Murder at Marble House(24)

“It happened on your property.”

“An unhappy coincidence. I’m sorry a woman died, Emmaline, truly I am, but it’s simply not my business. Nor yours, if you’re wise.”





“I’m sorry, ma’am,” Grafton said an hour later, “but Miss Consuelo does not appear to be anywhere in the house.”

“Nor in the stables or the gardens or anywhere else I can think of,” I added as I strode into Aunt Alva’s private sitting room on the second floor. “I even checked the Cliff Walk.”

“She’d never go there,” Aunt Alva said absently, as if other thoughts held her attention. “She’s terrified of heights.” She stood up from her writing desk, where she’d been writing some sort of list, and went to gaze out the window at the rear of the property. The tops of meticulously pruned trees swayed beyond the open casement, and a raucous squawking of seagulls carried on the breeze. “What is that child up to?”

“Aunt Alva,” I said to her back, “I think it’s time to resum-mon the police.”

She whirled. “Are you mad?” Her gaze flicked to the butler, still hovering a few feet from the escritoire. “That will be all, thank you, Grafton. Say nothing to anyone and should you discover my daughter . . .”

“I’ll escort her to you, madam.”

Aunt Alva followed him as far as the door, which she shut firmly behind him before turning back to me. “You are not to speak of calling the police, Emmaline.”

“But if Consuelo is missing—”

“Oh, she is not missing. The very idea. If she’s gone, it’s because she stole the opportunity of today’s distraction to slip out without my noticing.”

“I hardly think Consuelo would be so scheming. It’s not like her—”

“She’s gone to one of her friends’ homes, I’m sure of it. Why, she’s probably sipping tea this very moment with May Goelet or Carrie Astor or . . . let’s see . . . are the Oelrichses in town this summer?”

“And if she’s not with May or Carrie or Blanche,” I persisted. “What then?”

Aunt Alva’s dark eyes went wide. “Good grief, you don’t think she’s . . . she’s . . .”

“She’s what?”

“With Winthrop Rutherfurd? What if . . . what if they’ve eloped? Oh, dear gracious heavens, Emmaline, we’ve got to find them. We’ve got to stop them!”

She started for the door, but I stepped in front of her and gripped her shoulders. “Don’t you think you’re jumping to conclusions? We have no reason to believe . . .” I trailed off, releasing my hold on my aunt.

“What are you thinking?” she demanded. Suspicion narrowed her eyes. “Do you know something?”

“No, but I might.”

Hurrying down the corridor, I returned to Consuelo’s bedroom. Nothing seemed disturbed since I’d been there earlier, no signs of sudden flight. I went into the dressing room. Again, nothing seemed rummaged through, no drawers gaped half open, and upon opening the wardrobe, I saw that all looked as neat as a pin. There were no signs that Consuelo had run upstairs during the chaos of the murder and packed a bag.

I went back out to the main room and yes, even her diary sat where she had left it that morning, when I’d interrupted her writing. Why would she have left it behind? Two possibilities presented themselves to me. Either someone had snatched her from the property against her will, or she had left on her own but impulsively, perhaps even blindly. Had she been desperate enough to do so?

I snatched the tome from the bedside table, but then I hesitated. Did I have the right, under any circumstances, to read my cousin’s private thoughts? Was I once again betraying her confidence? Oh, but if I could forestall her making a grievous mistake. . .

Knowing I might be partially responsible if Consuelo had done anything drastic, I flipped the book open to the last place she had penned her innermost thoughts, the page marked with a satin ribbon, and read:



Mama refuses to take me seriously. This horrible house is more important to her than I am. I won’t be sad to leave it, or her, but despite what I told Emma earlier, I tremble at the thought of how Mama has planned out my life for me. I feel so alone, so desperate. I feel as though I’m screaming and no one hears me—





Here a blotchy stain blurred the words. My own eyes stung. Had I believed my meddling had helped earlier today? Had I thought I’d helped my cousin face her future with a bit more courage? I’d only fooled myself into thinking so because I couldn’t bear the truth—the truth Consuelo felt she could impart to no one but the cool, white pages of her journal. Apparently, I’d placed a sorry second when it came to confidantes. But there was more, and I read on.