Murder at Marble House

by Alyssa Maxwell

  Consuelo gasped.

  “What does that mean?” I demanded.

  “Blenheim is the home of the Duke of Marlborough,” she whispered hoarsely.

  James nodded. “Indeed. My father was first assistant to the house steward. My mother, the housekeeper’s assistant. Marianne was an upstairs maid.” He shot his sister a fond look. “She was about to be promoted to lady’s maid to the Duke’s sister, weren’t you, Marianne?”

  She nodded slightly, her face sickly white.

  “As a boy I had worked with the groundskeeper, but a few years ago I became a footman.” James’s expression darkened. “We were working hard, but going about our lives well enough until one day last autumn my father was accused of stealing and doctoring the house account books to cover his guilt. The Duke threatened my father with prison if he didn’t confess to the crime. My father was innocent, but—devil be damned—his word would never hold up against the Duke of Marlborough’s. Innocent or no, he’d rot in prison and the rest of us would be turned out to starve on the streets.

  “So he confessed, and we were sacked anyway. All of us. Tossed out without references and nowhere to go. And do you know what happened then?”

  I shook my head. Beside me, Consuelo trembled. Marianne sat with her head bowed, hands clenched around the arms of her chair.

  “Winter set in,” he said matter-of-factly, almost amiably. “We’d gone to Oxford to search for work and found none. None that’d take us without references, that is. The four of us were living in a one-room attic with the sky showing through the gaps in the thatch. The rain came through as well, and then the snow. We fell behind on the rent, so the landlord threatened to send us packing. That was when our mother became ill. Pneumonia. She was dead within the fortnight.”

  Marianne moaned, then bit down on her bottom lip and tightened her grip on the chair until her knuckles threatened to burst through the skin. She was so frail and forlorn, so defeated that, despite everything, I pitied her. I wanted to go to the woman and comfort her. I think Consuelo did, too. She looked down at Marianne but seemed to be holding herself back, perhaps debating if the Englishwoman deserved her sympathy, perhaps merely too afraid to move.

  “Not long after, my father lay in the pauper’s grave alongside her.” James spoke more quietly now, as if the memories proved too much and the fight had gone out of him. “Hanged himself from the rafters one day when Marianne and I had gone begging for food.”

  “Oh, good Lord,” Consuelo whispered through the hand she pressed to her mouth.

  “Ah, but it doesn’t end there.” A smile dawned on James’s face—demonic and chilling. “With Marianne showing signs of consumption, I knew we wouldn’t last much longer where we were. England had become a hell for us. So I did anything I could—and yes, that included begging, cheating, and stealing—to scrape together enough money to book our passages to America. We arrived in New York early last spring.”

  “Your story is a terrible one,” Consuelo said when he paused, “and surely you didn’t deserve what happened to you. I’m sorry for it. But why all of this? Why all of your lies?”

  “Isn’t it obvious, Consuelo?” At the risk of tearing my gaze away from James and his speargun, I turned to her. “The Duke of Marlborough. Even in America, they found they couldn’t escape the man.”

  She shook her head at me. “I still don’t understand.”

  “Revenge.” I turned back to James. “Isn’t that right?”

  James smiled shrewdly. “It was all too perfect. When I learned the bloody bastard was coming here to become engaged to Consuelo, I knew fate had arranged retribution in my family’s name. He needs your dowry to pay his debts and save his blasted estate. I intended to make sure he never got it—not one bloody cent. I moved us to Newport and soon enough learned that fate was even kinder than I had imagined. Pubs are a wondrous source of servants’ gossip, and I learned Consuelo wanted no part of this marriage. And then I met Miss Katie Dillon.” His brogue returned, dripping with mockery. “A bonnie lass, she is, and most accommodatin’.”

  “You used her . . . and Emma . . .” Consuelo trailed off in a clear attempt to gather her thoughts. When she spoke again, her voice was clearer, stronger, her back straighter. “And me, apparently. But why murder Madame Devereaux?”

  “Ah, an unplanned complication, that. Seemed the old boot was genuinely clairvoyant after all. Somehow she knew what I was planning. Knew I was going to spirit you away from Marble House, and she threatened to expose me if I didn’t pay her. So pay her I did.” His sister coughed, and James regarded her briefly. Then his gaze shifted to me. “I believe you found my coins scattered about the pavilion, Miss Cross. Aye, I didn’t have time to collect them, what with Mrs. Vanderbilt and her gaggle of quacking cronies waddling down the garden path. I’m afraid I had no choice but to leave a bit of a mess.”

  “And Amelia Beaumont—what of her?” I demanded.

  “A lovely diversion, and a willing accomplice.” At Consuelo’s and my shocked looks, he laughed. “Oh, not to murder, but in helping me arrange to get Consuelo out of the house. It was Amelia who called for the carriage that whisked Consuelo away from the property that day.”

  “Why would Lady Amelia agree to help you run off with another woman?” But the answer was obvious before I’d even completed the question. “Money. She needed it as much as you do. You promised her a share of whatever you eventually got from Alva and William.”

  Consuelo groaned. “What a fool I’ve been.”

  “Amelia guessed you committed the murder, didn’t she?” I said. “After all, you used her scarf. My guess is she had given it to you as a lover’s memento and was afraid to admit that to the police for fear she’d be incriminated.”

  James gave a casual shrug. “I took no pleasure in silencing the lovely Lady Amelia.”

  “Oh, God.” Holding her stomach, Consuelo sank down onto the sofa. I thought she might become ill and went to sit beside her.

  Reaching an arm around her, I gazed up at James. “So what happens now?”

  “What happens now, Miss Cross, I’ll take no pleasure in either.”

  With startling fierceness, Marianne pushed to her feet. “Enough, James. You can’t go on trying to right past wrongs with more wrongs.” She stopped and coughed into her hand. When she recovered she went on, “What happened to us had nothing to do with either of these young women—”

  “Marianne . . .”

  “No, James! Let them go and you and I will leave here. We’ll go far away. To Canada, perhaps. Anywhere. It doesn’t matter as long as no one else is hurt. As long as you don’t hurt anyone else.”

  “I wish it were so simple, Marianne.”

  “It is.” She moved slowly toward him, taking such tiny steps they were almost imperceptible. She didn’t stop until she was in front of him, the distance between them marked by the two-foot length of the harpoon. If he shot now, he would hit her point-blank. She held out her arms to him and used his pet name, a sister appealing, perhaps, to the boy he had been. “Give it to me, Jamie. Please, dear little brother, if you have any love for me at all, hand me that weapon.”

  I froze. Would she make a grab for the harpoon, perhaps wrench it out of her brother’s hands? I shifted forward on the sofa, at the same time grasping Consuelo’s hand, ready to spring up and bolt with her the moment the weapon was out of his control.

  With a near roar he used the barrel of the harpoon to shove Marianne aside. She stumbled and landed hard on the floor on her backside. Consuelo and I came to our feet, but in the same instant James pinned us in place by swinging the harpoon’s spear in our direction.

  “Let’s go.” He gestured to the door with a jerk of his head. Then he ordered Consuelo to open the door, and for the two of us to step out together in front of him. Marianne’s sobs followed us across the threshold, her broken pleas soon muffled as James kicked the door closed behind him. “That way—toward the pond.”

  Where was Derrick? Wildly I gla
nced around me, hoping— desperately praying—I’d see some telltale sign of him crouching in the bushes, perhaps waiting for us to pass so he could jump out and overpower James. But only the breeze rustled the foliage, and only birdsong and our crunching footsteps disturbed the silence of the day. Farther off, the ocean waves sighed against the shore.

  James prodded us past the cottage in the opposite direction of Paradise Avenue. Literally prodded, for every so often I felt the sting of the spear’s arrow against my back. The farther we walked the spongier the ground became, until the turf squelched beneath our feet. Water soaked into my low-heeled boots, and Consuelo attempted to raise her skirts clear of the clinging weeds.

  It was a losing battle. We’d entered the marsh, a thick, briny soup surrounding Nelson Pond. Consuelo and I had to shove the thickening growth of cattails out of our way, and I was all too aware of them falling back into place behind us, closing us in, cutting us off from any hope of rescue.

  Derrick. In my deepest core I knew some harm had come to him—or he’d have been here. That was as far as I allowed the thought to develop; I refused to let it roam any further. I might not survive the day, but in the end, Derrick had to be all right.

  He had to.

  But what of my cousin? Suddenly, those lessons in self-defense filled my mind. Derrick had revealed a man’s most vulnerable places, along with how best to attack each one. Somehow, I had to find a way to reverse course and face James—I needed to be facing him to launch my assault—but without provoking him to pull the trigger. Here in this lonely, quiet place, he could easily kill one of us with the harpoon and then strangle or beat the other to death.

  I made a quick assessment of my surroundings, searching for any possible weapons. There was nothing . . . nothing but weeds and water and all those cattails, too flexible to be of any use. Besides, we were nearing the pond now, and the cattails thinned out.

  “If you’re looking for your gentleman friend, I’m afraid he won’t be joining us.”

  “What did you—” My throat closed around the rest. I stopped walking, started to turn around to confront him, but a thrust of sharp metal between my shoulder blades stopped me cold.

  “He bled a lot, that one. But then a shovel to the head will do that. Surprising you didn’t hear it from inside the house. I’m fairly certain he’s dead, or will be shortly. At any rate, he’s not going anywhere. I locked him in our shed. Now walk.”

  Oh, Derrick. I’m so, so very sorry....

  “You’re the worst kind of monster and I hate you.” As Consuelo spat the words over her shoulder at James, she reached over and pressed a hand to my back.

  Her attempt to comfort me proved short-lived when James used the harpoon to smack her arm back down to her side. “Now, I’m sorry you said that, darlin’, because you and I might have walked away from this together. The choice would have been yours. But it seems you’ve made it.”

  “I’d never go anywhere with you.”

  “James,” I cried out as despair threatened to engulf me, “let Consuelo go. She—”

  “I’m not leaving without you, Emma. Oh!” A loud squelch sounded as the marsh sucked her foot in deep. Her ankle turned and she went down with a yelp and splash.

  I turned as if to reach for her, but instead I threw myself to the ground directly in James’s path. His boot struck my side, not a kick but merely a stride. He clearly hadn’t expected my move, and now I wrapped both hands around his ankle and tugged with all my strength. He toppled over me, landing facedown in the muck. Thankfully his torso landed clear of me, and I scrambled out from under his legs. He’d dropped the harpoon. I started to lunge for it, but he was already moving, already turning over and attempting to right himself, a thunderous look twisting his features.

  Remembering what Derrick had taught me about a woman’s strength being primarily in her legs, I raised my heel and shoved it into his face. There came a crack and blood spurted everywhere—from his nose I thought, but I didn’t take the time to be sure. I raised the same foot again and brought it down on his kneecap. A shriek tore from his throat and he instinctively reached one hand to his leg while the other continued to cradle his face, the blood pouring through his fingers.

  “Consuelo,” I shouted. “Run!”

  To my dismay she didn’t, but instead half-crawled, half-slithered in her wet skirts to retrieve the speargun. James was too fast for her. Reaching out, he managed to grip the butt, and in another motion would have had the weapon in his arms. Rising onto my knees, I threw myself down on him, knocking him over onto his back and me prone on top of him. His muscles tensed beneath me, and I knew I hadn’t much time before he’d overpower me, flip me over, and probably wrap his free hand around my throat.

  I had no intentions of dying. The harpoon slipped from his tenuous grasp, and this time, from the corner of my eye, I saw Consuelo swoop it off the ground and push to standing.

  “Emma, move!”

  But I couldn’t. James’s arms went around me, squeezing the breath out of me. His arms were powerful, those of a workman, and he might as well have gripped my throat. Black spots danced in my vision and the surrounding weeds went dark. But I could still move my limbs and now I forced my knee between his thighs and blindly rammed it, high, until it met with a barrier of flesh.

  James let out a roar. His arms fell away and I crawled off of him. He rolled to his side, knees drawn up, both hands cupped at the juncture of his legs. I thought I had him, oh, I truly did. But before I could reach Consuelo and take the harpoon from her, she pulled the trigger.

  Chapter 19

  The steel shaft hissed past me in a blur of reflected light . . . and pierced the wet ground about a foot from James’s head. As the arrow trembled back and forth and settled into stillness, my heart dropped to my feet.

  One shot only—taken and missed. James’s eyes went wide and he darted an astonished look in Consuelo’s direction. Then he was scrambling to his feet and blocking our path to the arrow. Blood smeared most of his face and his legs shook beneath him, but I knew he was only marginally less dangerous than before.

  “Consuelo, go!” This time I shoved her hard to force her to move. “Find help!”

  It might have been those last words that forestalled her protests and sent her running in a wide arc around James. With a twinge of relief I saw that she still held the harpoon. She might not have even realized it, but now James couldn’t reload and use it on me. The same thought must have crossed our minds at the same time, for he spun around to yank the arrow out of the marsh.

  He gripped it like the spear it was and came at me. I waited until he was almost within striking reach before ducking out of the way and sidestepping to my right. He was swift to follow, but I kept moving, away from the pond and deeper into the cattails again. He was having trouble moving—I’d done some damage. I racked my brains to decide how to do more.

  And then, through the reeds, I glimpsed hope. Frail and faltering, but hope all the same. I knew what I had to do.

  Circling James, I moved toward the pond again, forcing him to turn his back to the figure approaching through the cattails. Meanwhile I prayed he’d think panic had me moving blindly, and that he wouldn’t recognize my attempt to manipulate him.

  One other quick prayer ran through my mind, and to help facilitate its being answered I made as much noise as possible. I stomped my feet to raise loud splashes. I cried out as James came closer. I pleaded with him not to hurt me.

  Only a few feet separated us now. With the pond at my heels I’d run out of room to retreat, for my skirts would only ensnare me in the water and make James’s task easier. He came on slowly, in no particular hurry. With a swipe of his sleeve he cleared the blood off his face. He believed he had me and quite possibly he would have, if his sister didn’t just then emerge from the cattails, creep up behind him, and bring the shovel in her hands crashing down on the top of his head. Just as when Consuelo had shot at him, his eyes opened wide—but now they held no surprise
, no conjecture, merely a blank stare. Then his knees buckled and he hit the ground.

  The fight seeped out of me and I sank to the ground as well, but I wasted no time in crawling to him and sliding the arrow he still held out from between his fingers. Instinct sent me scrambling to put distance between us again. Then I sat up and glanced up at Marianne. She stood over her brother like an avenging angel, the shovel gripped in both her hands.

  “Thank you,” I managed between heaving breaths.

  She let out a loud cough, one that must have taken great effort to suppress as she’d sneaked up behind her brother. “I couldn’t let him hurt anyone else.”

  “No.”

  “Please believe I didn’t know until today about the others—those two women. I—” She coughed again, long and hard, the force of it doubling her over.

  “I believe you,” I said when the fit subsided. From where I sat, with the wet ground soaking the back of my skirts, I studied James’s inert body. “Is he . . . ?”

  Still holding the shovel, Marianne crouched beside him and held her hand close to his nose. “He’s breathing.”

  I crawled back to them. “Let’s get his suspenders off. We can use them to tie his hands and feet.” I hesitated. “Did you see Consuelo?”

  Marianne nodded as she began unhooking the suspenders from her brother’s trousers. “I sent her on to the nearest cottage for help. Someone in the area might have a telephone—”

  “Someone does,” I said, remembering one of the local residents had called the police after Lady Amelia’s body was found on the beach. “As long as Consuelo manages to find someone home and explains what happened, help will arrive.” I knew that to be true because I knew these islanders. They would waste no time in taking care of their own. “Let’s hurry. There’s someone else who might be gravely hurt. James said he’s locked in your shed. He needs me. . . .”

  Within minutes we had James secured. Not that he’d be waking up anytime soon, from the looks of him, but we were taking no chances. When I finally stood, the results of our tussle asserted themselves in the form of aches and sharp pains in every part of me. I gazed down at the man, feeling a fool for having been so easily taken in by him, and so furious with him I could feel nothing even approaching pity for his current state. But all of that passed in a second or two. I gathered my sodden skirts and hurried as fast as I could through the weeds and back toward the cottage. After a minute or two Marianne followed; I heard her soggy footfalls and her occasional coughs, but I never once glanced back. I only looked ahead.