Murder at Rough Point (20 page)

The young woman shook her head but didn't appear nearly as confident as her superior.

“They're coming back,” Mrs. Wharton called in again. “I believe they have him.”

My father and Niccolo stumbled up the veranda steps, their hair and clothing streaming. Behind them, Mr. Dunn and Carl struggled to climb the steps, each with an arm slung around a seemingly unconscious Vasili. Father took Carl's place, helping Mr. Dunn seat Vasili on one of the wrought iron benches while the footman all but collapsed against the half wall of the porch. Mrs. Harris and Irene ran out to distribute towels among them. Irene tossed one over Vasili's shoulders, disturbing his tenuous balance where he sat. He started to topple, but Mr. Dunn reached out to hold him upright. Mrs. Wharton sat beside him, supporting his limp form against her side. She fanned at the air with her hand.

“Good heavens.” She turned her face away from him.

Miss Marcus moved into the doorway. “What is going on? What was he doing outside like that? Scaring us all out of our wits. He must be mad.”

“Perhaps,” Father said. “We found him staggering close to the cliffs. God only knows what might have happened. He's dead drunk and beyond knowing or caring.”

* * *

I awoke the next morning to find Mr. Dunn and Carl lighting kerosene lamps throughout the house, as the electricity had failed sometime after we all returned to bed. Meanwhile the rain continued to fall in dense sheets, like prison walls trapping us in a house of shadows and gloom.

Whatever atmosphere had once attracted me to Rough Point, whatever kinship of spirit I had felt here, had dissipated entirely and I longed to be away, longed to seek the homey comfort of Gull Manor's shabby but familiar interiors. But I knew the dangers of Ocean Avenue during one of these September storms. A wave had once arced over the road to envelop Barney and my carriage, and the terror of that moment, of the force of the water engulfing us in a blinding, strangling hold, lived inside me still. By some miracle, when the wave receded we remained on the road, drenched but breathing. I had climbed down to grasp Barney's halter and lead him the rest of the way home, praying with each step that we would live to hear Nanny's scolding and feel her welcoming embrace.

I went first to Uncle Frederick's office to test the telephone. Nothing. So we were cut off as well as having to make due with flame and whatever little light made its way through the fogged windows. Luckily Mrs. Harris's kitchen did not depend on electricity, and she provided us with another satisfying breakfast. The men had taken turns sitting in Vasili's room while he drifted in and out of semi-consciousness during the remaining hours of last night. Father said he had cried out often in Russian and once tried to rise from the bed, though he had laid back down readily enough when Father pressed his hands against his shoulders. Carl went up to watch over him while the rest of us ate our breakfast.

We were just finishing up when the door knocker sent its disturbing clanks echoing from the entrance hall. Pale faces, frozen in startlement, looked up from the table. No one moved. Even Patch, lying beneath the table at my feet, only lifted his head and sniffed at the air. It was as if no one remembered what that clanking could signify, and then decided it could signify nothing good. Who on earth could be out in such weather? How had they negotiated the flooded roads? What did they want?

Our visitor must have pulled the bell as well, for Carl strode from the butler's pantry to open the front door. His action roused us, and we all sprang to our feet and gathered in a tight group before following the footman through the Stair Hall. Patch pushed to the front of our little crush, his tail down and his ears pricked as a hooded figure all but stumbled across the threshold, literally shoved inside by a gust of wind.

Jesse stood dripping on the vestibule rug, bedraggled and looking as though he had fought his way through a monsoon. I hurried over to help Carl relieve him of his outerwear, although his suit was in little better condition and his shoes squelched at the slightest step.

“How in heaven did you get here?” I demanded in none too gentle a tone. I wanted to scold him as Nanny would have, but only just managed to bite back my admonitions.

“I had one of the men drive me down Bellevue as far as we could go. It's a swamp out there. The carriage kept sliding and shimmying over the muck. By Ruggles I got out and sent the carriage back.”

“You walked all the way from Ruggles Avenue in this weather? Jesse, are you mad?”

As my voice rose, Carl made a discreet exit, backing out of the vestibule and into the cloakroom with Jesse's gleaming wet mackintosh, overcoat, and hat.

From the little knot of onlookers, Teddy Wharton demanded, “Well, have you discovered something?”

Jesse hesitated before shaking his head. “Not yet. The storm is slowing things down.”

“Are you still calling Claude's death an accident?” my father asked.

“For now,” Jesse confirmed. “I only came out to make certain the place was secure and you were all well.”

“All the way out here in this weather for that? Emma is right, you're quite mad.” For a moment my mother sounded just like Nanny. “I'll see that Carl brings in another place setting.”

She retreated through the doorway. The others looked on another moment or two, then, obviously disappointed at Jesse's lack of news, turned around and followed her. Only Patch remained, watching us intently.

Jesse's manner changed immediately, became brisk and urgent. “I had to come, Emma. The weather didn't matter.” He moved as if to draw me away from the front door, then regarded his sloshing shoes and remained on the rug. “I have news to tell you. And I couldn't leave you here all alone anymore.”

“I'm not alone,” I pointed out. “There are the others.”

His expression hardened, turning the boyish features into those more resembling a soldier. “I don't trust them—any of them.”

I forewent reminding him that two of the group were my parents. The agitation that lingered in his manner were not the results of his harrowing trek along Bellevue Avenue, I now understood, but something deeper that could not be cured by a cup of tea and a change of clothing, though he badly needed both.

“Tell me,” I said. “Tell me quickly, and then we'll find you something dry to wear.”

“The coroner discovered two things that rule out all possibility of Claude Baptiste's death being an accident. Those marks were definitely bruises around his ankles, making it a certainty someone stole into that bathroom while the man was relaxing in the tub, gripped his ankles, and pulled him under.”

I shuddered at the horrific nature of such a death. Had it occurred quickly enough to spare Monsieur Baptiste the terror of feeling the water rush into his lungs? Had his last seconds been a harrowing eternity of knowing he was about to die?

Jesse had more to tell. “Remember how Patch barked and sniffed at the body as if trying to tell us something?”

At the sound of his name, my dog looked up and made a growling noise of acknowledgment, as if trying to join the conversation.

I nodded. “He can be a nuisance.”

“Not a nuisance. He sensed something and he was right. The coroner discovered something lodged in Monsieur Baptiste's throat. A pebble.”

“What?”

Jesse nodded. “Yes. I don't understand it, but there it is.”

“Oh, Jesse . . . This is monstrous.” Another bout of shivers racked me. “What are we dealing with here?”

He answered my question with another. “Do you see why I had to come? I can't take you away from here—that would be as dangerous as staying—but I couldn't let you stay here alone. Damn this storm.”

The oath as much as his roughened voice penetrated the shield I always raised in the face of his sentiments toward me. My throat tightened and stung, and tears pricked the backs of my eyes. I struggled for a response, but he spoke again.

“I understand it's Derrick Andrews you would most want here with you. If I could bring him here for you I would, but that's impossible. I can at least keep you safe, if you'll let me.”

That simple avowal broke my heart even while it swelled with a newfound admiration for my friend. My eyes brimmed, and I blinked madly to no avail. “Oh, Jesse . . .”

He shook his head with the sad smile I'd come to know all too well. “No, Emma, don't say it. Don't say anything. Let's just get to work and find our culprit.”

I swallowed my tears. “We make a good team.” The steady
drip-drip
of water hitting the rug brought me back to my sensible self. “What a fool I am. Before anything else you need dry clothes.” I turned to call into the main part of the house, “Father, find Jesse a suit of clothes, please.”

W
ith Jesse dry and well fed, he and I, along with Patch, retired to Uncle Frederick's office, where we shut the door so we wouldn't have to worry about interruptions. I apprised him of the latest developments, including the cigarette stub Mrs. Wharton and I had found on the lawn. We both agreed any of the guests might have tossed it there. It would serve us little in finding our culprit. Then we turned to the matter of Vasili.

“Whether his behavior last night stemmed from grief or guilt,” I said, “remains to be determined. But I've never seen a man in such a state.”

“Why guilt? Is it likely he murdered his good friend?”

“My instincts say no, but my instincts have occasionally been wrong.” I ignored the lift of his eyebrow. “There might be a dynamic to their relationship we don't yet understand, perhaps stemming from Vasili's accident. As a performer, he would naturally be something of an actor, skilled at creating illusions.”

“Hmm.” Despite the brevity of his response, Jesse gave my scenario serious consideration. I saw this in how he crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes as he regarded me.

“And from what I've been able to gather so far,” I went on, “he blames some or all of his friends for the end of his career.”

“Do you know why?”

I shook my head. “Mrs. Wharton tells me none of the others were on that train with him. I'd like to try talking to him and see if I can get him to confide in me. But then there is Miss Marcus.”

“The opera singer,” Jesse mused, “with numerous disputes between herself and several members of this group.”

“She seems at odds with everyone. She is not a nice person, Jesse.” I scowled, remembering her comments about where animals belong. I crouched beside Patch and treated him to a hug and a good scratch behind his ears. “She even fought with Niccolo, and I had believed the two to be especially close. Even lovers.”

Jesse winced at the word
lovers
and blushed slightly. He was no innocent, but hearing the term from my lips had obviously taken him aback. Well, after my experiences over the past year, I was no innocent either.

Still, he managed to shock me with his next bit of information. “We were successful in reaching Sir Randall's son, James Clifford, in England. He wired back, asking if we found his father's diary.”

“Diary? Your men went through his things. They didn't find a diary, did they?”

“No, which means either he hadn't brought it with him—”

“Unlikely,” I interrupted. “People who keep diaries rarely if ever travel without them.”

“Exactly. That means he either hid it well somewhere in his room—”

“Or someone stole it.” My pulse raced. “Are you going to search the house?”

“We'll start in Sir Randall's room, in case it's still there. But no one must know we're searching. If someone else has the diary I don't want to frighten them into disposing of it.”

“If they haven't already.” I stood and leaned against the desk, my fingers playing along the grain of the mahogany surface. “What if he had it with him when he was pushed off the footbridge?”

“Then it's long gone, for it certainly wasn't found on him. Let's hope no one knew about this diary, that it's still in his room and will give us some insight into what happened to him.”

“And to Claude Baptiste. You look through the room. You can explain it easily enough as routine. I'll speak with Vasili.”

“I don't like that, Emma. You might accidentally strike a nerve. Even if he isn't our guilty party, in his state of mind there's no telling how he might react. I'll do it.”

“He won't speak with you, I'm sure of it.” I gazed out the window, where scattered debris of leaves and branches littered the lawn and the drive. “I'll bring Mrs. Wharton with me. We can use the excuse of bringing Vasili something to eat.”

I turned back into the room to find Jesse studying me closely. “Are you sure you can trust her?”

I didn't hesitate. “Yes.”

He looked at me askance, and I easily read his thoughts.

“I'm not wrong about this, Jesse, not this time. If you spent any time with her at all you'd understand.”

He skewed his lips before nodding. “Be careful. Leave the door open so you have an avenue of escape.”

We set off on our individual errands. I went first to the kitchen to ask Mrs. Harris to warm a bowl of soup, and to keep Patch with her for a while. She readily agreed to both. Then I found Mrs. Wharton in the drawing room with my mother, the two of them side by side on the settee that faced the French doors. Neither appeared to be enjoying the watery view outside, or to be in any state of relaxation. Both sat stiffly, their eyes wide but unseeing, their whispered words like the quivering leaves of a shaken tree limb. From the library came other voices, mostly male, although punctuated by Josephine Marcus's soft-spoken—for once—comments.

Upon seeing my mother I almost backed out of the room, for I wished to engage Mrs. Wharton's assistance privately. Too late, as my mother spotted me and called me in.

“Emma, you look as though you're on some urgent errand. Was Jesse neglecting to tell us something?”

How had she guessed? Despite years on my own and the subsequent rift between my parents and me, I still felt like a sneaking child who had just been apprehended, red-handed. Perhaps mothers possessed a second sight into their children's minds that never faded no matter the circumstances. I began to stutter an answer and found myself unable to lie.

“I wish to speak with Vasili, and I hoped Mrs. Wharton would accompany me.”

Mother tilted her head. “Speak to him about what? About why he showed such lack of restraint last night? Darling, he is grieving the loss of his very close friend.”

I ventured farther into the room and sat opposite them. “I wish to ask him about his accident.”

“Oh, Emma, no.” Mother gripped the arm of the settee and leaned forward. “You mustn't. Not now. It will only upset him more. Besides, what has that to do with Claude's death?”

Mrs. Wharton said nothing, but watched me with obvious interest. If she objected to my plan, she didn't show it. I drew a breath. “Before I answer that, what can you tell me about Vasili's accident?”

The color drained from Mother's complexion in one sweep. “Nothing . . . I wasn't on the train. None of us was. And Vasili has spoken of it so little.”

I craned forward a bit. “Why would he blame his friends for what happened?”

“Does he?” An astonished light entered my mother's eyes. “He's never said anything to me. We were all in Versailles, just after the New Year. Everyone except Vasili, of course. It was such a beautiful time in the city. There was snow everywhere, yet the skies were clear and the weather had warmed considerably. A January thaw.”

I nodded, waiting for her to continue.

“Claude wrote to Vasili in Paris, where he had been performing, to coax him to join us.”

“Only Claude?” I asked. “Did the others lend their persuasion?”

“Well, yes. The Countess Yelana Morekova was to hold a grand ball, and Vasili is a favorite of hers. They're related somehow, you see. Both Josephine and Niccolo were hoping for personal introductions, since the countess is a fervent patron of the arts.”

“So Niccolo and Miss Marcus very much wanted Vasili to come to Versailles?”

“We all did. We were having such a splendid time.” Mother took on a dreamy expression, which cleared abruptly to be replaced by obvious regret. “Until we heard about the train derailment. He broke numerous bones and came perilously close to dying. Directly afterward, once he was awake and could speak again, he said he wished he
had
died.”

Mrs. Wharton slipped her hand on top of my mother's, and Mother glanced at her appreciatively and blinked away tears. “But I still don't understand what this has to do with now, or why you would dredge up such unhappy memories in a man who is clearly distraught.”

I traded a glance with Mrs. Wharton, one Mother saw, for she said, “You mean to say . . . Emma, you cannot believe Vasili had anything to do with what happened to Claude or . . . or Randall?”

“I only wish to speak with him, Mother. His behavior last night was extreme, you must admit.”

She looked down at Mrs. Wharton's hand, still covering her own. “Well . . . yes. I've never seen grief take such a form before. But we can't know what's inside a man's mind . . .”

“Precisely, Mother. We can't know unless we speak with him.”

“Then I will do it,” she said with a lift of her chin.

I shook my head. “I'm more qualified. I earn my keep by questioning people, and I've grown rather skilled in the task.”

“Fine, but I'll go with you.” A wounded note entered Mother's voice. “You wished to ask Edith to accompany you.” Slowly she slid her hand from beneath the other woman's. “Is there some reason Edith is more qualified than your own mother?”

Poor Mrs. Wharton, hopelessly ensnared in our family discord, looked distinctly uncomfortable. In fact she implored me with her eyes to remedy the situation as quickly as possible. But the truth was that Mrs. Wharton
was
more qualified to help me question Vasili. She hadn't been in Versailles at the time and played no part in persuading Vasili to make the trip. He would therefore have no reason to resent her and might speak more freely in front of her.

But would Mother accept this reasoning?

An idea came to me. “Mrs. Wharton and I will question Vasili.” Before Mother could protest, as she drew breath to do, I added, “And you'll take up position right outside the door, where you can listen in and not only be able to tell us later if Vasili's words ring true, but you can call for help should he become overly agitated. Will you assist us?”

Her posture visibly relaxed. “Since you put it that way. Yes, most certainly, darling.”

* * *

“Mother, please put that fire poker down. I'm sure it won't be necessary.”

My mother, Mrs. Wharton, and I climbed the back staircase together, having stopped in the kitchen first for a bowl of soup and some of Mrs. Harris's freshly baked bread. Mrs. Wharton carried the tray, while my mother wielded the brass fireplace tool from the drawing room. I carried a second tray with a teacup and a stout little pot that hovered beneath a tea cozy decorated with yellow flowers on a bright blue background. Too cheerful, surely, for our present destination, but I hadn't wished to bother the obliging cook with such a trifle.

“You yourself said my job was to protect you and Edith should Vasili become aggressive,” Mother replied rather testily.

“No, I said your job was to call for help should he become
agitated
. There is a difference.” I sighed. “Never mind, it doesn't matter.”

Slightly muffled by Niccolo's closed bedroom door, sweet notes from his cello filled the upstairs corridor and led us across the gallery and into the north wing. Mother knocked on Vasili's door, then stepped aside so as not to be seen. We heard a grunt from inside, then footsteps, and the door opened. Carl calmly poked his head out. He had been standing guard over our patient—for lack of a better word—since before breakfast.

“Yes?” he whispered.

“We'll take over for a while,” I said. He nodded, and with a glance over his shoulder, stepped into the hall. Mother had already taken her position beside the door, poker in hand. Carl saw this but after a blink of surprise he merely continued on his way. Mrs. Wharton and I went inside and closed the door but for an inch-wide gap.

Vasili lay on the four-poster on his back. His eyes were closed and he appeared to be asleep. But at the sound of Mrs. Wharton setting her tray on top of the long dresser, his eyes opened to stare up at the ceiling. He snapped in none too gentle a voice, “
Kto eto
?”

Still holding the tea things, I looked to Mrs. Wharton in puzzlement. She went to the bedside. “It's Edith and Miss Cross, Vasili.”

Without shifting his gaze away from the ceiling, he said in the same guttural tone, “
Chto ty khochesh'
?”

She raised her head to address me in a whisper. “He wants to know what we want.” To him she said, “We brought you tea and something to eat.”

“
Ukhodit'
.”

Mrs. Wharton leaned closer to him. “We will not go away, Vasili. You must eat. I have some lovely soup for you, and Miss Cross has brought tea.”

“Tea.” He spat the word. “What use is tea? Bring me vodka. That buffoon in livery refused even when I threw the box at him.”

A glint of silver identified this object, a carved trinket box that lay on its side at a corner of the Aubusson rug. Poor Carl had had his task cut out for him. To my relief, the end table where the box likely originated, within Vasili's reach, had been swept clean of all other possible projectiles. Even the bedside lamp now occupied the top of the bureau on the wall opposite the bed.

“
Chert poberi
,” Vasili mumbled, and closed his eyes. Mrs. Wharton winced.

“What did that mean?” I mouthed to her.

“I shan't repeat it.” She reached for the pillow beneath Vasili's head and tugged. “You'll need to sit up. Come now, don't be stubborn. We will not leave until we've seen some honest sustenance go into you.”

Somehow we did just that, managing to nearly empty the bowl of soup and get several cups of tea into him. Perhaps the young man secretly craved someone to take care of him. Perhaps he simply didn't have the strength to fight us. The meal seemed to mellow him. He stopped mumbling in Russian and no longer burst out with words that made Mrs. Wharton flinch. He complained of a headache. I went into the bathroom that adjoined the next bedroom and wet a washcloth in cold water. Behind the closed door that led into the next room, Niccolo's cello resonated gently.