Murder at Ochre Court

by Alyssa Maxwell

  “She didn’t. The tableau vivant was Cleo’s idea. And Mama went along with it because she promised Cleo’s mother she’d do her best by the sisters.” Her lips pursed regretfully. “For Cleo, at any rate. There wasn’t a coming-out for Ilsa, for obvious reasons. It would only have served to emphasize her lack of prospects.”

  Yes, poor Ilsa. But Cleo’s insistence on a Cleopatra-themed tableau vivant seemed to confirm my theory that the Cooper-Smiths had been intent on hiding their penury until Cleo had secured an engagement. Yet she had issued a direct cut to Silas Griggson’s attentions, a man who could have made her richer than many wives of the Four Hundred. Which in turn led me back to my theory that the Cooper-Smiths, and perhaps Cleo personally, had something to fear from Silas Griggson.

  * * *

  When I returned to the terrace, Grace handed Corneil to a maid who in turn tucked him into a wicker pram, thickly padded and lined in satin. Grace stood. “Come with me. We’ll see if Ilsa is feeling up to speaking with you.” Once we reentered the house, she grasped my forearm and spoke quietly. “I asked my sister about Cleo’s gowns, and yes, she most certainly did pay for them. She seemed reluctant to discuss it further so I didn’t press her. But it’s safe to assume the Cooper-Smiths have found themselves in reduced circumstances.”

  “Thank you, Grace.”

  When we reached Ilsa’s door on the second floor, Grace knocked softly, then retreated down the corridor. Ilsa seemed surprised to see me, but invited me inside. I expressed my sympathies and inquired after her health, and asked if there was anything I could do for her. Her replies were gracious and subdued. She looked pale and drained, as though she hadn’t slept in days, which, understandably, she might not have. She offered me a seat and refreshment. I accepted the former, declined the latter.

  “I’ve been asking questions concerning your sister’s passing because I care very much about the truth of what happened,” I said as we made ourselves comfortable in the sitting area of her bedroom. “Some of the answers have led me back here, to you.”

  “What kind of questions have you been asking, Miss Cross?” Though she had seemed calm enough at first, now her hands worked convulsively, clutching one moment, fidgeting with her skirts the next, only to then grip the arms of her chair. “I don’t understand. I know you are a reporter, but . . .”

  I leaned toward her, speaking quietly. “Ilsa, I know the man, the electrician, who has been blamed for your sister’s death.” She compressed her lips, frowning, and I hastened to reassure her. “I wish to see your sister laid to rest with no lingering questions about how she died. As I was saying, I know Dale Hanson quite well. I’ve been acquainted with him my whole life. He is not an irresponsible person, or a heavy drinker, or inept at his profession. I do not believe he is responsible.”

  “Then . . . who?” Again, her hands fluttered and fussed. “And how can I help you? I have no idea what happened. How could I?”

  I responded diplomatically, not wishing to unduly distress her. “Perhaps you know more than you think. I would like to help you remember everything you might have observed before and since the night of the ball.”

  “Oh . . . all right.” Her fingers twisted together.

  “When you and I first met, you were in the ballroom. What were you doing there?”

  “I told you at the time. I was making sure everything would be perfect for Cleo.”

  I nodded as if I had merely been refreshing my memory. “And while you were in the drawing room and ballroom, did anyone else come in? Besides me, of course.”

  “No one. I was alone the entire time.”

  “Did you go up onto the dais?”

  “I did. I wanted to be sure the Edison bulbs were placed just so, to show off Cleo to her best advantage. And the flowers, of course. I wanted to make sure they were fresh.”

  “How afterward, you left the ball somewhat early, before the tableau. Where did you go?”

  Her mouth turned down as she no doubt remembered Mrs. Russell’s unkind words, and how her sister failed to come to her rescue. She murmured, “I went up to my room for a bit.”

  “And when you came back down . . . ?”

  “It was time for the tableau. I went into the drawing room along with everyone else.” She sighed. “You see, Miss Cross—”

  “Emma, please.”

  “You see, Emma, I never saw anything out of the ordinary. I don’t think I can help you at all.”

  She stood up, her uneven gait taking her to the window. Looking out, she fiddled with the edge of the curtain. I spoke to her back. “Ilsa, can you tell me if your sister had ever shown an interest in Lieutenant Dorian Norris? You know who he is, don’t you?”

  She spun about as quickly as her infirmity would allow. “Of course I know Lieutenant Norris. He and Oliver went to war together. And before that, his family attended many of the same events as my family. What do you mean, did Cleo ever show an interest? As in wishing to marry him?”

  I nodded even though that hadn’t been my exact meaning. I watched the effect this notion had on her. She seemed utterly taken aback. Had Mr. Griggson been lying in his claim about a dalliance between Dorian and Cleo? Or had Dorian’s illicit attempts to meet with Camille confused Mr. Griggson into believing he’d been trysting with Cleo? Ilsa’s next words seemed to suggest so.

  “Cleo never paid him any special attention that I noticed.”

  “Before he went off to the war, Oliver and your sister broke off their liaison.”

  Ilsa sighed again, this time deeper, laden with regret. “Yes, they did.”

  “Are you sure it had nothing to do with the lieutenant?”

  “She never mentioned him. Never met him anywhere on her own. I’d have known, Emma. She and I were close. She wouldn’t have kept something like that from me.”

  “Wouldn’t she? Even if she felt guilty for rejecting one man in favor of another?”

  Ilsa adamantly shook her head. “She wouldn’t have had any opportunity to sneak off and meet anyone without my knowing.” She limped back to her chair and sank heavily into it. A pang of guilt struck me. These questions were draining what little stores of stamina she possessed. But for Cleo’s sake, and for Dale’s, I had no choice but to persist.

  “Were you angry with her for anything?” I alluded, of course, to those unkind words of Cleo’s, and also to how so much attention centered on Cleo, with few if any expectations raised on Ilsa’s behalf. Why wouldn’t she have resented her sister? It was a risky question, and I braced for her to lash out and protest her innocence in her sister’s death. Her reply astonished me.

  “Yes, I was angry with her. More than that. I was incensed with her.”

  Chapter 11

  “She never should have broken it off with Oliver,” Ilsa continued. I let go the breath I’d been holding, having been almost certain I’d been about to hear a confession. “Cleo did him an ill turn, Emma, and he didn’t deserve it. Perhaps he’d be alive now if only Cleo hadn’t spurned his affections.”

  Hearing her echo Mrs. Kipp’s sentiments, it took me a moment to recover from my astonishment and find my voice. “Surely there must have been a good reason for her actions. Perhaps they argued, or they merely didn’t suit.”

  “Oliver would never have argued with my sister. He was a gentleman, always.”

  “Could he have been the one to break it off?” I asked, remembering what Dorian Norris had said about the matter.

  “Oliver? Never. He loved my sister, I know he did. And believe me, they suited better than Cleo and that awful Mr. Griggson.”

  On that I couldn’t have agreed more. But if Oliver hadn’t broken it off, as Dorian claimed, there had to be some logical reason for Cleo’s actions. Oliver was a gentleman in the social sense, an officer—or would have been if he hadn’t dropped out of West Point—and though his family fortune came nowhere close to that of my relatives or the Goelets, he was wealthy enough. A young woman like Cleo Cooper-Smith, with a limited dowry, wouldn’t
squander a marriage opportunity like that without good cause. I simply couldn’t shake the notion of her affections having strayed from Oliver to someone else.

  “Ilsa, could Robert Goelet have won your sister’s affections?”

  “Robert?” She let out a laugh. “Oh, Robert is nice enough and will be wildly wealthy when he comes of age, but no. First of all, he was too young for my sister. Secondly, he barely noticed Cleo, or me for that matter.”

  “Are you sure?” I didn’t want to betray Miss Goelet’s confidence, so I didn’t allude to where I’d gotten the notion.

  “Completely. Cleo certainly never mentioned him, not in that way.”

  Miss Goelet must have been mistaken, or perhaps had allowed her imagination to run away with her. I didn’t doubt, given that she hadn’t held Cleo in the highest regard, that she might have been overprotective of her brother’s interests.

  If not Robert or Dorian Norris, then who . . . ?

  Patrick Floyd, the family friend? Jesse had suggested perhaps both sisters were in love with him, had fought over him. Mr. Floyd might have led them both on. Meanwhile, his own wife might have committed suicide after discovering her husband’s unfaithfulness.

  I put the question to Ilsa.

  “Patrick?” Her breath caught in her throat and her complexion burned hotter than a candle flame. She pushed unsteadily to her feet and stumbled, prompting me to jump up from my seat and offer my hand to her. She found her balance without my help and limped again to the window. “No, indeed not. Cleo and Patrick? What a silly notion.”

  I followed her to the window, where she stood with one hand pressed to the mullioned panes, the other clutching the neckline of her dress. At the ball, I had seen her adoring looks at Patrick, the depth of feeling in her eyes. At the time I had believed that affection to be all on her side, with Patrick feeling for her only the regard of a brother. Her reaction to my question now brought on a new theory and I placed a hand on her misaligned shoulder. “Ilsa, I do believe one of the Cooper-Smith sisters has been involved with Mr. Floyd, but I no longer think it was Cleo.”

  She said nothing for a long moment, but I felt her trembling beneath my hand. And then she turned and was suddenly in my arms, sobbing wildly.

  “Oh, Miss Cross. Oh, Emma. I’ve been wicked, so very wicked. I never meant to harm Matilda. Never meant for her to . . .”

  Harm her how? Jesse had also wondered if Ilsa had been at the Floyd home the night Matilda died—the night the gas line had been left open with no flame. Could Ilsa have done such a thing to rid herself of her rival for Patrick’s heart?

  Her tears flowed unhindered, and with her in such a state I could do nothing but stroke her back and murmur soothing phrases. But good heavens, she had had an affair with a married man? Even though I had guessed as much, hearing her admit it shocked me to my core. When her distress began to subside, I led her back to our chairs, pulling mine closer so I could hold her hand.

  “How long?”

  She sniffed and wiped the backs of her hands across her eyes. “Since about two months before Matilda . . . before she . . .”

  “Died,” I said gently.

  “Yes, but we never did anything You must believe me. I mean, we went for walks, we read books together, we held hands . . . nothing more.”

  I wished to believe her. I found nothing worldly or fallen in her manner, nothing but an innocent woman-child who was desperate to be loved and valued. She proved that with her next words.

  “No one before Patrick had ever cared for me. And he does, Emma. He still does, though since Matilda’s passing he has kept a distance, out of respect. He didn’t wish ill on her either. It’s just that they married young and had nothing in common. He tried but he could not make her happy. She had become erratic and melancholy.”

  “Did he make you promises back then, while his wife still lived?”

  “No, not then. But more recently. Someday soon, he and I will be together.”

  I wagered he had promised her that, and more. I wondered what game he played at. The fact that he hadn’t yet taken Ilsa’s virtue did little to endear him to me. In my opinion, turning his affections to one woman while married to another made a mockery of both of them.

  Had he used Ilsa to be rid of a wife who had grown burdensome? Perhaps, but even that despicable action suggested no reason why he would have murdered Cleo. I only wished I could say the same about Ilsa.

  Once more composed, she went into the bathroom to wash her face. I used the opportunity to ring for tea. It arrived quickly, almost as if it had been ready and waiting—had Grace predicted the necessity for it? Meanwhile, I considered everything she had said so far, and compared it to what I remembered from her sister’s ball. A thing or two puzzled me. I waited until Ilsa had drunk about half of her cup of tea, speaking of light matters until I deemed her restored enough to continue with my questions. If the previous ones had been difficult for her, these promised to leave her distraught.

  But they had to be asked.

  “Ilsa,” I ventured slowly, “I couldn’t help but notice, during the ball, that your sister wasn’t always kind to you.”

  She looked up at me in surprise. “What do you mean?”

  Was she deliberately playing the innocent, hoping to disconcert me? “I’m thinking specifically of the incident with Mrs. Russell.”

  “Mrs. Russell?” Her chin tilted, but then righted as she took on a look of comprehension. “She was not very kind to me.”

  “I certainly agree with you. She was most unkind. But your sister, forgive me for saying, did not exactly come to your defense.”

  “Well . . .” I watched closely as she groped for a response. She crossed her feet, then quickly uncrossed them and set them flat on the floor. “Sisters often argue. Do you have a sister, Emma?”

  “No, only a brother.”

  “But surely you know that when siblings argue, nothing very serious is meant by it.”

  “True, in most cases. But . . .” I chose my words carefully. “You and Cleo weren’t arguing that I saw. Mrs. Russell’s thoughtlessness hurt you, and your sister compounded the offense by making light of the situation.”

  I braced, expecting a fresh round of tears. However, Ilsa merely stared down at her lap. “My sister was right. I should not allow the words of others, however hurtful, to daunt me.”

  “But you were daunted.” I thought back to the incident, and made a realization. “You didn’t walk off in tears because of what Mrs. Russell said. It was what your sister said that sent you from the ballroom.”

  She had begun shaking her head before I’d quite finished the comment. “No, it had nothing to do with Cleo. It was Mrs. Russell.”

  “Ilsa, had you and Cleo argued that day? Had she been unkind to you earlier?”

  “No, never. She was always so good to me.”

  “Was she? Or did she apportion her kindness out of obligation, as one does to a relative for whom one feels little true affinity?”

  “What a terrible thing to say.” She placed her cup and saucer on the table beside us and pushed to her feet.

  Knowing she was about to demand I leave, I hurried to make my point. “Someone argued with your sister that morning, loud enough to be overheard through the walls.”

  “Who says we argued? Was it Camille? Cleo yelled at her that morning. I heard them.”

  “Never mind about your lady’s maid. Did you and your sister argue?”

  “Are you accusing me . . .” She trailed off and gulped, and sank back into her chair. Her head drooped, and then moved up and down several times. “We did, Emma. We argued frightfully that morning. It was because I was feeling so drained, and I told her I might not be able to be present through all the festivities ahead of us.” She looked up at me, her eyes once more awash. “You can’t understand how exhausting it is, having my condition. Simply standing, holding myself as straight as I can, is as taxing as a hard day’s labor.”

  I nodded my sympathy, if not my und
erstanding, for she was correct. Having always enjoyed robust health, I could not fully appreciate her plight.

  “She told me I was being selfish, that I should wear my brace as my physician recommended. That I was just making excuses. Oh, but Emma, the brace hurts. It makes things worse. Cleo said I was being difficult and called me a martyr that morning, and when she said it again that night . . .”

  I reached over and patted her hand. “Ilsa, tell me again what you were doing in the drawing room that afternoon, when Mrs. Goelet gave specific orders that no one be allowed into the room.”

  “I told you.” Her gaze wandered from mine. “I wanted to make certain everything was ready.”

  “Is that really all?”

  Her breathing became more rapid, and she shrank down into her chair. “I . . .” Her brow creased. “Oh, all right. Perhaps it was petty of me, but I wanted to know what it would be like.”

  “Being up on the dais that evening,” I guessed.

  She nodded. “Having all the attention, feeling like a queen. Like Cleopatra. But I’m no queen, am I? Just as Cleo’s name suggests ancient Egyptian royalty, mine suggests exactly what I am. Ilsa—ill. How apt, as if my parents had glimpsed the future and seen what I would become.”

  Was I finally learning the truth about the sisters’ relationship? “No, Ilsa. Your name is lovely. You mustn’t think that. But it upset you, didn’t it, Cleo always having all the attention?”

  “It wasn’t just the attention.” She sounded like a plaintive child. “It was all the expectations that went along with it. Everyone predicted a glorious future for her. Mother asked Mrs. Goelet to see to Cleo’s marriage, but she made no such request for me. ‘Poor Ilsa, she’ll need to be taken care of for the rest of her life.’ First Father, then Cleo. Yes, it was expected that I’d spend my life in some corner of Cleo’s home like a poor, maidenly aunt. Only, Cleo’s not here anymore to take me in, is she?”

  “It angered you to be seen that way, didn’t it?” I asked quietly, and with as much sympathy as I could muster. And I was sympathetic. But I was also very nearly holding my breath again as I waited to discover just how angry Ilsa had been with her sister.