Murder at Kingscote Read online

  “You may set your mind at ease, Gayla. Everything is fine out here. This is more of a personal call.”

  “I see. Looking for Jesse, are you?” Like me, Gayla had lived all her life in Newport and knew just about every other soul who had grown up here as well. Added to that, Gayla was something of a busybody and loved to hear all the town gossip. Not that she possessed a mean-spirited bone in her body. I liked Gayla very much, if she often taxed my patience by asking a host of questions each time I wished to make a telephone call.

  I decided, however, to satisfy her curiosity this time. “Yes, I am. There’s been a development in the death of the butler—surely you heard about that.”

  “Of course I did. I read about it in the Messenger. So shocking, a man being mowed down by a horseless carriage. I’m all for progress, but not when it poses a danger to ordinary folks going about their daily lives.”

  “Indeed, Gayla. Now, the police station, if you would . . .”

  Jesse wasn’t in, but I left a message for him. I went to bed soon after, and rose extra early in the morning. Once again I raised the ear trumpet and cranked the telephone to rouse the operator, a different woman at that time of the day. Once connected to the Messenger, I let Dan Carter know I wouldn’t be in until much later and that I couldn’t be reached until then. He assured me all was well with the presses. Nonetheless, a wisp of guilt tugged at my conscience that I would be missing nearly an entire day’s work.

  After stabling my horse and carriage in town, I met Derrick at Long Wharf, where we caught the first ferry leaving the island. In Newport’s shipbuilding past more than a hundred years ago, those ferries would have been large and piled high with goods intended for the seafaring coastlines of Rhode Island, Massachusetts, Connecticut, and destinations farther flung. Now, that type of merchandise, along with ships themselves, were manufactured on the mainland, while most of what Newport produced remained here for local use.

  The craft Derrick and I boarded was small in comparison to those long-ago freighters, although quite a number of other travelers squeezed in around us. This particular route took us around Jamestown and on to the mainland, where we disembarked and secured transportation, in the form of a public coach, to the train depot in North Kingstown. We purchased two tickets to Providence. Determined to find out more about Mrs. Ross’s connection to William King, we settled in for the ride.

  * * *

  The hired carriage conveyed us north past the city proper to a wooded area along the Providence River. I began to worry the driver had taken a wrong turn, when we came upon a wrought-iron fence that bordered the road, leading to a set of wide gates. They stood open, and we passed through them. A long, sweeping drive, lined with large potted trees—palms, of all things—stretched before us, leading to a brick edifice whose soaring four-story main section was flanked by two shorter sprawling wings. Gothic arches above the front door and around the bay windows, along with several gabled peaks, lent the building an austere, decidedly grim aspect.

  But no, I had seen such details on residences without the chill that raced down my arms now. My impression of the place—dark, lonely, inscrutable—had less to do with its architecture than my knowledge of who and what the Butler Hospital for the Insane harbored within its walls. At least I detected no iron bars across the windows.

  “Ready?” Derrick turned to me with an uncertain smile that told me he shared my qualms. At my nod, he opened the carriage door and stepped down, then offered his hand.

  “Wait here for us,” he said to the driver, and we went to the main door.

  We were stopped immediately upon entering the foyer by a formidable desk that stood directly in our path, manned by an equally formidable-looking secretary. With craggy shoulders straining his coat sleeves and a high, bony forehead that reminded me of a ram’s curving horns, this man left little doubt as to his ability to keep out unwanted intruders while preventing patients from leaving.

  “Welcome to the Butler Hospital.” Despite his appearance, his tone issued a cordial welcome. “Have you come to visit one of our patients?”

  “No, sir.” Derrick and I stepped up to the desk. Derrick explained, “We’d like to speak with a doctor—”

  “Ah,” the man interrupted. “Which one?”

  “We don’t exactly know.” My admission earned me a frown. I hastened to add, “A doctor who was here while William Henry King was a patient. Mr. King is deceased now, so you wouldn’t be betraying patient confidentiality.”

  “King, you say?” He studied us carefully. Apparently finding something trustworthy in our appearance, he nodded. “Wait here.” Rising, he called into an adjoining office, whereupon another man, thinner, younger, but with a confident air, came and took the seat behind the desk. The balding secretary nodded to him, to us, and disappeared down a hallway.

  He reappeared some minutes later followed by an older gentleman in a frock coat, his extensive beard and muttonchops obscuring the front of a stiff, stand-up collar and simple black necktie. He held his pocket watch in his hand, a signal that our time with him would be limited.

  He came around the desk to greet us. “I’m Dr. Winston. How may I help you?”

  “Thank you for seeing us, Doctor.” I stepped closer to him and held out my hand. “I’m Emmaline Cross, and this is Derrick Andrews.”

  Dr. Winston stared at me as though I’d sprouted horns, taking me aback. He shook my hand weakly, offered me a tepid smile, and turned his attention to Derrick. “I’m quite familiar with your name, Mr. Andrews. Are you here on behalf of your family’s newspaper?”

  “No, nothing like that.” Derrick reached out to shake the doctor’s hand. “We have a few questions about William King and a woman named Eugenia Ross, if we might have a few minutes of your time.”

  “Are you relatives of Mr. King?”

  “No,” I said. “But we’re both well acquainted with his relatives in Newport, especially Mrs. Ella King. We are here on her behalf.” A slight stretch of the truth, perhaps, but I didn’t wish to be turned away before learning what we could about William King’s last days and, more importantly, his relationship to Mrs. Ross.

  “I see.” Once again, the doctor scrutinized me as the beginnings of a disapproving scowl crept across his aging features. “Let’s walk outside. I’ve had a long morning and could use the air. Miss Cross, perhaps you’d care to wait here in the lobby, where you’ll be out of the sun and more comfortable. Perhaps a cup of tea?”

  He rendered me momentarily speechless. Then I found my tongue, though I tempered the words I wished to speak. “I don’t require tea, thank you, Doctor, and I’m quite happy to walk in the sun.”

  Dr. Winston shrugged. Derrick offered me his arm and we all three stepped outside. The doctor led us along a path that ran parallel to the front of the building where well-kept shrubs and flowerbeds brought a sense of cheer to the grounds.

  “Did you know William King well, Doctor?” Derrick asked.

  “I did indeed, Mr. Andrews. An interesting case. The man often seemed as sane as you or I.”

  “Then why was he here?” I knew the answer, yet I wished to hear it in this man’s words.

  “He was here because he needed to be.” Dr. Winston gave a distinctly condescending chuckle. “My dear Miss Cross, the human mind is a complex thing. Too complex, certainly, for a lay person to understand.”

  “Try us,” I couldn’t help challenging him.

  He chuckled again. “Suffice it to say the insane can be frightfully clever. They are often able to fool others by appearing completely rational and under control.”

  “But perhaps such people are sane, Doctor.” I knew I was antagonizing him but was unable to help myself. “Perhaps they merely suffer from the occasional bout of melancholia.”

  “William King suffered from much more than that, I can assure you, my dear Miss Cross.”

  I felt a slight warning pressure from Derrick’s hand where it lay over mine, before he said, “Had he ever posed a
danger? To himself or anyone else?”

  “Not exactly a danger, not physically at least.”

  “Then how?” I persisted.

  The doctor sighed at my tenacity. “His inclinations bordered on recklessness. Do you realize that before he was committed, he disappeared into Europe where no one could find him? Simply disappeared without a word and was gone for months.”

  “Is that insanity,” I asked, “or merely a wish not to be found?”

  Dr. Winston appealed to Derrick with a frustrated glance, which Derrick, bless him, thoroughly ignored. “During that time”—the doctor sighed and went on—“he went through untold thousands of dollars. Had he not returned to America where his family could intercede on his behalf, he might have spent his entire fortune.”

  “But isn’t that a man’s prerogative?” I struggled to control my own frustration. “He earned his fortune in the China trade through his own efforts. Why must he answer to anyone else for how he spent it?” A terrible realization stole over me. While Mrs. Ross might not have had William King’s best interests at heart, his family might not have acted selflessly either. Had they merely sought to conserve their relative’s fortune for themselves? I thought of elegant Mrs. King, her daughter Gwendolen, and the charitable work they did each year in Newport. I couldn’t imagine either of them so greedy as to deny a sane man his freedom. But what about the rest of the family?

  They had all along denied Eugenia Ross’s claims and called her an opportunist. And that was probably true. But, had she perhaps forged an arrangement with William King—a generous reward in exchange for helping him regain his freedom?

  “Miss Cross, I’m afraid I don’t have the time to explain the exact nature of Mr. King’s dementia. You’ll simply have to trust me when I say he needed to be here.”

  We reached a corner of the building, where the path turned to bring us toward the rear of the property. Here, patients and attendants were walking on the lawn, and beneath the branches of a towering elm tree, several patients sat together on benches.

  “Now then, Mr. Andrews,” the doctor said, “I believe you have some specific questions you’d like to ask?”

  He spoke as if my queries were of no importance. My ire grew by the moment, sending the hackles rising at my nape. He also raised my fears. Not for myself, but for the female patients under his care, for he obviously felt little or no regard toward members of my gender. If he didn’t find me competent enough to engage in a simple conversation, how might he judge a woman brought here by her family as a means of disposing of her? It happened more frequently than anyone would care to believe. Husbands wishing to be rid of their wives, fathers frustrated by their daughters’ headstrong ways, brothers unwilling to share inheritances with their sisters, found an easy solution by convincing a doctor to declare her insane. Here, I suspected, was one doctor who wouldn’t need much persuading to consider any woman incompetent.

  However, for the sake of our errand, I decided to hold my tongue for the rest of the visit and let Derrick do the talking.

  “I understand,” he was saying, “that William King was brought here from the McLean Asylum in Somerville, Massachusetts.”

  “That’s correct,” said the doctor. “He didn’t spend much time here. Not quite three years, I believe.”

  “And was the reason for his transfer his near escape from the McLean Asylum, aided by Eugenia Webster Ross?”

  The doctor linked his hands behind him as he strolled. “That is also correct, Mr. Andrews. It was determined, by Mr. King’s family as well as by the authorities, that the McLean Asylum had become lax in their security. The staff there claimed they were faced with a court order produced by Mrs. Ross and an associate of hers appointed by the court as a representative for Mr. King, but they should never have allowed the patient out of their sight. As a matter of fact, an emergency court order, initiated by the family, had him returned within hours.”

  To have achieved freedom, only to lose it so quickly and without an opportunity to prove he deserved to be at liberty. . . how crushing, how despairing that must have been for him, whether he had been truly insane or not. William King had spent decades incarcerated, however gently, for it was said he filled his rooms with luxurious furnishings and ordered the best food for his meals. Still, to languish behind walls while the spirit withered away year to year . . . I couldn’t imagine it.

  “And what can you tell us about the woman herself?” Derrick’s question snapped me out of my musings. I waited while the doctor pondered his answer.

  At length, he said, “Not an unintelligent creature. Certainly persistent.”

  “Yes,” Derrick agreed, “we’d already figured that out for ourselves, simply judging by her actions through the years. But did she disrupt the hospital with her visits? Did she unsettle the patient? Was she argumentative?”

  “Ah, I see what you’re getting at. For the most part, no. There were no outbursts, no threats or demands made of the staff. She gave us no reason to bring her own sanity under question, although to tell you truly, I did often wonder.”

  “How so?” I asked, disregarding my own aversion to the man.

  “Isn’t it obvious? Her claims were outlandish. Only a diseased mind could have conceived of such a scheme and stuck to it for so many years. Yet, without a family member or legal authority registering a complaint against her, we had no cause to hold her here under observation.”

  I found myself, oddly, cheering for Mrs. Ross. “Then you are not intending to testify at an upcoming hearing on behalf of Mrs. Ross’s claims.”

  The man sniffed. “Certainly not.”

  Derrick’s gaze wandered to a large, well-muscled man in a shabby dressing gown and an equally muscular attendant who exited the building through a nearby door. They strolled together across the grass. Rather, the attendant strolled slowly while the patient picked his way along, his arms held out to his sides as if he feared he might stumble. “Did she visit him often?” Derrick asked.

  “Quite a lot in the beginning. Less as time went on, though she never entirely abandoned him.” The doctor pushed out a grim chuckle. “Rather, she never abandoned her hopes of taking possession of him, and thereby his money.”

  The man in the dressing gown, his thinning dark hair gone wispy from the breeze, had begun walking in circles, taking short staccato steps in a pattern that seemed vaguely familiar. He kept up a steady stream of mumbling, as well. His attendant stood aside and watched with a bored air, indicating this was something that happened regularly. Perplexed, I studied the man’s movements as the doctor’s and Derrick’s words faded from my ears.

  “I’m afraid that’s all I can tell you,” Dr. Winston was saying when I pulled my attention back to him. “Is Eugenia Ross sane? Probably not, not completely. Is she dangerous? She had never shown any sign of it here, but she is singularly intent on a specific goal. In my experience, such an individual, when faced with untold obstacles, can be all too willing to go to great lengths to achieve the desired end.”

  “Thank you, Doctor.” Derrick held out his hand, and the other man shook it.

  “I must be getting back to my patients. You can see yourself back to your carriage, yes?”

  He didn’t wait for a reply. Extracting a set of keys from his coat pocket, he walked away and let himself into the building through one of several rear-facing doors.

  “Well, I don’t believe that was worth the trip up here.” Derrick let out a disappointed sigh. “We haven’t learned much we didn’t already know. We didn’t even learn whether Mrs. Ross might be capable of violence. Emma?”

  I was barely listening, my attention focused once again on the man in the dressing gown. Derrick stepped closer to me and murmured, “What is it? Do you know him?”

  I shook my head. “Look at the way he’s moving . . .”

  Frowning, Derrick joined me in studying the patient’s odd dance.

  Dance. “I know what it reminds me of.” I set out across the lawn until I reached the
man in the dressing gown and his attendant. Pasting on a bright smile, I said, “Hello. How are you today?”

  Up close, I saw he was not a young man, his face scored by the lines of middle age and something more. Sadness. Tragedy. His dancing steps didn’t cease as he regarded me. “Getting ready for the big fight tonight.”

  I allowed my smile to widen, though I knew there could be no truth behind the man’s words. Not now, not in this place. But I said, “Are you? That’s wonderful.”

  “Must be ready.” He held up his hands and curled them into fists.

  “Where is the match?” I asked to keep him talking as long as his attendant allowed it. At any other time this patient would have earned my sympathy, to be sure, but I very much doubted I would have been drawn to him in this way. But now, having been to the boxing club in Middletown only yesterday, I found it an extraordinary coincidence, one I could not ignore. Footsteps thudded through the grass behind me. Derrick appeared at my side, his brow furrowed.

  Without warning, the patient lunged at him. Instinct sent me backing out of the way, while Derrick held his ground. Before the man could take another step, his attendant moved swiftly in front of him and seized his forearms. “Steady there. That’s not your opponent, Harry. That’s just a visitor.”

  “Visitor?”

  “That’s right, champ. Just came over to say hello.” The attendant gradually loosened his hold on his charge, and finally released him. “Steady now, Harry?”

  The man nodded. “Steady now.”

  “Harry . . . champ . . .” Derrick murmured. His eyes narrowed and his lips moved silently before compressing. Then, “Dear God, is that Harry Ainsley?”

  I moved back to his side. “You know this man?”

  “Heaven help him.” Derrick swallowed. “I know of him.”

  Chapter 10

  “Yes, he’s Harry Ainsley,” the attendant confirmed. “Been here nearly ten years.”