Murder at Rough Point (24 page)

J
esse's revelation brought the others instantly to their feet, their voices creating an incoherent din. I retained my place on the settee, however. As soon as Jesse first mentioned a second wife, and I observed the effect of those words on Miss Marcus—or Lady Clifford—I guessed the truth.

Events fell into place. The bitterness between Sir Randall and Josephine Marcus and why he took her belittlement so much to heart; the contention between Miss Marcus and Niccolo, who obviously loved her and wished to marry her—it all made sense now. I suspected Claude died, not because he refused to cast Josephine Marcus in his production of
Carmen
, but perhaps because he somehow learned the truth about a marriage she had taken great pains to conceal.

These thoughts passed through my mind in the time it took Jesse to restore order to the room. Slowly, one by one, the others resumed their seats and fell silent, waiting, undoubtedly, for Jesse to make sense of the past few minutes.

He explained, “According to the solicitor, Sir Randall and Miss Marcus eloped recklessly after a drunken interlude. Ever since, Sir Randall regretted his action and wished to be rid of his new wife.” Miss Marcus made a sound of outrage, but Jesse shushed her with a fierce look. “The marriage humiliated Sir Randall. He felt ashamed and didn't wish his son to find out, not to mention the price James Clifford would pay should it become known his father married an American opera singer. It doesn't take a genius to know that James Clifford's prospects, both socially and politically, would have suffered greatly. He is a member of the House of Commons and wishes to rise in his career. That gave Miss Marcus the weapon she needed.”

Jesse paused and went to the brandy cart to pour himself a glass of water. He drank deeply, and continued. “Part of Miss Marcus's blackmail was the stipulation that Sir Randall write her into his will—generously. He was also to maintain her in a lavish lifestyle, supplying her money whenever she asked for it. What she did not know was that he attached two conditions to his will: If she were to remarry in the event of his death, or if evidence of infidelity should come to light, all monies reverted to James.”

All eyes turned toward Miss Marcus, who openly wept. “I didn't hurt anyone . . . I swear I didn't. . . .”

I looked away. None of this surprised me, nor did I find it particularly difficult to believe given all I had learned about Josephine Marcus. Still, I found it painful to witness the utter fall of someone I had admired only days ago.

“Oh, Josephine, how could you?” A tear trickled down Mother's cheek. “And Niccolo? All he did was love you. He wished to marry you, and you . . .”

“He pushed too hard,” I said. When the others gazed expectantly at me, I went on. “He was running out of patience and insisting Miss Marcus reach a decision about their relationship. He must have pushed too hard and she . . . she made her decision to end it with him. To end him.”

“That isn't true.” She turned a feral expression on me, filled with resentment and fury. Her tears continued to fall, but to me they seemed the tears of someone who had just realized her luck had run dry. “You have no right to say such a thing. I didn't hurt Niccolo. I didn't hurt anyone.”

“Perhaps she knew about Randall's stipulations.” Vasili's knuckles whitened where he fisted them against his thighs. “She attempted to kill Niccolo because her infidelity would have disinherited her, as would their marriage.”

“Or perhaps Niccolo somehow found out about her marriage to Randall, and he threatened to make trouble for her.” My father spoke more to himself, as if trying to make sense of the details. “He might have even guessed she killed Randall.”

“I didn't!”

Mrs. Wharton was shaking her head. “I'm finding this all too difficult to believe.”

“Thank you, Edith,” Miss Marcus said vehemently. “Thank goodness someone has faith in me.”

“I didn't say that, Josephine. I don't know what I believe right now.”

“Miss Marcus.” Jesse gestured her to stand. When she didn't budge he nodded to the two policemen standing behind her chair, silent all this while. They stepped closer and from behind each grasped one of her forearms.

She flinched and tried to pull free. “Unhand me!”

“Miss Marcus—or perhaps I should call you Lady Clifford—you are under arrest for the murder of Sir Randall Clifford, and are under suspicion for the murder of Claude Baptiste and the attempted murder of Niccolo Lionetti.”

The officers tugged her to her feet, but her knees wobbled and she sagged back into the chair. Her head lolled to the side and her eyes rolled back in her head. I stood and crossed to her.

“Miss Marcus . . . Miss Marcus.” I tapped her cheek lightly with my fingertips. “Miss Marcus, wake up.”

Her eyelids fluttered a moment and then opened fully. She looked about, blinking at first, and then gave her head a shake. “Oh, I . . . I must have fallen asleep. Forgive me. I was having the most horrid dream. . . .”

I straightened and looked down at her. “It was no dream, Miss Marcus. We know who you are, what you have done, and you are under arrest.” With that I stood aside to allow Jesse and his men to once more raise her to her feet. She swayed again but this time the officers maintained a better hold on her.

“This way, love,” Officer Eubanks said.

“No . . . please!” The officers were already conveying her—half walking and half dragging her—out of the room and into the Great Hall. “Edith, Beatrice, help me. Surely you cannot believe this.” She craned her neck to peer over her shoulder just in time to see my mother and Mrs. Wharton stare down at their hands. Miss Marcus's features twisted. “You cannot do this to me. I am Josephine Marcus. Damn you all, I am Josephine Marcus!”

Her pleas, alternating with oaths, echoed in the Great Hall, only growing fainter as they apparently reached the front hall and vestibule. Mother pressed her hands to her ears to block out the sound and wept. My father, Vasili, and even Uncle Frederick studied their shoes as if ashamed by what had just occurred. Jesse signaled to me, and I followed him into the Great Hall.

“I'll need that cigarette stub you found on the lawn,” he said, and kept walking. I trotted to keep up and climbed the stairs beside him.

“So you were right that whoever killed Claude wouldn't have needed a great deal of strength. But such was not the case with Niccolo, was it?”

“That's right. Gloves or no, Miss Marcus obviously doesn't possess enough strength in her hands to complete the job. She rendered Signore Lionetti unconscious and injured his neck, but hadn't tightened the instrument's string enough to prevent air from entering his lungs once she let go.”

We paused on the half landing. “What if he never regains consciousness?”

He drew a breath. “I've seen it before, where oxygen deprivation led to permanent coma and eventual death. In which case, there will be a third murder charge against her. But the fact that the attempt failed reassures me that we've caught our culprit. A man would most likely have been successful.”

We resumed our climb, and at the top turned and crossed the gallery to the north wing. I trailed Jesse into Miss Marcus's bedroom. He began opening drawers.

“What are you looking for?”

“These.” He pulled a stack of gloves from one of the top drawers in the bureau and waved them in the air.

He spread them out on the bed and I moved closer to examine them. I traced my finger over a delicate lace mitt. “None of these would have protected her hands from the friction of that string.”

“What about these?” He chose a tan kid glove that buttoned up the side and would have reached mid-forearm.

I studied the smooth leather and shook my head. “Not thick enough. Besides, there's barely a sign of wear, much less evidence of handling a coarse metal wire. She probably dispensed with whatever gloves she used. Perhaps she found a pair of work gloves somewhere in the servants' domains.”

Jesse frowned, obviously not convinced. “I'm taking them into evidence anyway. I'll have to question the staff if they ever saw Miss Marcus in that part of the house. With the way the kitchen is positioned, it would have been difficult for anyone to slip by Mrs. Harris unnoticed.”

Minutes later I retrieved the cigarette stub Mrs. Wharton and I had discovered beyond the kitchen garden. It had dried to a brittle morsel, the bits of remaining tobacco threatening to scatter on the slightest whiff of air. I returned to Jesse, waiting in the corridor, and handed it to him in the tea leaf tin in which I had stored it. “All this does is suggest whoever killed Sir Randall might have smoked a cigarette along the way.”

“Yes, but doesn't Miss Marcus indulge in the nasty habit? I look at this as one more link in the overall chain of evidence.” He smiled. “I'm terribly glad you don't smoke, Emma.”

I wrinkled my nose. “I find nothing appealing in deliberately drawing smoke into one's lungs.” Indeed, I had come very near to suffering the dangerous effects of smoke inhalation during the summer, and I had no desire to ever revisit the sensation.

After Jesse left Rough Point an uneasy sensation settled over me. It's not that I had any reason to doubt Miss Marcus's guilt. Every bit of evidence pointed in her direction, including her own words and actions here at Rough Point, and before. I didn't doubt she took advantage of Sir Randall's affections, not to mention an elderly man's loneliness, to corner him into an ill-advised marriage. I didn't doubt that money constituted her entire motive for doing so.

And yet, doubts, of an inexplicable and ungraspable nature, continued to plague me throughout the rest of the day.

When I returned to the drawing room after seeing Jesse off, the others were discussing their immediate plans. While the storm showed signs of finally moving away, the rain continued. As Jesse had pointed out, there was no longer any reason for a hasty departure from Rough Point.

“We'll decide what we're going to do tomorrow,” my father said from his place on the sofa beside my mother. “If that is agreeable to you, Frederick.”

My uncle conceded with a nod. “I'm just relieved this matter has been resolved. To think of such an act committed in my own house. I'd like to unload this place as soon as possible.” He eyed the group ranged around the room. “I don't suppose there are any takers among you? I'll offer a good price.”

It was all I could do to school the disapproval from my expression. How could my uncle worry about the sale of his house in the face of these dreadful events, and hope to sell Rough Point to the very people who would most wish never to see this house again?

My other instinct, however, was to laugh at the irony of his suggestion. My father, as an artist, could barely afford to keep a roof over his and my mother's heads. I was quite certain Vasili, no matter how talented a dancer, had never made anything approaching a fortune even at the height of his career. That left Mrs. Wharton, who certainly could have afforded Rough Point, but who already owned a home in Newport, nearby Land's End.

I might have exercised restraint in reacting to Uncle Frederick's thoughtlessness, but the others didn't. A chorus of groans broke out, and my uncle sighed sheepishly. “I thought not.”

“I still can't believe Josephine did all these horrible things.” Mother slipped her hand around my father's arm and he patted it absently. “I would never have suspected such a thing.”

Mrs. Wharton was nodding her agreement. “I can't believe it either. Josephine is many things, and not all of them pleasant, but a murderess? I feel as though I'll never trust my judgment when it comes to people again.”

“There is so much evidence against her, it cannot be otherwise.” Vasili eyed the brandy cart. His fingertips shook.

“I wish Randall had confided in us.” Mrs. Wharton got to her feet and began pacing, as I had observed her doing previously in times of stress. “Why didn't he? Josephine clearly took advantage of him and made him very unhappy.”

“He was ashamed, obviously,” my father said. “What man wouldn't be, under the circumstances?”

“Jesse said his son would have been humiliated by the marriage,” my mother pointed out. “Randall hid the truth for James's sake.”

“Yes, but from us?” Mrs. Wharton looked less than satisfied. “We would have kept his secret, he had to know that.”

Vasili's head reared up, and he seethed in Mrs. Wharton's direction. “What difference does it make? He told us, he didn't tell us. Either way he is dead. Claude is dead. And Niccolo—we don't yet know, do we? The past means nothing now. There is only the future, without our friends.”

Mrs. Wharton abruptly ceased her pacing, held immobile by Vasili's ire. “I'm sorry,” she said miserably. “You are right. It is just that . . . something about this simply doesn't feel resolved. I don't know. . . .”

I felt the same, and like her I could not explain my reservations.

* * *

In the middle of the night, I came fully awake and stared into the near blackness of my room. A certainty beat through me with the rhythm of my racing pulse as images tumbled through my mind. The cigarette stub, the damaged cello—circumstantial evidence that, when taken alone, proved nothing, but when placed beside Miss Marcus's words and deeds, became damning. Or were we merely seeing what we wanted to see on the surface, without digging deeper to get at the truth?

Josephine and cigarettes . . . Josephine and Niccolo's cello, created by a master . . . Claude and the rug in his bedroom. Something about each of the scenarios involving all three deaths struck me as wrong. All, all wrong.