Murder at Rough Point

by Alyssa Maxwell

  Indignation forced my mouth open, until I couldn’t but concede, both to myself and her, that she was correct. “Regrettably, I’ve been doing quite a lot of that lately.”

  “Am I included on your list of suspects?”

  “No,” I said immediately, but then remembered that I had eavesdropped on her conversation with Sir Randall right before her husband rudely interrupted them. She must have seen the truth written in the lines of my face, for she laughed ruefully.

  “Well, I assume I must have passed muster for you to include me in your evidence gathering.”

  “Most certainly. And I didn’t mean to eavesdrop that time.” No, that wasn’t entirely true. I amended my own statement. “I didn’t set out to eavesdrop. It was the afternoon before Sir Randall died. You all perplexed me to such lengths, I merely wished to gain some understanding of why . . .”

  “Why such mismatched characters could possibly become friends?”

  “I’m sorry, but you are a rather contrary group.”

  “And cantankerous,” she added with a tilt of her chin.

  I couldn’t deny it. “So, when I heard you and Sir Randall talking together, especially when your voices seemed to be coming from the dining room, where no one really should have been at that time of day . . . yes, I decided to listen—but only for a moment.”

  Her brows converged. “Was that when Teddy found Randall and me in the office and practically dragged me out by the arm?”

  “Yes, and it was also when I realized you’re a very kind person. You encouraged Sir Randall when others of your group showed him little patience.”

  “Josephine.”

  “She certainly didn’t seem to like him much, and neither did—” I broke off, having been about to speak Teddy Wharton’s name.

  “My husband,” she finished for me. “No, he didn’t. But he doesn’t particularly like any man I show an interest in, even though my interest has never been anything but professional. Teddy simply won’t understand. Or perhaps he cannot.”

  His melancholy, as she had explained to me earlier. If he perceived his wife’s creative endeavors as flirting, as he apparently had that time, would his melancholy magnify his anger enough to drive him to revenge? To murder?

  Once again, I was left with conflicting evidence and motives. And once again Mrs. Wharton accurately read my mood, for she took my hand and brought me to sit beside her on the sofa beneath the front window. She perched on the edge of the cushion with her perfect, finishing school posture. I attempted to emulate her, but with questionable success.

  “And now you’re doing more—much more—than simply trying to understand us, Miss Cross. You’re looking for a murderer among us. How can I help? And I mean truly be of help, to you and Detective Whyte.”

  I met her gaze in the half-light and held it several long, steady moments. Like me, she had literary aspirations, which meant human nature was of acute interest to her. One could not endeavor to take up the pen without that inherent fascination. With her skills and her travels, she could very well provide the extra insight needed to ultimately reveal the motive, from among myriad motives, that led to the deaths of two men.

  Even if the guilty party turned out to be her husband? Perhaps. Did I trust her? Every instinct told me I could as she returned my gaze with barely a blink. At that instant her less-than-beautiful face held only kindness, intelligence, and patience—ample patience to allow me whatever time I needed to reach a decision.

  I laid my hand over hers. “Can you do that, Mrs. Wharton? Can you put yourself in relative danger to help expose one of your friends, if indeed it is one of them, as a cold-blooded murderer and hand them over to the police?”

  “Yes, Miss Cross, I believe I can do just that,” she replied without the slightest prevarication. I smiled, for she reminded me of the friend I had made over the summer, Grace Wilson, who was now my cousin Neily’s wife. She, too, had been eager to lend me her assistance, but where I believed a portion of Grace’s courage stemmed from her sheltered upbringing and an inability to envision just how perilous the world could be, I detected none of the same naïveté in Mrs. Wharton, despite the similarities in their privileged lifestyles.

  I rose to slide the pocket doors closed, and then resumed my seat beside her. “Very good, then. What can you tell me about Miss Marcus and Niccolo Lionetti? I witnessed more than a friendly spat. Are they . . .” I drew a breath and blurted the word. “Lovers?”

  To my chagrin she laughed, but then quickly apologized. “I’m sorry. It’s just that you are so young, Miss Cross, but seem to hold such knowledge of people and the world. It’s rather sad, in a way, for I see it as a sign the world is fast changing. When I was your age . . . well. But I don’t mean to criticize. I applaud your pluck, Miss Cross. Now then, as for Niccolo and Josephine, I believe you are correct. Naturally the two were drawn to each other from the start of their acquaintance, for they share a common passion for music. Did you know Niccolo has played many times in the orchestras accompanying the operas Josephine has performed in?”

  “I didn’t know that, but it makes sense.”

  “That is how Niccolo found his way into our little circle. To her credit, Josephine has always appreciated singular talent in others, and when she discovered what magic he creates on his cello, she spoke of him to anyone involved in the theater who would listen. And whenever she was invited into society, she brought Niccolo along. That is how he gained his patron.”

  “The owner of the Montagnana.”

  “Correct, an Italian visconte, and due to the man’s resources and connections, Niccolo now has a recognized name in Europe. He owes that to Josephine. But as to your question, the pair began spending more and more time together, especially over the past year, much to Sir Randall’s displeasure.”

  “He didn’t approve?”

  She sent a gaze skyward and shook her head. “Poor Randall, I believe he was quite smitten with Josephine. He tried to pretend otherwise, but it was plain to all who saw them together.”

  I thought about that a moment. “I’m going to guess that Josephine is closer in age to Sir Randall than to Signore Lionetti.”

  “I wouldn’t quite say that. I believe her age to fall somewhere in between. But yes, she is a good ten years older than Niccolo. Does that shock you, Miss Cross? A woman involved with a much younger man?”

  “Ten years seems a wide gap, but is it really?” I was thinking of Jesse and his affections for me. No one would think twice were we to court and ultimately marry. In fact, people would call it a fine and sensible match. Yet part of the Vanderbilts’ objections to Grace Wilson had been the age difference between Neily and her, even though she was only a couple of years older than he.

  But if Sir Randall had intentions toward Miss Marcus. . . . “No wonder he took Miss Marcus’s derision so much to heart,” I said. “Her snide comments about his artwork truly wounded him. I witnessed as much. Now I see her criticisms weren’t merely an affront to his talents, but to him as a man. How sad, and how unfeeling of her to treat him so unkindly. Unless . . . did she know of his regard?”

  “As I said, it was there for all to see, and I don’t believe Josephine is as blind as that.” Mrs. Wharton compressed her lips in a disparaging moue. “I’m afraid our prima donna is not the most considerate of individuals.”

  “To say the least,” I agreed. “I heard what she said about animals and coat collars.” My dislike of the woman grew exponentially, but I shoved aside my personal judgment and tried to think objectively. I did so out loud, for Mrs. Wharton’s benefit. “Vasili Pavlenko blamed Niccolo for Monseiur Baptiste’s death. He said Niccolo did it for Josephine. Then there is the painting hoax propagated by my father and Sir Randall. Niccolo admitted to knowing about it, that Sir Randall had confided in him, although Niccolo claimed he didn’t fully understand the circumstances at the time. But I wonder . . .”

  With a slight frown she waited for me to continue.

  “What if Sir Randall told
Niccolo everything, and Niccolo used the information to his advantage? He claimed Sir Randall confided in him after the painting was stolen, but what if he lied? Perhaps Niccolo knew about the hoax and he himself arranged for the painting to be stolen and the threatening messages delivered to Sir Randall’s doorstep?”

  “But why would he do such a thing?”

  “For the same reason he might have murdered Claude Baptiste—for Josephine. Perhaps he viewed Sir Randall as a rival.”

  “An older, wealthier man vying for Josephine’s affections,” Mrs. Wharton murmured as if weighing the possibility in her mind. She nodded.

  “And goodness knows, Miss Marcus and Niccolo have not exactly exhibited the most amorous of sentiments toward each other lately. Perhaps Miss Marcus had begun to tire of him back in Paris.”

  “All this speculation, and so much of it pointing to either Josephine or Niccolo or both.” For the first time since I’d met her, Mrs. Wharton’s shoulders sagged.

  “So far they are the only two in your circle with possible motives against both Sir Randall and Monsieur Baptiste.”

  She slunk down farther still, until her back rested uncharacteristically against the pillows behind her. “My dear Miss Cross, perhaps I am not capable of assisting you after all. I cannot conceive of a young man like Niccolo Lionetti, who creates such heaven-sent beauty on his instrument, being capable of stubbing out the life of another human being. I am afraid I cannot think as you do, however much I might try.” She regarded me with obvious regret. “I am very sorry to have to let you down.”

  “But there you are wrong, Mrs. Wharton. It is exactly because you know these people so well that your insight is invaluable. With possible motives and clues, Jesse and I can find links between individuals, but we cannot with any accuracy predict which of your friends might actually commit a violent act. I need your instincts and your honesty.” I smiled as kindly as I knew how. “Surely you didn’t believe I would have you directly accuse or confront any of your friends, or put you in harm’s way.”

  “Then I am to be a consultant of sorts.”

  “Exactly.”

  She brightened considerably and sat up straighter. “And if we can prove that none of us is guilty . . .”

  “I will be as overjoyed as you. But that won’t mean we are in any less danger.”

  Chapter 12

  It was decided we would not change for dinner that evening. In fact, the group almost forewent dinner altogether. With two men discovered missing, and then deceased, after failing to turn up in the dining room, a kind of superstition concerning the evening meal had settled over the group. Mrs. Wharton and my mother managed to convince the others of the uselessness of going hungry. The compromise involved staying together in the public rooms of the house until it was time to retire, whereupon each room would be searched, declared safe, and locked by its occupant from the inside. We also kept our bedroom doors locked when we were elsewhere.

  However, that didn’t stop me from running upstairs when my father discovered he had left his cigarette case in the upper salon. The task provided an opportunity, and I hastened to say I would retrieve it for him.

  I found it where he said he had left it, on the side table next to the sofa. I flipped the case open to discover it about three-quarters full. Would he notice one missing? If so, he might merely believe one of his friends had helped themselves. I detoured into my bedroom and stashed the cigarette in my dressing table. Later I would compare it, if possible, to the stub I had found outside.

  I didn’t know why I hadn’t thought of this sooner, but would I be able to steal one from each of Rough Point’s guests who indulged in tobacco? And would a comparison to the soggy specimen I found yield any significant results? It was worth a try, no matter how unlikely.

  With Father’s cigarette case in hand I left the servants’ wing and stepped back into the main corridor. Voices from below blended to a dull murmur, but a sudden and much closer click echoed loudly in the stillness. I froze in place when perhaps I should have immediately fled down the stairs, except that the noise had seemed to come from my aunt’s bedroom, presently being used by the Whartons, directly opposite the landing.

  I hadn’t heard anyone coming up the stairs. With everyone still below, then, who could be in the Whartons’ suite? A jiggle followed another click, and then the knob turned. My heart reached up and squeezed my throat, and simultaneously I measured the distance both to the main stairs and those at the far end of the servants’ wing. Which way to run?

  The door opened and a scream rose up inside me, ready to burst forth. It never did. The tall young man who shouldered his way out of the room with a circle of keys dangling in his hand nodded in recognition and deference.

  “Good evening, Miss Cross, may I do anything for you?”

  I pressed my hand to my bosom and spoke breathlessly. “Carl, you gave me a fright.”

  “I’m very sorry about that, miss. I didn’t think anyone would be up here now. I was told no one would come up until later.”

  That gave me an uneasy feeling and made me study him more closely. “Just what are you doing up here? Why were you in the Whartons’ suite?”

  If he took offense at my obvious suspicion, he showed no outward sign. “Mr. Dunn sent me up to test all the locks, and to mark each key according to room.” I noticed then he also carried what appeared to be an old quill sharpener. He held it up. “You see, I’m putting notches in the shaft of each key so we can easily tell them apart. With everyone locking their doors constantly, we don’t want anyone to become accidentally locked out. Or in, for that matter. But not to worry, Miss Cross, these keys will be kept in the safe in the butler’s pantry and only removed if absolutely necessary. And only Mr. Dunn has the combination.”

  “A good precaution.” I continued my scrutiny. He seemed thoroughly at ease and unperturbed by my presence. “I hope the staff is taking safety precautions as well.”

  “We are indeed, Miss Cross.” He paused, though he obviously wished to say more.

  “Yes, Carl?”

  “Do you really think those men were murdered? It is possible, isn’t it, that both deaths were an accident? I mean, the baronet was unfamiliar with our cliffs, and maybe the French gentleman fell asleep.”

  “Maybe, Carl. I wish it were so. Better these were accidents than crimes. But still, it’s awfully coincidental.” I didn’t add that I no longer believed in coincidences.

  “I suppose. Well, if you’ll excuse me, I should get back to testing the locks.”

  He moved on, but I remained where I was, staring at his back until he disappeared from view at the other end of the gallery. I had wanted to ask him who decided Mr. Dunn would be trusted with the master keys, but the answer was obvious. As estate manager, Mr. Dunn was not only the senior staff member, but my uncle’s most trusted employee. I certainly had no reason to mistrust him. . . .

  That conversation we had days ago, when he had termed us two of a kind and suggested we should “stick together,” ran through my mind. I had taken offense and he had been quick to explain his meaning, which should have mollified me. Except that it hadn’t. Something about the man continued to bother me, though his behavior had been impeccable ever since. And as I had pointed out to Mrs. Wharton, none of the staff had previously known the guests, or had any reason to harm them.

  Perhaps my aversion to Mr. Dunn stemmed from nothing more sinister than his pencil mustache. Were I the man’s wife or mother or even his sister, I would have insisted he grow it thicker or shave it off.

  * * *

  I managed to pilfer a cigarette from Niccolo Lionetti’s case after dinner. When I compared this, and the one from my father’s case, with the remnant I’d found outside, the results were thoroughly inconclusive. The rain had robbed the tiny stub of most of its odor, so that I couldn’t discern if it was ordinary tobacco or one of the flavored varieties the group sometimes smoked. Nor did the outer wrapping appear much different from the other two. It didn’t l
ook as though my find would yield any more insight than that someone had walked the length of the garden and tossed the end of his or her cigarette into the grass. I returned the stub to the tea tin and prepared for bed.

  Hours into a restless night, a sound shivered its way through the house. Though far off and muted through the walls, Patch’s mournful wails had me sitting upright immediately. He had been left to roam downstairs, and now he frantically fulfilled his duty as guard dog. At the same time I noticed the storm hadn’t abated, but continued to lash my windows.

  With little forethought I hopped out of bed and unlocked my bedroom door. Through the gap I created I heard my parents’ door opening, and spied my father stepping out, a fire poker in hand.

  “What the devil is that dog going on about?” He had dressed hastily in trousers and a shirt he hadn’t bothered to tuck in.

  Mother crept out behind him. “What is it, Arthur? Dear heavens, has someone broken in?”

  I opened my door wider. From the main corridor we heard the Whartons’ voices, and then those of Niccolo and Miss Marcus.

  “Where is Vasili?” I heard Mrs. Wharton ask.

  Below, Patch’s howling became strained and hoarse. A crash interrupted, startling my poor dog into silence. He quickly took up the alarm again. I followed my parents to the top of the main stairs.

  “What do we do?” The whites of Niccolo’s eyes glowed with fear. He, too, had improvised a weapon on his way out of his room in the form of a silver ewer, which he clutched in one hand like a pistol. Teddy Wharton noticed it and about-faced into the bedroom he shared with his wife. He returned seconds later wielding a spiked candlestick in trembling hands.

  Miss Marcus backed away from the landing. “You can’t mean to go down there.”

  “You women wait up here,” Father ordered, and started down. The other men allowed him several stairs’ head start before trading glances and following. When Father paused in the eerie glow of the half landing, the others froze where they were. “Mr. Dunn,” he called out. “Are you down there?”