Murder at Marble House(98)

“And Amelia Beaumont—what of her?” I demanded.

“A lovely diversion, and a willing accomplice.” At Consuelo’s and my shocked looks, he laughed. “Oh, not to murder, but in helping me arrange to get Consuelo out of the house. It was Amelia who called for the carriage that whisked Consuelo away from the property that day.”

“Why would Lady Amelia agree to help you run off with another woman?” But the answer was obvious before I’d even completed the question. “Money. She needed it as much as you do. You promised her a share of whatever you eventually got from Alva and William.”

Consuelo groaned. “What a fool I’ve been.”

“Amelia guessed you committed the murder, didn’t she?” I said. “After all, you used her scarf. My guess is she had given it to you as a lover’s memento and was afraid to admit that to the police for fear she’d be incriminated.”

James gave a casual shrug. “I took no pleasure in silencing the lovely Lady Amelia.”

“Oh, God.” Holding her stomach, Consuelo sank down onto the sofa. I thought she might become ill and went to sit beside her.

Reaching an arm around her, I gazed up at James. “So what happens now?”

“What happens now, Miss Cross, I’ll take no pleasure in either.”

With startling fierceness, Marianne pushed to her feet. “Enough, James. You can’t go on trying to right past wrongs with more wrongs.” She stopped and coughed into her hand. When she recovered she went on, “What happened to us had nothing to do with either of these young women—”

“Marianne . . .”

“No, James! Let them go and you and I will leave here. We’ll go far away. To Canada, perhaps. Anywhere. It doesn’t matter as long as no one else is hurt. As long as you don’t hurt anyone else.”

“I wish it were so simple, Marianne.”

“It is.” She moved slowly toward him, taking such tiny steps they were almost imperceptible. She didn’t stop until she was in front of him, the distance between them marked by the two-foot length of the harpoon. If he shot now, he would hit her point-blank. She held out her arms to him and used his pet name, a sister appealing, perhaps, to the boy he had been. “Give it to me, Jamie. Please, dear little brother, if you have any love for me at all, hand me that weapon.”

I froze. Would she make a grab for the harpoon, perhaps wrench it out of her brother’s hands? I shifted forward on the sofa, at the same time grasping Consuelo’s hand, ready to spring up and bolt with her the moment the weapon was out of his control.

With a near roar he used the barrel of the harpoon to shove Marianne aside. She stumbled and landed hard on the floor on her backside. Consuelo and I came to our feet, but in the same instant James pinned us in place by swinging the harpoon’s spear in our direction.

“Let’s go.” He gestured to the door with a jerk of his head. Then he ordered Consuelo to open the door, and for the two of us to step out together in front of him. Marianne’s sobs followed us across the threshold, her broken pleas soon muffled as James kicked the door closed behind him. “That way—toward the pond.”

Where was Derrick? Wildly I glanced around me, hoping— desperately praying—I’d see some telltale sign of him crouching in the bushes, perhaps waiting for us to pass so he could jump out and overpower James. But only the breeze rustled the foliage, and only birdsong and our crunching footsteps disturbed the silence of the day. Farther off, the ocean waves sighed against the shore.

James prodded us past the cottage in the opposite direction of Paradise Avenue. Literally prodded, for every so often I felt the sting of the spear’s arrow against my back. The farther we walked the spongier the ground became, until the turf squelched beneath our feet. Water soaked into my low-heeled boots, and Consuelo attempted to raise her skirts clear of the clinging weeds.

It was a losing battle. We’d entered the marsh, a thick, briny soup surrounding Nelson Pond. Consuelo and I had to shove the thickening growth of cattails out of our way, and I was all too aware of them falling back into place behind us, closing us in, cutting us off from any hope of rescue.

Derrick. In my deepest core I knew some harm had come to him—or he’d have been here. That was as far as I allowed the thought to develop; I refused to let it roam any further. I might not survive the day, but in the end, Derrick had to be all right.

He had to.

But what of my cousin? Suddenly, those lessons in self-defense filled my mind. Derrick had revealed a man’s most vulnerable places, along with how best to attack each one. Somehow, I had to find a way to reverse course and face James—I needed to be facing him to launch my assault—but without provoking him to pull the trigger. Here in this lonely, quiet place, he could easily kill one of us with the harpoon and then strangle or beat the other to death.