I stood on the top step and leaned over to see into the hall below. The lamp in the alcove went on, a sudden burst of light that sent spots dancing before my eyes. A figure moved to the base of the steps.
“It’s me, Carl, Mr. Cross. Mr. Dunn is on his way.”
“What in hell is taking him so long?” Teddy Wharton muttered. “And what’s got that damn dog so riled up?”
“Teddy,” Mrs. Wharton said with a caution in her voice, but she said nothing else. Carl spoke again.
“I only just came up from my room below. I haven’t found Miss Cross’s dog yet, but it sounds as though he’s in the north wing.”
“The drawing room?” Father continued down, trailed by the other two men. Vasili still hadn’t appeared, and a sense of dread spread through me.
“Father, be careful, please.” Before I could say more Mr. Dunn emerged from the dining room in his dressing gown. From his hand dangled a cast iron frying pan. Father and Niccolo flanked him, with Mr. Wharton and Carl right behind them, and together, armed with fire poker, ewer, candlestick, and frying pan, they moved as a small force through the Great Hall.
Patch let out a cry so sorrowful I couldn’t stop myself from scurrying down the steps. Had someone harmed my dog? Regret at having agreed to let him guard the downstairs rose up and prompted me to ignore my mother’s plea.
“Emma, come back here. It’s not safe.”
When I reached the bottom I realized I was not alone, for Mrs. Wharton had followed me down. She stilled me with a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t go off blindly, Miss Cross, or you might make matters worse.”
“But Patch . . . and Vasili. Where is he?” I turned my face up to my mother and Miss Marcus, hovering at the top of the stairs. “Bang on Vasili’s door, go in if you have to. But see if he’s safe.”
Mother turned and hurried away while Miss Marcus stood on the top step with her back pressed to the wall and her arms tight around her. Mother’s voice rang out from across the gallery.
“Vasili, are you there? Vasili!” Sharp rapping at his door became a pounding of fists. “Vasili!”
“Go in,” I shouted up at her.
Moments later she reappeared at the top of the stairs, her loose hair falling around her shoulders. “He’s not there.” She looked over her shoulder at Miss Marcus before grasping the banister and starting down. Only when she’d begun the descent from the half landing did Miss Marcus seem to awaken from her stupor.
“I’m not staying up here alone.” With her colorful robe sweeping like a ball gown behind her, she rushed down to join us. “The men told us to stay put,” she reminded us when she reached the Stair Hall, but none of us, Miss Marcus included, showed any inclination to go back upstairs.
“I don’t hear him,” I said as a fresh wave of anxiety struck me. In the preceding moments, Patch had fallen silent but I only now realized it. Replacing his barking came the shouts of the men calling Vasili’s name. I grasped both my mother’s and Mrs. Wharton’s hands and set us all running through the Great Hall into the drawing room. Miss Marcus’s slippers pattered behind us.
In the drawing room we were engulfed in blasts of damp wind blowing in through the open French doors. A lamp had been switched on, the light spilling a few feet into the covered portion of the veranda where Teddy Wharton crouched beside Patch, an arm securely hooked around the dog. The others were nowhere to be seen, but farther out on the lawn their voices competed with the slanting rain and battering gusts. Their makeshift weapons littered the wrought iron garden table.
“What’s happening?” I called out to Mr. Wharton. My mother slipped an arm around my waist, partly in comfort and partly, I guessed, to prevent me from hastening outside. “Is Patch all right?”
I needn’t have asked. At the sound of my voice Patch slid his wet body from beneath Mr. Wharton’s hold. He stopped just before reaching the threshold and gave a vigorous shake, spraying a cascade of droplets into the air. Then he continued to me, practically throwing himself into my arms as I sank to the floor.
“What happened out there, boy?” The desire to answer me shone in his glistening eyes. His weight sagging against me, he trembled from wet and cold and yes, fear or whatever it is a dog feels when he knows all is not right. “There’s a good boy, don’t worry now.”
Even as I spoke the soothing words I strained to see out into the darkness and rain. “Mr. Wharton, what is happening?” I repeated. Not knowing was maddening.
Mrs. Wharton stepped past me and went to her husband’s side. She said something I couldn’t hear, and Teddy pressed to his feet and pointed to somewhere beyond the veranda. The cliffs again? My stomach sickened at the thought of the precipice having taken another life.
“Vasili’s out there,” Mrs. Wharton called back to us, at the same time Irene and Mrs. Harris entered the drawing room carrying piles of towels. They’d secured their dressing gowns beneath their chins and each had tied a shawl around her shoulders.
The cook dropped her burden on a nearby chair and stooped to wrap a towel around Patch. “Poor dear. Always watching out for everyone, isn’t he?”
“Do you know what’s happening here?” I asked her.
“No, miss, but Irene and I heard the commotion outside and figured people would need drying off.”
“And you weren’t afraid to come?” Miss Marcus demanded in a harsh tone. “Fools, how could you know if it were safe or not? There could have been a madman loose in the house intent on killing everyone.”
“It’s all right, Josephine.” Mother attempted to draw Miss Marcus to her side but the opera singer shirked away.
“You’re all here, aren’t you?” the cook asked calmly. “Irene and I aren’t about to cower in our rooms if Mr. Vanderbilt’s guests need our services. Are we, Irene?”
The young woman shook her head but didn’t appear nearly as confident as her superior.
“They’re coming back,” Mrs. Wharton called in again. “I believe they have him.”
My father and Niccolo stumbled up the veranda steps, their hair and clothing streaming. Behind them, Mr. Dunn and Carl struggled to climb the steps, each with an arm slung around a seemingly unconscious Vasili. Father took Carl’s place, helping Mr. Dunn seat Vasili on one of the wrought iron benches while the footman all but collapsed against the half wall of the porch. Mrs. Harris and Irene ran out to distribute towels among them. Irene tossed one over Vasili’s shoulders, disturbing his tenuous balance where he sat. He started to topple, but Mr. Dunn reached out to hold him upright. Mrs. Wharton sat beside him, supporting his limp form against her side. She fanned at the air with her hand.
“Good heavens.” She turned her face away from him.
Miss Marcus moved into the doorway. “What is going on? What was he doing outside like that? Scaring us all out of our wits. He must be mad.”
“Perhaps,” Father said. “We found him staggering close to the cliffs. God only knows what might have happened. He’s dead drunk and beyond knowing or caring.”
* * *
I awoke the next morning to find Mr. Dunn and Carl lighting kerosene lamps throughout the house, as the electricity had failed sometime after we all returned to bed. Meanwhile the rain continued to fall in dense sheets, like prison walls trapping us in a house of shadows and gloom.
Whatever atmosphere had once attracted me to Rough Point, whatever kinship of spirit I had felt here, had dissipated entirely and I longed to be away, longed to seek the homey comfort of Gull Manor’s shabby but familiar interiors. But I knew the dangers of Ocean Avenue during one of these September storms. A wave had once arced over the road to envelop Barney and my carriage, and the terror of that moment, of the force of the water engulfing us in a blinding, strangling hold, lived inside me still. By some miracle, when the wave receded we remained on the road, drenched but breathing. I had climbed down to grasp Barney’s halter and lead him the rest of the way home, praying with each step that we would live to hear Nanny’s scolding and feel her welcoming embra
ce.
I went first to Uncle Frederick’s office to test the telephone. Nothing. So we were cut off as well as having to make due with flame and whatever little light made its way through the fogged windows. Luckily Mrs. Harris’s kitchen did not depend on electricity, and she provided us with another satisfying breakfast. The men had taken turns sitting in Vasili’s room while he drifted in and out of semi-consciousness during the remaining hours of last night. Father said he had cried out often in Russian and once tried to rise from the bed, though he had laid back down readily enough when Father pressed his hands against his shoulders. Carl went up to watch over him while the rest of us ate our breakfast.
We were just finishing up when the door knocker sent its disturbing clanks echoing from the entrance hall. Pale faces, frozen in startlement, looked up from the table. No one moved. Even Patch, lying beneath the table at my feet, only lifted his head and sniffed at the air. It was as if no one remembered what that clanking could signify, and then decided it could signify nothing good. Who on earth could be out in such weather? How had they negotiated the flooded roads? What did they want?
Our visitor must have pulled the bell as well, for Carl strode from the butler’s pantry to open the front door. His action roused us, and we all sprang to our feet and gathered in a tight group before following the footman through the Stair Hall. Patch pushed to the front of our little crush, his tail down and his ears pricked as a hooded figure all but stumbled across the threshold, literally shoved inside by a gust of wind.
Jesse stood dripping on the vestibule rug, bedraggled and looking as though he had fought his way through a monsoon. I hurried over to help Carl relieve him of his outerwear, although his suit was in little better condition and his shoes squelched at the slightest step.
“How in heaven did you get here?” I demanded in none too gentle a tone. I wanted to scold him as Nanny would have, but only just managed to bite back my admonitions.
“I had one of the men drive me down Bellevue as far as we could go. It’s a swamp out there. The carriage kept sliding and shimmying over the muck. By Ruggles I got out and sent the carriage back.”
“You walked all the way from Ruggles Avenue in this weather? Jesse, are you mad?”
As my voice rose, Carl made a discreet exit, backing out of the vestibule and into the cloakroom with Jesse’s gleaming wet mackintosh, overcoat, and hat.
From the little knot of onlookers, Teddy Wharton demanded, “Well, have you discovered something?”
Jesse hesitated before shaking his head. “Not yet. The storm is slowing things down.”
“Are you still calling Claude’s death an accident?” my father asked.
“For now,” Jesse confirmed. “I only came out to make certain the place was secure and you were all well.”
“All the way out here in this weather for that? Emma is right, you’re quite mad.” For a moment my mother sounded just like Nanny. “I’ll see that Carl brings in another place setting.”
She retreated through the doorway. The others looked on another moment or two, then, obviously disappointed at Jesse’s lack of news, turned around and followed her. Only Patch remained, watching us intently.
Jesse’s manner changed immediately, became brisk and urgent. “I had to come, Emma. The weather didn’t matter.” He moved as if to draw me away from the front door, then regarded his sloshing shoes and remained on the rug. “I have news to tell you. And I couldn’t leave you here all alone anymore.”
“I’m not alone,” I pointed out. “There are the others.”
His expression hardened, turning the boyish features into those more resembling a soldier. “I don’t trust them—any of them.”
I forewent reminding him that two of the group were my parents. The agitation that lingered in his manner were not the results of his harrowing trek along Bellevue Avenue, I now understood, but something deeper that could not be cured by a cup of tea and a change of clothing, though he badly needed both.
“Tell me,” I said. “Tell me quickly, and then we’ll find you something dry to wear.”
“The coroner discovered two things that rule out all possibility of Claude Baptiste’s death being an accident. Those marks were definitely bruises around his ankles, making it a certainty someone stole into that bathroom while the man was relaxing in the tub, gripped his ankles, and pulled him under.”
I shuddered at the horrific nature of such a death. Had it occurred quickly enough to spare Monsieur Baptiste the terror of feeling the water rush into his lungs? Had his last seconds been a harrowing eternity of knowing he was about to die?
Jesse had more to tell. “Remember how Patch barked and sniffed at the body as if trying to tell us something?”
At the sound of his name, my dog looked up and made a growling noise of acknowledgment, as if trying to join the conversation.
I nodded. “He can be a nuisance.”
“Not a nuisance. He sensed something and he was right. The coroner discovered something lodged in Monsieur Baptiste’s throat. A pebble.”
“What?”
Jesse nodded. “Yes. I don’t understand it, but there it is.”
“Oh, Jesse . . . This is monstrous.” Another bout of shivers racked me. “What are we dealing with here?”
He answered my question with another. “Do you see why I had to come? I can’t take you away from here—that would be as dangerous as staying—but I couldn’t let you stay here alone. Damn this storm.”
The oath as much as his roughened voice penetrated the shield I always raised in the face of his sentiments toward me. My throat tightened and stung, and tears pricked the backs of my eyes. I struggled for a response, but he spoke again.
“I understand it’s Derrick Andrews you would most want here with you. If I could bring him here for you I would, but that’s impossible. I can at least keep you safe, if you’ll let me.”
That simple avowal broke my heart even while it swelled with a newfound admiration for my friend. My eyes brimmed, and I blinked madly to no avail. “Oh, Jesse . . .”
He shook his head with the sad smile I’d come to know all too well. “No, Emma, don’t say it. Don’t say anything. Let’s just get to work and find our culprit.”
I swallowed my tears. “We make a good team.” The steady drip-drip of water hitting the rug brought me back to my sensible self. “What a fool I am. Before anything else you need dry clothes.” I turned to call into the main part of the house, “Father, find Jesse a suit of clothes, please.”
Chapter 13
With Jesse dry and well fed, he and I, along with Patch, retired to Uncle Frederick’s office, where we shut the door so we wouldn’t have to worry about interruptions. I apprised him of the latest developments, including the cigarette stub Mrs. Wharton and I had found on the lawn. We both agreed any of the guests might have tossed it there. It would serve us little in finding our culprit. Then we turned to the matter of Vasili.
“Whether his behavior last night stemmed from grief or guilt,” I said, “remains to be determined. But I’ve never seen a man in such a state.”
“Why guilt? Is it likely he murdered his good friend?”
“My instincts say no, but my instincts have occasionally been wrong.” I ignored the lift of his eyebrow. “There might be a dynamic to their relationship we don’t yet understand, perhaps stemming from Vasili’s accident. As a performer, he would naturally be something of an actor, skilled at creating illusions.”
“Hmm.” Despite the brevity of his response, Jesse gave my scenario serious consideration. I saw this in how he crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes as he regarded me.
“And from what I’ve been able to gather so far,” I went on, “he blames some or all of his friends for the end of his career.”
“Do you know why?”
I shook my head. “Mrs. Wharton tells me none of the others were on that train with him. I’d like to try talking to him and see if I can get him to confide in me. But then there is Miss Mar
cus.”
“The opera singer,” Jesse mused, “with numerous disputes between herself and several members of this group.”
“She seems at odds with everyone. She is not a nice person, Jesse.” I scowled, remembering her comments about where animals belong. I crouched beside Patch and treated him to a hug and a good scratch behind his ears. “She even fought with Niccolo, and I had believed the two to be especially close. Even lovers.”
Jesse winced at the word lovers and blushed slightly. He was no innocent, but hearing the term from my lips had obviously taken him aback. Well, after my experiences over the past year, I was no innocent either.
Still, he managed to shock me with his next bit of information. “We were successful in reaching Sir Randall’s son, James Clifford, in England. He wired back, asking if we found his father’s diary.”
“Diary? Your men went through his things. They didn’t find a diary, did they?”
“No, which means either he hadn’t brought it with him—”
“Unlikely,” I interrupted. “People who keep diaries rarely if ever travel without them.”
“Exactly. That means he either hid it well somewhere in his room—”
“Or someone stole it.” My pulse raced. “Are you going to search the house?”
“We’ll start in Sir Randall’s room, in case it’s still there. But no one must know we’re searching. If someone else has the diary I don’t want to frighten them into disposing of it.”
“If they haven’t already.” I stood and leaned against the desk, my fingers playing along the grain of the mahogany surface. “What if he had it with him when he was pushed off the footbridge?”
“Then it’s long gone, for it certainly wasn’t found on him. Let’s hope no one knew about this diary, that it’s still in his room and will give us some insight into what happened to him.”
“And to Claude Baptiste. You look through the room. You can explain it easily enough as routine. I’ll speak with Vasili.”
Murder at Rough Point Page 18