Murder at Marble House Read online

  Hope Stanford, on the other hand, seemed her usual self: stoic, sensible, single-minded. In fact, she moved away now to extinguish the incense and the candles Madame Devereaux had apparently lit in preparation of telling our futures. Was Mrs. Stanford always so unshakable, so calm in the midst of a crisis? Or was her composure due to some other reason? I moved back to Madame Devereaux’s lifeless body, but I studied Hope Stanford until the police arrived.

  Three of the ladies made their way back to the house while Aunt Alva and Mrs. Stanford and I waited in the pavilion until the police arrived. At Mrs. Stanford’s insistence, Aunt Alva stopped pressing Clara for answers, though she never unpinned her gaze from the girl, not even for an instant. Not that she had much to worry about. Clara barely moved, but instead continued in an almost catatonic trance with her back jammed against the column.

  I maintained my vigil beside Madame Devereaux and on one occasion even had to nudge her upright or she might have tumbled over at my feet. That slight movement of her body had seemed so lifelike, bolts of alarm shot through me, and only a firm inner admonishment could resettle my nerves. I’d closed Madame’s eyes, but that didn’t make it any easier to gaze down at that lifeless face or place my hand on that frigid, stiffening shoulder.

  Once I felt assured of having her well balanced in the chair, I used the opportunity to study my surroundings. The tarot cards, fanned across the table, meant little to me at first—merely tools of the woman’s trade—until I connected them to the coins littering the tiles beside the desk. Then it struck me. The medium hadn’t simply been awaiting the arrival of Aunt Alva and her guests; she had been engaged in reading someone’s fortune.

  Whose, Clara’s? Would a maid have money for such a frivolity? I considered questioning Clara right then, but another glance at the glazed vacancy in her eyes assured me of the unlikelihood of receiving a lucid answer. I resumed my inspection of the pavilion, until something sent me hurrying from Madame Devereaux’s side.

  “Look at this,” I said to no one in particular. I bent low, examining bits of muddy grass and tiny pebbles tracked across the floor. I traced the untidy path from Madame Devereaux’s chair to a few feet from the pavilion’s entrance, where the concentration of plant matter suddenly thinned, no doubt due to the arrival of the ladies and me. Apparently we had scattered the evidence with our own footsteps.

  Still, I searched for telltale contours that might with some accuracy be called footprints, yet I could make out nothing substantial enough to identify a type or size of shoe. My only educated guess was that the shoes had been damp in order to have tracked in the mess.

  Odd. It hadn’t rained in days.

  “Finally. The police are here.” The sounds of tramping feet rendered Aunt Alva’s announcement unnecessary.

  I couldn’t have said which emotion reigned supreme inside me, relief or chagrin. Yes, I was thankful the authorities had arrived, but the expression on Detective Jesse Whyte’s face made my stomach sink. But perhaps I should clarify. The moment our gazes met, his ironic expression proclaimed he’d not only realized I was once again caught up in a murder investigation, but that he wasn’t the least bit happy about it. I suddenly wished I’d returned to the house when Consuelo had.

  Jesse’s first words to me dismissed any doubts I might have had about his sentiments. “Really, Emma? So soon after last time? Is this something you particularly enjoy?”

  “There were footsteps. I heard them, sir. Running across the grass.”

  “She’s lying!”

  Once again I hastened to intervene between my aunt and Clara Parker. “Please, Aunt Alva, let her answer Detective Whyte’s questions. How else will we learn the truth?”

  “We won’t learn the truth if the chit insists on lying.”

  While the uniformed men proceeded to question Marble House’s battalion of servants, the rest of us had moved into the house and upstairs to the room that had once served as Uncle William’s study during the short time he’d lived here before the divorce. Of all the rooms in Marble House, this was the least ornate and the most practical, with clean, masculine lines rendered in leather and hardwood furnishings. Here, one needn’t hesitate to sit for fear of ruining priceless embroidered silks or smudging a gilded finish.

  Clara was seated in a stiff-backed side chair in the middle of the room, her body so rigid she might have been held with ropes. One by one, Roberta and Edwina Spooner gave their statements to Jesse and his partner, Detective Dobbs. Next, the officers questioned Lady Amelia, and finally, Hope Stanford. Each gave a nearly identical version of the story. Had they seen anyone other than their little group enter or leave the pavilion? No. Had they seen anyone else in the vicinity of the pavilion? No. In the gardens? No. Were they together during the estimated time of the murder? Yes. And what did they see upon entering the pavilion?

  Again, the answers were all the same: Madame Devereaux slumped over the card table and Clara Parker standing directly behind her, her hands on the dead woman’s neck.

  Clara protested with a loud whimper at each mention of that last detail. “I was trying to take the scarf off her!”

  “There were the tracks of grass on the pavilion floor,” I reminded Jesse. “That does seem to indicate that someone had been in the pavilion before the rest of us arrived.”

  “Yes—her!” Aunt Alva’s finger jabbed in Clara’s direction.

  I swung to face her. She and I sat together on the camelback sofa beneath the mounted sabers Uncle William had brought home from the family’s trip to India last year. I couldn’t help feeling those crossed swords symbolized Aunt Alva’s and my currently opposing views. I only hoped they were mounted securely. “Are you so eager to see your own maid accused of murder?”

  Clara let out another whimper as Aunt Alva replied, “Of course not. But neither am I eager to see a murderess go free.”

  “The grass could have been tracked in by Madame Devereaux herself.” This came from Jesse’s partner, Detective Anthony Dobbs. The man sat at Uncle William’s sturdy desk, a pencil in hand, a writing tablet open before him. I scowled at the sarcasm that dripped from the medium’s name. Whether or not the woman had been swindling her customers, she didn’t deserve anyone’s mockery now. Especially this man’s. I narrowed my eyes at him, but he took no notice.

  I’d known both police officers most of my life. Jesse lived near my childhood home on the Point section of Newport, beside the harbor on the other side of town. Though he was quite a bit younger than my father, they’d been friends and Jesse had joined us for supper on many a night. Now he was my half brother Brady’s friend, and as often as not kept Brady out of trouble—and jail—whenever my boisterous brother overim-bibed or became tangled in any number of ill-advised activities.

  Jesse and his partner couldn’t have been more different, neither in looks nor temperament. Where Jesse’s features bore the youthful, almost delicate look of a boy and his frame tended toward the lean and wiry, Anthony Dobbs sported the face of a bulldog and the body of a prizefighter, and it seemed he derived no shortage of pleasure from bullying my brother at every opportunity.

  Would he enjoy doing the same to Clara?

  “Clara could have tracked in the grass,” Aunt Alva pointed out.

  “I didn’t, ma’am. I stayed on the path.”

  “So you say,” Aunt Alva countered.

  No one commented, but Detective Dobbs scribbled in his tablet.

  One by one Jesse dismissed the ladies until only Aunt Alva and I remained. Aunt Alva I understood; she owned Marble House and was Clara’s employer. As for me . . . I couldn’t help a twinge of pride that perhaps Jesse thought I could help, as I had in Newport’s last, and still quite recent, murder investigation.

  Jesse went to look over Dobbs’s shoulder at the notes scrawled in the tablet. He glanced up with a frown. “Mrs. Vanderbilt, isn’t your daughter in residence?”

  My aunt stiffened. “She is.”

  “We’ll need to question her, too, then.”<
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  “Oh, no, you will not.” Aunt Alva compressed her lips and glowered.

  “Was she with you all when Madame Devereaux’s body was discovered?”

  Aunt Alva started to shake her head, but a quick glance at me seemed to change her mind. “She was, but she didn’t see anything. I sent her back up to the house before she ever entered the pavilion. It was she who instructed my butler to call the police.”

  “And where is she now?” Jesse asked.

  “In her room. Where else would she be?”

  Jesse scrubbed a hand across his eyes. “Will you please send for her, ma’am.” It wasn’t a question. “It’s possible she might have seen or heard something from her room. On a day like this I’m sure her windows must be open.”

  “Her room faces the south garden. She couldn’t have witnessed a thing.”

  Jesse met my gaze and I gave a tiny shrug. When Aunt Alva dug in, nothing could persuade her to change her position. If Jesse wanted to question Consuelo, nothing short of a warrant would grant him access to her.

  “I can attest to the fact that Consuelo was in her room immediately before we all went out to the pavilion,” I said calmly. “And I’m equally sure she returned there after asking Mr. Grafton to call the police.”

  “What makes you so certain?” Dobbs’s voice held a belligerent note.

  “I know my cousin.”

  “All right, we’ll let it drop,” Jesse conceded. “For now.” He perched at the edge of Uncle William’s desk and crossed his arms over his chest. “Miss Parker, tell me about these footsteps you heard.”

  “Allegedly heard,” Aunt Alva murmured. She seemed about to continue. I placed a hand over hers and shot her a warning look, which had the desired effect of silencing any further protests. Instead, she rolled her eyes at me.

  Clara fidgeted with the edges of her pinafore, ripping tiny threads from the hem. “I heard them as I came down the path. I looked around, but I didn’t see anyone. Hardly surprising what with all the trees and hedges around the pavilion. Honestly I didn’t think anything of it at the time. There’s so many of us working here, it could have been anyone, or it could have been one of Mrs. Vanderbilt’s guests.”

  “According to each of them,” Officer Dobbs mumbled as if to himself, “they were together during the time of the crime. They’re each other’s alibis.”

  “Think, Clara.” Jesse bent at the waist to peer into her face. Dobbs scratched away on his pad. “Were they heavy steps, like a man’s? Or lighter, like a woman’s?”

  The maid scrunched up her forehead as she considered. She sniffed loudly and wiped the back of her hand across her nose. “I suppose . . . they were heavy. Could have been a man’s. Except. . .”

  “Except what, Clara?”

  Officer Dobbs’s rapid scratching paused and the room grew silent. Clara’s head turned, her red-rimmed gaze landing on the sofa where Aunt Alva and I sat watching. Clara’s arm came up and she pointed a shaking finger in our direction.

  “Except it could have been a woman, if the woman were as stout as Mrs. Vanderbilt.”

  “Why, you!” Aunt Alva sprang to her feet. “How dare you, you little guttersnipe!”

  Alarm sent me to my own feet, but Aunt Alva was too quick for me. Before I could speak up or reach for her, she was across the room, lifting Clara by the front of her dress, swinging one hand high in the air....

  I braced for the slap even as I scrambled after her. Jesse had better reflexes than I; a lengthy stride brought him to Aunt Alva, and he grasped her raised wrist at the same time he commanded, “Mrs. Vanderbilt, release Miss Parker this instant or I’ll be forced to restrain you in a more permanent way.”

  The shock of being spoken to in such a manner proved more efficient than any physical force could have. Aunt Alva released her hold on Clara and swung about. “Restrain me? Restrain me?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Vanderbilt, that is what I said,” he replied mildly, his reserves of patience endless. He released her wrist.

  On the other side of the desk, Anthony Dobbs held his pencil aloft and forgotten as he took in the scene. His heavy features filled with pure glee.

  “There’s your criminal.” Aunt Alva gestured to Clara. “That’s whom you need to restrain. Do you not know who I am? Do you not understand what I am capable of, young man? Do you wish to continue in your employment as a police officer, or would you prefer to sweep chimneys or muck stables?”

  “Aunt Alva, please, Detective Whyte is simply doing his job. He can’t allow you to attack Clara, or anyone else for that matter. And besides, Clara wasn’t accusing you of anything. She was merely pointing out that . . .” Oh dear, how to put this delicately, especially with Aunt Alva’s fuming wrath now aimed at me.

  I swallowed audibly. I’d never seen her quite like this before. Oh, I’d seen her angry. I’d seen her railing at Uncle William, Consuelo, her younger brothers, the servants.... But just then, with the fury emanating from her like summer heat off a cobbled road, she did indeed seem capable of anything. Anything at all. Even, perhaps, with the right provocation, wrapping her hands around my neck.

  I stepped back. Her last words to Madame Devereaux echoed inside me, sapping my body of warmth.

  You will tell her the man you meant, the man who would only make her miserable, is Winthrop Rutherfurd, or you will be very, very sorry.

  Some twenty minutes later, two uniformed policemen stepped into the room to report that all of the servants had been questioned, their statements taken, and each seemed to have been where he or she ought to have been at the time of the murder. In other words, they all had proper alibis.

  “As well they should,” Aunt Alva mumbled.

  Again I reminded myself that each of her guests had attested to the same thing: They had been together in the gardens immediately before our sojourn to the pavilion. I’d heard Aunt Alva threatening, or seeming to threaten, Madame Devereaux through the open library windows, but could she have had time to follow the medium to the pavilion, strangle her, and take her place among her guests quickly enough that they hadn’t noticed her absence?

  It didn’t seem likely, and the Vanderbilt part of me breathed a sigh of relief. Aunt Alva had her faults, but she was, after all, family.

  The officers led a weeping Clara out of the house. No sooner had they left than another officer entered the room with Lady Amelia close behind him. “The coroner’s finished for now, sir, and the body’s being loaded into the wagon for transport into town,” he told Jesse. He only then seemed to notice Aunt Alva and me in the room, and he cast us a sheepish look. “Beg pardon, ladies.” He held out a hand from which dangled a red silk scarf. “Here’s the murder weapon. This lady here says it belongs to her.”

  Lady Amelia stood with one hand pressing her bosom, the other dabbing a lace-edged handkerchief at her eyes. Yet when the delicate confection came away from her face, her cheeks were not mottled, nor were her eyes reddened. “This is most horrible.” Her accent had become subtly more English since I’d seen her last. “I didn’t recognize it when we first found the poor woman . . . well, I was distraught, of course. To think, that dreadful girl stole my scarf right out of my room and used it to . . . to . . .”

  “We don’t know that for certain yet,” I told her. “Clara is innocent until proven guilty. Isn’t that right, Jesse?”

  “Bah!” Aunt Alva exclaimed at the same time Detective Dobbs snorted.

  Jesse crossed the room to take the scarf from the policeman. He held it up, allowing it to unfurl to its full length, a good four feet. “Do you know when it went missing, Lady Amelia?”

  Lifting her hems, she moved elegantly into the room, almost slinking, with the way her body swayed within the trim, tailored lines of her emerald gown.

  Why hadn’t I noticed it before? If Madame Devereaux had conducted herself with the practiced finesse of a stage performer, this woman did so to no less of an extent, though her mannerisms were of a different sort. Refined rather than theatrical, but no les
s affected.

  I stored the impression away for later and concentrated on her reply.

  “I couldn’t tell you when it was taken,” she said, reaching out to finger the end of the scarf trailing from Jesse’s hand. “I hadn’t had occasion to wear it since arriving at Marble House.”

  “Where had you kept it?” Jesse asked.

  “In the clothespress in my dressing room. Where else would I keep it?”

  “Did you put it there, or did your maid when she unpacked your belongings?”

  Beneath a layer of powder, Lady Amelia’s cheeks turned pink. She hesitated, her gaze flickering over my aunt and me in turn. Her chin came up. “I put it there myself.”

  Why so defensive? Before I could wonder, Jesse turned to Aunt Alva. “Was Clara serving as Lady Amelia’s maid?”

  Aunt Alva sounded almost surprised, as if something about those circumstances had only just struck her as strange. “She was, when I could spare her from her other duties.”

  “Then Clara had access to Lady Amelia’s things.” Jesse blew out a breath, and I realized that, like me, he very much hoped to find Clara innocent. He turned back to Lady Amelia. “I take it your own maid has been delayed in coming?”

  “She is ill,” the woman replied without missing a beat, then added, “poor dear.”

  “People get ill,” Anthony Dobbs commented to no one in particular, as if summing up a conundrum. He shrugged his shoulders, closed his tablet, and got to his feet. “I think we’ve heard enough.”

  “You go ahead back to the station and write up the report,” Jesse said to him. “I want to take another look at the pavilion.”

  Dobbs frowned. “We been through it already. So have the bluecoats. What else you expect to find?”

  “Whatever we might have missed.”

  “Suit yourself.” Dobbs headed for the door.