Murder at Rough Point

by Alyssa Maxwell

  I straightened and looked down at her. “It was no dream, Miss Marcus. We know who you are, what you have done, and you are under arrest.” With that I stood aside to allow Jesse and his men to once more raise her to her feet. She swayed again but this time the officers maintained a better hold on her.

  “This way, love,” Officer Eubanks said.

  “No . . . please!” The officers were already conveying her—half walking and half dragging her—out of the room and into the Great Hall. “Edith, Beatrice, help me. Surely you cannot believe this.” She craned her neck to peer over her shoulder just in time to see my mother and Mrs. Wharton stare down at their hands. Miss Marcus’s features twisted. “You cannot do this to me. I am Josephine Marcus. Damn you all, I am Josephine Marcus!”

  Her pleas, alternating with oaths, echoed in the Great Hall, only growing fainter as they apparently reached the front hall and vestibule. Mother pressed her hands to her ears to block out the sound and wept. My father, Vasili, and even Uncle Frederick studied their shoes as if ashamed by what had just occurred. Jesse signaled to me, and I followed him into the Great Hall.

  “I’ll need that cigarette stub you found on the lawn,” he said, and kept walking. I trotted to keep up and climbed the stairs beside him.

  “So you were right that whoever killed Claude wouldn’t have needed a great deal of strength. But such was not the case with Niccolo, was it?”

  “That’s right. Gloves or no, Miss Marcus obviously doesn’t possess enough strength in her hands to complete the job. She rendered Signore Lionetti unconscious and injured his neck, but hadn’t tightened the instrument’s string enough to prevent air from entering his lungs once she let go.”

  We paused on the half landing. “What if he never regains consciousness?”

  He drew a breath. “I’ve seen it before, where oxygen deprivation led to permanent coma and eventual death. In which case, there will be a third murder charge against her. But the fact that the attempt failed reassures me that we’ve caught our culprit. A man would most likely have been successful.”

  We resumed our climb, and at the top turned and crossed the gallery to the north wing. I trailed Jesse into Miss Marcus’s bedroom. He began opening drawers.

  “What are you looking for?”

  “These.” He pulled a stack of gloves from one of the top drawers in the bureau and waved them in the air.

  He spread them out on the bed and I moved closer to examine them. I traced my finger over a delicate lace mitt. “None of these would have protected her hands from the friction of that string.”

  “What about these?” He chose a tan kid glove that buttoned up the side and would have reached mid-forearm.

  I studied the smooth leather and shook my head. “Not thick enough. Besides, there’s barely a sign of wear, much less evidence of handling a coarse metal wire. She probably dispensed with whatever gloves she used. Perhaps she found a pair of work gloves somewhere in the servants’ domains.”

  Jesse frowned, obviously not convinced. “I’m taking them into evidence anyway. I’ll have to question the staff if they ever saw Miss Marcus in that part of the house. With the way the kitchen is positioned, it would have been difficult for anyone to slip by Mrs. Harris unnoticed.”

  Minutes later I retrieved the cigarette stub Mrs. Wharton and I had discovered beyond the kitchen garden. It had dried to a brittle morsel, the bits of remaining tobacco threatening to scatter on the slightest whiff of air. I returned to Jesse, waiting in the corridor, and handed it to him in the tea leaf tin in which I had stored it. “All this does is suggest whoever killed Sir Randall might have smoked a cigarette along the way.”

  “Yes, but doesn’t Miss Marcus indulge in the nasty habit? I look at this as one more link in the overall chain of evidence.” He smiled. “I’m terribly glad you don’t smoke, Emma.”

  I wrinkled my nose. “I find nothing appealing in deliberately drawing smoke into one’s lungs.” Indeed, I had come very near to suffering the dangerous effects of smoke inhalation during the summer, and I had no desire to ever revisit the sensation.

  After Jesse left Rough Point an uneasy sensation settled over me. It’s not that I had any reason to doubt Miss Marcus’s guilt. Every bit of evidence pointed in her direction, including her own words and actions here at Rough Point, and before. I didn’t doubt she took advantage of Sir Randall’s affections, not to mention an elderly man’s loneliness, to corner him into an ill-advised marriage. I didn’t doubt that money constituted her entire motive for doing so.

  And yet, doubts, of an inexplicable and ungraspable nature, continued to plague me throughout the rest of the day.

  When I returned to the drawing room after seeing Jesse off, the others were discussing their immediate plans. While the storm showed signs of finally moving away, the rain continued. As Jesse had pointed out, there was no longer any reason for a hasty departure from Rough Point.

  “We’ll decide what we’re going to do tomorrow,” my father said from his place on the sofa beside my mother. “If that is agreeable to you, Frederick.”

  My uncle conceded with a nod. “I’m just relieved this matter has been resolved. To think of such an act committed in my own house. I’d like to unload this place as soon as possible.” He eyed the group ranged around the room. “I don’t suppose there are any takers among you? I’ll offer a good price.”

  It was all I could do to school the disapproval from my expression. How could my uncle worry about the sale of his house in the face of these dreadful events, and hope to sell Rough Point to the very people who would most wish never to see this house again?

  My other instinct, however, was to laugh at the irony of his suggestion. My father, as an artist, could barely afford to keep a roof over his and my mother’s heads. I was quite certain Vasili, no matter how talented a dancer, had never made anything approaching a fortune even at the height of his career. That left Mrs. Wharton, who certainly could have afforded Rough Point, but who already owned a home in Newport, nearby Land’s End.

  I might have exercised restraint in reacting to Uncle Frederick’s thoughtlessness, but the others didn’t. A chorus of groans broke out, and my uncle sighed sheepishly. “I thought not.”

  “I still can’t believe Josephine did all these horrible things.” Mother slipped her hand around my father’s arm and he patted it absently. “I would never have suspected such a thing.”

  Mrs. Wharton was nodding her agreement. “I can’t believe it either. Josephine is many things, and not all of them pleasant, but a murderess? I feel as though I’ll never trust my judgment when it comes to people again.”

  “There is so much evidence against her, it cannot be otherwise.” Vasili eyed the brandy cart. His fingertips shook.

  “I wish Randall had confided in us.” Mrs. Wharton got to her feet and began pacing, as I had observed her doing previously in times of stress. “Why didn’t he? Josephine clearly took advantage of him and made him very unhappy.”

  “He was ashamed, obviously,” my father said. “What man wouldn’t be, under the circumstances?”

  “Jesse said his son would have been humiliated by the marriage,” my mother pointed out. “Randall hid the truth for James’s sake.”

  “Yes, but from us?” Mrs. Wharton looked less than satisfied. “We would have kept his secret, he had to know that.”

  Vasili’s head reared up, and he seethed in Mrs. Wharton’s direction. “What difference does it make? He told us, he didn’t tell us. Either way he is dead. Claude is dead. And Niccolo—we don’t yet know, do we? The past means nothing now. There is only the future, without our friends.”

  Mrs. Wharton abruptly ceased her pacing, held immobile by Vasili’s ire. “I’m sorry,” she said miserably. “You are right. It is just that . . . something about this simply doesn’t feel resolved. I don’t know. . . .”

  I felt the same, and like her I could not explain my reservations.

  * * *

  In the middle of the nigh
t, I came fully awake and stared into the near blackness of my room. A certainty beat through me with the rhythm of my racing pulse as images tumbled through my mind. The cigarette stub, the damaged cello—circumstantial evidence that, when taken alone, proved nothing, but when placed beside Miss Marcus’s words and deeds, became damning. Or were we merely seeing what we wanted to see on the surface, without digging deeper to get at the truth?

  Josephine and cigarettes . . . Josephine and Niccolo’s cello, created by a master . . . Claude and the rug in his bedroom. Something about each of the scenarios involving all three deaths struck me as wrong. All, all wrong.

  At the foot of my bed, Patch stirred and then crawled up the mattress until his moist nose nudged my chin. A low whimper begged the question: Is something wrong?

  “Yes, dear Patch, something is.” With one hand settling on his warm neck, I wriggled my legs free of the covers and sat up. “Come on, boy.”

  I made my way downstairs, using the scant glow from a moon obscured by clouds to guide me. Rain pattered at the windows, no longer relentless but steady nonetheless. The house was silent but for the ticking of numerous clocks, a sound that went unnoticed by day but now seemed deafening to my ears. At the bottom of the stairs I paused to listen for any sound not made by nature or mechanics. A footstep . . . a breath . . . I needn’t have worried. Patch waited patiently beside me. Had I not been alone in this part of the house he would have alerted me immediately.

  Quickly I traversed the distance through the dining room to my uncle’s office, all the while praying the repaired telephone lines had held. My hopes were rewarded, and the night operator put through my call. The ear trumpet reverberated with the ringing on the other end . . . ringing and ringing, until losing hope, I very nearly ended the call. But I heard a click and then a voice, heavy with sleep and edged with no small measure of irritation.

  “This had better be important.”

  “Jesse?”

  “Emma?” His tone altered immediately. He sounded fully awake and doubly anxious. “Emma, what is it? Do you need me out there? I never should have left you there—”

  “I’m all right, Jesse. Please, just listen. Miss Marcus is innocent.”

  “What are you talking about? You heard the evidence. She had motive aplenty and more than enough opportunity. Unless you’ve discovered evidence pointing at someone else . . .”

  “No, it isn’t that. I don’t know who did it, I only know who didn’t. Please, can you come here first thing in the morning?”

  “I’m supposed to present our evidence to the prosecutor in the morning.”

  “But Miss Marcus is innocent. Please, come here first. It doesn’t matter how early it is. I’ll make sure everyone is up. What I have to say is best said before the others. I believe once they hear, they will agree with me, and so will you.”

  Jesse’s exasperation was palpable across the wires. I could almost see him pressing his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose and shaking his head.

  “Can’t you just tell me now, as long as you woke me up?”

  I wouldn’t back down. This was too important. “It would be better to tell you in person, and with the others present.”

  He made no attempt to stifle a sigh of impatience. “All right, I’ll be there at seven thirty sharp. See that everyone is awake and assembled. And this is assuming the rain doesn’t worsen in the meantime.”

  The reminder of the dangers of traveling, of asking him to brave the mud of Bellevue Avenue once again, produced a pang of guilt. If anything happened to him I would never forgive myself, but if a woman went to prison or worse, was hanged for a crime she didn’t commit, and I might have prevented it, I would never forgive myself either.

  “Thank you, Jesse. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Emma,” he called out to prevent me from hanging up. “Assuming Miss Marcus is innocent, then you’re not safe there. Please, go back to your room and lock your door. Is Patch with you?”

  I smiled down at the dark and light figure lying comfortably at my feet. “He is, and he’s completely relaxed at the moment, meaning there is no immediate threat. But yes, I’ll return to my room now and lock my door. Good night, Jesse.”

  Patch and I hurried back upstairs, but once there I found the prospect of sleep daunting. I dozed, but got very little true sleep in the ensuing hours. In fact, I found myself envying Patch’s deep slumber, evidenced by his steady breathing, occasional twitches, and sweet little snorts. I, on the other hand, turned my theory over and over in my mind while wondering if I had taken leave of my senses or allowed my idealistic fancies to color my judgment.

  Before dawn I crawled out of bed and dressed. Doubts once more crowded my resolve, but I could not discount even the most outlandish notion if a shred of possibility existed. I knocked on Mrs. Wharton’s door. She surprised me by answering almost immediately, as if she had awaited my summons. In a hastily donned robe and a mussed braid falling over one shoulder, she squinted out at me. “Emma?” Her features scrunched in bewilderment, but in the next instant her gaze became alert. “Dear heavens, what has happened?”

  “Nothing,” I hastened to say. “Except that I don’t believe Miss Marcus is guilty, and I can tell you why. Please get dressed. Jesse will be here in a little while.”

  “But . . .”

  I was already on my way back into the servants’ wing to my parents’ room, where I repeated my message, told them their questions would be answered shortly, and doubled back into the main corridor toward Vasili’s room. A faint glow kissed the watery horizon beyond the Great Hall windows, but shadows draped the gallery, so that I felt rather than saw my way across.

  At the other end I knocked softly on Vasili’s bedroom door, waited, knocked again. Finally, I tried the knob and it turned in my hand. My first thought was that Vasili had neglected to lock his door, but since he and the others believed in Miss Marcus’s guilt, he would have seen no reason to continue locking himself in at night. I opened the door and stepped in.

  He lay sprawled on his back on top of a tangle of covers. I hesitated, thinking I should have my father wake him. But I needed everyone up and dressed by the time Jesse arrived if we were to have ample time before his meeting with the prosecutor. With that in mind, I crossed the room.

  “Mr. Pavlenko.”

  Nothing. I tried several more times before reverting to his given name, loudly and inches from his ear. That produced a groan. I tried again, this time adding a firm nudge to his shoulder. He rolled to his side facing away from me. “Whoever you are, get out.” One of his unintelligible oaths completed the command.

  “Vasili, you must get up. Detective Whyte will be here in a little while, and you’ll be needed downstairs.”

  He turned slightly, so I could see his pale cheek and his sunken right eye. “Why needed downstairs? He is accusing me now?”

  “No, not at all.” I stopped. If indeed Miss Marcus proved innocent, I might very well be coaxing a murderer from his bed. The day Claude Baptiste was killed, Vasili hadn’t been with the rest of us in Miss Marcus’s bathroom. He had been in his own room after spending time with Monsieur Baptiste in the upper sitting room—or so he had said. “There is new evidence about Miss Marcus.”

  “She is the killer.”

  “No, I don’t believe so.” I tugged his wrist until he rolled onto his back again. He threw an arm across his eyes and groaned louder than before.

  “My head . . . it is exploding.”

  “Yes, well, that’s your own fault. Please get changed—” I broke off as I acknowledged that he was already dressed, albeit in yesterday’s clothes. “Or don’t, as it pleases you. But be downstairs in half an hour. I’ll make sure Mrs. Harris has plenty of strong coffee waiting for you. If you’re not down, I’ll have to send Detective Whyte up.”

  His guttural cursing followed me out the door.

  Chapter 17

  Mrs. Harris provided us with another simple breakfast of toast and eggs, along
with that promised coffee. I had left Patch in her charge, since I couldn’t always depend on him to behave in any given situation. Little conversation broke the monotony of the repast, while more than a few puzzled and annoyed looks were sent my way. The latter mostly came from Vasili, who sat with his head cradled in one hand while he nibbled on dry toast and gulped hot coffee until I was certain he’d scalded his throat.

  Jesse arrived at seven thirty sharp, bringing with him Uncle Frederick who had opted not to stay overnight at Rough Point. Sir Randall had been assigned Uncle Frederick’s room, and the latter decided he had no wish to sleep in a bed last inhabited by a dead man. I had tried reasoning with him that Sir Randall hadn’t died in the house, much less in the bed, but Uncle Frederick would hear none of it.

  “More than ever I wish to take my leave of this place and never return,” he told me yesterday before accompanying Jesse back to town. “Louise is quite correct. There is a troubled spirit at work in this corner of the island—a mariner who met with a violent end, perhaps—and I’ll never rest easy here again.”

  Normally I considered superstition nothing more than hokum, but even I couldn’t deny a sense that some dark force had descended on the property. And in a matter of moments I would plunge our remaining group back into a state of uncertainty and danger.

  “All right, Emma, I’m here, and I’ve brought Mr. Vanderbilt at his insistence,” Jesse said, dispensing with greetings and pleasantries. He removed his bowler and shrugged out of his overcoat, both misted to a light sheen from what had tapered to a drizzle outside. Uncle Frederick passed by him and without a word took a seat near the head of the table. “Now will you tell me what this is all about?”

  “Would you like any breakfast?” I asked first.

  My uncle shook his head and Jesse sent me a stare that held impatience and incredulity in equal measure. I pushed away from the table and stood. “Shall we adjourn to the drawing room?”

  “No.” Vasili lifted his head from his hand. “I am not moving again, unless it is to crawl back to my bed. You will speak here and make it quick.”