His gaze, direct, piercing, and unused to apologizing for anything, pinned itself to me. “This is one matter unsuitable for a lady’s ears. I wouldn’t wish to unduly distress Miss Cross.”
After all else he’d been willing to elucidate about the war, he suddenly worried about my delicate sensibilities? And yet, this neither surprised nor frustrated me, for I’d fully expected to be dismissed at some point.
I had my response ready. “I thank you for your consideration, Colonel. Perhaps Mr. Andrews will be so kind as to provide me with the pertinent details later?”
Derrick played his part equally well. “I should be happy to share anything you find important to your article, Miss Cross, minus the more harrowing details.”
“Thank you.” I raised my chin to the colonel. “Would it be permissible for me to stroll along the parade and observe the goings-on? I believe my readers would be thoroughly fascinated by the workings of such a large fortress.”
“Indeed, Miss Cross, if you’ll be mindful of keeping out of the way.” John Astor fingered his mustache as he peered down the parade. “I believe you’ll find my own battalion drilling near the south end.”
“Oh, how fortuitous. I should very much like to observe their formations. Thank you, Colonel.” With that I swept away, but not before the slightest of winks at Derrick. Fortuitous, indeed; I had hoped the colonel’s pride would extend to wishing to see a full write-up about his men in the Herald. I would not disappoint him, but neither would I be disappointed in my journey here today, or so I hoped as I made the long walk down the field.
I didn’t need to ask anyone to point out the Astor Battery, for I recognized Captain Samuel Caldwell barking orders to the perfect rows of soldiers before him. I watched and waited, taking notes here and there, until the captain finally called out for the soldiers to be at ease. Fearing he might walk off the field, I hurried over to him, raising more than a few eyebrows and speculative titters among the ranks.
“Why, Miss Cross!” He seemed genuinely pleased to see me. He shook my hand in a light, gentlemanly grip. “What are you doing here?”
“Have you forgotten my position at the Herald? I’m here to inspect the troops, if I may.” I let my smile fade and took on a more somber tone. “How are you, Captain, after so tragic an occurrence at Ochre Court?”
“I should be asking you that question, Miss Cross. It was a terribly sad business at the ball the other night.”
“Yes, and if I allow myself to dwell on the particulars, Captain Caldwell, I’m not very well at all. But Miss Cooper-Smith was your friend. You knew her much better than I.”
He hesitated over that assessment, and then nodded. “She will be greatly missed.”
“Tell me, are your families connected? Did you and she grow up together?”
He again seemed slightly flustered, before offering a sad smile. “Most of the New York families share a long history together. Cleo and I had only a passing acquaintance as young boys and girls will do, but I certainly considered her one of ours, if you see what I mean.”
“I believe I do. I’m so very sorry for your loss.”
“Uh . . . thank you.” A frown gathered between his brows. I sensed his growing discomfort as he asked, “Is there something I can do for you?”
“Oh, yes. Forgive me for suddenly appearing out of the blue like this. I came with a colleague in the newspaper business, who is right now interviewing Colonel Astor about his experiences in the war.” I slipped my pencil and notepad from my handbag. “I thought perhaps I might ask you a few questions as well, if it wouldn’t be too impertinent of me.”
“Impertinent? Not at all, Miss Cross.” A pink hue suffused his cheeks.
“Splendid. Tell me about the battalion, then. Oops!” I dropped my pencil, and watched Captain Caldwell bend over to retrieve it. He did so with his right hand. I didn’t suspect the young man of being involved in Cleo’s death, but even so I was glad to rule out as many people as possible.
“Thank you so much.” I gestured with the end of the pencil. “I see that Colonel Astor has given you great responsibility and authority with his soldiers.”
As men will do when talk turns to their particular prowess, he warmed to the discussion and provided me with the inner workings of the military unit, which I found fascinating. As we talked, another officer strolled over to us. I recognized him from Ochre Court, as he had been one of Colonel Astor’s circle of acquaintances, as well as having assumed the part of an Egyptian guard during the tableau. I looked inquiringly at Captain Caldwell, hoping for an introduction. He didn’t disappointment me.
“My fellow officer, Lieutenant Dorian Norris.”
I allowed the newcomer to take my hand. “A pleasure,” I said, and he smoothly returned the compliment. I knew the name Norris. His family was an old one, with a fortune that had originated in fur trading early in the last century. We again exchanged condolences about Miss Cooper-Smith, while I also noted that both officers wore their swords on their left sides—an indication of right-handedness.
After a very few minutes, I broached the subject I truly wished to discuss. “I understand several of your comrades did not return from Cuba . . .” They obliged me by mentioning several names, speaking in reverent tones of heroics and sacrifice. One name in particular was not mentioned, however, until I brought him up myself. “Oliver Kipp was among them, wasn’t he? Hadn’t he been engaged to Miss Cooper-Smith? It’s difficult to fathom such tragedy surrounding two young people with seemingly bright futures ahead of them.”
A glance darted between them, and I sensed a wall rising between us. I hastened to breach it. “Perhaps I misunderstood their intentions. Mrs. Kipp seemed to imply they had formed an attachment. I do wish to have my facts straight before I return to New York.” My implication, of course, was that I intended to include details about the pair in my articles for the Herald. If they in turn assumed I would devise such details to suit the voracious appetites of my readers, so much the better. I waited for them to correct any misconceptions they believed I had formed.
The younger of the two, Lieutenant Norris, tugged his sleeves lower and cleared his throat. “That was true, yes. For a time. But before we all signed up with Astor’s Battery, Oliver ended things with Cleo. At least, that’s what I’d heard at the time. I myself was not privy to the confidences of either of them.”
“He ended it?” My surprise was genuine. According to Mrs. Kipp, Cleo had broken Oliver’s heart. Had Oliver spread a different story among his male friends to save face? “Is it true he dropped out of West Point to sign up?”
Sam Caldwell compressed his lips and nodded. “It was all quite sudden and surprising. Oliver might have attained the rank of captain had he finished his studies and training, but I suppose the call to serve his country in the war proved irresistible for him. As for Miss Cooper-Smith, they certainly seemed as attached as any couple I’ve known, so yes, it astonished me when they halted their plans.”
I noticed Lieutenant Norris nodding in agreement as the captain spoke, suggesting both men had known Oliver Kipp well enough to be familiar with his personal life.
“One wonders, then, if perhaps events beyond their control separated the pair,” I said with a pensive tilt of my head, “since by all accounts it appears the couple had been very much in love.”
Lieutenant Norris frowned. “Why all these questions about Oliver Kipp, Miss Cross?”
“Anyone connected with Miss Cooper-Smith is of interest, Lieutenant.”
“We thought you were here to inquire about the war,” the lieutenant persisted.
“And Astor’s Battery,” Captain Caldwell added.
“And so I am. But the stories are connected, aren’t they? After all, Oliver Kipp died a hero’s death on the battlefield of Santiago, did he not? My readers will appreciate anything you gentlemen can tell me about that.”
Yet another look skipped between them, and Captain Caldwell blanched.
“I . . . uh . . .” He
absently touched the brim of his cap. “I didn’t exactly see what happened.”
“But you were there. You must have heard from others what happened,” I coaxed him. I turned to the other young man. “What about you, Lieutenant? Did you witness what happened?”
“I’m afraid not,” he said stiffly. “In the midst of battle, all is confusion and smoke, noise and desperation. And . . . the death of a comrade is painful to speak about. I’m sure you can understand that, Miss Cross.”
His sudden hostility, though subtle, was nonetheless palpable. I nodded and lowered my gaze. “I do. But I am not wrong, am I? Oliver Kipp died a hero?”
“Of course he did. If you’ll excuse me, Miss Cross, I must return to the men.” Sam Caldwell tipped his hat to me and strode away. As he reached the men he shouted an order that quickly returned them to formation.
“I suppose I should let you go as well, Lieutenant,” I said to the other man. He was looking past me, his attention diverted to somewhere along the fort’s south wall.
“Excuse me, Miss Cross.” Before I could reply, he set off at a brisk pace. I turned to follow him with my gaze, and realized I was not the only woman to visit Fort Adams today.
Chapter 7
Although officers and their families enjoyed residences at the fort, I immediately saw that this newcomer was no officer’s wife. In fact, even from a distance I recognized her—from Ochre Court.
The woman in the sensible dark dress carried a basket over one arm, and as Lieutenant Norris reached her, she moved aside a colorful fabric drape. He took something from the basket—a baked good of some sort, I surmised—held it beneath his nose, and took a bite. The woman laughed, the sound barely reaching me. Arm in arm, they turned to stroll along the edge of the parade, until they blended into the shadows and commotion of the south wall.
I might not have given the matter a second thought, except the woman in question served as lady’s maid to none other than Ilsa Cooper-Smith, as well as Cleo, before she died. I had encountered her in passing several times on the day of the ball, though we had not had occasion to converse.
A lady’s maid visiting an officer of good family? Perhaps Ilsa sent her here with treats for the soldiers. That seemed unlikely, under the circumstances. Besides, they were walking arm in arm. Though common sense declared her appearance here too much of a coincidence to be connected with Cleo’s death, I reminded myself that I had waited a day to come to Fort Adams for exactly that reason.
Deciding to follow them, I hurried in their direction. True, I’d lost sight of them in the deep shadows and steady stream of soldiers, but I trusted I would come upon them shortly. I had my excuse at the ready: I had seen Miss Ilsa’s maid and wished to convey a message to her.
Except that I didn’t come upon them. When I reached the area where I believed I’d find them, they were nowhere in sight. Several doorways entered the three-story structure. I judged which of them had mostly likely been their destination and ventured inside. Cool, damp darkness closed around me. I blinked as my eyes grew accustomed to the scant light. Several corridors fanned away in different directions. Several soldiers hurried along one of them, and I appealed to one of them for assistance.
“Excuse me, I suppose I shouldn’t be here, but I’m looking for a lieutenant and a young woman.”
He looked scandalized. “You must be mistaken. There shouldn’t be any young women in this part of the fort, ma’am. Yourself included, if you’ll excuse me for saying. It’s not safe. You’d best go along now.”
“Yes, thank you. I’ll go . . .” Luckily, he breezed by me and kept going, apparently trusting me to retrace my steps. I most assuredly did not, but ventured deeper into the building, lured on by the very sort of voices I shouldn’t have been hearing, according to my helpful soldier.
They were little more than whispers, but I heard enough to identify one as male, the other as female. Were they merely the endearments of circumspect lovers? That I couldn’t say, for the actual words disintegrated as they traveled the stony corridors.
As I went, the sounds of the bustling fort began to fade, and I realized I must be in a little used area during the day, or perhaps not meant to be used except in times of siege. I remembered from my youthful foray here with my father that Fort Adams was not only the largest, but one of the most impenetrable fortresses ever built. I believed myself to be in the southeast quadrant, where a system of tunnels, bastions, ditches, and tenailles rendered invasion virtually impossible.
Led on by the whispers, I passed several doorways and forks. The seeping chill told me I was descending deeper into the bowels of the structure, and I was grateful I’d worn my somber skirt and jacket rather than a summer frock. Once again, I stopped to listen and this time heard nothing but the whoosh of air rushing through the subterranean byways and the occasional drip-drip of moisture. I had obviously gone too far and turned to make my way back. Proceeding at a confident pace, I reached a second fork. Here I hesitated. From which way had I come?
I had no inkling, and so chose the one I believed most likely correct and hoped for the best. It wasn’t long, however, before the increasing damp and cold dashed those hopes. Worse, the tunnel narrowed, the ground roughened, and the ceiling dropped until I had to hunch or risk hitting my head on the arching stonework. I turned around again, only to find myself in yet another cramped space whose walls stretched into utter darkness.
My heart began to pound in my throat and reverberate against my temples. Images of crypts formed in my mind, of being trapped beneath stone and earth, cut off from light and air. I was well and truly lost within this maze, and I had no one to blame but my own stubborn foolishness.
Or did I? It occurred to me that I might have been lured here. Had Lieutenant Norris and Ilsa’s maid seen me pursuing them? Had they led me deep beneath the fort with their whispers, only to double back themselves and leave me to wander aimlessly?
But surely, surely the way could not be so impossible. Men were sent down here, and they returned to the daylight, didn’t they? So did my common sense reassure me as I pressed my hands to my bosom to calm my erratic heart.
In an attempt to gain my bearings, I stood motionless and held my breath, for even that slight sound created deafening echoes in the confined space. And then I heard the voices again—except no, these were different. No longer did the high tones of a woman make their way to me, but instead the rumbling murmurs of two men. How could that be? I heard nothing else: no footsteps, no rustlings or other noises to suggest they were somewhere close by. Only their voices, hissing and hollow, flowing with the air that continually swept the tunnels.
As my eyes further adjusted to this more profound darkness, a hint of light formed several yards ahead of me. I went to it to discover a shaft, high on the wall where it met the arched ceiling. The light remained negligent at best, but fresh air brushed my cheeks. Such shafts must be a regular occurrence along the tunnels; hence the ever-flowing air. At least I would not suffocate.
Another memory came to me, and suddenly I realized I had stumbled down into Fort Adams’s ingenious listening tunnels, a little known defense system wherein anyone positioned here would be able to hear the enemy attempting to breach the outworks.
Still, I should not be able to hear anything as subtle as conversation, yet the voices continued to travel down the shaft. They must be directly above me, then, in the tenaille between the outer walls. Once more holding my breath, I stood on tiptoe and tilted my head to place my ear as close to the shaft as I could reach. Instinct prodded me to call out for help, but another tendency, honed by my experiences over the past three years, cautioned me to remain silent and listen. It proved the better course.
“Stop worrying, will you?” Anger punctuated the command. “You’ll . . . into trouble.”
“. . . questions . . . lead to no good.”
“She’s . . . to ask questions. Doesn’t matter.”
“Too close . . .”
I clenched my teeth in fr
ustration. Who stood above me? What were they discussing?
“No one . . . expose the truth . . . besides . . . accident . . .” The anger had left this voice, replaced by a placating tone.
“Suppose . . . she does . . .”
“. . . Won’t, I tell you . . . promise . . . if you’ll . . . keep silent.”
The voices faded, and I heard nothing more, not even their footsteps although I assumed they had left the immediate area. Who were they? Sam Caldwell and Dorian Norris? I had visibly agitated them with my questions about Oliver Kipp’s death. Had that been what one of the voices termed an accident? At the same time, however, there had been another reference to the truth, which negates the notion of an accident.
Or could they—whoever they were—have been talking about Cleo’s death, or something else entirely? What other accidents had occurred recently? I could think of none significant enough to send two soldiers seeking the privacy of a grassy tenaille between the battlements. Had something happened here, at the fort? And about whom were they speaking when one of them mentioned a she, and questions? Me?
With such answers unlikely to appear to me out of the cool, inky dampness, I once more set my attentions on remaining calm and finding my way out. While I searched, I could not have said how much time passed. On the one hand, panic crouched inside me like a wild dog ready to spring, while on the other, the voices echoed over and over again in my mind as I tried in vain to sort out their meaning.
Forcing myself to stay calm and pay closer attention to the minute changes in the elevation of the hard-packed earth beneath my feet, I found it possible to plot a course upward and, I prayed, outward. Which is not to say frequent dips and sudden changes in direction didn’t threaten to drown me in despair. I kept on until a far-off glimmer of daylight prompted me to suck in a great gulp of air and hasten my steps.
I emerged winded, stumbling, and blinded by the sunlight. I didn’t care. Relief flowed through me like my uncle Cornelius’s finest brandy, deliciously soothing while at the same time fortifying. The grass beneath my feet might as well have been the most luxurious of carpets.
Murder at Ochre Court Page 10
