“We learned you were correct about the rum. And I believe those men on Rose Island acted on their own when they came after us.”
“Maybe.” Derrick stared pensively off into the distance. “Come, it’s time I got you home.”
“Oh, no, it isn’t.” When he shot me a puzzled frown I grinned. “It’s time you took me to a tavern. Or several. I have a new theory that needs exploring.”
Derrick groaned.
Against Derrick’s protests, I managed to persuade him to accompany me to several dockside taverns. Quite simply, I told him if he didn’t wish to come with me, I’d go alone. The first, a place frequented by ruffians off the scrod boats and crews from the various steam freighters putting into harbor, yielded us little information. Yes, Hope Stanford had been in several nights ago. She had raised a ruckus, banged her hammer on the bar top, but had left upon realizing her proselytizing was landing on deaf ears. Also, a large man had threatened to pick her up, carry her outside, and toss her over the nearby dock into the bay. But just as this rough-hewn crowd of mostly out-of-towners had no interest in being saved by Hope’s radical views on the evils of alcohol, neither were they particularly eager to answer my questions. In fact, I believe they viewed my intrusion into their inner sanctum with the same mixture of suspicion and disdainful amusement with which they had viewed Hope’s. And having the well-dressed Derrick beside me proved that a gentleman held no more sway here than a woman.
Our next stop brought us to The Red Mariner, a watering hole popular with local fishermen and dock workers. Here I spotted some familiar faces, young men I’d grown up with on the Point, others I knew from church, or from having attended school with their sisters. But one face in particular stood out, or, I should say, his bright red hair penetrated the gloom of pipe smoke and dim kerosene lighting. Grasping Derrick’s coat sleeve I directed us toward a table in a corner near the bar.
“Good evening, Angus.”
The boatman hunched on his elbows over the little square table, a mug of muddy-looking beer bracketed between his hands. “Emma? What the he—er—what are you doing here?”
“Is it all right if we sit with you?” Without waiting for permission I pulled out the seat opposite him and slid into it. Derrick reached for an unoccupied chair at a neighboring table, dragged it over, and straddled it backward. “Angus, this is Derrick Andrews. He’s a friend of mine.”
Unlike Hope Stanford’s husband, Angus MacPhearson showed no hint of recognition at either Derrick’s name or his countenance. He merely nodded in greeting.
“I was hoping to ask you a couple of questions, if you don’t mind, Angus.” I leaned a bit over the table to be heard over the low roar of voices and the occasional burst of masculine laughter behind me. A hush had fallen over the pub when Derrick and I walked in and a good twenty or so astonished faces had turned in our direction. Our novelty had worn off quickly enough, however, and the patrons had resumed their boasting, arguing, dicing, and dart throwing.
Angus leaned back in his chair, bringing his beer with him. He took a measured draft while studying me with his weather-crinkled eyes. Then he used his sleeve to wipe the suds from his mustache. “Are you hiring me to answer these couple of questions, Emma?”
I flicked a glance at Derrick, who dug into a pocket and produced another fifty-cent piece. He flipped it in the air; Angus reached out and snatched it.
“Ask away,” he said.
Without further ado I said, “Were you here several nights ago when an older woman came barging in with a sledgehammer?”
The question clearly delighted Angus. He raised his mug as if in a toast. “Sure enough. I hadn’t had that much fun in years. Crazy bi—ah—hellion, that one.”
“Can you tell me what went on?”
“Sure. She shouted up a storm and swung that hammer of hers around like a castaway who’s been sucking down seawater. Put at least half a dozen dents in the bar before Spence Arnold came up behind her and wrenched the hammer right out of her hands.”
Derrick, who’d been scanning the establishment like an on-duty sentry, suddenly returned his attention to the conversation. “Spence Arnold?”
Angus gestured with his chin. Derrick and I both turned and craned our necks. I impatiently waved away curls of smoke drifting from the next table. Through the crowd I spotted a man a good head taller than anyone near him, his silvery hair thinning and his profile reminiscent of a primitive stone carving.
I pointed. “There he is. That’s Spence. He’s a carpenter. Does a lot of work on the houses on the Point.” I turned back to Angus. “Any idea why Spence and no one else decided to disarm Mrs. Stanford?” At Angus’s puzzled look, I clarified. “The crazy hellion with the sledgehammer.”
“Oh. Well, most of us were too shocked at first to do anything but stare like a bunch of simpletons. I mean, what the he—er—what on earth? But Spence, he’d just gotten here. He took one look at her and said, ‘Lady, I had enough of you over at the Oyster Club.’ Then he stepped right in the way of that swinging sledgehammer—right where I wouldn’t have stepped for all the free grog in Christendom—grabbed the thing and yanked it right out of her hands. You should have seen her face. Ooh wee, if Spence weren’t the giant he is, I think she might have swung a punch at ’im. As it was, she turned on her heel and stomped her way out the door. Old Spence, he followed her—I thought to make good and sure she left. But out on the sidewalk—I could see ’em through the window—he just give her back her sledgehammer and told her don’t come back. Ever.” Angus slapped his knee and let go a laugh.
“So it wasn’t the first time Spence encountered the woman?” I asked.
At yet another questioning look, I clarified once again. “It wasn’t the first time he’d run into this woman.”
“No, but I hope for her sake it’s the last.”
“And no one else spoke to her at all?”
“Only Ted, the barkeep, and I can’t repeat what he said to her . . . not to you at any rate.” Angus scratched his chin through his abundant growth of beard. “Brady would have my hide if I talked to his baby sister like that.”
I sat back. “I wonder if Spence will talk with us.”
“Do you think he might have more to add about what happened at this other establishment . . . the . . .” Derrick groped for the name.
“The Oyster Club,” Angus said.
I came to my feet. “Thank you, Angus. You’ve earned your fifty cents.”
“Am I going to have to pay this Spence, too?” Derrick asked as he followed me through the crowd.
I merely shrugged and wound a circuitous path to avoid spilled beer and wobbly men. Spence Arnold, along with several others clad in plaid shirts and worn denims, had taken up position in front of one of the dartboards; money was exchanging hands at the surrounding tables.
“Mr. Arnold?” I called. “Yes, good evening . . . over here . . . oh, excuse me, sir, if I could just get by . . . excuse me!” I tugged my skirts out from between the back of one man’s chair and the right hip of another who sidestepped too close, then nudged aside another fellow blocking my way. “Mr. Arnold!”
Spence finally turned, one hand raised to propel the dart clutched in his fingers. He squinted a moment before recognition dawned. “Arthur Cross’s girl?”
“Yes, Mr. Arnold, it’s me, Emma Cross. Might I have a word with you? It’ll just take a moment.”
A rumble of protest erupted around me. “I’ve got money on him!” one man shouted.
“And I’ve got money against him,” another yelled.
I looked over my shoulder at Derrick. “Can you throw?”
“I’ve been known to hit the target upon occasion.”
“Well, then, gentlemen, how about if my friend takes Mr. Arnold’s place for just a few moments?”
My suggestion met with vigorous and deafening debate. Someone demanded that Derrick throw a dart to give them a preview of his talents. He smoothly stepped forward and without even removing his coat sent a dart hissing al
most invisibly through the air. My next sight of the red and white feathered object was as it came to a trembling stop a fraction to the right of the target’s dead center.
The onlookers fell into a hush that lasted all of five seconds before shouts rose, quoting odds and probabilities; fistfuls of money once again exchanged hands.
I could barely suppress my proud smile as I led Spence Arnold between tables to the other side of the room. When I turned to regard him he didn’t look at all pleased at having been upstaged. I made a mental note to have Derrick compensate him for his time.
“Sorry to interrupt your fun, Mr. Arnold. I would never have done so if it weren’t vitally important.”
He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the wall. “Miss Cross, what would your father say if he saw you here?” His eyes remained kindly despite the admonishment. “This is no fit place for a nice young lady like yourself.”
I didn’t tell him that if my father cared so much about my safety, he wouldn’t have gone to live in Paris, now would he? I still hadn’t gotten over how neither of my parents had indicated any intention of returning home upon learning Brady had been accused of murder, but with an effort I hid my frown.
“Mr. Arnold, I understand you’re familiar with a woman named Hope Stanford. Is that correct?”
“Mrs. Sledgehammer?”
I nodded. “Angus told me what happened here, but I wondered if you would tell me what occurred earlier that night at the Oyster Club.”
A chorus of cheers went up from the vicinity of the dartboards. I couldn’t see what had occurred, but Spence glanced over heads with a look of impatience, prompting me to add, “Please, it’s very important.”
“How important can it be? She came in hollering just like she did here. Slammed that hammer of hers against the bar. Said the demon spirits was destroying the moral fiber of the whole country. As if us islanders could give a hoot what happens beyond our shores.”
I let that pass. “And were you the one who stopped her, like you did here?”
“Me? Nah, didn’t have to—” Another roar went up, once again claiming Spence’s attention.
“Why not?” I pressed, attempting to force him to focus.
“What? Oh . . . right. Because Ellie shoved her aside and took the hammer away.”
“Ellie?”
“Yeah, the fortune-teller.”
“Fortune-teller . . .” My heart began to pound. “Do you mean Madame Devereaux? Eleanora Devereaux?”
“Yeah, that’s her name. Nice gal. Pity what happened to her.”
“So, you knew her?” My fingertips trembled with each beat of my pulse. “How well?”
“She was a regular at the Oyster Club. Sometimes came here, too, but she preferred the taverns where the crowd changed from night to night.”
“And why was that?”
“Business, Miss Cross. See, she’d wait till the customers had a few drinks in ’em, then go round offering to read fortunes. Made a tidy living that way. Can’t say I blamed her.”
“No . . . So what happened after she took Mrs. Stanford’s sledgehammer?”
“Oh, she told that teetotaler off good and well. Said she had no stomach for hoity-toity upstarts imposing their prudish ways on a city like Newport. And then . . . this is where things got a little strange.”
“How so?”
“The fortune-teller went into some kind of weird trance. At first I thought the apoplexy got her and she’d keel over. But she just stood there, staring at the other woman like she could see straight through her. And real quiet, she said something. Something that made Mrs. Sledgehammer turn all kinds of red. I’ve never seen that shade of red on a person before.”
“What did the medium say?” I could scarcely curb my excitement or my impatience.
But Spence disappointed me with a shake of his head. “Couldn’t hear the words. Just her voice, all low and strained, like she was trying to whisper while someone had their hands around her throat. The next thing I knew, the other woman grabbed her sledgehammer back and fled out the door. ’Bout an hour later I came over here, and there she was, ranting and carrying on like nothing ever happened at the Oyster.”
Minutes later Spence rejoined his friends and resumed his dart game, and I strode out to the sidewalk with Derrick in tow.
“I’ll have you know I was making tidy sums for a number of those fellows inside,” he said. “I may have missed my calling.”
We reached a dusty pool of light beneath a street lantern. I stopped and gripped his sleeve. “Madame Devereaux was at the Oyster Club the night Hope Stanford walked in with her sledgehammer.”
Derrick’s features remained impassive. “I would imagine a lot of others were there as well.”
“True. But not many others have the ability to seal Hope Stanford’s mouth with a mere whisper.”
Chapter 12
“What secret did Madame Devereaux know about Hope Stanford?” I pondered aloud as Derrick drove his carriage toward Gull Manor, my seaside home.
“One might wager the same secret we discovered.” He adjusted his grip on the reins and steered the horse around a deep gouge in the dirt road. The carriage lanterns swung and sputtered, then burned steadily on. “Her husband is chin-deep in illegal activities. Whether Hope Stanford was privy to his little endeavor or not, she wouldn’t have been happy to learn that an outsider knew. Especially if that someone threatened to go public with the information.”
“Precisely.” I turned to glance at him beside me on the curricle seat. The fog-tinged moonlight smoothed his features, making him appear younger, almost boyish. My heart gave a little skip before I shifted my gaze back to the road I knew so much better than he. “They knew each other in Providence,” I said. “And Mrs. Stanford knew that the medium’s name was actually Ellen Deere. I wonder what else Mrs. Stanford might have known about the woman.”
“You think they each knew secrets about the other, and were using them against each other?”
“It’s a very good possibility, given they have a common history to some extent. If only I could determine what that history is.” Memory served me and I pointed straight ahead. “There’s a sharp bend just after those trees, and then the turn onto Ocean Avenue. The road dips there, so be careful.”
“Would you care to drive?” he asked with a note of sarcasm. But he slowed the horse’s pace nonetheless.
“If only we could learn what the medium said to Hope Stanford that night at the Oyster Club.” I tapped my fingers against the span of leather seat between us. “But if, in an attempt to make Hope stop her temperance efforts in Newport, Madame Devereaux threatened to expose her husband, it’s not much of a stretch to believe Hope would want to silence her. After all, such exposure would discredit Hope forever. She’d lose all of her political influence.”
“Maybe her husband did the medium in.”
“It’s altogether possible. Though how he would have gotten onto the estate without anyone seeing him . . . His wife might have helped, but I’d seen her in the garden with the other ladies just minutes before the murder. If they acted together, they acted with lightning speed.”
“The same would hold true for Clara Parker and Anthony Dobbs,” Derrick reminded me.
Calvin and Hope . . . Anthony and Clara. I sighed. “But what of Consuelo? It can’t be mere coincidence that she disappeared immediately after the murder. I know there must be a connection. Somewhere, there’s a link and if I could only find it, I’d find both Consuelo and the murderer.”
“Then perhaps you need to refocus your efforts.” He shot me a pointed glance.
I pursed my lips. “Another attempt to persuade me to leave the investigation to the police?”
“Not exactly. But you’ve been focusing on people, and all that’s done is lead you—us—round and round in circles. Why not focus on the clues instead, and see where they lead?”
We reached the turn onto Ocean Avenue, where the sudden hollow in the road bounced the
carriage and knocked our shoulders together. Derrick’s arm shot out in front of me—an attempt to hold me in the seat, I suppose—but in another yard or two the road smoothed and the carriage righted itself. The horse had slowed as well, and some ungovernable impulse sent me reaching out to grasp the sides of Derrick’s face and pull him toward me for a kiss—quick, yes, but fully on the lips. My better sense looked on, horrified yet ineffectually mute, as I pulled away with a grin.
“You, sir, are a genius. That’s exactly what I should do.”
Wry bewilderment played on his features, but he nodded. For the next several minutes I ran through the list of clues while Derrick seemed to be concentrating uncommonly hard on the road. Occasionally he spared me a nod or a syllable that sounded like agreement with whatever I said.
“There is the murder weapon itself, the scarf belonging to Lady Amelia. Then there was the murder scene, which suggested to me that Madame Devereaux had been in the middle of reading someone’s fortune right before she was murdered. The broken azalea bushes were probably where the murderer made his or her escape, and also suggested the murderer wore durable clothing, something not easily torn, because there were no scraps or threads found among the branches. The obvious conclusion is that the murderer was a man, yet a woman like Hope Stanford doesn’t dress in silks or fine muslin. She wears thick cottons and sturdy serge. Nothing too frilly or feminine.”
My deductions once again met with nods from Derrick.
“And then there are those flower petals I found inside the pavilion. The gardeners weren’t able to identify them, so I handed them over to the police, who’ll have a botanist examine them. But maybe I need to take another walk around the estate. Surely those flowers had to come from somewhere nearby. Yes, so first thing tomorrow . . .”
We came to my driveway and the carriage bumped over the rocky, pitted surface. This time, I noticed how Derrick held himself stiffly and kept firmly to his side of the seat. All at once, thoughts of evidence and clues slid away and the memory of what I’d done slammed into me, sending wave after wave of fire to my cheeks.
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