Murder at Marble House (A Gilded Newport Mystery)

by Alyssa Maxwell

  “What if you had arrived at the beach earlier than you did?” His voice was as rough as sandpaper. “What if you had stumbled upon the killer?”

  “I had Brady with me.”

  “Hang Brady.”

  “Don’t underestimate my brother,” I said defensively into his shirt collar. He held me tighter, then slowly released me and stepped back.

  He raised a hand to cup my chin. “No one can stop you from walking into danger, can they?”

  I stared back at him. I could have said I never purposely walked into danger, but simply embarked on any task that needed doing. My cousin needed finding. I couldn’t abandon the search, not for anything. But he and I would continue to see it differently.

  “All right, then.” He dropped his hand to his side. “Come with me.”

  “Where?” I trotted to keep up as he exited through the front door and circled to the back of the property. He didn’t slow his lengthy strides until we passed the kitchen garden and stable yard, and stood on the grassy verge overlooking the water.

  With one hand he snapped open the buttons of his coat and shrugged the garment off. He tossed it to the grass a few feet away. “It’s about time someone taught you how to defend yourself.” He unknotted his tie and dropped it onto his crumpled coat.

  “What do you have in mind?” I didn’t at all care for the predatory gleam in his eye. I began backing away.

  “Flight,” he said, “is certainly a natural and legitimate response to a threat, and in all honesty the one I prefer you to choose. However, since you’ve proved stubborn time and time again, not to mention that sometimes flight isn’t an option, we need to explore other avenues. Now stop backing away.”

  “Then stop frightening me. I don’t like that look on your face.”

  “Are you a victim, Emma Cross? Is that how you see yourself?”

  I halted my retreat and drew myself up. “Certainly not.”

  “Then come at me.”

  “That won’t be fair. You’re much bigger than I am. Besides, I’ve no doubt your expensive, private school education included the sport of boxing. You’ll be far more experienced than I.”

  “You’re right on all counts. But you do have advantages over me.”

  “Such as?” I managed to stand my ground as he came closer.

  “When someone bigger than you poses a threat, you want to attack him from below. Your size will make that easier. Like this.” Grasping my shoulder, he crouched a bit and jabbed four fingers straight at my throat. I braced for the blow, but he stopped an inch or two before contact. “Thrust up and straight into that little hollow below the Adam’s apple. You try.”

  I mimicked his actions with some degree of finesse, I thought, until he scowled.

  “Don’t be afraid to hit me. You need to swing upward while spearing your hand like a bayonet. Put your strength into it.”

  “I don’t want to hurt you.”

  A glint of fondness entered his eye, then was gone. “Don’t worry, I’ll live. The important thing is for you to learn how.”

  This time when he made a grab for my shoulders, I swung my right hand upward, fingers extended, straight into his throat. He grunted, released me, and stepped sharply back.

  “Well done.” He coughed and a rusty groan escaped his lips.

  I felt a surge of triumph, tempered by a twinge of guilt. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. Next . . .”

  By the time Nanny summoned us for luncheon I’d mastered that and several other techniques. I’d learned how, whether attacked from up front or behind, to lift my foot and shove my heel directly into my assailant’s kneecap. Not an ineffectual kick with my toes, as Derrick termed it, but a blow forceful enough to break the bone and topple a man several times my size.

  Rather than slap or punch with my small hands, I learned how to stab my fingers into the soft skin underneath the jaw as well as into a person’s eye, but lest I be accused of blinding Derrick, let it be noted we sacrificed a tomato from the garden for this lesson. I learned a man’s most vulnerable points: the Adam’s apple—any blunt blow should do; the soft dimples behind the ears—I should dig inward with my thumbs; beneath the rib cage—a jab of the elbow there; the nose—an upward thrust with the heel of my hand; and . . . oh, most shocking of all, the juncture of a man’s legs.

  I balked at practicing this, insisting the knowledge would be sufficient should I need to utilize the technique. It wasn’t until a laughing Derrick revealed that all along he’d planned to substitute his open palm for his more . . . ah . . . susceptible area . . . that I agreed to slam my knee in an upward assault. He declared my efforts sound as I collapsed in an exhausted heap on the ground, and he beside me.

  “Of course, the best plan is simply to stay safe, Emma.”

  “No one is ever completely safe,” I reminded him.

  In reply he stretched out on his back beside me and stared up at fleecy clouds racing the ocean breeze. I couldn’t resist stretching out on the warm grass beside him. The sun felt heavenly on my cheeks, which heated further when Derrick caught hold of my hand. We remained silent until my thoughts returned to the reason for today’s lessons.

  “My cousin isn’t safe,” I said. “But I did promise Jesse I’d let him and his men scour the area around Second Beach for any trace of her.”

  Had I mentioned Jesse as a kind of defensive tactic, much like those Derrick had just taught me, in an effort to ward off feelings I simply wasn’t inclined to acknowledge?

  His hand stiffened around mine. “If there is anything I can do to help, just let me know.”

  I shot up to a sitting position. “Actually, there is. Why didn’t I think of it sooner?” I tugged his hand to pull him up beside me. I reached out to flick bits of grass from his tousled dark hair, until the familiarity of the act had me snatching my hand back to my lap. “Remember how you discovered that Jack Parsons owned that house on the Point? Can you find out who owns the cottages around Second Beach? It might give us a hint as to where Consuelo would be staying.”

  “I can try. It’s a lot more to research than a single house, and many of those cottages are probably leased for the summer, so it’ll take that much longer to determine the current residents’ names. But, yes, I’ll do my best.”

  It was no small task I’d assigned him. Yet the readiness with which he’d accepted took my breath away and sent me awkwardly to my feet. “It’s all right if you’re too busy. I shouldn’t encroach on your time this way. After all, none of this is your concern.”

  “I’m not too busy and I’ve made it my concern.”

  At that moment the kitchen door opened and Nanny stuck her head out. “If you two have finished waging your battles, I’ve got a hearty stew and fresh bread on the table.”

  In strained silence we made our way to the house. The conviction filled me that before we were through, there would be many more battles waged between Derrick and me.

  The cell block door shut with a clang of finality I’d never grow accustomed to, no matter how often fate sent me back to this place. The very notion of being lawfully trapped behind that door, where sunlight became no more than weak, dust-ridden shafts of illumination sifting through the high-set bars, devoid of warmth, unable to penetrate the shadows . . .

  I shivered and traversed the aisle until I reached Clara Parker’s cell, walking lightly to muffle the echo of my footsteps against the walls.

  “Who’s there?” Clara’s voice trembled like airy notes on a flute. I could just make out the angle of her cheek pressed against the bars of her cell as she attempted to peer down the aisle.

  “It’s me, Clara. Emma Cross.”

  She gave me no greeting, but waited silently for me to reach her. As always, I stood about a yard away from the cell door, conscious of the guard watching through the other side of a small square window. My only consolation was that it wasn’t Jesse who escorted me back to the cells today. He hadn’t been in the main station when I arrived, and I couldn�
��t deny my relief. With the memory of his arms around me yesterday, seeing him today would have been uncomfortable at best, downright awkward at worst.

  “How are you, Clara?” I asked when I reached the girl.

  She frowned, obviously puzzled by the question. Looking at her surroundings, I could hardly blame her. The bleak contents and clammy stone walls of her tiny cell told me she was often cold, especially at night, and that her lungs no doubt felt the claw of the dampness; that she slept little on the lumpy mattress; that she ached from inactivity; that . . . I glanced down at a hardly touched plate of some unidentifiable porridge that occupied a wooden shelf beside her cot. She was hungry. And frightened. And feeling a miserable lack of hope.

  The place reeked of mold and hopelessness, and I took shallow breaths in a selfish effort to avoid allowing that sense of despair to lodge inside me.

  How I longed to see Clara free of this place, and to give her the hope she no longer believed in. I wanted to tell her how the circumstances of Amelia Beaumont’s death would surely prove her innocence. But Jesse’s admonishments yesterday stilled my tongue. Instead, I said, “Is it all right if I ask you a couple of questions, Clara?”

  “Excuse me, miss, but what would be the use? No one but you believes I’m innocent.” She hiccupped a sob, but then swallowed and recovered with a brave and stubborn tilt of her chin. “Not even Tony. A guard told me, just yesterday, that Tony claimed I killed the medium to keep him out of trouble.”

  I gasped. “He did not!”

  “Yes, miss. He admits to the charges of ex . . . extor . . .”

  “Extortion,” I supplied.

  She nodded. “Of making people pay him to overlook their little crimes, but he’s telling anyone who’ll listen I must have taken it upon myself to kill Madame Devereaux out of love for him.”

  “Oh, that fiend.” My hands curled into fists. I suppose it shouldn’t have surprised me that a bully like Anthony Dobbs would willingly sacrifice another to save his own cowardly skin. More than ever I wanted to reassure Clara, but once again caution made me hold my tongue. “Clara,” I said as evenly as I could, “how much did you know about Lady Amelia? You served as her lady’s maid at Marble House, yes?”

  “I did, miss. She’s a beautiful lady, very genteel. And, oh, her clothes . . .”

  Clara had referred to Lady Amelia in the present tense . . . so no one had yet told her the news. “Her clothes are the finest,” I agreed, “but not of great quantity, would you say?”

  “I suppose not, but she could mix her attire and make it out she had more than she really did. Clever, that.”

  “And did she have many visitors come to see her at Marble House?”

  “None that I knew of, miss.”

  “Did she go out often?”

  “Never, miss. Except for her walks. Lady Amelia enjoys a nice long walk, mostly in the mornings, but sometimes later in the day, too, especially while Mrs. Vanderbilt is napping or working in her office.”

  “Do you know where she went? Did you ever accompany her?”

  “Never, miss, but I assumed she walked in the gardens, and maybe along the Cliff Walk. I always had other work to do when I wasn’t tending her.” Clara moved back a few steps and sank onto the end of her cot. With her hands folded in her lap, she raised her thin face to me. “Why all these questions about Lady Amelia, miss? Is it anything to do with the murder?”

  She asked that question with surprising calmness. I made sure to answer her in kind. “There may be a connection, Clara. I’m not yet certain.” I opened my purse and removed the folded handkerchief I’d placed there before I left the house. Unfolding the linen, I held it out to her. She came to her feet and moved closer to the bars separating us. “Have you ever seen this flower before?”

  Nestled in the fabric were, not the wilted petals I’d found in the pavilion, but the dried—and much more identifiable—sprig from Amelia Beaumont’s jewelry box. Clara squinted to examine it.

  “Doesn’t that grow along the cliffs, miss?”

  “It does. Do you have any idea how Lady Amelia might have come by this?”

  “Well, no . . . She wouldn’t have been able to reach any from the Cliff Walk, I don’t think. She’d have to have climbed down.” She almost smiled at that unlikely scenario.

  “Can you think of anyone who might have given her such a flower?”

  “Like . . . like a man, miss?”

  I nodded.

  “Goodness, no. Lady Amelia isn’t the sort of woman a man would give wildflowers to, is she, miss? Any proper suitor would present her with roses or violets or . . . I don’t know . . . properly cultivated flowers. Don’t you think?”

  And yet I had found this sprig of rugosa roses tucked intimately away among Amelia’s jewelry. Why?

  “Is there anything else you can tell me about her, Clara? Anything at all?”

  She scrunched up her features. “Well . . . she cried sometimes. I never actually saw it, but more than once I could tell that her eyes were red and her nose runny. When I inquired she said the ocean air bothered her, but I doubted that, miss.”

  Surely with her fading prospects Lady Amelia had reason enough to cry; that didn’t tell me anything new. I waited another minute, but when Clara had nothing more to add, I smiled sadly. “I’ll have to be going now, Clara.” Her features became pinched with what I could only call desperation. “Don’t think you’re forgotten in here. I’m working to find the real murderer and I promise, Clara, I won’t stop until I do.”

  How hollow those words must have sounded from the other side of those bars. It was a promise I’d made her previously, yet here she still was. She bowed her head and stared dejectedly at the floor. “Thank you, miss.”

  “Oh, and when I leave the guard will bring in a basket of things I brought from home. There are some sweet rolls and blackberry preserves from Nanny, a shawl from Katie, and a blanket and . . . do you read, Clara? I included a couple of books.”

  “I can a little, miss. Thank you. Thank Mrs. O’Neal, and tell Katie I said . . .” She hiccupped again. “Hello.”

  That evening, a crash followed by a shrill cry sent Brady, Nanny, and me instantly to our feet. I don’t doubt recent events had our nerves in a jumble, or we might not have had such startled reactions. As it was, we tossed down our napkins beside our half-eaten supper plates and hastened to the service hallway with no small amount of jostling once we arrived; there simply wasn’t room for all three of us to fit through the narrow doorway.

  I pushed my way through first to find Katie on her hands and knees, frantically reaching to gather up an array of forks, spoons, and dessert bowls—thankfully the little silver ones Aunt Sadie had left me—scattered across the floor. The fruit that had occupied the bowls now decorated the floorboards, slices of apples, pears, dates, and sprigs of fresh mint creating a colorful pattern among the fallen utensils.

  “Oh, miss, it’s all gone to ruin!” Sitting back on her heels, Katie pulled her apron up over her face. “You’ll turn me out for certain now!”

  Behind me Brady blew out a breath. “Good heavens, girl, it’s just spilled fruit. We thought you were being attacked.”

  He remained standing, leaning against a bank of cabinets, while Nanny and I both crouched to clean up the mess. First I pried Katie’s hands away from her face. “Brady’s right, Katie. It’s nothing.”

  “All this wasted food, miss!”

  “Never mind, girl. It happens. I’ve certainly dumped a tray or two in my lifetime.” The gentle reassurance came from Nanny, who had shown the girl great patience in the months since she had come to work for me.

  Earlier that spring Katie had been a frightened, silent shadow intent on hiding from the people and events that had caused her infinite pain: a forced liaison, an unwanted pregnancy, the loss of her previous employment. That her employers had been my Vanderbilt cousins at The Breakers was only half the reason I’d taken her in, nursed her when she lost the child, and given her a position and a
place to live. When my aunt Sadie had been alive, this house, Gull Manor, had been a refuge for any woman in need, with few to no questions asked. This, much more than the house, had become her legacy to me. Because of her and what she taught me about the need for women to help each other in any way possible, I could turn my back on neither Katie nor poor Clara.

  Katie’s wrists trembled in my grasp, and suddenly I guessed her distress hadn’t necessarily been a result of spilling the tray, but rather the cause of it. My anxiety for her rose as I considered what possible mischief she might have gotten into. “Something is terribly wrong, Katie, isn’t it? You know you can tell me anything. You can trust me.”

  To further coax her confidence I shot Brady a glance over my shoulder. He read me correctly and, pushing away from the cabinets, sauntered back to the dining room.

  I tugged Katie to her feet. “There now . . . tell Nanny and me what the matter is.”

  “Oh, I’m just . . . just . . . Well, he’s coming later to call—that’s what!”

  “Who’s coming?” Nanny and I said together.

  Katie drew in a deep breath and let it out. “Jamie Reilly,” she whispered. “Oh, but if you don’t want him here, miss, I’ll tell him—”

  After everything I’d witnessed earlier in the day, this simple return to normalcy brought a grin to my face. “Why, Katie, that’s lovely. When is he coming? You’ll need to be ready, won’t you? Come, let’s finish cleaning up our unfortunate dessert. Then we’ll go pick out a proper frock for you and dress your hair.”

  Some forty minutes later a very different Katie than the one I’d come to know stood before me. We’d chosen a gown with three-quarter sleeves, a simple scooped neckline, and a pin-tucked bodice. The pastel blue muslin brightened the clear blue of her eyes; her pink cheeks stood out prettily against her translucent skin. Always quick with her needle, Nanny tacked on a bit of pale yellow chiffon at the ends of the sleeves and used another length to make a sash. We had pinned Katie’s russet curls, usually subdued in a tight bun, into a loose twist at the back of her head that allowed spiraling tendrils to cascade between her shoulder blades.