From the Stair Hall came a thump-thumping as someone apparently dragged an object down each step. A moment later a voice called out, “I’m leaving now, Edith. You can either come home where it’s safe, or you can take your chances here—without me.”
Chapter 15
“Edith, I’m really leaving,” came another shout from the Stair Hall, followed by the sound of that same heavy object being dragged across the floor. “The footman is bringing a carriage around now. You have ten seconds to make up your mind.”
Mrs. Wharton sighed and went to the doorway. “I’m not leaving, Teddy, and rest assured you won’t get very far. All you’re going to succeed in doing is jeopardizing the welfare of a carriage horse. And shame on you for sending Carl out in this weather. You’re endangering his health as well.”
Mr. Wharton’s disembodied voice, for I could not see him from where I sat, took on a whining note. “What about my life, Edith? And yours?”
“I’m not going to argue with you, Teddy. Good-bye for now, and good luck. Try telephoning should you happen to make it home.” With that Mrs. Wharton pivoted and returned to me.
We both jumped when Jesse abruptly opened the office door and stepped out. “Eavesdropping, ladies?”
“We, uh . . . No, though not for lack of trying.” I smiled apologetically. “We were hoping you’d have new information. Thank goodness the telephone lines have been repaired.”
“For the time being. The problem stemmed from a line near town. It’s been temporarily patched, but might not hold. I was able to request a telegram be sent overseas to both James Clifford and Sir Randall’s solicitor.”
“To discover the identity of AC?” I asked.
“That’s right.” Jesse gestured toward the Stair Hall. “What was that shouting I heard?”
Mrs. Wharton sighed. “My husband is leaving, returning to Land’s End.”
“What? Is he mad?” Jesse hurried into the Stair Hall, but his continuing tread signified that Mr. Wharton had already passed through to the front entry hall. Mrs. Wharton and I traded a glance and followed.
We found a dripping Carl making his way through the front door, while Mr. Wharton squeezed by him, ran hunched through the rain, and took his place in the covered phaeton Uncle Frederick kept in his carriage house. The suitcase was already on the seat beside him. He had obviously had Carl carry it out first. The footman unbuttoned the mackintosh he wore and hung it on the coatrack in the vestibule, where it would drip on the stone tiles.
“Mr. Wharton,” Jesse called out into the rain. “This isn’t a good idea. I’ve made other arrangements, if you’ll just wait.”
Outside, Mr. Wharton huddled into his own mackintosh as the rain pelted him from the carriage’s open sides. He flipped the reins. The vehicle lurched into motion and started down the drive.
Jesse laughed softly, without mirth. “I’m sorry I couldn’t stop him, Mrs. Wharton. It’s doubtful he’ll make it down Ledge Road. I only hope he has the sense to turn back before—” He broke off, reddening.
“It’s all right, Detective,” she said. “I hope he turns back before it’s too late, too.”
“What do you mean, you’ve made other arrangements?” I asked him.
Jesse closed the front door against a gust of wind. “I’m getting everyone out of here. Two police coaches are on their way, along with an ambulance.”
“Isn’t it too dangerous?”
Even with Mrs. Wharton watching, Jesse framed my face in his hands. “Certainly no more dangerous than remaining here at Rough Point. Signore Lionetti needs to be at the hospital. And Miss Marcus was correct. I have been useless in protecting you.”
“Jesse, no . . .”
“We’re leaving as soon as possible, assuming the coaches make it here.”
* * *
In the next couple of hours the storm showed some slight signs of abating, though out beyond the cliffs the ocean continued to thrash. When the coaches finally wound their way up the front drive, they brought with them an unexpected arrival.
Uncle Frederick let himself out of the first vehicle. His head bowed and shoulders hunched to the rain, he picked his way carefully across the puddles to the front door. Once he was inside, I took his hat while Carl helped him off with his overcoat. Two police officers followed him inside. Before I closed the door, the ambulance pulled up.
“Uncle Frederick, I never expected to see you today,” I said.
“As soon as I had word from Howard Dunn I started out from Hyde Park. The weather kept me from being here sooner, though it only turned fierce once I reached North Kingstown. Good heavens, Emmaline, Howard only told me there had been an accidental death—bad enough, happening here on my property. Now I’m told it was murder, and that there’s been another. Good grief, what the blazes has been going on among these people, and what the devil are you still doing here?”
“No one has been able to leave because of the storm. How were the roads on the way from town?”
“Treacherous. I suppose you don’t dare travel along Ocean Avenue.” He glanced over my shoulder. “Arthur! I had no idea you were here. No one told me.”
“Our decision to make the crossing was rather last-minute.” My father and the others spilled into the entry foyer.
“I’ll wager it’s a decision you’ve come to regret, given the circumstances.” Uncle Frederick moved past me to greet my parents. I stayed by the door and opened it again to a wind-borne spray on my face, until the doctor and nurse from the ambulance made it safely inside.
Hannah Hanson reached out to give my forearm a reassuring squeeze. Somehow, her arrival renewed a sense of hope in me. We had reunited only that summer after several years of Hannah living in Providence, but ever since we were little girls growing up on the Point together, she had been able to brighten any mood with the simple power of her smile. The rain had darkened tendrils of blond hair that floated free of her nurse’s veil, and cornflower blue eyes held me in their steady gaze.
We clasped hands. “Thank goodness you’re here,” I said.
Dr. Kennison, whom I had also known all my life, wasted no time on pleasantries. “Has the patient awakened at all?”
“No,” I said. “He’s been unconscious since we found him.”
“Where is he?”
“Follow me.” I led them upstairs to Niccolo’s bedroom. Mrs. Harris slipped out, but Carl had returned with us and Dr. Kennison asked him to remain.
“I’ll need help getting him into the ambulance,” he said. Then he opened his medical bag and leaned over the patient to check his vital signs. He let out a sigh. “His pulse is weak.” He examined the wound along Niccolo’s neck, shaking his head all the while. “It’s a miracle he survived this. Miss Hanson, will you and the footman please bring up the stretcher?”
I waited with Dr. Kennison until Hannah and Carl returned bearing the wood and canvas litter. They placed it on the bed beside Niccolo’s inert form, and together the doctor and Hannah rolled him until he lay on the stretcher on his back. My father came into the room then.
“I’ll help you carry him down.” Father and Carl each took an end of the stretcher, while Dr. Kennison walked alongside them. Hannah and I lingered in the room.
“Does Brady know your parents are here?” she asked.
“Not yet. The telephone connection has been tenuous, so I’ve been unable to send a wire. I’ll try again this afternoon.”
“If you like, I can send it.” Color blossomed on her round, pretty cheeks.
“I know the two of you have kept in touch,” I said. “I’m glad, Hannah. Very glad.”
She shook her head. “We’re friends. But . . . I mustn’t keep Dr. Kennison waiting.”
I walked her downstairs. “We’ll all be leaving Rough Point now. I’m not sure where we’ll be staying but—”
Jesse stood waiting for us in the Stair Hall. “There is no longer any reason to leave. Come with me.”
“I’d better go. I’ll see you soon, Emma
.” Hannah gave me a quick hug, and then, ducking against the rain, made her way out to the ambulance.
Frowning my questions at Jesse, I allowed him to precede me through the Great Hall into the drawing room. All but my father and Rough Point’s four staff members were present. Jesse bade me sit, and I squeezed in between Mrs. Wharton and my mother on the settee. Miss Marcus sat across from us in one of the armchairs. Uncle Frederick sat beside her, and the two police officers who arrived with him stood behind their chairs.
Vasili paced the room with a scowl. “I wish you would cease being mysterious, Detective Whyte.”
“Detective Whyte enjoys his sport.” Miss Marcus gave a derisive snort. “It makes him feel important.”
My ire rose and must have been obvious, for Jesse caught my eye and very calmly shook his head, a slight, humorless smile playing about his lips. From the front hall came the sound of the door closing, and moments later my father entered the room. “You wanted to see everyone again, Jesse?”
“Please, have a seat.” Once Father complied, Jesse moved to the center of the room. “I wanted to let you all know that although you may leave Rough Point, there is no longer any urgency to do so. In fact, I advise you to remain here until the roads are drier and safer.”
This announcement was met with momentary silence, and then a chorus of voices spoke at once, firing questions. Uncle Frederick’s was loudest among them. “You’ve discovered the identity of the murderer, then. Well, sir, who is it?”
“Does this mean Niccolo woke up and told you who attacked him?” Mrs. Wharton sounded desperately hopeful, but I knew Jesse would disappoint her.
“Let me explain.” He held up his hands and waited until the room quieted. “A discovery was made here thanks to a wire from Sir Randall’s son. We found his diary, hidden in his room. However, that only led to more questions, prompting me to order another wire sent to England only this morning as soon as I could use the telephone. I needn’t have. It seems Sir Randall’s solicitor had already contacted James Clifford with information unknown to his client, concerning a recent change to his father’s will.”
Vasili dragged a hand through his hair, standing it on end. He looked worse than ever with his sunken, reddened eyes, colorless features, and his clothes a mass of wrinkles. “Is this to lead somewhere?”
“It is.” Jesse paced a couple of steps and stopped. “It seems James Clifford’s and my wires crossed in transit. For even as I sent mine, his arrived with information regarding his suspicions about his father’s death and the identity of a certain individual possessing the initials AC.”
A gasp interrupted Jesse’s narrative, and I glanced over to see Miss Marcus flushing and pressing her hand to her mouth. Before I could make sense of this, Mother asked, “And who is this individual?”
If I didn’t know Jesse to be the straightforward, sensible police detective he was, I’d have accused him of drawing out the moment for dramatic effect. At length he said, “Sir Randall Clifford’s wife.”
“But . . . his wife is deceased.” Mrs. Wharton looked mystified, as did the others. “And her name didn’t begin with A. Randall told us her name was Minerva.”
“Yes, you must be speaking of his first wife,” Jesse said. “In his wire, James Clifford was referring to his father’s second wife.”
“What do you mean, second wife?” Father let out a bark of laughter. “Trust me, Jesse, if Randall had remarried, we would all know about it.”
“That’s true.” Mother looked scandalized, close to devastated. “We were his closest friends. If there had been a wedding, Randall would have wanted us all there.” She turned an appeal on the others. “Edith, wouldn’t we have known?”
Mrs. Wharton gave no answer, but merely returned Mother’s stricken expression with one of her own. Vasili gazed out the French doors into the covered porch and beyond, where the storm continued to dwindle. He shook his head as if Jesse had taken leave of his senses and was wasting everyone’s time. I continued to watch Miss Marcus carefully. Her face was splotched and ruddy, and she emitted little coughs that made her nose run and her eyes tear. I went to the brandy cart and poured a glass of water from the pitcher, kept fresh each day.
“You seem upset, Miss Marcus,” I said as I handed her the glass.
The others ignored me, all except Jesse, who watched us closely. Father spoke again.
“Well, Jesse, are you going to enlighten us as to the identity of this mystery wife? Surely James Clifford is mistaken.”
“James Clifford might have been, but I highly doubt Sir Randall’s solicitor could have gotten such a detail wrong. The legal name of the woman in question is Anna Markstrom Clifford.”
“I’ve never heard of such a person.” Mrs. Wharton turned to my mother. “Did you ever hear of Randall speaking of an Anna?”
“Let me be more specific.” Jesse moved to stand directly in front of Miss Marcus’s chair. “Sir Randall’s second wife’s full maiden name is Anna Josephine Markstrom, more commonly known to the world as Josephine Marcus.”
Chapter 16
Jesse’s revelation brought the others instantly to their feet, their voices creating an incoherent din. I retained my place on the settee, however. As soon as Jesse first mentioned a second wife, and I observed the effect of those words on Miss Marcus—or Lady Clifford—I guessed the truth.
Events fell into place. The bitterness between Sir Randall and Josephine Marcus and why he took her belittlement so much to heart; the contention between Miss Marcus and Niccolo, who obviously loved her and wished to marry her—it all made sense now. I suspected Claude died, not because he refused to cast Josephine Marcus in his production of Carmen, but perhaps because he somehow learned the truth about a marriage she had taken great pains to conceal.
These thoughts passed through my mind in the time it took Jesse to restore order to the room. Slowly, one by one, the others resumed their seats and fell silent, waiting, undoubtedly, for Jesse to make sense of the past few minutes.
He explained, “According to the solicitor, Sir Randall and Miss Marcus eloped recklessly after a drunken interlude. Ever since, Sir Randall regretted his action and wished to be rid of his new wife.” Miss Marcus made a sound of outrage, but Jesse shushed her with a fierce look. “The marriage humiliated Sir Randall. He felt ashamed and didn’t wish his son to find out, not to mention the price James Clifford would pay should it become known his father married an American opera singer. It doesn’t take a genius to know that James Clifford’s prospects, both socially and politically, would have suffered greatly. He is a member of the House of Commons and wishes to rise in his career. That gave Miss Marcus the weapon she needed.”
Jesse paused and went to the brandy cart to pour himself a glass of water. He drank deeply, and continued. “Part of Miss Marcus’s blackmail was the stipulation that Sir Randall write her into his will—generously. He was also to maintain her in a lavish lifestyle, supplying her money whenever she asked for it. What she did not know was that he attached two conditions to his will: If she were to remarry in the event of his death, or if evidence of infidelity should come to light, all monies reverted to James.”
All eyes turned toward Miss Marcus, who openly wept. “I didn’t hurt anyone . . . I swear I didn’t. . . .”
I looked away. None of this surprised me, nor did I find it particularly difficult to believe given all I had learned about Josephine Marcus. Still, I found it painful to witness the utter fall of someone I had admired only days ago.
“Oh, Josephine, how could you?” A tear trickled down Mother’s cheek. “And Niccolo? All he did was love you. He wished to marry you, and you . . .”
“He pushed too hard,” I said. When the others gazed expectantly at me, I went on. “He was running out of patience and insisting Miss Marcus reach a decision about their relationship. He must have pushed too hard and she . . . she made her decision to end it with him. To end him.”
“That isn’t true.” She turned a feral expression
on me, filled with resentment and fury. Her tears continued to fall, but to me they seemed the tears of someone who had just realized her luck had run dry. “You have no right to say such a thing. I didn’t hurt Niccolo. I didn’t hurt anyone.”
“Perhaps she knew about Randall’s stipulations.” Vasili’s knuckles whitened where he fisted them against his thighs. “She attempted to kill Niccolo because her infidelity would have disinherited her, as would their marriage.”
“Or perhaps Niccolo somehow found out about her marriage to Randall, and he threatened to make trouble for her.” My father spoke more to himself, as if trying to make sense of the details. “He might have even guessed she killed Randall.”
“I didn’t!”
Mrs. Wharton was shaking her head. “I’m finding this all too difficult to believe.”
“Thank you, Edith,” Miss Marcus said vehemently. “Thank goodness someone has faith in me.”
“I didn’t say that, Josephine. I don’t know what I believe right now.”
“Miss Marcus.” Jesse gestured her to stand. When she didn’t budge he nodded to the two policemen standing behind her chair, silent all this while. They stepped closer and from behind each grasped one of her forearms.
She flinched and tried to pull free. “Unhand me!”
“Miss Marcus—or perhaps I should call you Lady Clifford—you are under arrest for the murder of Sir Randall Clifford, and are under suspicion for the murder of Claude Baptiste and the attempted murder of Niccolo Lionetti.”
The officers tugged her to her feet, but her knees wobbled and she sagged back into the chair. Her head lolled to the side and her eyes rolled back in her head. I stood and crossed to her.
“Miss Marcus . . . Miss Marcus.” I tapped her cheek lightly with my fingertips. “Miss Marcus, wake up.”
Her eyelids fluttered a moment and then opened fully. She looked about, blinking at first, and then gave her head a shake. “Oh, I . . . I must have fallen asleep. Forgive me. I was having the most horrid dream. . . .”
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