Murder at Marble House(52)

“I’m here to help you, Clara.”

She seemed not to hear me, but continued her pleading. “And I heard those footsteps . . . they could have been the murderer’s, but no one believes me.”

“I know you did, Clara. Detective Whyte knows it, too, and I promise he’s investigating all possibilities.”

Her face inched upward, those impossibly large, red-rimmed eyes locking with mine. “Why are you here, miss?”

I tried to choose my words carefully. “Clara, it’s come to the attention of the police that someone, a man, might have had a hand in Madame Devereaux’s murder.”

“The police have already asked me if someone put me up to it.” Clara’s voice trembled, its timbre as weak as a kitten’s. “I didn’t understand. They wouldn’t tell me who they meant. I just kept telling them I didn’t do it.”

So she didn’t know about Anthony Dobbs’s arrest. I decided to take another tack. “Clara, dear, when you weren’t working at Marble House, was there anyone special you spent your time with? In town, perhaps?”

A wary gleam entered her eyes and she took a long moment before answering. “I worked most of the time, miss. Six days a week. On Sunday I went to church. You know that. We both attend at St. Paul’s.”

“Yes, but what about Saturday nights? You went off duty by seven o’clock unless Mrs. Vanderbilt was holding a party, yes?”

“Yes, but . . . why are you asking me these questions, miss?” The police might not have informed Clara of Dobbs’s arrest, but it was on public record and no one had instructed me not to tell her. I shot a glance down the aisle at our dour audience before hurrying on. “There’s been another arrest in connection to the murder. Anthony Dobbs.”

Clara let out a yelp and lurched backward as if I’d struck her. “Tony? Oh, God in heaven, why Tony?”

“You know him, Clara, don’t you? And I don’t just mean you know of him.”

“Tony,” she wailed, as if she hadn’t heard me. “Not Tony . . . He didn’t. He wouldn’t . . . He promised—” Her whisper broke off and her lips clamped suddenly shut. Her eyes gaped wide as she peered at me with a terror-struck expression.

“What did he promise you, Clara?”

“That he’d let me be the one to talk to her. That he wouldn’t threaten or . . . or hurt her . . .”

Another sideways glance revealed the guard pressing his face close to the glass with renewed interest. I held up a hand to silence Clara. Very low, I said, “I believe you’re innocent and I want to help you, but I can’t do that unless I know what happened that day. Why were you in the gazebo, and don’t tell me you came out to see if anyone needed anything, because that simply doesn’t make sense. There are other servants at Marble House whose job it is to do that.”

I held my breath while Clara clearly warred with her fears and uncertainties. To help her along, I said, “You know me, Clara, and you’ve heard what I’ve done for other women in trouble. You can trust me.”

“She threatened to report him to his superiors,” the maid said in a rush.

“She . . . Madame Devereaux?”

Clara nodded in tight, frantic motions.

“The he you refer to is Anthony Dobbs?”

She nodded again, her eyes filling with fresh tears. “He wasn’t doing anything wrong, not really. Those people, they’re all criminals. Taking people’s money in exchange for lies and false promises. He was keeping them under control, keeping them from running amok.”

“Is that what he told you?” I couldn’t quite keep the accusation from my voice, and Clara’s response was to tilt her chin in defiance.

But her tears kept right on falling. I thought I’d have to prompt her again when she said, “I went out to the pavilion to talk to Madame Devereaux. To persuade her not to report Tony. To plead with her, threaten her if I had to. Oh, but I wouldn’t have hurt her, not really.” Her voice broke and she sobbed several times before continuing. “Besides, I never had the chance. I found her dead. I swear it, Miss Cross. The woman was dead when I arrived.”

At that moment the main security door swung open. “Time’s up.”

I had come hoping to gain insight that might help clear Clara, even if it shifted the blame to Anthony Dobbs. Instead, I left the jailhouse with the heavy knowledge that, despite Clara’s protestations, I now possessed the key piece that had been missing: her motive for having committed the murder.

Love was a compelling and often irresistible incentive. Every jury knew that.