And then I saw the card extended to me from between his thumb and forefinger. “This is where I am staying. I’d advise you to change your mind and contact me. This is not over, Miss Cross. And I’d advise you to have a care.” He shoved the card into my hand.
Despite the control I had maintained over my expression, he left me shaking in both fear and indignation. I glanced down at the card. An address had been handwritten, a location on Webster Street not far from Ochre Court. I flung the card to the sofa table. Then I hugged my arms around me and stood immobile, as if by moving I might set Mr. Griggson’s abominable plan in motion. The very thought of my precious Gull Manor being taken away from me, yanked from my grasp, made me almost physically ill. The rumble of his carriage down my drive snapped me from my inert state. Gathering my skirts, I ran through the house calling Nanny’s name, until I found her in the kitchen, and she wrapped her ample arms around me.
* * *
“Good morning, Miss Cross.” The next day, the Observer’s young delivery boy waved to me where I stood on my front step and skidded his bicycle to a stop. “Did you hear yet what’s happening over at The Elms?” he asked eagerly as he reached into his basket for my newspaper.
“Seeing as it’s only seven in the morning, Ronnie, no.” I took the rolled-up paper from him. He was obviously bursting with this latest news. “Why don’t you tell me about it?”
“I saw it with my own eyes as I was delivering papers along Bellevue,” he said in a rush. “More trouble with gas workers just like in town yesterday, except this time it was right on the sidewalk in front of The Elms.”
The Elms was no more than a construction site, a colossal, rectangular hole in the ground from which rose the skeletal steel beams that would support the future structure. Edward Berwind made his fortune in coal, was one of the richest men in America, and had made it no secret his new home would not only be among Newport’s largest, but would sport the latest in electrical innovation. So confident was he in the future of electricity, he ordered no backup systems, such as gas, installed. But the house would be dependent on no one for its power, for enormous coal furnaces, which would burn twenty-four hours a day, would generate the electricity on site.
“I would imagine gas workers are none too happy with Mr. Berwind’s plans for the house. But is he even there to hear their complaints?”
“Beats me, Miss Cross. But the electricians laying out the underground wiring are taking an awful tongue lashing from the others. And a few mud balls were tossed.”
“Oh, dear, this threatens to become ugly. Newporter against Newporter.” In fact, it almost sounded to me as if someone were instigating the trouble. I still maintained that gas would go nowhere, that it would remain an important source of power for the city. “Ronnie, did you by any chance notice Max Brentworth on hand? Do you know who he is?”
“I do, and now that you mention it, I did see him.”
I thought so. “What was he doing, exactly?”
Ronnie scrunched up his features as he thought about it. “Not much, that I saw. Just sort of standing around, watching. Sometimes he spoke to one or two of his workers.”
“I don’t suppose you overheard what they were talking about?”
“Well, not much. But I did hear him say he couldn’t stand around all morning, because he has an appointment at The Breakers at ten o’clock.”
My eyes opened wide. “The Breakers, you say?”
“That’s right. Then I had to move on.” He puffed up his chest. “I can’t be late delivering my papers, after all.”
“Indeed not, and I shouldn’t keep you any longer. Before you go, though, would you like one of Mrs. O’Neal’s buttermilk biscuits?”
His face lit up, and after leaning his bicycle against the house he hurried inside ahead of me.
After breakfast, I strolled to the edge of my property, out onto the narrow headland that was surrounded on three sides by the water. It was where I went to think, to sort out myriad threads that tangled in my mind. Max Brentworth had much to lose should gas power suddenly fall out of use. Instigating his workers to protest the building of a house powered solely by electricity might bring attention to the matter, might even cause some property owners to have second thoughts, but would hardly sway a man like Edward Berwind from his intentions.
But an accident—in this case the death of a young woman—would surely spread fear of the new technology through the populace. When it came to Cleo Cooper-Smith’s death, Mr. Brentworth had both motive and, perhaps, opportunity.
As did Silas Griggson. During the ball, he’d disappeared for a time; he might have rigged the wiring then. As for motive, I didn’t believe he would ever have become engaged to Cleo. Her aversion to him had been plain to see. Moreover, he had demonstrated his temper and his bullying tendencies when he threatened me in my own home because I refused to let him have his way. It didn’t take much to imagine such a man seeking revenge on Cleo for rejecting him.
Then there were the army officers, Dorian Norris and Sam Caldwell. Though, in truth, their links to Cleo were far more tenuous. If it weren’t for the coincidence of Oliver Kipp’s death and what I’d overheard at Fort Adams, I’d have dismissed them from all suspicion. But even if they had been somehow complicit in Oliver’s death, why kill Cleo as well? Had the pair known something that made them a liability?
Mrs. Kipp’s own words served to throw suspicion on her. She wished Cleo had died sooner, so that her son might still be alive. She could never have her wish, but did she have her revenge instead?
That left Camille, who for all appearances had stolen a valuable necklace from her mistress, and who might, according to the maid, Nora Taylor, have argued with Cleo on the morning of the ball.
My suspicions circled like the gulls searching for snacks out over the waves. I didn’t linger in the spray kicked up by the rocky promontory for long. After obliging Barney with a quick brushing down, I hitched Maestro to my carriage and set off for The Breakers.
Chapter 10
When I arrived at The Breakers shortly after ten o’clock, I left my carriage on the service driveway, near the children’s playhouse, and walked up to the house. When Theodore Mason, the butler long in the employ of Cornelius and Alice Vanderbilt, admitted me, voices rumbled from somewhere beyond the Great Hall. One of them sounded like the youngest Vanderbilt brother, Reggie. I hoped the other belonged to Max Brentworth of the Newport Gas Light Company. I questioned Mason about whether my aunt and uncle, Alice and Cornelius Vanderbilt, had arrived from New York.
“It’s not clear yet whether Mr. and Mrs. Vanderbilt will be coming up this year, miss.”
“Oh, dear.” My relatives loved this house, and no wonder. Built in the style of an Italian palazzo, it boasted ornate yet airy rooms and glorious views of the Atlantic Ocean. The Breakers had been designed to impress, to awe, perhaps even to intimidate, yet for those who knew its secrets, this was also a comfortable, cool, welcoming haven from the bustling world of New York and beyond. Cornelius and Alice would not stay away without very good reason. “Is Uncle Cornelius doing as badly as that?”
I expected him to summarily reassure me. He did not. “Mr. Vanderbilt is fighting his hardest to come back from his illness. He needs our prayers.”
“He has them. And every week I remind the congregation at St. Paul’s to keep him in theirs.” I gestured to the Great Hall. “Who is here, then? I believe I hear Reggie’s voice.”
Mason rolled his eyes a bit. “Yes, that’s Mr. Reginald. He and Mr. Brentworth of the gas company seem to be having a difference of opinion. The trouble is I believe Mr. Reginald’s opinions differ from his parents’ as well. Would you like me to announce you?”
“No, if it’s all right, I’ll just go on in. I’ll see if I can help settle their differences.”
As I climbed the carpeted steps from the vestibule into the Great Hall, I heard Mason murmur, “Good luck.”
I followed the voices across the Great Hall. The doors o
nto the loggia stood wide open, emitting ocean breezes that swept through the hall and were cooled by the marble floors and walls. The gentle bubbling of the indoor fountain, a delightful surprise beneath the main staircase, lent to the illusion created by the painted ceiling three stories high of this being an outdoor courtyard. I passed the fountain and entered the billiard room, where I found my younger cousin, Reggie, and Mr. Brentworth in what seemed a lively debate.
“It’s archaic and no longer needed,” Reggie was saying. He held a billiard cue in his hands, and in emphasis of his statement he loudly sent the cue ball skidding into a cluster of balls. No ball rolled into a pocket, and Reggie lined up his next shot. Clearly, this was not a friendly game between the two men, for Mr. Brentworth held no cue stick and watched my cousin with a perplexed look.
“Mr. Vanderbilt, your parents wanted both electricity and gas lighting for this house. You mother was explicit about it. While she appreciates the convenience of electricity, it is her opinion that people look their best by gas lighting and that is what she wishes for the affairs held here each summer.”
Reggie propelled the cue ball once again. It ricocheted off a bumper and went wide, missing the other balls. Reggie swore and straightened. “Yes, well, Mother won’t be holding her usual affairs here anymore, at least not in the near future, if ever. Don’t you know my father is laid up—”
“Reggie.” I stepped into the room, surprising both men. Reggie beamed at me.
“Hello, Em. It’s good to see you.” He hurried over to kiss my cheek, and when I removed my hat he took it from me and tossed it rather haphazardly onto a nearby sofa.
“I thought I’d stop by and see who had come up from the city. Is it only you?” Reggie nodded and I turned to the other man, extending a gloved hand. “You must be Mr. Brentworth, of the Newport Gas Light Company. I’m Emma Cross, Reggie’s cousin.”
I could see by his expression that being Reggie’s cousin didn’t do much to recommend me to him. “Very nice to meet you, Miss Cross. I believe, that is, don’t you own Gull Manor that used to belong to Miss Sadie Allan? I believe we installed the gas system originally, and have done maintenance on the place.”
I smiled my most brilliant smile. “Indeed, you are right. The lines are clear and working properly, thank you.”
Reggie returned to the billiard table and leaned to strike another ball. The force of his shot sent it bouncing off the cloth surface. With a clunk it landed, rolling, to strike another cluster. Two balls dropped into a corner pocket. “When are you going to electrify that old pile of stones you live in, Em?”
I didn’t miss the tightening of Mr. Brentworth’s mouth. So I hadn’t misunderstood as I’d entered the room, and neither had Mason been wrong when he said Reggie and Mr. Brentworth were experiencing a difference of opinion. But what was Reggie up to?
“Oh, I don’t know.” I smiled at Mr. Brentworth. “I’m not one for fixing what isn’t broken. Gas suits me perfectly fine.”
“If it’s the expense you’re worried about, I’m sure my parents would—”
I stopped Reggie right there with a “No, thank you.” Though my Vanderbilt relatives had shown me boundless generosity over the years, I remained careful of what I accepted from them. Their gardeners tended my property every so often, and they had equipped Gull Manor with a telephone. Living so far out of town, the device could potentially save a life, should one of us fall ill or have an accident. But I valued my independence, and though Aunt Alice and Uncle Cornelius wanted only the best for me, their definition of what was best didn’t always agree with mine.
“I’m fine with the way things are, Reggie,” I said.
“Suit yourself.” To Mr. Brentworth, he said, “You can schedule your blasted inspection if you want, but it’ll be a waste of time.”
“Really, Mr. Vanderbilt . . .”
“Reggie,” I interrupted, “are you actually proposing ripping out the gas system? Have you spoken to your parents about this?”
“I’ve taken charge of the house in their absence. Neily can’t, since Father won’t let him set foot on any of the properties, and Alfred is too busy running the New York Central. And now that Gertrude is married, she could care less about the place.”
I doubted that, but I was beginning to understand what fueled my cousin’s high-handedness when it came to managing the house in his parents’ absence. His eldest brother, Neily, had been the heir apparent until he angered his parents by marrying Grace Wilson. Before that, he had been entrusted with important family and business matters. Next in age, Alfred had taken Neily’s place, and following his father’s apoplexy two years ago, had stepped in as head of the New York Central Railroad, along with his uncles William and Frederick.
What, then, for young Reggie, who was no longer a child yet not quite an adult? His parents had never set high expectations for him. Perhaps, being the youngest son, he had been seen as a spare rather than an heir. They loved him, perhaps too much, and had allowed him more freedom than he knew how to use productively.
He tapped several more balls with varying results, and now positioned his cue for another shot. I circled the table to him and took the stick from his hands. “Reggie, you’re going against your mother’s wishes. If I were you, I’d let Mr. Brentworth do his job and stay out of it. You’ll be building your own house one of these days, and then you may do as you like.”
He made a face. I placed the cue back in his hands and turned aside, but not before catching a whiff of spirits. It didn’t surprise me. Reggie had been indulging in alcohol these past few years, beginning at far too young an age. I’d mentioned it to Neily once, but he had shrugged it off. Reggie was merely doing what many young men did, he told me. It would pass, nothing to worry about.
But worry about my young cousin, I did.
“Fine,” Reggie said at length. “Go talk to Mason about it.” With that he dismissed the hapless Mr. Brentworth, who hesitated a few feet beyond the billiard table with his hat in his hands.
I smiled at him again. “There then, Mr. Brentworth. You may schedule your inspections and any repairs and maintenance you deem necessary. I’m sure Mr. and Mrs. Vanderbilt are grateful for the personal attention you give to the safety of all who dwell beneath this roof.”
“I take my business seriously, Miss Cross.” He gave a little bow. Though I didn’t entirely doubt his word, I might have pointed out that he had never personally called on me at Gull Manor to schedule maintenance of any kind. In fact, it was up to me to make sure my own gas lighting system was kept in good order. But then, I was merely a cousin several times removed from the present Vanderbilt family.
Mr. Brentworth excused himself. Reggie gave him no acknowledgment, but as soon as the man disappeared into the Great Hall, he made another face and shook his head. “Desperate to keep us all dependent on his outmoded system.”
“Reggie, your mother did specify that she wanted both. I remember her saying so during the planning of the house.”
“Senseless. Why, do you know the Berwinds will have only electricity? Theirs will be the first house to do so. No stinking gas in their new cottage.”
“It doesn’t stink.”
“It does. What’s more, it turns the walls and ceilings black.”
“Not if it’s properly maintained, which is why Mr. Brentworth is here. I see no reason why you should be bullying the poor man.” I shook my head but smiled at the same time. “You’re growing more incorrigible by the minute, Reg. What you need is—”
“A motorcar,” he supplied with a bounce on his toes.
“I was going to say employment,” I corrected him, feeling a bit like a scolding, elderly aunt.
He scowled good-naturedly. “Pshaw on that idea. Have you heard about motorized carriages, Em? They’re coming soon, any day now, and I intend to be one of the first to have one. Just picture it, me racing around this island . . .”
“You’ll probably kill yourself and everyone in your path.” I spoke with laugh
ter. Reggie could be contrary, stubborn, imperious, and downright rude, but somehow he always retained a boyish enthusiasm that endeared him to those around him—most of us, at any rate. I wished I could remain stern with him, help him find a useful path in life. But he’d only laugh and tease me, and make me laugh in turn.
Though I would have liked to follow Mr. Brentworth and attempt to strike up a conversation with him as he made his notes for the maintenance to be scheduled, Reggie insisted I play a round of billiards with him. I hadn’t the talent for it, and though I managed to sink a few balls into the pockets, he beat me easily. He offered me some of the same libation he was enjoying, but I declined. I had little taste for whiskey or brandy, unless it was a few drops in a strong cup of tea.
While we played, I decided to take advantage of an opportunity and ask him some questions. “Did you know Oliver Kipp?”
He glanced up from aligning his next shot. “Ollie? Sure. We were at St. Paul’s together in Concord.” I nodded as he said this. All the Vanderbilt boys were educated at St. Paul’s Academy in New Hampshire, and from there went on to Yale. Neily and Alfred had excelled in their studies at St. Paul’s. Reggie’s performance had been rather less spectacular. “We ran in different circles, though. He’s a couple of years older than me.”
“Was,” I corrected him.
“Oh, right.” He straightened and leaned his cue stick against the table. “Poor Ollie. I heard what happened. Poor devil just couldn’t handle the pressure, I guess.” He wrinkled his nose. “Didn’t seem like him, to freeze up like that.”
“No? What was he like?”
“Steady. Logical. He was bookish, you know. Wanted to be a military lawyer.”
“Oftentimes bookish men don’t have the stamina for battle.”
“Like you would know?” He laughed as I conceded his point, then sobered. “You’re right, though, from what I’ve heard. But Ollie wasn’t the nervous type. There was nothing reckless about him. I don’t think he ever made a move without thinking it through first. Like I said, he was steady. The kind of man who would make a good officer and attorney.”
Murder at Ochre Court Page 14
