Murder at Kingscote Page 16

  A few unladylike words might have slipped through my lips as I stumbled my way over the mess I’d created and snatched the ear trumpet off its cradle. “You’ve reached the Messenger.”

  “Emma, it’s Jesse. Ethan’s been hurt. Can you come to Kingscote?”

  “Hurt how? Will he be all right?”

  “He’s been in a scuffle and he’s very upset. Can you come?”

  “I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  Having planned in advance to work late, I had already brought Maestro and my carriage up from the livery where I normally kept them during the day, and had parked them on Spring Street outside the Messenger’s front door. Quickly I shuffled the fallen papers into a neater pile, straightened a few more things on my desk, and hurried outside.

  I reached Kingscote in a matter of minutes and stopped my carriage beside Jesse’s on the service driveway. Brian Farrell, the groom, met me and helped me down. Although twilight had set in, I could detect a shadow of a bruise on his cheek. I pointed to it. Had he and Ethan fallen to fisticuffs? “What happened there?”

  “We had a bit of a to-do here a little while ago.”

  “Yes, that’s why I’m here.” I spoke sharply, my anger rearing although I’d yet to learn the facts. “Was this to-do as you call it between you and Eth—um—Mr. Merrin?”

  “Good heavens, no, miss. Between us and Donavan.”

  “Donavan? But what—?”

  “You’d best come along, miss. The police are in the carriage house.”

  Partway across the rear lawn, I began to hear voices raised in urgency. “That would be Donavan again,” Mr. Farrell said. “He’s right schnockered, miss.”

  “Is he? Did he hurt Mr. Merrin very much? Or you? You have quite a welt blossoming on your cheek.”

  “I’ll be fine. It’s nothing that hasn’t happened before, but I don’t think Mr. Merrin has been in many fights in his life, miss.”

  “No, I don’t suppose so.”

  “If you don’t mind my saying so, I can’t see why the detective asked you to come. Men get drunk, miss. They fight. There’s not much of a story there and Donavan’ll be back to his usual self in the morning.”

  “Does Donavan get drunk often? Does Mrs. King know?”

  “Oh, now, miss, there’s really no reason to go bothering the missus. Like I said, men get drunk. Sometimes they get downright soused and say things, and even do things, they don’t mean. It’ll all be all right.”

  Perhaps, but as we approached the wide sliding door of the carriage house, those voices, until now a confused hullabaloo, formed themselves into coherent words. And what I heard shocked me.

  “I killed her. I killed her. God help me, I was to blame.”

  I shoved open the door wider and went inside. There were two carriages in the large wood-paneled space, kept cleaner than many people’s kitchens. A worktable occupied a corner beneath one of the peaked windows, and there I saw Jesse and another policeman I knew, Scotty Binsford. They were standing over John Donavan, who sat hunched in his shirtsleeves on a stool. Ethan perched on another, holding a cloth-covered bundle of what I presumed to be ice to his jaw.

  Jesse and Scotty acknowledged me with nods. At the sight of me, John Donavan moved to vacate his stool, though whether to offer it to me—unlikely—or to attack me, I’ll never know, for Scotty seized the coachman by the shoulders and forced him back down.

  “Don’t you move. Not if you know what’s good for you,” Scotty warned him. A tall, broad fellow with abundant, apple-round cheeks and an easy smile, he was often underestimated, but I had seen him take down a troublemaker or two with ease. “Now, tell us who you believe you killed, and how?”

  The coachman began to mumble again, something about driving through the rain late at night. Had there been a coaching accident? He slurred and stuttered over the words, leaving their precise meaning in doubt.

  A shivery sound from Ethan drew my attention. Leaving John Donavan to Scotty and Jesse, I went to Ethan and crouched in front of him. “What happened?”

  He shook his head in bemusement. “I hardly know. I was in the butler’s pantry. Dessert had just been served. There’s no company tonight other than Miss Wetmore,” he added in an aside. “And I heard shouting.”

  “Mr. Donavan?” When Ethan nodded, I asked, “Who was he shouting at? The groom?” I glanced over my shoulder to where Brian Farrell hovered, watching, near the sliding outer door.

  “No. I don’t know where Farrell was. Probably in his quarters above the stable.” He pointed to the far wall, which separated the building into carriage house and stable. “Donavan was outside alone. Alone and shouting. I came running out to see what was happening, and he charged at me, fists swinging. That’s when Farrell showed up.”

  “Have you seen Donavan drunk before?”

  Ethan shook his head. “Which isn’t to say he hasn’t been, but if so, he’s kept to his rooms.” He glanced upward, indicating the building’s second story. Another shudder passed through him. “Miss Cross, I don’t think I’m cut out for this kind of work.”

  I placed my hand over his where it lay on his thigh. “Let me look at you.” Gently I moved his other hand, the one clutching the ice to his face, and lowered it. A nasty swelling was growing along his jawline on his left side, and I saw now that the seam where his sleeve met the shoulder of his coat had been torn. “Does it hurt very much to move your mouth?”

  “Now that the ice isn’t on it, yes.”

  I raised his hand and the cloth filled with ice back into place. “What about your shoulder, or is it your arm? It looks as though he grabbed you rather roughly.” I ran my fingertips over the tear.

  Ethan rotated his shoulder without dislodging the ice from his face. “Hurts a bit.”

  “I have my carriage here. We can give Dr. Kennison a call and then I’ll bring you over to see him.”

  “No, I’ll be all right.” His voice shook.

  “You don’t sound all right, Ethan.”

  “He said he’d go to the missus.” This came from John Donavan, who moaned as he spoke. He sent a sideways glance at Ethan.

  Jesse leaned his face close to the other man’s to recapture his attention. “Who said he’d go to the missus? Baldwin? Did he know about this incident?”

  Donavan frowned as if confused by the question. His head sagged. “Yes, the accident . . .”

  Jesse nudged him until he raised his face. “You’d better tell us what happened. And when.”

  “My last post,” Donavan replied miserably. He looked up, the gas lamp on the wall illuminating a track of moisture on his cheek. “The daughter. She was so . . . so pretty. A nice young lady.” He balled his hands into fists and pounded at his knees. “Didn’t deserve. I shouldn’t have . . .”

  “Shouldn’t have what?” Jesse pressed. “You said it was a rainy night. Were you drinking then, too? Is that why the accident occurred? And the young lady, your employer’s daughter, did she die as a result?”

  “Thrown from the carriage. Her neck . . . was broken.” Donavan opened his fists and let his head fall into his hands. He wept loudly.

  Jesse’s eyes narrowed in a way he had when he was about to act on a hunch. My guess proved correct. “And Baldwin knew, and threatened to tell Mrs. King, didn’t he? How did he know? Did the two of you work together in New York? Is that where this happened?”

  “No, no.” Donavan shook his head repeatedly.

  “But Baldwin knew,” Jesse insisted. “He knew and threatened to go to Mrs. King.”

  “He promised he wouldn’t. Not if I . . .”

  “If you what? Paid him?” Jesse, leaning low these past minutes, slowly straightened, but his gaze never left John Donavan. “Did you murder Isaiah Baldwin? Did you push the motorcar into him and pin him to the tree trunk?”

  The coachman uttered a litany of denials, his hands tugging at his hair. Jesse and Scotty traded glances and nodded. Scotty unhooked the pair of hinged, ratcheted handcuffs from his belt a
nd moved to secure Donavan’s hands in front of him. Donavan didn’t resist, but sat limply on the stool, moaning and shaking his head.

  I left Ethan’s side and went to Jesse. “Do you really think he murdered Baldwin?”

  “I don’t know, but if you ask me, he attacked Ethan because he believed him to be Baldwin.”

  “He mistook one butler for another.” I nodded at my own conclusion.

  “Considering his condition, we’ll take him in for the night at least and question him more in the morning, when he’s coherent.”

  “And hungover,” I pointed out.

  Jesse had the good grace to look chagrined. “The promise of a tall cup of water works wonders in loosening a man’s tongue.”

  “As long as his tongue speaks true, and not what he believes you wish to hear.” I treated him to an admonishing stare.

  “We won’t coerce him. You have my word on it.” He lowered his voice. “But I would think you’d be glad to see Philip King exonerated.”

  “Only if you’ve found the guilty party.”

  “In the meantime, what of Ethan?” Jesse gestured at my erstwhile society reporter with his chin.

  “I’ll take care of him. He’s having second thoughts about continuing his role here.”

  “Can’t say I blame him.” Jesse stole a glance at Brian Farrell, who still lingered by the carriages. “He may already have been found out.”

  “Mr. Farrell has been with Mrs. King a long time, and she trusts him. I suppose we can, too.”

  Jesse nodded and motioned for Scotty to walk the coachman outside. Ethan rose shakily from his stool and handed his bundle of ice to me. “Wait,” he said, and disappeared through a door. I heard footsteps on stairs. A few minutes later he returned holding a tweed coat and a necktie. “He might want these, especially if he has to appear at the courthouse in the morning.”

  Donavan raised his cuffed hands together and pointed at Ethan’s face. “Sorry I did that to you.”

  “You’re not yourself tonight,” Ethan replied. He held out the coat, and Jesse reached for it. Without an instant’s hesitation, he checked the pockets. His search yielded nothing, but I noticed something that induced me to grasp the garment by its collar and peer at the clothing tag sewn into the lining near the pocket. “Take him out,” Jesse said to Scotty. “I’ll meet you at the buggy in a minute.”

  As soon as Scotty and the coachman left the carriage house, Jesse turned back to me. “What is it? What did you see?”

  I handed the coat back to him. “The tag. It’s from a shop in Bristol.”

  “So?”

  “Where did Donavan say he was from?”

  Understanding dawned on Jesse’s face. “New York.”

  “I believe he might have been hired in New York, but this”—I pointed at the coat—indicates he’s from Rhode Island, but perhaps didn’t want anyone to know. Which makes sense if something terrible happened at his last place of employment, such as a girl dying in a carriage accident. Do you know who else was from Bristol?” I didn’t wait for him to answer. “Isaiah Baldwin. He worked for a family named the Hendersons. At least according to Nanny’s friend, Jane Meeker.”

  “And I’d put my money on Mrs. O’Neal and her friend any day of the week.” He let out a breath. “Philip King might find himself freed from his luxurious imprisonment by tomorrow. Good night, Emma. I’ll let you know if he confesses.”

  As Jesse left, Brian Farrell approached Ethan and me. He looked Ethan up and down. “Ethan and not Edward, huh? So, who exactly are you, then?”

  Ethan sank back onto his stool, the bundle of ice once more pressed to his face. I answered the question for him. “Ethan works for me at the Messenger.” Before I could explain more, Mr. Farrell’s features lit up.

  “Ethan Merriman?”

  Ethan nodded, none too happily.

  “I read your columns every week. And I know for a fact the missus and her daughter always look forward to them. But what are you doing posing as a butler?” His expression clouded. “I don’t think kindly of anyone putting something over on the missus.”

  “He’s not,” I interrupted. “Mrs. King knows all about who Ethan is and why he’s here. It’s not for a news story. He’s here to find out if one of the servants had a reason to murder Mr. Baldwin.”

  “Ohhh.” Mr. Farrell’s eyes opened wide. “And now you think Donavan . . .”

  “That’s for Detective Whyte to decide,” I said firmly. “And this doesn’t yet exonerate Mrs. King’s son.”

  “I hope it does soon, for the missus’s sake.” He echoed what seemed to be a popular sentiment among the servants. Whatever they might think of Philip, they all seemed united in their esteem for his mother. Mr. Farrell chuckled down at Ethan. “You sure had us all fooled. Not that you’re much good as a butler. You’re not and that’s the honest truth. But I doubt any of us could have guessed you’re here as a spy.”

  “And so I am.” Ethan surprised me by grinning up at the other man. “Will you keep our secret?”

  “If this helps the missus, I surely will. You can depend on it.”

  “And will you stay on?” I challenged rather than asked Ethan. “At least until we know whether or not Donavan is our killer?”

  His forehead puckered and for an instant I thought he’d balk, but he slid the ice away from his face, stood up, and squared his shoulders. “You can count on me, Miss Cross.”

  Chapter 13

  I accompanied Ethan to the main house and into the kitchen. When the other servants glimpsed the swelling bruise on his face, they immediately gathered around and fired questions at him. He winced as the cook examined his tender jaw with her fingertips. Olivia Riley touched his torn coat sleeve.

  “I can fix this for you, Mr. Merrin.”

  “Thank you, Olivia. Thank you all for your concern.”

  “But why did he attack you, sir?” the dark-haired footman asked.

  A faint frown crossed Ethan’s face. “I don’t think he meant to, Clarence. He’s drunk, and I simply got in his way. My mistake,” he added with a wry grin that made him wince.

  His answer impressed me, for it showed his ability to think on his feet. Before we’d left the carriage house, I’d told him of Jesse’s theory that, in his drunken state, Donavan had mistaken him for Baldwin. Though Ethan hadn’t voiced his fears, he must have considered that if Donavan had wanted Baldwin dead, believing him to be alive might have prompted a much more vicious attack. He might have come at Ethan with a knife or a pistol. Ethan had been lucky.

  He passed the now dripping cloth of melting ice to the cook’s assistant. “Now then, have Mrs. King and the young ladies finished dinner?”

  “They have, sir,” the blond footman told him. “We covered for you, sir. The missus has no idea anything was wrong. Although, when you didn’t return to the dining room to ask where she wanted coffee served, she went all white, like she thought you’d met with the same fate as Baldwin.”

  “She didn’t hear Donavan’s ranting?” Ethan expressed my own thoughts. How could Mrs. King and her daughter not have heard Donavan’s shouting? Thank goodness the carriage house was set back from the main house.

  Clarence grinned. “The ladies did hear something, sir. But Martin and I”—he pointed at the blond footman—“we looked out the hall windows and saw Mr. Farrell and you dragging Donavan into the carriage house. We told the missus a drunk had wandered onto the property, but not to worry, Mr. Farrell was taking care of it. Mrs. King surmised the intruder had come from one of Mr. Bennett’s parties at Stone Villa.” This earned him a chuckle from the others.

  “Thank you, Clarence, Martin. That was quick thinking on your part.” Ethan shrugged out of his coat at Olivia Riley’s insistence and handed it to her. “But we’ll have to tell Mrs. King something in the morning. Donavan was taken to the police station.”

  “Well, back to work, everyone,” the cook said, and Ethan’s well-wishers dispersed. He and I sought the privacy of his pantry.
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br />   “I suppose we’ll have to tell Mrs. King everything in the morning,” I said as I perched on the edge of his desk, “no matter what happens tonight with Donavan.”

  “She’s sure to notice this bruise. It’ll be all manner of colors in the morning.” He touched his fingertips to his jaw and winced again. “Maybe Donavan will confess to Detective Whyte, and that will be the end of this whole deplorable matter.”

  I studied him. “If you want out of this arrangement, you can go. No one will hold it against you. I certainly won’t.”

  “No, I said I’d do it.” He sat at his desk and studied the items inhabiting the blotter. He ran his fingertip along the blade of a brass letter opener. “I heard what the detective said, that Baldwin knew something about Donavan, and that Donavan had to pay him to keep quiet.”

  “Blackmail is only a theory at this point. A guess on Detective Whyte’s part.”

  “If what Donavan said is true, that this carriage accident took place on a rainy night, it might not have been his fault, unless of course he’d been drinking. But if Baldwin threatened to tell people about it, to tell Mrs. King unless Donavan paid him, that made Baldwin a bad person, didn’t it?”

  “There have been other insinuations that suggest Baldwin was a bad man, yes.”

  Ethan closed his fingers around the handle of the letter opener and tapped its point on the desktop. “Do you think bad people deserve to die, Miss Cross?”

  He sounded vulnerable, reminding me that he was indeed young and not very experienced in the world. In working with him these many months, I had learned that Ethan loved beauty in whatever forms it took, whether natural or man-made. Beauty fed his soul and fueled an optimism that helped him overcome a timorous nature. Involving himself in murder had to be taking its toll on his spirit, on his faith in his fellow man. With a sad smile, I touched his shoulder. “That depends, doesn’t it? But I don’t think murdering a bad person is ever justified. A society mustn’t allow it.”

  “Even if it means evil people can go on doing evil?”

  “We have to believe the law will catch up to them.” But even as I said those words, I remembered that when a man forced himself on a woman, as Mrs. Meeker indicated happened at Baldwin’s last place of employment, it was the woman who lost her position, bore the brunt of an illegitimate pregnancy, and suffered the poverty and desperation that typically followed. The man, meanwhile, remained free to repeat his treachery.