I could barely suppress my proud smile as I led Spence Arnold between tables to the other side of the room. When I turned to regard him he didn’t look at all pleased at having been upstaged. I made a mental note to have Derrick compensate him for his time.
“Sorry to interrupt your fun, Mr. Arnold. I would never have done so if it weren’t vitally important.”
He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the wall. “Miss Cross, what would your father say if he saw you here?” His eyes remained kindly despite the admonishment. “This is no fit place for a nice young lady like yourself.”
I didn’t tell him that if my father cared so much about my safety, he wouldn’t have gone to live in Paris, now would he? I still hadn’t gotten over how neither of my parents had indicated any intention of returning home upon learning Brady had been accused of murder, but with an effort I hid my frown.
“Mr. Arnold, I understand you’re familiar with a woman named Hope Stanford. Is that correct?”
“Mrs. Sledgehammer?”
I nodded. “Angus told me what happened here, but I wondered if you would tell me what occurred earlier that night at the Oyster Club.”
A chorus of cheers went up from the vicinity of the dartboards. I couldn’t see what had occurred, but Spence glanced over heads with a look of impatience, prompting me to add, “Please, it’s very important.”
“How important can it be? She came in hollering just like she did here. Slammed that hammer of hers against the bar. Said the demon spirits was destroying the moral fiber of the whole country. As if us islanders could give a hoot what happens beyond our shores.”
I let that pass. “And were you the one who stopped her, like you did here?”
“Me? Nah, didn’t have to—” Another roar went up, once again claiming Spence’s attention.
“Why not?” I pressed, attempting to force him to focus.
“What? Oh . . . right. Because Ellie shoved her aside and took the hammer away.”
“Ellie?”
“Yeah, the fortune-teller.”
“Fortune-teller . . .” My heart began to pound. “Do you mean Madame Devereaux? Eleanora Devereaux?”
“Yeah, that’s her name. Nice gal. Pity what happened to her.”
“So, you knew her?” My fingertips trembled with each beat of my pulse. “How well?”
“She was a regular at the Oyster Club. Sometimes came here, too, but she preferred the taverns where the crowd changed from night to night.”
“And why was that?”
“Business, Miss Cross. See, she’d wait till the customers had a few drinks in ’em, then go round offering to read fortunes. Made a tidy living that way. Can’t say I blamed her.”
“No . . . So what happened after she took Mrs. Stanford’s sledgehammer?”
“Oh, she told that teetotaler off good and well. Said she had no stomach for hoity-toity upstarts imposing their prudish ways on a city like Newport. And then . . . this is where things got a little strange.”
“How so?”
“The fortune-teller went into some kind of weird trance. At first I thought the apoplexy got her and she’d keel over. But she just stood there, staring at the other woman like she could see straight through her. And real quiet, she said something. Something that made Mrs. Sledgehammer turn all kinds of red. I’ve never seen that shade of red on a person before.”
“What did the medium say?” I could scarcely curb my excitement or my impatience.
But Spence disappointed me with a shake of his head. “Couldn’t hear the words. Just her voice, all low and strained, like she was trying to whisper while someone had their hands around her throat. The next thing I knew, the other woman grabbed her sledgehammer back and fled out the door. ’Bout an hour later I came over here, and there she was, ranting and carrying on like nothing ever happened at the Oyster.”
Minutes later Spence rejoined his friends and resumed his dart game, and I strode out to the sidewalk with Derrick in tow.
“I’ll have you know I was making tidy sums for a number of those fellows inside,” he said. “I may have missed my calling.”
We reached a dusty pool of light beneath a street lantern. I stopped and gripped his sleeve. “Madame Devereaux was at the Oyster Club the night Hope Stanford walked in with her sledgehammer.”
Derrick’s features remained impassive. “I would imagine a lot of others were there as well.”
“True. But not many others have the ability to seal Hope Stanford’s mouth with a mere whisper.”
Chapter 12
“What secret did Madame Devereaux know about Hope Stanford?” I pondered aloud as Derrick drove his carriage toward Gull Manor, my seaside home.