He pulled a face and said rather less enthusiastically, “Miss Cross.” His gaze shifted briefly to Brady. “Mr. Gale.”
“Winty,” my brother replied with a haughty grin that made me want to poke his ribs.
“May we come in?” I asked.
“Look, if this is about the other day . . . I’m sorry. I was in a bit of a hurry. Besides, the police have already been here asking questions, and they seemed more than satisfied with my answers.”
“Were they? And did you tell them any semblance of the truth? Mr. Rutherfurd, I suggest you let us in or we’ll be forced to discuss this matter here, and I cannot guarantee my voice will stay to a discreet level.” I wasn’t sure if it was that, or my pointed glare, that convinced him to step aside and open the door wider. Once inside he ushered us into the nearest room, a fussy, overdecorated little parlor that appeared little used. He didn’t invite us to sit, but that suited me fine.
“Now, then.” Having preceded him in, I whirled to face him. “Where
were
you going in such a hurry, Mr. Rutherfurd?”
“Town. Not that it’s any of your business.”
“Where in town?” This came from Brady and I shot him a scowl. Yet I repeated the question.
It was Winty’s turn to glower at both of us. I simply raised my eyebrows at him and waited. “Long Wharf, if you must know.”
“Why? What sent you there in such a hurry you nearly sent my rig off the road? You might have lamed my horse.”
Winty shoved his hands in his coat pockets and strode past me. He went to the window and looked out over his neat front lawn, shaded by an old oak and a Japanese maple. His shoulders bunched. “I received a message from a dockworker—”
“Are you personally acquainted with many of those?” I interrupted.
He spun about. “No, Miss Cross, I am not. But I paid this particular individual to relay any important information concerning. . .” He paused, blew out a breath, and gave a shake of his head. “Concerning certain investments of mine.”
His look suggested I should know what he meant, which indeed I did.
“And . . .” I prodded. I sensed Brady’s interest growing as, beside me, he craned his neck slightly.
“And I arrived too late. My associate”—I knew he meant Calvin Stanford—“had arranged for a pre-crated shipment to be loaded onto a steamer the night before. That steamer put out before I reached the wharf.” He turned away again, this time to finger a lace runner spanning the top of a lovely little walnut spinet. His hand stiffened and I thought he might send the runner, and the delicate porcelain figurines ranged along it, hurtling to the floor. Then I distinctly heard “damn his eyes” whispered under Winty’s breath. That, more than anything else, clarified matters for me.
“So I gather you’re telling me Mr. Stan—” I glanced at Brady. “Your associate stole your half of your mutual investment. Is that correct?”
“Yes, that’s correct,” he said, mocking my tone. “And if you and a good dozen other lollygaggers hadn’t been clogging the roads, I might have been able to intercept that damned boat.”
“Rutherfurd . . .” Brady’s voice took on a growling edge. “I’ll thank you to watch your language in front of my sister.”
Winty tossed up his arms. “Your sister, sir, has single-handedly become the bane of my existence.”
“I beg your pardon!” My hands went to my hips. “It certainly wasn’t I who led you astray, was it, Mr. Rutherfurd? No, that was your own doing. You made your bed, and now you must—”
“Miss Cross, my bed promised to be quite tidy until you decided to poke your nose into other people’s business.”
“I was only interested in the whereabouts of my cousin. Had you not conducted yourself so suspiciously, I would be none the wiser today. Now, regardless of whatever excuses you gave the police for your reckless driving, can you prove you were at the wharf that day?”
“I can,” he said with enough confidence that I felt half-inclined to believe him.
I folded my arms. “As well-known around town as you are, I suppose it should be easy enough to prove one way or another.”
“Then go ahead and prove it, one way or another.” His eyes narrowed, and a little shiver traveled across my shoulders.
Still, I asked, “At any point did you head in the opposite direction, to the beaches?”
He wrinkled his nose. “You mean to Easton’s?”
“Or beyond.” He must not have been reading his newspapers lately if he didn’t automatically associate my questions with Amelia Beaumont’s death.
“Good heavens, Miss Cross. If I want to stroll along a beach, I’ll head over to Bailey’s to mingle with my own kind. Our kind,” he amended after an instant’s pause. Was that an attempt to placate me? He blinked. “As it is, I don’t much care for sand.”
Neither do I . . . not anymore,
I thought, remembering the sight of Lady Amelia’s dress, like a heap of sand and seaweed.
I had one more question for him. “Have you heard anything from Consuelo?”
“No.” He narrowed his eyes again and studied me. “But why do I sense that you might have? Do you know anything about where she is? If you do, Miss Cross, please tell me. I have a right to know. I might . . . be able to help her.”
Had he had a change of heart when it came to fighting for her hand in marriage?
“No, Mr. Rutherfurd, I don’t know where she is, although I have every hope of finding her soon.”
He stepped closer. “When you do, will you bring her here? To me?”
“That I will not, Mr. Rutherfurd.” His expression fell, but I kept on. “You gave up any rights to Consuelo’s confidence, first when you backed away so entirely at the news of her engagement, and second when you decided to put in with . . .” I smiled grimly. “Your associate.”
A vein in his temple throbbed. “Miss Cross, I would thank you to leave. Now.”
“We were just going. Come, Brady, I believe we’re finished here. But, Mr. Rutherfurd, you might want to drive more carefully in the future.”
The rest of that day, and the next, passed in a frustrating tedium of inactivity, at least when it came to discovering Consuelo’s whereabouts. Derrick telephoned to tell me only that his “sources” were still working on digging up the property records on the cottages near Second Beach. He offered to come to Gull Manor to review what we already knew, and when I listlessly declined that idea, he proposed another lesson in self-defense.
Self-defense . . . against whom? Against him and the temptation he aroused in me despite my every resolve to the contrary. No, I told him, I was still sore from our last session. I didn’t mention that the ache was inward rather than outward, of the sort that left no visible bruises.
Early the next morning he called again. This time, he had news.
Chapter 17
“E
mma, I’ve dug up some names of people living near Second Beach, but from what I’ve been able to gather, it wouldn’t make sense for your cousin to stay with any of them.”
“What do you mean?” Clutching my robe tighter around me with one hand, I used the other to press the ear trumpet tighter to my ear.
The line crackled a moment, and then his voice came clearly over the line. “. . . Elderly couples, young families, a few immigrants. . .”
“No, none of those makes sense,” I agreed without asking him to repeat whatever I had missed. “Consuelo certainly wouldn’t know any immigrants—”
The word stopped me; I went silent, thinking.
“Emma, are you there?”
Rather stupidly, I nodded, and Derrick spoke my name again, more insistently this time.
“Yes,” I said absently, and then with more force, “Derrick, what are the names of those immigrants?”
“Hold on.” There came a muffled clunk as Derrick must have set down the ear trumpet, followed by the rustle of paper. “Some are owners, others are leasing the properties.” I heard more rustling. “Here we are . . . Medeira, Quinn, Souza, Dwyer, Dietzman, Delgado—”
One name stood out in that hodgepodge of Portuguese, Irish, and German names. “Delgado!”
“Ouch. You needn’t shout in my ear, Emma. How is Delgado significant?”
“Is the first name Eduardo?”
“It is. Do you know him?”
“Derrick, Eduardo Delgado is the head gardener at Marble House. My goodness . . . I need to think about this. . . .” The hand holding the ear trumpet drifted downward. My body thrummed with nervous excitement, but with bafflement, too. Everything I knew about Mr. Delgado contrasted sharply with the notion of his holding Consuelo against her will. Or, for that matter, hiding her from her mother.
Could Consuelo have sought his help and persuaded him to help her “disappear,” at least until she came to terms with her future? When I considered it that way, it didn’t seem impossible that the kindly man might help her—yet it would be at the risk of losing his job. There was no doubt he’d be sacked the moment Aunt Alva learned of a connection between him and Consuelo’s disappearance.
“Emma? Emma! Are you still there?”
His query drifted up from my hand and quickly I raised the ear trumpet and leaned closer to the transmitter. “Oh, Derrick, I was so wrong about everything. I went off on wild goose chases because I let my imagination run away with me.”
“What do you mean?”
I shook my head sadly, another gesture he couldn’t see. “I convinced myself of a connection between the murder and Consuelo’s disappearance. But there couldn’t be. Mr. Delgado couldn’t possibly have—”
“How can you be sure he didn’t kill Madame Devereaux?”
“I
know
him. He’s a decent man. So kind and—”
“Murderers don’t go around snarling and openly threatening people, not as a matter of course.”
“Yes, I know that.” His condescension tempted me to knock the ear trumpet against the wall in lieu of swatting his arm, but I knew I’d likely end up breaking it. I paused to think back on the day of Madame Devereaux’s murder and all the evidence I’d heard during the police questioning. “If I remember correctly, Mr. Delgado said he was conferring with Grafton, Aunt Alva’s butler, about redoing a portion of the tea garden for the Duke of Marlborough’s welcoming party. So he has an alibi.”
“Would your cousin have confided in a servant? Especially an outdoor workman? An upstairs maid is one thing, but a gardener. . .”
“I have no way of knowing,” I said truthfully, for I’d learned the hard way that I knew my cousin far less than I’d thought I did. “Except, of course, to go to his house and find Consuelo. Then we’ll have our answers. Tell me the address.”
“Oh, no, Emma. I’m not telling you anything. I’ll go. Or better yet, Jesse Whyte and I will go together.”
“You can’t.” I gripped the edge of the call box as if gripping Derrick himself. “If you go knocking on Mr. Delgado’s front door, Consuelo will go running out the back door.”
“Then we’ll each cover a door,” came his infuriatingly calm response.
“No, Derrick. It has to be me. She won’t trust anyone else. I won’t have my cousin traumatized.”
But even as I spoke the words, I heard the lie in them. What reason did Consuelo have to trust me after our last talk? I had let her down and cruelly proved she had no one to turn to. No one but a soft-spoken servant who was too generous to turn his back on her.
Here was my chance to make amends. Whatever the future brought, surely I could make Consuelo see that she couldn’t hide out in Mr. Delgado’s cottage indefinitely. In that way perhaps I could help them both, for I didn’t wish to see Mr. Delgado sacked. As for Consuelo, whatever she wanted, I would do my best to make happen. I would take her side no matter the consequences.
“Derrick, it has to be me and no one else. At least, no one else in sight. The Duke of Marlborough may already be on his way to Newport and could arrive any day. Consuelo has a right to know this before she makes any decisions, and I owe it to her to explain matters calmly, without any pressure or interruptions. I have a plan. A compromise.”
A groan filled my ear. “Please, Emma, not another one of your plans.”
“Five minutes, Emma.”
“That’s not nearly enough time. A half hour.”
Derrick and I stood on Second Beach, not far from where Lady Amelia’s body had been found. He had parked his rented carriage a little farther along the sand, to blend in with a half dozen or so others ranged there. A little more than twice that number of people strolled the shoreline, tourists, from the looks of them, perhaps tired of the crowds and noise of Easton’s Beach. For the moment, we were alone in our remote corner near the upswell of land that began the rocky approach to Purgatory Chasm.
A light wind blew off the water; the skies were clear but for some scuttling fair-weather clouds. No, the only storm brewing was the one in the pit of my stomach.
But I showed Derrick my bravest face. “I’ll need at least a half hour to talk her into coming home.”
He stared down at me, lifting a hand to raise my chin to better view my face beneath my hat brim. “Ten minutes.”
“Twenty-five.”
“I don’t like it, Emma. I don’t know why I let you convince me of this much.”
“Because you know my plan makes sense. You wait here with the carriage until I’ve had a chance to reason with Consuelo alone. There may be tears, recriminations—” I broke off, not wishing to delve into the reason for those possible recriminations. “Anyway, such matters can’t be rushed.”
“I can’t see the cottage from here. I should at least be within viewing range, if not hearing.”
I shook my head. “If she hears us approach in the carriage, she might run off. And if she sees me arriving with a stranger, we could have the same result. Besides, this is Mr. Delgado’s house we’re talking about. Despite your suspicions, I know he had nothing to do with Madame Devereaux’s murder. I’ll be safe as can be.”
His mouth remained a stern line, his chin arrow-like in its severity. I smiled, hoping to melt a bit of his icy resolve, but his expression softened not in the least as he pulled me to him and pressed his lips to mine.
The breath went out of me and in the heat of that kiss, I’d have accepted any terms, any demands he might make. No wonder, then, that when he set his cheek against mine and whispered fiercely, “Twenty minutes, Emma, and not a second more,” I merely nodded in agreement.
With a last, shaky look back at him, I made my way up the road toward the dusty little lane that branched off of Paradise Avenue. It was true, Derrick wouldn’t be able to see the cottage from the beach. I couldn’t see it either until I was almost upon it, nestled within a stand of trees and surrounded by thickets of beach plum, the fruit long gone and the leaves that dark, tired green of late summer. To anyone traveling along Paradise Avenue, the place would be invisible.
The cottage itself consisted of a single, squat story, the shingled walls weathered and silvery, topped by a low-pitched slate roof. Open mullioned windows flanked either side of the front door, once painted blue perhaps, but now wind-battered to a dull gray so thin the wood grain showed through. A small shed stood to the rear of the property, a stack of wood piled along the wall I could see. The air was heavy with the scent of brackish water and warm, rotting foliage. Nelson Pond lay only a few dozen yards away, surrounded by a weedy marsh. With a deep breath I turned up the rock-strewn path to the house and knocked.
The door didn’t immediately open, but hushed voices and the distinct thud of another door closing sounded inside. Another few moments passed. I raised my hand to knock again when the lock clicked from inside and the door creaked open a few inches.
“Yes?” A woman peered out at me, her face cast in shade. I could not have guessed if she was old or young, but one thing was certain: She was not well. Her skin stretched tight over sharp cheekbones, sinking her eyes deep into an emaciated face. Her lips were bloodless, her hands clawlike. I noticed this last when she raised a wadded handkerchief to her lips and coughed several times, the sound echoed by a rattle deep in her chest. She pulled a knitted shawl tighter around her.
My heart twisted for this woman, and my own doubts mounted. Had Derrick read the records wrong? “I’m sorry to disturb you, madam. Perhaps I have the wrong address.”
She retreated a step and started to close the door. Impulse sent my foot out to fill the gap and stop her. Derrick wrong about a public record? The very notion screamed of impossibility. “Is this the home of Eduardo Delgado? Are you his . . . ?” Once again I tried to judge her age, but the ravages of her infirmity made it impossible. I also tried to remember if the head gardener had ever mentioned family members. “Wife? Daughter?”
“I am neither of those.”
It was then I realized she spoke with what my American mind interpreted as not quite a brogue, but some regional dialect from one of England’s more remote corners. That accent, along with her fair complexion and light, lifeless brown hair almost certainly ruled out her being Portuguese.
I had a sudden insight. “Are you renting this house from Mr. Delgado?”
“I . . .” Her gaze darted past me, then slithered warily back.
“Yes. What of it?”
“How do you know him?”
“I don’t know that that’s any of your business, miss.” Again she whisked the handkerchief to her mouth and coughed, the sound like shaken gravel. I winced but tried not to show it. “Is there anything else?” she demanded.
“There’s someone else here, isn’t there?” Seeing her bracing for a second attempt at closing the door, I came to the point. “I’m looking for Consuelo Vanderbilt. I’m told she’s been seen walking on the beach. Is she here?”
Her eyes flashed with alarm, and though she recovered quickly, a shadow of fear continued to hover over her expression. “I’ve never heard of such a person.”
“Now that, madam, is a lie. Of course you’ve heard of her. I don’t care how new you are to this country, because she is as famous in Europe as she is in America. Everyone has heard of Consuelo Vanderbilt. Now”—I stepped up closer, nearly wedging myself into the few inches between the door and the jamb—“is . . . she . . . here?”
“Please—” She got no further before another coughing fit overcame her. Remorse at having overtaxed her rose up inside me and nearly had me turning about and leaving, but then the door opened wider.
“Stop badgering Marianne, Emma. She hasn’t done anything wrong. She’s been my friend. My only friend.”
“Consuelo.” The word slid from my lips, no more than a breath. There she was, standing right in front of me, her Angora cat, Muffy, cradled in her arms. The shock of finally seeing her, of having her within reach, rendered me otherwise speechless and immobile, as if she might flitter away at the slightest ripple of motion.
She let out a sigh and stepped back from the threshold. “You might as well come in. I doubt you’re simply going to go away.”
I followed her and the other woman, Marianne, into a tiny parlor. The room held a faded green sofa, a ragged easy chair, an equally shabby armchair, and a couple of side tables, all arranged around a central hearth of whitewashed brick. To the right of the fireplace an open doorway afforded glimpses of a stove and a bit of counter: the kitchen. A closed door stood off to my left, presumably a bedroom.
As if she presided over the tiny cottage, Consuelo gestured me to sit on the sofa. She took the easy chair and settled a purring Muffy in her lap. Marianne lowered herself slowly into the armchair, her effort obvious in how tightly she gripped the arms.
Consuelo wore a simple morning gown of coral muslin and no adornments save a single pearl that hung from a gold chain around her neck, a gift I knew to be from her father. Her hair had been braided and coiled at her nape. She sat with her back straight, her lovely neck leaning slightly forward as she regarded me with raised eyebrows, her expression halfway between resignation and amusement. Even in plain muslin, she looked regal, serene—and impossibly at odds with her surroundings. The dress was vaguely familiar to me, and I realized that when I had checked her dressing room for missing clothing I had only considered the more sumptuous items of her wardrobe, the gowns I’d grown used to seeing her in.
Simple attire, this shabby cottage . . . My confused mind grasped on to a single question. “What are you doing here?”
She smiled—almost. “
Not
marrying the Duke of Marlborough.”
Did I hear blame in her words? “But what will you do? Where will you go?”
“The world is a big place, Emma.”
That sent me to my feet. “No, it isn’t. Not for you. Where can you go where no one will recognize you?”
“After a time, that won’t matter anymore.”