Read Online Murder at Marble House by Alyssa Maxwell - Free Book Online Page B

silent, trying to put my finger on why Madame Devereaux hadn’t been surprised by her killer. Finally, it hit me. “The tablecloth. It wasn’t askew or rumpled. It was just as it is now, except that Madame Devereaux had fallen over facedown on it. As if someone had placed her gently down.”
    “Someone who’d been standing behind her, perhaps?”
    “Exactly.”
    “As you found Clara.” This was not a question, but a statement of fact.
    My shoulders slumped. “Yes, but . . .”
    “Let’s think this through.” Jesse moved to stand behind the chair, just where Clara had. “Now, supposing you’ve just strangled the woman, and you hear someone coming. What would you do?”
    His expression held knowledge of the answer, yet he waited for my hypothesis. I studied the artfully winding path leading from the gardens to the pavilion. I realized with a start that although the shadowy interior of the pavilion wouldn’t be visible from the upper gardens because of the foliage, it was possible from this raised vantage point to catch flashes of anyone on their way down the path. If Clara had come from the house, her white pinafore and cap would have stood out against the greenery, visible to the killer in a succession of glimpses at each break in the hedges.
    “He saw her coming,” I murmured. Then, louder, I said, “He—or she—saw Clara coming down the path and made his escape.”
    Jesse was nodding. “My guess is our culprit went over the railing directly behind Madame Devereaux’s chair, and then ran between the azalea hedges and through those trees.” He pointed to a stand of dogwoods and graceful willows. He beckoned me beside him. “My colleagues have already noted the broken branches in the hedge. See?”
    I went to the railing and peered out over the shady vista. The growth Jesse indicated stood twisted to awkward angles among the perfectly trimmed hedge, as if forcefully shoved aside and then allowed to fall haphazardly and brokenly back into place. “Did they find any torn fabric, or even threads, in the branches?”
    “Unfortunately not,” he replied. “Which in itself provides a clue. It tells us the person was wearing sturdy clothing.”
    “Not delicate silk or muslin,” I said. “The footsteps Clara heard . . . By the time she reached the pavilion, he was well away, and Clara was too distraught over what she found to give those footsteps another thought.”
    I turned back to Jesse, reaching back to clutch the railing behind me. “The question is why?”
    “Why was Madame Devereaux murdered?” Jesse sent me a warning glance. “Mind you, Emma, this is all speculation. We could be dead wrong, and Clara is guilty as sin.”
    “I doubt that very much. What reason could Clara Parker have to murder anyone? What would her motive be?”
    “Fortune-tellers make enemies all the time. Clara might simply have managed to make it to the front of a long line of people waiting to wring Ellen Deere’s neck.”
    “Ellen Deere! I heard that name spoken once before today. Mrs. Stanford said it when Madame Devereaux first arrived.” The earlier incident flashed in my mind. “For an instant she looked furious . . . and so did Madame Devereaux, for that matter. But it was quick, and at the time I thought maybe I’d imagined it. Now, however . . . well. It certainly makes one think.”
    “Mrs. Stanford, you say?” When I nodded, Jesse raised his eyebrows. “Looks like I’ll have to question Hope Stanford again, won’t I?”
    “Jesse . . .” I pushed away from the railing. “Did you know her?”
    “The medium?” He looked down at his feet, smiling slightly. “Yes, I knew her. All of us on the force did, like we know all of Newport’s more interesting entrepreneurs. She came down from Providence about two years ago—”
    “Mrs. Stanford is from Providence,” I said quickly.
    “Yes, I know, Emma. That doesn’t make her a murderer.”
    “Maybe not. But someone committed a murder here today, and