The Body in the Ballroom

by R. J. Koreto

  I had coaxed a second cup out of Dulcie, which she slammed on the table with unnecessary force, when a maid stepped into the kitchen and said Mrs. Cowles wanted to see me in the parlor. Dulcie laughed at my evident discomfort.

  I combed my fingers through my hair, smoothed my suit, and stepped into the parlor. Mrs. Cowles smiled at my arrival and told me to take a seat opposite her. She was not what you’d call a beautiful woman, but there was a lot of character in her face, and you knew for sure that she was the president’s sister. She was married to a naval officer who was at sea much of the time.

  “So here we are again, Mr. St. Clair. Starting fresh.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I trust you had a full conversation with my brother?”

  “Yes, ma’am. The president and I discussed my taking up the assignment as Miss Alice’s bodyguard again.”

  “I’m glad. As I’m sure you know, Alice has rejected any thoughts of additional schooling. Nevertheless, she’s reached an age where she has to take on more responsibility on behalf of the family. She needs to learn more about mixing in Society, to work with me and her stepmother in representing the president. Essentially, she needs an informal but still rigorous education in becoming a political hostess with an eye to someday becoming a political wife. I shall guide her in that. And you shall see that she goes nowhere … inappropriate. I was thinking of going into detail, but behind that fake stupid cowboy persona you present to the world, I know you are intelligent and even shrewd. So further discussion won’t be necessary.”

  I wasn’t sure if that was a compliment or not, so I just thought for a moment and said, “I understand, ma’am. I’m looking forward to taking Miss Alice to the better homes, museums, and theaters and leaving it at that.”

  Mrs. Cowles smiled again. “Very good. I’m so glad we understand each other.”

  Then Alice strode into the room. “What are you two talking about? Whatever it is, we have more important things to discuss. Aunt Anna—” Alice gave a quick glance at me. Knowing Alice as I did, that particular look sent a chill down my spine. “I need an escort for the Rutledge ball tomorrow. I thought it would be most efficient if Mr. St. Clair served in that capacity. He would be able to keep me safe, and we could easily rent evening clothes for him.”

  Alice gave me a quick smirk. But Mrs. Cowles gave me a look that spoke volumes before turning back to her niece. “I don’t think that we pay Mr. St. Clair enough for that kind of work, Alice,” she said. “I daresay he can guard you safely enough from downstairs. I doubt if you are under immediate threat from any of the invited guests. I already spoke with my friend Mrs. Lesseps, and her nephew Stephen will be delighted to escort you.” Alice pouted. “He’ll pick you up, and you and Mr. St. Clair will drive in his family’s coach.”

  Alice sighed dramatically. “Stephen Lesseps? I’m not sure how entertaining he’ll be. Oh, very well. And I suppose I’ll have to make a show out of drinking that disgusting Rutledge punch?”

  “It would be polite,” said Mrs. Cowles.

  Seeing my confusion, Alice turned to me. “Some Rutledge ancestor brought over a recipe for a ghastly punch from Holland some two hundred years ago, and it’s become a sort of ritual that everyone has a single cup at their parties. It’s considered rude not to. For them, it’s a tradition. But it’s really a waste of good gin.”

  “I’m not going to ask how you know whether or not gin is ‘wasted,’” said Mrs. Cowles. “I’ll simply tell you to behave yourself. This isn’t just a party. Philadelphia Rutledge is making her debut, and she’s their only child. Most of the leading people in this city will be there.”

  “Why aren’t you going, then?”

  “You’ll represent the Roosevelts there, and that’s representation enough from a presidential family. Indeed, that’s why you’re back in New York. I’ll be having a quiet dinner with some old friends here who are too aged for elaborate debutante balls.”

  “You just don’t want to drink that god-awful punch,” snapped Alice.

  “That’s part of it,” said Mrs. Cowles with a bland smile. “And don’t say ‘god-awful.’ It’s vulgar.”

  “It is god-awful. And it’s a miracle it hasn’t killed anyone. But very well. Anyway, Philly Rutledge is a good sort, and I missed her when I was in Washington.” Then Alice looked up at the clock and brightened. “It’s earlier than I realized. We still have some time today. Mr. St. Clair, I do believe we have time to go to a shooting range and have you teach me how to load and fire your Colt New Service revolver.”

  So much for “taking Miss Alice to the better homes, museums, and theaters and leaving it at that.”

  CHAPTER 3

  The next day started pretty smoothly. We had a cheerful breakfast with waffles and sausages. Dulcie was torn between being pleased I was out of her kitchen and sullen that I was getting above myself, eating with my employers.

  “So you’ll just be spending the evening in the Rutledge kitchen with coffee and a free dinner?” Alice asked.

  “Yup. We might get a card game going.”

  “Ooh, a card game? What kind of pot?”

  “You can’t join us. You’ll be upstairs drinking Rutledge punch.”

  “It’s boring to be rich sometimes,” she said, and I laughed. She fixed a quizzical look at me. “And you’ll be flirting with maids?”

  “If they’re not too busy,” I said. Alice didn’t like that answer.

  “Remember, you’re there to protect me,” she said. “That’s your primary responsibility.”

  “Protect you from what?”

  “What if Stephen Lesseps leads me into a dark hallway and tries to have his way with me?”

  I choked on my coffee. “Yes, I’m very worried about that. In any fight, I’d have to protect Mr. Lesseps from you.”

  “That’s an unfeeling comment. And I was going to bring you a glass of Rutledge punch.”

  “From what I’ve heard, I could do without it. Anyway, I’m well provided for.” I slapped my jacket pocket where I kept a flask. For emergency purposes.

  “You still keep it filled with bourbon. Can’t you carry something civilized like brandy or scotch?”

  “When you’re all grown up, you’ll appreciate a good bourbon.”

  “Don’t patronize me, Cowboy.”

  “Learn to behave yourself, Princess.” She just rolled her eyes, and I had another waffle.

  * * *

  The rest of the day was quiet. Alice spent most of her time unpacking and working with a seamstress for last-minute adjustments to her dress. Since I knew she was safely inside, I took a few minutes to head over to the garage a few blocks away. The Roosevelts had a little runabout suitable for two passengers, three if you squeezed, and I used it to drive Alice around town. I usually kept it in the Caledonia garage, but right before I left for St. Louis, I left it with a service garage where they could give it a good cleaning and run it every now and then.

  Peter Carlyle was on duty there, and he and I liked talking about motorcars. I had picked up a fair amount over the years, but Peter knew a whole lot more than I did. A lot of people had trouble imagining a colored man could handle anything as complicated as a car engine, but smart motorcar owners all over Manhattan had learned that to keep their machines running, they made sure Peter took care of them.

  He grinned when he saw me. “Welcome back, Cowboy. I heard you were returning. The engine is humming, and I put in some fresh oil.”

  “Good to be back, Peter, and thanks. But who told you I was coming?”

  “It’s all over town,” he said. “One of Mrs. Cowles’s maids told her friend who works in the Caledonia laundry, who told the delivery guy, whose truck I just fixed.” He lowered his voice. “I also heard you taught some manners to a Georgia cracker who didn’t like who the president invites for dinner,” he said. He seemed very pleased at that. As I had noted, Mr. Washington was a big man among colored folks.

  “Word travels fast,” I said. “Let’s d
rink to good manners.” I pulled out my flask, and after making sure the boss wasn’t around, Peter took a healthy swig.

  “Thanks, Joey. Well, good luck keeping watch on Miss Roosevelt. Give her my regards.” Peter once let Alice drive the motorcar around the garage on a slow day, so she had a soft spot for him. “The car’s all ready. Should be purring like a kitten. But if there are any problems, just come back, and I’ll put you at the top of the list.”

  I gave the car a quick crank, and as Peter had promised, it started right up. I drove the car back to the Caledonia and cleaned myself up a bit. I got upstairs in time for a quick coffee in the kitchen before a maid said Miss Roosevelt was ready in the parlor. They had done her up nice in an elaborate dress, and what they had achieved with her hair was an engineering marvel.

  “You sure clean up nice, Miss Alice.”

  “Thank you. I do look grand, don’t I?” she said loftily. “Parties like this usually have a lively enough young set, and Philly is fun. Anyway, I’ll make it lively.”

  “No doubt about that, Miss Alice,” I said, and she bowed in acknowledgment. We heard the maid admit someone, no doubt Stephen Lesseps, and a moment later, a young man stepped into the parlor. He looked like most of those Society men, pale and fair-haired and a lot more comfortable in evening clothes than I could ever hope to be.

  “Dear Stephen, good to see you again.”

  “Alice, you look lovely.” He took her hands in his. “Washington obviously agreed with you, but I’m glad you’re back in New York.”

  “I’m glad to be back. Stephen, this is Joseph St. Clair of the Secret Service, who is in charge of making sure nothing terrible happens to me. Also, to make sure you don’t take any liberties on the drive to the Rutledges’.”

  Stephen didn’t seem to know if that was a joke or not, but after a pause. he reached out, and we shook hands. He smiled briefly but didn’t say anything. Alice waved her hand like a queen. “But enough talk. We should be off.”

  The Lesseps had a grand coach with matched horses. I thought about my little runabout and wondered when coaches like these would disappear entirely. A crack of the whip, and we were off. Alice and Stephen made small talk about people I didn’t know as I sat opposite them on the short ride downtown to the Rutledge townhouse. Stephen eyed me occasionally. I knew he wished I wasn’t there. I wanted to say, “Don’t mind me; I’m a bodyguard, not a chaperone.” Alice would’ve loved that, but I decided to say nothing.

  I saw the couple through the front door, and Alice gave me a wink. Two cops walked a beat outside, as was typical whenever prominent people like the Rutledges held a party. I had a word with them and then walked down the stairs to the servants’ entrance. I knocked and heard a bolt drawn back before I was admitted—good, they were careful. I introduced myself to the maid and took off my hat. They seemed to be expecting me—also good. I could smell the food on the stove and realized the evening was going to be an easy one.

  Indeed, not only were they liberal with food and coffee, but there were a few chauffeurs around, and it didn’t take long to get a card game going. I was doing pretty well—I cleaned out the Irish boys quickly, but there was one German, and they’re impossible to read. I had a solid hand, and we were eyeing each other closely when I heard quick footsteps on the landing, and the butler appeared at the table.

  I knew there was a problem as soon as I heard the running. One thing I had learned taking Alice from house to house is that good servants never run. I was already reluctantly putting down my cards and standing when the butler started talking.

  “Miss Roosevelt?” I asked.

  “What? Oh, no, she’s well, but there’s been an … incident. Mr. Rutledge would be greatly obliged if you could come immediately.” So nothing had happened to Alice. My next thought, not a very nice one, was whether Alice had done something and I was being called to fix matters.

  “Can you tell me what Miss Roosevelt did?” I asked.

  “I don’t believe Miss Roosevelt did anything,” he said. “Except to recommend your, uh, involvement, sir. It’s … but Mr. Rutledge will explain.”

  I thought we’d be going to the ballroom, but the butler led me directly to the bedrooms upstairs. Two men were talking in the hallway. One I knew as Rutledge, elegantly attired and a little portly, but with a strong face and touches of silver at his temples. The other man I didn’t recognize, although he wasn’t a guest because he wasn’t in evening clothes.

  Alice was in front of them both, arms crossed and quivering with impatience. “It took you long enough to get here,” she said.

  “I had to finish my hand, and then we got lost on our way up here.”

  “Very funny,” she said. She turned to the two men. “Mr. St. Clair is here. I’m sure we can count on him.”

  Rutledge stepped forward and held out his hand, and I realized there must be a big problem because men like Rutledge didn’t usually shake hands with men like me. “We’ve had a little problem … an illness.”

  “I don’t know what you were told, sir, but I’m a government agent, not a sawbones.”

  Alice sighed audibly. “For heaven’s sake, both of you. You’re here because you carry a badge, Mr. St. Clair.”

  Rutledge glared at Alice. “Miss Roosevelt, this must be very upsetting for you. I’ll summon young Lesseps to take you back down.”

  “That won’t be necessary. But we’re wasting time.” She waved her hand to show that Rutledge’s words, perhaps Rutledge himself, were being dismissed. “Lynley Brackton had a drink of Rutledge punch and got sick and just died. I’m sure he was murdered.”

  CHAPTER 4

  “It could be an accident…” said Rutledge.

  “I don’t see how,” said Alice. She glanced to the stranger in the suit who was hanging back and summoned him imperiously. “This is Dr. Henrick, the Rutledge family physician. Please tell Mr. St. Clair what you told me and Mr. Rutledge.” Rutledge had the look of someone who saw all control being taken from him, and he didn’t like it.

  The doctor glanced quickly at Rutledge before speaking. “I was summoned here for what seemed to be some sort of stomach ailment. The patient, Mr. Brackton, had been taken to a guest bedroom, and he was almost dead when I got here. I know a little bit about poisons, and I strongly believe he had taken a massive dose of aconite, or wolfsbane, as it’s commonly known.”

  “How can you be sure?” snapped Rutledge. The doctor, although about a head shorter than Rutledge and a lot more pleasant looking, stood on his dignity. “I made a study of various pathologies, sir, before taking my general practice, and although an examination will be necessary, the symptoms were consistent in every respect with wolfsbane poisoning.”

  “If you want my opinion, and I’m guessing that’s why you called me, there appears to be a good reason to call the police.”

  “We knew that,” said Alice impatiently. “But why make a fuss? You’re on hand, and Mr. Rutledge doesn’t want a dozen city cops trampling through his party. I told him you’d handle it.”

  “Thanks, Miss Alice,” I said.

  “Couldn’t you do … whatever is necessary? It must’ve been some kind of accident,” said Rutledge

  “Accident? How does wolfsbane end up in punch by accident?” I asked.

  “Ha! That’s what I said,” said Alice. Rutledge gave her another look, but there was more than that. He was uncomfortable about something. He sighed and said, “I have a small greenhouse in the back—botany is something of a hobby of mine. And yes, we have wolfsbane. But I keep the door locked. Even my servants aren’t allowed in.”

  “Is your hobby widely noted, sir?” I asked. Half a step behind him, Alice rolled her eyes, and I had a hard time keeping from smiling.

  “I’ve spoken about it,” said Rutledge cautiously. Which meant he was probably a bore on the subject.

  “I don’t know what I can do, but let me have a look at your greenhouse. Can you come with me?”

  “I can’t possibly see the need�
�”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” said Alice. “Give me the key. You gave me and Philly a tour last year, and everything is labeled. I’ll take Mr. St. Clair, and you can see to Mrs. Brackton.”

  Again, with some reluctance, Rutledge reached into his pocket and gave me a key. “Anything you can do to keep this quiet. So far, everyone thinks Brackton was just a little unwell. His wife knows he died, but no one else knows. She’s lying down in another room and has a friend with her.”

  I just nodded, making no promises.

  “Alice, you are welcome to return to the other guests,” said Rutledge. I heard a hint of desperation in his voice, but I could’ve told him it was no use.

  “Mr. Rutledge, don’t forget that my father was police commissioner. I am sure I can be of great help to Mr. St. Clair.” Without waiting for further comment, she turned, and I followed Alice toward the back stairs.

  “Miss Alice, how did you get involved in this?”

  “Oh, I was there when he got sick. A bunch of us were around the punch bowl, with Mr. and Mrs. Brackton off to one side. We all came around for a required drink of that horrible punch and were joking about it when he looked unwell. His wife summoned a servant, and Mr. Rutledge was there already. Anyway, I didn’t see anyone dropping poison in his glass.” She looked disappointed.

  “I suppose everything was cleaned up,” I said.

  “Yes, and I was most annoyed at that. He dropped his glass, and it smashed. It should’ve been left for the police, but the maids swept in, of course. But it must’ve been his glass. We were all drinking from that bowl. Philly and I drank together. No one else got sick. But I told them everything else had to be left as is and had the butler stand guard.”

  “Glad you did that, Miss Alice, but still, this is all just guesswork. The doctor could’ve been wrong, and there’s no proof of deliberate poison.”

  “You have another theory?” she asked.

  “Maybe … he was taking some sort of medicine that was improperly made up.”