“Is it not true that Mr. Griggson wished to marry your daughter?”
Mr. Cooper-Smith shot me a reproachful glance. “No, it is not.”
“Hmm.” Jesse frowned as if puzzled. “Surely that is contrary to how Mr. Griggson felt.”
“You’ve been listening to her.” He thrust a finger in my direction. I merely kept writing. My pencil scratched its way across the paper, causing Mr. Cooper-Smith to wince.
“Mr. Cooper-Smith,” Jesse said gently, “if Miss Cross heard it from Silas Griggson’s own mouth that he intended marrying your daughter, surely others were privy to the same information. I have no doubt I could find several other witnesses to corroborate Miss Cross’s claim.”
“Why are you doing this?” Mr. Cooper-Smith raked a hand through his hair, revealing a balding spot he had, until now, kept carefully concealed. “Cannot my daughter be laid to rest peacefully?”
“No, sir, for she didn’t die peacefully.” I set down my pencil and folded my hands across my notebook. Jesse gave me a slight nod. “I believe you’re afraid to acknowledge the link between Mr. Griggson and your daughter. Has he threatened you? Is that what he came here to do this morning?”
“Griggson? Don’t be absurd.” His protest filled the quiet room, echoing off the walls.
“I know he is quite capable of threats, Mr. Cooper-Smith.” I tilted my head and smiled slightly. “He has threatened me.”
“Why would he threaten you? What could a foolish girl like you possibly have that a man like Silas Griggson would want?” As he fumed, I compressed my lips. Our gazes locked, his filled with the realization he had all but admitted that, under the right circumstances, Silas Griggson would indeed resort to threats. Before I could respond, he went on. “Never mind. There are times I’d like to threaten you myself.”
“Now see here, sir.” Jesse’s voice became a growl. I held up a hand.
“That’s quite all right. I understand Mr. Cooper-Smith’s frustrations. Dealing with a man like Mr. Griggson would wear on the most patient of souls. Well, here is something else to try your patience, sir.” I paused, straightening my shoulders for dramatic impact. “He has accused you of causing the building’s collapse.”
He shoved away from the table, his chair scraping back several inches. “Me? That’s impossible. Why would he implicate me?”
“Because he’s trying to cast blame everywhere but on himself, I would imagine.” I assumed a sympathetic air, not entirely feigned. “Should he take his claim to the authorities, you will come under scrutiny.”
“My designs will speak for themselves.”
“Unless they’ve been tampered with,” I pointed out.
I would not have believed anyone could grow paler still, but Mr. Cooper-Smith did.
“This is why it would be advisable for you to cooperate with us,” Jesse said. “Did Silas Griggson threaten you or your daughter? And is it possible she knew something about him, perhaps about the role he played in the collapse of the building, that put her in danger?”
His mouth opened and closed more than once as he clearly debated his options. He might continue to deny it, but Jesse and I had the answer to the first question. Unfortunately, the second answer, which could prove key in bringing Cleo’s murderer to justice, remained elusive.
He drew in a slow breath, refusing to meet either Jesse’s or my gaze. “There is nothing I can tell you. If what you’re suggesting is true, I have no knowledge of it.” He came to his feet. “That is all I have to say. May I go?”
Had it been up to me, I’d have seen if a day or two in a jail cell might loosen his tongue. Luckily for him, Jesse took a more lenient approach. He admonished him not to leave town, and we left.
Out on the sidewalk, we once more consulted. “He’s lying,” I said, not bothering to lower my voice despite the pedestrians shuffling by. Attracted by the costly goods arranged in the Casino’s shop windows, none of them paid us any attention.
“Of course he’s lying. Griggson obviously got to him before we arrived.”
“Then why didn’t you press him?”
“We put the fear of God in him, and for now, that’s enough. He’s afraid of Griggson, and that’s putting it mildly. I think we have the answer to why he’s not staying at Ochre Court with Ilsa.”
“I don’t understand.”
Jesse walked with me to my carriage. “He’s putting distance between himself and his remaining daughter. I’d stake my reputation on it.”
“Keeping her safe,” I said, and Jesse nodded.
“Safer than if they were residing under the same roof, at any rate. In the meantime, Ochre Court provides her with a relatively secure haven. The place is nearly a fortress. What happened to her sister was possible only because so many people were in and out of the house for the festivities. That’s not likely to happen again in the near future, especially if he’s not there to tempt the killer into returning.”
“And the housekeeper always knows who is coming and going,” I told him. “She told me as much.”
Jesse handed me up onto the leather seat. “There’s nothing more reliable than a good housekeeper. Still, Cooper-Smith is taking no chances and is staying away.”
“So if he’s protecting Ilsa,” I reasoned aloud, “it must be because he believes Griggson is responsible for Cleo’s death. But then why won’t he help put Griggson away?”
“Assuming we’re correct in our assumptions, the answer is obvious.” Jesse shook his head and shrugged. “He has no confidence in the workings of the law. He’s afraid Griggson will use his political power to have the charges dropped, and then he and his daughter will be in more danger than ever.”
“Do you think Griggson’s political influence is that extensive?”
“A New York real estate developer? I’d be surprised if it wasn’t.”
“Detective! Detective!”
A boy I recognized from the Newport Observer, one of the newsies who sold papers on street corners all around town, came running along the sidewalk. “I’ve got a message for you, sir.” When he reached us he whisked his cap off his head and doubled over. “From Officer Binsford,” he panted, straightening slowly. “Sorry, I ran all the way from Marlborough Street. He says he’s heading to The Elms with some of the other officers. Wants you to join him there.”
“Did he say why?”
The boy shook his head. “Only that there’s trouble.”
Jesse handed him a coin, and the boy ran off. Our gazes met. “I’ll take my buggy and meet you out there,” he said to me.
Chapter 13
Jesse and I left our buggies on Bellevue Court, a side street off the main avenue beside The Elms’ property. Before we’d gone very far the unrest here became apparent. Men were shouting and foul language permeated the air. Several other reporters had arrived before us. I recognized one young man Derrick had introduced me to at the Messenger. And Ed Billings, my onetime fellow reporter at the Observer, stood safely beneath the shelter of a weeping elm. He saw me and nodded in what seemed more of a challenging gesture than a friendly one. Ed and I had locked horns frequently when I worked for the Observer. I’d discovered early on he would rather read over my shoulder than track down the facts of a story for himself, but it was almost always his articles that ran because Mr. Millford didn’t believe people wished to read serious news written by a woman. The unseemliness of it offended the sensibilities of the populace, or so he told me on numerous occasions.
I ignored Ed and focused on my longtime acquaintance on the police force, Scotty Binsford, pushing his way through a throng of workers converged beside the massive, rectangular cavity that would be the basement and cellars of the completed house. Several other policemen were attempting to restore order, but their demands and pleas went unheeded.
Jesse flashed me an incredulous look along with a terse order to venture no closer to the ruckus before he himself charged in, badge in his outthrust hand. I immediately saw the wisdom of remaining where I was, esp
ecially as tensions intensified and a roar went up. I clamped my teeth in worry for Jesse and the other officers and craned my neck to follow their actions.
Soon, two sets of men began to take shape in my sights: ones in woolen flat caps, shirtsleeves, and corduroy trousers, versus others in shabby street clothes wearing dented derbies and battered straw boaters. It didn’t take me long to understand that the construction crew, and specifically the electrical workers, were warding off a confrontation by disgruntled gas workers from town.
The chaos seemed to expand and I backed away, putting more distance between me and the mounting anger. I lost track of my fellow reporters, Ed included, as more than a few fists waved in the air, some making contact with jaws or shoulders or chests. Were there enough policemen present to quell the unrest? I was beginning to think not, to think perhaps I should rush over the nearest property and beg the use of a telephone to call Chief Rogers at the police station. Then a familiar face and baritone caught my attention.
Max Brentworth, taller and broader than the more wiry workmen, moved through the unruly tangle. I watched as he grabbed shirtfronts, suspenders, and coat lapels, and roughly shoved men aside. I couldn’t distinguish his exact words, but his scowls conveyed his growing anger. Had he instigated this?
I whisked out my pencil and notepad and began making notes. If anyone was seriously injured, I wanted to keep an accurate record. Suddenly, two scuffling men went tumbling over the flimsy fence erected around the gaping chasm and plummeted some twenty feet down.
The shoving and fighting ceased, but a new outcry went up. With the fate of the two workers now my foremost concern, I circumvented the activity and hurried along to the front of the property, where I could get closer to the fenced-off perimeter. Below me sprawled the bowels of what would be Newport’s next great house. Gazing down at the web of pipes, ductwork, and cables made me dizzy. Ladders descended at intervals from ground level. They swarmed now with men hurrying down and converging on the two prone workers. Not far from them stood the great coal furnaces that, I’d been told, would burn day and night to generate electricity for the house.
A pair of stretchers appeared—I assumed they were kept on hand for just such emergencies—and were lowered into the pit. The injured men were carefully rolled onto them, and then ropes were attached for the arduous task of raising the stretchers back to ground level. The reality of two hurt individuals, their fate still unknown to those above, had done what the police could not: restore a modicum of order. At any rate, the anger seemed to have diminished as all of the men peered down at the rescue efforts. Perhaps they were remembering that they were all Newporters. Max Brentworth continued circulating through the crowd, but he, too, seemed far more composed than previously.
The immediate danger over for now, I made my way back over to the others. When I got there, I chose a man at random, and was gratified to realize he and I were acquainted, fellow longtime residents of the Point. He was not one of the Elms crew, I realized at once, for his clothing matched that of the men who had come here from town.
“George, what happened?”
“Emma, is that you?” He was large and brawny, with unruly dark hair and a wide nose. We hadn’t seen each other in a good long time, but I knew he didn’t mean the question literally, for he recognized me as surely as I did him. Still, I nodded, and he went on. “Honestly, I don’t know why I’m here. I work for Brentworth, and I’ve been hearing a lot of talk lately about how we’re all going to lose our jobs. So, when the others decided to come out here, I tagged along.”
“Could have gotten yourself hurt,” I admonished him. “And then where would Louise and the children be?”
He belatedly whisked off his derby and ducked his head. “You’re right. I shouldn’t be here.” He glanced about warily.
“Why don’t you go,” I whispered, “before the police start making arrests?”
His face filled with alarm. “Do you suppose they will?”
“I don’t know, but if I were you I wouldn’t wait to find out.”
With another cautious look about him, George Riley slipped away. One of the stretchers had been raised to ground level, and was now being maneuvered onto solid ground by several men. It seemed everyone involved had decided to put their differences aside and work together. One of the men being rescued raised a hand in the air to signal that he was conscious and, I hoped, not in terrible pain. I breathed a sigh of relief for him.
“Making trouble, Miss Cross?”
My sigh became a gasp. Max Brentworth stood at my shoulder, and as I turned to gaze up at him, his scowl forced me back a step. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, Miss Cross, that your being here reeks of foul play. How dare you?”
“How dare I what?” From the corner of my eye I searched for Jesse or Scotty but saw no sign of either of them.
“How dare you stir up trouble to sell newspapers.”
“Oh? One might accuse you of the same thing, Mr. Brentworth, except that rather than selling newspapers, you’re trying to save your business.”
His eyes narrowed. “Do you think no one realizes how reporters like you manipulate events and orchestrate trouble to create stories where none would have existed otherwise? It’s no coincidence your reappearance in this city coincided with the rising of tensions.”
“You’ve greatly overestimated my influence if you think I’m capable of orchestrating this.” I wanted to laugh, except that I found nothing funny about being in such close proximity to a man of his size and apparent strength. I very much supposed he began his career like much of his workforce, as a laborer, and through constant toil, sharp wits, and yes, perhaps a bit of intimidation here and there, worked his way to the position he currently held.
I refused to let him intimidate me, or at least, let him see that he intimidated me. “If anything, it would be you inciting your workers to protest the use of electricity in the new houses being built. Admit it. You feel threatened by it, don’t you, Mr. Brentworth?”
“I’ll have you know I’ve invested in the development of electricity. I might own a gas company, but I’m neither stupid nor blind to the future.”
“Oh,” I said rather lamely. This unexpected turn robbed me of much of my bravado.
“Besides, do you think I would put men’s lives and livelihood at risk in pointless displays of civil disobedience?” He moved closer to me, his bulk blocking out all else. A ripple of fear went through me, yet I could not believe he would harm me in so public a setting. “Are you that foolish, Miss Cross?”
“Are you? Do you think I would put lives at risk to sell a story? I grew up here. I know many of these men. If I wished to oppose the use of electricity over gas, I could certainly think of many safer yet more efficient means of doing so. At the same time, when I see a story unfolding, yes, it is my job to report on it. Not to create it, Mr. Brentworth, but merely to relay the facts.”
We stared each other down for several seconds. Then, almost imperceptibly, his stance relaxed. The knot in my stomach eased.
“It seems we’ve reached an impasse, Mr. Brentworth.”
“Perhaps we have,” he said, begrudgingly. He took my measure, as I took his. Could I have been wrong about him?
“Why are you here?” I asked in perhaps too demanding a voice.
He took my tone in stride. “To keep my men out of jail by persuading them to maintain some semblance of order. You can go around and ask them if you like.”
“Well, then . . . I’m here to cover an ongoing story, one that seemed to begin with Cleo Cooper-Smith’s death. And no other reason.” I emphasized that last, still indignant at being accused of manipulating events to my own advantage. Then I relented. “Perhaps I misjudged you, Mr. Brentworth.”
“Perhaps I misjudged you, Miss Cross.” He didn’t look at all happy about this admission. I supposed Max Brentworth did not like being proven wrong.
I frowned, but no longer in anger. “So then, this is why you ordered me
out of your carriage. Because you thought I was trying instigate unrest among your workers.”
“Well . . .” He lifted his chin and sniffed. “Yes.”
“Your doing so only made me suspect you all the more.”
His scowl returned. “Of murdering Miss Cooper-Smith?”
It was a question I didn’t care to answer, so I said, “Can you vouch for your men, that one of them wasn’t involved?”
“I believe I can.” His mouth slanted ruefully. “I apologize for ordering you out of my carriage.”
“I apologize for suspecting you of murder.” We stood in momentary, awkward silence. I compressed my lips. He shuffled his feet. Finally, I said, “If you learn of anything that might be significant about the night of the ball, will you please tell Detective Whyte?”
“I will.” His brusque manner persisted, but his hostility was gone.
* * *
Jesse insisted I go home following the incident at The Elms. “Have Nanny make you some of her potent tea, and for a little while at least don’t worry about any of this. I’m back to work now. Let me handle things.”
Standing beneath the trees lining Bellevue Court, I regarded the concern on his earnest features, his half-Irish complexion lightly freckled by the summer sun. My instinct was to protest, to tell him he was the one who should go home. He had left the hospital only yesterday. He needed more rest, more time for his hands to heal.
But he wouldn’t wish to hear it. And he certainly wouldn’t be willing to accept the notion of my putting myself in danger while he went home and put his feet up. His next words proved me correct.
“You shouldn’t have come with me to The Elms. You so easily could have been hurt among all those enraged men. Things are getting out of control, Emma, and it’s got me worried. Not just as relates to this case or even this particular occurrence. But when I see Newporter against Newporter, I know something is terribly wrong.”
Murder at Ochre Court Page 19
