disdain of his audience. Vasili Pavlenko, the fair-haired former dancer, grumbled something into his hand, and though I couldn’t be certain I’d have wagered the Russian words were an oath, and a vehement one at that.

  I couldn’t have been the only one who heard, but the others pretended they hadn’t. Father set down his fork. “It does happen, Randall. The only cure is to keep working at your craft.”

  “If I might ask—” Ask again, I thought—“What is your craft, Sir Randall?”

  “It is—was—”

  “Do stop the dramatics.” Josephine thrust her napkin to the table and tensed as if about to push back her chair and abandon the table. A throat-clearing stopped her; it came from Niccolo. Their gazes met across the table, hers sparking with anger, his dark and calm. He raised an eyebrow, smiled slightly, and Josephine slid her napkin back into her lap.

  Thoroughly flummoxed, I wished to demand that these people explain themselves. Mother caught my eye, rolled her own a little, and shook her head. I relaxed. After all, I had been warned, hadn’t I? I’d grown accustomed in recent years to the meticulous manners of my Vanderbilt cousins and other members of t
he Four Hundred. I had little experience of artists, and I supposed one must accept their stormy temperaments as part of their charms. Although the idea of describing this bunch as charming produced a chuckle I barely managed to stifle.

  “My dear, I am a sculptor very much in need of new inspiration.” Sir Randall gestured to the scene outside the windows. “I am hoping to find it here on your rocky island and your steep cliffs.”

  “I’m sure you will, Sir Randall. Those same views are what inspired my father to become a painter. Aren’t they, Father?” For some reason he avoided my gaze and Mother let out a strained giggle. The others went right on eating. “Of course,” I continued, “there must be equally stunning views all over Europe. What brought you all to America?”

  “I have concerts in Philadelphia and New York, signorina,” Niccolo said in his lyrical accent. “I am to be playing at the Car-ne . . . Carneggy . . .”

  “Carnegie Hall?” I supplied, and he nodded happily.

  “And I am considering bringing my new staging of Carmen to your Metropolitan Opera House.” Claude Baptiste raised his wine goblet, his hawkish nose almost touching the liquid as he sipped. “Do you care for opera, Miss Cross?”

  “I do, though I don’t often have the pleasure.” A thought occurred to me, and eagerly I asked, “Is that what brought you as well, Miss Marcus? Will you be Monsieur Baptiste’s Carmen?”

  Once again, as if it were a gauntlet, Miss Marcus threw her napkin to the table. “No, I shall not be.” She slid her chair back and sprang to her feet, and with her blond curls dancing and her bosom jiggling, she swept from the room.

  “Oh, dear . . . I’m very sorry. . . .”

  “Never mind, Miss Cross.” Mrs. Wharton took a roll from the silver basket and passed the rest to me. “As Josephine herself told you earlier, we are a lively group.”

  My father raised his glass. “To our lively group.”

  * * *

  When luncheon ended the group scattered. My parents, as well as some of the others, had unpacking to finish, and Niccolo retired to his room to play his cello. Even through his closed door, the deeply sweet notes drifted through the upper hallway and down the stairs. I stood alone for some minutes in the Stair Hall, my hand resting atop the banister’s ornamental finial. As I listened, I thought how incongruent his playing was to the contentious meal I’d witnessed. There seemed to be a dynamic I didn’t understand at work here, that didn’t resemble anything I’d encountered before. My Vanderbilt relatives argued, certainly, and this summer one of those arguments had yielded dire results, but there were always reasons one could point to, sources of the discontent. This group, however, seemed to thrive on discord. I believed they enjoyed it. Did it provide fuel, perhaps passion, for their art? I wondered, and then doubted as I considered their continual evasiveness. Something was wrong here, and my journalist’s heart yearned to discover what it was.

  Voices from another room at first blended with the plaintive notes of Niccolo’s cello, but after another moment they became quite distinct from the music. The sound drew me to the doorway of the dining room, which should have been empty at this hour. It was far too early for Mr. Dunn and Carl to be setting up for dinner, and there was no reason for guests to be in there. Yet when I peeked in I realized the voices did not emanate from the dining room at all, but from an adjoining office that faced the front lawns.

  “Randall, no one was pandering to you, I promise,” a female voice said. “Your work is brilliant. No, do not rumble at me. Your sculptures have shown cunning and innovation. If anything, you are ahead of your time and your recent audiences have failed to understand your meaning.”

  “I don’t know. . . .”

  I tiptoed into the westernmost end of the dining room, but did not crane my neck to peek around the elaborate moldings framing the office doorway. I didn’t have to, as I recognized both voices well enough.

  “I do know,” Mrs. Wharton said, “and furthermore, I think you should buy Rough Point. Stay away from Europe for a time. Americans are much more amenable to change. In fact, we embrace change and progress in a way your stodgy Europeans never will.”

  “Ah, Mrs. Wharton, you cannot convince me you find the Parisians stodgy.” There was a touch of laughter in Sir Randall’s voice.

  Mrs. Wharton laughed as well. “You are correct, but Paris is an altogether different matter. I—”

  “Is that my wife I hear?”

  If the voice behind me wasn’t enough to send my heart thudding in my throat, the hand that gripped my shoulder and drew me aside prompted me into a defensive stance. My fingers stiffened, and I very nearly resorted to a self-defense tactic I’d learned last summer by thrusting them tips-first into the Adam’s apple of the man who had sneaked up on me. The act would have sent my attacker coughing and stumbling backward while I prepared to strike again, but I forestalled my assault as I recognized, not an imminent threat, but merely Teddy Wharton.

  “I—uh—that is . . .” I stuttered as I groped to explain why I had been standing near a doorway listening in on his wife’s conversation. Yet here before me was not the mild gentleman I’d met during luncheon. He wasn’t merely inquiring as to the whereabouts of his wife. He clearly seethed, his eyes sharp and bright against the room’s dark woodwork. I thought all that anger must be directed at me, yet before I could utter another word, he strode past me into the office.

  “Edith, I’ve been searching for you. What are you doing here?”

  “Teddy.” Mrs. Wharton sounded surprised, but not unduly disquieted. “Randall and I were discussing his future. Help me persuade him to stay on in Newport.”

  “Randall’s future is his own concern. Come. I need you elsewhere.”

  I seized the opportunity to turn and flee. My pattering steps took me across the Great Hall and into the drawing room. Would Teddy Wharton think I’d been eavesdropping—as indeed I had been? But what had sent him in pursuit of his wife in such a rude manner? Surely he couldn’t think she and Sir Randall . . .

  Suddenly I regretted my snooping. I had hoped to glean some clue as to what drove this odd group with its many idiosyncrasies, but had I simply made my presence known and joined in Sir Randall and Mrs. Wharton’s conversation, I might now be able to provide Mr. Wharton with proof that his wife’s moments with Sir Randall had not, in fact, been a tryst.

  Chapter 3

  Having decided I would do best to mind my business when it came to the domestic affairs of Rough Point’s current inhabitants, I took my pencil and tablet and sought the relative privacy of the library. Of the first floor’s public rooms, this was the only one that overlooked the drive and front lawns, and I understood why my relatives had chosen this location for their library. The view here of trees and flowerbeds elicited a peacefulness conducive to reading, while the rear vista of windswept hillocks, rocky cliffs, and restless ocean inspired one to toss down one’s book in favor of a brisk tramp across the promontory.

  I selected an armchair that faced an open window. To my right, French doors that opened onto a covered piazza filled the room with sunlight but still couldn’t quite banish the shadows hunched in the corners of the room. I began making notes on the only uncontroversial topic I could think of: my impressions of Niccolo Lionetti’s cello playing.

  I hadn’t been writing long when Sir Randall shuffled in from the drawing room. He stopped when he saw me. “I thought I’d search out a good book, but I don’t wish to disturb you, Miss Cross.”

  “Not at all. Join me, please.” My pencil came to rest. “I was just attempting to capture in words the essence of Signore Lionetti’s talents, and failing miserably, I’m afraid. Perhaps you’ll tell me a bit about your sculptures.”

  “I suppose that is why you’re here, isn’t it?”

  He ambled over and chose an armchair set at a comfortable angle to my own. The open windows admitted the heady perfume of late-season roses, and the light breeze stirred my hair. In the room’s tranquil environment I felt comfortably at home
, but it seemed to take an effort for Sir Randall to settle in. He tugged here at his tie, there at his cuffs. Finally, he regarded me with a careworn expression.

  “What would you like to know, Miss Cross?”

  “Well . . .” I picked up my pencil again. “Sculpture seems a much more rigorous pursuit when compared to sketching or watercolors. What first attracted you to the endeavor?”

  He gave a small laugh, as if he found my question amusing. “My mother dabbled in the arts, Miss Cross, and she encouraged me to explore. I was hopeless with paints, but stone, clay, wood—I somehow had a knack for creating lifelike images.”

  “And from what I gathered at luncheon, you’ve been successful at it.”

  “Yes, for a time. But I grew weary of lifelike images. I thought, what is the point in portraying something as we might already see it in nature? It is merely a copy, an imitation. Rather like photography, which has its uses but in my opinion is no kind of artwork.”

  “And so you changed your technique?”

  “Right you are, Miss Cross. Have you seen the work of the Impressionists?”

  “You refer to the paintings? Yes, of course.” My parents had taken me to an exhibit in New York years ago, and there had even been a collection here in a Newport gallery. “My father admires them greatly.”

  “As do I, Miss Cross.” His fingers opened and closed around the arms of his chair, and his foot thudded repeatedly against the rug in a bout of nervous energy. “They sparked a new passion in me, and I began to experiment with more abstract designs, new proportions, angles not typically found in nature.”

  “It sounds exciting.” I quickly made note of the terms he used to describe his methods.

  “It was exciting . . . until the first exhibit. The others tried to convince me one cannot be discouraged by one poor showing, and so I weathered on. But the response was the same everywhere. The audience loathed my new work, and the critics agreed.” He released a breath, gazing down at his feet as he shook his head.