A groan filled my ear. “Please, Emma, not another one of your plans.”
“Five minutes, Emma.”
“That’s not nearly enough time. A half hour.”
Derrick and I stood on Second Beach, not far from where Lady Amelia’s body had been found. He had parked his rented carriage a little farther along the sand, to blend in with a half dozen or so others ranged there. A little more than twice that number of people strolled the shoreline, tourists, from the looks of them, perhaps tired of the crowds and noise of Easton’s Beach. For the moment, we were alone in our remote corner near the upswell of land that began the rocky approach to Purgatory Chasm.
A light wind blew off the water; the skies were clear but for some scuttling fair-weather clouds. No, the only storm brewing was the one in the pit of my stomach.
But I showed Derrick my bravest face. “I’ll need at least a half hour to talk her into coming home.”
He stared down at me, lifting a hand to raise my chin to better view my face beneath my hat brim. “Ten minutes.”
“Twenty-five.”
“I don’t like it, Emma. I don’t know why I let you convince me of this much.”
“Because you know my plan makes sense. You wait here with the carriage until I’ve had a chance to reason with Consuelo alone. There may be tears, recriminations—” I broke off, not wishing to delve into the reason for those possible recriminations. “Anyway, such matters can’t be rushed.”
“I can’t see the cottage from here. I should at least be within viewing range, if not hearing.”
I shook my head. “If she hears us approach in the carriage, she might run off. And if she sees me arriving with a stranger, we could have the same result. Besides, this is Mr. Delgado’s house we’re talking about. Despite your suspicions, I know he had nothing to do with Madame Devereaux’s murder. I’ll be safe as can be.”
His mouth remained a stern line, his chin arrow-like in its severity. I smiled, hoping to melt a bit of his icy resolve, but his expression softened not in the least as he pulled me to him and pressed his lips to mine.
The breath went out of me and in the heat of that kiss, I’d have accepted any terms, any demands he might make. No wonder, then, that when he set his cheek against mine and whispered fiercely, “Twenty minutes, Emma, and not a second more,” I merely nodded in agreement.
With a last, shaky look back at him, I made my way up the road toward the dusty little lane that branched off of Paradise Avenue. It was true, Derrick wouldn’t be able to see the cottage from the beach. I couldn’t see it either until I was almost upon it, nestled within a stand of trees and surrounded by thickets of beach plum, the fruit long gone and the leaves that dark, tired green of late summer. To anyone traveling along Paradise Avenue, the place would be invisible.
The cottage itself consisted of a single, squat story, the shingled walls weathered and silvery, topped by a low-pitched slate roof. Open mullioned windows flanked either side of the front door, once painted blue perhaps, but now wind-battered to a dull gray so thin the wood grain showed through. A small shed stood to the rear of the property, a stack of wood piled along the wall I could see. The air was heavy with the scent of brackish water and warm, rotting foliage. Nelson Pond lay only a few dozen yards away, surrounded by a weedy marsh. With a deep breath I turned up the rock-strewn path to the house and knocked.
The door didn’t immediately open, but hushed voices and the distinct thud of another door closing sounded inside. Another few moments passed. I raised my hand to knock again when the lock clicked from inside and the door creaked open a few inches.
“Yes?” A woman peered out at me, her face cast in shade. I could not have guessed if she was old or young, but one thing was certain: She was not well. Her skin stretched tight over sharp cheekbones, sinking her eyes deep into an emaciated face. Her lips were bloodless, her hands clawlike. I noticed this last when she raised a wadded handkerchief to her lips and coughed several times, the sound echoed by a rattle deep in her chest. She pulled a knitted shawl tighter around her.
My heart twisted for this woman, and my own doubts mounted. Had Derrick read the records wrong? “I’m sorry to disturb you, madam. Perhaps I have the wrong address.”
She retreated a step and started to close the door. Impulse sent my foot out to fill the gap and stop her. Derrick wrong about a public record? The very notion screamed of impossibility. “Is this the home of Eduardo Delgado? Are you his . . . ?” Once again I tried to judge her age, but the ravages of her infirmity made it impossible. I also tried to remember if the head gardener had ever mentioned family members. “Wife? Daughter?”