Murder at Chateau sur Mer

by Alyssa Maxwell

  “The Wetmores could not have caused these,” I said immediately.

  Jesse regarded me. “To be certain of that we’ll need to know who walked here yesterday and what shoes they wore.”

  “Had any of the Wetmores caused these marks, a servant would have cleaned them before now. And surely no servant would be so reckless as to scuff his shoes on George Wetmore’s veranda.”

  “What color boots is Lilah Buford wearing?” As Jesse asked the question, he flipped through his notepad. “Ah, black. Obviously, she left the marks.” He gestured to Scotty and the other policeman. “Go and check the Moongate.”

  With the body removed, Jesse allowed the Wetmores to once again move freely about the house. Their young sons, Rogers and Billy, came down from their bedroom along with their sisters, and the family adjourned to the dining room for breakfast. Jesse and I spent the next hour in the butler’s pantry, interviewing the servants one by one. That is, Jesse interviewed them. I merely observed and shared my impressions with him afterward. Each denied any knowledge of Lilah Buford. I believed them. If Lilah’s errand here had involved any of the servants, she would not have attempted to approach Mrs. Wetmore at the polo match. Women of Mrs. Wetmore’s station never concerned themselves with the daily affairs or private lives of their servants. That was the housekeeper’s or butler’s job. Lilah Buford would have arrived at the servants’ entrance and demanded to speak with one of them. For that matter, if her complaint had been with a servant, she would have found the service stairs last night rather than attempting to sneak up the main staircase. The scenario of Lilah breaking into Chateau sur Mer to confront a servant seemed unlikely.

  We were finishing up in the butler’s pantry when Scotty Binsford called Jesse’s name. “The lock on the Moongate appears to have been smashed, sir. That’s not all. There are carriage tracks on the side of the road beside the gate, and a good pile of manure.”

  Jesse and I exchanged startled glances. We had been assuming Lilah must have walked here from town. From Lower Thames Street the distance was just over a mile. This new information suggested Lilah had come by carriage.

  Jesse voiced my thoughts. “Any clue as to where this carriage is now?”

  “There’s no sign of it, sir,” Scotty said.

  “Then Lilah couldn’t have come alone,” I said, “unless she neglected to set the brake and the horse wandered off.”

  Jesse leaned against one of the countertops. “Not very likely for a carriage horse to wander off unless something frightened it.”

  “It isn’t,” I agreed.

  “We need to return to the station and review everything we’ve learned here.” Jesse pushed away from the counter and led the way out of the room. In the Tapestry Hall, Mrs. Wetmore beckoned from a doorway.

  “I must speak with you.”

  Jesse nodded and changed course toward her. She shook her head. “No, not you, Detective. Miss Cross. I wish to speak with Miss Cross before she leaves.”

  Chapter 3

  Jesse agreed to wait for me outside. Questions sprang to my mind but I voiced none of them aloud. Soon enough, I would discover my reason for being here. Mrs. Wetmore scurried ahead of me through the doorway into another, smaller hall tiled in black-and-white marble, with the now familiar dark walnut woodwork. This marked, I knew, the original front entrance that had faced Bellevue Avenue before Richard Morris Hunt redesigned the house and added the north entrance and porte cochere. Several double-leaf doors opened onto adjoining rooms. She led me through one of them.

  I found myself in a corner parlor decorated in the Louis Quinze style, with walls covered in a cool green damask. Several French doors looked out upon the veranda and the south and west lawns. The room held a distinctly feminine air, and given its proximity to the ballroom, I surmised it to be a ladies’ salon. Mrs. Wetmore led me to a gilt-framed sofa near one of the French doors. We settled side by side.

  “Miss Cross, I want you to know that I have the utmost faith in my husband.”

  Whatever I had expected her to say, it was not this. “I’m . . . glad for that,” I stammered in reply.

  “I can see that you do not understand.”

  An understatement. I waited.

  Sighing, she shifted to peer out the doors behind us. When she regarded me again, a conspiratorial expression stole across her features. “I know all about you, Miss Cross. You must realize that your escapades are no secret, that you are whispered about in salons and service corridors alike.”

  Heat climbed my neck and into my cheeks. Had she brought me here to chastise me? “Mrs. Wetmore . . .”

  “Your abilities are much admired—secretly of course, for none of us dares express an interest in activities of which our husbands would thoroughly disapprove.”

  “I see, ma’am.” I’m sure she deduced by my frown that I didn’t see at all.

  “Miss Cross, I wish you to conduct your own investigation of what that woman wanted and why she . . . why we were greeted with such a sight at the bottom of our staircase this morning.”

  I took a moment to absorb what she was proposing. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time I’d been called upon to delve into the heart of perplexing circumstances. My own aunt Alva Vanderbilt had had me conduct such an investigation two summers ago, because she couldn’t risk the police, and more importantly her peers, learning details that would permanently erase her from the Social Register.

  I studied the woman before me. Mrs. Wetmore would certainly be termed a handsome woman, with light brown hair, only slightly graying, pulled back in gentle waves to a simple coif. Were those waves natural, or the result of her lady’s maid’s efforts? If the latter, Mrs. Wetmore employed a woman of singular skill. My gaze lowered to a straight nose, bowed lips, and a soft yet determined chin, and then back up to the eyes. They were blue, clear and calm, almost serene, with a self-possession that spoke of an intelligent mind. She had wavered earlier in the library when she learned of Lilah’s profession. At that moment her faith in her husband had slipped a fraction, but she had since regained full command of herself, apparently. I had no doubt of her resolve, or that she had given serious consideration to what she was asking me to do.

  One question remained. “Ma’am, if you trust your husband, why would you wish anyone but the police to investigate the matter?”

  She leaned closer to me, her forefinger pointing. “That is the crux of it precisely, Miss Cross. I trust my husband, but I do not fully trust the police.” She shook her head when I opened my mouth to reply. “No, you must understand. It’s not that I fear the police might implicate my husband in Miss Buford’s death, or in her prior . . . activities. What I fear is that the police will rush through without proving or disproving a thing, simply to have done with the matter. My husband has many influential friends who will believe they are doing him and myself an enormous favor in tying the police’s hands. That is the last thing I wish.”

  “Then what do you wish, ma’am?”

  “I want every possible link between my husband and this woman scoured until no secret can possibly remain hiding. It isn’t enough to say a deranged woman broke into our home to rob us and fell down the stairs to her death. We must discover exactly what she wanted and why she came here, so that my husband can be utterly and completely exonerated of any wrongdoing whatsoever. Only that will do. Anything less will hang over our heads the rest of our days. If the police are forced to sweep this matter under the rug, there will always be questions and insinuations. Suspicion will dog my family—my children—always. It will cause a permanent stain upon our legacy. And I cannot have that. I will not.”

  There, finally, was the reason I’d been summoned this morning, why Mrs. Wetmore insisted I be present when Jesse questioned her and her husband, and why she sent her adult daughters from the room.

  Her eyes widened with expectation. “Will you do it, Miss Cross?”

  The answer wasn’t nearly as simple as one might think, and certainly not as clear-cut as
Mrs. Wetmore hoped, judging by her eager expression. Yes, I had investigated crimes before. I had worked with Jesse, and at times even against him, to dig at the truth. I had put myself in danger numerous times, sometimes knowingly, at other times quite unawares. But on each of those occasions, I’d had a personal stake in the matter. A relative, a friend, someone I cared deeply about. I understood Mrs. Wetmore’s position, her fierce desire to protect her family. I sympathized. I believed that in her shoes I would be similarly determined.

  I was not her, however, and the Wetmores were not my family. Perhaps that seems selfish of me, but at twenty-three, didn’t I deserve to be the slightest bit selfish? Besides, I had a surrogate family to look after: Nanny; Brady; my maid-of-all-work, Katie; and my dear little dog, Patch. I also had a legacy to uphold. Upon inheriting my seaside home, Gull Manor, from my great aunt Sadie, I also assumed the responsibility she had taken upon herself. Aunt Sadie never married and had no children, but Gull Manor had always been open to young women in need. Former prostitutes, disgraced maids, victims of some abuse or another, even abandoned children had found shelter at Gull Manor under Aunt Sadie’s care. When the house became mine, so did her vocation to aid the less fortunate.

  I often asked myself, which other doors in this city were as open as Gull Manor’s? Where else would society’s castoffs be welcome? There lay my responsibility, my obligation, my sense of duty. Not here, at Chateau sur Mer, to a family I knew not at all beyond reputation and the occasional, impersonal encounter at social events.

  “Miss Cross, will you do it? Please. I don’t know where else to turn.”

  Ironic that my thoughts had drifted to all those others who truly had nowhere else to turn, whereas I felt quite certain Mrs. George Peabody Wetmore had a spare resource or two up her silk and lace sleeve.

  Still, I owed her an answer, even if I had yet to make up my mind. “I believe the best course is to wait until the coroner makes his report, and Detective Whyte has had a chance to review all the facts.” And to give me time to consider this unexpected and not-altogether welcome request, I added silently.

  “But Miss Cross, don’t you wish to discover the truth about poor Miss Buford? Whatever she might have done, or planned to do, does she not deserve to have her last moments in life understood by someone?”

  Kind words, yet they made me bristle. I felt as if Mrs. Wetmore had looked directly into my mind and heart and glimpsed one of my foremost vulnerabilities. She said at the outset of our little chat that she knew all about me. Obviously, she hadn’t merely referred to my investigative skills, but rather to my life at Gull Manor and those with whom I shared my home. I bit back a retort. I did not appreciate her using my own convictions against me.

  And then I sighed. “You are correct, of course, Mrs. Wetmore. Lilah Buford does deserve the truth to be known, rather than being defined by uninformed speculation. Perhaps her reasons for being in this house were not nefarious, but explainable in some other way.” I drew myself up. “Yes, she deserves the truth, in the same way we all deserve our lives to be understood once we are gone.”

  “Then you’ll do it.”

  I held up a hand. “I didn’t say that, ma’am. I maintain that we must wait to see what Detective Whyte and the coroner can deduce. After that . . . perhaps.”

  We left it at that. When I rejoined Jesse outside, I didn’t tell him what Mrs. Wetmore and I discussed. For now, he seemed content not to pry. For that I was glad, although eventually he would wish to know what transpired behind the closed door of the ladies’ parlor. I needed time to consider, to reach a decision. But as Jesse drove me home, a weight of obligation settled heavily on my shoulders. I found no relief throughout the remainder of the day.

  * * *

  Jesse came to see me at home late that afternoon. He arrived without notice, though his sudden appearance didn’t take me aback. I’d expected to see him as soon as he’d learned anything important. I just hadn’t expected it to be quite so soon.

  The day had turned blustery, with high winds and deep banks of clouds hovering low over the tossing waves. The eaves of my shingle-style house creaked and a loose shutter banged annoyingly until my maid, the red-haired Katie Dylan, found a hammer and nails and went outside to silence the ruckus.

  Jesse and I settled in the front parlor with a pot of Nanny’s strong Irish tea. Jesse politely refused anything to eat. I could see by his bearing that he had grave news to deliver, though he took his time about it. That set me on edge, so much so I scalded my tongue rather than waiting for my tea to cool properly. Even Patch, curled at my feet, let out several low, plaintive wines, prompting me to gently nudge him with the toe of my house slipper.

  “I spoke to the coroner,” he said at length, as I had guessed he would. His eyes fell closed and then opened slowly, increasing the sense of apprehension that had been growing inside me since opening the door to him. “Lilah Buford’s death has become a good deal more complicated.”

  I set my cup and saucer on the sofa table. He sat opposite me, and I raised my chin to meet his gaze. “Please don’t keep me in suspense any longer.”

  “I’m sorry. But it’s a difficult thing to speak of.” He took a fortifying sip of tea, as if it possessed the bracing effects of brandy or whiskey. “Lilah Buford was with child.”

  The breath left me all at once. I had not expected this. Nearly a full minute passed before I found my voice. “How long?”

  Jesse shrugged. “The coroner estimates between six and eight weeks. No more than that.”

  We fell silent, each lost in our own thoughts. Had Lilah even known? The thought that perhaps she hadn’t struck me as unbearably tragic. A little face took shape in my mind, a baby boy who had sojourned at Gull Manor a year ago, who in a very short time had worked his way deep into our hearts. In the end we’d had to give him up—rightly so and, for him, happily—but the experience had changed all of us who dwelt beneath this roof. Especially me. A tiny yearning had come alive inside me. Not an urgency, but a certainty that someday I would wish to be a mother.

  “Poor Lilah,” I found myself saying. “Her poor babe. Oh, Jesse . . .” I lowered my head to my hand and pressed my fingertips to my brow. An ache pressed against my throat.

  “Emma.” Jesse called to me softly. When I looked up I knew he had guessed the train of my thoughts. He, too, had held that baby boy in his arms last summer, and like me he had fought to discover the child’s rightful place in the world. Jesse had come to understand the value of a human life, no matter how small, how insignificant it might seem. “Emma,” he repeated. “Do you understand how this changes everything? For the Wetmores, I mean.”

  “Good heavens.” I had been so wrapped in my memories I had forgotten that this lost life, Lilah’s and her child’s, held ramifications far beyond the obvious. “George Wetmore.”

  “Yes, George Wetmore.” Jesse shook his head sadly. “A woman comes to a public arena where she has her best chance of gaining the Wetmores’ attention. She demands to speak with Mrs. Wetmore, but isn’t given the chance. She then turns up at their home—dead. And she is with child.”

  With a great effort, I pushed the words past my lips. “You believe the senator is the father, and that he killed her, don’t you?”

  “I believe there is a good chance the senator is the father. As to whether he killed her . . .” He breathed out harshly. “I don’t want to believe it, and to tell the truth, Emma, I cannot. We’re speaking of George Wetmore, for heaven’s sake. A U.S. senator. A former governor of our state. A man who has lived in Newport all his life and performed countless services for his fellow man. No, Emma, I cannot believe it.”

  His distress was so evident, I longed to circle the sofa table, sink before him, and take his hand. I resisted the unseemly act, remaining where I was but nonetheless attempting to convey my empathy. “The most obvious conclusion isn’t always the correct one. You and I know that only too well. If you cannot believe George Wetmore committed murder—and I do not either
—then your instincts are telling you there is more to be learned.”

  He nodded, but the gloom didn’t leave his eyes. “There is more, actually. There are bruises, not all of them caused by the fall. Some are older, in various states of healing. Someone had been abusing her on a regular basis.”

  “I’m sorry to have to point this out, but for a woman in her circumstances, such bruises are typical. You remember Stella.” When he nodded, I went on. “She came to me last summer in wretched condition, but no single individual had been to blame. Although . . .” I looked down at my hands. “She did tell me that most of those injuries were inflicted by her wealthier clients, not working men or sailors. Ironic, isn’t it?”

  “Revolting is the word, I believe. Men preying on women. . .” He spoke so bluntly Patch lifted his head from his paws, his brown ear twitching. Jesse glanced away, brooding, and then smiled. “I’m sorry.”

  I shook my head. “No need. We both know that not all in Newport shines as it should. At the polo match, I heard some things that, in light of Lilah Buford’s death, bear repeating.” I leaned forward in my eagerness to impart to Jesse the conversation I’d heard between Harry Lehr, Stanford Whittaker, and Robert Clarkson. “They’re angry about this tariff act. Each stands to lose, and Stanford Whittaker in particular seemed anxious that, in his words, George Wetmore not be allowed to get away with it.”

  Jesse crossed one leg over the other and tilted his head back. “Senator Wetmore isn’t the only politician pushing for tariffs on imports. The Panic of Ninety-Three prompted a return to protectionism and economic tightfistedness.”

  “Which I don’t understand. I thought the Panic started as the result of the bankruptcy of the Reading Railroad. What did that have to do with imports?”