Read Online Murder at Marble House by Alyssa Maxwell - Free Book Online
Authors: Alyssa Maxwell
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to threaten, Madame Devereaux through the open library windows, but could she have had time to follow the medium to the pavilion, strangle her, and take her place among her guests quickly enough that they hadn’t noticed her absence?
It didn’t seem likely, and the Vanderbilt part of me breathed a sigh of relief. Aunt Alva had her faults, but she was, after all, family.
The officers led a weeping Clara out of the house. No sooner had they left than another officer entered the room with Lady Amelia close behind him. “The coroner’s finished for now, sir, and the body’s being loaded into the wagon for transport into town,” he told Jesse. He only then seemed to notice Aunt Alva and me in the room, and he cast us a sheepish look. “Beg pardon, ladies.” He held out a hand from which dangled a red silk scarf. “Here’s the murder weapon. This lady here says it belongs to her.”
Lady Amelia stood with one hand pressing her bosom, the other dabbing a lace-edged handkerchief at her eyes. Yet when the delicate confection came away from her face, her cheeks were not mottled, nor were her eyes reddened. “This is most horrible.” Her accent had become subtly more English since I’d seen her last. “I didn’t recognize it when we first found the poor woman . . . well, I was distraught, of course. To think, that dreadful girl stole my scarf right out of my room and used it to . . . to . . .”
“We don’t know that for certain yet,” I told her. “Clara is innocent until proven guilty. Isn’t that right, Jesse?”
“Bah!” Aunt Alva exclaimed at the same time Detective Dobbs snorted.
Jesse crossed the room to take the scarf from the policeman. He held it up, allowing it to unfurl to its full length, a good four feet. “Do you know when it went missing, Lady Amelia?”
Lifting her hems, she moved elegantly into the room, almost slinking, with the way her body swayed within the trim, tailored lines of her emerald gown.
Why hadn’t I noticed it before? If Madame Devereaux had conducted herself with the practiced finesse of a stage performer, this woman did so to no less of an extent, though her mannerisms were of a different sort. Refined rather than theatrical, but no less affected.
I stored the impression away for later and concentrated on her reply.
“I couldn’t tell you when it was taken,” she said, reaching out to finger the end of the scarf trailing from Jesse’s hand. “I hadn’t had occasion to wear it since arriving at Marble House.”
“Where had you kept it?” Jesse asked.
“In the clothespress in my dressing room. Where else would I keep it?”
“Did you put it there, or did your maid when she unpacked your belongings?”
Beneath a layer of powder, Lady Amelia’s cheeks turned pink. She hesitated, her gaze flickering over my aunt and me in turn. Her chin came up. “I put it there myself.”
Why so defensive? Before I could wonder, Jesse turned to Aunt Alva. “Was Clara serving as Lady Amelia’s maid?”
Aunt Alva sounded almost surprised, as if something about those circumstances had only just struck her as strange. “She was, when I could spare her from her other duties.”
“Then Clara had access to Lady Amelia’s things.” Jesse blew out a breath, and I realized that, like me, he very much hoped to find Clara innocent. He turned back to Lady Amelia. “I take it your own maid has been delayed in coming?”
“She is ill,” the woman replied without missing a beat, then added, “poor dear.”
“People get ill,” Anthony Dobbs commented to no one in particular, as if summing up a conundrum. He shrugged his shoulders, closed his tablet, and got to his feet. “I think we’ve heard enough.”
“You go ahead back to the station and write up the report,” Jesse said to him. “I want to take another look at the pavilion.”
Dobbs frowned. “We been through it already. So have the bluecoats. What else you expect to find?”
“Whatever we might have
It didn’t seem likely, and the Vanderbilt part of me breathed a sigh of relief. Aunt Alva had her faults, but she was, after all, family.
The officers led a weeping Clara out of the house. No sooner had they left than another officer entered the room with Lady Amelia close behind him. “The coroner’s finished for now, sir, and the body’s being loaded into the wagon for transport into town,” he told Jesse. He only then seemed to notice Aunt Alva and me in the room, and he cast us a sheepish look. “Beg pardon, ladies.” He held out a hand from which dangled a red silk scarf. “Here’s the murder weapon. This lady here says it belongs to her.”
Lady Amelia stood with one hand pressing her bosom, the other dabbing a lace-edged handkerchief at her eyes. Yet when the delicate confection came away from her face, her cheeks were not mottled, nor were her eyes reddened. “This is most horrible.” Her accent had become subtly more English since I’d seen her last. “I didn’t recognize it when we first found the poor woman . . . well, I was distraught, of course. To think, that dreadful girl stole my scarf right out of my room and used it to . . . to . . .”
“We don’t know that for certain yet,” I told her. “Clara is innocent until proven guilty. Isn’t that right, Jesse?”
“Bah!” Aunt Alva exclaimed at the same time Detective Dobbs snorted.
Jesse crossed the room to take the scarf from the policeman. He held it up, allowing it to unfurl to its full length, a good four feet. “Do you know when it went missing, Lady Amelia?”
Lifting her hems, she moved elegantly into the room, almost slinking, with the way her body swayed within the trim, tailored lines of her emerald gown.
Why hadn’t I noticed it before? If Madame Devereaux had conducted herself with the practiced finesse of a stage performer, this woman did so to no less of an extent, though her mannerisms were of a different sort. Refined rather than theatrical, but no less affected.
I stored the impression away for later and concentrated on her reply.
“I couldn’t tell you when it was taken,” she said, reaching out to finger the end of the scarf trailing from Jesse’s hand. “I hadn’t had occasion to wear it since arriving at Marble House.”
“Where had you kept it?” Jesse asked.
“In the clothespress in my dressing room. Where else would I keep it?”
“Did you put it there, or did your maid when she unpacked your belongings?”
Beneath a layer of powder, Lady Amelia’s cheeks turned pink. She hesitated, her gaze flickering over my aunt and me in turn. Her chin came up. “I put it there myself.”
Why so defensive? Before I could wonder, Jesse turned to Aunt Alva. “Was Clara serving as Lady Amelia’s maid?”
Aunt Alva sounded almost surprised, as if something about those circumstances had only just struck her as strange. “She was, when I could spare her from her other duties.”
“Then Clara had access to Lady Amelia’s things.” Jesse blew out a breath, and I realized that, like me, he very much hoped to find Clara innocent. He turned back to Lady Amelia. “I take it your own maid has been delayed in coming?”
“She is ill,” the woman replied without missing a beat, then added, “poor dear.”
“People get ill,” Anthony Dobbs commented to no one in particular, as if summing up a conundrum. He shrugged his shoulders, closed his tablet, and got to his feet. “I think we’ve heard enough.”
“You go ahead back to the station and write up the report,” Jesse said to him. “I want to take another look at the pavilion.”
Dobbs frowned. “We been through it already. So have the bluecoats. What else you expect to find?”
“Whatever we might have
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