“Her stride? Oh, Nanny, that’s rich.” Brady laughed, earning him a slap on the arm, which seemed not to bother him in the least. He started to say more, but I cut him off.
“It’s not all that far-fetched, actually. I believe I understand what Mrs. Hanson means. Come on, Brady, this deserves further investigation and you’re coming with me.”
“You didn’t think I’d let you go alone, did you,” he said as he followed me out the door.
With shaky legs I descended from my rig where the dusty road edged the sand of Sachuest, or as locals called it, Second Beach. Unlike the wide expanses of Bailey’s or Easton’s beaches, this was a lonely, narrow coastline between Sachuest Bay, an inlet of the Atlantic Ocean, and the salt marshlands that began on the north side of the road.
We had stopped at the western end of the sprawling, crescent moon strand. Just beyond, the land heaved upward to hilly, rocky terrain choked with cattails and dune grass. From there the ground continued to rise to the cliffs that formed Purgatory Chasm with its dramatic plunge and dizzying view of the ocean. Today, a small crowd, formed into a semicircle facing away from the road, obscured the view of both the chasm and the water.
A sense of foreboding made the eggs and kippers I’d eaten at The Breakers begin to churn. Newport’s posh summer set descended daily on the superior facilities of Bailey’s Beach; locals and those less well heeled enjoyed the boardwalk and entertainments to be found at Easton’s, or First Beach, closer to town. To see more than a few people strolling Second Beach’s sands was a rarity.
My boots sinking into the granular turf, I pushed my way through the nearest clutch of neck-craners, hoping against hope they were examining some fascinating object washed up with the tide.
Between milling shoulders, bonnets, and wide-brimmed hats, I could just make out a man in a dark serge suit bending low over what appeared to be a heap of sand littered with “red tide,” the ribbons of crimson seaweed that periodically washed up on Newport’s beaches and spoiled the enjoyment of summer bathers. Oh, I thought, perhaps everything was all right after all. Just a pile of seaweed, perhaps entwined with the nasty tentacles of some slimy jellyfish.
“My God.” Brady stood at my shoulder, his voice a breath against my ear. “Is it . . . please say it isn’t . . . Consuelo.”
Being a head taller, he could see over the small throng and make out what I could not until we prodded our way closer. Then the ordinary beach debris these people were inspecting transformed before my eyes to elegant beige silk stamped with burgundy velvet.
“No, Brady,” I whispered, my throat pinched tight—with shock and, I’m sorry to admit, with tremendous relief. “It’s not Consuelo. Look at her clothes.”
“Oh, my God. Lady Amelia.”
The next minutes passed in a blur. Apparently someone who lived close by and owned a telephone—Mable Hanson’s neighbor, perhaps—had run home to alert the police. Soon the onlookers were pushed back to make way for a swarm of blue-coated police officers. A couple of them tried to herd me away along with the rest, shouting admonishments I ignored. I was going nowhere until I found out what had happened.
Although truth to tell, part of me didn’t wish to know.
“Miss, you’ll have to step aside. Oh, it’s you, Miss Cross . . . and your brother, I see.” I met the dark gaze of a policeman I knew, Scotty Binsford, who had not only attended school with Brady, but had been one of the investigating policemen when Brady had been accused of murder. I spared him a weak smile, for he’d whispered to me, upon Brady’s release from jail, that he’d never doubted my brother’s innocence.
Scotty turned to his associates. “They’re all right.” Then to me he said, lower, “Just don’t get too close to the . . . er . . . body, Miss Cross. We’re hoping our audience didn’t already disturb important evidence, though for certain they’ve churned away any incriminating footprints with their own.”
“Emma.” Another police rig had just pulled up onto the sand beside the rescue wagon waiting to carry Lady Amelia away. Jesse stepped down and came striding over, kicking up whirls of sand in his wake. Just before he reached me he snapped out an order, crisp, terse words that didn’t register with me but sent the others into a fresh flurry of activity. He gave me a quick embrace and set me at arm’s length. “Emma, why is it you’re always . . .” With a shake of his head he changed tack in mid-sentence. “How did you hear about this so quickly?”
“I didn’t. I . . .” My gaze strayed to the beautiful blond curls spilling over the sand and partly across Lady Amelia’s face and shoulders, the pins having scattered and whatever hat she had worn lost to the wind.