Murder at Beechwood Read online

  I couldn’t help feeling I’d failed him, that I’d go on failing him. Marianne had added no insights from the other maids. I had learned nothing tonight but that strife existed in the Monroe family, just as it did in countless other families. True, there had been the lace trimming Daphne Gordon’s purse, but hadn’t she told me Mr. Monroe brought back bolts of the stuff? Which meant any lady of means might have obtained some by now.

  That wasn’t all that troubled me. How different Derrick had been—a stranger. And his mother couldn’t have made her sentiments any clearer. I was not for her son . . . and it would appear that, last summer notwithstanding, he agreed. Those reflections depressed me further, and rather than wallow I pushed my personal concerns aside and returned to contemplating the link between the Monroe and the Andrews families.

  Instinct urged me to explore that link further, as well as discover what was making Daphne Gordon so unhappy. Two unhappy women—Daphne and Judith Kingsley—both connected to Virgil Monroe. What did it mean? And how did Derrick fit into the mix? That last question again reminded me how little I knew of Derrick outside of his life in Newport—a life that hadn’t spanned much more than a couple of months in total.

  I rocked the baby gently, seeking comfort in those tiny, flawless cheeks, his softly rounded brow, his silky, wispy hair. As I inhaled that uniquely baby scent deep into my lungs, a near certainty—the night’s only certainty—burned a little hole through my heart. If I couldn’t find his family, he might live out his childhood in an orphanage.

  “No,” I whispered. “We will not let that happen.”

  “Emma . . . ?” Nanny stirred on the bed a few feet away. I might have known the slightest sound would wake her. “Is Robbie all right?”

  “Robbie?” The name sent a stab of warning through me.

  She sat up and reached for the spectacles on her bedside table. “Katie’s idea. Says it’s for her brother back in Ireland.”

  “Oh, Nanny, we shouldn’t be naming him. He’s not ours.”

  “We need to call him something. We can’t very well keep calling him the baby.” She flipped the covers back and swung around to sit on the edge of the bed. “Did you learn anything useful at the ball?”

  I shook my head. “This isn’t going to be easy.”

  “When is anything ever easy?”

  That made me laugh, a single breathy note in the darkness. Robbie’s hand found my braid hanging over my shoulder and tugged. Yes, despite my protest, he was already Robbie to me. Nanny was right—he needed a proper name. He wasn’t some inanimate object, however carelessly he had been left on my doorstep. He was a person, an individual, and deserved to be acknowledged as such. His name would likely change once he left us, but for now . . . Robbie he was.

  “How did he do while I was gone?”

  The moonlight outlined Nanny’s rounded cheek as she smiled. “Just fine. He’s such a good little fellow. Almost as if he knows he’s a guest and mustn’t make much fuss.”

  “That’s right,” I said, gently trying to untangle Robbie’s fingers from my plaited hair, “a guest. We all need to remember that.”

  She adeptly changed the subject. “Tell me what you observed tonight.”

  Once I had, she moved across the room to me and gathered Robbie from my arms. “Ask questions if you must, Emma, but stay away from Virgil Monroe. I remember him from years ago, before he married. A young hellion, he was. The type who takes what he wants and never pays the piper. There were even rumors about a young woman . . .”

  “He ruined her?”

  Nanny shrugged. “Nothing was ever proved. Whoever she was, she disappeared along with any family members who might have raised a complaint.”

  “Disappeared?”

  “He obviously paid them to go away.”

  “Oh, Nanny, what if Virgil Monroe hired that poor carriage driver to bring Robbie here and then murdered him to prevent him from telling anyone. What if Robbie is Daphne Gordon’s child?”

  She looked down at the baby. “Anything is possible. That’s why you need to be careful. Have you considered that Robbie—and all of us—might be better off if we never discover where he came from?”

  Chapter 6

  Early Wednesday morning I hastily scribbled an article for my society column. The details of America’s most illustrious names—Vanderbilt, Belmont, Fish, Forbes, Oelrichs, et cetera—along with the styling of gowns and jewels, the china and silver gracing Mrs. Astor’s table, and the many dishes served to her guests at the midnight supper, flowed from my hand almost by rote, from habit and experience much more than any effort of my mind. No, my thoughts remained tangled in the mystery of little Robbie, along with a strong premonition that kept leading me back to the Monroes. When the delivery boy came with our newspaper, I sent my article off with him and didn’t give it another thought.

  That afternoon I returned to Beechwood with my tablet and pencil, but this time dressed casually in a linen day dress meant for tennis, a hand-me-down from my cousin Gertrude.

  The rear lawns bustled with activity—badminton, tennis, bowls, and croquet. White and pink flowers on flowing green vines decorated the round tables lining the arched loggia that wrapped around the rear and south sides of the house, while down on the lawn, long rectangular buffet tables, shaded by bright-colored pavilions, held platters overflowing with glazed duck, roasted partridge, stewed pheasant, and seared fillets of beef; there were lobster tails and crab croquets, pickled oysters, buttery clams, and a multitude of refreshing summer salads. Some of the guests sat on the shaded loggia while others strolled as they nibbled from small plates. Footmen circulated with trays of champagne and colorful hors d’oeuvres.

  Nanny had warned me to steer clear of Virgil Monroe, and for now I wouldn’t have to worry about that. He, along with twenty of the other male guests, were down at the harbor, at the New York Yacht Club stationhouse. In about half an hour’s time they were to sail their vessels along the coast and hold a race some several hundred yards out from the cliffs behind the Beechwood property. It seemed Mrs. Astor had planned every entertainment possible for her guests.

  A weary-looking Daphne Monroe, her face shadowed by a wide straw hat pulled low over her brow, stepped into my view. She seemed listless, uninterested in the goings-on. Had she slept badly? Did worries keep her awake? “Miss Gordon, hello. How are you today? Feeling better than last night, I hope?”

  “Should I be?” She tersely excused herself and walked off.

  A shadow fell across the place where she had stood. “It seems my ward could benefit from a lesson in manners.”

  “Mrs. Monroe . . . I . . . good afternoon,” I stammered. Frankly, that the woman addressed me at all left me flustered. Despite my Vanderbilt relatives, most of the older guard—especially those allied socially with Mrs. Astor—considered me only slightly above the status of a servant.

  “Forgive her behavior, Miss Cross,” she said, surprising me further. “We’ve spoiled her. Not hard to do considering her history, but perhaps we didn’t do her any favors with our lenience.”

  “There is nothing to apologize for, Mrs. Monroe. I’m sure Miss Gordon doesn’t mean to give offense, and be assured there was none taken. How are you enjoying the festivities?” Becoming all business, I pulled my tablet from my purse and set my pencil to paper. I sent an admiring glance at her sapphire blue frock with its silver satin inset, scalloped hem, and Medici-style collar. The colors and cut flattered her build, making her appear more queenly than simply large. “Is that an Augustine Martin you’re wearing?”

  She looked impressed. “Yes, it is.”

  “Stunning . . .” I went on to ask her the usual questions about the weeks leading up to her arrival in Newport. She seemed only too gratified to supply me with details, though they did little to answer the real questions lurking in my mind.

  “Goodness, it’s hot out here.” She pulled a fan from her purse and snapped it open. With a start I recognized the lace pattern.

 
“That’s a lovely item.” I tried to sound impressed yet casual. “It reminds me of the purse Daphne carried last night. The lace is from Brussels, I believe?”

  “Correct again, Miss Cross.” Her lips flattened to a thin line.

  “A gift from your husband?”

  Suddenly she snapped the fan closed and thrust it in my direction. “Here. You may have it. I believe it would suit you well, Miss Cross.”

  “Oh, Mrs. Monroe, I couldn’t . . . I didn’t mean . . .”

  “Nonsense, I insist. I could always have another made.” She pressed the fan into my hand and strode away in the direction Daphne had gone.

  I stared down at the ivory lace shot through with golden thread. Surely this could not have been a valued gift or Mrs. Monroe would not have parted with it so indifferently.

  Yet another woman with a reason to scorn Virgil Monroe?

  I found Grace some minutes later. She wasn’t engaged in any of the lawn sports or chatting at one of the tables, but stood alone beneath her parasol near the base of the lawn, looking out past the Cliff Walk at the ocean. The skies overhead were clear, but steely clouds banked low on the horizon.

  “Shouldn’t they have been here already?” she murmured as I moved beside her.

  “Do you mean the sailboats?” Four buoys had been placed in the water, marking the turns the boats would take on a course that kept them always visible to those watching from the cliffs.

  “Yes, Neily’s in his uncle William’s ketch. Oh, Emma, I wish he wasn’t. Racing can be dangerous.”

  “Don’t worry. Neily’s quite a good sailor. All the Vanderbilt men are good sailors.” I touched her shoulder, prompting her to cease her probing of the empty waves. “Grace, what can you tell me about the Monroes?”

  “The Monroes? If you mean Virgil and Eudora . . .” She compressed her lips and glanced over her shoulder at the party behind us. “My sister, May, tells me all is not happy there.”

  “I thought not. Do you know why?”

  “Indeed, I do.” She inched closer and lowered her voice, not that there was anyone close enough to overhear. “There are whispers that he wants to leave her.”

  “You mean a divorce?”

  “Shh!” Grace cast another backward look across the lawns. “But yes. Up until two or three years ago it would have been unheard of, but ever since last year when your aunt Alva and uncle William divorced . . . well . . . it’s not such an outlandish idea anymore, is it? Not the scandal it once was.”

  It took me a moment to come to grips with the fact that my own relatives had wrought such a drastic change in society. But given my aunt Alva’s stormy disposition and her insistence on having her way, I shouldn’t have been surprised.

  This development concerning the Monroes shouldn’t have surprised me either. Daphne, Lawrence, Eudora . . . even Virgil’s younger brother, Wyatt, exhibited sure signs that all was not well within the family.

  “Do you know which is officially seeking the divorce?” In Aunt Alva’s and Uncle William’s case, the sentiments had been mutual, but Uncle William had allowed Aunt Alva to initiate the proceedings. It had been the gentlemanly thing to do.

  Grace shook her head. “I only know as much as I do because May’s housekeeper is the sister of the Monroes’ housekeeper in New York.” Her face suddenly became animated and she raised a hand to point. “There they are!”

  To the south, four sets of tiny, gleaming triangles bobbed over the waves. The party behind us saw them, too, and shouts went up. People pushed closer to the Cliff Walk, and numbers—in dollars and cents—were called back and forth as wagers were made.

  As two small sloops, a yawl, and a ketch made their way toward us, so, too, did the clouds. The waves kicked up, prompting fresh speculation and additional money to exchange hands. A favorite was declared as the boats entered the course—one of the sloops pulled out ahead, followed by Uncle William’s ketch, Defender. Besides Uncle William and Neily, Defender was manned by William’s two sons and his youngest brother, Frederick. Behind them came Mrs. Astor’s son, John, in his yawl. Grace’s older brother, Orme, who was married to Carrie Astor, and several other men formed that crew. Behind them came the smaller of the two sloops, owned by Mr. Stuyvesant Fish.

  My gaze swerved back to the lead craft. “Who is in the Monroes’ sloop?”

  “Virgil and his brother, of course,” Grace said. “And his two sons, Lawrence and Nate. The boat is called Vigilant.”

  “I don’t believe I’ve met Nate Monroe.”

  “No, he’s younger than Lawrence. Sixteen or seventeen, I believe. He wasn’t at the ball last night.”

  I squinted to make out the figures on the boat. “That’s only four. Isn’t there a team of five on each boat?”

  “Yes, you’re right. I believe the fifth is Derrick Andrews.”

  “Derrick?”

  Grace turned to me with a surprised look. “Do you know him?”

  “We’re . . . acquainted. I didn’t know he was such a good friend of Virgil Monroe.” Once again, it struck me how much I didn’t know about Derrick Andrews.

  “Virgil and Derrick’s father, Lionel Andrews, go back many years. They’re heavily invested in each other’s business concerns. Virgil is invested in several major newspapers, including the Providence Sun, and Lionel is just as heavily invested in Virgil’s textile interests and his transatlantic shipping company. In fact, the families often travel abroad together. We’ve often seen them in Paris or Italy together.”

  The Monroes’ vessel cut through the water, widening the lead over the others as they approached the first turn. I searched for Derrick on board, wishing I’d thought to borrow a pair of binoculars. “Did you see them all in Europe this spring?”

  “Oddly no. Oh, we saw Virgil and Lawrence, but Eudora, Daphne, and Nate stayed home this time. None of the Andrewses was there at all.”

  I held my hat against the wind. “Are you certain? Perhaps they merely weren’t in the same places at the same time as you.”

  Grace laughed at that. “Emma, trust me. If the Andrewses had been in Europe this spring, I’d have known about it.” She studied me a moment. “Is this idle curiosity, or does it have to do with that little matter you’re investigating?”

  Something in her tone prompted me to ask, “Did Neily tell you what I told him?”

  “Well . . .” She looked slightly embarrassed. “Yes, he did. I know the child is at Gull Manor. I’m sorry . . .”

  “No, it’s all right.” I smiled a reassurance. “It’s nice to see that you confide in each other. As for your question . . . the truth is, I’m not sure.” Before I could elaborate, a fat raindrop splattered the grass at my feet. More followed in rapid succession. Grace let out a little squeal and grabbed my hand.

  “Come, let’s make a run for it!”

  Across the lawn others were scurrying for the shelter of the house. We reached the loggia and Grace kept going through a set of open doors into the ballroom. I stopped along with a small crowd of heartier individuals who huddled beneath the roof, watching the boaters who were suddenly battling the unexpected squall.

  The ocean had turned iron gray, the waves as sharp-edged as kitchen knives. Those boats were manned by seasoned sport sailors, yet I held my breath as I watched each vessel pitch and heave. The two in the rear, John Astor’s and Stuyvesant Fish’s, were already heading south after taking the first turn in the course. Now they kept going, hugging the coast as they made their way around the island and toward the safety of Narragansett Bay.

  “Well, that’s certainly a relief,” a woman said. Despite much of her face being hidden by a flowered, beribboned hat that resembled an overdecorated cake, I recognized the tall brunette as Stuyvesant Fish’s wife, Mamie. She made her way to the ballroom doors and stepped inside.

  That left Uncle William’s ketch and Virgil Monroe’s sloop. My stomach clenched as I considered how many people I cared about were on those boats. Uncles William and Frederick, Neily, William’s two young
sons . . . and Derrick.

  “They’re having a devil of a time,” announced a man who stood near me. He held a pair of binoculars to his eyes.

  “Why don’t they turn and follow the others?” someone asked.

  “They can’t,” another replied, pointing. “Looks like they’re caught in the currents.”

  “And they’re too close to one another. . . .”

  The man with the binoculars lowered them to his side, and with a look of apology I snatched them from his hand. The sloop and the ketch were indeed close—too close—and the wind barreling over the waves threatened to send them crashing into each other. Through the rain and at this distance I couldn’t make out individuals, but I could see them all scrambling to tighten the sails and secure the lines.

  I gasped as the Vigilant’s boom swung wildly around from starboard to port. Behind me, a woman shrieked. On board the men ducked, narrowly missing being hit, but as the boom swung out over the water again the boat tipped onto its side. My heart reached up into my throat even as cries of dismay erupted around me. A hand squeezed my arm. I lowered the binoculars to discover Grace once more beside me, her eyes large with fear.

  “Oh, Emma . . .”

  “That wasn’t Neily’s boat,” I said quickly. No, but Derrick was on that sloop. I craned my neck, wishing away the rain and the distance so I could more clearly see what was happening. Grace let go a breath, but the worry didn’t release its hold on her features—worry that pulled my own features taut with an almost painful tension. Another woman elbowed her way through the crowd, her flawless skin blanched of color, making a sharp contrast with her ebony hair.

  “Good heavens. Derrick . . .” Mrs. Andrews pressed her fingers to her mouth and stared out at the rain-blurred view.

  “They’ll all drown,” another female voice said, and I turned around to find Daphne Gordon and Eudora Monroe standing side by side and clutching each other’s hands. It was Daphne who had spoken, and now she cried out, “We must do something!”