“Seems we might be dealing with a single criminal, and these burglaries are not random but in fact part of a pattern.”
The others harrumphed noncommittally, but I tended to agree with that last assessment. The robberies they spoke of had occurred at a milliner shop, a purveyor of leather tack, a general mercantile, a bakery, and an apothecary—the one I sometimes stopped in at to purchase Nanny’s headache powders. In each case, there had been acts of vandalism that had nothing to do with the actual theft, such as the gouging of countertops and the breaking of glass cases kept empty at night.
I hadn’t covered these break-ins for the Newport Observer. Mr. Millford, the paper’s owner and editor-in-chief, had judged the incidents too distressing for a woman’s delicate sensibilities, and had sent my co-reporter and nemesis, Ed Billings, instead. Not that I hadn’t covered similar stories in recent years. I most certainly had. But I knew his decision had little to do with my sensibilities and everything to do with the letters he had received in the past year chastising him for allowing a woman—me—to expose herself to life’s more disagreeable occurrences.
Disagreeable, indeed. My nape bristled ever so slightly, as it had when I read each account of these break-ins in the Observer ’s morning editions. Now, as then, I couldn’t shake the sensation that both Ed and the police were missing some vital clue that connected these crimes and pointed to a single individual.
I reminded myself that these were not my stories to cover. I had my assignment—today’s match—though if I happened to stumble upon a more interesting news item, could I be blamed?
I moved on. Gathered beneath the overhanging branches of a giant weeping beech, three men speaking in rumbling tones drew my interest. The foliage that draped like a lacy tent between us partially obscured me from their view, and they from mine. Nonetheless, bright red hair and a mustache of equally fiery color identified one of these men as Stanford Whittaker, an architect who designed many of Newport’s opulent cottages, as well as the Newport Casino. The other two, Robert Clarkson and Harry Lehr, were well known to me as well; all three were members of the Four Hundred. I stopped a few yards away, turned my back to them, and pretended to be enjoying the view of Morton Hill, the colorful pavilions, and the stomping of the divots.
“I tell you frankly, gentlemen, the Dingley Tariff will be the death of fair competition in this country and will result in the stagnation of international trade.” The speaker was Robert Clarkson, a man several years my senior who, in the last election, had won a seat in the Rhode Island State Senate. He was one of the youngest men currently serving as senator, yet Mr. Clarkson’s receding hairline and somber manners belied his age.
“You’re not telling us anything we don’t already know. But the question is what are we to do about it?”
With my back to them I couldn’t see the speaker of this last comment, but I knew the voice to be Harry Lehr’s. At twenty-eight, Mr. Lehr was a man of youthful good looks, vigorous energy, and a clever tongue—with very little else to recommend him. My Vanderbilt relatives considered him a fortune hunter and had taken pains to veer their daughters well clear of his path.
I’d heard of this tariff they spoke of, for lately it had been an ongoing item in the newspapers, and the U.S. Senate was set to vote on it next month. Passions ran high both in favor and against, leading to accusations on both sides and threats of an impending end to free American enterprise as we knew it. Obviously, these men were against the proposal that all imported goods should be taxed higher than the current rate.
“The devil take George Wetmore and his cronies. They’re drunk on power, is what they are. They need to get off their high horses and listen to reason.” Again, I didn’t need to turn around to recognize the voice of Stanford Whittaker. My mouth turned down in distaste. He made men like Harry Lehr seem downright respectable. His antics were legendary.
Older than Mr. Lehr and Mr. Clarkson by some twenty years, Whittaker had publicly humiliated his wife, Bessie, with his lewd behavior more times than I could count. And then, of course, he carried on quite openly with that teenage chorus girl in New York. Rumor had it he maintained an apartment in the city where he often brought the young beauties he seduced. I shuddered to think of it.
Now he dared speak crudely of George Peabody Wetmore, a respected U.S. senator and one of Newport’s most generous and esteemed residents. Even if this Dingley Tariff deserved Whittaker’s and the others’ disdain, out of a sense of indignation I found myself hoping the opposition won out in the matter. Intrigued, I turned my head slightly to block out the distracting sights and sounds of the polo grounds.
“I suppose Wetmore and the Republicans believe they’re protecting American interests,” Robert Clarkson murmured.
“What they’re doing,” Harry Lehr countered, “is creating American monopolies that will allow a very few select men to dictate supply and price.”
“That is precisely what sticks in my craw. Wetmore’s father made his fortune in the China trade, an international endeavor if ever there was one.” Whittaker spewed an oath I would be ashamed to repeat. “Now he wants to prevent the rest of us from doing the same. It’s insufferable.” Whittaker’s voice became a low growl. I strained to make out his words. “He can’t be allowed to get away with it.”
A chill swept my arms. Exactly what did he mean by that?
“Wetmore’s not alone in his protectionist thinking.” Harry Lehr gave a mirthless chuckle. “What do you plan to do, Whittaker, take them all down?”
A long pause ensued, and then Whittaker spoke again. “No. Not all.”
Lehr laughed again. “Don’t be ridiculous. Look, the bill might not pass, and all our grumbling will be for nothing.”
“I’m being ridiculous?” Whittaker shot back. “Lehr, the only reason you won’t actively take up the fight is because you’re hoping Wetmore will let you marry his daughter.”
My eyes widened. Harry Lehr and one of the Wetmore sisters? This was news. I could hardly fathom such a match, nor did I believe for one minute George Wetmore would consider it. The Misses Wetmore had been carefully educated and groomed to be respectable ladies. Great ladies, like my cousin Consuelo, who was now a duchess. Harry Lehr, on the other hand, was hardly known for his gentlemanly virtues or financial prospects. However charming he might be when he wished, rumors abounded concerning his many ribald antics and reckless business schemes.
What could he be thinking?
As if to answer my question, Robert Clarkson sniggered. “You’d sell us all out for Miss Maude’s dowry, eh, Lehr?”
“And quite a dowry it’ll be, my good man,” Lehr said with a snide laugh. “You’ve seen how she dresses. Her sister, too. Neither one of them goes in much for French frippery, which means that much more to line my pockets.”
While the others snickered, a sour taste filled my mouth. Yes, despite the Wetmores’ wealth, it was true the sisters were governed by good old-fashioned, New England thriftiness. How dare any man seek to take advantage of their good sense?
So it was the younger sister, twenty-four-year-old Maude, he was after. Did he think he had a better chance of winning her than her older sister, Edith? Or did he consider Miss Edith too long on the shelf? Either way, more fool he. A man like George Wetmore wouldn’t allow Harry Lehr within a hundred yards of either of his daughters. And in my opinion, both ladies were too sensible to suffer his attentions for long. Both had been courted in the past, but thus far neither had found a man enough to her liking to prompt her to spend the rest of her life with him. Unlike most ladies of the Four Hundred, the Wetmore sisters refused to marry merely for appearance’s sake.
I could not blame them. After all, I lived according to the same principle.
From the field, the warning bell for the next chukker sounded. The spectators ceased stomping earth back into place and dispersed to their pavilions and seats in the grandstand, or climbed back up to their blanketed perches on Morton Hill. The eight players rode onto the field
on fresh horses. Behind them came the two mounted referees. A stocky man in dark trousers, checkered cutaway, and a rather flat-crowned derby walked out onto the field. If nothing else, his hat identified him, for it had become his trademark, much to the chagrin of his more fashionable peers in the nation’s capital. Where other senators sported top hats on their way into Congress, George Wetmore insisted on wearing his derby. They called it disrespectful, but that didn’t deter Mr. Wetmore. He raised his arm and tossed out the ball, beginning the chukker and setting the riders in motion.
Time for me to return to my official business of reporting on the match for the Observer, where I ran my weekly Fancies and Fashions page during the Summer Season. Never mind that I had rather learn what the bitter triumvirate beneath the weeping beech was planning in response to the proposed import tariff. Mr. Millford expected an article detailing the match and today’s fashion highlights on his desk first thing in the morning.
In no particular hurry, I moved away from the tree and strolled toward the field. A moment later the branches of the beech swished behind me as they were swept aside, and all three men strode in single file by me. Each tipped his hat in passing, and I received a clipped “good morning” from Henry Lehr.
As the others kept on, Harry Lehr suddenly stopped, pivoted, and pinned his gaze on me. He waited until only a few yards separated us. I stopped short at his abrupt step toward me.
“Miss Cross.” He swept his top hat off his head and tipped me a bow—a mocking one. “Always on the lookout for a story, aren’t you?”
A quirk of his eyebrow suggested that his question wasn’t a rhetorical one. “I’m covering the match of course, Mr. Lehr.”
“Are you, indeed? Then perhaps you should stay away from the trees, Miss Cross. The match is that way, on the field.” He pointed with an outstretched arm.
“I’m on my way back now.” I tried to keep my voice light, unconcerned.
He moved another step closer. “Listening in on other people’s private conversations isn’t very ladylike. I’d advise against it, if you don’t want others to think ill of you. And you’d do best to keep whatever you think you heard to yourself.”
“I assure you I was not—”
He didn’t linger to hear the rest of my lie, but strode past me, shoving his top hat back over his straight, dark hair. I drew a rather shaky breath. Here I thought I’d been discreet, but I had underestimated Harry Lehr’s powers of observation. Now that I considered it, it only made sense that a man like Lehr, a gentleman with little inheritance who had learned to live off the largesse of high society, would be keenly attuned to his surroundings at all times. He wouldn’t want to miss an opportunity. Nor would he want me to give the Wetmores advance warning of his designs on their younger daughter.
I dismissed the incident when sharp voices resonated from a few yards beyond the foot of Morton Hill, both male and female and none too friendly. I raised my face to see from beneath my hat brim.
Two policemen blocked a woman’s path as she seemed to be attempting to make her way toward the grandstand, which was reserved for the wealthy cottagers. Obviously, she could not have paid the costly admission fee, or the police would not have stopped her. I couldn’t make out her identity, but even from a distance and in the glaring sun, I saw that she wore a tasteful day dress and matching Eton jacket of rose silk with plum trim. I made my way closer, slowly, pretending to scan the spectators in a general way. It was then I spotted the inconsistencies in the role the woman attempted to play: the slightly ragged quality of the ostrich feather in her hat, a complete lack of jewelry, a drawstring bag that tried but didn’t quite match her ensemble. The closer I went, the more I realized the trim on her outfit had been added by a less-than-nimble seamstress, for the velvet embellishment rippled where it should have lain perfectly flat. What had appeared elegant from a distance revealed itself on closer inspection as shabby, almost garish, in ways no society lady would ever countenance.
My reporter’s instincts came alert. As I looked on, she attempted to push past the two policemen. I moved closer, within hearing distance.
“You don’t understand. I must speak with Mrs. Wetmore.”
I halted. Had I heard her correctly?
One of the officers caught her elbow and spun her around. “I don’t think so.”
She tugged free and attempted another dodge past her pursuers. “If you’d allow me to see her for one minute, I’ll say my piece and be on my way.”
“Of course you will. Now, let’s be a good girl and come along.” The same policeman reached for her again.
I heard a breathless murmur behind me. “Lilah.”
I peered over my shoulder. Harry Lehr, Robert Clarkson, and Stanford Whittaker had circled back around and now stood not far behind me, watching the policemen’s attempts to remove the trespasser. Which one of them had spoken? I could not have said, for the voice had been too low to identify.
I stole another glance behind me. A third policeman had apparently hurried to the grandstand and alerted George Wetmore, for with a deep frown the senator came striding across the lawn, the officer trailing him. I recognized the moment his gaze lit on the intruder, for he came to an abrupt halt and surveyed the scene with a baffled expression. Obviously he, too, wondered what a woman from among the spectators on Morton Hill could want with his wife. The woman with the ragged ostrich feather caught his gaze, but rather than call out to him, she looked quickly away and took a step back as if searching for an escape.
George Wetmore continued toward her. Did he know this woman who demanded to speak with his wife, and who seemed to be known by other men in his social circle? A possibility sprang to mind, one that left me gaping—that she was, perhaps, George Wetmore’s mistress. It seemed impossible, based on all I knew about him. Upstanding, charitable, hardworking, and, as a former Rhode Island governor and present U.S. senator, dedicated to public service.
At the thudding of footsteps behind me, I turned to see Harry Lehr, Robert Clarkson, and Stanford Whittaker walking at a brisk pace back to the grandstand. Again I wondered which one had spoken the name Lilah. But perhaps all three of them knew her. Where would three well-bred gentlemen have occasion to meet a woman of such modest means?
As if she had heard the intruder calling to her, which of course she could not have from that distance, Mrs. Wetmore made her way through the crush and came in our direction. Had she noticed her husband’s departure from the match? Perhaps, for now she slowly followed in his wake, holding her skirts above the tips of the grass. Concern grew on her middle-aged but still attractive features.
Quickly I raised my own skirts and made my way to her. I’m not exactly certain why I felt it my duty to shield this society matron from potential unpleasantness. Perhaps the contemptuous conversation I’d overheard beneath the beech tree had raised a protective instinct or two. Hastily I closed the distance between Mrs. Wetmore and myself.
“Ma’am, there appears to be a trespasser making a bit of a scene, but it seems under control.”
Mrs. Wetmore stopped beside me but her gaze remained on her husband. Her own frown deepened. The altercation continued, but the policemen were succeeding in bustling the woman away. George Wetmore lingered, watching. At the same time, a man in work clothes and a wide straw hat came down from the hill and trotted to catch up with the woman and the policemen who were ushering her away. He fell into step beside them and tipped his head to hers, obviously speaking. I tried to make out his identity but they were too far from me now, and his hat cast a shadow over his face. But the woman’s pleading had stopped, and she allowed the policemen to escort her off the grounds without further ado.
“What on earth is going on, and why is my husband involved?” Mrs. Wetmore started forward.
“Ma’am, please, I don’t think you should.” I again scanned Morton Hill. Were there other reporters watching from among the common folk? These matches were typically attended by journalists from Tiverton, New Bedford, even Prov
idence and New York. Not all of them were willing to practice discretion, as I did when circumstances warranted. Again, I half questioned my motives in trying to protect Mrs. Wetmore. Most of the Four Hundred were quite capable of taking care of themselves. But the Wetmores were different. Perhaps because they were lifelong Newport residents rather than summer transplants, I couldn’t help feeling a kind of kinship toward them—however removed.
George Wetmore, apparently satisfied that he had seen the last of that woman for the time being, turned about, saw his wife, and rushed over to us. When he reached us he caught his wife’s hand and drew her several steps away from me. “My dear, it’s nothing. An unfortunate miscreant wanting a handout, I’m quite sure.”
“How do you know?” Mrs. Wetmore spoke in a calm, genteel tone. “Did she speak to you?”
“Indeed not. If she wishes something from us, there are proper channels she may follow. We do enough to succor the poor without their having to seek us out at sporting events. And I refuse to reward bad behavior.”
“Will she be arrested?” Mrs. Wetmore appeared saddened by the prospect.
Her husband shook his head. “She’s been warned not to attempt such a stunt again. If she is so bold as to seek us out a second time, then yes, she’ll find herself behind bars.”
“Us, George? You mean she came here specifically to appeal to you and me?”
“Uh, er, yes, she did. But never mind. Come, dearest, let us return to our pavilion before our friends begin to wonder what’s happened to us.” He spared me a glance. “Ah, Miss Cross is it? I hope I can depend on you not to—”
I held up a hand in a gesture of reassurance. “There is nothing here to report, sir, other than the match. As you said, an unfortunate woman decided upon an ill-advised undertaking.”
Nodding, Mr. Wetmore offered his wife the crook of his arm and drew her toward the field. “But George,” she said as he ushered her away, “why us? There are so many others here to whom she might have stretched out her hand.”
Murder at Chateau sur Mer Page 2
