Murder at Chateau sur Mer

by Alyssa Maxwell

  “Perhaps.” Jesse nodded thoughtfully. “But beyond that, there is no evidence linking them to Chateau sur Mer that night.” His jaw suddenly dropped. “I just remembered something. Those black marks on the veranda—we assumed they were made by Lilah’s boots.”

  “Yes, by the leather polish she used,” I said.

  Derrick sat up straighter. “Detective Whyte, you just informed us Lilah’s neck had been snapped prior to her having fallen—or being placed—inside the house. If so, she could not have left marks of any sort on the veranda.”

  “Unless George Wetmore is guilty and killed Lilah inside the house, she could not have walked in on her own volition.” Jesse fisted his hands and struck them against the arms of his chair. “She would have been carried. I need to see those marks again.”

  Alarmed, I asked, “But won’t they have been cleaned away by now?”

  “I won’t know until I return to Chateau sur Mer.”

  * * *

  I convinced Jesse to allow Derrick and me to accompany him to the Wetmore estate. When we arrived, the butler summarily sent us around to the service entrance. We descended to a long hallway where we were tersely greeted by the housekeeper, a broad woman with sharp eyes and jet-black hair parted severely down the middle and drawn back into a tight bun.

  “May I help you?” The coldness of her tone spoke of dismissal.

  She obviously didn’t intimidate Jesse. “I have police business here. I must have access to the veranda. There was no need to bring us into the house.”

  “Mrs. Wetmore’s orders,” the woman said, her lips forming a thin, flat line. “The police are no longer to have the run of the house. If you need something, you are to make your request through me.”

  Though Derrick and I had waited quietly behind Jesse, I now stepped forward to stand beside him. “Are you quite certain of that? I find it difficult to believe Mrs. Wetmore would not wish us to explore every possibility.”

  “Those were Mrs. Wetmore’s express words, miss.”

  “The case has been reopened, but I’m not asking for run of the house,” Jesse snapped. “If I must, I shall return with a warrant.”

  The housekeeper paled. She started to speak again but the butler entered the hallway from the adjoining kitchen. “Mrs. Wetmore asks that the visitors be shown upstairs.”

  Puzzled, we followed him up the service stairs, past the butler’s pantry and china room and across the ground floor to the Green Salon, where I had spoken privately to Mrs. Wetmore that first day. She stood before one of the windows, staring out with her back to us as we were shown into the room. Her shoulders were raised with apparent tension, her bearing stiffly upright. Though she must have heard us coming, she waited until the butler announced us before turning around.

  Nearly as brusquely as the housekeeper had spoken to us, she asked, “Why have you returned? Why will you not leave us in peace?”

  “I assure you, ma’am, I had no intention of disturbing you or your husband with my visit today. I wish only access to the veranda, and may I point out that I might simply have circled the house to the veranda unannounced. It was merely a matter of courtesy that prompted me to knock at your door.”

  She visibly relaxed on a long exhalation. “Then you haven’t come to hound my husband with more questions?”

  “At present, no, ma’am. But if you or your husband can think of anything that might assist with the case, you will be doing yourselves a great favor to convey that information to me.”

  “There is nothing, I give you my word.” Mrs. Wetmore’s hand, long and pale, went to her bosom. “Oh, dear. Oh, my husband . . .” Her eyes misted, but several blinks banished all sign of impending tears.

  I stepped toward her. “We’ll discover the truth, Mrs. Wetmore.” Nodding, she allowed her gaze to drift to Derrick, as if she only just noticed his presence. “This is Mr. Andrews,” I said. “He and I are assisting Detective Whyte, as you asked me to do, ma’am.”

  She continued scrutinizing Derrick; her hand lowered to her side as a furrow formed between her eyebrows. “Are you Lavinia Andrews’s son?”

  “I am, Mrs. Wetmore.”

  She took a step backward, coming up against the open casement behind her. “A newspaper man . . .”

  “No, ma’am,” he said evenly, “I’m not here in that capacity. I assure you of that.”

  Mrs. Wetmore didn’t look convinced, but she nodded and turned her attention back to Jesse. “Please, do what you came to do and then leave us in peace.”

  Both Jesse and Derrick took their leave of Mrs. Wetmore with polite bobs of their heads, and exited the room through one of the French doors that led onto the veranda. Though I had every intention of examining the veranda for myself, I lingered in the Green Salon.

  “Ma’am, I don’t understand your reticence with the police. You told me you wish to know the truth. Then why not cooperate with Detective Whyte and his men?”

  “Because I don’t trust them, Miss Cross. I asked you to discover the truth, yet my husband is now a prisoner in his own home, all but accused of murdering that girl.”

  “Mrs. Wetmore, has it occurred to you that were your husband any other man, he would not be under house arrest, but occupying a cell on Marlborough Street?”

  She flinched at my reference to the police station and turned crimson.

  “I don’t mean any disrespect, ma’am. I am merely pointing out that Detective Whyte believes in your husband’s innocence and has advocated for Mr. Wetmore with his superiors. I trust him, and you can as well.”

  She closed the distance between us. Taking me by the hand, she drew me down beside her on the sofa. “But what have you learned, Miss Cross? I can’t bear to be left in the dark. What evidence is there against my husband? What evidence that he is innocent?”

  “I do have news for you, and it’s important that you carefully consider what I’m about to say. I have learned that Lilah Buford may have overheard two or more men talking outside the Blue—outside her place of employment. According to someone Lilah confided in, those men were angry with your husband and sought some form of revenge.”

  The dismay cleared from Mrs. Wetmore’s face. “There it is, then. They must have realized she overheard and decided to silence her. Find these men, and you’ll find who murdered Miss Buford and left her in our home.”

  “I’m afraid it’s not as easy as that. First, we have no identification, not even a clue as to who those men might be, or why they resented your husband.” The names Harry Lehr, Stanford Whittaker, and Robert Clarkson entered my mind. There were also now James Bennett and Dominic Ellsworth. I didn’t dare mention any of those names to Mrs. Wetmore. I needed more evidence, though I had yet to devise a means of obtaining it. “You must think, Mrs. Wetmore. Think of your husband’s recent dealings, whether here or in Washington. Whom might he have angered?”

  “My dear, my husband is a politician. He is always angering someone. And the police have already asked him that very same question. He can think of nothing out of the ordinary.”

  “What about recent pieces of legislation he might be sponsoring?” A leading question, but I couldn’t help myself. Could opposition to the Dingley Tariff Act lead to the death of a prostitute and the incrimination of an innocent man? In my mind, it didn’t quite make sense, for surely George Wetmore couldn’t be the only senator supporting the bill. And I found the notion of Misters Lehr, Clarkson, and Whittaker going about the country and having their revenge on every such senator ludicrous.

  But what about the other two? If Mr. Bennett and Mr. Ellsworth were involved in illegal trade here in Newport, to what lengths might they go to protect their interests?

  “Something to warrant destroying our family, Miss Cross? Certainly not. Not everyone agrees with my husband’s political views. That is to be expected. But everyone who knows my husband can be sure of one thing, and that is his integrity.”

  “Yes, I can believe that to be true, ma’am. Please, if you or Mr. Wetmore
think of anything, no matter how trivial it might seem, contact me.”

  “I will, Miss Cross. And I do apologize for doubting both you and the police. I’m sure you can understand how very distressing this is for us.” For the first time since I’d properly met her, Mrs. Wetmore’s façade of calm and gentility slipped. Her eyes filled and she lowered her face to her hands as a sob broke. “Forgive me, Miss Cross.”

  “There is nothing to forgive, ma’am.” I gently touched her forearm. That slight contact seemed to steady her and restore her equilibrium, for she lifted her head, let out a breath, and dabbed at her eyes with the backs of her knuckles.

  “Yes, well. What are Detective Whyte and Mr. Andrews looking for on the veranda?”

  “Evidence that Lilah didn’t enter the house alone that night, that perhaps she was brought here by whoever killed her.”

  “Oh! I do hope they find such evidence.” Her shoulders slumped. “But I believe one of the maids mopped up after the police left the other day. Oh, Miss Cross, it’s likely they’ll find nothing.”

  “I’ll go see, Mrs. Wetmore. I’ll let you know.”

  Outside, I found Jesse and Derrick in a corner of the veranda, near where the edge stepped down to the grass. They were both leaning low, appearing to study something. Jesse went down on his knee and reached down to draw his fingertip across the flooring.

  I went quickly to join them. “What have you found? Mrs. Wetmore just told me the veranda had been mopped.”

  Derrick turned to me. “That’s true, but some of those black marks have proved stubborn. Look here.”

  Jesse spoke without looking up. “Shoe polish would certainly resist attempts to mop it away. But I don’t believe shoe polish left the marks, most of which are gone or substantially faded.”

  I glanced down over his shoulder. “What then?”

  “Being so close to the edge, this mark is lightly smeared, as if it had escaped the maid’s notice and she merely wiped her mop over this area with no real enthusiasm. I can think of only two substances besides boot polish that resist water without a good scrub.”

  “What?” Derrick and I said as one.

  “Soot.” He came to his feet and faced us, his face grim. “Or coal.”

  I gasped. “Jesse, coal is brought onto Carrington’s Wharf, unloaded, and stored there. So that means—”

  “That means,” Derrick said, “that anyone who had been on Carrington’s Wharf—or anywhere else coal is stored—the night of Lilah’s death may be considered a suspect. All of them.”

  “Gracious, you’re right,” I said, feeling deflated.

  Jesse nodded his concurrence. “Even if we assume the source of the coal to be Carrington’s Wharf, which is highly likely since Lilah lived and worked there, given the nature of the businesses to be found in the immediate area, we’re talking about a wide number of possible suspects. This is a clue, but a frustratingly vague one.”

  Chapter 11

  After leaving Chateau sur Mer, Derrick and I accompanied Jesse to the police station in town. We sat around his desk, reviewing the newly reopened case.

  “We still have no idea why Lilah felt beholden to Mrs. Wetmore, and I’m certain that’s the key to unraveling the rest of these events.”

  “How do you propose we discover this fact, Emma?” Jesse tapped a pencil on the desktop. “We’ve already questioned Mrs. Wetmore, and she can think of nothing that links her with Lilah. Unless she’s lying—”

  “No, I don’t think Mrs. Wetmore is lying. But it’s possible she simply doesn’t see the connection between her philanthropy and Lilah’s gratitude. Perhaps it’s not as direct as we might wish. Lilah might simply have admired Mrs. Wetmore for her public service.”

  “In which case,” Derrick said, “it might not have any bearing on Lilah’s death.”

  “Perhaps not. But Carrington’s Wharf, and the Blue Moon in particular, remain at the center of events. Even the fire at Ellsworth Cigars.”

  “How do you reach that conclusion?” Derrick wanted to know.

  “She’s right,” Jesse said. “At least in that the recent robberies and the fire have all been within a small area surrounding the wharf. It could be a coincidence, but perhaps not. I hadn’t thought of it before, but there could be a connection between the break-ins and Lilah’s death.”

  “Perhaps she saw something. Perhaps when she overheard those men talking outside the Blue Moon, she learned something about the robberies.”

  “Even if that’s true, the connection to the Wetmores is still unclear.” Jesse stared across the room to a map of the city that hung on the wall. “To my knowledge, they don’t own any property in that part of town. At any rate, they don’t own any of the properties that were robbed and vandalized.”

  “Then we can dismiss the robberies as irrelevant to the case,” Derrick said. “Why would Lilah need to warn the Wetmores if the crimes weren’t directed at them?”

  I hadn’t thought much about the robberies in light of recent events, but Jesse’s mentioning them in the same breath as the fire started me wondering. “What have the police discovered about the break-ins? Are they connected? And could they be connected to the fire?”

  “They haven’t learned much, from what I understand.” Jesse tossed his pencil down, and it rolled across the desk. Derrick reached out and stopped it from falling to the floor. “The proprietors and the property owners have all been questioned, and none of them have offered any insight into why they might have been targeted.”

  “So then, a random crime spree,” Derrick murmured, more as a comment than a question. “What about the perpetrators? Does the department suspect the same individuals in each case?”

  “Not necessarily, although the accompanying vandalism does point to the crimes being related.” Jesse pressed his right temple, as if he felt the onslaught of a headache. “If we only had a witness, but apparently the uniforms have asked up and down Thames Street and everyone claims they didn’t see a thing.”

  “And now the fire . . .” I mused.

  Derrick sat back in his chair. “We’re becoming sidetracked here. We’re supposed to be focusing on Lilah’s death.”

  “Are we?” I gazed at each man in turn. “Think about it. There is a rash of burglaries and vandalism and no one sees a thing? That’s highly unlikely in an area like Lower Thames Street, with its boardinghouses and apartments, not to mention cargo coming in day and night.”

  “Then how would you explain it?” Derrick asked.

  I saw by the keen light entering Jesse’s eyes that he already comprehended my point. It was not an alien concept for either of us. “These were likely not ordinary burglaries, but very clear messages meant to frighten. That’s why no one will speak up.”

  Derrick looked from one to the other of us. “Extortion?”

  Jesse nodded. “Someone is browbeating our business owners. Anonymously.”

  I glanced past Jesse to the desk behind his own. A new detective used that desk now, but it had once belonged to Jesse’s former partner, Anthony Dobbs. Jesse followed my line of vision and peered briefly over his shoulder.

  He turned back to me with a stern expression. “We can’t assume Tony has anything to do with this, Emma.”

  “Who are you talking about?” Derrick nodded as he answered his own question. “Ah, yes. Anthony Dobbs.”

  “How can we not, Jesse?” In my eagerness, I perched at the edge of my chair. “He’s done this before.”

  “And paid a heavy price for it,” he reminded me, unnecessarily.

  “He did, and now he’s shoveling coal at Carrington’s Wharf. He’s bitter, Jesse. And he’s mean,” I added, remembering the day he detained me in the narrow alley. “Would you put this past him, knowing his history and his temperament?”

  Jesse was shaking his head. “Without some form of evidence I can’t go accusing the man.”

  “If proof exists we’ll find it.” Derrick reached over and covered my hand where it rested on the arm of the
chair, then removed it just as quickly with a glance at Jesse.

  “I believe another trip to the Blue Moon is in order.” I started to rise, but Derrick’s hand shot out, this time to grasp my wrist. The two men spoke at once.

  “Oh, no you don’t.” They both fell silent, staring at each other. Derrick released me.

  I couldn’t help laughing. “While it’s heartening to see the two of you agreeing on something, it doesn’t change the fact that I should speak with Madam Heidi again. I can’t believe the woman doesn’t have her finger on the pulse of everything that happens on Carrington’s Wharf and the surrounding area. I’ll just need to phrase my questions carefully.”

  Jesse ran his fingers through his hair. “If anyone should question Madam Heidi, it will be me.”

  “And what kind of replies do you think you’ll receive?” I shook my head. “Your arrival at the Blue Moon is the one sure way to seal mouths. Madam Heidi and the others already know me. I believe they trust me, or as close to trust as women in their position can manage. Besides, my reputation is already destroyed. What further harm can come?”

  “Physical harm.” Derrick sounded exasperated. “It isn’t safe for you to be on the docks alone.”

  “Pooh. I’ll go now, while it’s light out.”

  “Then I’ll come with you.” Derrick stood. “No argument.”

  A uniformed policeman strode to Jesse’s desk, spoke in his ear, and laid a sheet of paper in front of him. Jesse perused the contents and blew out a breath. “It seems there’s been another burglary on Thames, not far from Carrington’s Wharf. Happened earlier this morning, but the proprietor only just opened the shop. Come on. We’ll all head down there. For now, I’ll leave you two to make the inquiries at the Blue Moon.”

  * * *

  We took the trolley along Spring Street and walked together down to Thames. There Jesse parted ways with us and Derrick and I continued to Carrington’s Wharf. When we reached the walkway that stretched between the buildings, I placed a hand on Derrick’s forearm.