Murder at Ochre Court

by Alyssa Maxwell

  But as I had said, it was too late to turn back. It made me more determined than ever to expose Cleo’s murderer—perhaps now an arsonist as well. “We’ll have to see what the fire inspector discovers tomorrow. I wonder if someone didn’t simply throw a lighted match in through the window. It would have been easy. In the dark, no one would have noticed a person creeping close to the house.”

  Nanny shuddered. “To think we’re no longer safe in our own home, that we have to worry about locking our doors and windows. I never thought I’d see the day. Not here.”

  At a weight against my knees, I glanced down to see Patch leaning his chin against me. I frowned. “Odd that he didn’t bark.”

  Katie gasped. Her hand flew to her mouth. “He did. Oh, Miss Emma, I didn’t realize. He was in the kitchen with me. I was finishin’ up the dinner dishes when he started barking, and he crossed my path and nearly tripped me. I told him to hush and go lie down. He whimpered like, but did as I told him. I’ll wager that was when . . .” Her face crumpled.

  I reached over and placed my hand over hers. “Don’t go blaming yourself, Katie. We all know how Patch can forget his manners sometimes and needs a scolding. A bird, a squirrel, anything can set him off. You couldn’t have known what was about to happen.”

  “No, but from now on I’ll be payin’ him better mind.”

  The ringing of the telephone echoed from the corridor, startling us all. We flinched, and then I rose to answer it. “I have a good idea who it might be.”

  I wasn’t wrong. I’d barely uttered a greeting when Jesse’s voice burst in my ear. “Emma, I just heard. Is everyone all right? What happened?”

  “Yes, we’re all fine, and I don’t know what happened. Derrick and I came home from dinner with my cousin to find the dining room curtains on fire. Most of the room survived just fine, and it didn’t spread to the rest of the house.”

  “I’m coming out there.”

  “No, Jesse, don’t. It’s not necessary. As I said, we’re fine.”

  After a lengthy hesitation, he asked, “Is Derrick still there?” I heard a slight strain in his voice.

  I longed to say no, that Derrick had left, but I couldn’t lie, not to Jesse. Especially not after what occurred at Beaulieu earlier. Derrick’s news of returning to Providence had changed something in me, forced me to acknowledge feelings I had been ignoring for too long.

  “Derrick is here,” I said, finding myself taking a gentle tone. The last thing I wished was to hurt Jesse. I hurried on, anxious to reassure him about our safety. “We’ve closed and locked the downstairs windows. The doors are shut tight.” As if to reiterate that claim, light perspiration dotted my forehead. It was July; we normally welcomed the cooling ocean breezes, especially at night. At least we could feel safe in keeping the upstairs windows open.

  Then again, could our perpetrator toss something high enough to reach the second floor? Would he—or she—be so brazen as to come back tonight?

  “Is he . . . staying?” Jesse swallowed audibly. “If you won’t let me come out there, I’d sleep better knowing he was there. Not that I’ll sleep much in either case.”

  “I . . . no, I think I’ll send Derrick home soon. We can take care of ourselves here. Patch will alert us if anything is wrong. It turns out he tried earlier, but Katie thought he was merely being an unruly pup, barking at the night noises. We know better than to ignore him now.”

  “If there is anything—anything at all that doesn’t seem right, you’re to call the police station and then call me.”

  “I will, Jesse.”

  “Promise me.”

  I did, and hung up feeling bereft and traitorous. I wished I had not gone to Beaulieu earlier, wished Derrick had never mentioned leaving Newport. Wished I could return to my notions of independence and remaining unmarried—anything rather than having to face making a decision and hurting someone I cared so much about. I feared I would find excuses to put off that decision, to pretend it wasn’t hanging over me. But it was. And it would, until I took responsibility and admitted what I wanted.

  But for tonight, at least, I needn’t do anything. I could put off that moment, for now.

  * * *

  Derrick never did leave that night. He slept on the parlor sofa, cramped and uncomfortable, his head resting on one arm and his feet dangling over the other. By the time I came downstairs he was already up and having a light breakfast with Nanny and Katie. I noticed how he flinched slightly each time he turned his head a certain way. I hoped the kink in his neck would work itself out before very long.

  “Thank you for staying,” I said to him. “I believe we all slept better for your being here, though I fear you hardly slept at all.”

  “I offered to make up the guest room,” Katie said with a shake of her head.

  “It wouldn’t have been proper, me sleeping upstairs.” He rubbed at his shoulder.

  Nanny nodded her agreement, but said nothing. Instead she offered him another blueberry hotcake and another cup of coffee.

  Before coming into the morning room I’d peeked into the dining room to survey the damage in the daylight. The acrid odors of smoke and dampness made me cough, while sorrow pressed against my breastbone at the ruination of the curtains and the matching seat cushions Aunt Sadie had made a decade ago. All the fabric in the room would need to be replaced, the area rug as well. The table showed scorch marks that would require a thorough sanding and refinishing. The walls and ceiling would need a new coat of paint, and of course the window frame, blackened and half consumed, would need to be rebuilt.

  It could have been so much worse. No one had been injured. And had the fire started in the parlor, the upholstered furnishings, pillows, and books would have provided a good deal more fuel. The flames might have spread faster, reaching the rest of the house before help arrived.

  Derrick left soon after breakfast, and I couldn’t help being relieved, especially since Jesse had telephoned to say he would be accompanying the fire marshal. After asking Nanny, Katie, and me a few questions, the two men went into the dining room. I could hear them moving furniture and speaking in low voices. I strained to overhear, yet I kept clear of the room to allow them to do their job. When they finally came out, Jesse warned us to keep the doors and windows locked at all times, until they discovered who had set the fire. In a gloved hand he held up a blackened rock wrapped in the remains of charred cloth.

  His expression was grim. “We suspect this had been soaked in kerosene.” He handed it to the fire inspector, who slid it into a leather case he held.

  “It was most certainly arson,” the man confirmed. “Unless you’re in the habit of wrapping rocks in accelerant-soaked cloth and tossing them about.”

  “Indeed I am not.” Despite my rising anger, I felt real fear, too. Just as I had felt fear when Silas Griggson stood in my parlor and assured me my house would be his. I considered again that the fire had been started in the dining room and not the parlor. The conclusion I reached made me suspect Griggson all the more. “I don’t think anyone meant to burn this house down. I think it was a warning.”

  “I concur,” Fire Inspector Filby said. “At least in that whoever did this could have chosen a more efficient means of burning the house down had that been his intention. Even taking into account his hurry to be away, he might have poured kerosene or linseed oil directly onto the curtains and rug and followed that with a lit match. Such a fire would have caught instantly, burned hotter, and spread faster than this one did. Judging by the scorch marks, I believe this fire smoldered on the rug a while before catching hold.”

  Jesse remained behind when Mr. Filby left, his observations echoing my own thoughts. “Silas Griggson wants you out, one way or another. He might have believed a stunt like this would achieve his goal.”

  “Little does he know me.”

  Jesse nodded his agreement.

  “I have his card in the parlor. He’s staying on Webster Street. I want to go there right now and confront him.” Even
as I declared my intention, I hesitated at the notion of an arsonist leaving behind his calling card as proof of his interest in possessing the house. Though it seemed ill advised, Silas Griggson might believe himself to be that far above the law. He hadn’t been implicated in the New York tenement collapse. He could easily evade charges in a minor house fire where no one had been injured—or so he might believe.

  “He’s dangerous, Emma.”

  “Obviously. So ask a couple of officers to meet us there.”

  “Assuming he’s still there.” Jesse glanced in the direction of the dining room. “He might have cleared out by now.”

  “Oh, I have a feeling Silas Griggson isn’t going anywhere until he gets what he wants, namely Gull Manor. I believe he’s that arrogant and that sure of himself.”

  Jesse regarded me with part resignation, part admiration. He held out a hand. “All right. Let’s go.”

  Chapter 16

  Jesse and I lingered at home long enough for him to telephone the police station and arrange for two officers to meet us at the address indicated on Mr. Griggson’s card. Then he and I set out together.

  Webster Street intersected Bellevue Avenue and continued east to dead end at the Cliff Walk and the ocean. The street also skirted the northern border of Ochre Court. No wonder Mr. Griggson had chosen to lease a house here. Even on foot, he could be at Ochre Court in minutes. No bachelor’s rooms at the Casino for him. I wondered, had he hoped to lure Cleo to this lovely clapboard house, with its arched, mullioned windows, on its tree-shaded property? If she had not wished to go willingly, would he have found a way to coerce her?

  While Jesse guided the police buggy onto the short, circular driveway, I glanced down the street toward Ochre Court. I couldn’t see the house, not from this angle, but I spotted a familiar figure about fifty yards away. Or the back of a figure, I should say. A man in military uniform hurried along the street, one hand raised to keep his cap on his blond head.

  “That looks like Sam Caldwell.”

  Jesse leaned to see past me. “The captain?”

  “Yes. I wonder if he was just visiting Mr. Griggson.”

  “Do they know each other?” Jesse sounded skeptical, just as I had questioned their acquaintance when I’d seen them speaking at the ball. On the surface it seemed unlikely that a man of Griggson’s questionable background would have anything in common with a young officer who hailed from the Four Hundred, but times were changing. However much it galled the old guard, families like the Astors and the Goelets were no longer the untouchable bastion of society. People could now buy their way in. My own relatives had; it had taken several generations, but they had won the right to dance upon the same gleaming parquet floors as those who considered themselves old money, American aristocracy.

  Obviously, Silas Griggson had paid his entry fee, or he would not have been a guest at Mrs. Goelet’s ball, and she would not have considered him an eligible catch for her friend’s daughter.

  “I believe they do know each other,” I told Jesse. “I don’t know how. It could have to do with real estate matters. Perhaps Sam’s family is having a house built, or they might own property that’s being developed for rental housing.”

  “Do you wish to ask him something? Should I catch up to him?”

  “No, it doesn’t matter. Let’s go in and have that chat with Mr. Griggson.”

  Jesse pulled the carriage up by the front door and we alighted. When I would have raised my hand to knock, I discovered the door ajar. Jesse and I traded curious looks, and, frowning, he nudged me behind him.

  Slowly, he widened the door and put one foot over the threshold. “Hello? Is anyone home?”

  No answer came. I craned to peer over his shoulder, scanning the front hall for signs of a disturbance. Everything looked in order. The ticking of a clock met my ears. The only other sounds were those from outdoors, birds chirping and carriages rumbling along nearby Bellevue Avenue.

  “Stay outside,” Jesse murmured. Need I say I followed him inside, staying close at his heels, my hand on his shoulder as we tiptoed into the house? We crossed the front hall and entered a wide doorway into the parlor. Here, too, everything appeared tidy. But something felt wrong, something that prickled at my nape. Jesse felt it, too, or he would not have continued to hold out an arm in an attempt to keep me behind him.

  We continued through to a dining room, furnished in such dark woods and heavy curtains as to essentially block out the daylight. The shadows seemed to breathe with a palpable presence. Jesse and I lingered in the doorway, framed on each side by floor to ceiling pocket doors that had been slid to a partially closed position. A darker shadow crept out from behind the far end of the long dining table.

  “Jesse, there.” I pointed, even as I tensed to flee. But then I realized nothing had crawled or moved, it had merely been a trick of the shadows and my own eyes that had yet to adjust to the darkness. Whatever lay beyond the table remained inert, lifeless.

  Jesse moved to a window and yanked open the curtains. Sunlight fell in a thick shaft to illuminate the room, the table, and a prone Mr. Griggson.

  “Jesse!”

  He was already at my side. Mr. Griggson, in his shirtsleeves, vest, and dark trousers, lay on his back. His eyes were closed, his body utterly still. My breath suspended, I raised a shaky finger to point down at him, or, rather, at the odd discoloration that drew my gaze.

  “What is that?”

  The center of Mr. Griggson’s forehead was marked with a kind of blackened, irregular star.

  Jesse swore and fell into a crouch beside the prone man. “Emma, go. Please.”

  “What is it?” But the answer was already dawning on me. That was no star, but jagged flesh and bone, blackened by gunpowder. “A bullet wound.”

  Jesse stood. “There’s nothing we can do for him.”

  “But . . . who?” My features tightened in disbelief. “Sam Caldwell?”

  “We don’t know for sure the captain was even here. Come on. We need to go. I need to alert the station house and the coroner.”

  I nodded vaguely as a sense of unreality took hold of me. I grew cold and shivers racked me. Jesse saw and drew me to him. He ran his hands up and down my arms.

  “Let’s get you out of here.” He started me toward the entryway, when I dug in and stopped.

  “The wound. It reminds me of something.”

  “Tell the coroner.”

  “No. Let me check.” I turned back to the body, but Jesse was quicker and stepped in front of me.

  “All right, tell me. What is it?”

  “His right wrist. The underside. He has a tattoo, a star. The wound reminded me of it.”

  His eyebrow tightly knitted, Jesse knelt beside Mr. Griggson’s body again and tugged his shirtsleeve up. Yet where the tattoo on his pulse point had been, now there was only a flesh wound, as if—

  “It’s gone. Not just gone. Removed.” I shuddered and squeezed my eyes closed.

  “Cut away,” Jesse murmured. He lowered Mr. Griggson’s arm to the floor and pushed to his feet. He grasped my forearms again. “You said it was a star? Are you quite certain of that?”

  “I . . . Fairly certain. I only saw it for a second or two.” I thought back to when Silas Griggson stood in my parlor, demanding to buy Gull Manor. When he had thrust his calling card at me, I had believed he was going to strike me. My eyes were riveted on his hand, his arm. His sleeve had ridden up and I had seen the star rendered in black ink. “Yes,” I amended. “I’m certain.”

  Jesse swore again. “Two stars.”

  I shook my head. “What do you mean?”

  “As you said, the wound is like a star, to match the one he had on his wrist.”

  “But that one is gone.”

  “Yes. This was no crime of passion, or anything we’ve ever seen in Newport before, at least not in my lifetime. The wrist, the bullet wound—this contained a message.”

  My throat ran dry. “What kind of message? And for whom?”


  “I don’t have the answers to those questions, not yet. But this much I do know. It was an execution. The black star is a symbol of New York’s Five Points Gang. Or it was, at any rate, early on, when the gang first formed. They wore it on their wrists as a sign of solidarity and as a warning to rival gangs. At least, the young ones did. The ones who came up through the ranks.”

  “Came up through the ranks?”

  “The ones who started as boys, running messages, committing petty crimes for the gang. They worked their way up to more serious crimes.”

  “That would explain how a man as wealthy as Griggson seemed to come from nowhere.”

  Jesse nodded and glanced down at the body. “And now he’s nothing once again. He must have crossed them. . . .”

  “They’d kill one of their own? A powerful man like Silas Griggson?”

  “I can guarantee you there are far more powerful men than Griggson. Men who have their hands in legitimate concerns as well as illegal, and who have influence over Tammany Hall and the New York Police Department. Even the mayor’s office.”

  “Power over Mayor Van Wyck?”

  Jesse nodded. Not wasting another moment, he grasped my hand and drew me from the dining room back through to the entry hall. There he hesitated. “There’s probably a telephone here somewhere. . . .”

  A sense of urgency came over me. “You already told the station to send two men. They should be here any moment. But Jesse, if Sam Caldwell did this, and he’s headed to Ochre Court, we have to warn them.”

  Jesse nodded. “Yes. But not you. If Sam Caldwell did this, I’m not bringing you there. Wait here for my men. I’ll go. Stay here, Emma. Here.” He pointed to the floor where I stood. “Don’t go back in the dining room.” Without waiting for my response, or perhaps the argument he expected from me, he rushed out the front door. A moment later I heard his carriage hurrying away.