Murder at Rough Point (22 page)

My father reappeared at the other end of the gallery. He leaned to grip the railing, and his head drooped between his shoulders. It seemed a struggle for him to push out even a few words. “Jesse. Come quickly. You're needed.”

Jesse strode toward Father and I followed. My mother held back with Mrs. Wharton. At the end of the gallery, where the north wing began, Vasili's door stood open. He half leaned, half sagged against the lintel, his face even whiter than when I'd last seen him and a sheen of perspiration gleaming across his brow. His eyes were red and had a wild look about them. A sharp waft of spirits reached my nose. He glanced at us only briefly before dropping his gaze to the floor. He didn't look up again as we passed.

Jesse reached Niccolo's door first. It stood partly ajar. Before he could reach out to open it wider, Miss Marcus's door opened and she stepped out. Upon seeing Jesse she clutched at the lace of her plunging neckline. “What are you doing here?”

“There may have been another incident.” Jesse pushed at Niccolo's door, but hesitated on the threshold.

There were footsteps behind me. My father only now must have realized I had followed Jesse into the wing, because he called out, “Emmaline, don't!”

But it was too late, I had already reached Jesse and looked over his shoulder into the room. In the far corner, on the other side of the bed, Niccolo sat slumped against the back of an armchair, with his Montagnana cello propped before him. One of its strings had been yanked free and wrapped around his neck.

* * *

Jesse flung himself into the room and over the bed. He leaned Niccolo's body forward and set to work while my father, Miss Marcus, and I looked on in horror. The instrument's C-string had been yanked from its fine tuner on the tailpiece, ripped forcefully by some kind of tool, pliers perhaps, that gouged the cello's varnished surface, leaving a whitened scar across the grain. The string had been wrapped twice around Niccolo's neck and twisted until the metal cut into his flesh.

I had seen strangulation before, yet, nauseated, I looked away, unable to bear the sight, or the thought of such a fate. The man's own instrument, a vehicle of his murder. He had not fallen, or taken his own life, or dozed off under dangerous circumstances. He had been deliberately, blatantly killed. And as with Claude Baptiste, the manner of death seemed to convey some kind of message.

Jesse untwisted the string and worked it free of Niccolo's neck, leaving behind a thin band of blood. The act left Jesse's own fingers bleeding. He attempted to lean the torso gently back against the chair, but with a shocking suddenness he instead kicked the cello out of the way and dragged the body onto the floor. Aghast, I thought perhaps this third death was simply too much for my friend to bear. I should have known better.

I hurried to him, only to stop abruptly at the foot of the bed. I cried out and fisted my hands against my mouth. Though as white as sun-bleached bone, Niccolo showed none of the sure signs of death. His lips, though blanched, were not blue, and as I watched, blood trickled from the cut in his neck where the string had been.

I sank to my knees beside Jesse.

“Arthur, help me lift him onto the bed,” Jesse shouted.

My father, unaware of what we were seeing, halted between the door and the bed. “Jesse, there's nothing you can do. . . .”

“Damn it, Arthur, come and help me. He's still alive.”

From the threshold Miss Marcus shrieked. Father rushed to us and together he and Jesse lifted Niccolo. I hurriedly flipped back the coverlets, and after they placed him on the bed I pulled the coverlets and satin spread back up to cover him. My knees wobbled, and I dropped onto the mattress beside the unconscious man.

“Will he live?”

“I can't say, Emma.” Jesse put a hand on my shoulder. “It's a miracle he's alive at all. But if we can't get him to the hospital . . .” He shook his head and didn't complete the sentence. He didn't have to.

* * *

Mrs. Harris volunteered to stay with Niccolo. Having had nursing experience in her youth, during the War Between the States, she was Niccolo's best hope until Jesse could arrange for him to be moved. Carl was to remain in the room as well, and Jesse armed him with Mother's fire poker in case whoever wished Niccolo dead returned for another try. In the meantime, every occupant of Rough Point was under strict orders not to go anywhere alone, or to leave someone else alone. It was as much for their protection as Niccolo's.

Jesse had us assemble in the dining room. The group felt so much smaller now, diminished in both size and spirit. Only Mr. and Mrs. Wharton, my parents, Vasili, Miss Marcus, and myself were left. Vasili threw himself into a dining chair and dropped his head onto his folded arms.

Jesse stood at the head of the table. Mrs. Harris had tended and wrapped his fingers in small bandages. He held them out. “I need to see everyone's hands.”

Josephine Marcus had been quiet—no, utterly silent—since the discovery that Niccolo had survived his attack. Now she blurted, “Our hands? Why? Are you once again accusing us? You were here in this house. You should have been protecting us.” Though her voice carried a sob, no tears fell from her eyes. I thought she had finished, but she rose and swept the length of the table to where Mr. Dunn and a still shaken Irene stood at attention. Miss Marcus's arm shot out, her forefinger aiming at Irene. “You! You were the last person in his room. You with your linens and towels. You would have had access to Claude's room as well.” She twirled to face Jesse. “
Here
is your culprit. Look at
her
hands and leave the rest of us alone.”

I had let Patch out of the kitchen, and now he growled in response to Miss Marcus's vehement charge. I expected Irene to put up an immediate protest, but instead she merely held out her hands for the rest of us to see. There were no marks scoring her fingers or palms, no evidence of having wrapped the cutting cello string around a man's neck. Her hands wavered and her throat convulsed, but she spoke steadily enough. “I am innocent, Detective Whyte.”

Jesse nodded, then repeated his order. Vasili's head came up, though he looked as if he could barely maintain even a semi-upright position. He let his palms fall open on the table. Everyone else held out their hands as well—everyone but Josephine Marcus. Jesse ignored her, his features tight as he moved around the table, stopping to examine each palm closely. He even studied mine. I understood. This was an official investigation and he could not leave any possibility open to question. I also understood the pain that constricted his features. Miss Marcus's implied charge that he shirked his responsibility to keep everyone safe had cut, deeply.

But if Jesse had failed, hadn't we all? We had agreed never to be alone anywhere in the house, or if we were, to lock our bedroom doors behind us. Both Niccolo's and Vasili's doors had been open and the two men had been alone. My parents should not have left Vasili. If they hadn't, would Niccolo now lay unconscious and close to death? Or would the culprit have feared detection and stayed away? Had they unwittingly provided a convenient opportunity?

Then again, why Niccolo and not Vasili?
Had
the former dancer truly been sleeping, or . . . ?

He had been drinking again, as evidenced by my parents' having to confiscate one of his bottles. And he had been unable to control his violent outburst in response to my questions.

“Miss Marcus, your hands, if you please.” Jesse had checked everyone else. She huffed and thrust out her hands. Her nose flared and contempt poured from her very bearing.

“There,” she said. “You see? Nothing. Now what, Detective? Who is your suspect? No one, I'll wager, because you are useless. You might as well leave us all to our deaths—”

“Josephine!” Mrs. Wharton's admonition rendered Miss Marcus silent. “You're not helping one bit. Now is the time to cooperate, not make wild accusations.”

“The detective is the one making wild accusations,” the singer countered.

“I have made no accusations, Miss Marcus,” Jesse said harshly. I could see his patience was wearing thin, but also each caustic word the woman spoke hit dead center at his core. Still, he wasted no more time in cosseting her. “Miss Marcus, you were in your room when Signore Lionetti was attacked. Why?”

A shake of her shoulders pulled her up taller. “I was freshening up.”

“And you heard nothing from the corridor?”

“Not a peep.”

Jesse studied her a moment. “You were also freshening up the night Claude Baptiste was murdered. In fact, the broken pipe in your bathroom preceded his death. It created a distraction and sent the guests scattering to their rooms to change. What do you know about that pipe?”

“Nothing. What could I possibly know about plumbing? I was a victim of the handyman's incompetence. And Mrs. Wharton was with me afterward, helping me change my gown.”

“Mrs. Wharton helped you change, but then returned to her own room to do the same. That left you alone for some time before dinner.”

Miss Marcus sank into the nearest empty chair at the table, yet her defiance didn't waver. “In that case, with the exception of the Crosses and the Whartons, everyone was alone for some time before dinner. Even you, Miss Cross,” she finished with a lift of her eyebrow.

I didn't reply. I was too busy calculating how much time we'd all had before dinner that night, and whether it seemed feasible that Miss Marcus had entered Claude Baptiste's room before descending to the dining room. I concluded that, given the cause of death, she would have had ample time, and sufficient strength. The way Jesse had described the drowning, anyone, man or woman, would have been capable of pulling the Frenchman under.

What about Sir Randall? Could Miss Marcus have slipped outside, made her way through the kitchen garden to the Cliff Walk, pushed Sir Randall over, and been back in the Great Hall in plenty of time for Niccolo's performance? Again, I wondered about the strength necessary to send a man plummeting to his death. But a woman, especially one as designing as Miss Marcus, would have had the advantage over an elderly gentleman like Sir Randall Clifford. He would not have expected an attack, and the element of surprise would have aided his attacker greatly.

And Teddy Wharton's grassy shoes? Perhaps that had been nothing more than ill manners.

Niccolo's near fateful attack raised a new question about strength. He had lived, Jesse determined, because the C-string, while cutting into his flesh and causing him to pass out, hadn't been twisted tight enough to cause immediate death. Had we not found him, he would surely have asphyxiated, but the botched attempt had bought him time. Had the perpetrator not possessed enough strength in his or her hands to sufficiently tighten the string?

It seemed a possibility.

“The fact remains,” Jesse was saying, “that all evidence points to the killer being someone in this house—someone who has been in this house all along. Whoever attempted to murder Signore Lionetti was probably wearing gloves, thick ones, and if so, I will find them.”

“So you're still saying one of us killed him?” Teddy Wharton swallowed audibly. “That one of us killed two men and tried to kill a third?”

Jesse replied with a pointed stare. Teddy Wharton paled to his hairline and turned to his wife. “Pack your things, we are leaving.”

“We can't leave yet.” She huffed with impatience. “We'd never make it home.”

“Better we slide around in the mud than sit here waiting to be next.”

His wife shook her head. “We've had this discussion, Teddy. I understand your wish to leave, and if you are set on going, then do so. I am staying.”

I circled my mother and went to Mrs. Wharton's side. “Maybe Mr. Wharton is right.”

She regarded me for a long moment. Then she said in a low murmur, “We must speak alone.”

I frowned in puzzlement but she said nothing more. Jesse announced that he would make another search of the house, this time for the gloves that might have played a role in Niccolo's attack. He ordered us all into the drawing room, including Mr. Dunn and Irene. Miss Marcus opened her mouth as if to protest, but apparently changed her mind.

As everyone else filed out of the room I couldn't help coming up beside her. “I would have thought you'd be more upset than this, Miss Marcus. You and Niccolo have seemed to be especially close.”

Her gaze held sheer poison. “And what would you know of it, Miss Cross?”

“I know the two of you argued recently.” I dispensed with discretion. “I saw you—and heard you—outside in the piazza.”

Fiery color stained her complexion. “Wh-what did you hear?”

“I heard Niccolo ask if perhaps you wished he were dead.” I raised my eyebrows. “Do you?”

Her hand came up and I winced, bracing for a blow that didn't come, though her hissing words lashed out at me. “Why, you conniving little witch. How dare you eavesdrop on my private conversations? You have no idea what you're playing with. Arthur might be a Vanderbilt but you, Miss Cross, are a guttersnipe with no more sense or decorum than a garden worm.”

Patch darted to us and barked, but Miss Marcus took no notice. She flounced away, the ruffled train of her tea gown brushing at my own hems as if to sweep them—or me—away with the trash. She left me quaking with ire and seething with suspicion. In my distraction I hadn't noticed that Mrs. Wharton had also remained behind. She appeared now at my shoulder.

“Well, what did you expect, after what you said to her?”

The jarring ring of the telephone in Uncle Frederick's office startled us both and forestalled any reply I might have made.