Murder at Kingscote Read online

  “Not that I ever saw. Wait . . . there was one time, a couple of weeks ago. King asked Baldwin to front him the cash for a wager.”

  My pulse sped up at this bit of information. Derrick asked, “Did Baldwin accommodate him?”

  “Don’t think so. King was put out, sulked like a baby.”

  We understood the reason for Baldwin’s disinclination to accommodate young Philip. The youth had already owed him money.

  “Did Mr. Baldwin ever have a problem with anyone else here?” I asked, wishing to learn if the butler might have made other enemies.

  “Baldwin? Not that I ever saw. Didn’t mix much, though.” He hooked his thumbs into his vest pockets. “Any more questions?”

  “Yes, one,” I said. “What about a young man named Francis Crane? He’s a friend and a schoolmate of Philip King’s. Does he come here with him?”

  “Crane . . .” Mr. Dooley rubbed a hand along the back of his neck. “Don’t know the name. But King does come in with his friends. This Crane could be one of them.”

  “Light brown hair, greenish eyes,” I said, hoping a description might jog his memory.

  He only laughed. “A body could have purple eyes, and I’d never notice.” His face took on a more sober look. “There was one fellow, now that I think about it, who came in with King once. He didn’t look too happy to be here, though. Not a boxing fan. King seemed disappointed about it, tried working up some enthusiasm, but it didn’t seem to have any effect. Haven’t seen him back.”

  “Could you describe him at all?” Derrick asked.

  “Well dressed, clean, looked down his nose a lot. Beyond that, I couldn’t say.” Mr. Dooley shrugged. “As long as gents behave, I’ve got no reason to keep track of them. Now, if that’s all, I’ve got things to do before tonight’s bouts.”

  * * *

  On the way back to Newport, we discussed what we had learned, avoiding the subject of Derrick’s fight with the giant, Glenn. My anger had dissipated, but I thought perhaps it was better he didn’t know that. I didn’t wish to encourage him in any more acts of recklessness.

  I studied the open, rolling fields we passed, bordered by tracts of forest. “Do you suppose the friend Mr. Dooley referred to was Francis Crane?”

  “Hard to know without a description. We could ask Francis, but I don’t see how it makes much difference. Sounds like Philip dragged him along hoping to have a fellow boxing enthusiast who perhaps might lend him wagering money when he needed it. It doesn’t sound as though Francis Crane, or whomever Dooley referred to, was willing to play Philip’s game.”

  “No, it doesn’t. But we certainly have another link between Philip and Isaiah Baldwin, don’t we? And not one that helps set Philip in an innocent light.”

  “If anything, it seems their squabble over money had become a continuing theme between them. I’ve seen it before, where a youngster whose parents slow his income to a trickle appeals to an upper servant for loans. The servant is afraid to anger the youth because in any argument, the parents are likely to side with their offspring, while the servant, even one as high up as a butler, is dismissed.”

  “Yes,” I agreed. “Even considering his mother’s disapproval of Philip’s actions, Mrs. King would be more likely to defuse a situation by letting the butler go. She certainly can’t dismiss her son.” I held on to the seat as the carriage jostled its way along the dusty, weather-pocked lane. “And as for Francis Crane, his claim that Philip and Mr. Baldwin argued right before the incident is in keeping with what Mr. Dooley told us. Mrs. King suggested Francis was inventing stories out of revenge for Philip not furthering his friend’s interest in Gwendolen. That seems unlikely now.”

  This drew Derrick’s interest, and he angled his face toward me. “Francis Crane wishes to court Gwendolen?”

  I nodded. “Don’t you remember Philip teasing Gwendolen about her sweetheart not coming to dinner that night? Seems Francis wanted Philip to intervene on his behalf with Gwendolen, but Philip refused. He said Francis wasn’t good enough.” I further explained Mrs. King’s theory of Francis wishing to have Philip out of the way for a time so he could press his suit with Gwendolen.

  “Some friend,” Derrick murmured as he faced the road again.

  “Which one do you mean?”

  “Neither of them score highly in that category. Not if what you’re saying is true. Still, one does feel sorry for Crane, basically being told he’s tolerated by people like Philip, but will never be one of them. Never considered good enough.”

  Yes. I leaned my head back against the carriage seat. One could sympathize with Francis Crane, especially when one was in a similar position. As I was. Nothing could change my standing as far as Derrick’s parents were concerned. Even in the unlikely circumstance that they came to accept me as part of their son’s life, they would always look down on me, always consider me less than he deserved. There would always be a struggle between us, no matter how subtle.

  And I wondered, would Derrick come to feel sorry for me, too?

  “Is something wrong?” He took his right hand off the reins and touched the back of mine. “You look troubled.”

  I found a smile for him, and forced genuine sentiment into it. “I’m only thinking about what we’ve learned, and reconciling myself to the possibility that we might never have any good news for Mrs. King.”

  “Indeed, and that will be a pity. She deserves better.”

  She did. And so did I. But I saw no clear path to having what I wished and what I deserved: Derrick and a contented family life. It was a choice I had no desire to make.

  * * *

  The following morning, I again went in to work early. Derrick and I had informed Jesse of Philip’s and Baldwin’s ties to the boxing club, as well as my less-than-cordial conversation with Eugenia Ross and the alibi she offered. She had said she’d been at the opera the night Baldwin was hit by the motorcar, and she had showed me a ripped ticket. Now it was up to Jesse and his men to find witnesses to corroborate her story and prove she hadn’t simply paid her fee and left. Perhaps she didn’t murder Isaiah Baldwin, but this woman was no innocent, and certainly not someone whose word could be trusted.

  The morning passed peacefully, or as peacefully as could be expected at a newspaper office. The presses rumbled smoothly at the back of the building, and our newsboys filed in on time to collect their bundles, some to be delivered to subscribers, the rest to be hawked on Newport’s street corners. Just as I thought to dash out to the market several doors down to purchase something for my lunch, the street door opened and in walked a breathless Ethan Merriman.

  I blinked at him in surprise. “Why aren’t you at Kingscote?”

  “I was, and I’m on my way back there now. But there’s something you should know.” He paused to catch his breath, and I motioned him to the vacant desk chair across the room from mine. He rolled it closer and sat. “Once breakfast has been served and cleared away, I have free time each day until luncheon. So does Olivia, the housemaid. I followed her into town.”

  “You followed her? I hope you had a good reason.”

  “I believed so, and I was right. She received mail yesterday and was awfully cagey about who sent it. You know how it is, Miss Cross. Letters always interest the whole household. Where did it come from? Is there anything important happening in the world? Any fearsome weather that might be headed this way? It doesn’t matter that a letter contains personal messages, everyone wants the general news, and most people who get a letter are happy to oblige.”

  “So perhaps Olivia is a particularly private individual. Or there’s an emergency at home.” I rolled my fingers to signal Ethan to get on with what he had to tell me.

  “She didn’t act like there was an emergency. She went about her duties as cool as you please. But both the cook and her assistant were puzzled. They said Olivia is typically generous in sharing her letters from home. And, she gets them often. That’s a bit unusual, don’t you think?”

  I shrugged. “Not
necessarily. Is there more?”

  “There is. This morning she was like a whirlwind, getting all her work done. And then she asked Mrs. Peake—that’s the housekeeper—”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “—for time to go into town this morning,” he ran on as though I hadn’t spoken. “Said she wanted to buy a few personal necessities.”

  “That’s not odd.”

  He spoke faster, more urgently. “No, except that she rode the trolley all the way to Washington Square and headed straight to the Western Union office. Luckily she never noticed me hop onto the trolley after she did. She rode in front, I stayed at the back. At Washington Square I stood by the Western Union window and peeked in. She was sending a wire, and by the length of time she was inside, I’d say she sent money. And then she ran back up the square to catch the trolley back across town.”

  “Ethan, there’s still nothing unusual in any of this. Perhaps she simply didn’t want the others to know her business. Many servants wire money to their families. It’s often the reason they take a position, to help the family.”

  “Then why lie about it? She didn’t shop as she said she planned to do . . . I say she’s hiding something . . .”

  His enthusiasm nearly had me laughing. Was this the same individual who only a couple of days ago trembled at the thought of posing as a butler? Perhaps my society columnist had missed his true calling of becoming a police detective.

  I didn’t laugh, however. I didn’t even smile. Ethan had embraced his role, and if I thought he was going about it with a bit too much zeal, I couldn’t simply dismiss his suspicions out of hand, especially since the note I’d received indicated that one or all of Kingscote’s servants had borne a grudge against the butler. “Ethan, there isn’t enough evidence to alert the police about Miss Riley, but continue to watch her. Watch the others as well. And talk to them. Be a lenient and agreeable superior to invite their confidence.” I frowned at a thought. “I hope Miss Riley didn’t see you following her.”

  “I don’t think so. I was careful to stay well behind her, and at the Western Union office she never turned around to look out the window. If she did see me, it’s easily explained by my having business of my own in town.”

  I sent him on his way with a reminder that he not attempt to confront a suspect, but merely observe. Before today I wouldn’t have thought the caution necessary, but apparently we had awakened in Ethan an investigative spirit that raised my concerns for his welfare. Suddenly I understood every scowl and shake of the head Jesse had turned my way these past few years. Perhaps I owed him an apology. Or a basket of Nanny’s luscious baked goods.

  Speaking of Nanny, when I arrived home that evening, she had news for me.

  “About Baldwin?” I eagerly removed my hat and gloves and laid them on the hall table.

  Her cunning smile supplied my answer. “Come into the kitchen. Jane Meeker is here.”

  “Jane Meeker?”

  “She’s the new housekeeper at Rough Point.” Nanny filled me in as she led the way through the house. “She used to be head housemaid for the Morgans at Beacon Rock. She recently talked to their cook, who told her about the new footman, Gregory, who worked for a short time for a family called the Hendersons in Bristol . . .”

  “Nanny, please.”

  “Patience, my lamb.” She affected a wounded air and sniffed as we entered the kitchen. Sitting at the large round table was a slim woman whose dark hair, streaked with silver, was pulled into a neat bun at the nape of her neck. She wore a housekeeper’s typical black broadcloth and sensible, low-heeled boots.

  “You must be Emma.” She rose from her seat and extended a fine-boned hand to shake mine. Her fingers were long and slender, more the hand of a musician than someone who had come up through the household ranks. “I’m Mrs. Meeker, but please, call me Jane. Mary has told me so much about you.” She referred, of course, to Nanny, whose full name was Mary Reeve O’Neal.

  “It’s lovely to meet you, Jane. Nanny tells me you have news involving a footman over at Beacon Rock?”

  “Not so much about him, as the goings-on at the Henderson home in Bristol. Mary explained all about your quest to learn where Mr. Baldwin worked before Kingscote. According to Gregory, the Hendersons employed a butler by that name until about two years ago. Do you think it is the very same man who lost his life the other day?”

  “Isaiah Baldwin isn’t the most common name, is it?” I felt a thrill of excitement at our first lead about where the butler had worked prior to coming to Newport. His references had indicated he’d worked for the Hill family in Cranston. A lie, apparently. “Did this Gregory know Isaiah Baldwin personally?”

  “I’m afraid not. He started at the house right after Baldwin left, but he heard tales from the other servants. One of those tales included a kitchen maid who was let go—without a reference, mind you—after becoming in the family way. Everyone at the house believed Baldwin was the father. And then he was let go, although the Hendersons supplied him with a reference and told the rest of the staff he’d resigned to pursue other opportunities.”

  “Assuming this is the same man, he told Mrs. King something very different and presented her with forged references,” I said. “He obviously didn’t want the Hendersons ever to be contacted, nor anyone else from that house.”

  “No, because he had a lot to hide, from the sounds of it,” Nanny agreed. The kettle began spurting jets of steam. She brewed a pot of strong tea and brought over a platter of oatmeal-raisin scones, her own grandmother’s recipe.

  I mulled over Jane’s information as I savored a bite and washed it down with a draft of tea. “This kitchen maid. Did Gregory know where she went?”

  “No idea.” Jane Meeker raised her eyebrows and blinked several times, as if at an unpleasant sight. “Where do such girls go?”

  “We know the answer to that question all too well, don’t we, Nanny?” I stirred a bit more cream into my tea. Through the years, first under my great aunt Sadie’s patronage, and then mine when I inherited this house, Gull Manor had provided a temporary haven to young women who found themselves in trouble and abandoned. I wished this poor child from the Hendersons’ household had found her way to my front door. More likely she had gone to Providence in hopes of working in a factory, only to have been dismissed yet again once her condition became apparent. After that . . . I shuddered and pushed the thought away.

  At the same time, I wondered . . . “Nanny, do you think it’s this kitchen maid who sent me the note? She might have found a way to keep track of Baldwin.”

  “Note, what note?” Jane took on a look of keen interest.

  Nanny ignored Jane’s question and met my gaze. “More to the point, could she be responsible for what happened to him?”

  Good heavens, first Ethan and now Nanny, talking like seasoned, cynical police detectives. But she had echoed my own thoughts, although I silently took the notion a step further. Could the kitchen maid and Olivia Riley be one and the same?

  Chapter 9

  Later that same evening, I heard from Ethan again, this time on the telephone. “She was here, Miss Cross, that woman who claims to be William King’s heir.”

  I propped one hand on the wooden telephone box and leaned closer to the mouthpiece. “Eugenia Ross?”

  “Yes. She knocked at the front door just as bold as you please.” Ethan spoke in an undertone. He was no doubt using the telephone in the butler’s pantry. Even with the door closed, he would wish to take precautions against eavesdroppers. “You can’t imagine my astonishment when I opened the door to her.”

  “Did you allow her in?”

  “I didn’t know what else to do, so yes, I bade her enter the foyer and hurried to find Mrs. King. What a brave woman she is, Miss Cross. She went right down the stairs and stood face-to-face with that Mrs. Ross, though she did not invite her into the parlor to sit.”

  “No, I would imagine not. What did they speak about?” I didn’t bother asking if Ethan knew what t
hey discussed; I knew very well he had lingered within earshot.

  “Mrs. Ross mentioned another court date set to determine William King’s true heirs. It’ll be in September. Mrs. King didn’t sound at all surprised, not until Mrs. Ross said there’d be a doctor from the Butler Hospital in Providence who would come and attest to Mrs. Ross’s rightful claim on the King estate.” He left off a moment, and I could hear him catching his breath. “Do you think there’s any truth to it?”

  “That this doctor will prove her claims? No, Ethan, I don’t, but it’s possible Mrs. Ross believes it, and that’s nearly as troublesome as if it were true. Did you hear this supposed doctor’s name?”

  “She never said it, and neither did Mrs. King ask.”

  No, Mrs. King would not have shown any interest in such a matter, for then Mrs. Ross would know she had unsettled her foe. “It does sound as though Eugenia Ross has a new trick up her sleeve. It’s merely a bluff, I’m sure, but perplexing all the same. When will the woman cease her nonsense?”

  “You don’t suppose”—Ethan paused for the length of a breath—“that there’s anything to her claims, do you?”

  “Absolutely not.” I neither hesitated nor wavered in my certainty. Yet, I sympathized with Ethan’s doubt, however fleeting it might be. Confronted by someone who simply refuses to give up often leaves one wondering about what’s true and what isn’t. But in this case, Eugenia Ross’s claims were beyond absurd. “There are simply too many members of the King family who were part of William King’s life for decades. They can’t all be lying. Have you learned anything else?”

  “No, not since I saw you this afternoon. But I’ll keep watch, don’t you worry.”

  “I’ve no doubt about that, Ethan. Thank you, and do remember to be careful.”

  After disconnecting I remained in the alcove beneath my staircase to make a couple of necessary calls. The first was to Derrick, who agreed to the impromptu plan I relayed to him. Then I asked the operator to connect me with the police station.

  “Goodness, is everything all right out there by you, Emma?” Concern poured over the wire to me from Gayla, Newport’s main daytime operator. “You’re so isolated from town, I worry about you.”