Murder at Marble House

by Alyssa Maxwell

  “Hear, hear,” Nanny murmured.

  I scrunched up my nose. “Maybe not, but what’s Winthrop Rutherfurd’s part in all this? I can’t see him putting in with rum smugglers.”

  “A coincidence?” Nanny suggested.

  “I doubt it. Just as I doubt it’s any coincidence the Curtises are away.”

  “Who are they?” Derrick asked.

  “The couple who run the Rose Light. When I spotted Winty heading out to the island yesterday, Angus told me they were away for a few days.”

  Derrick made an impatient gesture. “Winty? Angus?” “Angus was the boatman who rowed me out to The Valiant yesterday afternoon. Winty is Consuelo’s pet name for Winthrop Rutherfurd.” I blew out an equally impatient breath. “Do keep up.”

  Nanny chuckled and Derrick sent me a glower. “Could Winty be having money troubles?” he asked.

  I glanced at Nanny. “Have you heard anything to that effect?”

  She sipped her coffee. “He wanted to marry Consuelo, didn’t he?”

  “Because he cares for her,” I shot back.

  “The Rutherfurds are an old family, Emma,” she said mildly. “And none of the old families is as wealthy as they used to be.”

  “That’s right,” Derrick said. “It’s the so-called nouveau riche who control the bulk of the wealth in this country now. People in industry like your Vanderbilt relatives and yes, my family. The Vanderbilts’ hands are sooty from the railroads. The Andrewses’ hands are ink-stained from the newspaper business.” He held up his hands as if to prove his point, though there were no stains that I could make out, nothing to indicate he’d ever worked a hard day in his life. “People like the Rutherfurds didn’t believe in soiling their hands in business, and as a result their fortunes have been dwindling away for generations.”

  “I suppose it would be naïve of me to insist he wanted Consuelo only for herself.” I sighed. Consuelo had certainly believed it, at least until Winty had stepped all too willingly out of the picture once Alva made it clear she’d never allow them to marry. Yes, elopement remained a possibility, but Consuelo would be disinherited, virtually penniless. Would Winty want her then? “Poor Consuelo . . .”

  “Emma . . .” Derrick placed a hand over mine where it lay beside my plate. “Don’t you think it’s time the police were notified of Consuelo’s disappearance? How long has it been?”

  “Two days.” Across the table from me, Nanny nodded her agreement. “I know you’re right,” I said, “but Aunt Alva . . .”

  “What are you most afraid of?” Nanny asked. “Your aunt Alva’s temper or your cousin coming to harm?”

  Her words put matters into perspective and I realized the decision was already made. “I’ll go to Jesse tomorrow. Surely he’ll be able to keep things quiet and out of the newspapers.” I couldn’t help eyeing Derrick. We were newspaper people, he and I; we both knew the lure of a good story. “Consuelo’s disappearance would make national headlines, Derrick. You’ll keep my confidence, won’t you? Please promise me.”

  A glimmer of hurt entered his eyes. “Do you honestly think I’d betray your trust for a headline?”

  “No, of course not,” I said quickly. But hadn’t I? Or was I just exhausted and not thinking straight? “Derrick, I’m sorry. I needed to be sure.”

  He came to his feet. “You know, Emma, perhaps you’ve been spending too much time with your Vanderbilt relatives.”

  “What does that mean? Derrick—”

  “It means you need to learn to take people at their word and trust them. Good day, ladies.” With that he crossed to the kitchen door and was gone.

  I stared after him, then looked to Nanny in hopes of gleaning some sort of comfort. There was none to be found, just a look of disappointment and a sad shake of her head.

  After Nanny’s warm breakfast and a hot bath, I slept for several hours. One might think nightmares would have awakened me at every turn, but the truth is I slept like the dead and dreamed of nothing. Not of my missing cousin, not of those murderous men on Rose Island, not of the chilling, rocky depths of Narragansett Bay . . . and not even of Derrick, whom I’d wronged inexcusably that morning. Exhaustion claimed me completely, and I might have slumbered in that dreamless state until the next day if the telephone downstairs hadn’t jangled me awake sometime in the mid-afternoon.

  I bolted upright, disoriented at first, confused by the angle of the sunlight hitting the backs of the window curtains. What was I doing in bed in the middle of the day? It took only a glint off the ocean through a gap in the curtains, and another jingle of the telephone bell, to bring the memories flooding back. Could the caller have news of Consuelo?

  Katie’s Irish tones drifted up the staircase as I hurried down, securing my dressing gown around me. “Miss Cross isn’t available just now—”

  “I’m here, Katie.” My slippered feet slid on the floorboards as I circled to the alcove beneath the stairs and glided to a stop in front of her. “Who is it?”

  “Mr. Millford from the paper, miss.”

  I practically snatched the earpiece from her hand. We sidestepped each other and Katie made her way down the corridor to the rear of the house. “Mr. Millford? What happened to my article yesterday morning? The one about the murder at Marble House? Why wasn’t it—”

  “Emma, glad I caught you at home,” he said, neither acknowledging my question nor pausing for pleasantries. “How quickly can you get into town?”

  I glanced down at my dishabille, thought about my aching side, and winced. “Oh, uh, not long. Has something happened? Is this anything to do with the murder?”

  “In a way, yes. You’ll be here soon, then?”

  Within the hour I brought my carriage to a stop outside the Observer’s offices. Whatever Mr. Millford wished to talk to me about, I resolved not to give him the chance until I’d learned why my story about Madame Devereaux’s murder hadn’t been run.

  The question never left my mouth. I strode into Mr. Millford’s private office to find Ed Billings there as well, and looking as pleased as a popinjay in full plumage.

  “Emma, you’ll never guess what.” My fellow reporter practically danced a jig in front of me while Mr. Millford looked on from the other side of his desk with the air of a proud parent.

  I blew out a breath, knowing whatever had happened, I’d been beaten once again. “I give up, Ed. What?”

  “Anthony Dobbs has been implicated in the murder at your aunt’s house. Implicated by me, Emma.”

  I staggered to Mr. Millford’s old, scarred desk and clutched the edges of it for support. Ed’s words pounded through me. Anthony Dobbs . . . a murderer? The man who not two weeks ago had accused my own brother of a similar crime? Black spots danced before my eyes and a rushing like ocean waves filled my ears.

  After what might have been only seconds, or as much as several minutes, I found myself able to gain control of my breathing and face Ed. “How do you know this?”

  “I’ve been asking questions all over town ever since he was charged with extortion.” Can a peacock flash a self-satisfied grin? This one did. “Seems our detective is quite the braggart, especially when he’s been drinking. More than one source told me Tony’s been, ah, having relations with that little maid, the one who actually did the dirty deed.”

  Chapter 9

  “Anthony Dobbs and . . . Clara?” The notion clashed like cymbals inside me, because here might be the elusive motive—the reason Clara might have had to kill Madame Devereaux.

  “You bet,” Ed returned almost joyfully. “I’ve just been to the police with my evidence, and Tony’s already been arrested. He’d tried extorting that medium just like he did the other shady characters in town. She threatened to expose him, so he put Clara Parker up to it. Probably told the girl he loved her so she’d be more than willing.”

  I shifted my gaze to Mr. Millford. He nodded. “No one else but us has the story as far as we know, Emma, and we’ll be the first to run it. That’s why I called you in. I
want you to sit down with Ed and tell him everything you remember from the murder scene, including what Clara said during the preliminary questioning. You were there, weren’t you?”

  “Yes, I was, but . . .” My temples throbbed. “My article, Mr. Millford. All the details are there. Why didn’t you run it?”

  With one woman dead and my cousin still missing, my concerns were petty. I knew that. Yet I couldn’t help myself. Once again my employer had delivered a pat to my head before attempting to shove me aside.

  He got to his feet and circled the desk to stand in front of me, where he smiled with grandfatherly kindness. “Now, now, Emma, don’t be upset. Ed has managed to sniff out the whole story. The other papers, they all ran stories that included only half the facts. By waiting and running this as our headline, we’ll outshine every other paper not only in Newport, but the whole of Rhode Island.”

  “Only because I’ve filled in the details.” My heart thumped painfully in my throat. I tugged the bow at my neckline. “Why should I write three quarters of Ed’s article for him when my own account of the murder was ignored?”

  “Because nobody cared, Emma,” my nemesis declared. “The locals couldn’t give a fig about this Madame Duvreau—”

  “Devereaux,” I all but shouted. “It’s a detail, Ed. Get it right.”

  This was met with an eye roll and a tug at the corner of his mouth. “Whatever her name is,” he replied with infuriating calm, “she wasn’t going to have Newport’s full attention until now, when a local became involved. Now it’s piqued everyone’s curiosity. Now it’s big news.”

  “I cannot believe you,” I murmured. Faintly I heard Mr. Millford’s gentle admonishment that I remain calm, see reason, but I couldn’t calm down. I was tired of being reasonable, dignified, ladylike. I’d had it up to the neat little bow on my collar with graciously stepping aside and letting Ed Billings steal my headlines. “A woman was killed—killed, Ed. Do you understand what that means? Do you have a thimble’s worth of empathy in you? Do you even care that a life was snuffed out or that a young girl like Clara might hang for the crime? No,” I continued when he opened his mouth to reply, “I don’t believe you do. All you care about is seeing your byline beneath the front page headlines, and it doesn’t matter to you how it gets there. Not even if you have to steal your facts from me.”

  “From you?” Ed chuckled, a sound that nearly drove me to commit murder myself.

  Luckily for Ed, Mr. Millford intervened. “That’s enough, both of you. Ed, come to think of it, it won’t be necessary after all for you to consult with Emma.”

  I experienced a moment’s elation that perhaps at long last I’d be shown some fairness, that I’d finally find validation as a reporter. And then Mr. Millford went on. “I’d quite forgotten I have Emma’s article right here.” He went back behind the desk and stooped to open the top drawer. He pulled out a sheaf of paper filled with familiar handwritten lines. “Here you go, Ed.”

  Open-mouthed and incredulous, I watched Ed take my article from our employer’s outstretched hand. “Thanks,” was all he said before he about-faced and strode from the room.

  “Get the completed article to me within the hour,” Mr. Millford called after him. “We’ll run the presses this afternoon and have a special edition on the newsstands by tonight.”

  “I . . . but . . .” Turning back to him, I struck my fists on the desktop, making Mr. Millford flinch. “How could you? That is my article—my headline. How can you just hand it to Ed like that, as if feeding him with a silver spoon?”

  His brown eyes regarded me coolly. “I’ve told you before, Emma. You do fine work. You’d make a fine investigative reporter. . . if you were a man. But you are not a man, Emma. And people don’t want to read stories of violence and mayhem written by a woman. Not unless we’re talking about fiction, and even then . . .” Trailing off, he turned his attention to an open ledger book in front of him. He picked up a pen and made a quick notation while I stood on the other side of his desk, thunderstruck and doing my utmost to prevent my stinging tears from falling.

  He glanced up at me briefly before returning his gaze to the figures in his book. “That will be all for now, Emma. Sorry to have brought you all the way into town for nothing.”

  Even then, I didn’t leave. I couldn’t move. Surely that couldn’t be all. Surely I couldn’t be dismissed as easily as that. In my heart, I felt the spirit of my aunt Sadie give a nudge. I could all but hear her demanding justice, and prompting me to stand up—speak up—for myself.

  But my throat constricted around the words, and my jaws ached from clenching my teeth. I knew if I attempted to push out so much as a whimper, those humiliating, bitter tears would spill over. Yet all the same, I couldn’t bring myself to walk away.

  Mr. Millford finally looked up again. This time he set down his pen and leaned back in his chair with a sigh. “Emma, this is the world we live in. Women simply don’t report on heinous crimes like murder. I’m sorry. I’d change it if I could.”

  “Would you?” I managed, my voice rasping like pebbles over sand.

  “I gave you a job, didn’t I?” He attempted a placating smile.

  I said nothing.

  “And it’s a job you’re good at. Your Fancies and Fashions column is wildly popular.”

  Still, I remained silent. It had suddenly occurred to me that the less I spoke, the more conciliatory Mr. Millford seemed to become. I wondered where it might lead....

  He tapped his fingertips against his leather blotter. “How about if I start sending your society write-ups to the Providence papers? I bet they’d love to run them. Surely Rhode Island readers would eat up your accounts of Newport’s social season. You know, the insider’s view and all that. I’ll bet none of the Providence papers has someone like you working for them.”

  Did he really think to placate me by expanding the circulation of my society page? I folded my arms and compressed my lips.

  Mr. Millford snapped his ledger book shut. “All right, Emma. Ed gets this headline. But if you can crack this case—either prove or disprove Anthony Dobbs’s and Clara Parker’s guilt—that headline will be yours.”

  Bracing my hands on the desk, I leaned over and across, bringing my face close to his. “Do you swear?”

  His eyebrow went up; I’d clearly taken him by surprise. “I . . . I suppose so.”

  “No, don’t suppose. If I can do the job—get the information and write you one spectacular story—you will run the headline with my name beneath it?”

  “How would you feel about a pseudonym?”

  “My name, Mr. Millford.” My hand closed around the nearest object, a heavy, brass-framed magnifying glass. I gripped the long handle as if the piece were a hammer and tapped it twice against the desktop. “My headline, my name. It’s no more than I deserve.”

  Considering I’d been close to tears only moments ago, where on earth had this gumption come from? Silently I thanked Aunt Sadie while I continued to hold Mr. Millford’s baffled, startled gaze with my own.

  “All right, Emma. Yes. Your headline, your name. But only if your story is truly front-page worthy.”

  “Promise me.”

  “Fine. I promise.”

  I straightened and very nearly let out a whoop of triumph. Then his hand went up, the flat of his palm like a policeman’s warning to halt. “I want a promise, too, Emma. That you won’t go doing anything foolhardy or dangerous in order to get the story.”

  That gave me pause, but only for an instant. “Fine. I promise I won’t do anything foolhardy.”

  He didn’t seem to notice that I left out the word dangerous from my promise, or that we hadn’t settled on the meaning of foolhardy. Certainly I would proceed carefully and logically, just as I had when I had previously sought to clear my brother’s name of murder. If my careful and logical plan put me in danger . . . well . . . as I said, I had omitted that word from my promise.

  For now, I’d leave Ed Billings to write his wretche
d article. My next stop, meanwhile, would be the jailhouse.

  Promises were complicated, and that promise to Mr. Millford wasn’t the only one I’d made in recent days. I’d promised Aunt Alva I’d find Consuelo without involving the police. But just that morning I’d promised Derrick and Nanny and even myself that Consuelo’s welfare would take priority over Aunt Alva’s wishes.

  Upon arriving on Marlborough Street, I entered the columned building and headed straight for Jesse’s desk in the large main room. My palms sweated and my mouth ran dry, but I had to do the right thing, for my cousin’s sake.

  Jesse stood when he saw me enter through the wide archway, and strode to meet me partway across the room. Around us, police officers were milling around, consulting with each other, tapping on typewriters, and stuffing fistfuls of papers into filing cabinets. Along the wall where a pair of telephones was located, two plainclothes officers barked orders into the transmitters while pressing the receivers tight to their ears. A loud hum of activity surrounded me, yet it was the throbbing of my own pulse in my ears that drowned out Jesse’s greeting.

  He shook my hand, then kept hold of it as he led me back to his desk. Briefly my gaze landed on the workspace directly behind his, the chair unoccupied and the blotter swept clean of papers, notebooks, and pens. That desk belonged to Anthony Dobbs.

  “What brings you here, Emma?” Jesse asked as he beckoned me into the chair that faced his across the desk.

  I leaned forward, my hands tight around my purse in my lap. “I need to tell you something, but I need you to promise me you’ll be discreet.”

  His brows gathered above his nose and his gaze sharpened. Promises were about to become even more complicated.