Murder at Kingscote Read online

  An elderly lady opened the door, her blue-gray curls tucked beneath a lace cap whose floral design matched a lace shawl thrown loosely around her shoulders. I handed her my card, and she bade me wait in the center hallway while she climbed the staircase to the second floor. There she disappeared along a hallway, though I could hear the creaking progress of her footsteps toward the back of the house. Minutes passed, and then she reappeared and gestured for me to make the climb myself. We met in the middle as she made her way down, and she said she would send her girl up with tea.

  Mrs. Eugenia Webster Ross met me at the door to her rooms, which comprised a small parlor and, through a wide doorway whose curtains had been drawn back and tied to either side, a bedroom. The rooms were bright and well-appointed with attractive furnishings and paintings whose scenes I recognized as local places of interest on Aquidneck Island. My impression of these lodgings, of the house itself and its elderly owner, was one of respectability and propriety.

  Mrs. Ross wore a simple, three-quarter-sleeved tea gown of peach muslin and had pulled her dark hair neatly back from her face while allowing the rest, thick and wavy, to fall between her shoulder blades. She might have been any well-bred woman enjoying a quiet morning at home, except that her midnight eyes held a calculating look as she scrutinized me. Though not unattractive and her hair had not yet gone to gray, she was not young, was my senior by some twenty years, by my estimate.

  For several seconds we stood silently taking each other’s measure. Then she burst into a grin and extended her hand to me. “I am delighted to see you, Miss Cross.” Her accent once again revealed her Southern origins. “Please, make yourself comfortable. You’re going to be here a good while, I should think.”

  Chapter 7

  “I was born in Port Gibson, Mississippi, to James and Mary Calhoun, and lived an unremarkable life while growing up. My father was in the cotton trade—not a plantation owner, mind you, but a merchant—and made a moderately good living at it, even after the war.”

  “Where did you attend school?”

  My interruption seemed to disconcert her for a moment, and then her expression cleared. “My mother taught me my letters and figures, and I attended Miss Davis’s School for Girls for a couple of years beginning when I was twelve. But getting back to what I was saying, it was because of my father’s connections in commerce that I met my husband, Isaac Ross, who captained a steamboat on the river.”

  “When were you married, Mrs. Ross?” I held my pencil on the page of my notepad, ready to jot down her answer. But I’d already learned some much more important information: Mrs. Ross had received only a basic education. A knock sounded at the door. Mrs. Ross rose to admit the young maid, who brought in a tray of tea and cakes.

  Mrs. Ross resumed her seat and reached for the teapot. “Where were we? Oh yes. My marriage. That was in 1876. But he died a mere two years later.”

  “I’m very sorry to hear that. What did you do then?” I set my pad and pencil on the small cherrywood table beside my chair and accepted a cup and saucer from her outstretched hand.

  She offered me the sugar bowl and tiny silver tongs as she spoke. “My husband left me his modest savings and a small home. Cream?” At my nod, she handed me a pretty porcelain creamer in a colorful floral pattern. “And there was his boat, which I sold, of course. He’d owed money on it, unfortunately, and after paying off the debts I was left with enough, all in all, to live unpretentiously. Frugally.” Her genteel façade fractured slightly, and she raised her teacup, in my opinion, to hide her expression.

  I had learned only hours ago that she had done more than arrange to live off the monies her husband had left her, but I was content to keep that knowledge to myself for now.

  She passed me a small plate holding a generous slice of pound cake. I broke off a piece with my fingers and brought it to my mouth. The sweet, buttery flavor melted on my tongue, nearly as delicious as Nanny’s, though not quite. “When did you first seize upon the notion that William Henry King was your relative?”

  “Seize upon?” Her eyebrows rising, she assessed me with an imperious look. “I seized upon nothing, Miss Cross. My relation to William King is simply a fact.”

  “All right, then. When did you first realize this?”

  “I’ve always known it. My father used to speak of William all the time.”

  “And they were . . . ?”

  She hesitated before replying, once again scrutinizing me, searching for whatever trap I might be laying for her. “Let’s just say they were cousins, of a sort.”

  “Of a sort,” I repeated, hoping to prompt more.

  “Indeed.” Her lips curled in a catlike grin. “As you and the Vanderbilts are cousins of a sort.”

  “I can trace my lineage to the Commodore through his daughter, Phebe, who married James Cross. From there it’s a very straight line to my father and then me.” My challenge implied, I held her gaze. Could she offer up a similar pedigree for the King family?

  Her mouth again took on a cunning slant. “Perhaps I cannot trace the line as directly as you can to the Commodore, but I assure you, my relation to William is undeniable. Whereas, Ella King, her husband, their children, and all the rest of this family who were so eager to lock William away and steal his money, are no relation at all.”

  My mouth fell open, my shock at her statement unfeigned. “You deny the relations of the entire family?”

  “Oh, I don’t deny they might be related to a William King.” She paused to sip her tea, to nibble at her cake, while I waited in suspense. Then she continued, “But not to my William King.”

  “You’re claiming there are two men of the same name, which I suppose is entirely possible. But the King family’s history in Newport stretches back generations.” Indeed, three generations ago, David King, a prominent physician here in town, had administered the first smallpox vaccines given in Rhode Island. His son, George, became a representative to the Rhode Island Assembly. George’s sons, Edward and William, established an import company in China and amassed a great fortune. It was this William King whose identity was now in question, along with that of his relations.

  “That is so,” she agreed. “But these people who have invaded Kingscote, who have taken it over as though they have a right to it, are no relation to the man who bought the property from its original owner. As for the fortune, it rightfully belongs to me, not them.”

  “But, Mrs. Ross, how could so many people have conspired to wrongfully claim ties to a man if no relation existed? Especially when the family has such an illustrious history here in Newport and abroad? William King had brothers, and those brothers had children, who are adults now. They should know who their uncle was.”

  She dismissed this with a flick of her hand. “They should, shouldn’t they? But you see, while there has been a King family in Newport for several generations, as you say, the William King to whom I am related, and who bought Kingscote, hailed from the South, as did the man who originally had Kingscote built, George Noble Jones. Mr. Jones left the North during the war, and afterward sold the house to my relative, William King. These Kings—these Newport Kings—then decided to take advantage of the similarity in names and have William King declared insane and locked away, to help themselves to his possessions and fortune.”

  Ah, there it was, her accusation against the Kings clearly laid out. But she had yet to define her relationship to William King. “You claim there might have been two men named William King. What happened to the other one, then? Where is he?”

  “How should I know? That doesn’t concern me.” No, I didn’t think it would; nor did I believe in this second, phantom William King she had invented. “What does concern me is that my cousin—”

  “Of sorts,” I couldn’t help putting in.

  She gave me a nod that seemed to say touché. “Of sorts, was deprived of his freedom and now these unscrupulous people are attempting to deprive his rightful heirs of their inheritance.”

  “Are there
other heirs besides yourself? I hadn’t realized.”

  At this she pinched her lips together, then lifted her teacup to them and sipped. She eyed me over the cup’s rim, and I knew I would not receive an answer to that particular question. I decided to try a new angle.

  “I’ve heard it said you searched for William King, your cousin, for many years before you found him. Is that true?”

  “For a number of years, yes. I even followed him to Europe. We kept missing each other. William had possessed a bit of wanderlust in his soul. I’d no sooner arrive in his last known destination, when I’d discover he’d already moved on. It was this, along with his love of collecting beautiful artwork and personal items, that first prompted these Newport Kings to lay claim to him and have him declared insane. They wanted his fortune, and they wanted it before he had a chance to spend much more of it. It’s a terrible thing, Miss Cross, to deny a man the right to spend his money as he sees fit. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  That the King family believed William’s lifestyle to be a result of his mental incapacitation, I understood to be true. They considered him to have had no self-control, no powers of discernment when it came to how to spend his money. Apparently, they also feared for his safety, not only due to his reckless lifestyle, but to his inability to judge whether others intended him harm or wished to take advantage of him.

  As I believed this woman had wished to do. Or was she so deluded as to believe her own story? I decided it was time to use the information Derrick’s secretary had discovered.

  “Mrs. Ross, I understand this isn’t the first time you’ve attempted to secure funds for yourself where your rights to that money have come under question.”

  She took on a wary look, her black eyes flashing a caution. Was that caution aimed at herself, or me? “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Didn’t you sue your own father for money years ago?”

  She gave a contemptuous laugh. “You’ve been listening to malicious rumors, Miss Cross.”

  “Perhaps. But it seems you do have cause to scorn the King family. Especially Mrs. King.”

  “Indeed I do. They’ve been unkind at best. They are thieves at worst.”

  Once again, I met her gaze, those eyes as black as a stormy ocean. “Do you scorn them enough to take revenge against them?”

  She stiffened. “What do you mean by that?”

  “Where were you the night an automobile struck Mrs. King’s butler?”

  “I have no experience driving motorcars, Miss Cross. Besides, why would I harm a butler?” Her laugh seemed to rise out of genuine amusement.

  I answered her steadily and calmly. “So Philip would be blamed, as he has been. And the guilty party needn’t have been driving the car. Sending it rolling with a good push would have sufficed.”

  Her amusement didn’t abate. “Not a bad scheme, Miss Cross. I almost wish I had thought of it. But as it is, I didn’t need to, because young Philip King is a drunk and he did drive his automobile into his butler.”

  “And you were where at the time?” I persisted.

  She placed her teacup on the tray and came to her feet. “It’s time you left, Miss Cross. I believed you came here in good faith to hear my side of a perplexing dilemma. Instead, you’re practically accusing me of murder.” She crossed briskly to the door and swung it open.

  With no choice, I gathered my pencil, notepad, and handbag and followed her to the door. Just as I was about to cross the threshold, she said, “As it happens, I was at the Opera House that night. Wait here.” She retreated to the bedroom and returned holding a strip of green paper. She held it up, and I saw it was a ticket to the Opera House, torn in half. “For a seat on the mezzanine. Satisfied?”

  “Were you accompanied?”

  “No. I went alone. But there were plenty of people who saw me, I’m sure.”

  Perhaps, but would anyone remember a lone woman in a crowd of hundreds? She might have arrived, taken her seat, and later slipped out. How could I possibly track down whoever sat near her? When she flashed the ticket briefly in front of my nose, I happened to glimpse the seat number: E22. Nodding my acknowledgment of her rather flimsy alibi, I took my leave of her, far from satisfied. Which brought me to my next stop.

  * * *

  The three-story brick building on the south side of Washington Square stood directly in my path on my way back to the Messenger; thus it gave me the perfect opportunity to try to verify Mrs. Ross’s claims of having been there following the auto parade. I alighted from the trolley and crossed the square via the green with its benches, fountain, and statue of Oliver Hazard Perry gazing down onto Long Wharf. The Opera House would not be in operation this time of day, but as I gazed up at its rows of arched windows beneath a steeply curved mansard roof, I hoped for an unlocked door and a ticket collector or usher who might remember Mrs. Ross.

  The door yielded to my entreaty. I entered the long, wide lobby, the plush velvet carpet cushioning my feet. To my left ran a counter and the dark recesses of the cloakroom behind it; to my right, between two wide round columns, nestled the concession stands for refreshments. A deeply paneled and gilded ceiling arched above me; two crystal chandeliers hung suspended from medallions. Neither was lit, but enough light poured through the glass doors and windows behind me.

  “Hello, is anyone here?”

  Receiving no answer, I continued through the arched entrance into the theater proper. Gas sconces burned dimly, giving off just enough light to see. Another pair of doorways led down into the aisles between the rows of seats. To my left, a staircase wound upward to the balcony. I peeked first at the orchestra seats, the rows pitched downward as one proceeded toward the stage. More gilding, elaborately carved, embraced the soaring opening around the stage and the box seats along the side walls. The stage was empty of set decorations. Mrs. Ross said she had sat on the mezzanine, so, failing to come upon anyone here, I retraced my steps and climbed the staircase. A firm hand on the banister guided me as the shadows thickened. At the top, however, I once again found sconces set at their lowest level, which provided enough light to see what I needed to see.

  The mezzanine curved in a wide semicircle from wall to wall, and comprised two sections, one lower and one upper. I stood and studied the configuration, then walked through the rows, bending low to make out the seat numbers until I found the one indicated on Mrs. Ross’s ticket, about halfway along the row. From that location, had Mrs. Ross attempted to leave at any time during the performance, she would have disturbed everyone around her. It might be possible to track down theatergoers who would remember such an annoyance, but it would not be easy. If Mrs. Ross had left during the intermission, no one would have noticed her absence at all.

  Admitting the futility of my visit, I descended to the first floor, intending to make my way to the lobby and outside. Then I heard voices coming from the stage.

  Suddenly, electric lighting burst over the orchestra section, startling me and drawing a gasp from my lips. I blinked in the glare. “Hello? Is anyone here?”

  An odd squeaking came from somewhere backstage, and a moment later two young workmen entered the stage from one side, wheeling a long, open cart between them stacked with boxes. A third man entered after them and began issuing instructions and pointing. He was older than the other two, better dressed. I recognized him and walked down the aisle toward the stage.

  “Mr. Manuel, hello.”

  He squinted to see past the stage lights. “Who’s that? The theater is closed, you know. The box office doesn’t open for a couple of hours yet.”

  “Mr. Manuel, it’s Emma Cross. Are you moving in set pieces for the next performance?”

  Elton Manuel, and his brother, Edwin, owned a local moving company, the Manuel Brothers. They had begun small, just the two of them, but now employed several workers and drivers, and moved many members of the Four Hundred in and out of their cottages each summer. It appeared they also serviced the Opera House, as Mr. Manuel nodded unnecessa
rily to my question.

  “A new performance opens in two days. We’re moving everything in today so the carpenters and set designers can get to work.” He crouched at the edge of the stage and hopped down beside me. “Nice to see you, Emma. How is your family?”

  “Very well, sir, thank you.” At least, the ones I could account for were well. I’d had a telegram from my parents about a month ago. They were in Marseille with a group of other artists. My father had developed a passion for painting seascapes. But I didn’t go into these details for Mr. Manuel.

  He seemed more curious about me than my scattered family. “What brings you here at this odd hour of day?”

  I debated whether to take him into my confidence, then decided I had no reason not to. “You’ve heard about the butler who died after being struck by an automobile?”

  He nodded. “Terrible accident. They say Mrs. King’s son probably did it.”

  “He might have, but there are some developments that point in other directions. Possibly even murder.” He absorbed this with a surprised lift of his eyebrows. “I came here to see if a person could gracefully steal out and back in again during a performance.”

  “Who?”

  “I can’t tell you that. It’s only a hunch I have.”

  “And how is it you’re always involved whenever something like this happens in Newport? A slip of a girl like you.”

  I took no offense at the comment. Mr. Manuel was some twenty years my senior, and he had known me all my life. I had no doubt he still saw me as a little girl in short skirts chasing after my older brother, Brady. “I seem to have a knack for it. It’s a skill that comes from working in the newspaper business. Besides, you know how the bureaucracy works. There are sometimes avenues I can explore that the police can’t.”

  He nodded sagely. “I do understand. But tell me, what makes you think this person came and left, and then came back?”