Murder at Kingscote Page 17

  The door stood open, yet the cook’s assistant knocked just the same. She brought in a teacup and set it on the desk. “Thought you could use this, sir.” She leaned a bit lower. “Splashed in a wee dram of whiskey, too.” She turned to me. “I didn’t realize you were still here, miss. Would you like a cup?”

  I thanked her but told her no.

  A pounding on the exterior service door startled us all. Ethan turned pale, as if the sound heralded ill tidings. When he made no move to answer it, I slid my feet to the floor.

  “The footmen are probably clearing the dining room. Shall I get it?”

  He quickly shook his head. “No. I’ll . . . I’ll go.” Standing, he righted his vest with a tug and left the room. We heard his and another voice from down the corridor. When he returned, he held a missive. He turned to the cook’s assistant, who lingered with eyes filled with curiosity.

  “Trudy, will you find Olivia, please? She has a telegram.”

  With a nod, young Trudy scurried from the room.

  “What do you suppose it’s about?” I asked, wishing to break the seal on the envelope.

  Ethan shook his head as he resumed his seat. He placed the telegram on the desk and lifted his teacup, cradling it in two hands. “One can only assume it’s something urgent. Something that couldn’t wait for a letter.”

  “So urgent the Western Union office deemed it prudent to deliver it tonight, rather than waiting till morning?”

  He merely shrugged. Moments later, Olivia Riley came through the doorway alone. She had apparently been readying herself for bed, as she wore a house robe buttoned up to her chin, and her bright golden hair fell in a tidy braid down her back. Trudy had apparently returned to the kitchen, no doubt summoned back to work by the cook. There would be the dinner dishes and pots and pans to scrub. I was certain the girl must be sorely disappointed not to be able to discover the reason for Miss Riley’s telegram.

  “Trudy says there’s a message for me, sir?” She cast her glance at Ethan, and then lower, to the small envelope with the Western Union globe insignia on the desk in front of him. Her lower lip slipped between her teeth. “I haven’t finished with your coat yet, but it should be good as new, sir.”

  “Thank you, Olivia.”

  She hesitated again, this time with a question in her gaze.

  Ethan swallowed another draft of tea and came to his feet. He held out the telegram to her. “We’ll give you some privacy.”

  He and I left the room and closed the door behind us, but for a gap of an inch or two. We heard a gasp, and then Miss Riley opened the door and stepped out. She bore a feverish glow to her cheeks, and her eyes shone brightly. The telegram had been reduced to a crumpled ball in her fist. “Thank you, sir. Mrs. Peake is still up, isn’t she?”

  “I don’t believe she’s turned in yet,” Ethan replied. “Not bad news, I hope?”

  She didn’t answer the question. “If you’ll excuse me, sir.” She spared a glance in my direction as she bobbed a wobbly curtsey. “Miss.”

  She hurried along the corridor, stopping to glance into the room I remembered to be the housekeeper’s parlor. Apparently finding it empty, she turned into the kitchen. Ethan and I hovered outside his pantry, but at the sound of voices in the kitchen I slipped several paces in that direction and paused to listen.

  I heard Mrs. Peake’s voice, and then Olivia’s. “Please, ma’am, may I speak with you. It’s . . . er . . . a private matter.”

  Their approaching footsteps sent me rushing back toward Ethan. I made it to him, and the two of us dashed into his pantry just as Miss Riley and Mrs. Peake crossed the corridor into her parlor. I moved to tiptoe in their direction once again, but Ethan stopped me with a hand on my forearm. He removed it just as quickly.

  “Forgive me, Miss Cross. But there’s no need to eavesdrop. Remember, Mrs. Peake knows who I am and my purpose for being here. I’ll simply ask her what Olivia wants.”

  “Do you suppose she’ll be willing to tell you? She might not consider the matter as having anything to do with Baldwin’s murder.”

  “But she knows I’m here to scrutinize the servants. An urgent telegram at night certainly falls into the category of something that needs to be scrutinized.”

  * * *

  True to his word, Ethan telephoned me first thing in the morning. “Mrs. Peake was all too eager to accommodate my request,” he said over a crackling connection. From where I stood in the alcove beneath the staircase, I could not see outside, but an earlier peek out my bedroom window at the calm sea had assured me the day would be a temperate one. “She says there’s something about Olivia that doesn’t sit quite well with her. At any rate, Olivia asked for a few hours off today, as soon as she’s completed her morning chores. She was up extra early to start them.”

  Because of our tenuous connection, likely to be severed by the next gust of wind, I spoke loudly and clearly into the telephone’s ebony mouthpiece. “Did she give a reason why she needed the time off?”

  “An ill family member. Which explains her frequent communications, both the wires and the letters.”

  “Who is this family member?” I wished to know.

  “She told Mrs. Peake an elderly aunt. Olivia must be supporting her with a portion of her wages.”

  That made sense, but why the secrecy? Olivia might be very close to this aunt. Indeed, the aunt might be a surrogate mother to Olivia, even as Nanny was a surrogate grandmother to me. Should any harm or illness ever befall Nanny, I would be beside myself. But why didn’t this aunt live closer to Olivia? The need for a telegram suggested she lived somewhere off island, as did the fact that Olivia didn’t go to her last night. Surely there were houses in need of maids, or even factories in need of female workers, closer to where the aunt resided. Or the aunt might have relocated to Newport or Middletown. And why did Olivia neglect to answer Ethan’s question of whether she had received bad news, and tell Mrs. Peake she had a private matter to discuss?

  I made a decision and spoke into the receiver. “Ethan, I’m going to follow her and see where she goes today.”

  “Miss Cross, she might see you.”

  “I’ll have to take that chance. Or I could confront her. If she wishes to get where she’s going, she might simply have to tell the truth about it. Olivia is hiding something and we need to find out what it is. Is she still working?”

  “She is, and then she’ll have to change her clothes before she leaves.”

  “Good. Has she arranged transportation anywhere?”

  “Not that I know of. She hasn’t asked to use my telephone.”

  “That means she’ll probably be taking the trolley into town, and from there . . .” I thought a moment and came up with the likely answer. “The train depot or the ferry.” I explained my reasons for believing Olivia planned to leave the island. “Either way, she’ll have to pass through Long Wharf.”

  We made our plan. Then I hung up and cranked the telephone again. As I expected, Gayla came back on the line. I asked her to put me through to Derrick’s apartment on the Point. She made a little whistle, which I ignored. Gayla might think what she liked about Derrick and me, and she might not be far wrong.

  Derrick answered the call sounding alert and eager to start his day. He sounded even more lively when he recognized my voice. I couldn’t help chuckling at the contrast between telephoning him and telephoning my brother. At this hour of the morning, Brady was typically groggy and grumpy. I explained my plan, and he agreed to wait for me at Long Wharf.

  I made one more call to the Messenger. Unlike Derrick, Jacob answered in a tetchy manner, which became more barbed when I explained I wouldn’t be coming in until much later in the day, if at all. I couldn’t give him an exact time because I had no idea where I might be going.

  “Is this about the Baldwin story?” he demanded rather than asked.

  “It might be, or it might be a wild-goose chase,” I told him frankly.

  “I thought the story was supposed to be mi
ne. Instead, you’ve got Ethan at Kingscote—”

  “You had already gone to Kingscote and interviewed some of the servants. We couldn’t place you there as temporary butler.”

  “And now you’re chasing after a suspect,” he continued, apparently not mollified. “And I’m here, twiddling my thumbs.”

  An apology formed on my tongue, but I held it in check. It wouldn’t have helped. If Jacob Stodges wished to delve into this story, or any story, I had no intention of holding him back. In fact, an idea came to me.

  “Meet Mr. Andrews and me at Long Wharf. There is a nine o’clock train, and a nine-fifteen ferry today. I’m fairly certain we want either of those.” Jacob began to question me, but I cut him off. “I can’t tell you exactly, but be at the wharf before nine and wait with Mr. Andrews near the trolley stop. But not at the trolley stop. Wear your hat low and don’t bring attention to yourself. Oh, and Jacob?” I waited for him to respond with a questioning grunt. “Let everyone at the Messenger know they’re on their own today, and that Dan Carter is in charge.”

  A quarter hour later, I drove my buggy past Kingscote, Katie sitting at my side. We both wore wide-brimmed hats tilted low over one side of our faces. Mine had a wide ribbon that tied beneath my chin and did a good job of obscuring my cheeks and chin. Under the summer sun, I would be hot in such a hat, but in the interest of not being recognized I would have to endure it.

  As we drove past the house, we saw Ethan standing on the side piazza that faced Bellevue Avenue. This, too, had been prearranged. When he spotted us, he waved a square of green fabric as if shaking the dust out of it. It meant Olivia Riley hadn’t left the house yet. Good. Hoping I was right, Katie and I continued to the corner of Bellevue Avenue and Bath Road, where I alighted from the carriage. Katie turned onto Bath Road and headed west to Thames Street, where she would double back around to Bellevue, but farther south, past Kingscote. She would drive the vehicle home alone.

  I, meanwhile, slipped into one of the shops lining the façade of the Newport Casino. This one sold fine ladies hats, gloves, scarves, and handbags. I pretended to browse, but I stayed close to the window where I could monitor those walking down the street. I hadn’t long to wait, as within minutes a young woman with blond hair tucked up beneath a slouching felt hat proceeded along the walkway with a determined stride. A minute or two after that, the trolley clanged along on its rails and came to a stop at the corner.

  “May I help you, miss?” The shop girl who approached me looked dubious, but inquired in a polite tone.

  I shook my head. “Thank you, no. Perhaps I’ll return later.” With that, I hurried out the door and blended into the small crowd of people both disembarking and stepping up into the trolley. Olivia Riley found a seat near the front. I stood holding on to a pole at the back. She didn’t see me, but to be sure I faced backward and only peered at her over my shoulder when the trolley made its stops along the route to Long Wharf.

  But I wondered, might she alight at Washington Square and instead catch the trolley that traveled up Broadway? If so, I’d have to remain where I was, and Derrick and Jacob would wait for me—and Miss Riley—in vain.

  * * *

  My instincts proved correct. Miss Riley alighted at Long Wharf and from there boarded the northbound train. Derrick, Jacob, and I held back until we saw her select a seat in the third class car through the train windows. Then, separately, we boarded. Derrick went in through the first class car, though he planned to enter the third class car later. It was likely she had never seen him before. With my hat pulled low I found a seat several rows behind Miss Riley. Jacob disappeared into yet another car. He would keep watch out the windows at every stop, ready to jump off should Miss Riley disembark.

  I didn’t think she would—at least, not until we’d left Aquidneck Island. We traveled along the water’s edge through Middletown and the farmland of Portsmouth, before the tracks curved hard to the east at the upper tip of the island and then down a few miles along the eastern coast. The train slowed for one last stop in Portsmouth. I tensed, watching Miss Riley’s back from beneath my hat brim. She didn’t move, other than to turn her head to peer out the window. I relaxed momentarily.

  The train lurched into motion and slowly chugged out of the station, never quite resuming its former speed as it again turned, this time onto the bridge that spanned the Sakonnet River. White sails flashed in the sun to either side of the train. Barges, conveyed by much smaller tugboats, fanned their wide, shallow wake out behind them as they meandered along the channels. Out my window I studied the new rail bridge being constructed, with its skeletal arm that would swing open to the side to allow for the easy passage of boats. The very notion of such an engineering feat fascinated me, and I pledged to return once the bridge opened to watch its mechanical precision. Miss Riley, too, appeared arrested by the sight of all those crisscrossing steel beams taking shape over the water.

  We reached the opposite shore within minutes and entered the town of Tiverton, Rhode Island. A seaside hamlet greeted us: clapboard homes and businesses, stone walls, a tall-steepled church. Miss Riley made no move to leave the train at the first stop, but remained settled in as the train resumed its coastal trek, this time along the western shore of the mainland. How far north would she go? She had asked for only a few hours off from her duties. She could not be going much farther.

  Once again, my hunch proved correct. With each mile, houses grew smaller and closer together, and shared their narrow streets with shops and, farther along still, industry. The air inside the train grew thick with the odor of menhaden oil, the product of a fish by the same name, used for many purposes, women’s cosmetics among them. The sidewalks and front steps here were crowded with children running and playing, and with housewives bringing their babies out for air and trading gossip with one another. Young newsies selling papers and men and women of all ages cried out, hawking everything from flowers to fruit to fish fresh off the piers.

  Tiny white particles, like snowy gnats, sprinkled against my window. We had reached the textile district of North Tiverton, with its cotton mills that spilled over into neighboring Fall River. Again, Miss Riley made no move as the train reached its next stop.

  Finally, she gathered up her belongings: her drawstring handbag, shawl, and a basket covered with a faded, checkered piece of fabric. Holding on to the back of the seat, she rose unsteadily as the train waddled up beside the next platform. We had crossed over into Massachusetts. Were Jacob and Derrick ready to disembark? I peeked over my shoulder, surprised to see Derrick seated in the very last row. I hadn’t been aware of him entering the car. He winked at me but made no move to stand. Of Jacob I saw no sign. The train jolted to a stop, and a moment later a conductor opened the door from the outside.

  “Fall River,” he called out.

  Now began the tricky part of our plan: following Miss Riley without being spotted. I doubted a housemaid would hire a coach to continue her journey. She could, however, hop on a trolley. Our plan was for Derrick and me to follow her together. Jacob would trail on his own.

  We hadn’t planned for Miss Riley’s ability to slip so quickly into the crowded streets and virtually disappear. However much she claimed to have worked previously in New York, her knowledge of Fall River proved formidable. She had to have lived here for a significant amount of time, for all she had been hired by Mrs. King in New York. I searched the milling faces for Jacob and once again came up empty. Had he been able to follow our quarry?

  “Do you think she’s on to us?”

  I jumped at the deep tones of Derrick’s voice in my ear. But he was right; Miss Riley must have sensed something amiss, perhaps sensed my eyes on her back, though I doubted she knew who had followed her. “I don’t see Jacob anywhere. I’m hoping he was able to keep up with her.”

  “We’ll have to wait here for him to return, although we need to be somewhere discreet in case Miss Riley shows up before he does.” He scanned our surroundings with a wry look. “Not exactly th
e best part of town.”

  “No, but it’s daytime and these people are merely going about their business.” Still, I tightened my grip on my handbag, not wishing to be an easy target for pickpockets. “I’m famished. The ambience might not be what you’re used to, but I’m wagering we’ll find some excellent chowder and stuffed quahogs hereabouts.”

  “Ambience be damned.” With his lopsided grin, Derrick offered me his arm. We hadn’t far to go, and chose a small establishment whose front window overlooked the street in front of the train depot. If Jacob or Miss Riley returned, we’d see them.

  The pub boasted no luxuries. Wooden floors, wooden benches at scarred tables, a few grimy paintings on the walls, and a large pot-bellied stove in the center of the room to provide heat in the winter.

  Our meal came quickly, and Derrick rolled his eyes with delight as he forked a heaping mound of spicy breaded quahog right from its hand-sized shell for his first-ever taste. He moaned in appreciation. “Why have I never had this before?”

  “I don’t know. Perhaps because quahogs are best left to the peasants?” He laughed good-naturedly at my teasing and kept right on eating. I tasted a bite of my own, nodded in approval, and then turned my attention to my steaming crock of thick, creamy chowder. “Oh my. Nearly as good as Nanny’s. I told you we’d find a good lunch here.”

  “We hardly deserve it,” he said between forkfuls of quahog, “after the way we lost sight of Miss Riley. And we call ourselves journalists. We’ll never live this down.”

  “Thank goodness for Jacob. Let’s hope he stayed hot on her trail.”

  After that we kept our conversation light and avoided speculating on where Olivia Riley went. A sense of irony struck me about being in this place with Derrick, how a familiar and ordinary experience for me was for him quite novel; how our worlds differed so drastically. Our dissimilarities had the power to enhance our time together as we each introduced the other to unique circumstances, yet as I glanced around the admittedly dingy interior of the pub, I wondered if my world might gradually lose its appeal for him. If at some point he might recognize the often threadbare quality of ordinary life and turn away from it.