Murder at Marble House (A Gilded Newport Mystery)

by Alyssa Maxwell

  I had a sudden insight. “Are you renting this house from Mr. Delgado?”

  “I . . .” Her gaze darted past me, then slithered warily back.

  “Yes. What of it?”

  “How do you know him?”

  “I don’t know that that’s any of your business, miss.” Again she whisked the handkerchief to her mouth and coughed, the sound like shaken gravel. I winced but tried not to show it. “Is there anything else?” she demanded.

  “There’s someone else here, isn’t there?” Seeing her bracing for a second attempt at closing the door, I came to the point. “I’m looking for Consuelo Vanderbilt. I’m told she’s been seen walking on the beach. Is she here?”

  Her eyes flashed with alarm, and though she recovered quickly, a shadow of fear continued to hover over her expression. “I’ve never heard of such a person.”

  “Now that, madam, is a lie. Of course you’ve heard of her. I don’t care how new you are to this country, because she is as famous in Europe as she is in America. Everyone has heard of Consuelo Vanderbilt. Now”—I stepped up closer, nearly wedging myself into the few inches between the door and the jamb—“is . . . she . . . here?”

  “Please—” She got no further before another coughing fit overcame her. Remorse at having overtaxed her rose up inside me and nearly had me turning about and leaving, but then the door opened wider.

  “Stop badgering Marianne, Emma. She hasn’t done anything wrong. She’s been my friend. My only friend.”

  “Consuelo.” The word slid from my lips, no more than a breath. There she was, standing right in front of me, her Angora cat, Muffy, cradled in her arms. The shock of finally seeing her, of having her within reach, rendered me otherwise speechless and immobile, as if she might flitter away at the slightest ripple of motion.

  She let out a sigh and stepped back from the threshold. “You might as well come in. I doubt you’re simply going to go away.”

  I followed her and the other woman, Marianne, into a tiny parlor. The room held a faded green sofa, a ragged easy chair, an equally shabby armchair, and a couple of side tables, all arranged around a central hearth of whitewashed brick. To the right of the fireplace an open doorway afforded glimpses of a stove and a bit of counter: the kitchen. A closed door stood off to my left, presumably a bedroom.

  As if she presided over the tiny cottage, Consuelo gestured me to sit on the sofa. She took the easy chair and settled a purring Muffy in her lap. Marianne lowered herself slowly into the armchair, her effort obvious in how tightly she gripped the arms.

  Consuelo wore a simple morning gown of coral muslin and no adornments save a single pearl that hung from a gold chain around her neck, a gift I knew to be from her father. Her hair had been braided and coiled at her nape. She sat with her back straight, her lovely neck leaning slightly forward as she regarded me with raised eyebrows, her expression halfway between resignation and amusement. Even in plain muslin, she looked regal, serene—and impossibly at odds with her surroundings. The dress was vaguely familiar to me, and I realized that when I had checked her dressing room for missing clothing I had only considered the more sumptuous items of her wardrobe, the gowns I’d grown used to seeing her in.

  Simple attire, this shabby cottage . . . My confused mind grasped on to a single question. “What are you doing here?”

  She smiled—almost. “Not marrying the Duke of Marlborough.”

  Did I hear blame in her words? “But what will you do? Where will you go?”

  “The world is a big place, Emma.”

  That sent me to my feet. “No, it isn’t. Not for you. Where can you go where no one will recognize you?”

  “After a time, that won’t matter anymore.”

  “What do you mean?” Her gaze shifted briefly to the other woman and I, too, looked at Marianne. My next words were addressed to the ailing Englishwoman. “What part are you playing in this? Have you convinced my cousin you can help her? For what price?”

  She shrank deeper into her chair. It was Consuelo who spoke. “Leave Marianne alone, Emma. She has nothing to do with any of this.”

  “Then who is she?” I shot back.

  Consuelo smiled. “My soon-to-be sister-in-law.”

  My heart ricocheted inside me. “Whom are you marrying?”

  “That’s none of your business, for I know you’ll only run home to tell Mama. Suffice it to say I am in love and I am going to be married, and no one, not even you, can stop me.”

  “Oh, Consuelo . . . surely you haven’t . . . please say he hasn’t . . .”

  She raised her chin. “Defiled me?”

  Those words coming out of her mouth shocked me nearly as much as the thought of such a thing happening to my beautiful, sheltered cousin. I nodded, my blood freezing in my veins as I awaited her answer.

  “No.”

  The breath and nearly all the energy I possessed rushed out of me. My limbs felt weak, yet I didn’t seek the support of the sofa. No, I remained standing, gazing down at my cousin’s defiant face. My instinct was to grab her by the scruff of the neck and drag her home, to end this unsettling chapter in the lives of everyone concerned.

  And yet . . .

  What if she really had found love with an honorable man? What if happiness awaited her, and all she need do was leave this island—and yes, everything she had known until now—and live a simple, honest life with a straightforward, unpretentious man, a life wherein they answered to no one but each other.

  Did I or anyone have the right to deny her this? Did being born a Vanderbilt have to mean her destiny was predetermined?

  Didn’t that contradict everything I believed in?

  Still, I needed to be sure she fully comprehended what was at stake: everything she’d leave behind, as well as the struggles she’d likely face.

  “This man . . . it’s not Winty, is it?”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Emma! Winty? Really. As if I would ever give him a second chance.”

  “Then won’t you please tell me who this man is?”

  She combed her fingers through Muffy’s wispy fur. “No, Emma. Not yet, anyway. You won’t approve—no one will—but once we’re married you’ll see he is the right man for me.”

  At that moment a little brass mantel clock chimed the half hour. I’d been here more than the agreed-upon twenty minutes. Where was Derrick? I couldn’t help a quick glance out the front windows—would I see him lurking among the trees? Perhaps he was watching the cottage but allowing me the time I needed to talk to my cousin.

  I was beginning to doubt my ability to persuade her to do anything, much less return home.

  With a cough, Marianne struggled to her feet and spoke for the first time since we’d entered the cottage. “Where are my manners? Shall I make tea?”

  Consuelo quickly stood, bending to allow Muffy to leap with a gentle thud to the floor. “No, you sit, Marianne. I’ll make the tea.” Placing a hand on the woman’s shoulder, she coaxed her back into the chair. I followed Consuelo into the kitchen, hoping appropriate words would magically pop into my head.

  As I stepped through the doorway I stopped short, caught by the sight of what sat in the middle of the battered oaken table.

  A bowl of bright pink flowers with golden centers . . . Rugosa roses.

  Consuelo had been talking to me, her words gone unheard by my ears. Now she fell silent, holding the tea kettle in midair between the stove and the water pump.

  “Emma? What’s wrong? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

  I pointed a shaking finger. “Where . . . where did you get those?”

  “Oh, those are nothing special . . . yet so much more special than anything Mama has cultivated in her gardens or the hothouse. Don’t you think they’re lovely?”

  “Damn it, Consuelo!” My swearing seized her attention and she flinched. “Where did those come from?”

  “The cliffs.” She looked at me askance, as if I’d suddenly grown horns. “From Forty Steps. Why?”


  I drew up with a gasp. Of course. Forty Steps, the wooden staircase that spanned the cliff face a bit north of Marble House . . . the very place where servants often gathered to sing songs, trade gossip, and enjoy their occasional time off. All anyone would have to do was lean over the railing and those flowers would be within reach.

  I’d been right. Good heavens—the flower was the key, always present, a seemingly innocent, yet insidious connection between the victims, connecting everything and everyone. Rugosa roses . . . in the pavilion, in Lady Amelia’s jewelry box . . . and at Forty Steps, where the servants went. Where Katie sometimes went.

  Where the murderer had gone as well.

  Understanding flooded me, turning my knees to water. I gripped the back of a kitchen chair as a whistled song drifted from somewhere beyond the open windows.

  “Who is that?” I demanded. But I knew. I knew. “Consuelo, quickly! We must—”

  “Oh, he’s home early again,” she interrupted before setting the kettle back on the stove and breezing past me into the parlor.

  Chapter 18

  With a sense of horror I watched my cousin throw herself into a pair of outstretched arms . . . arms covered in rough-woven cotton.

  “No work again this afternoon,” I heard a male voice say through the blood roaring in my ears.

  “Yes, but in a way I’m glad,” my cousin replied. “You won’t work for Mama much longer anyway.”

  Oh, God . . . this can’t be happening. “Consuelo,” I shouted, yet the sound of it seemed muffled and far away, as if I watched from some great distance as another Emma Cross attempted to stave off disaster. “Get away from him. He’s dangerous. Don’t you see? It’s him. The man who murdered Madame Devereaux.”

  Jamie Reilly’s arms fell slowly from around Consuelo and she turned to face me. Not the slightest alarm marred her calm expression. “Emma, don’t be silly. Jamie had nothing to do with that. When I saw my opportunity to escape Mama’s plans for me, he came to my aid.”

  “No, Consuelo. Oh, please, no. You must see. He’s used you.” Dizziness washed over me, making the room spin slowly and my thoughts swirl inside my head. I struggled to make sense of them, to push them past my lips. “You’re not safe . . . none of us are safe.”

  A coughing fit behind me reminded me of Marianne’s presence. What had Consuelo called her? I struggled to remember. Soon-to-be sister-in-law. Wobbly, I cast a glance over my shoulder at her. “You’re his sister.”

  The woman gave a half nod. I turned back to the man standing far too close to my cousin. “You . . . you’re not Irish at all. If she is your sister, then you’ve been faking an Irish accent all along. Who are you? What are you?”

  He’d already removed his cap. Now he tossed it onto one of the side tables and made a mocking little bow. “James Reid, at your service, miss.”

  The brogue was gone, replaced by a provincial but quite English inflection—like his sister’s.

  “He needed to pretend,” Consuelo said defensively, “in order to find work.”

  “In order to trick Katie into helping him,” I amended. “First Katie and then me. Consuelo, he came to call on her just the other night. They—”

  “Oh, stop it, Emma. Don’t make up lies to persuade me to go home. You’re wasting your breath.”

  “It’s no lie, Consuelo.” I shifted my gaze to James Reid. “Tell her.”

  “Tell her what?” He stuffed his hands into his trouser pockets and shrugged.

  “Tell her you’ve been using her,” I said. “That you’ve been courting Katie and dallying with Lady Amelia. And that you murdered her, too,” I whispered. “On Second Beach.”

  “Emma! How can you say such a thing?” But even as Consuelo spoke, Marianne cried out, then fell to coughing so violently the other three of us instinctively surrounded her chair. Consuelo knelt before her. I hovered to one side. James gripped one arm of the chair and bent down low to speak words I couldn’t hear. Then Consuelo ordered, “Get her some water.”

  James Reid straightened and disappeared into the kitchen.

  “Consuelo, quickly,” I said, “let’s go.”

  “I’m not going anywhere.” Gently she took the handkerchief from Marianne’s trembling hand and dabbed specks of blood away from the corners of the woman’s mouth.

  “Consuelo, he’s a murderer!” I said in an urgent whisper.

  “No, Emma . . .”

  “Yes!” Marianne rasped. “Go.”

  Consuelo went still. “What?”

  “Go.” Marianne’s chest heaved, and with a mighty cough she seemed to clear some of the congestion away, enough to speak more than one word at a time. “I don’t know if what this woman says is true, but—oh, Consuelo, forgive me! I thought perhaps he’d changed. That perhaps you’d helped him alter his ways. But trouble follows him—no, no, that isn’t true.” She broke off and twisted round to dart a glance into the kitchen, then turned back. “He makes trouble. He is trouble.”

  “Shut up, Marianne.” James appeared in the doorway, holding a glass of water. Slowly he crossed the room, looked down at his sister, and raised the glass to his own lips to drink.

  “Jamie!” Consuelo snapped to her feet. “Don’t be cruel. I don’t know what Marianne means, but you mustn’t be unkind.” Her hands went to her hips. “Now, what is this about Lady Amelia and Emma’s maid?”

  I stepped between them and gripped Consuelo’s hands. “I found petals of rugosa roses in the pavilion the day after Madame Devereaux was murdered.”

  “So—”

  “Listen to me! The day Lady Amelia died, I discovered a sprig of the very same flower tucked away in her jewelry box— her jewelry box, Consuelo. You know that means something significant. And now, today, here is the same flower in a bowl in this very cottage.”

  Consuelo was shaking her head, but more and more slowly, and I could see my words—and Marianne’s—were having their effect on her.

  “When he called on Katie,” I continued, “he upset her terribly. She wouldn’t even talk about it afterward.”

  “Money,” Marianne said, the word sounding like a moan.

  “Katie has no money,” I retorted, incredulous.

  “No, not Katie’s money,” the woman replied. “Yours. He wanted her to try to get some from you.”

  “Get some from me how?”

  “Any way she could,” Marianne said. “Either by stealing it from wherever you kept it in your house or by persuading you to extend her . . . a loan, he called it. But in my heart I knew he’d no intention of ever paying it back.”

  Consuelo pulled her hands free of mine and glared down at the woman. “You knew about this?”

  Marianne looked away and nodded once.

  “And the rest?” Consuelo’s voice rose, cracking slightly. “Is my cousin correct? Did Jamie . . .”

  Marianne shook her head. “I don’t know. . . .”

  The horror running through me now filled my cousin’s eyes. She spun about to confront James. “Is it true?”

  He held out a hand. “Darlin’, you can’t believe any of this. Surely—”

  “Drop that Irish brogue,” I told him in disgust.

  “Is it true?” Consuelo’s shout filled the little room.

  He shoved me out of the way and in a stride was before her. He seized her wrist and tugged her closer. “Darlin’, I’ll take care of her. She won’t go telling anyone her lies. I’ll help you get away and then we’ll be together, as we planned. Think of it, Consuelo. We’ll find a little house somewhere far away from here. Down south, or out west where we can be free. Where your mother will never find you.”

  “Let me go.” Consuelo tugged free and stumbled backward, nearly falling before catching her balance on the back of the sofa. Hatred robbed her face of a portion of its beauty as she regarded him. “Why?”

  A world of accusation filled her single-worded question, and his expression changed from one of supplication to shaking fury. “Damn your meddling soul, Emma Cross.�
� Then, to Consuelo, “We might have been happy. Remember, this is her doing, not mine.”

  Did he truly believe that? Had he hoped that by marrying Consuelo he would one day acquire a piece of the Vanderbilt fortune, perhaps when one or both of her parents had relented—or died? Those questions stuck in my throat as once again I wondered what was keeping Derrick. Fear for him crept up my spine, for I knew, as surely as I knew my own name, that nothing but foul play could have delayed him. Had James come upon him as he’d made his way toward the cottage?

  Again, the questions stuck in my throat. If Derrick had a plan, I could foil it by bringing attention to his proximity to the cottage.

  James’s assertion had rendered the rest of us mute. No one spoke, no one moved, until he suddenly strode to the closed door on the far end of the room—the one I’d assumed led to a bedroom—and swung it so wide it hit the wall. As soon as he disappeared inside I moved to Consuelo and took her hand.

  “Come. Now is our chance to get away.” I cast a glance at Marianne; would she betray us? Then I glanced around for Muffy. Consuelo would never leave her pet behind, but I didn’t see the animal anywhere.

  In the next instant James stepped back in the parlor, holding an object that turned my blood to ice. A wooden barrel rested in the crook of his right elbow, his fingers curled around a trigger, his left hand aiming the long end of the weapon directly at me. At first my mind conjured a rifle, but soon the barbed, steel shaft protruding from the wood identified the piece as a harpoon. A single shot, but deadly.

  Perhaps he recognized my realization that he’d have only one chance to kill me, for he shifted his aim to Consuelo.

  “No!” I bounded toward him but stopped short. My sudden movements might cause his fingers to twitch against the trigger. I held out my hands. “All right. What do you want?”

  His sister spoke up first. “Tell them, James. They at least have the right to know the truth.”

  He shrugged. “Perhaps you’re right, Marianne. Surely Consuelo will understand once she learns what happened to us.” To my dismay his hold on the harpoon didn’t slacken. But then, neither would my scrutiny. I vowed not to take my eyes off him, to seize any advantage should one arise. “Our story begins in England, in Oxfordshire, at Blenheim Palace.”