A crash sounded from inside the cigar shop and another burst of sparks shot up from the roof. Embers rained down, and I ducked my head and raised my hands to shield myself. I needed to move away—we all did. I could no longer see Derrick as fear drove the crowd in confused directions all around me. I also looked for Flossie, but she, too, was nowhere to be seen. Another explosion sent a barrage of burning shingles flying, arcing in my direction. I took a step in the hopes of moving farther along the sidewalk when a shove from behind sent me sprawling into the street, into a suffocating mixture of dust and mud and ash.
I gasped for breath and attempted to slip my hands beneath me and raise myself up. A near paralyzing fear of being trampled overcame me, along with very real pinpricks of heat as embers landed against my back and singed through my clothing.
In the next instant hands closed around my shoulders and gently turned me. “Emma, good God, are you all right? Emma?”
“Yes, yes. I think so. I was . . .” I had felt a shove, or so I had thought. But surely it had been an accident. The sparks had sent everyone running, and someone merely bumped into me. “I lost my footing,” I concluded weakly.
Derrick helped me to my feet. He slipped an arm around my waist and held me firmly to his side. “You might have been killed. I’d never have forgiven myself.”
“I’m fine, I promise.” But I trembled against him, and my legs felt barely able to support me.
If anyone knew the perils of a fire, I did. My memory conjured scorching heat, the sickening stench of burning flesh, and the sting of smoke inundating my lungs. Yes, in many ways, smoke constituted the gravest danger, for death could come immediately or later, after the illusion of safety set in.
With Derrick guiding me, we made our way back toward Bath Road, though we stopped well within visible range of the cigar shop. The crackling flames of both recollection and the present moment rendered me immobile and nearly breathless—afraid to breathe in the noxious haze—though not for myself but for the individual still trapped within, as if my holding my breath would help him hold his own until rescue arrived.
It arrived too late. Moments later two firemen burst from the flaming building. They carried someone between them, brought him into the street, and gently laid him down. I craned to make out who it was. Before I could glimpse much, someone draped a cloth over him.
I let out the breath I’d been holding and turned my face into Derrick’s coat front. I had seen death before—of course I had. But that didn’t make it any easier. With each lost life, I thought of all that might have been. I thought of the achievements and dreams that would never come to fruition. I thought of the family waiting for their loved one to come home. I thought of the utter tragedy of such a loss.
And then my gaze lit on yet another familiar face. Anthony Dobbs stood with hands in his pockets and his chin lifted, observing the fire through slitted eyes. Beside him was the younger man who worked with him, the one who had called him back to work the day he confronted me on the wharf. It didn’t surprise me to see either of them there. They were workmates, after all, and perhaps Dobbs, his means greatly reduced since he left the police force, had taken a room in the area. Still, he appeared too calm, too assessing for my liking, and the sight of him sent a chill across my shoulders and a suspicion, albeit unfounded, to settle in my mind.
I couldn’t have said how long Derrick and I stood there, watching, when a sudden onslaught from Bath Road brought shouting and the tramp of running feet. In an instant these latest arrivals shouldered their way through the bystanders until they came face-to-face with the restraining policemen.
The dark-haired Dominic Ellsworth attempted to push his way past. An officer stepped in front of him to block his path, but it was one of his own group, James Bennett, who managed to stop him. Mr. Ellsworth shouted that he must save his building, and James Bennett shouted back that it was already too late. Mr. Bennett locked his arms about his fellow teammate from the Westchester Polo Club and forcibly prevented him from dashing into the blaze.
* * *
I stayed up late that night writing my account of the fire, and drove Barney into town early the next morning to deliver the article to my employer.
Mr. Millford let out a sigh when I laid the page on his desk beneath his nose. “Ed was at the fire as well, Emma. Didn’t you see him there?”
“Not a sign of him. I suggest you read both accounts and print the one that rings most true.” I had no doubt the more authentic article would be mine, though that didn’t guarantee me a byline in the evening edition. Neither would arguing, however, so with a little prayer in hopes of fair play, I turned and left his office.
I considered returning to the Blue Moon to once again question Madam Heidi and her girls, but the early hour dissuaded me of the wisdom of that plan. I’d already roused them from their beds once this week. I’d wait until later this afternoon. On my way out, then, I asked Donald Larimer, the Observer’s front office clerk, to keep an eye on Barney for me. Then I walked up to Spring Street, where I caught the trolley that took me to the north end of town. I alighted in front of the Newport Hospital on Friendship Street, a once-private house converted to its present purpose.
It was some minutes before Hannah Hanson was able to meet me in the lobby. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting, Emma. I assisted in surgery earlier and needed to change.” She gestured to her starched dress and crisp white pinafore.
“Please don’t apologize. Thank you for seeing me.”
She took my hand. “Come. We can talk in the meeting room. It’s not about Brady, is it? He isn’t ill, is he?” She stopped short, her face reddening. “I mean . . . oh, dear.”
“I’m not here about Brady, and rest assured, I’m delighted you and he have renewed your acquaintance.” I added a bit of emphasis on the last word and Hannah’s blush deepened, making her blue eyes and blond hair—of a much more natural shade than Madam Heidi’s—stand out even brighter. We entered the meeting room, where I had spent unhappy hours last summer waiting with my Vanderbilt relatives to learn the fate of Uncle Cornelius following his stroke. The news had not been good, was still not good, but he had lived and for that we were grateful.
Hannah closed the door behind us and we took seats at the long table. “It’s about the man who died in the fire on Thames Street,” I said. “Do you know anything about him?”
“I do.” She glanced down at the tabletop and drew a breath. “He managed the cigar shop. His name was Bertrand Styles. Oh, Emma—the burns were dreadful. I’m glad for his sake he didn’t live. He would not have been able to bear it.”
My insides chilling, I let this information settle a moment. “Was anyone else injured? Any of the firemen?”
“Yes, three came in. Two suffering from smoke inhalation, the other burns.”
“On his arm?” I remembered how Derrick used his coat to douse the flames.
“Yes. He was the man who first realized Mr. Styles was inside and went running in first to drag him out. They were all treated and went home. Against doctor’s orders.”
“Hannah, the fire occurred well into the night. Did anyone wonder what Mr. Styles was doing in the shop at that hour?”
“Not in my hearing, but now that you mention it, it does seem odd. Perhaps a new shipment came in that day and he stayed to do the cataloguing.”
“Perhaps. What about the cause of the fire? Have you heard anything about that? Even speculation?”
She darted a glance at the closed door. “I did overhear some of the firemen who came to check on their friends. They were baffled about this fire, Emma. Yes, the contents of the shop were flammable, but that’s exactly why both the owner and the manager always took such precautions against accidental fire. They had a strict policy against open flames.”
“The place was lit by gas, no?”
“Yes, but with glass-enclosed fixtures, vented to prevent them from overheating. One of the men said the owner ran frequent inspections of the gas lines to ensure
against accidents.”
“That doesn’t mean an accident couldn’t happen, but it does make it less likely.” I sat back in my chair, drumming my fingertips on the table. “Did anyone have a theory?”
Hannah shook her head. “Not yet, but the fire inspector is due to examine what’s left of the shop today.”
“Any idea what time?”
“No, sorry.”
I glanced at the locket watch pinned to my bodice. “I should be going and allow you to go back to work. But I do have one last question. Were there any other injuries found on Mr. Styles’s body?”
“What do you mean?”
“Anything to suggest he might have been attacked before the flames got to him.”
Hannah studied me a moment, her face taut. “You’re implying the fire was no accident.” At my nod, she pursed her lips and drew a breath. “I’m afraid the burns were severe enough to hide any evidence if he’d been attacked.”
I nodded, attempting to hide my frustration. “Thank you, Hannah. Do let me know when you have a day free.”
“I will.” She smiled her wide, ingenuous smile. “And Emma, be careful.”
I grinned as well. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” Before I left, I asked for a favor, for I had another important errand to accomplish. “Do you think they’d let me use the telephone at the front desk?”
“I believe I can arrange that.”
I reboarded the trolley and about a quarter hour later met Derrick in Washington Square. “Are you ready for a bit of a confrontation?”
“Sounds ominous.” He raised a corner of his mouth. “Whom are we confronting?”
“I’ll take that as a yes. James Bennett, of course. I’d have mentioned it last night, but it left my mind the moment the fire bells went off. When I spoke Lilah’s name, Mr. Bennett got a strange look on his face. Did you notice?”
“No, I was too busy seething at him.”
“Yes, well, his reaction raises a question or two, as does Dominic Ellsworth’s. I thought he’d have an apoplexy when I said someone had seen him and Mr. Bennett at Carrington’s Wharf the night Lilah died.” I shrugged. “But I don’t suppose it’s a good idea to confront Mr. Ellsworth after what happened to his building last night and the death of his shop manager.”
“No, indeed. To Stone Villa it is, then.”
We did not find Mr. Bennett at home. According to his butler, he was spending most of the day at the Reading Room.
“So much for that idea,” Derrick said. “We can try again tonight, or tomorrow.”
I stood beside him, staring down the length of Bellevue Avenue. The Newport Reading Room was only a few streets away, but the Casino stood directly across the street from Stone Villa.
“Why, that man.” I pivoted to face Derrick. “He’s deliberately avoiding me.”
“Why do you say that? It’s hardly unusual for gentlemen to spend the day at the Reading Room.”
“It is in Mr. Bennett’s case, or have you forgotten he loathes the Reading Room. Why go there when he could simply cross the street to the Casino and make use of the facilities there? Because he knew I’d be back, that’s why.” I set off along Bellevue, my stride long and resolved.
“Where are you going?”
“To the Reading Room, where else? He is not going to avoid me.”
“Emma, wait. What do you think you’re going to do once you reach the Reading Room? If Bennett doesn’t wish to come out, that will be the end of it.” He caught up with me and reached out to cup my elbow. “I suppose you’ll want me to go inside to question him. What shall I ask?”
“No, I need to be there. I need to see his face. You’ll have to make him come outside.”
We reached the Reading Room, a white clapboard house with upper and lower verandas. A fence surrounded the property, though the gate was not locked. As we approached, several ladies coming down Bellevue Avenue in our direction crossed so as not to walk directly in front of the club. Several men sat on the lower veranda, watching the women and chuckling into their hands. Though they would never behave in such a way in mixed company at a social event, the Reading Room was an all-male domain, jealously guarded to the point that yes, a woman walking too close to the front walkway could expect a derisive comment or two.
I had no such qualms about approaching the house. As Derrick let himself in the gate, I merely stood on the sidewalk and faced toward the street, my head up and my shoulders back. Did I hear a murmur or two? I did. But I paid them no heed. It wasn’t until I heard footsteps coming back down the walkway that I turned around. Derrick looked none too happy.
“He’s not coming.”
“What did he say?”
“Nothing much and none of it repeatable.” He paused, waiting, I supposed, for me to say something. When I didn’t, he said, “Well, that’s it for now.”
“Is it?” Some impulse propelled me forward, through the gate. With each step I took, horror at what I’d decided to do grew in one part of my mind. However, the determined part of me failed to heed that horror, nor did I heed Derrick’s repeated calling of my name. I reached the steps. Above me on the veranda came murmurs of “Surely not,” and “She wouldn’t dare.” Oh, but I would—and I did. One by one I climbed the steps. The front door opened from within and a footman moved onto the threshold to bar my entrance.
“I’m sorry, miss. You must turn around and leave at once.”
“Mr. Bennett,” I called out. “Do gather your courage and come outside to speak with me.”
The footman puffed up his chest. I knew him. He knew me. We both pretended we didn’t. “Miss, Mr. Bennett will not come out, and neither shall you set foot inside.”
“No?” I kept going, and sure enough when I reached the doorway and showed no sign of halting, the footman wavered and stepped aside. By now the men on the porch were in a furor—a quiet one. They came to their feet and flanked me on either side, though no one reached out to lay a hand on me. Rather than gentlemanly consideration, I believed it was simple shock that held them in check.
I did not, however, continue into the house. Perhaps a modicum of common sense roused itself and held me back. Despite my exasperation, I yet retained a sense of the consequences should I break one of Newport’s hard and fast rules. Simply having passed through the front gate would cause enough of a scandal. Besides, James Bennett rendered my intrusion unnecessary. He stepped out from a room off the main hall and came to the doorway. He looked grim, and not unlike a cornered rabbit. “Miss Cross, consider what you are doing.”
“Had you not tossed us out of the Casino last night, I would not now be here, Mr. Bennett. Likewise, had you consented to come outside to have a word with me, I would not have found it necessary to tread on such hallowed ground. Though honestly,” I added lower, looking past his shoulder into the entry hall, “I do not see what all the fuss is about.”
Mr. Bennett scrubbed a hand across his eyes. “All right, Miss Cross. In the interest of facilitating this as quickly as possible, ask your question.”
I smiled. “Thank you.” I moved closer to him so as not to be heard by our audience. Faces—bearded, mustachioed, bespectacled, curious, shocked, and downright angry—peered out at us from the rooms that opened onto the hall. Murmurs darted through the air, and I thought I heard a suggestion that someone telephone the police. I hadn’t much time.
“Last night, when I mentioned a certain name, Mr. Bennett, you reacted strongly. Please do not deny it. I am quite skilled when it comes to reading the expressions of others. Your reaction, along with that of your friend when I asked a further question, certainly belies all attempts at denial. I would state unequivocally that you are acquainted with the person in question, and that you and your friend were also at a certain place at a certain time on the evening following the polo match. I have been hired to trace the whereabouts of that person on that particular evening. And I believe you have information.”
Quizzical murmurs reached my ears. “What th
e devil did she just say?”
“Danged if I know.”
“Sounded like gibberish to me.”
Mr. Bennett glanced at the staring countenances surrounding us, both on the porch and behind him in the house. I stole only the quickest peek over my shoulder, searching for Derrick but not spotting him, before fixing my gaze inexorably on Mr. Bennett. He stepped closer to me, hunching to bring himself closer to my height. “I have no information for you, Miss Cross, and if you contradict me again it is as good as calling me a liar.”
I didn’t need to call him a liar, for once again his expression revealed the truth. So did his manner, his utter lack of the caustic wit for which he was known. After all, he had once persuaded a friend to ride his horse up the steps and onto this very porch. I wished to shake him to dislodge whatever he knew about Lilah Buford. But my time had run out.
“This is insufferable.” A portly man with a broad, florid face half covered by muttonchop sideburns appeared at Mr. Bennett’s shoulder. “Davis, James, remove this woman at once.”
“Uh, yes, Mr. Forsythe.” The footman who had intercepted me at the door moved back onto the threshold, while another strode from the farther recesses of the hall. As they reached me they appeared uncertain what to do next, but at the prompting of Mr. Forsythe, they seized me, albeit gently, by each arm.
Footsteps thudded on the steps behind me. “Take your hands off her this instant.” Derrick seized the wrists of both footmen and pried them loose—or perhaps they merely released me at his insistence. My resolve, born of instinct and the fervor of the moment, began to drain away, and the reality of what I’d done rose up with prickling, uncomfortable starkness. Still, I used my remaining shred of tenacity to keep my chin level, turn about, and stride purposely down from the porch and to the street. I chose a direction and walked, my button-up boots raising a defiant clatter along the sidewalk.
Murder at Chateau sur Mer Page 13
