Murder at Chateau sur Mer

by Alyssa Maxwell

  Derrick sighed as he opened the outside door for me. “Nanette seems exactly what she should be: an innocent and cheerful young lady. Perhaps a bit empty-headed, but that’s to be expected at her age.”

  I slapped playfully at his arm. “We’re not all empty-headed—at any age. But I believe you about the girl. I didn’t say either of them was at fault, necessarily. But there is something . . .” I left off as a sensation stole over me—a sense of something amiss . . . or missing. My thoughts took a sharp turn. “Where is Mr. Bennett?”

  “Somewhere on the premises, one would assume.”

  I shook my head. “He’d want to make sure we didn’t start what he would consider trouble again. He knew we were here to observe the Hartwells. Why wasn’t he in the theater? Why didn’t he intercede when Mr. Hartwell Senior came at you with his cane?”

  “I don’t know what you’re getting at.”

  I halted our pace and turned to face him. “I am getting at the fact that Mr. Bennett must have left the Casino, or he would right now be escorting us out. But tell me, considering his view that you and I tend to make trouble, what could be so important as to take him away while we’re still here?”

  There was no apparent answer. We proceeded to the entryway, where Derrick asked the man at the general admission booth if he had seen Mr. Bennett leave.

  “Indeed, sir. He left with Mr. Ellsworth about a quarter hour ago.”

  “Mr. Ellsworth?” I murmured with no small surprise.

  “Indeed, miss. A message came and the two hurried off. Would you like to leave a message for Mr. Bennett?”

  “No, thank you,” I said. Derrick and I hurried out to the street. “It would seem Mr. Ellsworth is over his anguish concerning the burning of his property and the death of his shop manager.”

  “So it would,” Derrick agreed.

  “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

  * * *

  During our rush to reach Thames Street, Derrick and I admitted we could be very far off the mark in our suspicions. But I didn’t think so.

  By all appearances, Lower Thames Street, cloaked in a fine ocean fog that formed golden halos around the gas lanterns, was quiet and fairly deserted. But looks could be deceiving. From rooms above and behind shops came the sounds of muffled laughter and music, a crash of glass, a loud thud as though someone had been thrown against a wall. As we came around the corner from Bath Road, a figure darted from the landward side across the street to the closest wharf. Farther down, two men and a woman staggered along the sidewalk. Instinctively I set my hand in the crook of Derrick’s arm. I had professed not to fear any Newporter, but Derrick’s reminder that not everyone in the dock area hailed from Newport sent a chill across my shoulders.

  Quickly and without speaking we traveled the several blocks to Carrington’s Wharf. Along the way we passed the burned-out hull of Ellsworth Cigars. Although the wreckage had been cleared from the street, the stench of the fire assaulted my senses. I looked away as the horrific memories of the fire and the man who died raised gooseflesh on my arms. We reached Carrington’s Wharf and had barely set foot onto the entrance when a noise sent us lurching back into the shadow of the warehouse overlooking the street. Derrick pulled me farther along until we reached the recess of a doorway, and there he pressed me behind him as a clip-clopping and rumbling wheels identified the sound we’d heard. A vehicle pulled away from the wharf and turned southward on Thames Street. Derrick peered around the corner of the doorway.

  “A delivery wagon of some kind,” he whispered. His body eased away from mine and he stepped slowly back out onto the sidewalk. I followed, craning to see the wagon over his shoulder. It stood low to the ground, its bed enclosed in wooden walls, with double doors at the rear. The driver was not in much of a hurry, for the dray kept to a slow and steady—almost careful—pace.

  “Did you see who’s driving it?”

  He shook his head. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

  Before I could respond he crept past the wharf and then into the street, where he hurried to catch up. With a sharp gaze I followed his progress until both he and the wagon turned onto Lee Avenue and headed away from the harbor.

  I suddenly felt very much alone. The surrounding noises became amplified; the muted voices now seemed to surround me, and the laughter from open windows took on a mocking and sinister note. I pressed closer to the mist-dampened building beside me—cowering, I suppose—but at the same time gave myself a shake. Derrick hadn’t gone far. He’d be back soon enough, before anything could possibly happen to me. If I had to, I could run to the Blue Moon and seek help there. A little voice inside me reminded me, however, that I would have to make it past numerous drunken men in the downstairs tavern before I would reach the safety of Madam Heidi’s domain.

  Once again, I became aware of the odor of soot and charred wood mingling with the salty, fishy scents from the harbor. It drew my gaze northward, to the blackened hole where Ellsworth Cigars had once stood a few streets down. Through the darkness I detected motion, silent and stealthy, a shadow moving through the blacker shadows. I should have stayed put, but I moved closer, easing along the sidewalk, staying close to the buildings beside me and hoping the fog muffled my form and my footsteps.

  The shadow picked its way across the rubble where the shop’s street façade once stood, and as the figure stepped onto the sidewalk the nearby street lamp illuminated a balding head and grim profile. Just before he jammed a flat crowned hat over that receding hairline, familiarity struck me. With a stifled gasp I drew into a gap between buildings, sucking in my breath to fit between them, feeling both my back and my front slide along the damp, none-too-clean shingles.

  Had Robert Clarkson seen me? Heard me? I waited, my heart suspended in my chest. His footsteps receded along the street, and I exhaled.

  What business could the Rhode Island senator have at the blackened ruins of another man’s property, and in the dark, no less? He carried no lantern, so what could he have been looking for? Had he been present during the fire, when so many others crowded Thames Street to view the destruction? I couldn’t remember. His footsteps echoed along the street toward Bath Road. Leaning, I peeked out from my hiding place and saw his coattails swing out behind him as he turned a corner and disappeared.

  Gratefully, I slid out from between the buildings. I brushed halfheartedly at my clothing and hurried back the way I’d come. Surely Derrick should have returned by now. Was he searching the wharf for me? I could have called out his name, but some instinct prevented me from doing so. I had every right to be here, walking along a Newport street, yet the notion no longer held any sense of safety for me. I reached the entrance to Carrington’s Wharf and saw no sign of Derrick. Foreboding slithered up my spine, and at the sound of a footstep behind me, I whirled.

  Chapter 14

  The startled gasp that escaped my lips might have become a scream had I not instantly recognized the face before me. My heart gradually slowed. “Oh, it’s you. Good heavens, you gave me such a fright.”

  “What are you doing here—uh—Miss Cross, is it?” The fair-haired young man I’d previously encountered on Carrington’s Wharf offered me a look of both concern and curiosity. Twice now he had intervened between me and Anthony Dobbs, and because of that I believed I had nothing to fear from him.

  “Yes, I’m Miss Cross. And you are—?”

  “You can call me Jonas.”

  I wondered briefly if that was his given name or surname, but I merely nodded.

  “You shouldn’t be here alone, Miss Cross. The wharves aren’t safe at night.” As if to prove his point, a shriek tumbled from the upper windows of the Blue Moon, followed by a burst of male laughter. We both waited to hear what might follow. Someone began pounding on a piano. “Are you looking for someone?”

  I regarded Jonas. Never before had I heard him speak so many words, and now I identified his accent as originating in Providence. Despite his towheaded youthfulness, he had a rough look a
bout him, like most dockworkers. He was bareheaded and wore ill-fitting work clothes, his shirtsleeves rolled to the elbows.

  “No, I’m here with someone.”

  He smiled. “An imaginary friend?”

  “No, he . . . he went to check on something.” My chin inched higher. For some reason I felt a need to justify my being there, until I realized I might ask him the same thing. “Why are you on the wharf at night?”

  “I have a room just over there.” He pointed down the street to a ramshackle house with a ROOMS FOR RENT sign hanging crooked on its hinges.

  Yes, I wanted to say, but why here? And why now, at this particular time? Did he have anything to do with the wagon that pulled away from the wharf? And had he seen Robert Clarkson leaving Ellsworth Cigars?

  “Did you . . . see anything strange just now?”

  “Strange? Like what, miss? Thames Street can be a strange place at night.” He flashed a smile that mocked slightly, yet not without kindness.

  I decided to take the opportunity to ask an entirely different question. “Do you know Lilah Buford? From the Blue Moon?”

  Clearly taken aback, he coughed lightly. “I’m surprised you know of Lilah Buford, or the Blue Moon, miss.”

  “Then you do know her?”

  “Well, not in the biblical sense, no indeed, miss. But yes, I know of her. I’ve seen her hereabouts.”

  “And do you know anything about what’s happened to her?”

  “Some folks say she disappeared. Others say she’s dead.” He shrugged. “That’s about all I know.”

  Footsteps approached from the south, echoing along the building fronts. I turned to see Derrick striding toward me. Upon seeing me he broke into a run, a fierce expression on his handsome features. I held up a hand to signal that all was well. Even so, he came to stand possessively close to me.

  “Derrick, this is Jonas. Brady and I have him to thank for calling off Anthony Dobbs the other day. And a time before that as well. Jonas, this is my friend Mr. Andrews.”

  Jonas didn’t extend his hand, but merely nodded and murmured, “Mr. Andrews.” Then he hooked his thumbs into his suspenders. “Now that Miss Cross isn’t alone anymore, I’ll be going.”

  Was there something slightly accusatory in that statement? Derrick apparently thought so, for he scowled and said, “Tell me, Jonas. Is it common for deliveries to be made at this wharf at this time of night?”

  Jonas had half turned away. Without quite turning back, he offered that playful smile again. “Depends on what kind of deliveries you mean.”

  “So anything brought in now would be of the black market variety?”

  Jonas rubbed at his chin as he considered Derrick’s question. “Could be. Or could be something someone doesn’t want generally known.”

  “Such as?” I prompted.

  He shrugged. “Such as whatever goods some of them cottagers don’t want their neighbors knowing about. Heard a story about one of those Vanderbilts, that when she had her house built everything was delivered in secret so the neighbors wouldn’t know what she was up to until she was good and ready to show them.”

  Ah, yes, my aunt Alva. She had enclosed her Bellevue Avenue property within high walls for four years until Marble House was completed in 1892 and ready to be unveiled to the world.

  “And you had nothing to do with a delivery that came in just tonight?” Derrick persisted.

  Jonas’s head tilted. “Mr. Andrews, sounds like you’re accusing me of something. And here I was, just out for some air when I happened upon Miss Cross, standing very much alone where she shouldn’t be.”

  Derrick rested his gaze on Jonas a long moment. I could sense his ruminations, and I wanted to remind him that thus far, Jonas had only been of help to me, never a threat.

  And yet . . . a sensation nagged, perhaps because I had learned to trust Derrick’s instincts as much as my own. Jonas did seem always to be on hand at opportune moments. Coincidence? Or did he make a habit of following trouble?

  “I’m not accusing you,” Derrick said calmly, more so than he felt, judging by the tension in his stance. “I’m asking if you happened to see a delivery here tonight. A vehicle drove away only minutes ago.”

  “I hadn’t come out yet, because I didn’t see anything or anyone until I happened upon Miss Cross.”

  Derrick nodded and bade the man good evening. I did likewise, and we set off the way we came, toward Bath Road.

  “I think he’s lying,” Derrick murmured.

  “I don’t see why.”

  “The delivery was picked up at the wharf, and there he was, on the very same wharf. I cannot believe he had nothing to do with it.”

  I sighed. “Never mind Jonas for now. Were you able to see who drove the wagon?”

  He ignored my question. “I shouldn’t have left you alone.”

  “That doesn’t matter now.”

  “Doesn’t it? I understand this man, Jonas, has done you a good turn or two, but why was he loitering about like that?”

  “Derrick, he lives in the area. He’s allowed to walk in his neighborhood.”

  “At this time of night?”

  “We’re out walking at this time of night,” I reminded him.

  “Exactly, and with good reason. What’s his reason?”

  The question reminded me of another nighttime loiterer, whom I’d nearly forgotten about in the interim. “Jonas wasn’t the only person out and about. I believe I saw Robert Clarkson prowling through Ellsworth’s Cigars.”

  Derrick stopped us short. “Clarkson? When?”

  “While you were following the wagon. I heard noises from the building, so I moved down the street—”

  “I asked you to stay where you were.”

  I shrugged. “The question is what brought Robert Clarkson to the neighborhood?”

  “I should never have left you.”

  “You already said that. Come.” We reached the remnants of the cigar shop, and I crossed the street to it. Derrick followed close at my heels. “What do you suppose Mr. Clarkson was doing here? Searching for something? Something he might have dropped the night of the fire? You do realize he may have already been searching when we first walked by.”

  “Are you suggesting a Rhode Island senator set fire to a commercial property?”

  My shoulders drooped as I reached the scorched pavement outside the shop. The bitter odors knifed at my throat and clogged my nose. I turned away. “I don’t know what I’m suggesting. There are so many unclear connections to Lilah and to the Wetmores.”

  Derrick’s hand alighted gently on my shoulder. “Even if Robert Clarkson had something to do with Lilah’s death and wished ill on the Wetmores, I can think of no reason why he would commit arson on Dominic Ellsworth’s property.”

  “Then why was he here?” I snapped, then shook my head contritely. “I’m sorry. I have no reason to be tetchy with you.”

  “Are you certain it was Clarkson?”

  “Fairly certain.” Frowning, I turned back to view the shop. “It’s terribly dark inside. He didn’t have a lantern, at least not that I saw.”

  “Then perhaps he wasn’t searching. Perhaps he was . . .” Derrick sighed. “Perhaps as a state official he felt a responsibility to view the scene.” He held up a hand before I could comment. “I know, I know. In the dark?” He shook his head.

  “Come.” I slipped my hand onto his forearm and we set off walking again. “Tell me, what did you learn when you followed the wagon? Did you see the driver?”

  “I most certainly did. When they rounded the corner onto Spring Street, I was able to get up alongside the wagon without being seen, and the sounds of the horse and the wagon wheels covered my footsteps.” He turned a severe face toward me. “It was Bennett and Ellsworth, all right.”

  “What do you suppose they were hauling?”

  “That I don’t know. I’d have followed them longer to see where they took their cargo, except I couldn’t leave you alone indefinitely.”

&
nbsp; “Oh, dear.” A wash of guilt swept over me. “I ought not have come. I’m sorry. I was a liability tonight.”

  “Never.” He covered my hand where it rested in the crook of his elbow. “We’ll discover what they’re up to.”

  “I don’t see how. It’s not as if they’re going to store whatever they just drove away with in Mr. Bennett’s driveway.”

  “Isn’t the next leg of the polo match between the Westchester and Meadowview clubs tomorrow?”

  “As long as it doesn’t rain. Why?” We turned onto Bath Road.

  “Ellsworth and Bennett are teammates, aren’t they?” Without waiting for my reply, Derrick flashed me a knowing look. “You and I must make a point of being there.”

  * * *

  The next day dawned cloudy, and I worried the match might not take place. I didn’t know what I expected to find there, but Derrick had been so certain the night before that we would learn something. But if that something involved Mr. Bennett and Mr. Ellsworth, would it have anything to do with Lilah and the Wetmores?

  A few drops splattered the windows by the time I descended to the morning room. Nanny noticed my pained look. “It’s just a sprinkle, Emma. Are you planning some kind of outing today?”

  “Today is the second match between Westchester and Meadowview, and I don’t wish it to be canceled due to rain.”

  Katie, who had laid out breakfast on the sideboard, took her seat at the table. She glanced up at me from beneath her lashes. I saw her hopeful look and smiled. “If the match goes on as planned, yes, you may attend,” I told her. “Nanny? Would you care to go?”

  “Not me. All those horses galloping after a ball. Men waving sticks about. Someone is likely to be hurt.”

  “I suppose you could say that about any sport.”

  “Perhaps, but the horses don’t have much say in the matter, do they?” She shuddered. “I haven’t been to polo since your great uncle William Henry Vanderbilt had to put down one of his ponies after a mishap on the field. Such a lamentable thing.”