Murder at Kingscote Read online

  I nodded my comprehension, but made no comment. Such views were the norm, of course, among the Four Hundred. It mattered not a bit that I didn’t happen to agree. My own Vanderbilt relatives had until recently been shunned by society for the same reason, albeit they were now in their fourth generation of hardworking, innovative men. I very nearly pointed out that Francis Crane’s family had sought to better themselves, while Philip, so far, showed no aptitude for adding to his family’s wealth. I held my tongue, and in the next instant I was glad I had.

  “For my own part, I’d have no complaint with my daughter marrying into a self-made family. But I didn’t take issue with Philip’s objections in this case because I fear Francis is of an undisciplined nature, not unlike Philip himself. It is so common, Miss Cross, among well-to-do families. Where fathers work themselves to illness and early death in order to achieve success, the sons are all too happy to embrace leisure and extravagant living.” She sighed heavily. Her own husband had died suddenly five years prior, due to an inflammation of the abdomen. Although he had hailed from a prominent family, he had made a fortune of his own by joining his uncles in the China import trade. His son showed little inclination to follow suit.

  “Has your daughter expressed an opinion on the matter?” I asked as delicately as I could, so as not to imply that Gwendolen King had anything to do with Isaiah Baldwin’s fate. But a small part of me wondered—had she? Perhaps a way of getting back at her brother?

  Mrs. King gave a little shrug. “Gwendolen doesn’t seem to have strong sentiments either way when it comes to Francis. But you know how young men are. They are not to be put off by a girl’s reticence. In fact, reserve and caution in a young lady is considered a sign of good breeding. Highly desirable in a wife. I believe Francis is still hopeful.”

  I took several moments to ponder what she had revealed, and the conclusion I reached unsettled me. “Do you believe Mr. Crane is intentionally trying to incriminate Philip? Would he go to such an extreme out of resentment?”

  Some of the conviction left her features, leaving them slack and revealing her age. “It does sound rather outlandish when it’s said out loud, not to mention highly vindictive. I’m not implying Francis wants my son to be convicted of murder. No, I don’t believe he could be as cruel as that. But having Philip conveniently out of the way for a time might suit Francis’s purposes when it comes to wooing my daughter. He may simply be taking advantage of an opportunity.”

  Perhaps. But suddenly both Francis Crane and Philip King appeared to have had motives for attacking Isaiah Baldwin. Had Philip pinned him to the tree trunk because of an overdue debt and the desire to prevent his mother from finding out? Or did Francis roll the car into the butler, believing Philip would be blamed and arrested? And if the latter case proved true, what might Gwendolen King have known about it?

  Chapter 6

  Afternoon was swiftly becoming evening when I left Kingscote. After the long day I’d had, I yearned to turn my buggy south to Ocean Avenue, toward home and a hot cup of tea with Nanny and Katie. A niggling thought sent me in the opposite direction and I backtracked a short distance up Bellevue Avenue.

  There were already three carriages parked on the short front drive of Stone Villa, a granite-trimmed Greek Revival mansion that stood across the street from the Newport Casino. This meant that the owner, James Gordon Bennett, had company, and I considered calling on him another time. He wouldn’t be particularly happy to see me at any rate. I had worked for Mr. Bennett’s New York Herald for a year, until my disappointment in my duties there had prompted me to resign my position. My decision had shocked him, and I’m quite sure he considered me an ungrateful, impertinent young woman.

  But only he could verify whether Francis Cole had been at Stone Villa the night of Baldwin’s death. Mrs. King had inadvertently put a thought in my mind, and there was no dislodging it until I’d asked some questions. If Mr. Cole indeed bore Philip King ill will, how far would he be willing to go to destroy his friend?

  Mr. Bennett’s butler had me wait in the sparsely furnished receiving parlor on the first floor, while he climbed the stairs, probably to the comfortable study where I’d spoken to Mr. Bennett the last time I’d entered this house. I didn’t expect to be invited up again. I heard men’s voices upon being admitted to the foyer, so even if James Bennett hadn’t been peeved with me, it wouldn’t be at all proper for me to enter into their society even for a few minutes.

  The gentleman kept me waiting longer than was polite, but this hardly surprised me. Did he think I’d grow frustrated and leave? No, he knew me better than that, and when he finally entered the room, it was with a look of resignation.

  “Miss Cross, what can I do for you?” With short-cropped hair, a prominent nose shadowing his long mustaches, and piercing eyes that seemed to accuse even at his most cordial of moments, Mr. Bennett’s countenance informed me my time here was limited.

  I came right to the point. “Was Francis Crane here two nights ago, playing cards?”

  “What if he was?”

  “This is important. Surely you heard about the Kings’ butler.”

  “Are you suggesting Francis Crane had something to do with it?”

  “I’m merely trying to get a clear picture of the facts. Mr. Crane was to accompany Philip King to Kingcote for dinner that evening, but he didn’t. Mr. King said he came here instead.”

  “Have you joined the police force now, Miss Cross?”

  It seemed he was determined to respond to my inquiries with irrelevant questions. “No, Mr. Bennett,” I replied calmly, “I have not. I am a journalist, as I have always been.”

  “You are sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong, as you have always done.” Despite the harshness of this pronouncement, he spoke with a chuckle in his voice, and those hard eyes of his warmed fractionally. He was teasing me, putting me to task for having spurned what he had seen as a generous offer of employment. He didn’t realize, however, that I’d found being a society columnist in New York no more satisfying than being one in Newport, as I had been when I worked for the Newport Observer.

  I tried again. “Mr. Bennett—”

  “I suppose I won’t be rid of you until I answer your question.” Again, I recognized the teasing nature of his words. “Yes, Francis Crane was here until well into the night. Does that satisfy you?”

  “And he never left your sight?”

  He ran his fingers over one side of his mustache. “Never satisfied,” he said more to himself than to me. “Miss Cross, there were nearly a dozen men in my drawing room that night, and it’s impossible to keep that many individuals in one’s sights at all times. All I can tell you is that Francis Crane was here, and that he left sometime after midnight. Now, are we quite finished?”

  “One more question, Mr. Bennett, if you would. Did Philip King by any chance owe you money?”

  He laughed, a short bark of a sound. “Who doesn’t Philip King owe money to? Yes, Miss Cross, he enjoys his cards and horses and tennis tournaments as much as any man, and yes, money changes hands during those activities. Unfortunately, more of it leaves our dear Mr. King’s grasp than otherwise. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I really must get back to my guests. Good day.”

  On his way out of the room, he called for his butler to show me to the door.

  * * *

  I arrived home with my mind churning over Mrs. King’s assertion that Francis Crane had reason to resent Philip King. I believed Mr. Bennett’s claim that Francis had been at Stone Villa that night, but that still didn’t mean Francis hadn’t lied when he spoke of Philip’s debt to Isaiah Baldwin. James Bennett had lent credence to this notion, however; it seemed it was Philip’s habit to run up debts everywhere.

  Nanny had a fish stew simmering on the stove, its savory aromas filling the house and greeting me in the front foyer like a favorite friend. It had another hour to cook, so she brewed a pot of tea, and she, Katie, and I sat around the kitchen table discussing the day’s news. It didn
’t take long for us to settle on the topic on everyone’s minds, that of Isaiah Baldwin’s death.

  Katie could hardly contain her excitement. “So it really looks like murder, Miss Emma?”

  “The doctor saw evidence in the types of injuries he received, so yes. It’s unlikely he died as a result of an accident.”

  “I don’t know about Philip King, but I hate to think of that nice Mrs. King having to suffer seeing her only son hanged for murder.” Nanny, like many of Newport’s servants, knew Mrs. King by reputation as well as by sight due to her ongoing philanthropy here in town. She was among the more well-liked cottagers. “I hope someone else did it.”

  “Any word on where Mr. Baldwin worked before coming to Kingscote?” I asked her.

  “Not yet, but give it time. I’ll find your answer.” Nanny sipped her tea, then set the cup on its saucer and stared into the curls of steam. “What about this Mrs. Ross?”

  “Eugenia Ross?” I’d been about to drink from my own cup, but set it down, too. “What about her?”

  “Well, she claims she’s the rightful heir to Kingscote and the family fortune, so she has reason to wish ill on the Kings, doesn’t she? And she was at the parade. She saw Philip driving the motorcar and probably heard about how he crashed it at the obstacle course. What better opportunity to harm the family than to push the motorcar into Mr. Baldwin and let Philip take the blame.”

  Katie gasped, her bright blue eyes becoming animated. “I’ll wager she did it, Miss Emma.”

  I shook my head. “She’d have to have been following Philip around all evening to know when he arrived home.”

  “Maybe not,” Katie said, clearly excited by the idea. “All she had to do was skulk about Kingscote and wait for him.”

  “But how would she have known the butler or anyone else would come outside at the right moment?” I reached for the teapot to refill Nanny’s cup and my own.

  Katie skewed her lips as she pondered that question. “Perhaps she didn’t have an exact plan. Or perhaps she planned to damage the vehicle somehow, so that when Mr. King returned it to his friend, he’d have to pay for the damage. Mr. King was awfully rude to her at the parade, not that she didn’t deserve it from what you said, Miss Emma. But then when Mr. Baldwin came outside, she quickly devised a new plan.”

  Nanny’s eyebrows rose. “You know, Emma, that’s not too farfetched.”

  I didn’t agree. It was farfetched, yet nonetheless a possibility. The woman had spared no contempt toward the Kings at the parade. She had gone to great, almost impossible lengths to associate herself with William Henry King and had even managed to have him temporarily released from an asylum. To me, that implied a woman who possessed unending stores of bitterness, determination, and patience.

  Another, more devious thought occurred to me. “Perhaps her intended victim wasn’t the butler. Perhaps she thought it was Philip who had come back outside.”

  “You mean she meant to murder Mr. King, Miss Emma?”

  “The fog had settled thickly that night, Katie, so yes, she might have mistaken Baldwin for Mr. King.” I drummed my fingers on the tabletop as I thought. “Or, perhaps Eugenia Ross came there to meet with Baldwin.”

  Nanny regarded me above her half-moon spectacles. “Why would she do that?”

  “She’s been trying to prove her claim to William King’s fortune. Perhaps she had enlisted Baldwin’s help in some way. She might truly believe she is the heir. A self-delusion, no doubt, but real to her. In that case, she may have paid Baldwin to search the house for any records that would prove her case.”

  “And her claims being false,” said Nanny slowly as she puzzled it through in her mind, “Baldwin wouldn’t have been able to find anything.”

  I nodded. “Which might have infuriated her to the point that she took revenge right then and there.”

  “Not only revenge, Miss Emma.” Katie’s excitement returned. Her complexion turned pink and her gaze darted back and forth between Nanny and me. “She would have wanted to silence him, wouldn’t she, so he couldn’t have warned Mrs. King about Mrs. Ross’s latest plans.”

  “She might have at that, Katie.” I traced the curving handle of my teacup. “Of course, this is all speculation. Eugenia Ross wanted me to write an article about her so-called right to William King’s fortune, to tell her side of the story. I think I’ll do just that. What better opportunity for me to ask the woman some pointed questions?”

  “If any of these things are true, we’re talking about an extremely unbalanced woman.” Nanny rose and went to the stove to stir the pot of stew. The spicy aromas flooded the kitchen as she lifted the cover. “Will it do any good to tell you to be careful?”

  “Nanny, when am I ever not careful?”

  She snorted and covered the pot with a clank.

  * * *

  In deference to Nanny’s concerns and in the interest of common sense, I contacted Jesse about my desire to question Eugenia Ross. He came to Gull Manor in the morning, and he and I discussed matters while strolling the perimeter of my property, a headland whose rocky borders teased the Atlantic Ocean.

  “Why now?” he asked me after I’d explained my suspicions concerning the woman. He walked with his hands clasped behind his back, his derby angled low over his brow to shield his eyes from the morning sun. “She’s been fighting the Kings in the courts for years now. And William King died two years ago. Why wait until now to take specific action against the family?”

  “Haven’t you heard?” Behind us, my aging roan carriage horse gave a snort. I glanced at him over my shoulder as he once again lowered his head to nibble on tufts of sedge and bluestem grasses, ripping the roots from the ground in loud tears. Barney no longer pulled my buggy; Derrick had gifted me with a handsome bay Standardbred named Maestro, young, sure-footed, and dependable. But I refused to part with loyal Barney, who had conveyed first my great aunt Sadie, and then me, to nearly every corner of Newport through the years.

  A gust of wind slapped at my skirts and threatened to steal my hat and undo my coif. I raised my hands to protect both. Turning back to Jesse, I said, “Mrs. King is in the process of purchasing Kingscote outright from all of William’s heirs. No one else seems to want it, except Eugenia Ross. She must somehow have gotten word of it.”

  “And she’s angry.” Jesse stooped to pick up a flat stone, and with a flick of his wrist sent it skipping over the waves. “Maybe angry enough to frame Philip for murder.”

  “Or to murder Philip,” I said. “Visibility was low that night. She might have thought it was Philip who’d come outside.”

  I heard the slam of the kitchen door, and moments later my dog, a brown-and-white spaniel mix named Patch, came bounding across the headland toward us. He pranced around my skirts and then made friendly jumps at Jesse. Jesse accommodated Patch’s enthusiastic greeting by crouching and administering a vigorous petting around his ears and neck and down his back. Patch’s tongue lolled from one side of his mouth, and his tail, curled into a feathery crescent, wagged madly. In the distance, laundry basket in hand, Katie waved to us. I waved back to indicate that she needn’t come and bring Patch back to the house.

  Jesse shook his head and laughed as he straightened. “I wish everyone could be as happy as this little fellow.”

  We continued our stroll, Patch running ahead through the stunted, windswept vegetation before circling back in joyful leaps, only to set out ahead of us again.

  “If not Mrs. Ross,” Jesse said with a note of resignation, “we have Philip himself, John Donavan, or . . .”

  “Francis Crane, who may or may not have been at Stone Villa all night,” I finished for him. “And who seems to have a reason to wish ill on Philip.”

  “There is also Olivia Riley,” he added, and reminded me, “she doesn’t have a defined motive—yet—but she also doesn’t have an alibi.”

  “Either John Donavan or Olivia Riley might have had enough of Mr. Baldwin’s high-handedness. Perhaps he threatened to fire one
or the other. I hope Ethan will be able to find out more. Derrick is preparing him for his first day as Kingscote’s butler. He’s even supplying the letter of reference, for appearance’s sake.”

  “That’s good of him.” Did I detect a twinge of sarcasm in Jesse’s voice?

  I hid a smile. “I take it you’ll be looking into Philip’s debts?”

  “Of course. I’ll be speaking to some of his friends.”

  “What of my plan to interview Mrs. Ross on the pretense of writing an article about her claims?”

  Jesse drew a breath and let it out slowly. “She’s taken rooms in a house on Rhode Island Avenue, not far from the hospital.”

  “Then I’ll have to pay her a call, won’t I?”

  * * *

  I stopped first at the Messenger, where I found a communication from Derrick. Ethan had arrived at Kingscote without incident and with very few questions so far from the staff. Having Mrs. King in on our deceit had been the right decision. I longed to hear the results of his infiltration into the household, but realized it could take days for him to learn anything significant. I only hoped he didn’t lose his nerve and quit the position.

  There was more from Derrick. He’d wired his personal secretary in Providence to do some checking on Mrs. Eugenia Webster Ross, and had discovered something interesting. The King fortune had not been her only goal through the years.

  After seeing to the morning’s business, I caught the Spring Street trolley, changing at Washington Square to continue up Broadway. Newport’s Colonial saltbox architecture, so prominent in the center of town and on the Point, gave way to much newer and, for the most part, larger homes, many graced with front porches, gable rooflines, and even the occasional turret.

  At Rhode Island Avenue I alighted and walked until I reached the address Jesse had given me. The house was a charming green clapboard trimmed in white gingerbread, with a hexagonal turret to one side, and a covered, semicircular front porch. Armed with the information Derrick had provided me with, I climbed the porch steps and pulled the bell.