She didn’t hold back. “Yes, I was angry. At times, furious. Before this happened to me”—she indicated her torso with a brusque flourish of her hand—“I was the prettier child. The more charming child. Everyone said so. I had the attention, Emma.”
“I was struck by your beauty the first time we met,” I told her truthfully. She blinked and darted her glance away again. “What did you do before I found you in the ballroom?”
She shrugged. “I walked up onto the dais, sat on Cleo’s throne, pretended”—she swallowed—“pretended I was her, gazing out on a room full of admirers.”
“Did you touch anything?”
“I couldn’t help touching a thing or two. The throne, the flowers.” Her gaze caught mine sharply. “What are you implying? That I . . . ? That’s absurd. I wouldn’t have the first notion of how to rig the wires. None whatsoever.”
While on the surface that seemed true, how could I know how much of the electrical work Ilsa might have witnessed? Had the drawing room been kept locked at all times during the preparations? Surely the doors must have been open—from the hall, from the terrace—to allow the equipment and decorations to be brought in. No, I guessed it wasn’t until all had been made ready that Mrs. Goelet had sealed off the rooms to preserve them in their perfect state for the evening’s entertainments.
And then I realized she hadn’t denied the possibility based on her love for her sister, but rather on her lack of technical knowledge needed to devise such a murder. I took my leave of her soon after, resolving to stop at the hospital as soon as possible and check in on Dale. Perhaps, if he was awake and able to speak, he could tell me who passed in and out of the drawing room before the ball. If not, I would have to track down his assistants.
Before leaving, I said good-bye to Grace and went belowstairs to seek out the housekeeper, Mrs. Hendricks, and ask her if she had any news about Camille. She invited me into her parlor and closed the door to ensure our privacy.
“I’ve kept a close watch on her, Miss Cross. So much so, she’s taken to giving me quelling looks and trying to dodge me at every turn.” The woman crossed her arms over her black worsted bodice. “Little good it does her. There’s not a soul in this house that I don’t know where he or she is.”
“But the necklace, Mrs. Hendricks. Is it still where we found it?”
“It is. I still think the police should be informed. I do not suffer a thief in my house, Miss Cross, and if Mrs. Goelet found out—well, I shudder to think.”
This gave me pause. “I don’t want you to get into any trouble over this. Perhaps I should speak with Mrs. Goelet and—”
“Don’t you dare disturb the mistress. She’s been through enough, losing her dear friend’s daughter and feeling partly responsible.”
“Yes, and I’m sorry to hear she feels culpable. I’ll leave it be for now, but if you do run into difficulty because of me, I’ll take the blame.”
She didn’t reply, but I detected a glint of relief in her eyes.
* * *
After collecting Maestro and my carriage, I headed back into town. Along the way I reviewed everything I had learned at The Breakers and Ochre Court that morning. Max Brentworth must be feeling threatened by this new onslaught of electricity, or why would my questions have prompted him to order me from his carriage? I entertained little doubt that he was behind this new rash of protests involving his workers from the Newport Gas Light Company. I didn’t believe he would go so far as to murder a young woman intentionally, but perhaps he only meant to deliver a shock, thus frightening the Four Hundred away from electrical power.
I could much more easily envision Mr. Brentworth at the root of Cleo’s death than Ilsa. Today I believed I had seen the real Ilsa, rather than the one she wished to project to the world. Not the sweet-tempered, proper young woman who was content to live in the shadow of her beloved sister, but the Ilsa who had suffered both injury and insult at the hands of others—including her sister—and who understandably harbored bitter resentment at the unfairness of her situation. She admitted to arguing with Cleo that morning, and suffered yet another offense from her sister that evening. Had her resentment pushed her too far?
Finally, I considered what Camille intended doing with the broken diamond necklace. Presumably, she would sell it. She and Dorian Norris were forced to keep their courtship a secret because his family would never approve. They would probably cut him off, leaving him next to destitute. But if the couple found their own source of money, they would be free to marry. Did Camille act alone in stealing the necklace, or had Dorian encouraged her? Camille might be waiting to leave Newport before attempting to sell the piece, especially if Cleo had discovered the theft before she died and threatened to have her arrested. If all this proved true, the question remained whether Camille or Dorian, or both, arranged for Cleo to die.
These revelations didn’t rule out other suspects, such as Silas Griggson, a man with much to conceal. I couldn’t shake the notion that perhaps Cleo discovered something to incriminate Mr. Griggson in the New York tenement collapse. Then again, Lorraine Kipp blamed Cleo for her son’s death, and might have seized the opportunity at Ochre Court to take her revenge.
While I planned to visit the hospital and speak to Dale Hanson, I nonetheless turned my carriage onto Spring Street and came to a stop outside a two-story clapboard building that housed several small businesses downstairs and apartments upstairs. I walked to the corner and opened the door beneath the sign that read THE NEWPORT MESSENGER.
Unlike the Observer’s offices, this small establishment boasted no anteroom. A clerk occupied a desk at one side of the rectangular room, facing the window onto the street. In the other corner, sat Derrick Andrews.
He came to his feet after glancing up and seeing it was me. “Emma! What brings you here?”
“I’m honestly not sure,” I replied, feeling foolish. What had prompted me to take this detour?
“Whatever the reason, it’s good to see you.” The clerk cast a quizzical glance at us, and Derrick made the introductions. “Jimmy Hawkins, this is Miss Emmaline Cross.” I winced slightly at his use of my full name, which I considered altogether too fussy for a sensible woman like myself.
Mr. Hawkins, a man of perhaps my own age if not a year or two younger, came over to shake my hand.
Derrick explained, “Jimmy worked for my father for a while but came down from Providence to be my clerk here. He’s been quite a godsend. Nobody’s better organized.”
“It’s a pleasure, Mr. Hawkins.”
The telephone rang, summoning the young man back to his desk. Derrick gestured toward a closed door through which the muffled sounds of the workday could be heard. “Would you like to see the place? We’ve done quite a lot since you were here last summer. I’ve added a new press.”
Derrick’s pride in showing off his presses and his newsroom staff of three was infectious, and I couldn’t help envisioning being the proprietress of a similar operation. However, any thought I might have had of Derrick selling me the Messenger were dashed by his enthusiasm. I had been correct in assuming, a year ago, that being disinherited by his father and cast out of the family newspaper business, the Providence Sun, would only rouse his creativity and ambition to make a success on his own. True, beside the Sun, the Messenger paled in terms of scope and subscriptions, but I didn’t doubt that in time, the two businesses would rival each other.
He led me back through to the front office and to the street door. “I thought you might wish to talk,” he said as he ushered me outside. “We’ll have more privacy than in the office.”
As we set off along the sun-drenched sidewalk, I told him about my morning and what I had learned since our sojourn to Fort Adams, including Miss Goelet’s claim that Cleo might have wished to marry her brother. “I tend to discount that as particularly important,” I told him. “Robert is only eighteen, and I believe Miss Goelet might have been speaking out of resentment of Cleo’s hold on her mother.”
“You’re probably right about that,” he said. “Even if it’s true, it’s hardly a reason for anyone to commit murder. My money is on Griggson. It sounds most feasible that Miss Cooper-Smith learned something about him she shouldn’t have and he needed her out of the way.”
“You think it’s linked to the tenement collapse?”
His hand went to the small of my back to guide me past a deliveryman and his handcart. “I’d wager the collapse is likely one of many instances of shoddy and dangerous construction. And of skimming funds off such projects.”
“I think so, too. What do you know of Silas Griggson? He seems to me to have sprung up from almost nowhere, a wealthy, powerful man with little or no background.”
Derrick chuckled. “Oh, he has a background, you can be sure of that.”
“Yes, but nothing that suggested he would become a leader in the construction industry, with buildings in almost every New York neighborhood. I couldn’t trace the source of the money that allowed him to buy his way in.”
“That alone tells us he’s a dangerous man.” Derrick’s voice took on an ominous note. “And that his position was ill gained.”
“Griggson is the obvious choice in Cleo’s death, assuming she learned something she shouldn’t have. What about the others?”
We came to Trinity Church and entered the churchyard, strolling beneath the trees and the shadow of the soaring steeple.
“Such as the sister?” he asked.
“Or Mrs. Kipp, for instance. And Max Brentworth.”
Derrick shook his head. “Possible, but doubtful. Consider what each had to gain from Cleo’s death.”
“Revenge. Satisfaction based on jealousy. A return to gas lighting in new homes.” I ticked them off on my fingers.
“Revenge wouldn’t bring back Mrs. Kipp’s son. Nor would satisfaction restore Ilsa’s health. And you say she believes herself to be in love, with marriage prospects.”
“Does a murderer always think in logical terms?” I challenged.
He leaned with his hands against the rounded edge of tombstone marked from the previous century and stared at the backs of the buildings blocking our view of the harbor. “Sometimes they do. A strange, twisted sort of logic. Something tells me this matter is more twisted than most.”
“In that case, we certainly can’t rule out Max Brentworth, for twisted logic might have convinced him sacrificing a young woman would benefit his business.” I stood beside him, breathing in the scents of grass and loam and the faint brine carried from the bay. The sensations steadied me, as they always did. “I can’t rule out anyone until I learn more. I need to speak with Dale Hanson,” I said, remembering my initial reason for coming to town. “If someone had observed his work in the drawing room, he or she might have gained enough understanding to wrap stripped wire around the throne’s metal legs. Even an infirm young woman.”
“You’re right,” he conceded with a nod.
“Not that I wish to believe it of her. I truly don’t.” I gave a soft laugh. “I liked her immediately. She captured my sympathy, but more than that, she charmed me. Ilsa is childlike and ingenuous, but she’s no fool. And her feelings run deep.” I remembered I had something else to tell him. “Silas Griggson offered to buy Gull Manor.”
He straightened abruptly. “You’re joking. What did you say?”
“I told him no, of course. He persisted, even vaguely threatened me. Finally, I ordered him out.” I frowned as I relayed more of the conversation. A shiver rippled across my shoulders. “Do you think he’ll be back?”
He reached for my hands, turning me to face him and all but wrapping me in his palpable concern. “Have you mentioned this to Jesse?”
I shook my head as apprehension churned inside me. For the most part, I had put the incident behind me, but Derrick raised new fears of a powerful man intent on having his way.
“I think you should,” he said, emphatic. “I don’t like this. I don’t like that he insisted, and that he said your relatives wouldn’t be able to help you. Talk to the police, Emma. If you don’t, I will.”
Chapter 12
Derrick offered to accompany me to the hospital, but I preferred to go alone. The solitude would help me think. Need I fear reprisals from Silas Griggson? His threats hadn’t been made in public. No, his attempt to bully me had been private and quiet, and that suggested he had very much meant his words. Suddenly, even knowing I would have the support of a United States senator brought me little comfort. George Wetmore might wield political power, but men like Silas Griggson bought and sold government favors as though they were commodities on the stock market. And I wondered if even someone of George Wetmore’s stature and unblemished character would emerge unscathed from a run-in with the likes of Mr. Griggson.
Still, I would never sell Gull Manor, not at any price. That being the case, I had no choice but to dig in and face whatever schemes Silas Griggson sent my way.
At the hospital, I was overjoyed to find Jesse dressed and downstairs, preparing to leave. His doctor was handing him a list of instructions to follow at home. Jesse grinned at my approach.
“Emma, I don’t suppose you came to see me?”
I loathed watching his hopeful expression fade, but I couldn’t lie. “I came to see if Dale is awake and up to answering a few questions. But I’m delighted to see you looking so well.” I placed my hand in his offered one, and to my great satisfaction he gave it a warm, if still slightly tremulous, squeeze. “You’re getting your strength back.”
“I am.” His grin returned. “Slowly but surely. I think . . . that is, the doctor believes I’ll regain the full function of my hands, or nearly so. Enough, Emma, to be able to stay on the force.” Though he said this last quietly, I felt the power of the emotion behind the words.
“I’m so glad, Jesse. I’ve been so worried.”
Together we walked away from the front desk, into the waiting area. Seeing it was empty, Jesse asked, “So what is this about wanting to question Dale?”
I explained as I had to Derrick, except for now I left out the part about Silas Griggson. I’d take Derrick’s advice and let Jesse know, but later. Jesse listened carefully to what I had to say, nodding. When I’d finished, he said, “With you around, maybe the force doesn’t need me.”
“Don’t be silly.”
“I’m glad you’re here, because I wanted to tell you something. I mentioned your theory about a left-handed culprit to Chief Rogers, and after talking to the officers who took statements at Ochre Court, he rejected the idea. Not one of them remembered anyone signing an affidavit with a left hand.”
“Are they sure they can remember everyone with complete accuracy?”
“Left-handedness is rare so it stands out, and it’s the type of thing we’re trained to notice.”
I nodded and reluctantly gave up on the only clue I had managed to find on the scene. After all, I’d been discreetly looking for my left-handed culprit with each person I questioned, to no avail. “Do you know if Dale is up to talking? How is he?”
“He’s not well yet, but he’s awake. I know he’ll be eager to answer any questions you might have. He feels responsible for my injuries. Keeps apologizing, though I’ve assured him numerous times it wasn’t his fault. He couldn’t have known the circuits hadn’t been turned off, but I should have known better than to attempt to grasp someone who was being electrocuted.”
“You wished to save him, and you might have done just that. If not for you, who knows what might have happened . . . ?”
Jesse turned pink at the praise, and changed the subject. “Why don’t you and I go up together?”
* * *
“I can hardly think of anyone who wasn’t in the drawing room at some point while we were installing the lights.” Dale lay back against the pillow, his face nearly as white as the linen. His hands rested on top of the thin blanket that covered him to midchest, the one that had received the shock wrapped in bandages. Hannah had told me the skin had blackened and would
eventually peel—painfully. The doctors still hadn’t determined how much damage would be left in the nerves.
I occupied a chair while Jesse stood at the end of the bed. Dale began naming those who had been in the drawing room before the day of the ball. “Both Cooper-Smith sisters, Mrs. Goelet and her daughter, her sister-in-law, and her little girl, the housekeeper, footmen . . .” He paused to draw a breath. “It wasn’t until the morning of the ball, after we made the final adjustments, that Mrs. Goelet ordered the doors locked. She didn’t want the guests coming for the afternoon tea to spoil the surprise for later.”
“Beatrice,” I mused aloud, thinking about Harriette Goelet’s lovely little daughter. “The child witnessed everything, yet has no idea what happened, thank goodness.”
“She admired the flowers very much, especially the red ones,” Dale said with a smile. “She kept reaching for them, but her mother told her she mustn’t touch.”
“Well, she somehow got her hands on one of them. She gave it to Cleo in the posy she handed her on the dais that night.”
“Children have their ways,” Jesse said with a slight smile. “So with everyone staying at Ochre Court having been in that drawing room sometime during the installation of the lighting, there is no telling who might have observed enough to understand the wiring.”
I frowned in thought. “The wire wrapped around the legs of the throne was thicker than the wires used for the Edison bulbs.”
“I’d forgotten about that,” Jesse replied. “Dale, that means a strong current, yes?”
Dale nodded. “The thicker the wiring, the stronger the current.”
“So the person responsible understood wiring and currents. Not to mention knowing where to obtain thicker wiring.” I regarded each man in turn. “That suggests someone with a sure knowledge of construction, does it not? And not merely someone who had been casually observing the preparations.”
“You’re thinking we can rule out Ilsa,” Jesse said evenly.
Murder at Ochre Court Page 17
