Murder at Kingscote Page 15

  Would Mrs. Peake balk at such defiance? She studied Miss Riley for a long moment before releasing a breath. She spoke more gently, almost apologetically. “I’ll have to ask the missus if she’s missing any jewelry.”

  “Good. You’ll see nothing has been stolen. Just don’t bring my name into it if you don’t have to, or I know I’ll get the sack. Employers don’t like hearing their servants’ names tangled in any unpleasantness. It’s always easier to send us packing than sort things out.”

  Had she been dismissed previously? Rather than voice that thought, I asked a different question. “How and when did Baldwin steal your brooch?”

  “It happened four days before the . . . accident.” Miss Riley gave a little shudder. “He came into my room one night and caught me looking at it. Snatched it right out of my hand. Said I probably stole it—just like you all accused me—and he’d be looking into where I came by it.”

  Even as this disclosure sent a shudder across my own shoulders, Mrs. Peake’s mouth fell open. “He had no such right. No man should ever be in your room, I don’t care who he is. You should have come to me then.”

  Based on what I had learned about Baldwin, if all he had stolen from Miss Riley was a piece of jewelry, she had been lucky.

  “I was afraid to, Mrs. Peake. He said he’d get me sacked if I put up a fuss, and I can’t afford to lose this job. I truly can’t.” Here her composure slipped. Her lips quivered, and she quickly compressed them. As different as she was from Katie, I recognized her fear, her sense of powerlessness, and her desperation, for Katie had suffered all of this when she came to me for help four years ago. My heart went out to Miss Riley . . .

  At the same time I acknowledged that here, perhaps, were motives for murder. “Miss Riley, did Baldwin make advances toward you?” My voice dropped in volume. “Did he violate you?”

  After darting a glance at Ethan, she met my gaze without blinking. “No, ma’am. He might have shown a bit of interest, but I never gave him the chance. I know how to keep a man at arm’s distance.”

  “Then why did he come to your room that evening?” This came from Mrs. Peake, once more allowing her skepticism full rein.

  Again, Olivia Riley shrugged. “Whatever he wanted, he seemed more than satisfied taking my brooch instead.”

  She sounded adamant in her denials, yet I wondered whether or not a brooch existed. As Mrs. Peake had implied, a woman in Miss Riley’s position owning such an article seemed highly unlikely. She might have entered Baldwin’s room searching for an entirely different kind of item, such as evidence that somehow linked her to his death. Or had Baldwin given her a brooch, only to take it back once he’d tired of her? Guilt singed me at such thoughts, but I couldn’t ignore them with so much at stake.

  “Where did you work before this?” I asked her, remembering what Nanny had discovered about Baldwin getting a kitchen maid in the family way. I had wondered then if that maid and this one could be one and the same.

  After a slight hesitation, she replied, “For a family in New York.”

  “Oh? Who would that be?” I asked. “I’m familiar with many of New York’s fine families.”

  “The name was Jenson.” Her throat bobbed as she swallowed. “Not a Four Hundred family.”

  Convenient, I thought. “I see. And what position did you hold there?”

  “Housemaid, like here. But they were closing up the house for the summer. That’s why Mrs. King hired me before she came up to Newport.”

  I indicated that I had no further questions for her.

  “Well then.” Ethan came to his feet. “We’ll have to keep searching for this brooch. Did you check the floorboards, behind any pictures hanging in the room, those kinds of places?”

  “No, sir.” Miss Riley’s voice sank to a murmur. “I checked the clothespress and the nightstand, and under the mattress, but you caught me before I could keep looking.”

  Ethan appealed to Mrs. Peake. “Do you have any more questions for her?”

  “No, not at present.”

  “And is it your opinion that she should continue her duties here? If so, I concur.” It pleased me to hear Ethan speak with calm authority. Perhaps taking on this position had built a new confidence in him.

  “It is, sir,” the housekeeper said. “For now.” She aimed her next comment at Miss Riley. “But be aware that we will be watching you closely.”

  Miss Riley nodded and reached up to tuck some stray blond strands under her linen cap. She stood. “May I go, then?”

  Mrs. Peake nodded. “You may.”

  Still, the maid hesitated, once again compressing her lips. The overhead light caught a glitter of tears in her eyes. “And if my brooch is found, will it be returned to me?”

  Ethan and Mrs. Peake consulted one another silently, and nodded. “It will,” the housekeeper said, “so long as we don’t determine that it belongs to someone else.”

  “It doesn’t.” Miss Riley went to the door and let herself out.

  Once she had left, Mrs. Peake turned to Ethan and me, her hands clasped at her waist and her eyebrows raised like a schoolmarm who had caught her pupils cheating. “I’ll have you know this was highly irregular, having Miss Cross here while we questioned Olivia. Were it not for Mrs. King taking me into her confidence about who you are and why you are here, I would not have stood for an outsider—other than the police—interfering with a member of the household staff. As it is . . . Well.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Peake,” Ethan and I said at the same time.

  “I hope you can clear Mr. Philip’s name,” she said more humbly. “For Mrs. King’s sake if nothing else.” The housekeeper excused herself, leaving me alone with Ethan. I took the chair Olivia Riley had vacated, while Ethan, with a sigh, sat back down at the desk.

  “What do you think?” I asked him. “About Olivia,” I added, lest he believe I meant Mrs. Peake.

  He seemed slightly taken aback. “You want my opinion?”

  “Of course I do. You’ve been among these people day and night. Do you think the maid is telling the truth?”

  His brow wrinkled. “I don’t like to think she’s lying.”

  “How did she act when you caught her in Baldwin’s room?”

  The lines in his forehead deepened as he considered. “Disappointed.”

  The answer surprised me. “Not frightened or dismayed or . . .” I paused and hit upon the appropriate word. “Guilty?”

  “Those things came after. At first, she only seemed disappointed not to be able to continue rummaging through the room. Do you think that means she’s telling the truth?”

  “I don’t know, Ethan. Yet. But since she didn’t take anything from the room, no crime has been committed.”

  “That we know of.”

  I changed the subject. “Tell me, have you interacted with Miss King today?” Before leaving Kingscote after the incident between Philip King and Francis Crane yesterday, I’d managed to warn Ethan about Miss King’s suspicions.

  “Not yet, but last night she took me to task for having coffee served in the wrong china. I should have listened to Martin. He’d tried to tell me which was the correct set, but I didn’t think it was important.”

  “Oh, Ethan, those kinds of details matter very much to these sorts of people. Especially if she already suspects you. Did Mrs. King intervene?”

  “She did. I give that lady a lot of credit for her cool ability to tell a white lie. She said she asked me to use the green Wileman china rather than the blue Meissen because the green put her in mind of the upcoming horseback excursion she’s planning through the countryside.”

  “Ah, the reason Miss King asked you to inventory the picnic cutlery.”

  “Commanded, but yes.”

  “Any news about John Donavan? Is he still holing up in his quarters?”

  “If Mrs. King doesn’t require his services, yes. He’s rarely seen except when he drives the carriage around to the front door to pick up the missus.”

  “S
ee if you can discover what he does on his own time, then.”

  He promised he would, and I left him to get on with his work.

  Chapter 12

  “Several people are either acting suspiciously, can’t account for their time the night Baldwin was struck by the motorcar, or both.”

  That evening saw me pacing my parlor while Nanny watched me from the sofa. Through the open windows came the sounds of the waves breaking on the rocky headland that bordered the rear of my property, the ocean as restless tonight as I was. The floorboards creaked beneath my feet, muffled each time I reached the threadbare area rug.

  “Mrs. Ross attended the opera that night, but could have entered the theater during the intermission,” Nanny repeated from the details we had just gone over yet again.

  I nodded as I turned to pace back in her direction. “Which could place her at Kingscote at the correct time. But I have nothing to prove it. Then there’s Francis Crane, who joined Mr. Bennett and his friends for cards at Stone Villa, but who has reason to resent Philip because of Gwendolen.”

  “Stone Villa is awfully close to Kingscote.” Nanny picked up the shirtwaist stretched across her lap and continued sewing satin piping along the collar and cuffs. A little pile of buttons, pearly gray to match the piping, sat on the end table beside her. Thanks to her handiwork, I was able to stretch my wardrobe for years without appearing dismally out of date. “But would his resentment against Philip King be enough to prompt him to kill another man?”

  “It might, if Mr. Crane wants Gwendolen badly enough.” I came to a halt and crossed my arms. “Then again, the Crane family is wealthy, whereas Gwendolen’s inheritance won’t be nearly as spectacular as those of other young ladies of the Four Hundred.”

  “In other words, Francis Crane could do better?” Nanny nudged her half-moon spectacles higher on her nose and pushed her needle through the layers of fabric.

  “In terms of character, no. I don’t believe so. But financially? Most assuredly.” I turned away and went to the front window, inhaling the salty night air. “I wish I knew what sent Baldwin outside that night. It’s exceedingly odd, considering he had guests to serve and footmen to supervise. John Donavan claimed to be outside smoking a cigarette. Mr. Baldwin might have hurried outside to do the same, but no extra stub was found.”

  “Perhaps he went to meet someone,” Nanny said from behind me.

  I pivoted on my heel. “That’s what I keep pondering. But who would he agree to meet during one of Mrs. King’s dinner parties? I don’t believe it would have been planned—” My hand went to my lips. I stood silent, thinking.

  “What?” Nanny’s needle stilled again. “Don’t keep me in suspense.”

  I crossed back to the sofa and sat beside her. “If someone arranged to visit Baldwin that night, they had to have contacted him beforehand. No one at Kingscote mentioned having delivered a message to him, but perhaps someone telephoned him and asked—or demanded—he meet that individual outside. And if so . . .”

  Nanny and I locked gazes. As one, we said, “Gayla might know.”

  I nodded vigorously. Gayla Prescott served as Newport’s main switchboard operator and what was more, she and I had grown up together on the Point. She and another woman shared the switchboard, Gayla during daytime hours and Mrs. Graham, a widow, at night. But Gayla often worked late. Had she still been there when and if Baldwin received a telephone call that evening? I crossed my fingers that she had. Or, if Mrs. Graham had connected the call, perhaps Gayla could find out for me. I made Newport’s switchboard office my first stop the next morning.

  Gayla seemed delighted to see me, especially when I set an item on her counter and unwrapped the linen around it. She and I were about the same age, and today, dressed similarly in starched, high-collared shirtwaists and, in her case, a dark gray skirt with rows of black ribbon near the hem. Her hair had been coiled into a thick topknot from which a pencil protruded on one side, and a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles sat halfway down her nose. I’d always admired Gayla’s lovely golden-brown eyes and olive complexion that spoke of her African great-great-grandmother.

  Careful of her topknot, she whisked off her headset and leaned low to sniff the fresh, straight-out-of-the-oven freshness. “Mm. Is that Mrs. O’Neal’s apple ginger cake?”

  “It is,” I assured her with a grin. I had remembered it was one of Gayla’s favorites, and Nanny had been all too happy to oblige this morning, especially since she made one for us as well.

  Gayla broke a tiny piece off a corner and popped it into her mouth. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “We haven’t seen each other in months,” I replied rather disingenuously.

  “No, but we talk nearly every day, don’t we?”

  We did, whenever I placed a telephone call somewhere in town. For the most part, Gayla knew my work schedule and my social habits. “That’s true,” I conceded. “I was wondering if you might have connected a call to Kingscote the evening their butler was struck by that automobile.”

  Anyone else but Gayla might have taken issue with my ulterior motive for visiting her and bringing her cake. But not Gayla Prescott. Quite the contrary, she motioned for me to bring another chair closer and leaned in toward me. “You’re on another case, aren’t you? Is this for the Messenger, or for Jesse?”

  “Both, actually. Do you remember a woman in particular telephoning the house that evening? Were you here, or would Mrs. Graham have taken over by then?” I held my breath, hoping for the former. Mrs. Graham, an older woman, was far more likely than Gayla to adhere to the American Bell Telephone Company’s privacy guidelines.

  “Let me think back . . .” She broke off another bit of cake, larger than the first, and appeared to consider as she chewed. “I’ve been working later than usual now that summer is here. Poor Mrs. Graham becomes rather frazzled if more than a pair of lines buzz at the same time. Once nighttime truly sets in there are fewer calls and then she’s fine. Honestly, she isn’t suited to the job, but I’d never say a word to anyone about it. She needs the money, don’t you know.”

  “Gayla, are you remembering anything? Anything at all?”

  “Oh, right. Let me see . . .” She picked up the cake and held it out to me in offer. I shook my head, and she set it back down. “Kingscote has so few calls. Mrs. King isn’t one for the telephone. I’m frankly surprised she had one installed. And of course being so close to town it’s not as though she really needs one . . .”

  “Gayla,” I prompted, dredging up every last bit of patience I possessed.

  “Yes, now that I think about it, I do remember putting through a call in the evening. It’s certainly a night that stands out in one’s mind, what with the auto parade that day and then, why, someone actually being struck by an automobile that very evening.”

  “Do you know who called over to Kingscote?”

  “Well, that I couldn’t say, I’m afraid. It’s not as though I listen in once the parties have been connected.”

  I happened to know better, but I didn’t comment. Gayla’s occasional transgressions could be forgiven when one considered she spent her days cooped up in this tiny space with nothing more than one small window overlooking a side street. It must be terribly boring. Until, that is, the telephone lines buzzed with some new scandal or controversy happening here in town among people she had known all her life.

  I held out a hope. “Do you remember if the caller was a man or a woman?”

  “Well . . . early in the day I connected a few calls about deliveries for that night’s dinner.” She suddenly became defensive. “I only know that because the callers each said hello to me personally.”

  “I understand. You know everyone in town.”

  “That’s right.” She relaxed, but then frowned. “But I do seem to remember it being a woman asking to be put through later in the evening. I couldn’t tell you her name, though.”

  “Do you know who answered the call?”

  “Hmm . . . now let me see.�
� She consumed another broken corner of cake. “A woman answered, and then the butler came on the line. He sounded impatient, but at that point, I stopped listening, so I really can’t tell you more.” Again, the defensiveness. She rewrapped the cake and placed both hands around it, as if I might take it back for not having received satisfactory answers.

  But I wondered. Had Eugenia Ross been the female caller? If so, how could I ever hope to prove it? The woman would never admit to having telephoned a man who died soon after. Could the caller have been someone else? Obviously, I needed to return to Kingscote and speak with whoever had originally answered the telephone that night.

  * * *

  I worked late at the Messenger that evening, making up for lost time. After the last of the staff had left the premises for the night, I double-checked that the back entrance and windows were secured before returning to my desk to complete paperwork that had gone unfinished due to my spending so much time attempting to clear Philip King’s name of manslaughter. Not that I felt a great deal of compassion for yet another wealthy young scion who had fallen into dissolute ways. Yes, at times he reminded me of my half brother, Brady, who had since mended his life, or my young cousin Reggie Vanderbilt, who had not, but it wasn’t Philip’s similarity to either of them that spurred me on.

  I simply didn’t believe Philip could be guilty in these particular circumstances. I could not see how any human being, however debauched or drunk, could drive an automobile into another individual, leave him to die, sing his way to the dinner table, and look his own mother in the eye. Only a monster could behave in such a way, and however misguided Philip King might be, I didn’t believe him to be a monster.

  For now, I forced myself to thrust these thoughts aside and focus on the work in front of me. With stacks of receipts, subscriptions, and orders spread out on my desk, I filled in columns in my ledger book, added and subtracted, and checked my figures twice over. I became so absorbed in the ebb and flow of the numbers that when the telephone on the wall summoned me with a jarring ring, I flinched so violently I sent a flurry of paper cascading to the floor.