Murder at Marble House(18)

“Allegedly heard,” Aunt Alva murmured. She seemed about to continue. I placed a hand over hers and shot her a warning look, which had the desired effect of silencing any further protests. Instead, she rolled her eyes at me.

Clara fidgeted with the edges of her pinafore, ripping tiny threads from the hem. “I heard them as I came down the path. I looked around, but I didn’t see anyone. Hardly surprising what with all the trees and hedges around the pavilion. Honestly I didn’t think anything of it at the time. There’s so many of us working here, it could have been anyone, or it could have been one of Mrs. Vanderbilt’s guests.”

“According to each of them,” Officer Dobbs mumbled as if to himself, “they were together during the time of the crime. They’re each other’s alibis.”

“Think, Clara.” Jesse bent at the waist to peer into her face. Dobbs scratched away on his pad. “Were they heavy steps, like a man’s? Or lighter, like a woman’s?”

The maid scrunched up her forehead as she considered. She sniffed loudly and wiped the back of her hand across her nose. “I suppose . . . they were heavy. Could have been a man’s. Except. . .”

“Except what, Clara?”

Officer Dobbs’s rapid scratching paused and the room grew silent. Clara’s head turned, her red-rimmed gaze landing on the sofa where Aunt Alva and I sat watching. Clara’s arm came up and she pointed a shaking finger in our direction.

“Except it could have been a woman, if the woman were as stout as Mrs. Vanderbilt.”

“Why, you!” Aunt Alva sprang to her feet. “How dare you, you little guttersnipe!”

Alarm sent me to my own feet, but Aunt Alva was too quick for me. Before I could speak up or reach for her, she was across the room, lifting Clara by the front of her dress, swinging one hand high in the air....

I braced for the slap even as I scrambled after her. Jesse had better reflexes than I; a lengthy stride brought him to Aunt Alva, and he grasped her raised wrist at the same time he commanded, “Mrs. Vanderbilt, release Miss Parker this instant or I’ll be forced to restrain you in a more permanent way.”

The shock of being spoken to in such a manner proved more efficient than any physical force could have. Aunt Alva released her hold on Clara and swung about. “Restrain me? Restrain me?”

“Yes, Mrs. Vanderbilt, that is what I said,” he replied mildly, his reserves of patience endless. He released her wrist.

On the other side of the desk, Anthony Dobbs held his pencil aloft and forgotten as he took in the scene. His heavy features filled with pure glee.

“There’s your criminal.” Aunt Alva gestured to Clara. “That’s whom you need to restrain. Do you not know who I am? Do you not understand what I am capable of, young man? Do you wish to continue in your employment as a police officer, or would you prefer to sweep chimneys or muck stables?”

“Aunt Alva, please, Detective Whyte is simply doing his job. He can’t allow you to attack Clara, or anyone else for that matter. And besides, Clara wasn’t accusing you of anything. She was merely pointing out that . . .” Oh dear, how to put this delicately, especially with Aunt Alva’s fuming wrath now aimed at me.

I swallowed audibly. I’d never seen her quite like this before. Oh, I’d seen her angry. I’d seen her railing at Uncle William, Consuelo, her younger brothers, the servants.... But just then, with the fury emanating from her like summer heat off a cobbled road, she did indeed seem capable of anything. Anything at all. Even, perhaps, with the right provocation, wrapping her hands around my neck.

I stepped back. Her last words to Madame Devereaux echoed inside me, sapping my body of warmth.

You will tell her the man you meant, the man who would only make her miserable, is Winthrop Rutherfurd, or you will be very, very sorry.





Some twenty minutes later, two uniformed policemen stepped into the room to report that all of the servants had been questioned, their statements taken, and each seemed to have been where he or she ought to have been at the time of the murder. In other words, they all had proper alibis.

“As well they should,” Aunt Alva mumbled.

Again I reminded myself that each of her guests had attested to the same thing: They had been together in the gardens immediately before our sojourn to the pavilion. I’d heard Aunt Alva threatening, or seeming to threaten, Madame Devereaux through the open library windows, but could she have had time to follow the medium to the pavilion, strangle her, and take her place among her guests quickly enough that they hadn’t noticed her absence?

It didn’t seem likely, and the Vanderbilt part of me breathed a sigh of relief. Aunt Alva had her faults, but she was, after all, family.