Yet go there, I did. After attempting to reassure Nanny, I hitched Barney to the carriage and drove over to Chateau sur Mer. I didn’t ask to speak with Mrs. Wetmore. I merely handed the butler my calling card with the word yes written on the back, and asked him to give it to his mistress. Then I steered Barney west into town, to Lower Thames Street and the offices of the Newport Observer. Even from outside, I could hear the rumble of the presses deep inside the building. I watered Barney from a nearby trough and slipped the strap of his feed bag behind his ears. Pedestrians passed me by without a second glance. I blended in with the foot traffic and went about my business, like everyone else.
Quickly I crossed Thames Street and walked the few streets over to Carrington’s Wharf. The briny odors of the harbor, always prevalent along Thames Street, became stronger here, borne in with the westerly breezes skimming the water. I decided to avoid the wharf proper, where men would be loading and unloading boats and transferring goods in and out of the warehouses. A walkway plunged between the backs of the buildings on Carrington’s Wharf and those on the next wharf. Brady had told me—under some duress—that the entrance to the Blue Moon faced this narrow alley, where patrons could come and go discreetly. Hoping I would enjoy the same anonymity, I slipped down the passage.
At one time, textile mills vied for space along the harbor with shipbuilders and machine shops. Most of these were long gone, unable to compete with similar operations on the mainland. And once the Four Hundred discovered Newport, industries shifted more toward supplying the kinds of goods needed to keep their cottages running and their parties well stocked.
Nowadays, Carrington’s Wharf primarily housed the operations of the Lyman Fuel Company, which shipped in, stored, and delivered coal and firewood throughout the city. As I passed the rear of the main warehouse, I wondered how long before times once again changed, and electric companies such as the Newport Illuminating Company rendered coal and wood obsolete.
I also passed a dry goods store that catered to fishermen and dockworkers who lived nearby, and a small carpentry shop. Up until this point I could have, if seen, pretended to be searching for a legitimate business. Perhaps I needed coal delivered to Gull Manor, or wished to engage a carpenter to mend that noisy shutter.
I reached a door above which a sign beckoned with a full moon painted a lurid shade of blue. Beside the door, a mullioned window provided wavering glimpses of the shadowed interior of a public room. Even from outside, the odors of stale tobacco and sharp spirits, and one or two things I didn’t wish to contemplate, tweaked my nose and made me want to do an about-face. What on earth was I doing here?
The Blue Moon Tavern appeared closed to business, but not to be so easily deterred, I tried the door latch. It yielded beneath the slight pressure I applied, and the door creaked inward.
“Hello? Is anyone about?” I stepped inside and closed the door behind me. The unsavory aromas outside, I realized, were merely a precursor to those pervading the interior, along with the oppressive addition of perspiration and the heavy perfume of tobacco smoke. Though I could boast no firsthand knowledge of such establishments, I easily guessed this was a far cry from the more fashionable enterprises outside of town, where spacious, shingle-style houses that stood shaded by stately old trees might have been mistaken for respectable homes.
The place seemed unnaturally quiet. Shouldn’t the workers be preparing for their evening business? Yet no clanking of pots and pans emerged from the doorway that presumably led into the kitchen, and no charwoman could be seen wielding a mop over the floors, though they sorely needed attention. Attempting to breathe shallowly, I made my way between tables to the bar, beside which a doorway gave way to a stairwell. I poked my head in. “Hello? Can anyone help me? Miss Perry?”
For such was the name I had wheedled out of Brady at the polo grounds—Heidi Perry, who presided over the Blue Moon and its occupants. Apparently she claimed to be a descendant of Oliver Hazard Perry, a onetime Newport resident, a naval commander, and hero of the War of 1812. A lofty connection, indeed, if a dubious one. I chuckled inwardly and called out again.
I had just put my foot on the bottom step when a voice from above shouted down at me.
“Get out. We’re not open. Are you completely daft?”
“I’m sorry. The door was unlocked. Are you Miss Perry?”
An oath worthy of a longshoreman rained down on me. “Who’s asking?”
I thought better of shouting my name back up at her. I peered up the staircase, and saw, a floor above me, the dim outlines of a female figure in a shapeless dressing gown leaning over the railing. A profusion of spiraling hair spilled over a pair of amply rounded shoulders. “I’ve come on behalf of Lilah Buford, Miss Perry.”
“Lilah? Where’s that hussy gotten to? I ain’t seen her in . . . how many days it been now?”
“Two, Miss Perry.” So Jesse and the police officers hadn’t been here yet. The notion made me angry. What were they waiting for? But I already knew. Just as Mrs. Wetmore had predicted, they were hushing up the crime and George Wetmore’s possible connection to it. Well, Jesse might be subject to the pressures of city politics, but I was not. “Might you come down? I really do need to speak with you.”
Grumbling words accompanied the creaking of steps and a good deal of indignant huffing. “A good thing for you I was already awake, missy,” she said, upon reaching the bottom. She secured her dressing gown around her with a satin sash. Even so, her bosom threatened to spill from the frilled neckline. “A happy coincidence for you. Not everyone is in bed with the sunset and up with the roosters.” She waved a finger at me. “Not in our line of work, missy. Not here.”
“Yes, of course. I’m terribly sorry.”
Close up, I could see that Miss Perry was younger than I might have imagined, in her early thirties at most. Blond hair of shocking brightness fell nearly to her waist, though as she descended the stairs she had twisted most of it into a knot at her nape. Her eyes were blue, her skin clear and pale. She possessed a pleasant countenance, one that might aspire to beauty were she not in such a state of dishabille.
Miss Perry possessed the kind of figure I often envied—softly rounded, abundant of bosom, generous in the hips. I easily pictured her making the most of the latest fashions, which oftentimes swallowed those of petite frame, like myself. Nanny was forever taking in leg-o’-mutton sleeves so as not to appear like great sails that would carry me away at the slightest wind. No, if her circumstances were different, Miss Perry would command the latest trends to her best advantage, rather than her clothes commanding her.
She eyed me levelly. I supposed she was sizing me up even as I did her, and her next words confirmed it. “What could such a little slip of a girl possibly have to say to me?”
Her question reminded me of my own words regarding Lilah Buford’s demand to speak to Mrs. Wetmore. “May we sit down, please?”
She studied me for another several moments, giving little shakes of her head as if she could not quite make sense of the present circumstances. “Not here,” she finally said. “The barkeep will be here soon to go over his books and he doesn’t need to know my business. Come upstairs.”
Quite unexpectedly, I inwardly panicked at the thought of venturing farther into this den of iniquity, to quote my minister. As Miss Perry didn’t wait for my response but started back up the steps, I silently followed her. After passing through another door at the top, she took me only as far as a parlor so comfortably appointed, so utterly at odds with the squalor in the tavern below, that I came to an abrupt halt and stared. With an impatient gesture she bade me sit on a crimson velvet sofa cushioned generously with an array of satin pillows.
“Tea?” she asked, and, at my “No, thank you,” settled herself in a wing chair facing me. She folded her hands primly on her lap. “Now then, missy, what is this all about? Why is a respectable young lady like yourself risking ruination by coming to the Blue Moon to see Madam Heidi? I don’t expect it’s Lilah’s jo
b you’re after.”
After another befuddled glance around the room, I blurted, “Indeed not.” I set my purse on my lap and held on to it with both hands—not out of fear of being robbed, but as a sort of anchor in these untried waters. Then I realized what I’d said, and the indignant tone with which I’d said it. I glanced up at Miss Perry. “I am sorry. I didn’t mean to imply . . .” I trailed off helplessly as she chuckled, her shoulders and bosom heaving with merriment. If nothing else, she apparently found me entertaining.
“Well, don’t keep me in suspense,” she cried. “Where has our Lilah been? Her customers are getting downright testy and if she doesn’t show up soon, they might take their business elsewhere. We can’t have that now, can we, missy?”
Heat crawled into my cheeks at the reference. In recent years I’d witnessed all manner of deceit, violence, and death, and had harbored more than one reformed prostitute under my roof. Yet such a blatant reference to the oldest profession still had the power to make me blush. Miss Perry noticed it, too. She must have, for she smiled in a cunning sort of way. Perhaps she enjoyed my discomfort.
“Miss Perry,” I began, but she stopped me.
“Madam Heidi. Everybody calls me that.”
I frowned. To my chagrin her request renewed the heat in my face. She laughed again. “Never mind, missy. Call me whatever strikes your fancy. What shall I call you?”
I felt tempted to give her a false name. But to what end? I very much doubted any threat to my reputation would come from this woman. “My name is Emma Cross.”
Her eyebrows, artificially darkened and elongated, shot up. “The Fancies and Fashions Emma Cross? Well, land’s sake.”
“You read my column?” I felt a tiny and quite unexpected thrill, a surge of pride.
“Every week. We all do. Is it true what they say, that you’re one of them Vanderbilts?”
“I am, but my connection to the family goes back several generations. But that’s not why I’ve come, Miss Perry. Lilah Buford has, well . . .” I drew myself up and took a deep breath. “Lilah’s gone missing.”
She stared across the space at me, unblinking, while a clock I hadn’t previously noticed ticked loudly from somewhere in the corridor. Then her expression blackened and her fist came down on the little brandy table beside her chair, the blow so heavy a bud vase toppled and crashed to the floor. “The hell she has. She was my best girl and what’s more, she was thankful to be here. Who killed her?”
Chapter 5
“I didn’t say anyone killed her, Miss Perry. Only that—”
“Do you take me for an imbecile, Miss Cross? Would you be here right now if Lilah were alive? A woman like you, here without doggone good cause?” She tilted her head back and regarded me through hooded eyes. “Either you speak the truth, missy, or you can see yourself out.”
I blew out a breath. “All right, yes. Lilah is dead, Miss Perry. She was found at the bottom of a staircase in one of the houses on Bellevue Avenue.”
“Bellevue? Have you lost your mind? Lilah knows better than to set foot in one of them cottages.”
“I saw her myself.”
The woman’s eyes once more narrowed on me. “Where was she found? Which house?”
“Before I get to that, can you think of anyone who would wish ill on Lilah? Did she have enemies, or a disgruntled . . . customer?”
“Customer? No. Enemies?” She sucked in her cheeks as she considered. “Some or all of the other girls mighta had it in for her. Lilah showed up one day and by the next she’d become a favorite. Knew how to entertain a man, she did. Took business away from the others. Even from other establishments. But if one of them did her in, why take her to some house? Why not just dump her in the harbor?” She held out her arm, her wrist dripping ivory lace as she pointed to a window. “It’s just a stone’s throw.”
Her crass indifference made me wince, and made me regret telling her of Lilah’s fate. But she did have a point. “Are you sure none of your patrons wanted her out of the way?”
“Missy, if one of them did, my guess is it’s the owner of this cottage you won’t name.” She raised an eyebrow as if to say touché.
“Did you know Lilah was with child?”
Her smug expression vanished. “What?”
“She was pregnant,” I said, enunciating the last word.
“Land’s sake. I had no idea. . . .”
“I need to find out who the father might have been. Was Lilah close to any of the other girls? Someone she might have confided in?” That was, I added silently, if she had been aware of her condition. According to the coroner it had been early enough that Lilah might not have realized it.
Miss Perry stood. “Wait here.”
Minutes later her voice traveled down from the upper story. “Get up, all of you. Get up, you lazy things. I want you in the parlor in five minutes.”
While she roused the others, I considered what she had said about dumping Lilah’s body in the harbor. Logical, unless the culprit wanted Lilah gone and wished to punish George Wetmore by framing him for the crime. Perhaps Lilah had taken Mr. Wetmore’s business away from one of the other girls. For women such as these, a wealthy client could make the difference between merely subsisting and living well, and possibly retiring sooner rather than later.
It might be possible for a woman to convey another across a lawn and into a house—improbable, but not undoable. What seemed impossible to me was Senator George Wetmore in a place like this, with its seedy location overlooking the Lyman Fuel Company. But perhaps I was being naïve.
Miss Perry returned leading four young women into the parlor. All appeared to have dragged themselves from their beds and were clad in dressing gowns of decent, if not opulent, quality. Two had hastily tied back their hair while the other two peeked at me from beneath untidy fringes of curls. They ranged themselves around the room. One sat at the other end of the sofa from me. I judged them all to be about my own age, give or take a couple of years. They at least seemed well nourished.
Miss Perry began with a blunt question. “What do any of you know about where Lilah took off to the other day?”
The four girls exchanged glances and shrugged. “Nothing,” one of them said. “Why? She in trouble?”
“She’s dead,” Miss Perry replied before I could speak a word.
A couple of the girls gasped. The other two remained silent, watching me. One of them, a brunette whose expression spoke of world-weariness, gestured at me with her chin. “Who’s she?”
Would Miss Perry identify me as Miss Cross of the Fancies and Fashions page? I found myself no longer caring and told them the truth myself. This brought on a little barrage of oohs and words of praise, until Miss Perry motioned them to be silent.
“This is about Lilah,” she said. “And about what any of you might have known before she left.”
The individual with whom I shared the couch, a slender, golden-haired girl with large green eyes that held a lost, haunted look, spoke. “She didn’t tell me she was leaving, if that’s what you mean.”
“Did any of you know Lilah was with child?” I asked.
More glances were exchanged, followed by denials. I believed them on that account. Why lie about it?
Deciding to leave that matter for now, I changed the subject. “What can you tell me about the men who come here?”
This only earned me four puzzled expressions. From the other end of the couch came the question, “What do you mean? All kinds of men come here. Sailors, fishermen, workmen—the ones that can afford us that is, and then there’s the occasional wealthy cottager—”
“Tell me about those,” I interrupted. “The wealthy men.”
“Humph. Some aren’t very nice,” the brunette said with a disparaging look. The girl sitting in the chair beside her, a blonde as bright and brassy as Miss Perry, nodded in agreement. The brunette spoke again. “I guess that’s why they come here, instead of some o’ them fancy houses outside o’ town.”
“Are you willing to name names?”
This question had them all seeking Miss Perry’s authority. She appealed to me. “You’re trying to find out who killed Lilah, and you think it might be one of the cottagers?”
“I’m merely trying to piece together what happened to Lilah.” I didn’t add that Lilah finding her way into Chateau sur Mer certainly suggested a connection between her and members of the Four Hundred, whether one of them killed her or not. But perhaps I was being too broad in my questions. I needed to simplify, be more direct, beginning with the men from the polo match who had appeared to know Lilah, or at least her name. “Do you know men by the names of Robert Clarkson, Stanford Whittaker, or Harry Lehr?”
I held my breath, suddenly realizing that men of quality might use assumed names in a place like this. Would I need to describe them? Could I do so well enough to spark a reliable identification?
“Robert Clarkson,” the girl across the sofa from me said. Her golden hair fell forward, nearly obscuring her face from me. She spoke to her lap. “He’s only been here a couple of times. But I know him—that is, I . . .” She tossed a glance around at the others. “But the other two you mentioned. They come more often. Especially Mr. Whittaker.”
“So they don’t attempt to hide their identities when they come,” I said.
The brunette, who seemed to be the unofficial spokesman of the group, shrugged. “They don’t seem to care who knows they’re here. Of course, they know we don’t go telling tales. Wouldn’t be good for business.”
“Except now,” the golden-haired one said softly, glancing up with fear growing in her large eyes. “We’re telling tales now, aren’t we?”
“This conversation is strictly between us,” I assured them. “Your confidences are safe with me. Tell me about them. Did Lilah entertain them, or one of you?”
“The older one, Whittaker, he liked me until Lilah came along.” The brunette gave a shudder. “He paid handsomely, but I wasn’t too sorry to lose him to Lilah. Good riddance, I said.”
Murder at Chateau sur Mer Page 7
