Murder at Chateau sur Mer

by Alyssa Maxwell

  “I did what you asked me to do, Miss Emma. I kept an eye on Mr. Dobbs and his friend. When the friend went down Morton Hill, I went too.”

  “What about Mr. Dobbs? Did he leave the hill also?”

  “No, miss, he stayed behind with the other dockworkers.”

  I looked up at Jesse. “All this time I’d been suspicious of Anthony Dobbs. I suppose I did him a disservice, didn’t I?”

  “Time will tell, Emma,” he replied.

  I turned back to Katie. “Thank you. You did well today.”

  “Oh, but if I’d only followed him more closely—oh, miss, I might have prevented him from hurting you. I didn’t realize at first that you were here, too, and—”

  “Nonsense, Katie. If you’d followed more closely, you would have been hurt, too. Thank you for doing exactly as you did.”

  A tide of crimson swept her face and tears sprang to her eyes. Jesse stood and helped her to her feet, then asked me, “Do you think you can stand? Or shall I send for an ambulance?”

  I vehemently shook my head. “No ambulance.” I reached out, and Derrick caught my arm. I leaned on him heavily as together we rose. I teetered a moment before my legs became able to support me, then widened my stance. “What about Mr. Ellsworth? Is he all right from his fall?”

  “A few bruised ribs, but otherwise he’ll be fine,” Jesse replied. “He asked to be taken home. Dr. Kennison accompanied him, but I’ll send for the doctor soon. I want him to take a look at you.”

  “I don’t need a doctor,” I insisted, resulting in some eye rolling from both gentlemen presently scrutinizing me as though I might shatter at any moment. “I’ll be fine, I promise you. But Jesse, how is it you’re here? I understand the policemen.” I gestured to the two men conveying Mr. Hartwell away on the makeshift stretcher they’d fashioned from the blanket. There was always a policeman or two present at events of this size. “But you? Was I unconscious so long you had time to come all the way from town?”

  “Indeed not, Emma.” He removed his derby and swept the hair back off his brow. “I was already on my way here. We’ve been doing some checking. The onset of the burglaries happens to coincide with arrivals of both the Hartwells and this Jonas character. Jonas Boyd is his full name. I came to warn you both.” He nodded at Derrick. “Considering all the other connections between Lilah, the Hartwells, the wharf, and the fact that this Jonas Boyd works at the wharf, I thought until we find out more there is no trusting any of them. It would seem I was right.” A fond look softened his expression. “I’m only glad nothing worse happened to you.”

  Derrick took my hand and set it in the crook of his arm in a proprietary way. Jesse’s mouth tightened, and an awkward silence fell. I cleared my throat. “Has anyone told the Hartwells what happened? They’ve lost a family member. They have to be told.”

  Derrick and Jesse both shook their heads. Derrick said, “We’d only discovered you minutes before we awakened you.”

  “I’ll send a pair of officers to speak with them.” Jesse’s manner changed, became brisk and businesslike. “Now that I know you’re all right, Emma, I’m going after Jonas.”

  Derrick’s jaw beaded. “I’ll bring Emma home and then I’m coming with you.”

  “That’ll take too much time,” Jesse said with a shake of his head. “I’m heading back to town now. I want to check his boardinghouse. Logic says he’ll be clearing out and trying to leave the island as soon as possible.”

  Katie stepped timidly forward. “I’ll take Miss Emma home.”

  “I have a better idea.” My comment led to groans from both Derrick and Jesse.

  Derrick said, “Please, Emma. You’ve had enough excitement for one day.” Jesse nodded his agreement.

  “Take me to Chateau sur Mer. It’s close and I’ll be safe there. Someone needs to warn the Wetmores about Jonas and discover once and for all what the link is between them and Lilah. I don’t think Mr. or Mrs. Wetmore has been intentionally holding back. Rather, I believe the link may be many years old, and I also believe I’ve pieced together enough of the story that with any luck, I might prompt a memory.”

  The men didn’t like it; they wanted me home. But in the end, I had my way.

  Chapter 16

  Jesse and Derrick lingered at Chateau sur Mer long enough for Jesse to order the butler to admit Katie and me. Otherwise, Mr. Callajheue might have shut the door in our faces. I can’t say I would have blamed him. A good butler is the first line of defense in his master’s household, and I had no doubt my name had been linked to trouble and upset among many in that household.

  Miss Maude and Miss Edith seemed even less inclined than their butler to show me much courtesy. The sisters met Katie and me in the Stair Hall—or headed us off, I might say.

  “Miss Cross,” the elder sister, Edith, demanded with arms crossed and face stony, “why have you returned? My sister and I would prefer you conduct all future communications, should such communications be necessary, by written correspondence. Things are bad enough without your stirring them up.”

  Again, I understood they were attempting to protect their parents, especially their mother, whom Maude perceived to have been agitated by my last visit. I wished to explain, but first I needed to sit down and have a few sips of tea. I longed for a cup of Nanny’s strong Irish brew, and suddenly wished I’d allowed Katie to bring me all the way home. But no, while Jesse and Derrick brought Jonas Boyd to heel, it was important I discover why he included the Wetmores in his schemes.

  I leaned against Katie’s side while she supported me with an arm around my waist. From the corner of my eye I saw her color rise at Miss Wetmore’s chastisement. Yet when I thought she’d cower and duck her head, she instead stood straighter and lifted her chin. “If you’ll excuse me, Miss Wetmore, Miss Cross has been hurt. Attacked at the polo grounds by a beast of a fellow. He’s run away and the police are after him, but it was in your mother’s service that Miss Cross risked her life. She needs to sit down and rest, if you please.”

  Both Misses Wetmore looked alarmed by this news, and not a little chagrined. Miss Edith stuttered something unintelligible. Miss Maude took matters in hand.

  “Edith, send for tea. Come this way, Miss Cross.” She led us up the stairs. Katie and I followed slowly, each step renewing the ache in my head. If the throbbing didn’t subside by morning I would indeed seek Dr. Kennison’s expertise.

  Miss Maude brought us to Mrs. Wetmore’s upstairs sitting room. “Wait here. I’ll tell my mother you’re here.”

  “Thank you,” I said rather weakly. Katie walked me to the settee and held my arm to steady me as I sank onto it. She did not sit, but stood vigilantly beside me until the door opened upon Mrs. Wetmore. Maude had not returned with her, and I briefly wondered whose idea it had been for her to remain behind.

  “Miss Cross.” Mrs. Wetmore swept across the room, and as she did so Katie moved away and took up position by the window overlooking the front lawn. Mrs. Wetmore sat beside me and took my hands. “Tell me what happened. Did that man really attack you? Why? Who is he? What has he to do with us? Oh, you poor dear, to suffer so on our account.”

  Her outpouring jumbled in my head so that I didn’t know which question to answer first. I slipped a hand from hers and held it up. “Mrs. Wetmore, please let me explain in my own way. The man who attacked me was the brother, I believe, of the woman found dead at the bottom of your staircase. His name is Jonas Boyd. Does that mean anything to you?”

  “Not a thing. Should it? I don’t understand, Miss Cross.”

  “Then let me tell you what I’ve pieced together.” I described Lilah’s photograph album, the parents, Lilah, and her younger brother, and how some of the photographs appeared to be missing. “I think those missing pictures might have been of a third sibling, a younger one, who was adopted. Lilah might have removed the pictures to safeguard her sibling’s new identity.” I drew a breath. “I believe I know the whereabouts of that sibling. Does the name Hartwell sound familiar?�
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  “Hartwell . . .” A look of fierce concentration distorted Mrs. Wetmore’s features. My pulse began to race at the thought that we were about to make a breakthrough. But the woman glanced up, shaking her head. “No, I can think of no significance to the name Hartwell as it pertains to me, my husband, or my family.”

  A breath of disappointment escaped me, but Mrs. Wetmore hadn’t finished speaking. “However,” she said, “as you know, Miss Cross, the fate of Rhode Island’s orphans concerns me greatly, and the cause of finding suitable homes for such children has always been a vital one for me. Could the child in the missing pictures have been an infant? And perhaps a girl?”

  My pulse sped up again. Was Mrs. Wetmore’s work with orphans the link I’d been looking for? I moved to the edge of the settee and eagerly turned to face her. “I believe the answer to both questions is yes.”

  “One of the associations in which I became involved, years ago, focused on placing baby girls with wealthy families, often older couples with either no children of their own, or who had only sons and longed to raise a daughter. Boys are always far easier to place, you see, for everyone wishes for a son, and my colleagues and I saw too many little girls left behind. If a girl was too old, however, she would also be hard to place.”

  “Which might have been the case with Lilah,” I supplied. My pain and fatigue forgotten, I all but bounced on the cushions in my excitement. “And her brother as well, no?”

  “It’s quite possible, yes. Unfortunately, most adopting couples desire infants or very young children. That was one circumstance we were never able to change.”

  “If we are correct, then Lilah’s sister could very well be a young lady named Nanette Hartwell, who happens to be in Newport with her family. According to one witness, Lilah had been going to the Casino for no other reason than to watch the family. She never approached them. That to me signifies a singular interest in these people. Somehow, she must have discovered her sister’s whereabouts, or perhaps found a way to keep track of her through the years.”

  Mrs. Wetmore frowned as she considered. “It may be that Lilah brought her sister into the room where the adoptive parents took possession of her. That was allowed, sometimes, to help with the transition, so that the older siblings could see that the adoption, while separating the youngsters, was in the best interests of the younger child.”

  I gasped as the many tenuous connections and theories I’d formed in the past days suddenly coalesced into a viable scenario. Both Jonas and Lilah had been left behind at the orphanage. But while Lilah felt gratitude toward Mrs. Wetmore on behalf of her sister, Jonas had perhaps grown bitter at being forgotten. I knew from my own observations at St. Nicholas Orphanage in Providence, where I often sent what monies I could spare, that the experience of growing up in such a place could be vastly different for boys than for girls. The girls typically looked out for one another, especially the older girls when it came to the younger ones. Boys, by contrast, sometimes formed bands and picked on those smaller and weaker. Had such been the case with Jonas?

  His arrival in Newport at the same time as Nanette would have raised Lilah’s concerns and her guard. She might have learned of her brother’s plans and confronted him, ending in her death. And then he used his sister’s body to gain revenge on Mrs. Wetmore by nearly destroying her life. To whom had Jonas been speaking the night Lilah overheard him plotting against the Wetmores? His friend and workmate Anthony Dobbs? Did Mr. Dobbs assist in Lilah’s murder and in placing her inside Chateau sur Mer?

  “Miss Cross, please tell me what you are thinking. What has all this got to do with my husband? And why would the brother have attacked you?”

  It was my turn to take Mrs. Wetmore’s hand as I delivered this next blow. “I believe it was the brother, Jonas Boyd, who murdered Lilah and left her here that night. And that it wasn’t so much your husband he sought to discredit, but you, ma’am.”

  Mrs. Wetmore paled and whisked her hand from beneath mine. She set it, trembling, at her throat. “Good heavens, this isn’t a man we’re speaking of, but a devil.” Her voice rose in pitch on that last word, just as a knock came at the door and it opened.

  “Tea, ma’am.” A footman bearing a tray shouldered his way into the room. Behind him came Miss Maude.

  “Mother, you look distraught.” Her steely gaze darted to me. “Miss Cross, were you even attacked as you claimed, or was that a ploy to gain entry into this house for the purpose of upsetting my mother again? I’ve a mind to telephone the police.”

  Before either Mrs. Wetmore or I could get in a word, Maude pivoted and strode back into the hallway. “Father! Father, come here, quickly.”

  Mrs. Wetmore gestured to the befuddled footman. “Set the tray down. I’ll pour. You may go, thank you.”

  He seemed all too happy to retreat from the room. Before Mrs. Wetmore could man the teapot, however, Katie hurried over. Mrs. Wetmore signaled her to hand me the first cup. “Drink, Miss Cross. You look as though you could use it, and no wonder after your ordeal.” She paused as she accepted her own cup from Katie. “Dear me, as can I.”

  Heavy footsteps resounded from the gallery, and a moment later George Wetmore appeared in the doorway. Though his house arrest had not yet been lifted, he wore a suit of dark clothes as if planning to go out. The thought of him intending to disobey the police took me aback until I realized the senator was simply not a man to lounge about the house in a smoking jacket, as my brother, Brady, might have done. He had probably holed up in his office all morning, attending to official responsibilities.

  “Edith, what on earth is going on?” He recognized me and scowled. “Miss Cross, are you disturbing my wife?”

  “She is doing no such thing, George.” Mrs. Wetmore waved her husband into the room, prompting Katie to duck and scamper back to her place by the window. “Come in and shut the door. Maude, you’ll excuse us, please,” she added in a tone that allowed for no argument. With a harsh look, Miss Maude patted her father’s arm and walked away.

  George Wetmore lowered himself into an armchair that faced the settee. The change in his physical bearing these past days shocked me. The robust man who had presided over the first match between the Westchester and Meadowview polo teams looked almost shrunken in stature, no longer the influential senator but a man entering the first throes of old age, perhaps even infirmity. I thought of my uncle Cornelius, and how distressing matters had led to his physical collapse. I prayed that would not be so for Senator Wetmore, that once the strain of uncertainty about his and his family’s fate lifted from his shoulders, he would regain his vitality and his zeal for shaping the politics of the country.

  “Then what is this all about?” he asked wearily. He scrubbed a hand across his eyes as if to relieve them of their bleariness. “Why is Miss Cross here?”

  His wife drew a breath and let it out slowly. “George, I hired Miss Cross to investigate that woman’s death.”

  Florid color rose in Mr. Wetmore’s ample cheeks. “Why on earth? Edith, what were you thinking, involving yourself in such sordid matters? Matters best left to the police, I might add.”

  Mrs. Wetmore was shaking her head. “No, George. The police were going to drop the entire episode, call it an accident and leave it at that.”

  “And what would have been the harm?” Mr. Wetmore clutched the arms of his chair and pushed to his feet. He took on a horrified expression. “Edith, do you not trust me? Do you believe I had something to do with that poor girl’s death?”

  “Certainly not, George. Please, do sit down and listen.” He stood another several seconds, his complexion feverishly bright, before complying with his wife’s request. “Now then,” she continued, “I knew that without a thorough investigation, there would always be questions to haunt you and our entire family. Think about the children, George. Would you want the taint of murder hanging over their heads the rest of their lives?”

  “No,” he replied with a defeated air. “No, indeed.” He half shrugged.
“And as it happened, the coroner proved Miss Buford’s death could not have been an accident. Thus I am under house arrest, suspected of murder. But why her, Edith?” He pointed none too politely at me. “She’s a child.”

  I bristled slightly. Mrs. Wetmore came to my defense. “She may be young, George, but Miss Cross possesses skills of deduction that rival any police detective’s.” She leaned slightly forward and murmured, “I know. I have heard. I do have sources, George.”

  At Mrs. Wetmore’s prompting, I once again explained my theories concerning the link between Jonas, Lilah, and the Hartwell girl. Now I had one more piece of the puzzle—the link between them and Mrs. Wetmore.

  “Well, I’ll be . . .” Mr. Wetmore sat ruminating over everything I’d revealed. “And you say Detective Whyte has gone after this swine, this Boyd person?”

  Even as I nodded, the notion left me shaky and unsettled. If anything were to happen to Jesse and Derrick . . . I needed the fortification of another swallow of tea, and reached for the cup and saucer I’d placed on the table before me. A wave of dizziness swept over me and I knocked the nearly empty cup over. That brought Katie to my side. “Miss Cross needs to rest now,” she said more forcefully than I would have given her credit for.

  * * *

  I awakened with a start to find myself in a room lit only by a thin strip of moonlight slipping through a gap in the curtains. Once my eyes fully opened, I recognized the velvet canopy above my head, while light snores from across the room told me Katie was with me, asleep on the brocade sofa.

  How many hours had I slept? I knew only that the room had been bathed in late afternoon sunlight when I entered it. Which meant that Jesse and Derrick must still be out there, somewhere on Aquidneck Island, unless their chase led them onto the mainland. The uncertainty precluded the possibility of my going back to sleep. Gingerly I sat up, waiting for the throbbing in my head to renew itself. When it didn’t, I rose from the bed. I was still fully dressed, my clothes rumpled and my corset stays poking my ribs where the garment had slipped a fraction to one side. Quickly I set myself to rights, but I didn’t bother putting on my boots. Stockinged feet would better serve my purpose, for I had no desire to disturb the household. Then I took a folded coverlet off the foot of the bed and gently draped it over Katie, careful not to wake her.