Murder at Kingscote Page 10

“I assumed—” I hesitated, having almost said she. “I assumed the individual would have to cover his tracks.”

  “Mightn’t he have waited till the intermission to arrive, instead of coming in before the start of the performance?”

  “I hadn’t thought of that. I saw a ripped admission ticket and assumed it meant the person attended from the beginning. But I suppose there would be someone checking tickets at the intermission, too. The shows typically start at nine o’clock.” I thought a moment. “Which means the intermission would have been anywhere from ten to ten thirty.” Which meant Eugenia Ross could have been at Kingscote earlier in the evening, pushed the Hartley Steamer into Baldwin, and had plenty of time to enter the Opera House during the intermission.

  * * *

  Later that day, I found myself beside Derrick in his carriage, a pair of horses conveying us north into Middletown. He had encountered James Bennett the night before, and had gotten more answers out of him about Philip King than I had, or more specific ones, I should say.

  “Philip’s got a passion for gambling on boxing,” I mused aloud. “Is that a typical interest for wealthy young men? I’ve never heard Neily talk about it, nor his brothers, either.”

  “It’s not a sport gentlemen discuss in front of ladies.” Derrick turned his rig off the main thoroughfare that traveled the west side of the island and sent us winding along a series of lanes and country roads. We passed fields dotted with horses, cows, and sheep, the occasional farmhouse and barn, and a windmill whose sails flashed like gulls’ wings in the sunlight. “It’s considered too brutish and violent for a lady’s sensibilities. I don’t know why I allowed you to talk me into taking you along on this errand. Nanny, not to mention Jesse, will have my head.”

  We were traveling to a farm whose traditional use had long ago been abandoned in favor of the much more lucrative sport of boxing. The isolation kept the authorities away. While there were no laws against boxing in Rhode Island, all forms of gambling had been outlawed three years ago, and apparently the two went hand in hand.

  I studied Derrick’s profile while I considered his last statement. He knew better than to treat me as though I were delicate, and after a moment I saw his attempt to hide a grin. And yet, for the most part he spoke the truth. Men seldom talked in mixed company about anything they believed might upset a woman’s equilibrium. “So it’s a well-kept guilty secret.”

  “In the kind of polite society we’re used to, yes. But not for the rest of the population. I wouldn’t be surprised if a number of women attended the fights where we’re going. Accompanied, mind you, but I’ve heard some members of your sex enjoy a good bout.”

  I scrutinized him again. He never turned to meet my gaze, which prompted me to draw a conclusion. “You’ve been to the ring, haven’t you?”

  His smile reappeared. “A time or two, yes.”

  “I hope only as a spectator.”

  “These days, yes. But I boxed a bit while at university, informally. I was on the rowing team, and boxing was considered a good way to keep up one’s arm strength during the winter months.”

  “I see. Did you enjoy it?”

  He thought for a moment, his jaw squaring. “At first, I suppose. There’s something essential in such a sport, one might even say primal, that appeals to a man’s more primitive instincts.”

  I interrupted him with a laugh I could not contain.

  This time he turned to face me full on. “What’s funny about that?”

  “The idea of you as a primitive.” Even as I spoke, I took in his broad forehead and patrician features, his tailored suit of clothes, his long-fingered hands. “I’m sorry, but it’s a rather humorous notion, don’t you think?”

  “Then you consider me something of a dandy?” He sounded flabbergasted, slighted. Uncertain. I hid a smile of my own and quickly sought to reassure him.

  “No, not a dandy. Not at all.” My amusement left me as I seriously considered the source of my regard for the man beside me. “You’re far too intelligent to ever be considered a primitive. Too even minded, too self-assured, too willing to use your authority when it’s needed and step back when it isn’t, and you’ve the wisdom to know the difference.”

  He was silent a moment, his chest rising and falling on a deep inhalation. Then he turned back to me. “Flatterer.”

  I laughed again and wrapped my hands around his forearm, going so far as to lean against the warmth of his side. There was no one to see us on this country road, no tongues to wag about it later. He angled his head toward me, as far as our hats would allow, and whispered a thank-you.

  Not long after, we turned onto a dirt drive, all rocks and ruts and dry dust that swirled in protest around the carriage wheels. At the end of the drive stood a barn, its red paint peeling to reveal the weathered boards beneath, its main doors spread wide as if beckoning us in. I was surprised to see several wagons, buggies, and a few saddled horses tied to a rail.

  I felt a twinge of apprehension. “I didn’t think there would be this much activity at this time of day.”

  “Probably the fighters are here practicing, sparring to ready themselves for the evening’s matches.” Derrick brought the carriage to a halt and set the brake. He stepped down and hesitated, looking up at me. “Are you sure you want to come in? You could wait here.”

  In reply I reached for his hand, and he helped me down beside him. “For whom are we looking again?”

  “The man who manages the place is Tyson Dooley.”

  “Tyson Dooley.” I nodded, squared my shoulders, and drew a breath. “Well then, let’s go inside and find Mr. Dooley.”

  Derrick waggled an eyebrow and offered me his arm. As we stepped into the barn’s interior, the dimness rendered me momentarily blind, and where I expected an onslaught of the scents of hay and hide and manure, I was instead enveloped by the odor of male sweat.

  My vision soon adjusted. There were gas lanterns, large ones, illuminating a fighting ring—a raised platform surrounded by ropes—and rows of benches arranged on all four sides of the ring. Men were scattered along the benches, their attention on two men inside the ropes, each stripped to his long drawers, and shirtless, who appeared to be prancing in circles while facing each other. They held their hands, encased in leather, aloft before them.

  I found myself momentarily entranced by the spectacle. Would they truly hit each other? On an intellectual level I knew they would; it was the whole point of the sport. But on some other level, an essentially female one, I supposed, the prospect of the fight—of pain and blood and injury—filled me with horror. With revulsion. And yet . . . I watched, unable to look away.

  One man pulled back a gloved fist and thrust it at the other, who bounded a step backward and evaded the blow. He then leaped forward and swung, but while his opponent anticipated a strike to the head and blocked with his hands, the first man came at him from the side and delivered a blow to his ribs. Suddenly, both were swinging madly, their gloves thudding against bone and muscle, bodies shuddering from the impact, feet moving in a rhythm that would confuse the most accomplished debutant in a ballroom. Around the pair, the men on the benches surged to their feet, yelling out advice, groaning, swearing, and tossing punches in the air at invisible foes.

  “We can leave,” Derrick leaned to murmur in my ear. The prospect tempted me. Though I didn’t shock easily, this display of brutality coupled with such a gleeful disregard for either fighter’s physical wellbeing filled me with dismay and urged me to make a hasty retreat to our carriage. But we’d come for a reason, to discover more about Philip King’s gambling habits.

  Before I could answer, a voice sounded in my other ear. “What in damnation are you doing here?”

  Chapter 8

  The voice startled me, to be sure, but I was not about to be put off. I turned to a man of later middle years, stocky, not much taller than I, with a fringe of silver hair showing below his battered, shallow-crowned derby. An unlit stub of a cigar protruded from the corner of
his mouth, its aroma sharp and stale. He stared back without apology in expectation of our reply.

  “Are you Mr. Dooley?” I asked him in as blunt a tone as he had used to address us.

  “Who wants to know?”

  In the ring, the fight, which had momentarily paused when this man barked his question at us, continued as if there’d been no interruption. The men watching soon lost their interest in Derrick and me as well.

  I began to identify myself when Derrick stepped half in front of me and extended his hand. “Derrick Andrews of the Newport Messenger. This is my associate, Miss Cross.”

  Mr. Dooley sized us both up, looking none too impressed. He didn’t shake Derrick’s offered hand. “Well, get out.”

  “But, sir—”

  Once again, Derrick spoke over me. “We’re not here in an official capacity. We only want to ask you a couple of questions.”

  “There are two things we don’t need around here, Mr. Andrews.” Tyson Dooley snatched the cigar from his mouth. “Reporters and coppers. In my experience, all any of them want to do is kick up trouble for folks. Not that we’re doing anything wrong here, mind you. Boxing’s not illegal in the state of Rhode Island, last time I checked.”

  “Believe me, Mr. Dooley,” I said, speaking this time before Derrick could, “we aren’t here to scrutinize your activities or start any kind of trouble. Our questions have to do with a certain young man who we believe frequents your establishment on a fairly regular basis.”

  The man compressed his lips, his eyes narrowing. Then he opened his mouth with a pop. “And why would I want to infringe on the privacy of one of my patrons? You going to go telling tales to his wife?”

  “He’s not married,” I informed him.

  “Doesn’t matter.” Tyson Dooley gave a dismissive flick of his hand, the one holding the cigar. The bitter scent wafted beneath my nose. I resisted the urge to cough. “I’m sure you’ve got your reasons for asking your questions, but you see, I have no good reason to answer them. Excuse me, I have a business to run.”

  “Mr. Dooley.” Derrick stepped in the man’s path. Mr. Dooley’s face reddened with ire, and I half expected him to either swing at Derrick or call for one of his fighters to intervene. He did neither. Instead, he smiled, but without a hint of humor.

  “You want to ask me questions? All right, my dear sir. First you have to prove your worth.”

  An unpleasant feeling crept over me. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, if you want answers, you”—he pointed at Derrick with the end of his cigar—“will have to fight for them. You game?”

  “Certainly not,” I said with an indignant huff.

  “Sure,” Derrick replied at the very same time. I whirled to confront him.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. You cannot—”

  “Does the lady always make your decisions for you, Mr. Andrews?”

  To my complete dismay, Derrick unbuttoned his coat and shrugged his arms from the sleeves. His vest and necktie came next. Then he pushed his braces off his shoulders and removed his shirt, pulling the braces back over his sleeveless linen small shirt. Rendered mute with shock by this turn of events, I avoided gazing directly at him as he handed me each article of clothing, creating a small pile in my arms, topped by his homburg hat.

  I stole a peek at him, and a burning tide of fascination heated my face. A dark fuzz of hair, not terribly thick, but there nonetheless, covered sinuous forearms and peeked from the neckline of his small shirt. His upper arms were smooth yet sculpted as sharply as stones. I wondered how a man who did no hard labor developed arms such as those, but he had already answered that question: rowing and boxing. I thought of those too-rare occasions when he had held me and I’d felt the strength and safety of his embrace. How I’d wrestled with what was proper and what, in my heart of hearts, I most wanted.

  Finally, I pulled my gaze away from the objects that captivated me—astounded me—and found my tongue. “Derrick, please don’t . . .”

  “I’ll understand if you don’t wish to watch and would rather wait outside.” He turned to Mr. Dooley. “Who will I spar with?”

  “Let’s see who wants to take you on.” The man went over to the ring and made a general inquiry. The others debated who would take the “swell” on, and finally a burly, barrel-chested fellow stood up from one of the benches. A good head taller than Derrick, he wore the rough cotton and denim of a workman, the bulges in his biceps testing the soundness of his sleeves. After a steely look at Derrick, he began removing his shirt.

  Derrick nodded, a small smile playing about his lips. “Good enough.”

  “Why, you’re looking forward to this.” A wave of incredulity, and with it anger, wiped away the last of my fanciful thoughts. Derrick was about to do something that could result in serious injury, and the foolish man acted as though it were a mere tennis match at the Casino.

  I searched the space around me until I spotted an oblong wooden table along a side wall. I marched over to it and dropped Derrick’s clothing onto its surface. When I turned back around I discovered he had followed me. I stiffened and glared up at him. “It appears I was wrong. You are something of a primitive. I’ve a good mind to not only walk out of this barn, but to take the carriage and leave you stranded here.”

  I expected my outburst to astonish him, but he came closer and spoke quietly, calmly. “Good, I’d rather you waited outside. Or if you wish to take the carriage, I’ll find another way back. But please don’t worry, I’m a fairly good boxer. I believe I’ll come out all right.”

  “All right?” I gestured at the giant of a man waiting to enter the ring with him. “Do you see him? His size? He’s obviously a man who uses his muscles to make his daily living.”

  “It’s going to be all right, and once it’s over Mr. Dooley will answer our questions.” After bestowing a placating pat on my shoulder that very nearly had me spewing flames, he left me. He approached the ring and shook his opponent’s hand. Tyson Dooley helped him into a pair of leather gloves, more like mitts, and then both men climbed between the ropes into the ring. On the benches, a murmur rose. I heard dollar amounts, odds, speculation.

  Did I take the carriage and leave Derrick stranded? No, I did not. I did not even go outside. I stood rooted to the spot, my lips clamped shut, my trembling hands clenched together, my eyes wide.

  Yet as the two men danced around each other and jabbed and ducked and swung, I gradually felt my fears abate and my fascination grow. I saw, not two men brutally attempting to injure each other, but a science, a strategy, an . . . art. My amazement grew as I realized Derrick, though not well-matched physically with his opponent, more than equaled the other man in skill. And in patience, too, for he rarely advanced on his rival but that his gloved fist made contact. Yes, there were moments when I turned briskly away, when the thudding of blows prompted me to cover my eyes, when I sucked in breaths of dismay. But there were many more moments when I looked on in admiration, reluctant at first to be sure, and then with a kind of odd elation that brimmed inside me.

  “That’s enough.” Tyson Dooley went to the platform and pulled himself up between the ropes. I once again held my breath as he appeared to walk directly into the fray, holding up his hands. He spoke loudly and with authority. “That’s enough, you two. I don’t need Glenn here incapacitated for tonight’s match, nor the swell leaving with a broken jaw.”

  Heaving and panting, Derrick and the man named Glenn each landed one final blow—by tapping each other’s gloves—and stepped apart. Some ten minutes later Derrick had wiped away the perspiration with a borrowed rag and donned his shirt and vest. As I helped him on with his coat, I detected no bruising on his face, although I knew sometimes such discolorations took their time in appearing.

  “You see?” he said. “I’m fine.”

  I pursed my lips and refused to let him see the depth of my relief. I even ducked away to prevent him from seeing the sudden tears that pricked my eyes. “Lucky for you.”


  Tyson Dooley sauntered over to speak with Derrick. “You handled yourself well, young man.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Wouldn’t have thought you had it in you. But you never can tell with you swells. Boxed at school, did you?”

  “A little, yes.”

  “I’d say more than little.” Mr. Dooley chuckled and cuffed Derrick on the shoulder. “All right, what is it you want to know?”

  Derrick buttoned his coat. “Maybe you heard about a death the other day. One Isaiah Baldwin.”

  The humor drained from Mr. Dooley’s face. “Baldwin? Dead? No . . . I hadn’t heard. Don’t go in much for the newspapers. Don’t go into town much, either. Neither do most of them.” He jerked his chin toward the ring.

  “You knew him,” I said, rather than asked. Mr. Dooley nodded.

  “He comes to watch . . . used to come to watch the fights,” he said, his voice filled with questions.

  “Baldwin was a boxing fan?” Derrick seemed taken aback, as I certainly was. “Did he wager?”

  “Surely. Had a good instinct for picking winners, too. Often made himself tidy sums. But when he didn’t, he took his losses like a man.”

  This certainly explained how a butler was able to extend loans to his employer’s son. Derrick and I exchanged glances, and I nodded to him. He said to Mr. Dooley, “What about a youth named Philip King? Do you know him?”

  “King? Sure. He comes here, too. Pretty loose fisted.”

  “He boxes?” The notion couldn’t have surprised me more.

  “That wet-nosed pup?” Mr. Dooley shook his head. “’Course not. I meant with his cash.”

  “So he did a fair amount of betting.” Derrick darted another glance at me. “Did he tend to lose much?”

  “Much? Ha! Mostly all.” His sympathy for Baldwin apparently forgotten, Mr. Dooley appeared highly amused by the turn the conversation had taken.

  “Does he pay his debts?” Derrick asked.

  “Eventually. Usually.”

  “Had he ever had a run-in with Isaiah Baldwin?” I asked.