Murder at Ochre Court

by Alyssa Maxwell

  Camille stirred and opened her eyes. “What happened?” A groan slipped from her swollen lips. Her hand went to cup her cheek, rapidly darkening to a deep purple. “Oh! It hurts!”

  “Dorian hit you,” I told her without attempting to soften my bluntness. For all I knew, Camille was no innocent in this business either. I helped her to sit up and held on to her while she steadied herself. “What do you know about this?”

  “Nothing. I don’t understand why they came to blows. Dorian and I were going to leave. That’s why he came, to take me away from here. He said he’d grown tired of waiting.”

  “Just like that?” I shook my head. “So suddenly, he was going to what? Marry you? Without his family’s consent and without proper funds?”

  “Oh, but it wasn’t sudden. We’ve been planning . . .” She frowned, her brows knitting tightly. “Planning for what seemed ever so long. I don’t know what changed, if Dorian came into some money or . . .”

  “Or he needed to get away,” I suggested.

  Scotty had replaced his nightstick on his belt, but the other two officers held theirs up in warning to Sam and Dorian. “Can you clear any of this up, Emma?”

  “I’m fairly certain Lieutenant Norris is the man you want.” Dorian snorted in protest. I ignored him, and so did the officers. “But honestly, Scotty, I can’t say for certain what Sam’s role has been.”

  “If you’ll let me explain.” Sam started to step forward, only to stop short when one of the officers grabbed him by the arm.

  “I followed Sam to Griggson’s,” Dorian blurted. “He killed him. Shot Griggson straight through the head.” Camille winced, as did I.

  Sam was already shaking his head, but he remained calm. “I followed Dorian to Silas Griggson’s house. I’d assumed he was going to Ochre Court, to see Camille again. I planned to warn him, because the men of our unit were beginning to talk. Even Colonel Astor had gotten wind of their trysts and was considering informing Dorian’s parents. All I wanted to do was keep Dorian from getting himself into trouble. But he didn’t come to Ochre Court. He detoured to Silas’s house. I waited outside for a while, until I heard a shot, and then I ran in. I found Silas dead and didn’t see Dorian anywhere. I assumed he went out the back of the house, and I came here to warn Camille. I found her alone at first.” He jerked his chin at Dorian. “Then he showed up.”

  Silence fell after this explanation. Finally, Scotty said, “Which one do we believe?”

  “No one.” Derrick helped Camille and me to our feet. “Not yet, at any rate. I suggest you take them both in. Her, too,” he added, indicating Camille, who seethed but said nothing.

  “He’s the guilty one.” Dorian thrust a finger at Sam.

  Sam glared back at him, but spoke to Scotty. “I’ll gladly come with you if it will help.”

  Before anyone made a move to go, Camille went to Dorian’s side. “None of this is true.” She spoke with conviction, with her usual bravado, but then her forehead puckered in doubt. “It can’t be. Tell them, Dorian. It’s all a mistake. A misunderstanding. Please, Dorian . . .” Her voice rose in question and her eyes pleaded.

  Dorian stared at her blankly. If he’d ever had feelings for her, they were certainly not evident now. His eyes were empty, devoid of light or emotion. Dead. I could easily imagine him robbing others of their lives.

  What I had yet to understand was why. “This has something to do with Oliver Kipp and Santiago, doesn’t it? And the Five Points Gang.”

  Sam’s eyes widened in shock as I spoke Oliver’s name. On the other hand, Dorian’s eyes narrowed as I spoke of the former, and then flashed when I mentioned the latter. “Did you kill Oliver, Dorian? And then Cleo? Why? What did they do? Or know?”

  Derrick’s hand made its way to my shoulder and gently squeezed. “Let’s let Scotty and the men take them into town. They’ll be questioned. Jesse will—”

  “Jesse,” I exclaimed. “Where is he? Scotty, do you know?”

  The large policeman shook his head. “I haven’t seen him. Should he be here?”

  “We need to search.” I went to the railing, as if Jesse would magically appear in the Great Hall below me. “Something has happened to him, or he would be here now.”

  Scotty started to give orders to the other two men, but Derrick stepped in. “You get these three into town. I’ll look for Detective Whyte.”

  “No, I think one of us should stay behind—”

  Derrick cut Scotty off. “Officer Binsford, you’re taking two military officers into custody. They’re trained fighters. You should have a guard on each of them, plus you need a man to drive the wagon. That’ll take all three of you.”

  Scotty thought a moment, then nodded his agreement.

  “Thank you, Derrick.” I turned to Camille, who was backing away from the others. “You need to go with the officers. They’ll have to question you.”

  Her swollen face inched upward. “I’ve done nothing wrong. And I don’t know anything.”

  “You know more than you think you do,” I told her quietly. I searched for tears but her eyes were dry, glittering with outrage. Here was no damsel in distress, and something told me that, were she indeed innocent, she would not allow Dorian to drag her down with him. “Please, go with them.”

  She had yet to be thoroughly convinced. She turned to Dorian. “Is what she’s saying true? Did you . . . did you kill . . .”

  Dorian’s lip curled, his nostrils flared, and he looked away. Camille’s expression hardened. She turned to Scotty. “I’ll go with you. But I won’t ride next to him.”

  He gave her a terse nod. “You can ride up front with me. All right, let’s go.”

  * * *

  Derrick surmised that since the butler hadn’t admitted Jesse to the house, he should begin his search belowstairs. Jesse’s disappearance baffled me. I had found myself believing Sam’s accounts of events. If he spoke the truth, then Dorian murdered Silas Griggson and probably Cleo as well. But at no point since Jesse and I discovered Griggson’s body could Dorian have confronted Jesse. I had found Dorian in Silas Griggson’s library, and he had not been out of my sight until we parted company in the vestibule of Ochre Court.

  Did that mean Sam lied?

  I pondered this question as I descended to the second floor and made my way to Mrs. Goelet’s bedroom. Along the gallery, my feet slowed. A suspicion took shape in my mind, and I hoped—prayed—I was wrong. Voices again rose from the vestibule, this time that of the butler and a woman. Only a frequent visitor would engage in conversation with the butler. I pricked my ears. Had Grace come to visit? At an exclamation over the butler’s description of today’s irregular goings-on, I recognized Harriette Goelet’s voice. I picked up my pace and hurried along.

  After I knocked and identified myself, the lock clicked from inside and Miss Goelet opened the door. Her brother, Robert, stood at her shoulder looking fierce and holding a porcelain candelabra whose raised leaf and floral design looked as if it could do serious damage to a human skull. I hesitated before stepping over the threshold.

  From the sitting area, Mrs. Goelet called out, “Robert, put that down. You’ll break it.”

  “Sorry,” he murmured. “Can’t be too careful. Come in, Miss Cross.”

  I schooled my features not to show my exasperation that Mrs. Goelet should be more concerned about her candelabra than my head.

  “Is everything all right now?” Miss Goelet was eager to know.

  I scanned the room’s occupants. Mrs. Goelet, dressed in mourning, occupied a sofa upholstered in flowered silk. Ilsa and Patrick Floyd sat nearby. He came to his feet.

  “We’re most anxious to know what has happened, Miss Cross.”

  “Captain Caldwell and Lieutenant Norris have been taken in for questioning,” I told them.

  “What on earth were they doing here?” Mrs. Goelet looked mystified. “What possible reason could either man have for disturbing our peace? They know our household is in mourning.”

  I
couldn’t help glancing at Miss Goelet’s apricot-hued day gown, or her brother’s pinstriped linen coat and trousers. Even Ilsa, though dressed more somberly, had forgone full mourning. It seemed no one’s sentiments concerning Cleo’s death quite matched Mrs. Goelet’s.

  “They may have been here to cause mischief, ma’am,” I answered her evasively. “We’ll know more after the police question them. Until they do, I don’t like to speculate.”

  She seemed satisfied with that answer. “Then we are free to move about the house again? We are quite safe?”

  “You are, ma’am.”

  The woman snapped open the fan she held and waved it in front of her face. “Good heavens, that’s a relief.”

  “Auntie May,” called a childish voice from the gallery. Footsteps padded lightly over the runner, and then another voice could be heard.

  “Stop running, Beatrice,” Harriette Goelet said. “We do not run in the house.”

  In another moment the golden-haired little girl trotted into the room, with her mother a few paces behind her. “Beatrice, darling, I asked you not to run.”

  “Auntie May,” the child exclaimed again, and ran to Mrs. Goelet. Before she reached her, however, she stopped short in front of Patrick Floyd and beamed up at him. “Did you bring red flowers?”

  “Beatrice, mind your manners,” her mother scolded. “I’m sorry, Mr. Floyd. She’s got a fixation with flowers these days.”

  “Quite all right.” He smiled down at the girl. “I’m sorry, I have no flowers with me.”

  The child drew up like an army commander in miniature. “But you had a red flower for me in the garden room.”

  “Oh . . . uh . . . yes.” He glanced at the others. “But I haven’t any now. I’m terribly sorry. Perhaps next time.”

  Beatrice shrugged and continued to her aunt. Mrs. Goelet patted her lap and Beatrice clambered up to sit.

  Her mother sank into an armchair and sighed. “Beatrice, did you sneak into the conservatory again? You know you’re not to walk through the ballroom without a grownup holding your hand.” She shook her head with a rueful grin. “Honestly, this child will get up to all manner of mischief if not watched with an eagle eye.”

  “I didn’t go to the conser . . . conser . . . that room, Mama,” Beatrice mumbled, but no one paid her any mind, except for me. I studied her closely, thinking. Out of the mouths of babes . . .

  “We’ll leave you now that things have returned to normal.” Ilsa started to rise. Patrick quickly came to his feet and helped her up.

  As they slowly made their way across the room, in deference to Ilsa’s difficulties, my mind raced through the past several days. The ball and Cleo’s snubbing of Mr. Griggson; his desire to purchase Gull Manor—for a client; events at Fort Adams; the revelation of the courtship between Camille and Dorian Norris; Mr. Griggson’s death; Jesse’s disappearance.. . .

  When Mr. Griggson had demanded I sell Gull Manor to him, and I refused, he said I had no idea who I was dealing with. At the time, I believed he meant himself and hadn’t given much thought to who the client might be. At the time it hadn’t seemed to matter.

  Now, I believed I knew. Beatrice had carried a single red rosebud in her posy for Cleo.

  She had gotten the flower in the “garden room.”

  After allowing Patrick and Ilsa to precede me into the hallway, I couldn’t close the bedroom door behind us quickly enough. When I caught up to them, it was to her that I spoke.

  “I thought you might wish to know Camille went to the police station for questioning.”

  Her expression showed alarm. “Has she been arrested?”

  “No, and I don’t believe she is guilty of anything except perhaps overstepping convention.” I ignored Ilsa’s puzzled look and continued. “I do believe she can help the police sort out Sam’s and Dorian’s roles in Silas Griggson’s death, and perhaps your sister’s as well.”

  “Poor Cleo.” She shuddered. “You know, Miss Cross, I’ve been resisting the very notion that someone deliberately caused her death. I’ve wanted to believe it was merely an accident. That’s not nearly so terrible. People die of accidents every day; it is part of life. But a murder . . .” Another, more intense shudder went through her, prompting Patrick to move half a step closer to her. “So you think Sam or Dorian killed my sister?”

  I avoided Patrick’s gaze. “I think Dorian is somehow connected to her death, yes. As for Sam, I think time will prove him innocent.”

  “I do hope so.” Her features tightened. “I don’t understand what Camille has to do with any of this.”

  “Camille had put her hopes on Dorian Norris, through no fault of her own,” I explained. “He led her on.”

  “Oh, how beastly of him.” She made a noise of derision. “Patrick, isn’t that beastly?”

  “It is indeed, my dear.” His deep baritone sent shivers up my arms. I took Ilsa’s hand and coaxed her to walk again. We were headed toward the sitting room.

  “But why would Dorian wish to harm my sister?” she asked, suddenly sounding very young and naïve.

  “I believe it has something to do with Oliver Kipp and what happened in Santiago,” I replied, “and something that might have occurred in New York.”

  “In New York? Such as what?”

  I chose my words carefully. “Silas Griggson was not an honest man, Ilsa. One of his housing projects collapsed due to slapdash building materials. He allowed a foreman to take the blame, but I think he himself was at fault. Dorian Norris must have been connected to the project somehow. Perhaps only as an investor, but he must have known the truth, and somehow Oliver Kipp learned the truth as well.”

  Ilsa stopped again, abruptly. “And Oliver confided in Cleo?”

  I nodded. “I believe that’s very possible. Which means they both knew something that put them in danger.”

  “Good gracious.” Again, she appealed to Patrick. “Can you imagine it, Patrick? My poor sister. Poor Oliver. And here I blamed her for their parting. Why, his sudden departure to the war must have been in an effort to protect her. To pretend there no longer existed a connection between them.”

  “It’s said Oliver died a hero,” Patrick said with a sad smile. “If your speculation is correct, Miss Cross, it seems that was quite true.”

  “Oh, Oliver. Oh, Cleo.” Ilsa’s eyes filled with tears. She stumbled a bit as we resumed walking. Even as I helped steady her, Patrick appeared at her other side with a ready hand to help her. As we approached the guest bedroom wing, an idea came to me.

  “Ilsa, I can see how distressed you are. You should return to your room and rest awhile.”

  “I’m not sure I want to be alone right now.”

  “It would be best,” I insisted. “Mr. Floyd and I should leave you alone for a while and allow you time to come to terms with everything. And to rest,” I repeated. “It wouldn’t do to become fatigued.”

  As Ilsa looked from me to Patrick, I noticed his gaze upon me, his eyes sharp and assessing. Did he realize what I had realized?

  “I’ve a better idea,” he said. “Ilsa, why don’t we leave together and go into town to visit your father?”

  “My father?”

  “Yes. There is . . . there is a matter I wish to discuss with him. With you both.” He smiled, the coolness gone, replaced by a warmth of affection. “In fact, can you toss a few things into a bag? I think the best thing for you would be to leave Ochre Court. This is no peaceful haven, is it?”

  Ilsa’s entire demeanor changed. Her hand went to her bosom and her expression lit with joy. At first her reaction puzzled me, until I realized the implication of Patrick’s words. There is a matter I wish to discuss with him—him referring to Mr. Cooper-Smith. Ilsa believed an engagement with Patrick was imminent.

  I could not allow her to leave with him. Nor did I believe for one moment that he intended to make good on his implied promise. Yet again, I would have to play along.

  Smiling brightly, I gave her wrist a gentle squeeze. “
Go and pack, Ilsa.”

  Nodding, she turned away and limped into her bedroom. Patrick closed the door behind her, and then wasted no time in wrapping a hand around my throat. “One word, and I snap your neck and then go inside and do the same to Ilsa. Understood?”

  I nodded emphatically. His fingers loosened a fraction. “Good. Come along, then.”

  Chapter 18

  With his fingers clamped on the scruff of my neck, Patrick Floyd steered me in the direction of the elevator. I winced in pain but kept moving, while cursing the etiquette that kept the servants away from the family’s private rooms during the day unless they were specifically called for. I willed Mrs. Goelet’s bedroom door to open and Robert to step out. But no one appeared to intervene. And I very much believed Patrick’s threat concerning Ilsa.

  “Where is Jesse Whyte?” I demanded after managing to draw sufficient breath to speak.

  “That bumbling detective is lying unconscious beneath a patch of hydrangea.”

  Could I believe him? Could Jesse still be alive? “You didn’t kill him?”

  “I didn’t have to. I came up behind him and he never saw me. I believe in efficiency, Miss Cross, and killing an officer of the law without good reason would have been inefficient. It would have caused an unnecessary to-do.”

  Relief nearly made me sag to the floor; indeed, I might have if Patrick hadn’t had a firm hold on me. “I was wrong about Dorian killing Oliver and Cleo,” I couldn’t help observing aloud. At the same time, I began to devise a plan. I needed to incapacitate Patrick and I wouldn’t have more than one chance to do it. Of that I was certain. I couldn’t risk failing. My life and Ilsa’s depended on my success.

  Perhaps when we stepped inside the elevator . . . I reviewed some of the defensive maneuvers Derrick had taught me several years ago. I might thrust my heel into Patrick’s shin, and then spin around and spear my fingers into his throat, his eyes, shove my palm against his nose . . .

  “Actually, you are not wrong, Miss Cross.” He spoke like the aristocrat his was, in calm, courteous tones similar to the ones he used with Ilsa. The gentleman, the family friend. The killer. “Dorian did kill Oliver. It was why he joined Astor’s Battery. We knew ridding ourselves of a member of the Four Hundred must be done carefully to avoid an investigation. Oliver needed to die. He had learned too much for his own good.”