Murder at Marble House

by Alyssa Maxwell

  A half-rusted padlock greeted me with its unyielding presence when I reached the shed. A sense of denial filled me and I seized the door handles, tugging for all I was worth. While they banged in and out the inch or two allowed by the lock, I shouted Derrick’s name. I pounded. I kicked. I leaned my forehead against the splintered wooden panels and wept.

  Finally, after what seemed like an agony of forever, a hand came down on my shoulder. As I turned to peer through my tear-blurred eyes, Marianne reached for my hand and pressed a small iron key into it.

  “He had it in his pocket,” she said. “When you said he’d locked someone in the shed, I thought I’d better search him for it.”

  The metal was cold against my palm, a small but solid reassurance that helped restore a modicum of sanity. Had I really fallen apart so easily? I’d ponder the reason for that later, but now I fumbled a few times but managed to slide the key into the lock and turn it.

  “Derrick?”

  At first . . . nothing.

  Panic nudged once again. Making out his outline in the windowless gloom, I fell to my knees beside him. “Derrick . . . I’m here. Can you hear me?”

  A shadow fell across the doorway and without looking up I ordered, “Marianne, get water . . . and a rag or washcloth . . . quickly!”

  She hurried off. A groan sent my heart against my ribs. “Derrick?”

  His fingers flexed, and then his hand inched toward his head to finally press against a spot at the back, just below the crown. A louder groan met my ears.

  “Don’t try to move yet,” I said when he attempted to press upward. I shifted around him and drew his head into my lap. His eyelids fluttered and opened, his gaze instantly finding me in the darkness.

  The smile that followed reached inside me and wrenched away my last reserves of strength. I simply curled, no longer able to hold myself upright, until my forehead touched his. Tears overflowed and sobs wracked my body.

  “Emma? What did he do to you?” His voice resonated with dread and once again a speck of reason returned, enough to set my needs aside in favor of his. When his arms reached for me I embraced him in return and spoke into his ear.

  “He didn’t hurt me, Derrick.” Not significantly, but I didn’t say that. “I’m fine. It’s over. All over now.”

  A laugh broke from deep inside him. “You mean you . . . dear God, Emma. You brought him down, didn’t you?”

  “I had help. If not for his sister, I might not have . . .”

  “Sister?” With a sharp breath he turned on his side, rested there a moment, and struggled up onto an elbow. His other hand went beneath my chin, raising it slightly. “I have a lot to catch up on, don’t I?” The question ended with another groan, his hand pressing the back of his head once again. “From the beach I saw him riding in the back of a wagon along Paradise Avenue. He could have been anyone heading home for the day, but something . . . I don’t know what . . . made me follow. He turned onto this side lane”—with a jerk of his chin Derrick indicated the scene visible through the shed doors—“but when I followed, he’d vanished. I thought he’d gone inside the cottage.”

  “He ambushed you,” I finished for him.

  “Hit me—hard.” Again his hand drifted to the spot on his head. I reached up and examined his skull gently with my fingertips. The swelling was pronounced, and exceedingly tender, judging from Derrick’s wince.

  “He told me he’d left you bleeding badly.”

  “Am I?”

  I searched his hair with my fingertips, and was relieved when they came away dry. “I don’t see any blood, and I’m not surprised that he lied. If it’s any consolation, I believe we bested him with the same weapon he used on you. A shovel. But come, let’s get you inside. Jesse should be here soon.”

  Slinging an arm around him, I helped him stand, and together we made our way into the house.

  “Just start at the beginning, Miss Reid.”

  We sat around the kitchen table—Jesse, Derrick, Marianne, Consuelo, with Muffy once more ensconced on her lap, and I. A group of officers had trudged into the swamp to collect James, and he was even now being transported to the jailhouse in town. From the cottage’s other rooms came the sounds of another team of policemen opening drawers and cabinets, pulling cushions from the furniture, and collecting any evidence they could find. They wouldn’t discover much, at least not in the way of tangible clues. James Reid had left his murder weapons behind at each crime scene, and his motives were even now being revealed by his sister’s trembling, halting narrative.

  As she spoke, Jesse took careful notes in the tablet that had become so familiar to me in recent weeks. He paused in his writing to ask, “So you say your father did doctor the Duke of Marlborough’s house accounts, as he was accused of doing?”

  Marianne nodded. “He did, but not for the reasons the steward believed. You see, he did it to protect my brother. It was James who had been stealing from the Duke. Stealing provisions and selling them in the nearby villages. He was undercutting the local merchants and lining his own pockets nicely.”

  “Did you know of this at the time?” Jesse asked.

  “I had begun to suspect. Then when Father confessed to the crime, I knew. Oh, Jamie had always been a difficult boy. Always in trouble, getting into fights. Always blaming his misdeeds on others.”

  “Was he often violent? Was he ever brutal with you?” Marianne bristled as if offended by the notion, then settled back in her chair. “No, sir. Never. Not with my parents either. He was always fiercely loyal to the family. Loving, really.”

  Consuelo leaned forward a little. “Then why did he allow your father to take the blame for his theft?”

  Marianne looked down at her lap. “He simply . . . did. I can’t explain it. It’s as if he cannot connect his wrongdoing with the consequences. I believe he even manages to convince himself he’s done no wrong.”

  Jesse was nodding before she completed the thought. “I’ve seen other criminals like him. Somehow they believe they’re in the right, as if society has forced them to do the only thing they could to survive.” He sighed. “Doesn’t exonerate them, though. So, he blamed the Duke for everything that happened to your family.”

  “Yes, sir.” Her voice was like a fluttering breeze and her eyes misted. I admit mine did, too, as I recalled the details of the elder Reids’ fate.

  “And after you were turned out . . .” Jesse trailed off, seeming as affected as the rest of us by what we had learned about those weeks after the family had been sacked. After a moment he continued more firmly, “Eventually you came to America, where James learned of the Duke’s impending engagement to Miss Vanderbilt. You came to Newport and—” He glanced up, frowning. “How did Madame Devereaux become involved?”

  “I remember James saying she truly was clairvoyant,” I said, “that she knew about his plans to run away with Consuelo.”

  “She wasn’t clairvoyant.” Marianne clutched her hands together on the tabletop. “It was I. I told her. I hadn’t meant to, but I was frightened of what the future held, and when I heard there were several fortune-tellers in town, I sought one out. Madame Devereaux took me to her flat, to her little parlor draped in tapestries and overflowing with pillows. The air was thick with cloying incense—my mind was already whirling, but then she plied me with glasses of sherry. Little ones, so I hardly realized how much I had.” She paused and sent each of us a beseeching look. “I only meant to ask if things would turn out well. I didn’t mean to divulge all those details.”

  “That’s how fortune-tellers work, Miss Reid,” Derrick said.

  Marianne’s gaze shifted to Consuelo. “I swear I never mentioned your name. I only said he was plotting to woo one of Newport’s wealthiest heiresses.”

  “It wouldn’t have taken much for her to figure out the rest,” I said, and reached to give her hand a pat. “You have nothing to blame yourself for. You were as much your brother’s victim as the rest of us.”

  “No.” Her protest made
everyone at the table jump. “I was his accomplice. Always, all my life, ever since he was born. He had a charm, you see. A darling, endearing way about him, and I loved him very much. There were many times I tried not to, but I couldn’t help myself.”

  “I understand,” Consuelo said simply.

  “Do you?” Marianne shook her head. “I don’t think I do, not really. If only I’d done something, told someone.” She drew a sharp breath. “Detective Whyte, I am guilty and I shall bear the consequences.”

  “I won’t lie to you, Miss Reid,” he said, but not without kindness. “There will be an inquest and your actions will be scrutinized. There may be charges. Accessory to kidnapping, for one—”

  “I won’t be pressing charges, not against Marianne,” Consuelo blurted. “Nor will I allow Mama to press charges. That must be her side of the bargain. Besides, there was no kidnapping. I went willingly enough. Foolishly,” she added in a more uncertain voice, “but willingly.”

  “Bargain?” I repeated. “Does that mean . . .”

  “Yes.” Consuelo met my gaze steadily. “I’m going home.”

  The next hours passed in a blur. Under police escort Consuelo and I accompanied Derrick and Marianne to Newport’s tiny hospital, with Muffy brought along in a blanket-lined basket. Derrick was diagnosed with a mild concussion and released two hours later with instructions to rest and apply ice periodically to the lump left by James’s shovel. While no one advised him as to where to find ice in August, I didn’t worry. Despite doctor’s orders he had already insisted on returning to Marble House with Consuelo and me, and Aunt Alva always had plenty of ice stored deep in her cellars.

  Marianne, however, was admitted and tucked into one of the hospital’s two dozen beds. With great relief she learned she was not consumptive. The doctor diagnosed chronic bronchitis, though had she waited much longer to seek treatment her condition might have become irreversible.

  I promised to help her once she was discharged, and she gripped my hand as tears rolled over her cheeks to darken the pillow beneath her head.

  “I don’t deserve it, Miss Cross.”

  “Nonsense, Marianne. You deserve a chance to start over. I’ll help you through the police questioning and then we’ll see about finding you employment. This might sound boastful, but I do have some rather lofty connections in this town. In the meantime, you’ll stay with me.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t impose—I can’t pay you.”

  “No talk of that. I live in a drafty old house by the sea, with more room than I know what to do with.” I leaned in closer to her and whispered, “Besides, Aunt Sadie demands you stay with me.”

  “Aunt Sadie?”

  I smiled. “You’ll soon learn all about Aunt Sadie. Suffice it to say you won’t be the first lost soul to find her way to Gull Manor. Myself included.”

  With Marianne finally calmed and drifting off to sleep—poor thing was exhausted, both physically and emotionally—I rejoined Derrick and Consuelo in the small lobby that had once served merely as the central hall of a private home. Hefting Muffy’s basket, Consuelo came to her feet.

  “Are you ready?” I asked her.

  “I think so,” she said. “Will you come with me?”

  “Of course I will.” I shot a glance at Derrick. “We both will.”

  Consuelo frowned. “Do you think that’s a good idea? Mama might object to an outsider hearing about family matters.”

  “I think it’s a perfect idea. After what Derrick endured on our behalf he’s hardly an outsider. And besides, bringing him will set your mother off-kilter just enough for you and me to be able to get a word in edgewise. But . . .” I hesitated, my sweeping glance encompassing her from head to foot and back. “What are you going to do?”

  I meant about the Duke. Consuelo let a long moment pass before replying, “I’m not entirely sure. I’m hoping the answer comes to me on the ride home. But I’ve learned something, Emma, about both the world and myself. There are realities that cannot be ignored and rules that cannot be broken, or chaos results. I was raised in a certain way and I can’t hide from that. I can’t pretend I’m something I’m not any more than you can.”

  With her head held high she swept away and pushed through the street door. She hadn’t answered my question, but neither had she avoided it. Something in those final words bored through me, especially when Derrick offered me his arm. I took it and we joined Consuelo outside, but her voice echoed inside me. I broke rules and too often found myself swimming in chaos. Repeatedly I told Derrick I wouldn’t marry him, yet here I was, on his arm. Like Consuelo, I had a decision to make. Wholly accept the person I was—and send Derrick away once and for all—or continue pretending I could have my independence . . . and him, too.

  When we arrived at Marble House some twenty minutes later, Aunt Alva astonished us all. Instead of launching into the expected tirade about where Consuelo had been and how she could have been so inconsiderate as to have caused so much worry, she silently, tearfully wrapped Consuelo in her arms and held her tight.

  This happened right inside the front door, amid the cold, formal surroundings of marble floor and walls and soaring ceiling. Hardly what one envisions for a joyous reunion. Grafton, quick to act, had shooed any servants in the vicinity below stairs, relieved Consuelo of Muffy’s basket, and now skillfully ushered mother and daughter through the house and into the relative privacy of the morning room, where, at this time of day, no one would likely happen by. Derrick and I followed at a distance, respectful of this intensely personal moment while at the same time cognizant of my promise to remain at hand for Consuelo.

  He and I lingered in the corridor just outside the doorway. While Derrick turned to gaze out the French doors at the rear of the property, I couldn’t help watching as Consuelo and Alva parted just enough to look at each other.

  Shock filled Consuelo’s expression. “Mother! You’re ill!”

  “No, dearest, not ill. Only worried about you. Are you well? Did you . . . come to any harm?”

  “No, Mama. I am quite well. And I’m sorry I ran off.”

  “Are you? I’m sorry I forced you into an engagement you didn’t want.”

  Just as my mouth dropped open, Aunt Alva made a telling gesture that suggested her remorse might not be as sincere as she’d have Consuelo believe. With a hand pressed to her heart she made a clearly visible struggle to catch her breath; she even added a raspy little cough. For effect?

  Hmm . . . Yes, the strain of Consuelo’s disappearance had taken its toll on Aunt Alva; I’d seen that for myself in recent days. But I’d still maintain the woman was as healthy as any of the costly horses in her stables.

  “Come, Mama, sit down.” Quickly Consuelo pulled out a chair from around the table and pressed her mother into it. She took the chair beside it and sat with her knees nearly touching Alva’s. “You are ill,” she said, reaching for her mother’s hands. “Please don’t lie to me. You’re ill and it’s my fault, isn’t it?”

  “It’s nothing, really. I’m sure to recover completely now that you’re home. The doctor said . . . oh, never mind. Consuelo, where were you? I worried so!”

  Consuelo caught my eye through the doorway. Before parting with Jesse, the five of us—Derrick and Marianne included—had agreed upon the story that would enter the record books as well as the newspapers. It would be a sordid tale involving James Reid, Amelia Beaumont, and Madame Devereaux, wherein James would be accused of double homicide. To explain Consuelo’s presence at the crime scene and her seeking help at a neighboring cottage, we would put out that she had gone for a carriage ride with her family’s “good friend” Derrick Andrews—quite properly, of course, in an open carriage no one needed to know was mine—and, upon hearing shouts and screams from the Reids’ cottage, they stopped to investigate. There would be no mention of Consuelo running away, and especially no hint that she had ever so much as spoken to James Reid. If the accused decided to bring her name into his testimony, the rest of us would deny al
l knowledge of his claims.

  Yes, we would be perpetrating a fraud. Yes, Jesse in particular would be compromising his scruples. But at the same time we were saving a young woman’s future. Consuelo’s reputation would never recover should the truth ever get out. Whatever her future held, we would see to it there would be no shadow cast by recent events.

  “I was with a friend,” she said now in reply to her mother’s question. “No one you know, Mama, and I’m not going to reveal her identity to you. Suffice it to say she stepped in when I most needed someone and if not for her, I wouldn’t be here right now. I mean I wouldn’t be home,” she added hastily when her mother’s eyes widened with alarm.

  Then Alva turned a suspicious look on me.

  “No, Mama, I wasn’t with Emma. It was Emma who found me today and persuaded me to come home.”

  “Who’s that?” Alva thrust a finger at Derrick’s back.

  I placed a hand on his arm. Wincing slightly, he turned around and we walked into the morning room. “Aunt Alva, I’d like you to meet Derrick Andrews, of the Providence Andrews family. He was of great assistance to us today. Derrick, Mrs. Alva Vanderbilt.” I knew better than to introduce her as Mrs. William Vanderbilt, what with the recent divorce.

  Her eyes narrowed. “Andrews, as in the Providence Sun, I presume?”

  “A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Vanderbilt, and yes, my family owns the Sun. But, no,” he said in response to her unspoken question, “I’m not here in any official capacity. You’ll see no articles about any of this in our paper.”