Murder at Kingscote Page 5

  “Ruts.” I pointed to the gravel. “If Philip had come barreling from the road onto the drive, the gravel should have been much more disturbed than it is. There’s nothing here to indicate his careening wildly out of control.”

  “Perhaps he didn’t careen. Maybe he rolled onto the property, and kept on rolling until he’d pinned his butler to the tree.”

  “Quite possible.” I studied the angle of the automobile. It wouldn’t have been a completely straight path from the driveway to where Baldwin had been pinned to the trunk, but given Philip’s inebriated state and the uneven ground, the vehicle easily could have listed off its course. Or had Philip veered off on purpose? Had he accelerated at the last minute? I leaned down to study the gravel more closely and wished it were daytime. Sunrise was still many hours away, and I’d learned from experience that the sooner evidence could be thoroughly examined, the better. As I straightened, I saw Jesse emerge from between the branches of the beech. “Let’s go hear what he has to say.”

  “I’m told the butler’s midsection is practically crushed.” Jesse turned to regard the rear end of the Hartley. “They’re much heavier than carriages, these automobiles.” He turned back to Derrick and me. “How long would you estimate between the time Philip arrived in the dining room and when you heard the coachman’s shouts?”

  Derrick held out a palm. “The coachman?”

  “John Donavan,” Jesse clarified. “It was he who alerted everyone, wasn’t it?”

  I peered up at Derrick. “It was about ten minutes, would you say?”

  “About that, yes,” he confirmed.

  Frowning, Jesse asked, “Do you remember hearing him arrive? The engine. Screeching tires. A thunk?”

  “The thunk of the Hartley hitting the tree?” Derrick shrugged. “I never heard a thing before Philip sang his way through the house. Emma?”

  “No, nor me, either. But you know how this fog muffles every sound.”

  Jesse breathed in deeply, then let it out in a rush. “So it’s altogether possible Philip drove onto the property, hit the butler, perhaps without even knowing it, considering he’d been drinking all day, and calmly went in to dinner.”

  “Might the vehicle have rolled on its own? Philip might have parked at an angle toward the tree and then neglected to set the brake,” I suggested. If so, the butler’s injuries would still have been Philip’s fault, but somehow this possibility seemed preferable to his drunkenly slamming into another man. The former was merely an oversight; the latter, an act of criminal recklessness.

  “Or is there a defect in the Hartley’s brake lines?” Like me, Derrick sounded hopeful. “Perhaps that first mishap at the parade wasn’t a coincidence, and none of this is Philip’s fault.”

  Jesse acknowledged this with a tilt of his head. “We’ll have a mechanic take a look at the vehicle tomorrow. In the meantime, why don’t you both go home? Emma, do you need a ride?”

  “No,” Derrick answered for me. His voice took on a slightly defensive note, or was it possessiveness? “Emma came with me. I’ll drive her back to Gull Manor.”

  I braced for the old rivalry between the two men. I’d known Jesse all my life and had thought of him as my father’s friend, albeit a much younger one—until a few years ago, when he suddenly exhibited an interest in me that exceeded that of a family friend. I realized then that he was closer in age to me than to either of my parents, and I came to view him in a new, and shall I say, handsomer light. At the same time, I met Derrick Andrews, scion of a Providence publishing family, and he had also expressed a desire to be more than friends.

  One man my social equal and a fellow Newporter; the other, a member of a society that would never accept me as good enough. His parents had certainly made that painfully clear. But Jesse and Derrick did more than pay casual court to me. At times they’d nearly come to blows, and had insisted I choose between them. Or no, to be fair, perhaps they didn’t insist; perhaps the insistence had been my own. Either way, I’d found myself unable to choose, wanting each man for different reasons, until some part of me that understood the truth, somewhere deep inside, did the choosing for me. And that choice had been Derrick, the man who sparked my passions, who inspired me sometimes to the brink of recklessness, who made me feel exuberant and wholly alive.

  And Jesse? He hadn’t suffered long. Though he’d taken his time in telling me about her, he’d found a courageous, spirited young woman of whom I fully approved. I’d have been a fool not to, as she had once saved my life. But that’s not the story I’m telling just now.

  If I’d feared Jesse’s reaction to Derrick’s possessiveness, it soon became apparent I needn’t have, for he grinned and nodded. “Good. See that she gets inside safely. Or you’ll answer to me.”

  * * *

  “There’s something for you here, Miss Emma.” Katie Dillon, my maid-of-all-work, strode briskly into the morning room carrying the usual stack of morning newspapers. Besides the Messenger, I also subscribed to the Newport Daily News, the Newport Observer, and the Providence Sun. I felt it important to stay abreast of what my competitors were printing.

  The young Irishwoman set the stack on the table beside my elbow and propped an envelope against my coffee cup.

  I raised it between two fingers. The inscription bore my name, but in no handwriting I recognized. “What’s this?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know, Miss Emma. It was on top of the rest. I can’t even tell you how it got there.” Bright red tendrils escaped Katie’s topknot to frame her curious face. Her cornflower-blue eyes practically begged me to open the missive. I did so at once.

  And frowned in perplexity.

  “What is it, Emma?” From across the table, Nanny lowered the book she’d been intent upon. “Not bad news, I hope. Or has it got to do with last night?”

  Upon arriving home last night, I’d invited Derrick in for a cup of tea, and the two of us had told Nanny and Katie all about the happenings at Kingscote. They had joined us in hoping Baldwin would recover, and that the Hartley Steamer had been at fault, not Philip King. Now, as I read the note, I wondered if more malevolent forces had been at work.

  “Listen to this. ‘Despite what the Kings think, all is not well with their servants. Baldwin got what he deserved.’” I looked up. “There’s no signature.”

  Nanny reached out a plump hand. “Let me see that.” When I handed it across to her, she smoothed the folds out flat and bent her face close to it. “It’s not a practiced hand, in my opinion. Not that of a formally-schooled person.” She held the paper up toward me and pointed to a line of words. “The script is neither the Spencer style nor the newer Palmer method. There’s very little uniformity in the shapes and slant of the letters, which to me suggests the writer didn’t learn his or her penmanship in a classroom. Probably schooled at home. It could even be from one of the Kings’ servants.”

  Katie had moved to look over Nanny’s shoulder, and she nodded at Nanny’s assessment. Nanny straightened and glanced up at her. “Have you heard anything about the goings-on at Kingscote?”

  “Nothin’, ma’am.” Katie’s brogue became more pronounced than usual. She had come to America from Ireland some six years ago and, at times, she sounded almost like the rest of us. Clearly Nanny’s question caught her off guard and made her uncomfortable.

  “Katie, if there’s anything,” I said, “it would be a good idea to tell us. Philip King is being held responsible for the butler’s injuries, though the police believe it was a reckless accident. If you have any other information . . .”

  “I don’t. At least nothing definite.” Katie pulled out a chair at the table and sank into it. She propped her chin on her hands. “You know the Kings release most of their servants every year when they leave Newport for the winter, and hire new each spring.”

  I nodded. The Kings’ system wasn’t typical of the Four Hundred. Most took their servants to their other estates when they left Newport, leaving a skeleton staff here to keep their summer cottages s
ecure during the winter months. But the Kings had no other estates. When they left the island, it was to travel to Europe, where they rented lodgings in whatever country they inhabited. With Kingscote not being quite as large as some of the other cottages, Mrs. King hired a local caretaker to watch over the property in her absence, and her longtime groom stayed to care for the horses. The housekeeper, who had also been in her service many years, traveled with her.

  “Well,” Katie said, “there have been some whispers that the butler has a bit of a checkered past.”

  “What does that mean?” I asked her.

  “That’s just it. I don’t know. But I have heard he has an eye for the ladies. The young ones, if you catch my meaning, Miss Emma.”

  I shook my head in disgust. “I do. And that could very well be what this note is getting at. But who wrote it? One of Kingscote’s own servants, or someone who worked with Baldwin in the past?” I regarded Katie again. “Have you heard anything about where he worked before he came to Newport?”

  “Somewhere in New York, is all I’ve heard.” She shrugged. “Mrs. King should know, shouldn’t she?”

  “If Mr. Baldwin told the truth,” I said. “References can be forged, which he might have done if he’d had troubles at his last post.”

  “I can probably find out.” Nanny studied the note again. “I’ll make inquiries.”

  Yes, Nanny had access to information denied the rest of us. Though I thought of her more as a grandmother and dear friend, society would have termed her a servant. No one knew more about the goings-on in the great houses than the servants who worked in them, and their connections to one another stretched from region to region, from New England to New York City, to Long Island, and beyond. Nanny had only to make a few telephone calls to set that informative network abuzz; she’d probably have answers by the end of the week.

  After breakfast I drove my buggy into town, to the diminutive offices of the Messenger. Another thing I had done last night was telephone our news reporter, Jacob Stodges, and give him the details of the accident. When I’d first taken the position of editor-in-chief of the Messenger, we’d had tensions between us, Jacob and I. I had been largely to blame, though it had taken me some time to admit this. My tendency had been to run with a story rather than assign it to Jacob, and he had been justified in resenting me for it. I loved reporting; my goal had long been to become a hard-news reporter, and someday I would make that goal a reality. But I’d taken the position as editor-in-chief when Derrick offered it, and my first responsibility was to him, our readers, and to the smooth operation of the business.

  When I arrived, I discovered Jacob had gone to Kingscote to learn if there had been any further developments, and to try to speak with Philip King. I doubted he’d meet with success in the latter case, but I’d give him credit for trying. In the meantime, I’d brought the anonymous note with me, intending to bring it to the police station at the first opportunity. Jesse’s midmorning appearance in my front office made that unnecessary.

  “I’ve just come from the mechanic,” he said after he’d greeted me and I’d offered him a cup of our typically bitter coffee. “The motorcar is sound. There is nothing wrong with the brake system. Which means responsibility rests firmly on Philip King’s shoulders.”

  “Perhaps not.” I handed him the note. “This was waiting for me on top of our morning newspapers.”

  Jesse unfolded it and read the brief contents, then looked sharply up at me. “How did I know things wouldn’t be simple?”

  “Because they never are,” I reminded him.

  “This note could be someone’s idea of a prank, a deplorable one. Or one of Philip’s own friends attempting to exonerate him. Who was supposed to accompany him to Kingscote last night?”

  “His mother spoke of a Francis.” After finding Baldwin beneath the beech tree, I’d all but forgotten the exchange between Philip and Gwendolen concerning this Francis Crane. Philip seemed to believe his sister harbored romantic sentiments toward the young man, or was it the other way around? Difficult to tell, for Gwendolen’s fierce denial could just as easily have stemmed from aversion to Francis Crane as from a desperate attempt to keep her attraction a secret from the rest of us seated around the table.

  “Ah, yes. Crane. Francis Crane. Family’s in coal. New money.” Jesse’s eyebrows rose speculatively. “Came down from Providence at the start of the summer, and he and Philip King are often seen together about town. Maybe he sent the note. A good friend would not want to see his chum in legal difficulties.”

  “Look at the handwriting. Nanny judged it to belong to someone who isn’t well schooled, at least not as members of the Four Hundred are. If Francis Crane comes from money, new or otherwise, he would certainly have attended some of the best schools.” Jesse gazed down at the paper again, nodding vaguely. “Besides,” I went on, “even Katie has heard rumors about Isaiah Baldwin. Nanny’s looking into where he worked before coming to Kingscote.”

  He shot me a look of comprehension. “I’ll ask Mrs. King, of course, but yes, have Nanny make her inquiries.” He stared down at the note again and rubbed his temple with the back of his hand. “Motive, shed directly onto Kingscote’s servants.”

  “So then . . . possibly an attempted murder.”

  Chapter 4

  Jesse left the Messenger and set out for Kingscote. Several minutes later, Jacob Stodges returned from that very same house. “Did you learn anything?” I asked him as soon as he’d walked through the door. “Were you able to speak with Philip King?”

  “I was, actually.” Before answering further, he dragged the rolling chair from the other desk—the one that had been vacant ever since I’d ordered Jimmy Hawkins to leave and never return—closer to my own. “Philip swears he didn’t run into the butler last night. When I suggested he might have forgotten given the state he was in, he said drunk or not, he’d damned well know whether he rammed a person against a tree, and that only an idiot would make such a preposterous suggestion.”

  Jacob didn’t apologize for swearing, nor did I require him to. I had entered a man’s world in taking this position, and I certainly wasn’t going to blanch at its occasional lack of refinement. I leaned back in my desk chair, swiveling it slightly side to side. “I suppose a person would have to be blind drunk not to realize they’d just driven into someone else. And Philip didn’t strike me as quite that indisposed. So either he isn’t responsible at all, or he did it, knows he did it, and is lying.”

  “I’m inclined to believe he’s lying,” Jacob said without hesitation. “You know how these cottagers are. Think they can get away with anything.”

  “That isn’t always true.” I ignored his cynical look. “Besides, I received a note this morning at home. I’ve given it to Detective Whyte, but it basically said Baldwin hadn’t been a fair man to work under, and that he got what was coming to him.”

  Jacob whistled under his breath. “I wish you still had that note.”

  “Jesse’s at Kingscote now with it, interviewing the servants. Did you talk to any of them?”

  “Mrs. King gave orders not to let me in the house,” Jacob began, and I cut him off.

  “Then how did you manage to speak with Philip?”

  “Found him outside, with a friend. Playing badminton, of all things.”

  At the thought of Philip King enjoying himself today I very nearly swore myself. I narrowed my eyes. “Was this friend Francis Crane, by any chance?”

  “The same. Why?”

  I shook my head. “He was supposed to accompany Philip to dinner last night, but made other plans. I suppose it’s not important. What about the servants?”

  “I spoke with two of them. There was a maid hanging up laundry. A pretty Irish girl, name of Olivia Riley.” He pulled his notepad out of his pocket and appeared to check his information. With a nod, he went on. “This Miss Riley was hired in June and said so far she’d been content with the position. Said it was a fair place to work and the Kings treated ever
yone well enough. Feels awful about what happened to the butler. Said she hopes he’s back at work soon.”

  “And she didn’t indicate any problems with him? Not even in her tone or perhaps a stray frown?”

  “No, and I would have noticed otherwise.” He became rather defensive as he said this. I held up a hand.

  “I believe you. But mightn’t a woman who had just rolled an automobile onto her superior put on a cheerful face and pretend all had been well prior to the incident?”

  “Fair point. Not to mention that in her line of work, she’d have the strength to do it.”

  “Undoubtedly. Did you speak with anyone else?”

  “Yes, the coachman who first found Baldwin. That is, I did until a footman spotted us. He ordered Donavan back to the carriage house and me off the property. Before he did, though, I asked Donavan what he was doing at the front of the property last night. He said he was smoking a cigarette, that he often strolls the property at night.”

  I thought about that a moment. “If he was already outside, he might have heard something. Did you ask him that?”

  He gave me a withering look. “Of course I asked him. That was when the footman broke up our little tête-à-tête.”

  “Then we can only hope Jesse gets an answer. Mrs. King can’t have her footmen chase him off.”

  “Going back to Francis Crane for a moment. A time or two, I sensed he was about to say something, but held back. Possibly because whatever it was, he didn’t wish to say it in front of Philip King.”

  This surprised me, and I wondered what Mr. Crane might have to say. An instinct of long habit rose up; I longed to question Francis Crane myself. But I’d given the story to Jacob. Going back on my word would erode much of the progress we had made as colleagues over the past several months. With an inner sigh, I said, “I wonder, Jacob, if you might track down Mr. Crane when he isn’t with his friend and see if he won’t talk to you.”

  “I believe I could manage that,” he said with a grin that left no doubt in the matter.