Murder at Chateau sur Mer

by Alyssa Maxwell

  The Wetmores surely had a telephone. I resolved to find it and contact the police station to see what, if anything, I could learn. The rumble of masculine snoring traveled the gallery, emanating from a bedroom door that had been left slightly ajar. I tiptoed past and down the main staircase, once again avoiding the side where Lilah had been found. The butler’s pantry would in all likelihood be equipped with the telephone I sought, and I headed in that direction.

  Yet as I entered the Tapestry Hall, I became aware of weeping coming from the library. Mrs. Wetmore? Had I distressed her to a greater degree than she had admitted? Guilt prodded, while the image of an avenging Maude Wetmore rose up in my mind.

  I stopped to listen, debating whether I should go in or allow her her privacy. The latter notion won out, but before I moved on through the hall, a male voice stopped me cold.

  “Stop your sniveling, Mrs. Wetmore. You’ll wake your family, and then I’ll have no choice but to kill all of you.”

  Jonas. My blood ran cold even as a cool breeze swept my ankles. Somewhere, a door to the outside had been left open. A door from the ballroom to the veranda, perhaps, where Jonas had entered once before?

  An agony of indecision nearly immobilized me. I couldn’t very well go charging into the library and demand Jonas give himself up. I gazed about the darkness for something to use as a weapon. But even armed, could I move quickly enough to prevent Jonas from harming Mrs. Wetmore? I could wake a footman or two, but that would mean retracing my steps, this time all the way up to the third or perhaps even the fourth floor. In so doing, I would be leaving Mrs. Wetmore very much alone, and there was no telling what could happen in the interim.

  Jonas was speaking again, making quietly forceful demands. “I want five thousand dollars, Mrs. Wetmore. Now.”

  “W-what? We haven’t that much cash in the house.”

  “Liar. You rich people always have plenty on hand. Where is your husband’s safe? Or should I go ask him myself?”

  “No! Don’t do that, please. I’m telling you the truth. We never keep that much in the house.” She yelped as if Jonas had struck her, and I lurched, nearly vaulting into the room. Mrs. Wetmore spoke again. “I can give you silver . . . and jewelry. As much as you want, worth much more than what you’re asking.”

  “You think I’m going to risk pawning your things and getting caught? Stupid woman. It’s cash I want. You owe me. You left me in that awful place to be beaten and spit on and laughed at every day until I was old enough to get out of there. The older boys, they stole my food, ripped the shirts off my back. But you—you didn’t care about that, did you?”

  “I . . . didn’t know. I’m sorry, I . . .”

  Summoning help from the police, and then perhaps taking the back stairs up to the third floor, seemed my best option as long as Jonas didn’t hear my voice. Holding my skirts clear of the floor, I tiptoed to the dining room, intending to enter the service corridor where the butler’s pantry was located. A footstep—not my own—sent my heart pounding into my throat and fear exploding inside me. Arms wrapped around me from behind, the muscles biting into my flesh. One large hand slipped over my mouth and pressed until my teeth bit into my lips. Sweat and coal dust invaded my nose. Had Jonas somehow headed me off? How? I struggled and tried to break free.

  “Stop it,” a whisper in my ear commanded. “Don’t move. Don’t make a sound.” Despite the demand I tugged again, resulting in those arms tightening like a vise and a threat penetrating the roaring of blood in my ears. “Don’t make me hurt you.”

  I went still. Yet it was sudden recognition of that voice, rather than fear for my life, that stole the fight from my limbs.

  It was Anthony Dobbs.

  Chapter 17

  “All right?” he whispered, his hold on me loosening a fraction.

  I nodded.

  His hand remained on my mouth. “So help me, if you call out I’ll strangle you and enjoy doing it.”

  I managed a shaky nod. Slowly, his hands receded. One settled on my shoulder and turned me about to face him. Like a beacon of danger, Anthony Dobbs’s bulldog features gleamed with sweat in the darkness. His nostrils flared, and I braced for . . . what, I didn’t know. Surely if he wished to harm me, he would have done so already. Wouldn’t he?

  “Stay put,” he ordered, and slipped away into the Tapestry Hall.

  I watched him, straining to see in the scant light. He paused by the fireplace and, with a stealth I would not have believed that large man capable of, slid the fireplace poker clear of its stand. Not the slightest trace of metal scraped against the bracket. But when I expected him to proceed into the library, he instead exited into the Stair Hall.

  My initial fear surged. Armed as he was, he could only intend sneaking upstairs to the bedrooms. Mr. Wetmore and his two daughters would never see the poker raised above their heads, would never know what caused the sudden agony that obliterated their lives. Evil, evil man.

  But not if I could do something to stop him. I followed as far as the Tapestry Hall, when Mr. Dobbs suddenly called out from the bottom of the staircase. “Edith? Are you down here?”

  He had deepened his voice, lending it the roughness of recent sleep. With a gasp I realized he was pretending to be Mr. Wetmore, looking for his wife.

  “George, run!” Mrs. Wetmore cried out. “Go back upstairs. Save the girls!”

  Footsteps from the library sent me scurrying into the far corner of the Tapestry Hall. Jonas bolted out of the library and into the Stair Hall. A glint of light bounced along a knife with a curved blade some eight inches long. He held it out in front of him, ready to strike. Scuffling, grunts, and cries of pain echoed in the stairwell. Something heavy hit the floor with a crash, something else thudded, then screeched like chalk on slate, and another cry of pain followed. Shadows thrown by moonlight through the stained glass windows at the half landing formed grotesque shapes on the floor of the Tapestry Hall. I fled past those twisting shadows into the library, while the sounds of the skirmish went on.

  Mrs. Wetmore, in her dressing gown and slippers, stood pressed into a corner of the bookshelves. She watched me with large eyes as I ran to the French doors. I tugged, but they remained steadfastly closed. I rushed to Mrs. Wetmore and grasped her hand. Like the doors, she, too, refused to budge.

  “We’ve got to get out of this room,” I whispered urgently. “Out of the house.”

  “George . . . the girls.”

  “We can do nothing for them from here.” I yanked for all I was worth, dislodging her from her stronghold against the books. She stumbled once or twice before matching my pace. We ran back into the Tapestry Hall, and from there through the tiled hallway. The old front entrance lay at one end, but this, too, stood locked tight. I gazed wildly about the hall. It was Mrs. Wetmore who chose a direction and tugged to get me moving. We entered the Green Salon, but I didn’t bother trying any of the doors here, for I remembered the cool breeze that had swept my ankles earlier.

  “The ballroom,” I said, and without bothering to explain, led the way into the cavernous room. To my relief, I hadn’t been wrong. One of the doors rocked gently back and forth on its hinges as the breezes blew and subsided. I pulled it wider and Mrs. Wetmore and I escaped into the blackness of the damp lawn. At first we ran toward the south perimeter wall, but I remembered it had been at the Moongate that Jonas had first entered the property, carrying an already deceased Lilah.

  “This way,” I hissed, and changed our course to the front of the house. Before we’d taken many steps, an explosive burst shook the house and reverberated through the open windows. The shock of it thrust Mrs. Wetmore and myself to our knees.

  All went silent for several resounding heartbeats. Then lights sprang to life in the upstairs windows, and Edith’s and Maude’s voices rang out.

  “Mother, Father? What happened? Where are you?”

  Mrs. Wetmore pressed to her feet and tensed to run back to the house. I grabbed her wrist none too gently and pulled her back to t
he ground. She struggled against me, and with little choice I rolled with her, propelling her to the ground on her back, with me looming over her and my hands pinning her shoulders.

  “I have to go. Let me go,” she pleaded. “George, the girls. They need me.”

  “No, Mrs. Wetmore. You can’t go back in yet. I won’t let you.”

  She attempted to push up from the ground. I heaved my weight more firmly over her until she lay limp against the grass. “We’ll go back when we know it’s safe,” I told her in no uncertain terms. I’m sure she had never been spoken to that way before, at least not since she was a child.

  It worked, for she nodded, even as I had when Anthony Dobbs bade me be silent. I eased off her, ready to spring on her again if need be. She sat up and raised both hands to the sides of her head. “George and that man, fighting. Oh, which was shot? Miss Cross, I shall go mad if I don’t learn what happened soon. And if it was George who . . .”

  In this, at least, I could ease her mind. “Jonas wasn’t fighting with Mr. Wetmore. There was another man in the house. Anthony Dobbs, who used to work for the police.”

  “Another man? A policeman?” She looked at me in amazement, mirroring my own sentiments. I didn’t bother to explain about Mr. Dobbs. If she wished to believe for now that a policeman had taken up the fight with Jonas Boyd, then let her.

  “And listen. It’s silent in the house.” I tried to sound calm, reassuring. “The fighting has stopped.” But I wondered if it truly had.

  She clutched her hands together. “We don’t know who has prevailed.” Her voice threatened to splinter.

  Moments later, lantern light swept the driveway as two vehicles turned in from Bellevue Avenue. Relief made me giddy as I recognized the carriage in the lead and the wagon that followed. Jesse and his men had arrived. “We’ll know soon enough, Mrs. Wetmore.”

  “What is that?” She swept locks that had fallen from her braid back from her face as she peered at the approaching vehicles. Her eyes once more grew large with alarm. “Miss Cross?”

  “It’s the police. It’s over.” I let out a long breath as the last of my energy drained away. I tried to wave to the vehicles, tried to stand and call out, but I couldn’t summon the strength. I wanted only to lie back against the damp grass and close my eyes. When Mrs. Wetmore scrambled to her feet and urged me to hasten across the lawn to meet these latest arrivals, I gestured for her to go on without me.

  How long did I sit there, breathing heavily, my thoughts wandering unfocused, while the night dampness sent a chill through my skirts? I couldn’t have said. Little by little the downstairs windows began to glow with lights from inside. Voices drifted to me as if from far away, from another world. I heard the Wetmores calling one another’s names, the police shouting orders, my own name being called. The shadows closed around me, sealing me in a cocoon from which I couldn’t seem to stir. Then, abruptly, doors opened onto the veranda and two figures came at me through the darkness.

  “Emma, where are you?”

  It was Derrick who called, but I knew even before I could make out their features that they were both there: Derrick and Jesse. They reached me and fell to their knees on either side of me. I felt arms around me and hands seeking my own. Questions concerning my welfare barraged my still-dazed mind. Terms of affection grazed my ears.

  I forced myself to shake away my lethargy. “Yes, yes, I’m all right. I wasn’t hurt. But Mr. Wetmore, the girls, are they . . .?”

  Jesse, holding my hand, rocked back on his heels to better meet my gaze. “They’re all fine, Emma.”

  “I heard a gunshot.”

  “That was Mr. Wetmore’s revolver.” Derrick, too, sat back a bit. The two men regarded each other, each having claimed one of my hands. Derrick coughed; Jesse cleared his throat and glanced away. They both released their holds on me, yet neither backed away. “He heard Boyd and Dobbs downstairs, realized his wife wasn’t in the bedroom with him, and grabbed his gun.”

  “Was anyone hit?”

  Jesse shook his head. “The shot startled them enough to stop their fighting, and the senator threatened to shoot them both if either moved a muscle. Not that either man escaped unscathed, mind you.”

  “They’re both bleeding.” Derrick reached again for my hand. “Can you stand?”

  I nodded. “I think so.”

  I found both my hands once more engulfed in theirs. They helped steady me as I rose, and at my silent look they released me. “Dobbs—I don’t understand. Why was he here?”

  “I’d like the answer to that myself.” Jesse gestured to the house. “Let’s go inside.”

  * * *

  The ambulance wagon waited while Jesse stopped the orderlies from loading the stretcher bearing Jonas into the back. An officer and my old friend Scotty Binsford would be accompanying Jonas to the hospital, and then to the jailhouse once the doctors released him.

  Jesse scowled down at the prone man. Jonas bled from multiple cuts on his face, hands, and groaned with each breath, indicating broken ribs. “Jonas Boyd, you are under arrest for the murders of Lilah Buford and Donald Hartwell, multiple burglaries, arson resulting in the death of Ellsworth Cigars manager Bertrand Styles, and illegally detaining and attempting to blackmail Mrs. Wetmore.” Jesse smiled grimly. “In short, you’ll never have the chance to bother anyone again.”

  However much Jonas Boyd deserved his punishment, I couldn’t help a shudder as I pictured the hangman’s noose. Derrick stood beside me, a little behind Jesse. “And while you might not be able to prove it, he’d also been blackmailing Donald Hartwell since the Hartwells first arrived in Newport.”

  Jesse went on to explain that when the police officers went to break the dismal news to the Hartwells about their patriarch, they had learned of Jonas’s blackmail from young Gerald, with whom I had danced at the Casino assembly ball. I’d had a sensation then that Gerald took pains to hide something. It wasn’t guilt, but the knowledge that Jonas had been threatening to reveal Nanette’s origins to all of society, thus destroying her chances of making a good match. To protect his granddaughter, Donald Hartwell had been paying Jonas large sums of money, meeting him at different locations in town for each payment. One of those payments had occurred on Carrington’s Wharf, and there Lilah had heard Jonas telling Mr. Hartwell of his bitterness toward Mrs. Wetmore, and his desire to hurt her and her family. The two men had obviously planned to meet for another payment behind the grandstand at the polo grounds, where I had stumbled upon Mr. Hartwell.

  As Jesse concluded his story, another shiver traveled my length, and not because of the night air. If I hadn’t interrupted their rendezvous, would Mr. Hartwell still be alive now? That was something I didn’t dare dwell on. At least, as Jesse said, Jonas Boyd would never have a chance to harm anyone again.

  “Don’t forget his assault on Madam Heidi,” I said, “for I’m certain now it was Jonas who beat her. She must have seen or heard something and confronted him. Perhaps she even suspected that Jonas murdered Lilah. His own sister—his flesh and blood.” I scoffed at the man to whom I had once believed I owed a debt of gratitude. It might have been beneath me, but I couldn’t help a parting taunt. “I hope you’ll find it was all worth it.”

  He glanced up at me through the swollen slits of his eyes. “I should have killed you at the polo grounds.”

  I nodded. “Perhaps you should have.”

  “And I should have strangled Mrs. Wetmore while I had the chance.”

  I smiled at him as Jesse had—coldly and without pity. “Your greed got the better of you, didn’t it?”

  “Take him.” With a jerk of his chin, Jesse set the orderlies in motion. “Get him out of my sight.”

  Inside, the Wetmores gathered around their dining room table. Upon reuniting, there had been tears, embraces, and praises sent heavenward by parents and daughters. Even Miss Maude, typically so imperious and stoic, had broken down in her parents’ arms.

  They had since calmed and requested food be brought
up to the dining room. Jesse, Derrick, and I joined them now. As I took my seat, I could hear the last creak of the ambulance wagon as it turned from the driveway onto Bellevue Avenue. The family occupied one end of the long table. Anthony Dobbs sat a few seats away, sipping coffee and munching on a sandwich. Though sporting multiple bruises, a black eye, and a split lower lip, he appeared to have fared better than Jonas. He looked up as we took our seats. The glower he sent in my direction puzzled me, but no longer had the power to intimidate me.

  I merely raised my eyebrows at him and reached for the coffeepot.

  A policeman had followed us into the room. He sat at the head of the table, opened a writing tablet, and held a pencil over the blank page. Jesse consumed a sandwich in about three bites and swallowed several gulps of steaming coffee. “All right, Tony. Give me your account.”

  Mr. Dobbs sent a gaze around the table. “Here? In front of everyone?”

  “The Wetmores have a right to hear what brought both you and Jonas Boyd to their home tonight.” Jesse sat back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest.

  “Indeed, out with it, sir.” George Wetmore held his coffee cup in one hand and his wife’s hand in the other. He frowned. “Perhaps Edith and Maude should return to their rooms.”

  This raised an immediate protest. “No, indeed, Father.”

  “Really, Father, don’t treat us like children. We won’t be shooed away.”

  Mrs. Wetmore settled the matter. More calmly than I would have expected, she said, “Let them stay, George. Their lives were as much at risk tonight as yours or mine. They deserve to know why.” She turned her attention to Mr. Dobbs. “Please enlighten us.”