Murder at Marble House(96)
“So—”
“Listen to me! The day Lady Amelia died, I discovered a sprig of the very same flower tucked away in her jewelry box— her jewelry box, Consuelo. You know that means something significant. And now, today, here is the same flower in a bowl in this very cottage.”
Consuelo was shaking her head, but more and more slowly, and I could see my words—and Marianne’s—were having their effect on her.
“When he called on Katie,” I continued, “he upset her terribly. She wouldn’t even talk about it afterward.”
“Money,” Marianne said, the word sounding like a moan.
“Katie has no money,” I retorted, incredulous.
“No, not Katie’s money,” the woman replied. “Yours. He wanted her to try to get some from you.”
“Get some from me how?”
“Any way she could,” Marianne said. “Either by stealing it from wherever you kept it in your house or by persuading you to extend her . . . a loan, he called it. But in my heart I knew he’d no intention of ever paying it back.”
Consuelo pulled her hands free of mine and glared down at the woman. “You knew about this?”
Marianne looked away and nodded once.
“And the rest?” Consuelo’s voice rose, cracking slightly. “Is my cousin correct? Did Jamie . . .”
Marianne shook her head. “I don’t know. . . .”
The horror running through me now filled my cousin’s eyes. She spun about to confront James. “Is it true?”
He held out a hand. “Darlin’, you can’t believe any of this. Surely—”
“Drop that Irish brogue,” I told him in disgust.
“Is it true?” Consuelo’s shout filled the little room.
He shoved me out of the way and in a stride was before her. He seized her wrist and tugged her closer. “Darlin’, I’ll take care of her. She won’t go telling anyone her lies. I’ll help you get away and then we’ll be together, as we planned. Think of it, Consuelo. We’ll find a little house somewhere far away from here. Down south, or out west where we can be free. Where your mother will never find you.”
“Let me go.” Consuelo tugged free and stumbled backward, nearly falling before catching her balance on the back of the sofa. Hatred robbed her face of a portion of its beauty as she regarded him. “Why?”
A world of accusation filled her single-worded question, and his expression changed from one of supplication to shaking fury. “Damn your meddling soul, Emma Cross.” Then, to Consuelo, “We might have been happy. Remember, this is her doing, not mine.”
Did he truly believe that? Had he hoped that by marrying Consuelo he would one day acquire a piece of the Vanderbilt fortune, perhaps when one or both of her parents had relented—or died? Those questions stuck in my throat as once again I wondered what was keeping Derrick. Fear for him crept up my spine, for I knew, as surely as I knew my own name, that nothing but foul play could have delayed him. Had James come upon him as he’d made his way toward the cottage?
Again, the questions stuck in my throat. If Derrick had a plan, I could foil it by bringing attention to his proximity to the cottage.
James’s assertion had rendered the rest of us mute. No one spoke, no one moved, until he suddenly strode to the closed door on the far end of the room—the one I’d assumed led to a bedroom—and swung it so wide it hit the wall. As soon as he disappeared inside I moved to Consuelo and took her hand.
“Come. Now is our chance to get away.” I cast a glance at Marianne; would she betray us? Then I glanced around for Muffy. Consuelo would never leave her pet behind, but I didn’t see the animal anywhere.
In the next instant James stepped back in the parlor, holding an object that turned my blood to ice. A wooden barrel rested in the crook of his right elbow, his fingers curled around a trigger, his left hand aiming the long end of the weapon directly at me. At first my mind conjured a rifle, but soon the barbed, steel shaft protruding from the wood identified the piece as a harpoon. A single shot, but deadly.
Perhaps he recognized my realization that he’d have only one chance to kill me, for he shifted his aim to Consuelo.
“No!” I bounded toward him but stopped short. My sudden movements might cause his fingers to twitch against the trigger. I held out my hands. “All right. What do you want?”
His sister spoke up first. “Tell them, James. They at least have the right to know the truth.”
He shrugged. “Perhaps you’re right, Marianne. Surely Consuelo will understand once she learns what happened to us.” To my dismay his hold on the harpoon didn’t slacken. But then, neither would my scrutiny. I vowed not to take my eyes off him, to seize any advantage should one arise. “Our story begins in England, in Oxfordshire, at Blenheim Palace.”