“I don’t like that, Emma. You might accidentally strike a nerve. Even if he isn’t our guilty party, in his state of mind there’s no telling how he might react. I’ll do it.”
“He won’t speak with you, I’m sure of it.” I gazed out the window, where scattered debris of leaves and branches littered the lawn and the drive. “I’ll bring Mrs. Wharton with me. We can use the excuse of bringing Vasili something to eat.”
I turned back into the room to find Jesse studying me closely. “Are you sure you can trust her?”
I didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”
He looked at me askance, and I easily read his thoughts.
“I’m not wrong about this, Jesse, not this time. If you spent any time with her at all you’d understand.”
He skewed his lips before nodding. “Be careful. Leave the door open so you have an avenue of escape.”
We set off on our individual errands. I went first to the kitchen to ask Mrs. Harris to warm a bowl of soup, and to keep Patch with her for a while. She readily agreed to both. Then I found Mrs. Wharton in the drawing room with my mother, the two of them side by side on the settee that faced the French doors. Neither appeared to be enjoying the watery view outside, or to be in any state of relaxation. Both sat stiffly, their eyes wide but unseeing, their whispered words like the quivering leaves of a shaken tree limb. From the library came other voices, mostly male, although punctuated by Josephine Marcus’s soft-spoken—for once—comments.
Upon seeing my mother I almost backed out of the room, for I wished to engage Mrs. Wharton’s assistance privately. Too late, as my mother spotted me and called me in.
“Emma, you look as though you’re on some urgent errand. Was Jesse neglecting to tell us something?”
How had she guessed? Despite years on my own and the subsequent rift between my parents and me, I still felt like a sneaking child who had just been apprehended, red-handed. Perhaps mothers possessed a second sight into their children’s minds that never faded no matter the circumstances. I began to stutter an answer and found myself unable to lie.
“I wish to speak with Vasili, and I hoped Mrs. Wharton would accompany me.”
Mother tilted her head. “Speak to him about what? About why he showed such lack of restraint last night? Darling, he is grieving the loss of his very close friend.”
I ventured farther into the room and sat opposite them. “I wish to ask him about his accident.”
“Oh, Emma, no.” Mother gripped the arm of the settee and leaned forward. “You mustn’t. Not now. It will only upset him more. Besides, what has that to do with Claude’s death?”
Mrs. Wharton said nothing, but watched me with obvious interest. If she objected to my plan, she didn’t show it. I drew a breath. “Before I answer that, what can you tell me about Vasili’s accident?”
The color drained from Mother’s complexion in one sweep. “Nothing . . . I wasn’t on the train. None of us was. And Vasili has spoken of it so little.”
I craned forward a bit. “Why would he blame his friends for what happened?”
“Does he?” An astonished light entered my mother’s eyes. “He’s never said anything to me. We were all in Versailles, just after the New Year. Everyone except Vasili, of course. It was such a beautiful time in the city. There was snow everywhere, yet the skies were clear and the weather had warmed considerably. A January thaw.”
I nodded, waiting for her to continue.
“Claude wrote to Vasili in Paris, where he had been performing, to coax him to join us.”
“Only Claude?” I asked. “Did the others lend their persuasion?”
“Well, yes. The Countess Yelana Morekova was to hold a grand ball, and Vasili is a favorite of hers. They’re related somehow, you see. Both Josephine and Niccolo were hoping for personal introductions, since the countess is a fervent patron of the arts.”
“So Niccolo and Miss Marcus very much wanted Vasili to come to Versailles?”
“We all did. We were having such a splendid time.” Mother took on a dreamy expression, which cleared abruptly to be replaced by obvious regret. “Until we heard about the train derailment. He broke numerous bones and came perilously close to dying. Directly afterward, once he was awake and could speak again, he said he wished he had died.”
Mrs. Wharton slipped her hand on top of my mother’s, and Mother glanced at her appreciatively and blinked away tears. “But I still don’t understand what this has to do with now, or why you would dredge up such unhappy memories in a man who is clearly distraught.”
I traded a glance with Mrs. Wharton, one Mother saw, for she said, “You mean to say . . . Emma, you cannot believe Vasili had anything to do with what happened to Claude or . . . or Randall?”
“I only wish to speak with him, Mother. His behavior last night was extreme, you must admit.”
She looked down at Mrs. Wharton’s hand, still covering her own. “Well . . . yes. I’ve never seen grief take such a form before. But we can’t know what’s inside a man’s mind . . .”
“Precisely, Mother. We can’t know unless we speak with him.”
“Then I will do it,” she said with a lift of her chin.
I shook my head. “I’m more qualified. I earn my keep by questioning people, and I’ve grown rather skilled in the task.”
“Fine, but I’ll go with you.” A wounded note entered Mother’s voice. “You wished to ask Edith to accompany you.” Slowly she slid her hand from beneath the other woman’s. “Is there some reason Edith is more qualified than your own mother?”
Poor Mrs. Wharton, hopelessly ensnared in our family discord, looked distinctly uncomfortable. In fact she implored me with her eyes to remedy the situation as quickly as possible. But the truth was that Mrs. Wharton was more qualified to help me question Vasili. She hadn’t been in Versailles at the time and played no part in persuading Vasili to make the trip. He would therefore have no reason to resent her and might speak more freely in front of her.
But would Mother accept this reasoning?
An idea came to me. “Mrs. Wharton and I will question Vasili.” Before Mother could protest, as she drew breath to do, I added, “And you’ll take up position right outside the door, where you can listen in and not only be able to tell us later if Vasili’s words ring true, but you can call for help should he become overly agitated. Will you assist us?”
Her posture visibly relaxed. “Since you put it that way. Yes, most certainly, darling.”
* * *
“Mother, please put that fire poker down. I’m sure it won’t be necessary.”
My mother, Mrs. Wharton, and I climbed the back staircase together, having stopped in the kitchen first for a bowl of soup and some of Mrs. Harris’s freshly baked bread. Mrs. Wharton carried the tray, while my mother wielded the brass fireplace tool from the drawing room. I carried a second tray with a teacup and a stout little pot that hovered beneath a tea cozy decorated with yellow flowers on a bright blue background. Too cheerful, surely, for our present destination, but I hadn’t wished to bother the obliging cook with such a trifle.
“You yourself said my job was to protect you and Edith should Vasili become aggressive,” Mother replied rather testily.
“No, I said your job was to call for help should he become agitated. There is a difference.” I sighed. “Never mind, it doesn’t matter.”
Slightly muffled by Niccolo’s closed bedroom door, sweet notes from his cello filled the upstairs corridor and led us across the gallery and into the north wing. Mother knocked on Vasili’s door, then stepped aside so as not to be seen. We heard a grunt from inside, then footsteps, and the door opened. Carl calmly poked his head out. He had been standing guard over our patient—for lack of a better word—since before breakfast.
“Yes?” he whispered.
“We’ll take over for a while,” I said. He nodded, and with a glance over his shoulder, stepped into the hall. Mother had already taken her position beside the door, poker in hand. Carl saw this bu
t after a blink of surprise he merely continued on his way. Mrs. Wharton and I went inside and closed the door but for an inch-wide gap.
Vasili lay on the four-poster on his back. His eyes were closed and he appeared to be asleep. But at the sound of Mrs. Wharton setting her tray on top of the long dresser, his eyes opened to stare up at the ceiling. He snapped in none too gentle a voice, “Kto eto?”
Still holding the tea things, I looked to Mrs. Wharton in puzzlement. She went to the bedside. “It’s Edith and Miss Cross, Vasili.”
Without shifting his gaze away from the ceiling, he said in the same guttural tone, “Chto ty khochesh’?”
She raised her head to address me in a whisper. “He wants to know what we want.” To him she said, “We brought you tea and something to eat.”
“Ukhodit’.”
Mrs. Wharton leaned closer to him. “We will not go away, Vasili. You must eat. I have some lovely soup for you, and Miss Cross has brought tea.”
“Tea.” He spat the word. “What use is tea? Bring me vodka. That buffoon in livery refused even when I threw the box at him.”
A glint of silver identified this object, a carved trinket box that lay on its side at a corner of the Aubusson rug. Poor Carl had had his task cut out for him. To my relief, the end table where the box likely originated, within Vasili’s reach, had been swept clean of all other possible projectiles. Even the bedside lamp now occupied the top of the bureau on the wall opposite the bed.
“Chert poberi,” Vasili mumbled, and closed his eyes. Mrs. Wharton winced.
“What did that mean?” I mouthed to her.
“I shan’t repeat it.” She reached for the pillow beneath Vasili’s head and tugged. “You’ll need to sit up. Come now, don’t be stubborn. We will not leave until we’ve seen some honest sustenance go into you.”
Somehow we did just that, managing to nearly empty the bowl of soup and get several cups of tea into him. Perhaps the young man secretly craved someone to take care of him. Perhaps he simply didn’t have the strength to fight us. The meal seemed to mellow him. He stopped mumbling in Russian and no longer burst out with words that made Mrs. Wharton flinch. He complained of a headache. I went into the bathroom that adjoined the next bedroom and wet a washcloth in cold water. Behind the closed door that led into the next room, Niccolo’s cello resonated gently.
I returned to Vasili’s bedside and placed the cold washcloth across his forehead. Then I stepped back, for all purposes out of sight, and let Mrs. Wharton do the talking.
“You cannot continue on this self-destructive course,” she said. “Whatever were you thinking last night? You might have been killed.”
Her admonishment met with a grunt.
“Is this what Claude would have wanted?” she asked bluntly.
“What difference does it make?”
“Very much of a difference. If you are truly his friend, you’ll continue as he would have wished.”
Nothing moved but his eyes as he took her in. “And how is that?”
“As a man who lives to his potential.”
He muttered in Russian, and I guessed this would be another comment Mrs. Wharton would not repeat. “My potential is dead. It died on a train between Paris and Versailles.”
“That’s not true—”
He sprang upright, prompting Mrs. Wharton to recoil. Yet to her credit she stood her ground as his features twisted and he began to rail. “A choreographer? I was a rising star of the ballet. By now I would have been the principal male lead—choreographers would have staged their work for me. Me! Now I am nothing.” Like a sail abandoned by the wind, he fell back against the pillows, limp and pale. “I did not wish to go. I wished to remain in Paris. They would have been back soon enough. But they would not leave me alone. They insisted. How I hate them for that. All of them. They destroyed me, left me with nothing.”
Mrs. Wharton, too, had paled, but she continued to speak calmly. “They could not have known what would happen, Vasili. They certainly never meant you harm. . . .” She trailed off at the adamant shaking of his head.
“No, they were selfish. They cared only about themselves. Josephine . . . Niccolo . . .” His voice became so low I almost didn’t hear the last name he spoke. “Claude.”
Mrs. Wharton darted a glance at me, one I hardly dared return lest Vasili notice my incredulity and refuse to say more. I barely breathed. He went on, his vehemence growing.
“Claude, he denied it, but he wished to meet her—Yelana—as much as the others did. She was all they cared about. Her money. Her connections. Claude, Niccolo . . .” He turned his head and pinned me with an accusing glare. “Your father.”
“But Claude was your friend,” I couldn’t stop myself from saying. “You’re grieving over him. . . .”
I’d made a mistake—make that two. The second was in speaking, in challenging his assertions. But the first mistake I’d made was to leave the cup, saucer, and teapot on the end table beside him. He reached out and in one swift motion grabbed the handle of the pot and flung it in a spray of russet liquid across the room. It hit the front of the bureau with an explosion of shards and tea, splattering the drawers, the wall, the floor and rug. I barely managed to lurch out of harm’s way.
At the same time the door burst open. Mother stood in the doorway, the fire poker raised like a sword. She took one step before a pair of hands gripped her shoulders from behind and moved her aside. Before she could react beyond her expression of surprise, Jesse strode into the room. He took in the scene—the shattered teapot, Mrs. Wharton’s and my astonished faces, and Vasili, half on and half off the bed, looking enraged and ready to spring at the closest victim.
Jesse’s appearance stopped us all cold, even Vasili. For a second or two no one moved, until Jesse somehow diffused the situation merely by asking, “Is everything all right in here?”
In his left hand he gripped a book bound in dark brown leather.
* * *
The broken teapot brought Niccolo and my father rushing into Vasili’s room. Josephine and Teddy Wharton came hurrying in moments later as well. I let them all, my mother included, endeavor to soothe their young friend and used the opportunity to steal away. Jesse followed me and we made our way back downstairs to my uncle’s office at the front of the house. It was only as I was closing the door that I realized Mrs. Wharton had trailed us as well.
“Don’t shut me out, Miss Cross. You’ve asked for my help twice now. I am engaged in this matter and what is more, I believe I can be of further assistance.”
My reply was to silently seek Jesse’s concurrence. The room was dark and chilly, an extension of the continuing storm outside. I could make out little of his features but his nod conveyed his permission to allow Mrs. Wharton to join us. I locked the door behind her. Jesse attempted to switch on the electric desk lamp, to no avail.
“The power’s been out all morning,” I reminded him. I went to the corner cabinet and found a hurricane lamp and matches inside. “Uncle Frederick doesn’t believe in putting one’s faith entirely in electricity,” I explained as I brought the lantern over to the desk.
Mrs. Wharton gestured to the hymnal-sized tome Jesse held. “That looks familiar. I recognize the red and gold ribbon place holder. That’s Randall’s, isn’t it?”
“You knew he had a diary?” Jesse spoke sharply, and Mrs. Wharton, noticing, raised her chin.
“I would have mentioned it if I had remembered. I only saw him writing in it once, a couple of years ago. It surprised me, a man like Randall keeping a journal.”
“How so?” Jesse asked.
“So few men do,” she said, “unless they happen to be writers by profession. Men like Randall keep records, mostly lists of engagements, business dealings, estate improvements, that sort of thing, but I had the distinct impression at the time that this was quite different. You see, he snapped it closed rather quickly when I came upon him. We were all at Breighton Lodge at the time—that’s Randall’s estate in Suffolk. I haven
’t seen it or thought of it since.”
“Have you looked through it yet?” I asked Jesse.
“I had only just discovered it tucked into a corner of the armoire, high on the top shelf. It was missed during the initial search due to the interior of the armoire and the leather being about the same color. At a glance it blended perfectly with the shelf, and lay beyond arm’s reach.”
He picked it up, but I placed a hand on the cover to keep him from opening it. “Before we get to this, Mrs. Wharton, can you explain what happened in Vasili’s room? Why he accused Claude Baptiste as he did? Had you ever detected a hint of acrimony between them before? Because I certainly hadn’t.”
I took a moment to enlighten Jesse about Mrs. Wharton’s conversation with Vasili, ending in the broken teapot. Her features grew taut as she considered my question. “They did argue, sometimes frequently. But none of us ever thought much of it. They were contentious in the way close friends often are, if you see what I mean.”
I thought about that. Brady and I certainly argued on a regular basis, usually with me scolding him for ill-advised behavior while he defended his actions and insisted I mind my business. There had been heated episodes between us in the past, but that didn’t mean we loved each other any less for it.
“What we saw minutes ago was not the habitual squabbling between friends,” I pointed out.
“No,” she agreed, “it seemed more the outburst of sentiments that had long been suppressed.”
“Perhaps Mr. Pavlenko was conflicted in his friendship with Monsieur Baptiste,” Jesse said. “Perhaps he blamed him as much as the others for his accident but didn’t know how to set about expressing his anger.”
“That makes sense.” Mrs. Wharton steepled her fingers beneath her chin and paced a few steps. “Vasili was in a very bad way after the accident. Very depressed. It was Claude who convinced him he still had a life worth living. But perhaps beneath that optimism, Vasili continued to partly blame him for what happened.” She stopped pacing and turned to us, her jaw hardening. “This is all but another way to say Vasili had a motive to murder Claude, isn’t it?”
Murder at Rough Point Page 19