“Not just one. They spent quite a while this past year perfecting their skills with the foil. It’s the lightest blade, so easiest to learn to maneuver. But recently they’ve moved on to an épée, which is heavier and can do more damage.”
Elisabeth was feeling a little lost and decided to speak up about that. “Can you explain the difference between a foil and an épée for me?”
The detective scratched his head. “I’m not sure I can, other than what I’ve already said. I was never a swordsman myself, and I didn’t think to ask Ruben if the weapons were kept at the club.”
“That might be an important fact,” Titus said. “Why don’t you have a talk with Rowland and get some details on the swords and the relative skills of the young men he’s been teaching?”
“Will do.”
“Anything else?” the lawyer asked.
“I’ve only just started. I next went to the gas company to find out what Franz Dietrich was up to the night Chapman was murdered. He says he was home, sleeping, like any hardworking man would be after a day’s work. Since his wife passed away a few years ago and the servants would be in their rooms on the top floor at that time, there’s no one who can confirm that.”
“So Dietrich doesn’t have an alibi. Did you get a feel for the man?” Titus Strong asked. “I’ve met him socially, and I’m fairly certain he’s Ranson Payne’s choice for commodore of the yacht club, but I’ve never talked to him for an extended period.”
“I’m not sure there’s much to learn,” Campbell said. “I think he’s one of those men who has built their life around their occupation. I imagine he can tell you more than you ever wanted to know about fittings and pipes and things, but wouldn’t have any idea as to what film is playing at the cinema.”
“It sounds as if I might need to have a chat with him. He seemed eager to do what he could to get the yacht club off the ground, so maybe I’ll start with that.”
“Good,” Campbell said, as if he were relieved not to have to try to pry information out of a reluctant suspect. “There’s just one more thing, but you’d better hold on to your hat for this one.”
The lawyer sat up straighter in his chair, and his eyes sparkled with anticipation. “And what would that be?”
“Duncan Muir has gone missing.”
“And you didn’t think to tell me that first?” Titus roared.
“Ease off,” the detective said. “I knew you wouldn’t want to listen to anything else once I told you that, which is why I put it last.”
Elisabeth sympathized with her employer. In her opinion, it was more likely that Duncan had killed Warren Chapman than his father had. A young man, full of passion and thwarted in the pursuit of his beloved, might easily be tempted to solve his dilemma by eliminating the cause of it. It also explained another thing. “So now we know why Arthur Muir has been so uncooperative.”
Titus nodded. “He’s protecting his son. He must know Duncan would be the most likely suspect if he himself hadn’t lost his bicycle charm at the crime scene. And now the fool has gone off, which is as good as holding up a sign painted with ‘I’m the killer’ in red letters on it.”
An article left at the crime scene. There’s something I should remember about that. Of course! “I’ll be right back.”
She put her pad and pencil on the desk, and shot up from her chair, then wasted no time in dashing to her desk. She seized the book she’d left there and returned to the private office. “I remembered to bring this today,” Elisabeth said as she placed the volume in front of her.
Both Titus and Owen craned their necks to read the title on the cover of it. She let them finish reading before opening the book. Language of Flowers by Kate Greenaway.
Fortunately, names of the plants were listed in alphabetical order with their meaning beside them, so she quickly flipped through the pages until she reached those beginning with R. Running her finger down the page, it didn’t take her long to find the entry:
Rhododendron Danger, Beware
That put a whole new light on the crime scene for the lawyer. “So the flowers weren’t just a decoration; the rhododendron, at least, was a warning.”
“It would appear so,” Elisabeth said. “Do you remember any of the other flowers that made up the tussie-mussie?”
Titus shook his head, then grimaced. He never did pay much heed to the variety of flowers in particular. Oh, he knew you were supposed to send your beloved red roses on Valentine’s Day and your anniversary, if you had one, and he might pick up a bouquet of something that looked pretty for his hostess on his way to a dinner party, but that was about the extent of it. It was only since Elisabeth had persuaded him to go on the garden club tour and started of talking about tussie-mussies that he’d given them a second thought.
He paused and went over the thoughts that had just passed through his mind and realized that, while he hadn’t chosen them on purpose, his subconscious must have been at work when he selected a bouquet of roses for Elisabeth. He’d consider that idea in detail later. Now he needed to get back to the matter at hand.
“I wasn’t paying attention to those. I do remember seeing a trail of petals going to the door of Chapman’s office, and a mess of water and stems on the rug. But I didn’t note any recognizable flowers.”
She looked thoughtful, and he wished Campbell weren’t here so he could ask her about that. Instead, he addressed the detective. “You know what your next task is.”
“I’ve already asked the servants at the Muir house about Duncan. I’d gone there to see if he might have seen his father the night of the murder, if his father might have told him anything about what he’d seen at the Chapmans’. That’s when I found out he’d run off.
“Naturally, I asked all of them if they had any idea where. Every one of them claimed to be ignorant on that subject. His valet just knew he wasn’t in his bed when he went to rouse him the next morning. And that a small overnight bag was missing, along with most of the toiletries he used on a daily basis.”
Elisabeth spoke up. “There’s one other person who might know where Duncan Muir is.”
“Of course,” Titus replied. “I think you need to talk to Melissa Chapman next, Campbell.”
“Wait a minute,” his secretary said. “This is a house in mourning we’re talking about. Wouldn’t it be better if I went? I’ve come to know Melissa Chapman, if not intimately, as least as a nodding acquaintance. Suppose I pay a condolence call this afternoon? It would be natural for me to do that, and I can gently prod her for any information she might have regarding where Duncan has run off to.”
Titus thought about the suggestion for a minute. Even though he knew there were female Pinkerton agents, he didn’t like to see Elisabeth behaving as one and possibly putting herself in danger. But he supposed a condolence call to an old friend would be safe enough. And she’d only be cross with him if he tried to talk her out of it. “That sounds like an excellent idea,” he said with more heartiness than he felt.
CHAPTER 25
“There you go, ma’am,” Annie said as she put the freshly polished and brushed shoes next to Elisabeth’s stockinged feet.
“Miss Elisabeth,” the owner of the shoes said after blowing out a breath. It seemed as if her maid-of-all-work would never get used to calling her by the more familiar appellation, no matter how many times she asked her to.
“Sorry, ma’—Miss Elisabeth.” She ran her fingers through her hair, loosing strands from her carefully constructed arrangement. “It just doesn’t seem natural to use your Christian name.”
Perhaps Annie was right after all. While it felt perfectly normal to her, Elisabeth knew most of her friends, and more so the upper class people she met when she was with Titus, would be horrified to hear a maid address her by her given name. “Oh, all right. I suppose I can get used to being called ma’am.” She gave the girl a smile to soften her words.
She’d ridden her bicycle home before going to call on Melissa Chapman in order to change into
proper mourning clothes. She still had several black dresses from after her father had died, and thanks to Annie’s ministrations, they were always ready to wear. But she only had the one pair of black shoes, and they’d been scuffed and dusty from the trip. The maid had insisted on attending to them before Elisabeth went calling. She slipped her feet into the low-heeled pumps and ran her hands over the skirt of her dress to smooth it.
As the maid followed her down the stairs, she told her, “I shouldn’t be longer than an hour, Annie.”
“Will you be wanting supper when you get home?”
She glanced through the entrance to the parlor, squinting to make out the time on the clock on the mantle, then said, “Not right away, I think. Our regular meal at seven will be fine.”
“Very good, ma’am.” Annie was about to correct herself again, then smiled shyly at her mistress.
Once her front door closed behind her, cutting off Annie’s view, Elisabeth shook her head and chuckled. People were such creatures of habit. Herself included, she imagined. She just didn’t notice her own tics.
It didn’t take long to walk the single block to the Chapman’s summer cottage, even though it was near the ocean, while her home on Quincy Street was on the bay side. Soon she was walking up the path that led through the marvelous sea lavender. Rather than enter through the door behind the marble columns, she turned in at the more modest entrance closer to the street and knocked on the front door.
As expected, a butler answered her knock. “Yes, madam?”
Did they all speak in that snobby tone?
“Miss Elisabeth Wade paying a condolence call,” she said primly. She could do snooty as well as the next person when she needed to.
“If madam will step into the parlor, I’ll see if the mistress is receiving callers yet.” He stepped back and held the door open so she could come inside. He then gestured toward the end of the hall, and Elisabeth proceeded in that direction while the butler headed for the staircase.
She could see the dark wood floor, polished to a high gleam, from the hallway. She’d have to watch her step if she didn’t want to slip on that floor. The damask wallpaper and draperies were done in a rose gold. The one window she could see as she approached the room was ornately framed in an ivory frieze. Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, unlit in the daytime, the angled glass acting like prisms for the sunlight coming through the windows, casting multicolored shapes on the ceiling. But nothing prepared her for the fireplace that dominated the wall facing the sea. Grecian columns stood on either side of the hearth, while a frieze matching that of the window frame marched around the mantle. Above that were two scenes in bas relief separated by a column with two figures, one above the other, in the middle.
She hadn’t quite taken it all in yet when she heard the sound of a lady’s heels clicking on the hardwood behind her. Composing her features in what she hoped was an appropriately sympathetic expression, she turned to greet Melissa.
Except the person approaching her from the hall wasn’t the girl she knew. From her figure and posture, the woman was Mrs. Chapman, Melissa’s mother. This was confirmed when she lifted the veil from her face and draped it over the back of her head.
“How kind of you to call, Miss Wade.” She held out her black-gloved hand.
Elisabeth briefly touched it with her own. “I thought I should, being a friend of Melissa’s.”
“Come, sit on the sofa. I’ll have Godfrey bring us some tea.”
“Thank you.” Her mind seemed to have gone totally blank. On the way here, she’d rehearsed what she was going to say to Melissa. She’d never thought about having a conversation with her mother. It would be rude to ask about the daughter so early in the discussion, but she thought she could use some of what she’d rehearsed to ease her way into that topic. “The death of Mr. Chapman must have been a terrible shock to you. How are you coping?”
“It was. No one expects their spouse to be murdered. I felt a bit guilty about being away when it happened, but of course there would have been nothing I could do even had I been here. Warren kept such late hours, and I would have been in bed long before…”
“I understand.” As she was casting about for something else to say, the butler arrived with the tea tray.
“Thank you, Godfrey,” Mrs. Chapman said. She filled two cups, then picking up one of them, asked, “How do you take yours?”
“Just sugar, thank you. One lump.” Mrs. Chapman added the sugar, then passed the cup to her. Stirring the sugar into her tea gave her something to do for a brief moment, but she had to say something more soon. “How is Melissa taking her father’s death?”
“As any daughter would,” Mrs. Chapman said almost too quickly. She glanced away. A hand rose to stroke her cheek. Catching herself as if she suddenly remembered she wasn’t alone, she hastily put it in her lap. Reluctantly, she met Elisabeth’s gaze. “That’s not quite true. Shortly after we arrived home and learned of my husband’s murder, a boy came to the door bearing a posy for her. It seemed an odd thing to have happened so soon. People do often send flowers in these situations, but it’s usually a florist that delivers them.”
She’d definitely gotten Elisabeth’s attention now. Not wanting to say anything that might divert the conversation, she merely made an appropriate noise. “Hmmm…”
“Melissa stared at the posy for several minutes, a puzzled look on her face, then announced she was going away for a few days. Of course, I protested, telling her that wouldn’t be at all proper, but she was insistent. Sometimes she can be so stubborn.”
“Going away?” That was an unexpected development. “Did she say where?”
Mrs. Chapman shook her head. “No. I was hoping, you being a friend of hers, she might have told you. Or at least gotten word to you of a way to reach her.”
“I’m sorry,” she said as she covered the woman’s hand with her own. “I had no idea she’d left home. I was expecting to see her here myself.”
The widow pressed her lips together as tears filled her eyes. When a single teardrop traced its wet path down her cheek, she gave up any pretense of control and collapsed in a burst of sobs. She failed to stifle the muffled wails that escaped her lips, and Elisabeth rose from her seat to take a position on her other side so she could wrap her arm around the woman. She’d just lost her husband, and her daughter had immediately abandoned her. Pauline Chapman must feel totally bereft.
Eventually, the weeping ceased. The widow pulled a hankie from where it had been tucked up her sleeve and daubed her eyes. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to fall apart like that.”
“It’s perfectly all right.” Elisabeth patted her hand. “I broke into tears at odd moments for a year after my father passed. And he was ill, so I expected it. I can’t imagine the shock you’re going through. Is there anything I can do for you?”
The woman sat up a bit straighter, and her eyes, now dryer, locked on Elisabeth’s. A hint of a smile tugged at her lips. “There is one thing. Could you ask around, find out if one of the other girls in your set knows where she is?”
She doubted anyone else would know, and she was sure her “set” wasn’t the same as Melissa’s, but it wouldn’t hurt to inquire. And this would give her an opportunity to ask something in return. “I’d be glad to. I would like to ask you one more thing, if you wouldn’t mind.”
“Not at all. Ask what you will.”
“Did Melissa leave the tussie-mussie behind?”
“Tussie-mussie?”
“The posy. Do you still have it?”
“Oh. I’m afraid not. She must have taken it with her.”
“Do you remember what flowers were in it?”
“Let me see…” She closed her eyes, as if envisioning the posy. “I believe there was yarrow and a few asters at the center. And some jasmine around that. That’s all I can recall.” Her voice held disappointment, as if she’d failed somehow. But that’s not how Elisabeth felt. She was sure the flowers would provide some kind of cl
ue as to what had happened to Melissa Chapman.
CHAPTER 26
Titus sat in the interrogation room at the Whitby Police Station, waiting for Officer Ryan to bring his client up from his cell. With nothing more interesting to look at, he studied the surface of the wooden table scarred by years of use. There were several scrapes that must have been done with something with a cutting edge, and burn marks from unattended cigarettes. He wondered how a sharp object had made it into the room, then remembered no one had searched him on any occasion he’d used it. Either prisoners in Whitby weren’t as violent as those in Boston, or the police didn’t care if a client murdered his lawyer while in their custody.
He looked up at the sound of the door opening. Arthur Muir had that haggard look that all inmates seemed to take on within hours of being arrested. The fresh-faced Ryan held him firmly by a wrist as he escorted him inside. “Give a shout when you’re finished,” he said to Titus. “I’ll be down at the desk, so make it loud.”
“I will.” Fortunately, there was a small opening covered by a sliding door that Titus could open when he wanted to summon the officer. He wondered how much could be heard with the slot closed, and again his thoughts went back to a lawyer left alone with a dangerous client.
Muir sat across from him, his shackled hands folded in front of him.
Titus decided the direct approach was best. “So when did you figure out Duncan murdered Warren Chapman?”
At least the question had gotten the man out of his funk. He startled, pulling back from the lawyer, his eyes wide. “What?”
He repeated the question. “When did you figure out Duncan murdered Warren Chapman?”
“I never said he did. There’s no reason to think he would do such a thing.”
He had to admire the man for his loyalty to his son. “I’m here because Duncan has run away. It’s clear he didn’t get along with Chapman, and not just to me. He’s besotted with Melissa, and her father would have no part of them courting. Love makes men do strange things, and I can easily see a young man getting seduced by the idea that eliminating the person who was keeping him from his true love would solve that problem.”
The Case of the Troubled Tycoon: A Gilded Age Historical Cozy Mystery (Shipwreck Point Mysteries Book 5) Page 13
