I filled my coffee cup and returned to the table. Patch wandered in from the kitchen corridor. He circled the table, accepting pettings from Katie and Nanny before offering me his ears to be scratched. Amid a wave of affection I gazed down at his floppy ears and dark velvet eyes, which mirrored my own sentiments back up at me. Would I attend any sport that put innocent dogs at risk? Such pastimes existed, and I considered them cruel. Was a game like polo any different? “Point taken, Nanny. But it isn’t for the sake of a diversion that I wish to attend.”
Before I could explain, Katie blurted, “I won’t be going either, then.”
“Nonsense, Katie.” I reached across to her and patted her hand. “We all know it isn’t for the games that you go. It’s sitting up on Morton Hill in a pretty dress and watching all the other people, isn’t it?”
She blushed over her porridge. “That’s true, miss. Still and all . . .”
“Actually, Katie, you might be able to assist me.” I sipped my coffee and swallowed a forkful of eggs to calm my rumbling stomach. “As I was saying, it isn’t for the polo I’m going. Katie, you remember Anthony Dobbs, don’t you?”
She cringed. “I do, miss.”
“If you see him, keep an eye on him for me. And his workmate, too, if they are together. He’s younger than Mr. Dobbs, with dark blondish hair and blue eyes, not that I expect you to get close enough to see his eyes. The man’s name is Jonas, and thus far he seems a decent fellow, but one can never be too careful. If you see them at the match, I only want you to note where they go. Specifically, whether they leave Morton Hill.”
Nanny gave a harrumph. “That’s terribly vague, don’t you think?”
A splash of wind-borne rain struck the windows. I sagged in my chair. “It might not matter after all, at least not today.”
Nanny followed my gaze to the garden outside the rain-dotted window. “It’ll blow over soon.”
I hoped she was right.
A knocking at the front door brought me to my feet. I found Jesse outside with his collar turned up and his hat pulled low against the drizzle and cool breeze. “Good morning, Emma. I thought you might be interested to hear what happened after you and Derrick left the Casino last night.”
“And I have things to tell you, as well,” I said, frowning at the clouds. “Come in.”
We settled in the parlor, and I bade him share his news first.
“The Hartwells claim to have no knowledge whatsoever about Lilah Buford,” he began. “But they were wary, Emma. I’d go so far as to say afraid.”
“Did you talk to the brother and sister?”
“The son, yes, but not the daughter. The parents flat-out refused to allow it, and I couldn’t demand otherwise, not without due cause.”
“I suppose I can understand. She’s very young.” I couldn’t help wondering if they feared that Nanette, in her innocence, might divulge something they didn’t want known. “What about the grandfather?”
Jesse nodded and tapped a finger at the air. “Now he’s another story. I got him to admit he’d become aware of Lilah following the family around at the Casino, and on one occasion through town during the day. She kept her distance, but he claimed it didn’t take him long to realize she might be an unsavory character. Says he feared she might make some kind of trouble, or demand money.”
“How did you persuade him to admit all that?”
“I threatened him with incarceration for disorderly conduct and threatening Derrick.”
My eyes narrowed as a possibility occurred to me. “Could the old man have killed Lilah? He’s got a temper and violent tendencies. And he admits he thought Lilah posed some kind of threat to his family.”
“But what connection to the Wetmores? So far I haven’t discovered any, but I’m going over to Chateau sur Mer later today to ask them what they might know of the Hartwells.”
I angled my chin in skepticism. “I hope they’ll speak with you. You remember what happened last time. We were practically thrown off the premises.”
“You convinced Mrs. Wetmore to see reason.” Jesse said this with a tinge of pride. He pushed out of his chair and came to join me on the sofa, sitting close. “Tell me your news.”
I repeated what had occurred on Thames Street the previous night—the delivery wagon, Robert Clarkson, all of it. Too late did I notice the storm clouds gathering in his expression, or I might have edited my version of events.
His nose became pinched, his hands clenched. Finally, he blew out a breath between his teeth. “The man brings you down to Lower Thames in the middle of the night and then leaves you standing on a street corner? What in Sam Hill could he be thinking?”
I winced as his voice rose. “Don’t shout. We needed to know who drove that wagon. Derrick never went so far that he wouldn’t have heard me if I’d needed him.” This might not have been strictly true, but Jesse didn’t need to know that.
“And who is this Jonas character?”
“I’ve told you. He works at Carrington’s Wharf, and probably anywhere else that will hire him.”
“What was he doing prowling around the wharf after hours like that?”
“You sound like Derrick.” That comment earned me a warning look, so I hastened on. “He said merely that he needed some air. Perhaps he had just come from the Blue Moon and didn’t wish to say. Considering that he did me the favor of waiting with me until Derrick returned, I certainly had no reason to interrogate him. But what about Robert Clarkson? His actions seem highly suspicious.”
“It’s strange, I’ll admit, but then so is James Bennett and Dominic Ellsworth driving away with a delivery. Why didn’t they send servants?”
“Obviously, they’re hiding something, and that’s why Derrick and I want to be at that polo match today. If nothing else, we might overhear something during the breaks.” I glanced out the parlor windows at the front of my property. The drizzle continued, yet a hint of sunlight brightened my lawn. I felt a ray of hope. “I should go up and prepare.”
He stilled me with a hand on mine. “Have you forgotten? You won’t have access to the club areas without your reporter’s credentials.”
I smiled. “I haven’t told anyone I was let go. Have you?” At the shake of his head, I grinned. “Then unless I run into Ed Billings, whom I’m fairly certain I can avoid, no one will be the wiser.”
* * *
The clouds persisted, but broke into luminous swaths that scuttled across the sky, thrusting light and shadow over the polo grounds. I should have trusted in Nanny’s prediction, for she always had been able to read the weather as keenly as a sailor.
Though Derrick and I drove together in my carriage, we parted as we entered the grounds proper. Hearing no objections, I took my typical place along the sidelines with pad and pencil at the ready. He entered the grandstand, not to sit but to circulate. I scanned the milling spectators, decked out as usual in top hats or boaters and cutaways for the men, gay silks and cottons and wide plumed hats for the women. Pavilions fluttered in the breeze, while footmen carried drinks and delicacies brought here in service carriages.
In the colorful confusion, familiar faces took shape. The Hartwells occupied seats around a table beneath a striped pavilion. Unlike many of the other groups, they sat alone in their shaded haven, with no guests around them. It struck me as rather sad, and I found myself wishing Grace would introduce some of her acquaintances to them—in earnest this time. Perhaps what Jesse had interpreted as wary behavior was instead the result of their constantly dashed hopes of being accepted into society.
My gaze traveled until I spotted Grace and Neily’s bright blue pavilion. As last time, several friends lounged alongside them, enjoying cool drinks and luncheon fare kept chilled on ice. They were chatting, laughing, and appeared entirely carefree. All except Neily. He sat slightly apart from the others and stared into space. The worry I’d first experienced at seeing him days ago set in once more. I so wanted my cousin to be happy.
I dismissed those thou
ghts. The referees had entered the field, and behind them came the riders. The handicaps had been reassigned, resulting in Westchester being granted a slight advantage. It only made sense, considering the Meadowview Club’s players were considered some of the best in the world. I wondered about the debate that must have raged between the two teams, and the deliberations among the Competition and Handicap Committees.
The two teams made a circuit of the field, riding close to the rails near the grandstand. A roar went up, and I used the distraction to continue studying the crowd. No one would notice whether or not I followed the progress of the players. Most in the audience would scarcely notice me at all, except for those ladies who stood and twirled about, allowing me generous views of their daytime finery for my Fashions and Fancies page. If they only knew such a page no longer existed.
Present, too, were the players of another sort. The first familiar face I spotted was that of Harry Lehr, on the second tier of the grandstand. Far from being thwarted by Maude Wetmore’s lack of interest, he appeared happy enough, one might say elated, to be ensconced in the shaded box presided over by Mrs. Astor. Seated along with them were Mamie Fish, Tessie Oelrichs, and my aunt Alva, who two years ago had become Mrs. Oliver Belmont. Together they made up what society termed the Big Four—New York’s, and therefore Newport’s, most powerful doyennes. As I watched, another impeccably dressed matriarch joined them—Mrs. Lavinia Andrews. She moved through the box accepting greetings from the others. Mr. Lehr sprang to his feet at her approach and kissed both her cheeks. For some reason, these leaders of society had adopted Mr. Lehr into their circle. They found him charming and amusing, or so I’d been told. Certainly one of them would find him a suitable wife, and he’d forget all about the indifferent Miss Wetmore.
Robert Clarkson, I was surprised to discover, had joined Neily and Grace and the rest of their party, which again included Brady and Hannah. I was glad for that. Stanford Whittaker hovered in the grandstand among a group of men that included two husbands of the Big Four—Mr. Belmont and Mr. Stuyvesant Fish. Also present were Frederick Jones and Joseph Drexel. And Derrick. He had made his way to them. They and several other men of the Four Hundred stood along the rail of the second tier, talking rapidly, waving their hands about, and shouting. Meanwhile, a clerk in their midst frantically scribbled in a ledger he balanced on one hand. I understood. Wagers, high ones, were being set before the match began.
Ogden Goelet, who owned nearby Ochre Court, tossed out the first ball. The Wetmores, of course, were not present. I glanced back into the stands until I caught Derrick’s eye. He nodded slightly and continued his conversation with the other men without missing a beat. For appearances’ sake I observed the action for the first few minutes, following along the sidelines and pretending to take notes. Then I hurried beyond the grandstand with the intention of making my way over to Morton Hill.
* * *
My brother’s voice hailed me from behind.
When I stopped, he ran to catch up to me, arriving slightly out of breath. “I have something interesting to tell you about your sojourn down Thames Street last night.”
With a slight wave of annoyance, I demanded, “How did you know about that?”
“Derrick asked me to strike up a conversation with Robert Clarkson and pretend it was I who saw him, rather than you.”
My annoyance persisted, rather irrationally, I will admit. Of course Derrick would want to shield me from unnecessary unpleasantness, or worse, a direct threat resulting from our investigation. I appreciated his thoughtfulness, yet at the same time it irked me that such precautions were deemed necessary only due to my being a woman. These were the same considerations that resulted in my losing my employment at the Observer.
With a start I realized Brady didn’t yet know I’d been dismissed. Now was not the time to enlighten him. I therefore swallowed my notions of inequity, for the time being. “Did Mr. Clarkson tell you anything?”
“As a matter of fact, he did. I told him I was down on Thames Street last night and said I could have sworn I saw him coming out of the Ellsworth property. I added that I found this exceedingly odd.”
“The direct approach. What excuse did you give for being in the area?”
“I didn’t.” Brady drew himself up. “He may think what he likes, just as you did, Em, when we met at the Blue Moon.”
The irony of his cavalier attitude continued to chafe, but I chose to ignore it. “Tell me what he said.”
“Something surprising. Seems the manager, Bertrand Styles, was a fellow councilman in Tiverton earlier in Clarkson’s political career. Styles was something of a mentor to Clarkson, even after he retired from politics. Clarkson claims he was at the shop last night in remembrance of his friend, that he was out walking and simply felt compelled to go down there, and . . . I don’t know, he didn’t quite make it clear.”
“Sentimental reasons,” I supplied, and Brady nodded. “Did you believe him?”
“I do believe the two men were well acquainted. It would be easy enough to verify and Clarkson would know that. It would also be easy to verify whether they were political allies or enemies. Again, Clarkson would be taking quite a chance in lying about something like that. As to whether he might have had anything to do with the fire . . .” Brady shook his head. “That I can’t say, Em.”
“All right, thank you, Brady.”
“Where are you off to?”
“Only to Morton Hill. I’ve got Katie on the lookout for Anthony Dobbs and his workmate Jonas, who also happened to be near the wharf last night.”
Brady’s brows drew tight. “You’re not going up there alone. I’ll come with you.”
“Don’t be silly. Go back to Hannah. You and I together will only attract more attention and likely end in trouble with Mr. Dobbs. I’m merely going to ask Katie if she’s seen them.”
Brady hesitated, shuffling his feet and shoving his hands in his coat pockets. “I don’t like it.”
“Nothing is going to happen to me in a crowd of this size,” I assured him, and gave him a little push. “Now go back to Hannah.”
He grinned rather crookedly and went on his way.
I had made a point of not dressing as fashionably as at the last match. I wanted to be able to mix with the ordinary Newporters this time without attracting attention, and now I did just that, wandering in and among families and groups seated on blankets and enjoying the day. For the hardworking, local Newporters, a sporting event such as this presented as much of an opportunity for a picnic as to follow the progress of horses and riders.
A completely different atmosphere than that to be found on the grandstand enveloped me. If the wagering gentlemen of the Four Hundred had seemed lively, here an almost carnival mood prevailed. Hawkers wove paths throughout the hill, enticing the crowd with such treats as steamed oysters and clam fritters, jellied eels, johnnycakes, pickles, and roasted nuts. The myriad aromas made me long to simply join my fellow Newporters and forget about the troubles that had brought me here.
I found Katie sitting on a blanket with a couple of housemaids she knew from when she worked at The Breakers. All three wore bright summer frocks of cotton lawn and wide straw hats secured with ribbons beneath their chins—their very best. And why not? Being out in public, especially in a crowd of this size, happened rarely in the life of a maid.
Before the other two recognized me, I signaled for Katie to follow me. I led the way over the crest of the hill to the slope facing Coggeshall Avenue and, beyond that, Bellevue Avenue. I wasted no time in getting to the point. “Have you seen Mr. Dobbs and his friend?”
“I have, miss. They’re sitting near the north end of the hill, with a passel of rough types. Dockworkers, no doubt.” She gave a disapproving lift of her pale eyebrows. “They’re not drinking lemonade, that I can tell you. Some of the things I heard coming out of their mouths . . . If I were you, miss, I’d steer well clear.”
“I intend to, Katie. I only wish to keep an eye on them. There may
be something untoward going on at this match.” Though Derrick’s suspicions had turned to the match and the men we’d seen driving away in the delivery wagon last night, I couldn’t dismiss the fact that Jonas had been right there at the wharf as well. And I’d learned that where Jonas was, Mr. Dobbs wasn’t far behind.
“What do you mean, miss? Fighting or suchlike?”
“I’m not sure, really. Perhaps something to do with the match itself.”
Katie looked doubtful. “I don’t see how the likes of Mr. Dobbs could muddle the match, Miss Emma, nor anyone else sitting on Morton Hill. We only come to watch, and there’s some who’ll lay a wager or two. If there is mischief afoot on the field, it’s the fine gentlemen you should be looking to.”
I nodded, seeing no reason to enlighten Katie about the odd and intricate connections that emanated from Carrington’s Wharf. It would only have burdened her mind and thrown a shadow over her day. I told her to return to her friends and asked her to continue keeping watch. Then I made my way to the north end of the hill. Sure enough, an unruly knot of unkempt laborers lounged on the grass, propped on their elbows with their legs sprawled. I kept my distance, but the lyrics of a bawdy song reached my ears, and I noticed then that families had given the group a wide berth. A couple of the men appeared to be dozing under their hats, or could they have passed out from drink so early in the day? The idea appalled me, yet I had no doubts as to the contents of the hip flasks being passed around.
I moved farther back but kept my eyes on Dobbs and Jonas, sitting among the group but not beside each other. Jonas appeared engaged in a game of cards, while Dobbs sipped slowly from the bottle passed to him before wiping his lips on his sleeve. A bearded fellow stretched out his hand, and when Mr. Dobbs failed to comply, he delivered an impatient blow to Dobbs’s elbow, prompting him to reluctantly pass the bottle. They exchanged words that rivaled the worst bawdy song in its coarseness.
In short, I learned that neither man was doing anything suspicious, or anything one wouldn’t expect from them. The first chukker ended. The riders walked their horses off the field and the spectators both on Morton Hill and the grandstand seemed to expand slightly, as if with a collective breath. People stretched their legs, others laid back against the hillside to look at the sky, while still others foraged into their picnic baskets. Jonas and Anthony Dobbs seemed disinclined to move, so with a final glance I started down the hill.
Murder at Chateau sur Mer Page 21
