“Yes. She was normal enough as a young girl. The twisting of her spine began as she entered her teen years. Her parents tried back braces and hot springs, but nothing helped.”
I suppressed a shudder at the thought of back braces. My cousin Consuelo Vanderbilt had been required to wear a brace of sorts, a metal rod attached to a belt at her waist and a strap around her head, whenever she sat at her lessons as a child. She had suffered from no such affliction as Ilsa Cooper-Smith, however. Her mother, my aunt Alva, had simply wished for her to develop perfect posture. Consuelo had, along with a simmering resentment toward her mother.
“Has Ilsa ever displayed any bitterness?” I asked.
Grace considered a moment. “Not bitterness, no. I’d say resignation. Sadness, most assuredly.”
“What was she like as a younger girl? Do you know?”
“Thoughtful.” Grace smiled. “Studious. She loved to read.”
“And Cleo?”
“Humph.” Grace’s eyebrows twitched; her mouth took on an ironic slant. “Not studious. Cleo was the more adventurous one. She seemed to crave excitement and loved to be around people.”
“The center of attention,” I suggested.
“Positively. But that’s obvious in the kind of coming-out ball my sister planned for her. Had it been for Ilsa, May would have devised a much more sedate, intimate event.”
I thought back to the ball, and how Ilsa remained off to the side, an observer rather than a participant, despite being the sister of the guest of honor. “There was a man at the ball who stayed beside Ilsa—”
“Patrick Floyd. He’s a family friend of theirs.”
“He seemed rather devoted to Ilsa. Is there an understanding between them?”
“Between Patrick and Ilsa? Heavens no. Ilsa isn’t expected to ever marry. Her condition precludes her ever having children. She’s been told it could kill her, poor dear.”
“I know, and I’m sorry about that. She seemed rather enamored of him, but perhaps I misread the situation. He happened to mention being in mourning.”
“Patrick was widowed only a year ago. His wife, Matilda, died quite suddenly. There were rumors at the time . . .” She trailed off, her lips compressing. “But I shouldn’t repeat rumors.”
“Actually, Grace, perhaps you should. Anything you know about the guests last night could help reveal the truth about what happened.”
Grace seemed to debate this inwardly before nodding. “Some people insinuated that Matilda Floyd might have taken her own life.”
I gasped; I hadn’t expected any such thing. “How did she die?”
“It was a gas leak in her bedroom. Her husband was away at the time. Apparently, she went to bed one night and never woke up again. The gas line was found open with no flame.”
“Was anyone else in the house with her at the time?”
“Only the servants, as far as I heard.”
“An accident, or a deliberate act,” I said more to myself than to Grace. “Do you have any idea why she might have committed suicide?”
“I’m truly loath to say, Emma. I never believed the whispers. He seems to be a perfectly lovely gentleman. You saw how he rescued Ilsa from the ignominy of being a wallflower.”
“It was gallant of him, to be sure.” I remember Ilsa saying just that—that Patrick needn’t play the gallant for her. “But you mentioned whispers. Given what his wife might have done, I can only assume those whispers involved stains on Mr. Floyd’s character. Am I correct?”
With a great show of reluctance, Grace nodded. “Some people believed—wrongly, I’m quite sure—that Patrick might have been dallying with another woman. That he had gone away that week to be with his paramour. But please don’t repeat this to anyone.”
I answered her with silence, for it was a promise I couldn’t make, not if I found a link between Patrick Floyd and Cleo Cooper-Smith’s death. I had learned in recent years that murder rarely occurred as an isolated incident. Rather, death seemed to follow death in a chain of violence, and this news about Mr. Floyd’s wife felt too coincidental given the circumstances.
“Grace,” I said, speaking slowly as thoughts took shape in my mind, “the woman Patrick might have been dallying with . . . Could it have been Cleo?”
“Good gracious, no.” The idea not only took Grace aback, she seemed angered by the suggestion. I realized my logic had perhaps taken a sizable leap and started to apologize, but she had more to add. “I don’t suppose you would know, but Cleo was practically engaged in the spring. His name was Oliver Kipp—perhaps you’ve heard of the family?”
“I have, and I know Oliver Kipp recently died in the war.” The image of the young man’s mother, Lorraine, trailing after John Astor last night and making mysterious demands of him flashed in my mind. “He and Cleo were engaged?”
“Not quite, but society assumed they had intentions toward each other. They had formed an attachment the previous year, before Matilda Floyd died.”
While I conceded Grace’s point that it was unlikely Cleo would have been involved with Mr. Floyd, I also acknowledged a third death linked to Cleo Cooper-Smith. True, Oliver Kipp had died far away on a battlefield in Cuba, but the coincidence made it impossible for me to dismiss it as irrelevant.
I had learned a lot here in a short time, information that would require a return to Ochre Court, but which would also send me in other directions. Willing or not, Colonel Astor, Mrs. Kipp, and Patrick Floyd might provide information I needed.
“Would it be all right if I kept this for now?” I indicated the broken setting. Where was the better part of the piece, and to whom did it belong? Had Cleo come to possess it by less than honest means? Perhaps a trip to one of our local jewelers would set me on the trail to the answers. “I’ll be sure to return it.”
“Of course.”
I left her after that, making my way down the service staircase. A woman waited for me at the bottom. She wore the black dress and starched linen apron and cap of a housemaid.
“Miss Cross, might I have a word?”
Like my own housemaid, Katie, this woman spoke with a pleasing Irish cadence. She was about my age, with raven black hair and vivid green eyes that darted side to side as she beckoned to me.
I nodded, and she introduced herself. “I’m Nora Taylor, miss, and I’ve a bit of information that might interest you concernin’ Miss Cleo.”
I, too, scanned the immediate vicinity to see if we might be overheard. Detecting no one close by, I said, “Yes, go ahead.”
“I heard arguin’ comin’ from her bedroom yesterday mornin’.” She fidgeted with the pins on her apron. “I don’t know who she was havin’ words with, but from the sounds of it, either her sister or her maid. The missus would never raise her voice like that, especially not to a guest, and I cannot think of another soul it could have been.”
“Are you certain they were arguing? Could they have merely been excited about the ball?”
“The voices sounded riled up to me, miss.”
“Can you be sure it wasn’t Mrs. Goelet’s daughter?”
“Oh, no, miss. Like her mam, Miss May wouldn’t treat a guest so ill. I’ve been servin’ the family for three years now, since I first landed in New York, and I’ve never heard an unkind word from Miss May’s lips. She’s a kindly girl, that one.”
“And had you heard Miss Cleo arguing with anyone else since she’s been here?”
“That I have not, miss. That’s why it struck me as odd.”
My hand went instinctively to my handbag. The broken piece of jewelry lay nestled within. Could it have provoked the argument Nora overheard? “Did you hear anything specific?”
“Well, no, not exactly, miss. The walls and doors are thick in this house. The words were muffled and all.”
This information made me wish to climb back up the stairs and question Miss Ilsa and her sister’s lady’s maid. But I couldn’t bring myself to do so, not this soon while their grief remained so fresh. Besides, w
hat young woman didn’t sometimes argue with her sister, or her maid? I’d overheard my cousin, Gertrude Vanderbilt, scolding her own maid countless times at The Breakers. Never had it led to murder or anything more than a quiet sulk for either of them.
“I know that electrician fellow’s being blamed for Miss Cleo’s death.” Nora’s eyes narrowed.
“You don’t believe it?”
“I don’t know what to believe, miss. He’s an agreeable fellow. And people like him, and like me—we take the blame for most things, don’t we?”
“Yes, Nora, I’m sorry to say you’re right about that.”
“I believe you want to do somethin’ about it, don’t you, miss?” With a sheepish look, Nora lowered her chin and peeked out at me from beneath her lashes. “I heard about what you did last summer, miss, helpin’ catch that wicked murderer and all. If I can help you now, I will.”
“Thank you, Nora. If you think of anything else, please telephone me. Tell the operator you wish to be connected to Gull Manor.”
“I will, miss. You can be sure of that.”
* * *
Before I left Ochre Court, I used the telephone. Then I left Maestro and my carriage on the property in favor of walking over to Spring Street and taking the trolley into town. The street rail brought me to Broadway, where I alighted outside the hospital on Friendship Street.
My telephone call had established that Jesse hadn’t been released yet, and I must admit to a sense of relief that my visit would not take place in the intimacy of his home. He and I had never been alone in such a way, never unchaperoned by family and friends, or his fellow officers at the police station, or pedestrians on the street. Seeing Derrick and experiencing my reaction to him assured me now was not the time to encourage an understanding with Jesse.
The nurse manning the front desk waved me through and I went upstairs to the men’s ward. I found Hannah sitting at Dale’s bedside. His bandaged hand lay on top of the sheet. He appeared to be sleeping.
“How is he this morning?”
“In a lot of pain. The doctors are keeping him sedated.” She reached up to finger the edge of her starched linen nurse’s cap, then clutched her hands together in her lap. “We’re still not certain about the extent of the damage. Only time will tell.”
Fearing any assurances would sound hollow, I pressed her shoulder before moving down the aisle to Jesse’s bed. The grin he flashed at my approach faded as he correctly read my expression. He sat up, the covers drawn to his waist, a dressing gown secured over his nightshirt. Once I settled on the stool beside his bed, he asked me what I’d learned since last night.
One by one I reviewed each name Grace and I had discussed, along with their relationship to Cleo Cooper-Smith. He seemed particularly keen on learning more about Patrick Floyd, although not for the reason I might have thought.
“His wife died a year ago,” he mused aloud. “And he is well acquainted with both Cooper-Smith sisters.”
“Yes, a family friend. He stayed by Ilsa’s side during the ball because she isn’t able to dance.”
“Did he dance with Cleo?”
“Not that I saw, although Ilsa urged him to. She said she would enjoy watching him. She seemed rather enamored of him.”
Jesse’s chin tilted. “And he of her?”
“No, not that I observed. Kind and affectionate in a brotherly way, but I would not venture to say he returned her feelings, if indeed I read them correctly. Ilsa suffers from extreme curvature of the spine and can never have children. This makes marriage an unlikely prospect for her.”
“One never knows. Someday she might meet that rare man who either doesn’t wish to have children, or who has children from a first marriage.”
“I hope so. A guest last night, a Mrs. Lucinda Russell, made a comment that Ilsa’s coming-out ball should be next. This distressed Ilsa greatly, but it was what her sister said that drew tears. Cleo told Ilsa not to be tragic, not to be a martyr. Then she turned to Mr. Floyd with a comment about how wearisome Ilsa can be.”
“That’s hardly sisterly accord.”
“Yet Grace Wilson said they were close.” I frowned, trying to reconcile loving sisters with the cruel words Cleo had uttered. “I suppose sisters are apt to argue sometimes.”
“Especially when a man stands between them.”
My gaze, which had wandered to the window beside Jesse’s bed, darted back to his face. I saw nothing facetious or ironic in his expression. He had meant what he said.
I, however, couldn’t fathom such a thing. “Are you implying Ilsa killed her sister over Patrick Floyd?”
“It surely wouldn’t be the first time jealousy led to murder.”
“Oh, but—” My intended protest died unspoken. Ilsa had been in the drawing room yesterday afternoon, and had admitted to gaining entry on the sly. Cleo’s unkindness at the ball had driven Ilsa away—perhaps to be sure her plan to electrify the throne would work? I didn’t like having to do it, but I told Jesse what I had witnessed.
“And here I was thinking Patrick Floyd might have some connection to Cleo’s death,” I concluded, leaving the rest unspoken.
“And so he might, through Ilsa. And his wife . . . perhaps Ilsa wanted her gone as well. How did she die?”
“Gas inhalation. The flame on an open sconce had gone out sometime after she went to bed that night.”
“Or had been extinguished deliberately. I don’t suppose Miss Ilsa was in the Floyds’ house that night?”
“Not according to Grace. She told me some people suspected suicide, that Mrs. Floyd had caught her husband in a dalliance.” I told him about the argument Nora Taylor had overheard the morning before the ball.
“The net tightens,” he replied. When I cast him a quizzical glance, he explained, “Around Miss Ilsa.”
“We can’t assume Cleo’s argument was with her sister. As Nora pointed out, it might have been with her maid. She couldn’t hear clearly enough to make a positive identification, other than that Cleo argued with another woman. And then there is this.” I snapped open my bag and drew out the diamonds Grace had discovered in Cleo’s nightstand. I explained how this broken piece comprised the only bit of valuable jewelry she appeared to own.
He held it in his palm. “We’ll need to find the rest. It’s certainly possible this argument had to do with this.”
“Yes, but I can’t question Ilsa, not yet.”
“Give her a day or two. But no more. If she’s guilty, I want to keep her off her guard.”
The edge in his voice drew my scrutiny to his profile. The boyish features I’d become so familiar with and found so endearing were set and stony, almost cruel. I wondered why. This couldn’t be the first time he’d been wounded in the line of duty.
Perhaps not, I realized, but never before had he sustained an injury with the potential to end his career. A police detective without full use of his hands.... A seeping dread turned my insides cold. What if I could no longer ply my trade, and I lost not only my ability to earn the funds I needed to survive, not only my independence, but a thing I loved. Though I had not yet achieved my dream of reporting on hard news as Nellie Bly had done, journalism ran in my very veins, a vital part of who I was.
What and who would I be if that were taken from me? What and who would Jesse be?
I reached out and ever so gently placed my hand over his. He flinched convulsively, startling me, before visibly forcing himself to relax. He even attempted a smile, albeit an empty one. The hollow reassurances I hadn’t allowed myself to convey to Hannah now sprang from my lips. “You’ll be fine, Jesse. This is temporary. I’m sure the doctors—”
“The doctors can do nothing but wait,” he snapped. It was my turn to flinch. Remorse immediately softened his expression. His eyes darted down the ward to where Dale lay in his numbed torpor; to where Hannah sat staring adamantly down at him, willing him to heal. He lifted the hand I had touched, the fingers weak and trembling as they beckoned to me. “I’m sorry, Emma.”
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My fingers closed lightly around his, and for the briefest moment, their shaking stilled. “Don’t be.”
“Find out all you can about the sisters,” he said, the vulnerability of a moment ago gone, or at least hidden beneath his policeman’s exterior. I promised him I would, and promised to visit him again soon.
Chapter 6
I stopped at one of the local jewelers in town and showed him the diamonds. After studying the individual stones through his loupe, he confirmed the authenticity of the stones, declaring them of clear, quite good quality. He also agreed with the assessment that I had brought him a piece of a necklace, ruling out a bracelet due to the way the diamonds dangled from the chain connecting them. Beyond that, he could provide little insight, though he offered to repair the piece should the rest be found. I thanked him for his time and caught the eastbound trolley out of town.
Jesse’s haunted expression accompanied me as I went. His words did as well. I couldn’t bring myself to believe Ilsa had murdered her sister, but I did believe she might have information that could help expose Cleo’s killer. I believed their father had such information as well, based on his evasiveness at the ball. I found it odd he hadn’t been at Ochre Court earlier. Why hadn’t he been on hand to comfort Ilsa? Was he so distraught that he’d leave his remaining daughter alone in her grief?
I wanted to learn more about his connections to Silas Griggson, both business and personal. Did he hold Griggson responsible for the tenement collapse? Would he continue to design structures for Griggson’s company? Did he suspect, as I did, that Silas Griggson ordered the death of the foreman blamed for the incident?
If so, surely Randall Cooper-Smith could not have approved of his daughter marrying the man. I needed to speak with him, but the same constraints that kept me away from Ilsa prevented me from approaching her father, for now. But as Jesse had said, it helped to catch people off guard.
My visit to the hospital had supplied me with yet another reason to find Cleo’s killer. I fully believed both Dale and Jesse would recover—I had to believe it, as there was simply no fathoming the future otherwise. Jesse’s uncertainties and his shaking fingers spurred me on with wave after wave of anger. No one harmed those I cared about without fully reckoning with me.
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