Murder at Rough Point (7 page)

S
ir Randall didn't appear for dinner, though my father's reassurances put to rest my own and anyone else's concerns. “Yes, I passed Sir Randall coming out of his room about an hour ago. He held a sketch pad under one arm and a fistful of pencils. He said he would eat something later, that he wished to make some rough sketches of the coastline before the sun went down. Then he dashed away.”

“I suppose he found his inspiration, then, though one wonders where a sculptor can find his muse in all that water.” Josephine Marcus's tone clearly dismissed the idea as invalid.

“One would imagine a sculptor's inspiration lies in the nooks and crannies of the cliff face,” Claude Baptiste said around a mouthful of fillet béarnaise.

“Let us hope he does not lean over too far to inspect that cliff face.” Josephine Marcus sniggered meanly and with a lift of an eyebrow, looked over at me. My face burned with ire, but I refused to return her gaze. Across the table from me, Teddy Wharton chortled. Mrs. Wharton looked mortified by his lack of discretion. My parents and the others went on eating as if they hadn't heard.

After supper ended, the men went into the Great Hall and moved the gilded chairs from against the walls into a semicircle in front of the room's towering bay of windows. Another chair, armless, had been centered within the bay, and Niccolo Lionetti's borrowed Montagnana cello waited beside it, safely enclosed in its case.

We had yet to take our seats and I moved into the drawing room to peer out the French doors. I saw no sign of Sir Randall against the twilit sky. It would soon be dark in earnest, and unsafe to wander the Cliff Walk. An idea sent me scurrying across the house to the servants' wing. In the dining room, Irene and Carl were cleaning away the remnants of dinner. I waited for Irene to pass by with her rattling burden of dinner dishes. I followed her through the pantry into the scullery.

“May I do something for you, miss?” she asked as she set the tray down on the work counter beside the wide sink, lined in wood to prevent delicate porcelain from chipping.

“I wondered if you'd seen my dog lately?”

She turned on the faucet. “Why yes, miss. He ate his bowl of scraps, and happy he was to have them, before setting out across the lawns. I don't know where to, miss. Is it a cause for concern? Ought I to have brought him into the servants' porch?”

“No, I just wondered . . . Perhaps Patch is with Sir Randall,” I mused aloud. That the two might be together alleviated my growing fears for Sir Randall's safety. Patch might be unruly and ill-disciplined, but he had also proved himself as sure-footed as a goat, leaping from boulder to boulder along Gull Manor's peninsula. There had been times watching him when my heart had literally thrust up into my throat, so sure I had been he'd fall in the water, only to see him lithely maneuver the terrain with joyful yips and barks.

At that moment the cook, a Mrs. Harris, cried out from the main kitchen. Irene and I traded startled looks before hoisting our hems and hurrying in to see what was the matter. Mrs. Harris was chuckling when we arrived and leaning over to pet Patch.

“He's a sneaky baggage,” she explained when Irene and I skidded to halts by the center worktable. “I took the garbage to the bins outside, and he must have slipped in behind me. Didn't see him until he brushed against my legs just now. Gave me quite a fright, the naughty boy.”

“I'm so sorry.” I circled the table and caught hold of my precocious mutt's collar. He twisted around to sniff at me and deliver a welcoming lick. “I don't have a leash—he wasn't supposed to be here, you see. But perhaps there might be some rope I could use.”

“Nonsense,” Mrs. Harris chided. I released Patch and he trotted back to the woman. He stood on his hind legs and placed his paws on her thighs, panting for more caresses as if his life depended on it. Such a flimflam artist, that dog of mine. The trouble was, no one at home felt inclined to teach him the error of his ways. Mrs. Harris accommodated his request with her sturdy hands and a hearty laugh. “I'll watch out for him, miss. So long as he keeps out of the larder and doesn't pilfer anything meant for the dining room, he and I shall be fast friends.”

“If you're certain . . .” I felt it was a lot to ask a woman who already had enough to do seeing after meals for eight guests—or rather nine, including myself—plus the four members of the staff.

“Go on, miss. We'll be just fine. Won't we, Irene?”

The girl smiled broadly. “He's a sweetie, that's for certain.”

I hesitated before returning to the main portion of the house. “Did you by any chance see Sir Randall Clifford return with Patch? They were exploring the Cliff Walk together earlier.”

“A guest, at the service entrance, miss?”

I saw her point. Then again, he might enter the house this way after tramping about the Cliff Walk. “Well, thank you both. Patch, you be a good boy.”

I nodded at Carl as I crossed the dining room and glanced again at the fading view outside the windows. Perhaps Sir Randall was at this moment in his bedroom changing for the evening's entertainment.

On my way back to the Great Hall I came upon Miss Marcus and Claude Baptiste standing in the recessed portion of the Stair Hall beneath the half landing. A single electric lamp illuminated the space, dimmed by a beaded and embroidered chinoiserie shade. Their tones were hushed and urgent, but three words spoken by Miss Marcus hissed their way to my ears:
production . . . Vasili . . . revenge
.

I paused in the doorway of the dining room. My mother had spoken of Monsieur Baptiste's production of
Carmen
and the fact that he would not cast Miss Marcus in the lead role. Were they arguing about it now? Mother hadn't said anything about Vasili Pavlenko
or
revenge. At the sound of footsteps treading the stairs, I looked up to see Edith Wharton descending in a lovely rose velvet evening gown. She, too, must have heard the voices, perhaps from the half landing, for she grazed me with a look of exasperation before making the sharp turn from the bottom of the steps to where the other two, oblivious of their audience, continued their debate.

Mrs. Wharton spoke in an undertone. “Josephine, dear, others can hear you. You must learn not to make such scenes.”

Monsieur Baptiste pinched his thin lips together, his eyes becoming small above his hawkish nose.

“My life is about scenes, Edith,” Miss Marcus said with all the melodrama of an operatic heroine. “Scenes are my vocation, or had you forgotten. Claude here certainly has, for he is determined to disregard me at every turn. It would seem the concept of friendship eludes him.” Miss Marcus noticed me then, for she craned her neck to see around Mrs. Wharton and raised her voice to address me. “You may write
that
in your article, Miss Cross.”

Oh dear. I deserved being called out for eavesdropping yet again. But if someone didn't wish their conversation to be overheard, they should not hold them in public places.

Once again loud enough for me to hear, Mrs. Wharton said, “Yes, well, stabbing friends in the back happens to be a specialty of Claude's. You're not the only one of us to feel the sting of his unkindness between your shoulder blades. You must remember that, Josephine.”

While Monsieur Baptiste blanched, Mrs. Wharton whirled about and retraced her steps to me. She rather roughly linked her arm through mine. “Come, Miss Cross. Niccolo will begin shortly.”

Before we crossed into the Great Hall, another of Miss Marcus's whispers lashed out behind us. “Admit it, Claude, it's because of Vasili, isn't it? Because you and Vasili blame the rest of us for what happened.”

If Claude Baptiste responded to the charge, I didn't hear him.

“What was that about?” I whispered to Mrs. Wharton before we reached the seating area. We paused in the glow of the great stone fireplace, brought here from some Scottish castle when the house was built. Footsteps sounded above our heads in the open upper gallery. Sir Randall? The individual passed into the inner corridor before I could glance upward.

“Claude has hesitated over casting Josephine in his production of—”

“Mother told me about that,” I interrupted. “But the rest. What does Vasili Pavlenko have to do with it? And y—” I stopped myself from saying
you
, but too late. Mrs. Wharton knew what I had been about to ask.

“It's all right,” she said. “Back in Paris last autumn Claude and I had been collaborating on a play we were writing jointly. I thought it had been going well, until Claude abruptly told me he was no longer interested in the project. It was quite a blow to me. I'd devoted abundant time, not to mention my heart and energy, only to have Claude tell me it wasn't any good. That
I
wasn't any good. Not as a writer—he wasn't as cruel as all that. But as far as theater is concerned, he deemed my talents thoroughly insufficient.”

“How unkind of him.”

Even before Mrs. Wharton's expression changed to one of irony, I knew what she would say—knew what
I
would have said had our roles been reversed.

“There is little kindness or gallantry in the art world, Miss Cross, as I am certain you are aware. It is something we must be willing to accept, or we should quietly return to our garden parties and other such entertainments. Wouldn't you, as a journalist, agree?”

I nodded ruefully. “I wouldn't have it any other way. Nothing raises my hackles faster than a pat on the head from my employer. But what about Mr. Pavlenko? What has he to do with whether Monsieur Baptiste casts Miss Marcus or not?”

Mrs. Wharton was smiling broadly now. “You truly are a reporter, Miss Cross. So very curious.” My face heating, I was about to apologize for my impertinent curiosity when she continued. “But in answer, I truly don't know. I suppose it's a confidence between Josephine, Claude, and Vasili. And perhaps Niccolo,” she added pensively, gazing across the width of the Great Hall and over the heads of the small audience just now taking their seats. Miss Marcus swept by us and regally lowered herself into the center seat, a red velvet throne-like affair with a gilded frame and a great eagle carved at the apex of the backrest. A fitting perch, I thought, for a woman of such flamboyant temperament.

I noticed Mr. Dunn had taken up position outside the room's second doorway, which opened onto the entry foyer. Behind him stood Carl and Irene, her maid's uniform smoothed and her apron gone, craning to see over Mr. Dunn's shoulder. Her eyes were shining with anticipation, and I was glad she was permitted to enjoy the recital, albeit from outside the room.

In the bay of windows, Niccolo sat holding the Montagnana, one ear angled close to the neck as he softly plucked the strings and then leaned to make adjusting turns of the fine tuners on the tailpiece. Vasili Pavlenko, his wavy, golden brown hair mussed, hurried in from the drawing room and took a seat beside Monsieur Baptiste. They tilted their heads toward each other and appeared to trade rapid murmurs.

Mrs. Wharton lightly touched my forearm. “Shall we sit together, Miss Cross?”

Before I replied, I noticed my parents sitting, not together, but a seat apart. I gestured to the empty chair between them. “I believe my parents are hoping I'll sit with them.”

“Yes, of course.” Mrs. Wharton moved away to take a seat. It was when I'd settled between Mother and Father that I noticed she had not chosen a chair beside her husband, but one at the very end of the row. As Signore Lionetti continued tuning his instrument—which in itself filled the room with a beautiful melody—I glanced over at Teddy Wharton on the far side of my mother. He slumped in his chair and stared down at his feet, and I followed his gaze to a peculiar detail.

“Mr. Wharton.” I leaned around my mother and spoke quietly so as not to disturb our musician. “Have you been out walking? Have you seen Sir Randall?”

He glanced up as if startled. “What? Oh, yes, I took a turn in the garden, but no, I haven't seen Sir Randall since before dinner. He's probably back in his room by now.”

I nodded, and then Mother nudged me. Niccolo Lionetti's Montagnana had gone silent. He flipped his fringe of dark curls off his forehead, adjusted his posture, and raised his bow in a graceful sweep. The sonorous notes of a Bach concerto leapt on the air, and my heart leapt with it. The notes soothed and thrilled, lulled and electrified. The soaring height of the Great Hall plucked each note skyward, to echo down on us like calls from heaven. Goose bumps erupted on my arms and traveled my back. I felt as if some magnetic force held me in my chair and rendered me entranced and immobile but for the melodic racing of my pulse.

Did the music have the same effect on the others? I stole a glance down the row at Josephine Marcus. Nearly as thrilling as the music was the change that had come over her, a physical alteration of her entire being, or so it seemed to me. Her very posture, typically careless and unladylike, more resembled that of Mrs. Wharton, as if she, too, was shored up by the music. But most striking was the change to her features, now relaxed, serene, and utterly without artifice.

The music called to me once again, yet as I turned my sights away from Miss Marcus, I again noticed Teddy Wharton's side-lacing, patent-toed half boots, and the damp grass speckling their vamps. When Niccolo Lionetti and Vasili Pavlenko had been outside that morning, they had changed their outdoor boots for indoor shoes. It was only proper etiquette. So why had Teddy Wharton forgotten such a simple courtesy?

Then Mother placed her hand over mine where it rested on the arm of my chair, and I returned my attention to the performance.