Murder at Kingscote Page 6

  * * *

  By late that afternoon fatigue clutched at my shoulders. I prepared to leave the office and set out for home, but I would be delayed. Jesse returned to discuss his time at Kingscote earlier.

  “Have you finished here for the day?” he asked upon entering the front office. When I said I had, he made himself comfortable in the extra desk chair. I removed my hat and gloves and resumed my own seat. “According to Mrs. King,” he said, “Isaiah Baldwin last worked in a house just to the north of Cranston. The Hill family. Owned a jewelry factory—enamel, paste, that sort of thing—until about three years ago, when they sold off their inventory and equipment and shut down. According to the information Mrs. King has, they sold the house last winter and are now living in the South of France. Baldwin had accompanied the family to New York to help see them off, and then began applying for new positions.”

  “Convenient, isn’t it, that his last employers are out of the country and for the most part, can’t be contacted. No way to verify whether this reference is legitimate or not, at least not in a timely manner.”

  Jesse raised an eyebrow and nodded. “Which leaves it to Nanny to find out the truth, unless the man miraculously awakens and is able to speak to us.”

  “Is there much chance of that?”

  “It doesn’t sound good, from what the hospital shared with me this morning. He remains in grave condition. This could, at any moment, become a murder investigation.” Jesse stared down at his hands a moment, then looked up. “In the meantime, I’ve talked to the Kingscote servants. From what each staff member had to say, one can only conclude they’re the happiest group of servants that ever lived. All eight of them.”

  “All?” The claim made me incredulous. “That’s so rare as to be impossible.”

  “I couldn’t agree more. Either they’re afraid complaining will lead to the loss of their jobs, or they’re adhering to that ridiculous code of servants handling their problems among themselves, without outside help.”

  “Either way, can you blame them? Servants aren’t typically afforded the benefit of the doubt,” I reminded him. “You say there are eight of them altogether?”

  “Besides Baldwin, yes. Two footmen, the coachman and groom, the housekeeper, housemaid, the cook and her assistant. The gardener is a local man who comes weekly. Any others the household might need are hired for specific occasions. There were no extras there last night.”

  “Eight servants,” I pondered, thinking again about this morning’s note. “And of those, are there any who can’t account for their time last night? For instance, I’d find it difficult to believe either of the footmen could have found the time to commit murder.”

  “They’re in the clear,” Jesse confirmed. “The cook and her assistant as well, as they never left the kitchen, which the housekeeper verified, just as they verified that she was in her parlor all night going over the inventory books. They can see her there from the kitchen.”

  “And Donavan, the coachman?”

  Jesse gave a thoughtful nod. “Yes, the individual who was conveniently outside at just the right moment last night, yet who didn’t see what happened.”

  “He told Jacob he went out for a cigarette.”

  “He repeated the same to me. And the end of a cigarette was found in the grass near the beech tree, so it was probably Donavan’s. But there’s no one to corroborate that all he did was smoke a cigarette. Did he find the injured butler after the fact, or did he do it? And as for the housemaid, she was off for the night, but at the house, supposedly in her room. None of the others can verify her whereabouts. They were either in or near the kitchen, outside, or, in the groom’s case, off the property visiting family in Middletown.”

  “Can you verify when he left and returned?”

  “My men have talked to his parents, a brother, and several of their neighbors. He spent the night and returned to Kingscote in the morning, early.”

  That seemed to exonerate the groom. My thoughts drifted back to the scene beneath the beech tree. “I wish we knew why Baldwin went outside.”

  “We didn’t find another cigarette stub, so that’s unlikely. He might simply have gone out for a breath of air.”

  “During dinner? It seems so unlikely, not when he knew he’d be needed. Although, that cigarette could have been his and not Donavan’s.” My mind wandered back to the previous summer, and to another man who had been in the wrong place on the grounds of a mansion when he shouldn’t have. It hadn’t ended well for him, and it had taken much searching to discover his reason for being outside at the time . . .

  “Are you having one of your hunches?” Jesse wanted to know.

  “No, I was thinking about that night at Crossways last summer. But that was another matter and nothing to do with the present.” My eyebrows went up as I tallied up the possible suspects for this crime. “If it wasn’t Philip in the driver’s seat, it looks to be either Donavan or this maid—Miss Riley?”

  Jesse nodded at the name. “Yes, Olivia. But would a woman, a maid, have the knowledge to operate a motor vehicle? Starting those steamers isn’t easy. It practically takes an engineer.”

  “The Hartley might simply have been pushed. All someone would need to do is release the brake and give a good shove.” My features tightened as I tried to recall the details of the previous night. “Isn’t there a downward slope from the driveway onto the lawn and to the tree?”

  “Not much of one, but enough to aid in setting the vehicle rolling, I suppose.”

  “And don’t forget how foggy it was. Someone might have stolen quietly to the car without Baldwin noticing until it was too late.”

  Jesse nodded his concurrence. “The thing is, anyone might have crept onto the grounds and done the deed. I can’t only focus on the servants.”

  Jesse spoke the truth, but Baldwin hadn’t been in Newport very long, only a few months. Not long enough to have made many enemies among the locals. Had someone followed him here from his last posting? Learning more about his background was essential to discovering who carried enough of a grudge to pin the man up against a tree.

  “Where were most of the servants hired?” I asked.

  “In New York, when Mrs. King returned from Europe. Everyone but the housekeeper and the groom. They’ve been with her for years now.”

  Which meant none of the rest of them had established any particular loyalty to Mrs. King or her family. Or to each other.

  Early that next morning, I received a telephone call from Newport Hospital.

  “Emma, it’s Hannah.” Hannah Hanson had grown up near me on Easton’s Point. She worked as a nurse at the hospital, and what’s more, my half brother, Brady, was sweet on her—a circumstance of which I thoroughly approved. At the grim sound of her voice, a chill traveled up my spine. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but he died. His spleen ruptured.”

  She didn’t need to tell me to whom she referred. It came as no surprise, given Isaiah Baldwin’s injuries, but hearing of someone’s death, and understanding all it would mean to those involved, knocked some of the wind out of me. “I’m sorry to hear this, Hannah.”

  “Do you understand what it signifies?” Without waiting for me to respond, she elaborated. “To rupture his spleen like that, it means the vehicle didn’t simply roll into him. It had to have been driven or pushed, forcefully.”

  I gripped the wire to the ear trumpet and leaned against the wall beside me. “Jesse was already braced for a possible murder investigation. He’s got one now.”

  “There’s more. There’s trouble in town, and now that Mr. Baldwin has died, I’m afraid that trouble could become violent.”

  “What do you mean? What’s happened?”

  “Do you even have to ask?” I heard the faintest impatience over the wire. “A man is dead, a workingman. The townspeople are demanding to know why no one is being held accountable. Why Philip King hasn’t been arrested.”

  “But we don’t know for certain that Philip King is responsib
le.”

  “Perhaps not, but in the minds of most Newporters he is, and he’s being let off because of his family’s money.”

  Sudden indignation had me standing up straighter, away from the wall. “If Jesse determines that Philip is responsible, he will take the necessary steps to see him charged.”

  “You and I know he’ll try, Emma, but we also know his superiors have the final say, and if they decide to let Philip King go, Jesse will have no choice.”

  I couldn’t argue the point. I’d seen it time and time again. The Four Hundred had the money to influence not only the local police, but policy makers from mayors to governors to the president of the United States.

  But then I considered the present circumstances. Ella King didn’t strike me as a woman who coddled her son or bowed to his whims. Then again, she had never before faced the prospect of her child being accused of murder. Even if she personally couldn’t afford to sway legal opinions, she had connections to plenty of those who could.

  “Tell me what’s been happening,” I said into the receiver.

  “I passed by the police station on the way here to the hospital a little while ago. There was a group of men outside, shouting for justice for Isaiah Baldwin and chanting that Philip King should be behind bars.”

  “Has word spread yet of his death?”

  “No, it happened right before I telephoned. The police have already been notified, though, so Jesse will know by now.”

  I felt a sudden fear for my friend. Would Jesse attempt to reason with the disgruntled crowd outside the police station? Would those men take out their frustrations on him, perhaps with violence? How badly might matters escalate, especially if there was no arrest?

  “Emma, I have to go back to work. I just wanted to let you know what was happening.”

  “I appreciate it, Hannah, thank you. As soon as Brady gets into town, you’re both invited here for supper.” After we hung up, I made two more telephone calls. One was to the Messenger. Jacob Stodges didn’t have a telephone at home, but I knew he’d be at work within the half hour. I left a message with Dan Carter, the newspaper’s head press operator, who came in before dawn every day to prime the press for the morning’s first run. I asked him to let Jacob know about Isaiah Baldwin’s death and the unrest at the police station. Next, I telephoned Derrick.

  “Can you meet me in town?”

  I heard a faint yawn. “Of course. Has something happened?”

  I related my conversation with Hannah. Then I said, “I’ll leave my carriage at the livery and take the trolley over to the hospital. Can you meet me there?”

  “Better still, I’ll meet you on the trolley.”

  * * *

  Derrick was as good as his word and hopped on the electric rail trolley at the Washington Square stop. We rode up Broadway and minutes later arrived at Friendship Street. Apparently, word of Isaiah Baldwin’s death had gotten out, for the unrest had spread here from the police station. A small crowd of about a dozen men and women milled on the corner outside the hospital, a two-story cottage that had once been a private home. Their simple, durable attire identified them as local people, Islanders, and what they lacked in numbers they made up for in vehemence. Their shouts reached us before we stepped off the trolley, and the tensions they generated reached out to tie a knot in my stomach.

  Derrick’s hand came down on my forearm as I reached for the handrail to step down. “Maybe we shouldn’t stop here.”

  “I wish to know if the doctors have discovered anything else about Baldwin’s death, and also what these people want. I sent Jacob over to the police station. That leaves me to observe events here.”

  He nodded in resignation, as we both knew he would. Of course he’d had to try to dissuade me, even if only for appearance’s sake. But he’d long ago accepted my driven nature—or stubbornness, as most people might call it.

  We stepped down from the trolley and several words I wouldn’t care to repeat reached my ears. Derrick and I exchanged startled looks, which turned to alarm as we each realized, simultaneously, that the crowd had formed a circle and was now closing in on some unfortunate individual who had become their target.

  A few stragglers skirted the activity. They held notepads, I realized, and I recognized one of them. Ed Billings, the paunch-bellied, slouch-shouldered reporter for the Newport Observer. Until two years ago I had been the Observer’s society columnist, and Ed and I had frequently butted heads. Somehow, he had rarely been on hand during most of Newport’s more dangerous crises, yet he’d been all too happy to use my notes and attach his name to the resulting article. And all with our editor-in-chief’s blessing. I tried to catch Ed’s eye, and I believed he saw me but glanced quickly away.

  Meanwhile, Derrick rushed forward, and I followed close behind. Through the circle of bodies I made out a pair of broad shoulders encased in tailored cream flannel. Whoever had been cornered was not one of these people, not a local. A disquieting thought struck me. Could it be Philip King? A thud sounded, and a grunt, followed by more. Derrick, at least half a head taller than most of the other men, forced his way through, and as a collective growl went through the crowd, I worried for him, too.

  And not without cause.

  “Leave this man alone.” Derrick grabbed at a flailing fist, halting it in midair. The young man in question stood shielding his face with one arm, the other hand catching the blood that trickled from his nose. “You’re behaving like a bunch of lunatics. If you don’t disperse immediately, we’ll send for the police.”

  “Good, send for them. Philip King needs to pay for his crime!”

  “That’s for the police to decide,” Derrick countered in his baritone.

  “Mind your business, you don’t belong here.” Several people intoned this, while others nodded vigorously.

  “You’re the problem,” a man shouted. “You and him and all o’ your kind.”

  “Get off our island.” A fist shook in the air. “You’re not welcome.”

  The scene reminded me of one last year, when a riot nearly broke out between gas and electrical workers at the construction site of The Elms. Now, seeing Derrick threatened, a ball of panic clogged my throat, and I thrust forward, my arms out, my voice loud. “Stop this. You’re all acting like children. What’s gotten into you?”

  They were so riled up, I’ll never understand how I caught their attention. But almost as one they turned to stare at me, their gazes swimming with hostility. I resisted the urge to gulp. Began to regret my interference. Then one of the women spoke.

  “And who are you to—” Her anger flitted away. She looked uncertain, then embarrassed. “Oh. It’s Emma Cross.” She half turned to address the others. “Arthur and Beatrice Cross’s daughter.” She turned back to me. “I went to school with your mama. I’m Evelyn Chambers.”

  For an instant I thought to plunk my hands on my hips and remind her of the folly of revealing her name to a journalist, but realized that would not have helped matters. Instead, I tamped down my own anger and summoned civility. “Yes, I remember. It’s nice to see you, Mrs. Chambers.” It wasn’t, not under these circumstances, but why point out the obvious? I ventured closer to the group, now much more subdued than previously. Somehow I’d managed to break the thrall that had held them, and they became downright docile.

  “What’s happening here?” I made my way through the loosening circle to discover, not Philip King at its center, but another young man I didn’t recognize. Not a member of the Four Hundred who summered yearly in Newport.

  But his identity wasn’t imperative at the moment. His clothing was rumpled and blood oozed from his nose.

  “We need to get him inside,” Derrick said, and aimed a warning glare at the others. They looked away and began to disperse. Derrick addressed their victim. “Can you walk, or do you need my help?”

  “I can walk,” the youth said, for a youth he obviously was, now that I saw him clearly. He had light brown hair, tipped bronze by the summer sun, and nice,
even features unmarred by wrinkles, though he was not classically handsome. Pleasant and friendly looking, would sum up his appearance, but for the dripping blood and his affronted scowl. He took a handkerchief from his inner coat pocket and held it to his nose.

  The reporters, too, eased away from us, but I forced Ed Billings to stop and turn to me by calling out his name. I left the young man’s side for a moment. “Did you not think to help him,” I demanded of Ed in a fierce whisper. “You and the rest of your cronies here?”

  His lips curled downward in a show of disdain. “A good reporter observes, Emma. He doesn’t interfere.”

  A single word reverberated in my mind: coward. But I didn’t say it. I merely shook my head, spun on my heel, and returned to Derrick and the young man.

  “Why did they think you were Philip King?” I asked him as we made our way inside.

  “I don’t know that they did,” he replied. “I think they’d have gone after anyone in a tailored suit of clothes.” He flicked a glance at Derrick, who stood several inches taller. “Although not you, apparently. Nor you either, ma’am. I don’t know what kind of power you hold around here, but I’m beholden to you both for coming to my rescue.”

  “You’re very welcome. And we have no special power. I grew up in Newport, and this gentleman owns a local newspaper. In this town, everyone knows everyone. As soon as they recognized me it was like seeing a member of their own family and they became ashamed of their actions. I’m Emma Cross, by the way, and this is Derrick Andrews.”

  “Pleased to meet you both. I’m Francis Crane.”

  Chapter 5

  “If you don’t mind my asking, Mr. Crane, why did you come down here today?” I hoped he didn’t find my question impertinent, but his presence at the hospital this morning piqued my curiosity.

  He had been seen by a doctor, who had stemmed the bleeding from his nose and pronounced him in otherwise sound health. When asked if he wished to press charges, he’d waved the notion off. I’d thought it more than sporting of him. Now he, Derrick, and I occupied the tiny waiting room, once a receiving parlor on the cottage’s first floor. We were waiting for Hannah to come and tell us any new information she had about Isaiah Baldwin’s death.