Murder at Rough Point (11 page)

“Arthur, you shouldn't speak so in front of Emma.”

“Mother, please.” I couldn't help rolling my eyes. “Father, go on.”

“We contrived for Randall to tell Leclair the painting was a lost work by Édouard Manet, an earlier version of his
Luncheon on the Grass
. Randall claimed he'd made the purchase from an anonymous seller, and that he was trusting Leclair to remain silent on the matter. Of course we knew he wouldn't.”

I held up a hand. “Stop. I hear what you're saying. ‘Contrived' and ‘Randall claimed.' What was the truth about this painting?”

My parents traded glances. The silence grew heavy. As I was about to lose patience, Father said, “I painted it.”

“What? Whatever do you mean,
you
painted it?”

“Darling, as your father said, he and Randall wanted to teach that awful man a lesson.”

“And that lesson was what?” I tossed up my hands. “That Father is a competent art forger?”

“Well . . . yes, in a way,” he said, far too calmly for my liking. “You see, we guessed Leclair would privately boast to his acquaintances and fellow art critics that he had verified a rare find, this so-called missing Manet. Once we let him brag a bit, we intended to admit our hoax, thus humiliating Leclair and exposing him for the ignorant fraud he is. Unfortunately. . .”

In the ensuing pause, Mother let out a moan that made me dread hearing the rest. I steeled myself, and demanded, “What happened next?”

“We never saw it coming, Emmaline. . . .”

“Indeed not, how could your father have anticipated such a thing?”

“What
thing
? If one of you doesn't finish this story, I swear I'll . . .” I paused for lack of an appropriate consequence. What
would
I do? These were my parents, after all. I settled for an idle threat. “I'll run this story in the
Observer.
”

My mother gasped. “Emma, you wouldn't dare.”

“Of course she wouldn't, Beatrice.” Father raked his fingers through his hair. “What we hadn't realized was that Leclair was a criminal. Less than two weeks later, the painting was stolen right out of Randall's front parlor. Leclair had to have set it up, for he knew when the house would be empty. But that's not the worst of it. Whoever the thieves are, they apparently sold the painting on the black market. And whoever purchased it discovered the truth, albeit too late to cancel the transaction.”

“If only they had consulted a competent expert beforehand, all this might have been avoided,” Mother put in.

My father continued as if she hadn't interrupted. “The next thing we knew, Leclair disappeared, and threatening letters started showing up on Randall's doorstep. The buyer believed he and Leclair had worked together, and he wanted immediate recompense, one way or another, or he would expose Randall to the authorities as a fraud and a thief.”

“But how could this person who deals in the black market expose Sir Randall without exposing himself?” I demanded to know.

“If he is someone of wealth and influence, as he most assuredly is, he need not fear the authorities,” my father replied.

Yes, I understood that. My Vanderbilt relatives were not above dictating terms to police and lawmakers when they deemed it necessary. “What about this Leclair person? You said he disappeared. Do you know where he is now?”

Mother and Father traded ominous glances. Mother looked away, her bottom lip quivering. My father's shoulders bunched. “He's dead, Emmaline, in a so-called coaching accident.”

An ill sensation gathered in the pit of my stomach. “Surely the buyer didn't . . . wouldn't have . . .”

“Emmaline, this is someone who deals in the black market. He's as much a criminal as the thieves who stole the painting. More so, in fact. He'll have resources and ways of exacting his revenge without ever dirtying his hands.”

I let my head fall into my hands and curled my fingers into my hair. “You didn't think this was important enough to mention to Jesse yesterday?” I raised my face again. “Mother, Father, what were you thinking? Who else in your group knows about this?”

“No one,” my mother said quickly. “I don't think anyone else knows.”

“You don't
think
?” I raised my eyebrows at her, incredulous.

“None of the others here know,” Father said with more conviction. “And no one outside the group knows we're here. We put out that Randall was returning to England and that your mother and I would be joining him there.”

“It would be easy enough for someone to verify that,” I pointed out. “Don't you realize you might have been followed here, and Sir Randall—”

“He jumped, Emmaline,” my father said tersely. Tears gathered in my mother's eyes and her lips quivered. “The distress of everything that happened—his poor reviews, the hoax, Leclair's death—it all became too much for him. He—”

All pretense of calm forgotten, my father broke off and compressed his lips. A tear rolled down my mother's cheek. “We should have realized how distraught he'd become,” she said. “We let our friend down, and now he's . . .” A sob slipped out. “Oh, Arthur, how could we?”

How could they indeed? Judging them would serve no purpose, yet suddenly my brother Brady's antics in recent years began to make sense, if this was the kind of example my parents had set early on. I was finding it harder and harder to believe Sir Randall's death had been self-inflicted, however much I wanted to believe it, considering the alternative.

“Do the art thieves or the individual who bought the painting know who painted it?”

My father shrugged, shook his head. “I wouldn't think so. Randall surely wouldn't have given me up like that.”

“Let's hope not,” I said wearily. “Wait one minute. You didn't want me staying here for a reason.” I narrowed my eyes at both my parents. “You aren't any more convinced Sir Randall's death was a suicide than I am. Or than Jesse is.”

“Jesse suspects . . . ?” My mother trailed off and looked away.

“What makes you say that?” My father raised his chin to me. “He didn't express any such suspicions yesterday.”

“I know,” I said simply, remembering the look Jesse had sent me right before he left the dining room. Speculation became rife in both my parents' gazes, but I offered no other explanation.

Finally, Father said, “He's wrong. And the reason we were opposed to you staying here—” He paused and addressed my mother. “We
were
opposed, and we might as well admit it. Our daughter is no dunce.” He looked back at me. “We feared Randall would tell you too much, and you with your reporter's instinct for details would hound us until the whole truth came out.”

I bit down against a sudden pang. Here I had thought perhaps my parents had feared for my welfare if the art buyer
had
followed them to Newport. But no, their concerns had been for themselves, for saving face in front of their daughter. Determined not to show my disappointment, I drew myself up and swallowed a sense of bitterness. “Well, for all your efforts, the whole truth has come out, hasn't it?” I scowled. “Or is there more?”

“No, that's the whole of it,” my mother said quickly.

“I'm going down to telephone Jesse.” I turned about and started for the door. My mother called out my name in a plea I didn't heed.

* * *

I put in my call, yet found myself somehow tongue-tied when Jesse came on the line. I knew I needed to inform him of this new information, but my father's prank, I found, smoldered like an ember of shame inside me. I told myself the telephone was not the proper forum by which to divulge such information, that Jesse, as a longtime family friend, deserved to hear of this matter in person and have the chance to question my father firsthand. It was an excuse, of course. I simply wasn't ready to speak the words out loud. So instead I asked Jesse if the coroner had discovered anything about Sir Randall's head wounds.

“I'm afraid the results are inconclusive and destined to remain that way,” he replied. “There simply isn't any clear evidence that the injuries might have been caused by anything other than the cliff face.”

“I feared that might be the case. But Jesse, do
you
believe Sir Randall committed suicide?”

“Do you?” he countered.

I shook my head, then said out loud, “Not entirely, no. I have a nagging sensation that won't go away. I'd spoken with Sir Randall that afternoon, and he didn't talk like a man intent on dying. In fact, the last time I saw him he seemed greatly encouraged. Of course, I didn't know him well enough to be certain of that.”

“There is something about these artists that leaves me uneasy, Emma,” he said at length.

My father's confession prodded again, and again I persuaded myself to wait until I saw Jesse in person to explain to him about the hoax. But I agreed with him—all was not right when it came to this incongruent group of friends.

“I'd prefer it if you'd let me handle this case from here on in,” he said at length. “Go home. Please.”

He was right. Home was the safest option. But when had I ever chosen the safest option? “I'm going to stay on for today at least and try to find out as much as I can about these people.” Before he could argue, I said, “I promise to keep clear of the cliffs.”

Jesse's groan of frustration tickled my ear. “I'll be back once the coroner makes his final report. And Emma . . .”

I waited, growing puzzled as his silence persisted. Had we lost the connection? I was about to give the hand crank a turn to summon back the operator, when Jesse spoke again. “Promise me you'll be careful.”

It was nothing he hadn't said to me before, yet it was unlike anything he had ever said before. The slight tremor in his voice traveled through me, producing a quiver, a trill, before settling in my heart with a warm vibration. He had been plain enough in the past and I understood his affections for me—at least I thought I did. There was something more here, something unexpectedly poignant. Something I was not ready to hear—and might never be ready to hear.

I drew a breath that rasped in my throat. “I will. I promise. And if I learn anything I'll telephone you immediately.”

I hung up before he could reply.

A
fter luncheon, I returned to the service wing to look for Patch. I found him in the porch, and rather than attacking my legs in his usual fashion, he walked sedately to me with his head sagging low. His tail gave a few halfhearted wags.

“What's wrong, boy?”

He sat, leaning his weight against my legs, and I crouched to pet him. A surge of affection prompted me to wrap my arms around him. “It left its mark on you, didn't it, finding Sir Randall like that?” Was that possible? Could an animal be so affected by human misfortune? Could he understand the significance of what he had discovered yesterday morning? “Goodness, you don't blame yourself, do you? You don't think, because you found Sir Randall, that his death was somehow your fault?”

At a noise in the doorway of the servants' hall, I glanced up to see Mrs. Harris holding her flour-coated arms out from her sides to spare her cotton dress, though a good measure of flour also dusted her apron. The savory fragrances of roasting meat and baking pastry crust filled the air around me, making me momentarily homesick for my kitchen at home and Nanny's flavorful cooking.

Mrs. Harris regarded me keenly, and I laughed halfheartedly beneath her scrutiny. “You must think I'm daft, talking to a dog this way.”

“I don't think anything of the sort, miss. A dog's got his sensibilities, same as a person. He barely touched the veal trimmings I set out for his breakfast. My guess is, he needs a good romp to put yesterday out of his mind.”

I stood up, which brought Patch immediately onto four legs as well. “You're right. Come on, Patch, let's have a run, shall we?”

Once beyond the porch and the service courtyard, Patch took a sharp left turn, toward the cliffs. True, quite a lot of lawn lay between us and the precipice, but if indeed yesterday continued to haunt my little friend, a change of scenery would do him good.

“This way,” I called to him.

He continued to run eastward. I beckoned again and quickened my steps, but instead of continuing to the edge of the property, he headed southward and stopped at the gate of the kitchen garden. I raised my hems and bolted forward, regretting not having found some rope to fashion a leash.

The pungency of loam and growing things greeted me from over the high privet hedges as I approached the garden. Though winter dormancy would come within a few weeks, the cultivated rows still teemed with life.

I soon discovered what had lured Patch to this spot, as voices and laughter sounded within. I peeked through the gate. A good dozen or so yards down the lengthy enclosure, two men walked side by side away from me, their hands playfully skimming the tops of the taller plants—tomatoes, okra, chard, and basil. A few accented words drifted my way, and I identified the pair as Vasili Pavlenko, the Russian, and Claude Baptiste, the Frenchman. The latter wore a dark cutaway and light gray trousers; the former wore a matching suit in beige with thin brown stripes. Both sported boaters.

As I watched, they came to a halt and faced each other. They spoke more quietly now, whereupon the elder Claude pressed a hand to his chest, eliciting a burst of laughter from the former dancer. Though I considered this an odd place for a stroll, I dismissed their presence and was about to guide Patch away when he let out a bark.

And then another. With his nose pressed between the bars of the wrought iron gate, he began a serenade of howling. His first outburst had resulted in the two men lurching apart, and now they turned their perplexed faces in our direction. My own face flamed, and I began to stammer.

“Sorry. Dogs, you know. He took off. I tried to stop him. Didn't mean to interrupt . . . uh . . . that is, disturb you . . .” I left off, feeling inexplicably nonplussed. I hadn't done anything wrong, really. Anyone might enter the kitchen garden—it wasn't off limits, and in fact at any time Mrs. Harris or Irene might have entered to pluck herbs or vegetables for tonight's dinner. So why did I feel like a trespasser, intruding where I had no right to be?

Then again, why had they suddenly put several feet between them, each now standing on one of the two outer walkways that ran the garden's perimeters, when, before Patch's interruption, they had stood together on one of the smaller paths that connected the two main ones? Their startled expressions lingered as if they were two rabbits caught marauding the carrot patch, until Vasili murmured something and the two men visibly relaxed. They started toward me.

“I'm so sorry,” I continued to apologize.

“Not at all, Miss Cross.” The handsome young Russian grinned, all hints of unease vanishing. “Your dog, he likes to play, yes?”

With a sniff that might have expressed the tiniest bit of disdain, Claude unlatched the gate and they both stepped through. Patch backed away and sat, something he rarely did when presented with a new potential playmate. I frowned down at him in concern.

“He's been acting strangely this morning.”

“Are not we all?” Vasili murmured.

“Perhaps he misses his home.” Claude brushed his palms against the sides of his coat as if to dislodge bits of foliage or dust. “Have you considered returning him to familiar surroundings?”

“He'd likely only follow me back here. He knows the way now.”

The Frenchman cast me a significant look, one whose meaning didn't elude me.
Go home as well, Miss Cross.
Both men seemed coiled on the balls of their feet in apparent eagerness to be away. On a journalist's instinct, I employed a lady's prerogative to impose on their good breeding.

“I've been wondering about the work you came here to accomplish,” I said, forestalling their departure. “The work you'll now dedicate to Sir Randall. I'm fascinated to learn more about both of you.”

“We were discussing just that when you appeared.” Vasili cast a pointed glance at Patch. “We have decided to collaborate.”

“On
Carmen
?” I pressed my hands together, not altogether insincerely. True, I wanted to keep them talking, but the notion of these men bringing such life to the stage truly did thrill me.

“Shh.” Claude darted a glance up at the house. “We spoke in the garden for a reason, Miss Cross. Can you be discreet?”

“I most certainly can.”

“I do not wish Miss Marcus to learn of our plans. Not yet.”

Vasili nodded his agreement.

“Then you won't cast her as Carmen,” I said. The Frenchman shook his head. “But why not? She's one of the best in the world, isn't she?”

“She was,” Vasili said.

“She is losing her talents,” Claude added. “Her voice—it is not what it was, though she will not admit to it. Either she does not hear, or she cannot accept.”

In the past two days I had found ample reason to reassess my opinion of Josephine Marcus and no longer admired her as I once had. Still, my stomach sank at the thought of the music world losing such a talent. A brush against my skirts signaled that Patch had come to my side, and I took comfort in his warm body once more pressed against my legs. “Perhaps she needs to rest her voice.”

“I suggested as much to her,” the Frenchman said. “She took offense and told me to mind my business.”

I considered a moment, still reluctant to accept that a renowned soprano could be silenced and summarily dismissed. “Do you think it has to do with her smoking cigarettes?”

Vasili let out a laugh. Again, Claude shrugged. “If anything, the smoking is said to help.”

I wrinkled my nose. “I realize some people believe in the health benefits of tobacco, but I know how I feel in a room full of smoke—as though I cannot breathe.”

“Perhaps she has taken up her cigarettes as an excuse, to blame for her fading voice.” Vasili kicked at blades of grass, and again I felt his eagerness to be gone.

“But the two of you have decided to collaborate,” I said brightly—and relentlessly, refusing to allow them to slip away. I was not a reporter for nothing, and I knew how to force my way into a story. “Mr. Pavlenko, I assume you will choreograph the opera. Do you intend something new for the production? Perhaps a full departure from the traditional step design?”

“Yes, and in fact . . .”

Slowly we strolled while they talked and I listened. I managed to steer us back around to the front of the house, where Patch lingered at my side for a time, but finally took off, bounding and leaping in his usual way. It came as a tremendous relief to watch his ears, one white and the other brown, flapping with each playful stride. He held my gaze while Vasili and Claude had my ear. What they described sounded uncannily similar to Sir Randall's ideas about sculpture—a kind of trimmed-down, modernized rendering of the traditional production. Even their notions of set design dispensed with fussy details to create a backdrop reminiscent of a bullfighting ring. The audience's attention, they maintained, would be held by the performance of the libretto, rather than on ornate visual minutiae.

It occurred to me that theater encompassed the senses of both sight and hearing, and robbing the audience of one or the other might lead to disappointment. I held my tongue. I also considered questioning Monsieur Baptiste about his failed partnership with Mrs. Wharton, but thought better of it. Rather, I carefully observed the pair. Had they recognized the similarities between their philosophy and Sir Randall's? Had they collaborated with him? Or had they simply borrowed his ideas, possibly without his blessing?

To my surprise the two men began demonstrating the “Chorus of Soldiers” from act one of
Carmen
. Claude hummed the melody, a bit nasally but in tune. With their arms held wide they indicated how the soldiers would enter the stage and where they would be positioned. I watched, amazed, as the pair filled my imagination with images of the performance. They themselves moved in a choreographed dance that delighted me . . . and Patch as well, who trotted over to inspect the goings-on. His former reticence at the garden had vanished in his eagerness to join what he apparently interpreted as a frolicsome game, and he added his own yips and barks to create a harmonious ruckus. Rather than humming now, Claude Baptiste bellowed the melody, while Vasili pirouetted and executed a stunning
jeté entrelacé.

Ballet was not part of this particular opera, but that didn't stop Vasili. My hand flew to my mouth as he leaped away from us across the lawn in a
saut de basque
, jumping and turning again and again with his legs outstretched until he propelled himself straight up in a thrilling twist several feet in the air. His hair flashed in the sunlight, and his toned and well-proportioned figure seemed lighter than the scuttling clouds overhead.

He landed on his feet and paused, breathing heavily, his head bowed. One hand went to his hip. He pressed it there a moment before slowly turning around and making his way back to us. His expression turned sad, his smile apologetic.

“Well,” was all he said, and he looked away.

I had not fully understood previously, but now my heart physically hurt as I realized how very much he had lost due to his injury. For brief seconds his face had been filled with utter joy, and that joy had filled me as well as I beheld even those small traces of his talent. Only because of that joy could I even slightly fathom the depths of despair he experienced each time he remembered his former life.

His friend clapped him on the shoulder. His hand remained there as Claude Baptiste turned to me. “Miss Cross, if you will excuse us now.”

“Of course, I . . . Thank you so much for sharing your plans with me.”

They walked off together, talking and laughing as they had been when Patch and I first found them. They seemed an odd pair of friends, mismatched in age and physical appearance. I supposed their artistic natures provided common ground enough, and I was glad the Frenchman was able to prevent his younger friend from falling hopelessly into melancholy.

It struck me how many calamities this group of artists had endured—Sir Randall's failing career, depression, and subsequent death; the injury that prevented Vasili from ever dancing professionally again; Josephine Marcus's fading voice. Were there other hidden misfortunes waiting to be discovered?

* * *

That evening before dinner I retired to my room to complete the notes I'd taken during the day. I attempted to describe the impromptu performance by Vasili Pavlenko, with admittedly little true success. I had also spent time with Niccolo Lionetti, who had played his cello for me. He'd explained how he allowed his instrument to guide his playing, rather than merely following the sheet music. I could not say I entirely understood him, but I did conclude that he achieved something extraordinary.

A knock at my door stilled my thoughts and my pencil. “Come in.”

My mother poked her head into the room. “Are you terribly busy?”

Part of me wished to tell her yes, I was. Why did this reluctance to speak privately with either of my parents continue to linger? I'd more than come to terms with the old bitterness once directed at Mrs. Wharton, so why my hesitation with Mother and Father? What was I truly avoiding?

“No,” I said, “not terribly.” I smiled and gestured for her to come in. When she sat on the edge of my bed, I pivoted on my chair before the dressing table, which I'd been using as a desk. A heavy silence fell between us, as obvious as it was awkward. Mother stared down at her hands, resting in her lap.

“You're angry with us,” she said at length. I winced, not having expected such directness.

“Shouldn't I be? Father committed fraud in Paris—”

“It was only meant to be a prank. We never intended for it to become so out of hand.”