Murder at Rough Point Read online

  I turned back to the swivel mirror above the dressing table and patted my simple coif, a braid coiled at my nape. “Not at all,” I lied. “Merely happenstance, one I’m very glad has been rectified.”

  “And I, too.” She looked from me to Mother, still hovering near the threshold and looking uncertain. Mrs. Wharton rose and retrieved her manuscript, hugging it to her. “I’ll leave you two alone. I’m sure you have quite a number of matters you’d like to discuss.”

  I continued inspecting myself in the mirror. I wore the one and only evening dress I had brought, consisting of tiers of beaded lace topped with an embroidered silk jacket cinched tight at the waist, both of the same champagne color.

  “That’s lovely.” Mother moved farther into the room, as if she had needed Mrs. Wharton to vacate the space before being able to stake her own claim. As she took in my attire, her gaze once again assessed and questioned.

  “It’s one of Cousin Gertrude’s,” I explained, giving a tug to straighten the jacket and allow the wide lace collar to fall evenly over each shoulder. “From the House of Rouff. She virtually emptied her dressing room before shopping for her wedding trousseau this summer.”

  “And it all went to you?” Did a slight twinge of envy accompany the question? Perhaps, but the longing in her eyes didn’t seem directed at the dress, but at me. Did she resent the place my father’s relatives held in my life? Did she believe they had supplanted her and Father in my affections?

  Perhaps my parents should not have stayed away so long, then.

  I hid my thoughts by smiling at her through the mirror. “No. Much will be tailored for Gladys, and other pieces were dispersed among younger cousins and even the servants.”

  “Servants, in dresses like that?”

  I straightened and turned around, my chin held a notch higher than was typical. “Perhaps they do what I do with many of Gertrude’s castoffs, which is to sell them. Just two or three of those dresses will keep Gull Manor in coal and kerosene for the winter. The rest will provide many a hot meal at St. Nicolas Orphanage. But this”—I smoothed my hands down the jacket’s lace and satin front—“I can wear as an ensemble or without the jacket, or pair the jacket with other gowns. It will serve well when I need to look my best.”

  “You certainly do tonight, darling. We have some time before dinner is served. I’d hoped we might talk, just the two of us.”

  “As a matter of fact . . .” I gestured to the bed, and we sat side by side. “What can you tell me about Josephine Marcus and Sir Randall?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I mean about the rancor with which Miss Marcus treats Sir Randall. I witnessed a bit of a tongue lashing today, and I fail to understand it. Is there a long-standing contention between them?”

  “I see.” She sighed. This was not the conversation she’d hoped to have with me—that much was obvious. But neither was I ready for mother-daughter confidences. It was too soon, and I sought the safety of a more neutral topic. “Don’t judge Josephine too harshly. She has her own disappointments to contend with, though she won’t speak of them. It’s made her generally resentful. I believe when Sir Randall expresses his own frustrations, it grates on Josephine no end.”

  “Isn’t her career going well?”

  “It was. But things have begun to slow for her in Europe.” Her gaze darted to the door and she lowered her voice. “Can you keep a secret?”

  “Always, I assure you.”

  “Josephine was hoping Claude Baptiste would cast her as Carmen at the Metropolitan Opera House. It would mean a triumphant American homecoming for her.”

  “Monsieur Baptiste told me he was only considering staging the production in New York.”

  “Claude likes to tease. He pretends to hesitate, but everyone knows in the end he’ll accept the Metropolitan’s offer.”

  “But he won’t cast Miss Marcus? Why ever not?”

  “I don’t know, neither has confided in me. I reach my conclusions judging by Josephine’s demeanor. If Claude had agreed to cast her, she would have told us by now. Josephine is not one to play coy, not when it comes to her career.”

  “Interesting . . .” In a single afternoon I’d witnessed discord between the Whartons, Sir Randall, Miss Marcus, and even Niccolo Lionetti, for I hadn’t forgotten Sir Randall’s retort when the young musician attempted to intercede on his behalf. And now the stage director, Claude Baptiste, apparently made up part of the unsavory mix. I couldn’t help but wonder about the former dancer, Vasili Pavlenko, of whom I had seen so little thus far. What kept him so busy in his rooms all afternoon? For that matter, I really hadn’t seen much of Claude Baptiste either. Neither man had shown his face downstairs since luncheon.

  What kind of associations had my parents made in Europe? And with so many resentments between them, what on earth led them to believe spending an artists’ holiday together in this isolated house, at a time when Newport emptied of society and settled in for the winter, would yield benefits of any sort?

  “Mother, why are you all here?”

  At that moment the dinner gong sounded from downstairs. To my frustration, Mother smiled and rushed to the door as fast as her beribboned satin shoes could take her. “We’ll talk more later, darling.”

  Chapter 4

  Sir Randall didn’t appear for dinner, though my father’s reassurances put to rest my own and anyone else’s concerns. “Yes, I passed Sir Randall coming out of his room about an hour ago. He held a sketch pad under one arm and a fistful of pencils. He said he would eat something later, that he wished to make some rough sketches of the coastline before the sun went down. Then he dashed away.”

  “I suppose he found his inspiration, then, though one wonders where a sculptor can find his muse in all that water.” Josephine Marcus’s tone clearly dismissed the idea as invalid.

  “One would imagine a sculptor’s inspiration lies in the nooks and crannies of the cliff face,” Claude Baptiste said around a mouthful of fillet béarnaise.

  “Let us hope he does not lean over too far to inspect that cliff face.” Josephine Marcus sniggered meanly and with a lift of an eyebrow, looked over at me. My face burned with ire, but I refused to return her gaze. Across the table from me, Teddy Wharton chortled. Mrs. Wharton looked mortified by his lack of discretion. My parents and the others went on eating as if they hadn’t heard.

  After supper ended, the men went into the Great Hall and moved the gilded chairs from against the walls into a semicircle in front of the room’s towering bay of windows. Another chair, armless, had been centered within the bay, and Niccolo Lionetti’s borrowed Montagnana cello waited beside it, safely enclosed in its case.

  We had yet to take our seats and I moved into the drawing room to peer out the French doors. I saw no sign of Sir Randall against the twilit sky. It would soon be dark in earnest, and unsafe to wander the Cliff Walk. An idea sent me scurrying across the house to the servants’ wing. In the dining room, Irene and Carl were cleaning away the remnants of dinner. I waited for Irene to pass by with her rattling burden of dinner dishes. I followed her through the pantry into the scullery.

  “May I do something for you, miss?” she asked as she set the tray down on the work counter beside the wide sink, lined in wood to prevent delicate porcelain from chipping.

  “I wondered if you’d seen my dog lately?”

  She turned on the faucet. “Why yes, miss. He ate his bowl of scraps, and happy he was to have them, before setting out across the lawns. I don’t know where to, miss. Is it a cause for concern? Ought I to have brought him into the servants’ porch?”

  “No, I just wondered . . . Perhaps Patch is with Sir Randall,” I mused aloud. That the two might be together alleviated my growing fears for Sir Randall’s safety. Patch might be unruly and ill-disciplined, but he had also proved himself as sure-footed as a goat, leaping from boulder to boulder along Gull Manor’s peninsula. There had been times watching him when my heart had literally thrust up into my throat, so sur
e I had been he’d fall in the water, only to see him lithely maneuver the terrain with joyful yips and barks.

  At that moment the cook, a Mrs. Harris, cried out from the main kitchen. Irene and I traded startled looks before hoisting our hems and hurrying in to see what was the matter. Mrs. Harris was chuckling when we arrived and leaning over to pet Patch.

  “He’s a sneaky baggage,” she explained when Irene and I skidded to halts by the center worktable. “I took the garbage to the bins outside, and he must have slipped in behind me. Didn’t see him until he brushed against my legs just now. Gave me quite a fright, the naughty boy.”

  “I’m so sorry.” I circled the table and caught hold of my precocious mutt’s collar. He twisted around to sniff at me and deliver a welcoming lick. “I don’t have a leash—he wasn’t supposed to be here, you see. But perhaps there might be some rope I could use.”

  “Nonsense,” Mrs. Harris chided. I released Patch and he trotted back to the woman. He stood on his hind legs and placed his paws on her thighs, panting for more caresses as if his life depended on it. Such a flimflam artist, that dog of mine. The trouble was, no one at home felt inclined to teach him the error of his ways. Mrs. Harris accommodated his request with her sturdy hands and a hearty laugh. “I’ll watch out for him, miss. So long as he keeps out of the larder and doesn’t pilfer anything meant for the dining room, he and I shall be fast friends.”

  “If you’re certain . . .” I felt it was a lot to ask a woman who already had enough to do seeing after meals for eight guests—or rather nine, including myself—plus the four members of the staff.

  “Go on, miss. We’ll be just fine. Won’t we, Irene?”

  The girl smiled broadly. “He’s a sweetie, that’s for certain.”

  I hesitated before returning to the main portion of the house. “Did you by any chance see Sir Randall Clifford return with Patch? They were exploring the Cliff Walk together earlier.”

  “A guest, at the service entrance, miss?”

  I saw her point. Then again, he might enter the house this way after tramping about the Cliff Walk. “Well, thank you both. Patch, you be a good boy.”

  I nodded at Carl as I crossed the dining room and glanced again at the fading view outside the windows. Perhaps Sir Randall was at this moment in his bedroom changing for the evening’s entertainment.

  On my way back to the Great Hall I came upon Miss Marcus and Claude Baptiste standing in the recessed portion of the Stair Hall beneath the half landing. A single electric lamp illuminated the space, dimmed by a beaded and embroidered chinoiserie shade. Their tones were hushed and urgent, but three words spoken by Miss Marcus hissed their way to my ears: production . . . Vasili . . . revenge.

  I paused in the doorway of the dining room. My mother had spoken of Monsieur Baptiste’s production of Carmen and the fact that he would not cast Miss Marcus in the lead role. Were they arguing about it now? Mother hadn’t said anything about Vasili Pavlenko or revenge. At the sound of footsteps treading the stairs, I looked up to see Edith Wharton descending in a lovely rose velvet evening gown. She, too, must have heard the voices, perhaps from the half landing, for she grazed me with a look of exasperation before making the sharp turn from the bottom of the steps to where the other two, oblivious of their audience, continued their debate.

  Mrs. Wharton spoke in an undertone. “Josephine, dear, others can hear you. You must learn not to make such scenes.”

  Monsieur Baptiste pinched his thin lips together, his eyes becoming small above his hawkish nose.

  “My life is about scenes, Edith,” Miss Marcus said with all the melodrama of an operatic heroine. “Scenes are my vocation, or had you forgotten. Claude here certainly has, for he is determined to disregard me at every turn. It would seem the concept of friendship eludes him.” Miss Marcus noticed me then, for she craned her neck to see around Mrs. Wharton and raised her voice to address me. “You may write that in your article, Miss Cross.”

  Oh dear. I deserved being called out for eavesdropping yet again. But if someone didn’t wish their conversation to be overheard, they should not hold them in public places.

  Once again loud enough for me to hear, Mrs. Wharton said, “Yes, well, stabbing friends in the back happens to be a specialty of Claude’s. You’re not the only one of us to feel the sting of his unkindness between your shoulder blades. You must remember that, Josephine.”

  While Monsieur Baptiste blanched, Mrs. Wharton whirled about and retraced her steps to me. She rather roughly linked her arm through mine. “Come, Miss Cross. Niccolo will begin shortly.”

  Before we crossed into the Great Hall, another of Miss Marcus’s whispers lashed out behind us. “Admit it, Claude, it’s because of Vasili, isn’t it? Because you and Vasili blame the rest of us for what happened.”

  If Claude Baptiste responded to the charge, I didn’t hear him.

  “What was that about?” I whispered to Mrs. Wharton before we reached the seating area. We paused in the glow of the great stone fireplace, brought here from some Scottish castle when the house was built. Footsteps sounded above our heads in the open upper gallery. Sir Randall? The individual passed into the inner corridor before I could glance upward.

  “Claude has hesitated over casting Josephine in his production of—”

  “Mother told me about that,” I interrupted. “But the rest. What does Vasili Pavlenko have to do with it? And y—” I stopped myself from saying you, but too late. Mrs. Wharton knew what I had been about to ask.

  “It’s all right,” she said. “Back in Paris last autumn Claude and I had been collaborating on a play we were writing jointly. I thought it had been going well, until Claude abruptly told me he was no longer interested in the project. It was quite a blow to me. I’d devoted abundant time, not to mention my heart and energy, only to have Claude tell me it wasn’t any good. That I wasn’t any good. Not as a writer—he wasn’t as cruel as all that. But as far as theater is concerned, he deemed my talents thoroughly insufficient.”

  “How unkind of him.”

  Even before Mrs. Wharton’s expression changed to one of irony, I knew what she would say—knew what I would have said had our roles been reversed.

  “There is little kindness or gallantry in the art world, Miss Cross, as I am certain you are aware. It is something we must be willing to accept, or we should quietly return to our garden parties and other such entertainments. Wouldn’t you, as a journalist, agree?”

  I nodded ruefully. “I wouldn’t have it any other way. Nothing raises my hackles faster than a pat on the head from my employer. But what about Mr. Pavlenko? What has he to do with whether Monsieur Baptiste casts Miss Marcus or not?”

  Mrs. Wharton was smiling broadly now. “You truly are a reporter, Miss Cross. So very curious.” My face heating, I was about to apologize for my impertinent curiosity when she continued. “But in answer, I truly don’t know. I suppose it’s a confidence between Josephine, Claude, and Vasili. And perhaps Niccolo,” she added pensively, gazing across the width of the Great Hall and over the heads of the small audience just now taking their seats. Miss Marcus swept by us and regally lowered herself into the center seat, a red velvet throne-like affair with a gilded frame and a great eagle carved at the apex of the backrest. A fitting perch, I thought, for a woman of such flamboyant temperament.

  I noticed Mr. Dunn had taken up position outside the room’s second doorway, which opened onto the entry foyer. Behind him stood Carl and Irene, her maid’s uniform smoothed and her apron gone, craning to see over Mr. Dunn’s shoulder. Her eyes were shining with anticipation, and I was glad she was permitted to enjoy the recital, albeit from outside the room.

  In the bay of windows, Niccolo sat holding the Montagnana, one ear angled close to the neck as he softly plucked the strings and then leaned to make adjusting turns of the fine tuners on the tailpiece. Vasili Pavlenko, his wavy, golden brown hair mussed, hurried in from the drawing room and took a seat beside Monsieur Baptiste. They tilted their heads t
oward each other and appeared to trade rapid murmurs.

  Mrs. Wharton lightly touched my forearm. “Shall we sit together, Miss Cross?”

  Before I replied, I noticed my parents sitting, not together, but a seat apart. I gestured to the empty chair between them. “I believe my parents are hoping I’ll sit with them.”

  “Yes, of course.” Mrs. Wharton moved away to take a seat. It was when I’d settled between Mother and Father that I noticed she had not chosen a chair beside her husband, but one at the very end of the row. As Signore Lionetti continued tuning his instrument—which in itself filled the room with a beautiful melody—I glanced over at Teddy Wharton on the far side of my mother. He slumped in his chair and stared down at his feet, and I followed his gaze to a peculiar detail.

  “Mr. Wharton.” I leaned around my mother and spoke quietly so as not to disturb our musician. “Have you been out walking? Have you seen Sir Randall?”

  He glanced up as if startled. “What? Oh, yes, I took a turn in the garden, but no, I haven’t seen Sir Randall since before dinner. He’s probably back in his room by now.”

  I nodded, and then Mother nudged me. Niccolo Lionetti’s Montagnana had gone silent. He flipped his fringe of dark curls off his forehead, adjusted his posture, and raised his bow in a graceful sweep. The sonorous notes of a Bach concerto leapt on the air, and my heart leapt with it. The notes soothed and thrilled, lulled and electrified. The soaring height of the Great Hall plucked each note skyward, to echo down on us like calls from heaven. Goose bumps erupted on my arms and traveled my back. I felt as if some magnetic force held me in my chair and rendered me entranced and immobile but for the melodic racing of my pulse.

  Did the music have the same effect on the others? I stole a glance down the row at Josephine Marcus. Nearly as thrilling as the music was the change that had come over her, a physical alteration of her entire being, or so it seemed to me. Her very posture, typically careless and unladylike, more resembled that of Mrs. Wharton, as if she, too, was shored up by the music. But most striking was the change to her features, now relaxed, serene, and utterly without artifice.