Murder at Kingscote Read online

  Mr. Crane lifted a hand to touch his nose gingerly; slightly swollen, it must still have been throbbing. “I suppose for the same reason as you. To learn what I could about the butler.”

  “Were you acquainted with Isaiah Baldwin?” I persisted.

  “No, but I’m well acquainted with Philip King.” He spoke in a somber undertone and shook his head as if at a lost cause.

  That much I had known, but my curiosity prompted me to interrupt him. “May I ask how you and Mr. King know each other?”

  “We both attend Brown, both members of Delta Phi.” He said this with an air of pride and not the usual nonchalance of wealthy young men whose fathers, brothers, and uncles had been fraternity members as well. That he’d been accepted obviously meant a great deal to him. It was information I tucked away, to be considered later.

  “So you know each other quite well, then,” I said.

  “Yes, and I’m worried about Philip.” He paused, glancing down at his feet. He gripped his hands together, the fingers interlaced. “I came to the hospital hoping for news that the butler would recover and be able to say what happened to him. But now . . . I’m afraid . . .” His gaze drifted downward again as he trailed off, and a sense of apprehension closed around me.

  “Please, Mr. Crane, you can trust us.”

  “Can I?” He regarded each of us, his brow creasing warily. “You’re reporters, aren’t you?”

  “But not like the ones who stood by while that crowd outside threatened violence against you,” Derrick assured him. I nodded in agreement, and in encouragement for Mr. Crane to continue. Presently, he drew a decisive breath.

  “I’m dreadfully afraid Philip is going to be blamed. And I don’t mean as he’s currently being blamed, for an accident.” He pulled in another deep breath. “You see, I overheard an argument he had with Baldwin the day before the parade. It was over money.”

  Derrick and I exchanged a look of surprise. A servant and the son of his employer arguing over money?

  “Did the Kings owe Baldwin back wages?” I guessed out loud. No wonder Jacob had gotten the sensation that Francis Crane had something to say yesterday, but didn’t wish to mention it in front of his friend.

  “No, it isn’t that,” he said. “Baldwin lent Philip a sum to cover a debt. It wasn’t the first time, I understand.”

  “Philip borrowed from the butler?” I exchanged another incredulous look with Derrick. He frowned vaguely, his eyes narrowing slightly at Mr. Crane.

  That young man chuckled and showed us a sad smile. “I’ve lent him money myself, a time or two.”

  “For what?” I couldn’t help asking.

  Francis Crane shrugged. “Purchases, gambling debts . . .”

  “And did he pay you back?” Derrick bluntly asked.

  “Some of it. From what I heard of the argument, he should have paid Baldwin back within a week of the loan, when his allowance came from the bank.” He swallowed and gave a little wince that I believed hadn’t been caused by pain—at least not of the physical sort.

  “But he didn’t, and they argued,” I finished for him, and he nodded again, a corner of his mouth twisting with regret. “But where does a servant come up with the extra cash to lend anyone?”

  “That I can’t say. But their argument doesn’t mean . . .”

  “No, Mr. Crane, it doesn’t mean Philip is guilty of anything more than defaulting on a loan,” Derrick said firmly.

  Francis Crane showed him a look of relief. “No, it doesn’t, does it? But still, Mr. Andrews, now that Baldwin has died, things could go very badly for Philip, couldn’t they? And I feel partly to blame.”

  “How is that?” I asked him.

  “I should have gone to dinner at Kingscote that night. If I had been there, with Philip . . .” His features went taut. He finished in a murmur. “The butler might still be alive.”

  “Mr. Crane,” I said, “you seem to believe your friend is responsible. Perhaps he had nothing to do with the butler’s death.”

  “But Philip arrived at Kingscote in the same motorcar that killed Baldwin. Who else could have done it?”

  “It’s possible, isn’t it, that someone pushed that motorcar once Philip had gone into the house?”

  “I suppose.” His expression turned hopeful.

  “In which case, it wouldn’t have made a difference if you had come to Kingscote.” Once again, my curiosity prompted another question. “May I ask why you didn’t come to dinner?”

  He shrugged, released his hands, and wrapped them around the arms of the chair. “It sounded like a stuffy affair, and Philip and I . . . well, we’d made the round of several friends’ homes and did a fair amount of drinking all evening.”

  Earlier than that, I thought, remembering the whiskey on Philip’s breath as the parade began. “You went instead to Stone Villa to play cards with Mr. Bennett and his friends?”

  Looking surprised that I knew this, Francis nodded. “Honestly, I didn’t wish to hear Mrs. King chastise Philip for his drinking.”

  “Does she chastise her son often?” Derrick asked, making me think of his own mother who, while not having much to complain about in her son, always made her opinions perfectly clear to him nonetheless.

  “Seems she has cause for one complaint or another on a daily basis,” Francis replied sullenly.

  “That must provoke Philip’s resentment,” Derrick said as if merely musing aloud. Then, more sharply, he asked, “Tell me, did Mrs. King know about this unpaid loan?”

  “Certainly not.” The very notion seemed to startle the younger man. “Although . . .”

  “Yes?” Derrick prompted.

  “Well, Baldwin came at Philip in a high temper the day they argued. He wanted his money, and he swore he wouldn’t be making any further loans to Philip. And then he—” When he broke off, I opened my mouth to prod him to go on, but it proved unnecessary. “Baldwin said he’d go to Mrs. King if he didn’t get his money by the end of the week.”

  * * *

  Whether he had wished to or not, Francis Crane had provided a compelling motive for Philip to have murdered Isaiah Baldwin. He had owed the man money he hadn’t been able to repay, and the butler had threatened to appeal to Philip’s mother, a woman who, according to Francis, found one fault after another in her son. He had also revealed that Philip was dependent, financially, on his monthly allowance, which indicated that his mother kept him on a tight leash when it came to supplementing his income.

  But these were the opinions of only one young man, and Francis Crane, despite his shows of remorse and reluctance, had been all too willing to confide in us—two individuals he had never met before. Why?

  “Do you think we can trust his word?” I asked Derrick after we left the hospital. Mr. Crane offered us a ride in his carriage, but we thanked him and declined. The trolley stopped for us, and Derrick helped me on.

  He compressed his lips and paid the fare for both of us. Once we had taken our seats side by side, he shook his head. “I don’t know. Something felt . . . rather forced. As if he’d been eager all along to tell someone what he knew. But it could simply have been the effects of his nearly taking a beating out there on the street.”

  I nodded in agreement. By the time we arrived at the Messenger, we had devised a plan to learn more about what had been going on behind Kingscote’s walls. Only one problem existed.

  Jacob had returned from the police station, and we found him in our tiny press office tapping away at the typewriter. Ethan hunched over his own small desk, pen in hand. As Derrick and I entered the room, Jacob’s fingers stilled and the machine fell silent.

  “Good morning, Mr. Andrews.” Jacob rolled back from the typewriter and hopped up from his chair.

  Derrick waved him back into his seat. “No need for that. Tell us what happened at the police station.”

  “It’s just as Miss Cross’s friend told her. People are up in arms about Philip King getting away with murder, as they’re saying. Never mind that no one
has yet termed the butler’s death a murder.” He emitted a low whistle. “They’re hungry for blood, these locals. But Police Chief Rogers came outside and assured them Philip King was being put under house arrest pending an investigation.”

  This development took me by surprise, although it had happened in Newport before, when another cottager had been accused of murder. “Did it appease them at all?”

  “Barely. At most I’d say it relieved tensions for a time. But if nothing comes of this house arrest, if a real arrest doesn’t follow quickly enough, I’m afraid of what might happen.”

  I nodded, understanding his meaning. Ethan had observed the exchange, his eyes large and his mouth a tight, thin line. Times of trouble and unrest didn’t appeal to him. He much preferred reporting on society’s triumphs, its aspirations and achievements. I sighed and prepared for what I had to do next.

  “Mr. Andrews and I have a plan to try to find out how Baldwin’s fellow servants felt about him, and whether one of them might have pushed the automobile into him.” I glanced at Derrick, and he nodded his encouragement. “This is strictly voluntary, mind you. We would never force anyone to do something they didn’t wish to do.”

  Jacob rolled his chair toward us several inches. An anticipatory gleam entered his eyes. “What are you proposing?”

  “Well, first we’ll have to take Mrs. King—and Detective Whyte—into our confidence. But we propose sending in a temporary butler to replace Baldwin. Someone who can talk to the servants and perhaps even interact with Philip King—”

  “Like a spy.” Jacob was grinning openly now.

  “We prefer investigative reporter,” Derrick corrected him with a lift of an eyebrow.

  “Yes. This sort of thing has been done before, with good results.” I didn’t bother mentioning the woman who had inspired me in my own career, but my thoughts went to Nellie Bly entering the mental asylum on Blackwell’s Island a dozen years ago to expose the horrific way patients were treated. This wouldn’t be as dangerous, but it might not be without its risks either. I fidgeted with the cuff of my sleeve. “As I said, this is voluntary, and—”

  “I’ll do it.” Jacob stood up. “Of course I’ll do it. I could disguise myself so they—”

  “No, Jacob, not you.” I turned my gaze on Ethan, who colored to the roots of his slicked-back hair. “It would have to be you, Ethan. Jacob was at Kingscote only yesterday, and it’s likely he’d be recognized. But you . . . You’ve only been on the job a year now, and the Kings have been away much of that time. Besides, their servants are all new and they won’t have seen you before. Mrs. King will of course know who you are and why you’re there. I think she’ll agree to it. I think she’ll see it as a chance to exonerate her son.”

  I left off as I noticed Ethan shaking his head in nervous little side-to-side twitches. “I can’t, Miss Cross. I . . .”

  “Ethan, at least think about it.” I moved around his desk and perched on the edge beside his chair. “You can do this. I know you can.”

  Jacob, too, was shaking his head. “This should be my job. I’m the news reporter. He won’t know what to look for, what questions to ask.”

  “I know it should be you,” I told him, not without sympathy. I understood his longing to take up this challenge, to stretch his journalist skills. “But you were just there. The risk of someone recognizing you is too great.” I turned back to Ethan and looked into his frightened eyes. “Will you do it?”

  His lips parted and he moistened them with the tip of his tongue. “Do I have a choice?”

  I leaned down lower, bringing my face level with his. “Yes.”

  He exhaled. “All right. But what do I know about being a butler?”

  “Enough, I’m sure,” I said. “Think about it. You’ve been reporting on the cottages and their elaborate affairs for over a year now. You know how these houses are run.”

  “I suppose I do . . .”

  “What’s more, we’ll arrange for Mrs. King to give you a complete list of tasks every day. But remember, your job, for the most part, will be to make sure everyone else does their job. Now . . .” I assessed his appearance, running my gaze over him from head to toe. “Less hair oil, and part your hair on the side, rather than combing it straight back. Do you have a morning coat?” When he shook his head, I appealed with a look to Derrick.

  “We’ll get him properly suited up. He’ll need another name, too. People might not know what Ethan Merriman looks like, but they’ll recognize his name from his columns.”

  “You’re right. Good, then.” I slid off the desk. “You two work on that, and I’ll speak to Mrs. King on my way home from town later.” I headed for the corridor, but stopped short and turned around. Jacob had moved to his own desk and stood leaning one hip against it. “Jacob, I’m sorry. I know you wanted this, but you’ve still got the story, and I expect you to follow it daily.”

  He nodded morosely, then met my gaze and offered me a resigned smile. “I’ll be on it.”

  * * *

  I returned to Kingscote later that afternoon, after taking care of the day’s business at the Messenger. After a short wait, Mrs. King met me in the library, a pleasant room papered in a soft blue-and-gray willow pattern, with a large bay window overlooking the west lawn. She wore deep plum today with a high, tight collar buttoned beneath her chin, and leg-o’-mutton sleeves of delicate silk crepe that fluttered as she moved. Her hair had been piled on her head and secured with numerous pins that winked when they caught the light. She looked imperious, but I realized it was no more than an illusion, a deliberate attempt to conceal her very real fears for her son’s future.

  “What may I do for you, Miss Cross? The detective was here earlier, and I doubt very much I can tell you anything I haven’t already told him.”

  She bade me sit in one of several chairs placed near the Gothic paneled fireplace on the wall opposite the bay window. She offered me refreshment, but I politely declined. Once we’d both settled, I explained the plan to install Ethan at Kingscote as temporary butler. Before I left town, I had also telephoned Jesse, who had given the plan his tentative blessing on the condition that Ethan did nothing more than use his eyes and ears. I assured him the last thing Ethan would do was confront a murder suspect.

  “Do you really believe someone besides my son might be responsible for my butler’s death, and that the note you received wasn’t merely a prank?” Her expression held a mother’s desperate hope.

  “I don’t think it was a prank,” I replied truthfully. “But whether or not it relates directly to Baldwin’s death is something I’m hoping my reporter will be able to find out. The servants don’t seem willing to confide in Detective Whyte about the nature of their relations with Mr. Baldwin, but they might talk more openly in front of one of their own. Secrecy is key, ma’am. Even your son and daughter must not know who Ethan Merriman is, or they might inadvertently give away his identity. He’ll go by Edward Merrin.”

  “Yes, all right. You say he’ll start tomorrow?”

  We discussed the particulars of what Ethan could expect upon reporting to work in the morning. Mrs. King agreed to make sure his list of duties would be straightforward and easily carried out. Then I mentioned Francis Crane.

  “I understand he was supposed to be at dinner the other night, ma’am.”

  “That’s right. Don’t you remember Philip saying his friend had decided not to come? Francis had gone to Stone Villa instead.”

  “He was at the hospital this morning, checking on Baldwin’s condition, and was put upon by some townspeople.”

  She gasped. “But why would they do such a thing? And why would Francis be at the hospital? He barely knew Baldwin.”

  “Apparently he’s worried Philip will be blamed, especially now that Baldwin has died. Unfortunately for Mr. Crane, he walked straight into a crowd of working people who feel your son should be arrested for the crime.”

  “Crime? Good heavens. Even if Philip did hit Baldwin with the automobile, he
certainly didn’t mean to. It was an accident—if he did it. But again, why should they harass Francis?”

  “They’d have harassed any well-dressed man. They’re angry about the injustice of a wealthy young man being treated with care when one of their own would be languishing in a jail cell.”

  Would she balk? I realized my comment might elicit a vehement response, but Mrs. King both surprised and impressed me by calmly nodding. “One can understand their argument, I suppose. It’s simply hard, as a mother, to agree with them.” She frowned. “But I still don’t understand why Francis was there. What had he hoped to accomplish?”

  “He said he felt guilty for not accompanying Philip to dinner that night, that if he had stayed with your son, Baldwin might be alive.”

  She took this in with very little reaction, except for a gradual tightening of her brow, and took several moments to contemplate what I’d told her. Then, quietly, “He seems frightfully certain Philip is to blame, doesn’t he? That makes me wonder about his motives, Miss Cross.”

  “Motives? What do you mean, ma’am?” I schooled my features not to reveal my eagerness to hear her answer.

  “I’m going to tell you something in the strictest confidence, Miss Cross. Francis has shown a keen interest in my daughter this season and wishes Philip to pave the way for an engagement between them.”

  She hadn’t completely surprised me with this news, as I remembered how Philip had teased his sister about her “sweetheart” not showing up for dinner. “Is your son in favor of the match?”

  “No. Unfortunately for Francis, Philip laughed away his request and told him such a thing would be impossible.”

  “Why impossible, ma’am?”

  “Because of Francis’s background. Philip told his friend he simply wasn’t good enough for Gwendolen. You see, the Cranes were simple merchants not long ago. Francis’s own father grew up learning the mercantile trade, but soon branched out into delivery services. Once he diversified into coal deliveries, his fortunes burgeoned. So you see, Francis comes from very new money and rather common origins.”