Murder at Ochre Court

by Alyssa Maxwell

  Miss Cooper-Smith silently appealed to me for an assistance I was in no position to render. With little recourse, she placed her hand in his offered one, and then heaved a sigh of relief when Mrs. Goelet came striding through the crush.

  Miss Cooper-Smith broke away from Mr. Griggson and trotted to her patroness. “It’s time to prepare for the surprise, isn’t it?”

  Mrs. Goelet took in the scene before her, noticing Mr. Griggson still holding out the hand recently vacated by Miss Cooper-Smith’s smaller one. Her smile was entirely for him, though she spoke to her charge. “My dear, I believe there is time for one more turn on the dance floor.”

  “No, no, I wouldn’t want to keep our guests waiting. Everyone is bursting to know what awaits them in the drawing room. Do forgive me, Mr. Griggson.” She could not have appeared happier or more relieved. So much for Mrs. Goelet’s hopes of a match between her protégée and Silas Griggson; it was obvious the young woman had no interest in that direction.

  As the two of them walked away, Mr. Griggson made a sound like a growl deep in his throat. His smile had vanished, a grimace in its stead. Some little imp in me pretended not to understand. I held my pencil to my notepad. “I’m sorry, did you say something, Mr. Griggson? May I quote you on your opinion of the ball?”

  * * *

  The ball continued another hour, minus several faces. Miss Cleo Cooper-Smith’s was among them, along with Sam Caldwell and the other army officer with whom he had been speaking to Mr. Griggson earlier. Mr. Griggson appeared to have left the ball as well. Good riddance. I continued taking my usual notes while making the rounds of the various public rooms, stopping to sample delicacies off the dining room buffets, until a gong summoned everyone to the drawing room.

  Mrs. Goelet stood in the doorway, waving everyone inside. “Move all the way in. We must make room for everyone.”

  Exclamations of surprise filled the air as the guests took in the trees and flowers and lush fabrics that transformed the ordinary drawing room into an Egyptian garden. The artificial clover once more felt springy beneath my feet as Mrs. Goelet gestured for me to move closer to the front, where I would have a good view of the proceedings. Candlelight threw a sunsetlike glow over the room. Curtains had been pulled across the dais, hiding the scene I’d viewed that afternoon.

  The connecting doors to the ballroom had been opened to add a bit of space, and once the last guest had squeezed inside, Mrs. Goelet made her way to the dais. She held up her hands for silence.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, on this very special night, in honor of our very special Miss Cooper-Smith, we have a most enchanting treat for you, something I am quite sure you have never seen before, not like this. Settle in, and behold. Maestro, if you please.”

  From beyond the room’s open windows, music flowed from a chamber orchestra seated on the terrace. Mrs. Goelet moved away from the dais, coming to stand on my side of the room. At a nod from her, two footmen moved into place, each taking hold of a tasseled pull cord. At another signal from Mrs. Goelet, accompanied by an upswell in the music, the footmen tugged the cords and the curtains swooped open to reveal a nocturnal scene from the distant past.

  Cleo Cooper-Smith stood front and center in a sleeveless white sheath embellished with cloth of gold trim and tiny seed pearls. A cape of similar, shimmering cloth of gold cascaded to a train behind her, while a jet black wig, winking with crystals—or were they diamonds?—and cut into blunt bangs fell sharply to her bared shoulders. Encircling her slender neck was a wide jeweled collar, while gold bracelets in the shape of asps, their emerald eyes glittering with cunning, curled around her forearms. Gold sandals laced around her ankles completed her guise of Cleopatra.

  Around her, standing or lounging on the colorful cushions I’d seen earlier, were the individuals who had gone missing from the ball. Young ladies wore shoulder-baring sheaths similar to Miss Cooper-Smith’s. The men, Sam Caldwell and his friend among them, wielded ornamental swords and looked fierce in their tunics and headdresses.

  The guests behind me stirred with appreciation. The music continued. From the ballroom doorway entered a charming little girl dressed in a flowing gown of white silk organza and tulle. A wreath of white flowers encircled her golden curls, and her tiny hands clutched a posy of lilies and baby’s breath—and a single red rose, still closed up tight. Like a drop of blood, the bud stood out in its cottony field. The child’s blue eyes sparkled with excitement and the importance of her task, and a delicate blush suffused her porcelain-like skin. I knew this lovely child to be Mrs. Goelet’s niece, Beatrice, the daughter of her deceased husband’s brother.

  Mrs. Goelet’s own teenage son, Robert, followed Beatrice, proceeding at a dignified pace from the ballroom to the dais. He held a gold circlet studded with gems that shimmered like liquid in the flickering candlelight. When the pair reached the dais they solemnly climbed each step, Beatrice tottering slightly and Robert reaching out with one hand to steady her, until they stood directly in front of Cleo Cooper-Smith. Beatrice bobbed a wobbly curtsy and handed Miss Cooper-Smith the posy. Robert bowed to her. She lowered her head in return, and young Robert Goelet set the circlet upon it.

  Out on the terrace, a single trumpet sang out a triumphant call. Robert took Beatrice’s hand and moved off to the side, while shivering notes from the violins fueled the anticipation in the drawing room to a fevered pitch. My own stomach clenched in excitement, so caught up was I in the moment. The two footmen moved along the sides of the room, extinguishing the candles until all lay in darkness. Again, the throng stirred. I heard murmurs of expectation, even apprehension, behind me.

  At a crescendo from the orchestra, broad daylight flooded the room as the Edison bulbs hidden within the foliage surged to life. A collective gasp burst from the guests. Ladies cried out, first in alarm, then delight. The scene on the dais glowed with a vibrancy that hurt the eyes, and, startled, I blinked. As I did so, Miss Cooper-Smith, duly crowned Queen of the Nile, backed toward the gilded throne, which glowed as if struck with the full force of a noonday sun. I knew that once Miss Cooper-Smith took her place, all movement on the dais would cease, allowing the audience to view the scene down to the minutest detail. She slowly lowered herself to sit on the sumptuous cushions and then reached with both hands to grasp the throne’s arms.

  Cracks like rapid gunshots echoed through the room. Sparks flew. Profound and utter darkness fell. Ladies screamed, then laughed, then cried out again. Mrs. Goelet called for quiet.

  “It’s all right, everyone, no need for alarm. All of you on the dais, stay where you are. We’ll simply relight the candles . . . Good heavens, where is that electrician? He was to remain on hand. . . .”

  Despite her reassurances, her dismay was obvious. All her meticulous planning, not to mention the expense of wiring the Edison bulbs to the room’s existing electrical system, wasted. Even I felt an acute sense of letdown. They might continue with the tableau vivant, but the drama had been lost, the life of the event extinguished. My editor at the Herald wouldn’t be happy, especially after paying my way home specifically for this event.

  The footmen rapidly began relighting the candles. Suddenly, a young lady on the dais called out. “I think something is wrong with Cleo.”

  Mrs. Goelet whirled back toward the scene. “Cleo, are you all right? Poor dear, it was quite a shock, wasn’t it? Cleo?” She raised her hems and hurried up the steps. “Cleo . . .”

  Another of the sheath-clad young ladies, Mrs. Goelet’s twenty-year-old daughter, named May for her mother, came to her feet and approached the throne, walking gingerly on the toes of her laced-up sandals. My own breath hung suspended in my lungs as a cold dread seeped through me.

  Adding to the sense of dread, the room had gone as still as a sepulcher at midnight. Those on the dais remained where they were, craning their necks to watch, but, true to the form of a tableau vivant, no one budged from their assigned place until Sam Caldwell abandoned his post beside one of the columns. His sword at his si
de, he strode to the center of the dais looking the part of a sentry on patrol. The three of them—Captain Caldwell, Mrs. Goelet, and her daughter—converged around the prone Queen of the Nile. The captain leaned down and whispered Miss Cooper-Smith’s name.

  Mrs. Goelet reached out to touch her, one finger extended as if to nudge her from sleep. Until that moment, I’d been held in a daze like the rest of the guests behind me, but now a realization struck me.

  “Don’t!” I shouted, and scurried up the steps. “Don’t touch her!”

  With a look of alarm, Mrs. Goelet’s hand fell to her side, and then she tilted her head, hearing, perhaps, the same sound that reached my ears. Despite the electric lights having been extinguished, an ominous humming arose from the throne, so low and deep I doubted anyone in the room behind me could hear it. Like a physical entity, the sound rippled beneath my skin and grazed my nerve endings. “The circuits must be shut off. We mustn’t touch her before that.”

  “What are you saying?” Mrs. Goelet demanded. She reached for her daughter and wrapped her arms around her.

  “Is Cleo all right?” came a small voice like the chirp of a frightened baby bird. Only then did I remember about Beatrice. Mrs. Goelet’s gaze fell, horrified, upon the little girl.

  “Beatrice, it’s all right, dearest. Cleo’s only fallen asleep. Silly Cleo.” A woman in green taffeta pushed through the crowd and hurried to the dais. Without ascending the steps, she reached her arms out, beckoning to the child. Beatrice ran into them, whereupon her mama gathered her close and carried her from the ballroom. “You did splendidly, darling, just like a real princess. . . .”

  With a mix of relief and trepidation, I stared at Miss Cooper-Smith’s prone form. Her eyes were open, fixed on some point above her. She didn’t move—not so much as a rise or fall of her chest. A reek of burned flesh sent me lurching back a step. “She is quite beyond our help,” I said.

  Mrs. Goelet fainted dead away. Somewhere in the room a woman screamed, and all hell broke loose.

  Chapter 4

  Within a half hour of that horrific occurrence, most of the guests, all shaken, some verging on hysterics, had fled Ochre Court. Those who remained gathered in the Great Hall, surrounding Miss Cooper-Smith’s father, who appeared dazed and numb, and a distraught Mrs. Goelet, who had been roused with the use of smelling salts.

  “First your father, and now this. I cannot take any more loss.” Her feet threatened to give way, and her son and daughter hastened to flank her, each putting an arm around her. They hadn’t changed out of their Egyptian garb, and presented an incongruent image with the formal surroundings of the Great Hall. “I promised her mother I’d look after her, see her to adulthood, marriage . . .”

  “You did your best, Mama,” her daughter murmured. “It’s not your fault.”

  “Hardly your fault, Mama,” her brother agreed.

  “Thank God above I have you two . . .”

  Servants circulated with tea and brandy. Mr. Cooper-Smith waved away both, but a tearful yet calm Ilsa accepted a snifter and held it to her father’s lips. I spotted Grace and Neily near the fireplace. Colonel Astor and his wife, Ava, their differences apparently settled for the time being, were still there as well. I often forgot the connections between these families, for Colonel Astor’s sister, Carrie, had married Grace’s brother, Orme, making the Astors, Vanderbilts, and Goelets all in-laws.

  Mrs. Goelet’s brother-in-law, another Robert, knelt before the chair where Mrs. Goelet now sat. He held her hand and spoke quietly. Beatrice and her mother were not present. I assumed the child had been brought home, a short walk away.

  “It was that man’s fault. That electrician’s.” Mrs. Goelet sobbed into her handkerchief.

  Her words sent shards of alarm through me. The electrician was a friend of mine, or, rather, the brother of my good friend, Hannah Hanson. We had grown up together on Easton’s Point, and I knew Dale Hanson to be a hardworking, honest, and conscientious man. But I said nothing. Now was not the time, with everyone still in shock and overwrought. Yet, as Mrs. Goelet continued, I began to fear the consequences Dale might be made to bear. That he hadn’t yet been found also boded ill for him, though I believed his absence from Ochre Court would be easily explained.

  “He’ll pay for what he’s done to our poor Cleo. He will—” Tears choked off the rest, running down Mrs. Goelet’s cheeks and splashing on her lap.

  Jesse arrived with a uniformed policeman, followed by the coroner and a pair of assistants.

  “Dear God,” Jesse murmured after climbing the dais and using rubber tongs to move aside the sheet that had been draped over Miss Cooper-Smith’s body. At first her father and some of the other men had wanted to move her off the throne, but I had cautioned them to touch nothing before the police arrived. Despite this being an accident, due to the nature of her ghastly death there would need to be a report and a routine investigation.

  Jesse let the sheet fall to cover the body. He came down the steps and approached me. “Can you tell me what happened?”

  “I honestly don’t know. The light bulbs were switched on, and . . . and it happened. It was awful.”

  A commotion in the Great Hall caught Jesse’s and my attention. There came angry shouts and running feet, and then Dale Hanson burst into the drawing room at full speed.

  “They say she’s been electrocuted. It’s not possible. It could not have happened.” Dale was a large man, blond and good-looking in the way many people of Nordic descent are, with coloring that implied robust good health. Except tonight his complexion was gray and white terror ringed his blue eyes. “What the devil happened?”

  He stopped several feet shy of the dais and stood gazing up at the figure swathed in white linen. He shook his head over and over. “She cannot be . . .”

  “Dale.” Jesse had to repeat the name several times before Dale finally turned toward him. “Tell me what happened. Did you fully test the wiring before tonight?”

  “Several times.” Dale hung his head in bewilderment. “I swear, Jesse, I . . .”

  “Were you drinking?” The question came, not from Jesse, but from a man standing in the doorway. Silas Griggson stepped into the room, and with a grim expression crossed to us. “Has anyone checked on this man’s whereabouts before the ball? Did anyone see him drinking?”

  “Dale Hanson is no drunkard.” I stepped in Mr. Griggson’s path. “He’s a good man. I can attest to that. I’ve known him all my life.”

  He eyed me coldly. “Excuse me, Miss Cross, but who are you to vouch for the moral integrity of any man?”

  Dale was at my side in an instant. “Don’t speak to her that way. Emma Cross is as decent a woman as was ever born.”

  Mr. Griggson’s icy regard remained steadfastly on me. I refused to blink or waver. “I am speaking from experience, sir. I have never seen Dale Hanson inebriated and I have never seen him behave in anything but a responsible manner. Isn’t that so, Jesse?”

  Jesse didn’t respond, didn’t back up my claim, and I realized he couldn’t, not in his official capacity as investigating detective. He must remain impartial, or at least appear so.

  “Well, what are you going to do about this?” Mr. Griggson now demanded, turning his enmity on Jesse.

  “I am going to determine what happened here tonight.”

  “And are you going to arrest this man for murder?”

  I gasped. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Where has he been?” Griggson persisted. “He should have been here in the event something went wrong. Why is he only now showing up?”

  “I walked over to Forty Steps,” Dale said defensively. “I didn’t think I’d be needed.”

  “You hadn’t the stomach to witness your own crime. Murderer.”

  “If it’s a murder that has taken place,” Jesse interrupted, “then many others besides Mr. Hanson will come under suspicion.” Griggson’s complexion darkened, but before he could respond, Jesse added, “As it is, what happened will be
termed an accident until evidence suggests otherwise. I’d prefer you to leave, sir, while we continue with our work.”

  “Why, I . . .”

  Jesse held up a hand. “I can have you arrested for obstructing police business.”

  “And I’d see you tossed out on the street by tomorrow.”

  Jesse smiled. “Not the first time I’ve been threatened with that.” He turned away from Mr. Griggson and climbed the dais steps. Silas Griggson stared at his back, his nostrils pinched, lips parted, his breath coming in rapid spurts. I confess that when his eyes narrowed, a chill went through me, raising goose bumps and a resolve to warn Jesse to watch his back around this man.

  “Sir,” the police officer called. “We’ve found something. One of the main cables is stripped and wrapped around all four feet of the throne.”

  “What? That can’t be.” Dale scrambled up the steps. When he reached the throne he leaned down to see what the police had discovered, and in doing so placed his right hand on one of the gilded arms of the piece.

  “Dale, no!” I shouted, but too late. The current once more made its jarring crack and sparked. Dale yelped and stiffened, and Jesse reached for him, closing his hands around Dale’s upper arms. He, too, cried out, his arms stiffening as if the joints and ligaments suddenly solidified. His eyes filled with terror, and with the realization of his mistake. Then, somehow finding presence of mind, he gave a great heave and broke both Dale and himself free of the electricity’s grip.

  Their legs giving way, both men sank to the dais. Once again, the stench of burning flesh permeated the air. I coughed and sputtered; my stomach roiled. I swallowed and held my breath, fighting for control as I mounted the steps and fell to my knees between the fallen men.

  * * *

  I’d paced the waiting area of Newport’s tiny hospital for what seemed an eternity, in reality perhaps forty minutes or so. Each time I passed the doorway into the lobby, I craned my neck to see past the front desk, searching for any sign of my friend Hannah, a nurse and Dale’s sister, coming from the main examination room.