“One might wager the same secret we discovered.” He adjusted his grip on the reins and steered the horse around a deep gouge in the dirt road. The carriage lanterns swung and sputtered, then burned steadily on. “Her husband is chin-deep in illegal activities. Whether Hope Stanford was privy to his little endeavor or not, she wouldn’t have been happy to learn that an outsider knew. Especially if that someone threatened to go public with the information.”
“Precisely.” I turned to glance at him beside me on the curricle seat. The fog-tinged moonlight smoothed his features, making him appear younger, almost boyish. My heart gave a little skip before I shifted my gaze back to the road I knew so much better than he. “They knew each other in Providence,” I said. “And Mrs. Stanford knew that the medium’s name was actually Ellen Deere. I wonder what else Mrs. Stanford might have known about the woman.”
“You think they each knew secrets about the other, and were using them against each other?”
“It’s a very good possibility, given they have a common history to some extent. If only I could determine what that history is.” Memory served me and I pointed straight ahead. “There’s a sharp bend just after those trees, and then the turn onto Ocean Avenue. The road dips there, so be careful.”
“Would you care to drive?” he asked with a note of sarcasm. But he slowed the horse’s pace nonetheless.
“If only we could learn what the medium said to Hope Stanford that night at the Oyster Club.” I tapped my fingers against the span of leather seat between us. “But if, in an attempt to make Hope stop her temperance efforts in Newport, Madame Devereaux threatened to expose her husband, it’s not much of a stretch to believe Hope would want to silence her. After all, such exposure would discredit Hope forever. She’d lose all of her political influence.”
“Maybe her husband did the medium in.”
“It’s altogether possible. Though how he would have gotten onto the estate without anyone seeing him . . . His wife might have helped, but I’d seen her in the garden with the other ladies just minutes before the murder. If they acted together, they acted with lightning speed.”
“The same would hold true for Clara Parker and Anthony Dobbs,” Derrick reminded me.
Calvin and Hope . . . Anthony and Clara. I sighed. “But what of Consuelo? It can’t be mere coincidence that she disappeared immediately after the murder. I know there must be a connection. Somewhere, there’s a link and if I could only find it, I’d find both Consuelo and the murderer.”
“Then perhaps you need to refocus your efforts.” He shot me a pointed glance.
I pursed my lips. “Another attempt to persuade me to leave the investigation to the police?”
“Not exactly. But you’ve been focusing on people, and all that’s done is lead you—us—round and round in circles. Why not focus on the clues instead, and see where they lead?”
We reached the turn onto Ocean Avenue, where the sudden hollow in the road bounced the carriage and knocked our shoulders together. Derrick’s arm shot out in front of me—an attempt to hold me in the seat, I suppose—but in another yard or two the road smoothed and the carriage righted itself. The horse had slowed as well, and some ungovernable impulse sent me reaching out to grasp the sides of Derrick’s face and pull him toward me for a kiss—quick, yes, but fully on the lips. My better sense looked on, horrified yet ineffectually mute, as I pulled away with a grin.
“You, sir, are a genius. That’s exactly what I should do.”
Wry bewilderment played on his features, but he nodded. For the next several minutes I ran through the list of clues while Derrick seemed to be concentrating uncommonly hard on the road. Occasionally he spared me a nod or a syllable that sounded like agreement with whatever I said.
“There is the murder weapon itself, the scarf belonging to Lady Amelia. Then there was the murder scene, which suggested to me that Madame Devereaux had been in the middle of reading someone’s fortune right before she was murdered. The broken azalea bushes were probably where the murderer made his or her escape, and also suggested the murderer wore durable clothing, something not easily torn, because there were no scraps or threads found among the branches. The obvious conclusion is that the murderer was a man, yet a woman like Hope Stanford doesn’t dress in silks or fine muslin. She wears thick cottons and sturdy serge. Nothing too frilly or feminine.”
My deductions once again met with nods from Derrick.
“And then there are those flower petals I found inside the pavilion. The gardeners weren’t able to identify them, so I handed them over to the police, who’ll have a botanist examine them. But maybe I need to take another walk around the estate. Surely those flowers had to come from somewhere nearby. Yes, so first thing tomorrow . . .”