by R. J. Koreto
Alice didn’t think much of that. And when we got to the greenhouse at the back, we saw a clue she might be right. The lock had been forced. The door was glass in a metal frame, and the lock was a simple bolt. It wasn’t designed to keep out anyone serious about getting in, just the casually curious or a child who had escaped his nanny. A good, solid pull, and the bolt would rip right out of the jamb—and that’s apparently what happened.
“I think that makes it clear,” said Alice with a tone of triumph, and I had to agree.
The room itself was impressive, with some beautiful plants and shrubs and a winding walkway among them. Alice seemed to know exactly where to go. “Mr. Rutledge is rather well known in New York for this greenhouse, and when he showed it to Philly and me, he told us to be careful of the wolfsbane.”
We came to a small plot, and that’s where we found a second clue. Rutledge had neatly labeled each plant, and we easily found the wolfsbane. Or what was left of it. Someone had ripped out some stalks. We could still see the holes.
“So someone here broke in just to kill Lynley Brackton,” said Alice. She could barely contain her glee.
“Miss Alice, there’s a lot we don’t know here. Let’s not jump to any conclusions.”
“Mr. St. Clair, just think. Someone wanted to kill Mr. Brackton and did so very quickly. A last-minute decision like this—they must’ve been desperate to kill him at a public place with snatched poison like that.” She folded her arms and contemplated the broken plants.
“Quite a puzzle, Miss Alice, but not ours. There’s definitely something here, but it’s for the police to investigate, not us.”
She sighed dramatically but let me lead her out of the greenhouse.
“Can I convince you to go back to the party?” I asked.
“It was beginning to bore me. Stephen Lesseps was beginning to bore me. What do we do now?”
“We don’t do anything. I call Captain O’Hara, and that’s the end of it.”
“At least I can show you where the telephone is here.”
There was a little closet near the front door, and I had the operator connect me to the Tombs with Alice leaning over me. I didn’t expect Captain O’Hara would be in this late, but I reached an officer on duty who I knew would be able to find him. I identified myself as Secret Service and gave specific instructions for O’Hara and then made him repeat it back to me. No need to involve the low-level cops outside.
“O’Hara isn’t going to do anything,” said Alice sourly.
“You’re wrong there, Princess. He’s going to take this problem off my shoulders, allowing you to go back to your party and me back to my card game. Now let’s find Mr. Rutledge.” He was still in the hallway, muttering with the doctor. He seemed pleased to see me again but unhappy to see Alice was still with me.
“Mr. Rutledge. This looks like a homicide to me. I had to call the police. But I reached out to a friend of mine, Captain O’Hara. He’s also a friend of the president’s. He’ll be as discreet as possible, come around the back with a few men in plainclothes.”
“Thanks, St. Clair. I appreciate that and won’t forget it. I’ll let the butler know. The doctor here will be looking after Mrs. Brackton, who’s very upset, of course.”
“I gave her a sedative,” the doctor said.
“Might we see Mr. Brackton’s body?” asked Alice.
The doctor’s jaw dropped, and Rutledge looked like Alice had delivered a roundhouse to his chin.
“For God’s sake, Miss Alice,” I said. I took her by her arm, but she shook me off.
“Captain O’Hara is going to want to see the body, and this way, we can give him a summary when he arrives.” It was late, and the party would probably be breaking up soon, at any rate. I was hoping to give O’Hara a quick summary when he arrived and then make an even quicker exit with Alice and Lesseps in the family coach.
The doctor just glanced at Rutledge, still in shock, then shrugged and led us to the bedroom where they had laid Brackton out. Death hadn’t been kind to him, but I could tell he had been a handsome man around forty. The doctor left us alone with him.
“Was he a friend of yours?” I asked Alice.
“Lynley Brackton? As unpleasant a man as I ever knew. Outwardly charming but always mocking someone. Gratuitously nasty. I can’t say I’m sorry to see him dead. I’d imagine that almost everyone here had a reason to dance on his grave.”
“A eulogy from a member of the Roosevelt family. What a send-off,” I said, and Alice thought that was funny. “If no one liked him, why was he invited?” I asked.
“That’s a silly question. He’s in Society. Of course he was invited.” She frowned then and stepped over to his right hand. “Look at this ring, Mr. St. Clair. It’s rather odd.” I sidled up next to her and peered in the dim light. He wore a heavy gold signet ring with XVII stamped on the front.
“A family memento? Or some sort of club, I’d guess, but I’ve never heard of it.”
Alice gave me a sly look. “The odd thing, which you apparently didn’t notice, is that Mr. Rutledge has the same ring.”
“That would seem to indicate a club, then,” I said.
“Perhaps. Anyway, nothing more to see here, but I suppose the doctors will take him apart and see how he died.”
“How are you going to sleep with images like that in your head, Miss Alice?”
She looked surprised. “Mr. St. Clair, I always sleep very well.”
With no more murder fun to be had, Alice decided to head back to the party.
“What are you going to tell Stephen Lesseps about why you were gone so long?” I asked.
“I am the daughter of the president. I have responsibilities,” she said loftily.
“I am so proud of you, Miss Alice, for being able to say something like that with a straight face.”
“That wasn’t funny, Cowboy. Anyway, you have to stay until Captain O’Hara gets here, and I can’t leave without you, but everyone here seems to enjoy my company, and maybe someone can get me a real drink instead of more Rutledge punch.”
So Alice went back downstairs, and I returned to the kitchen. The chauffeurs were all heading out, so there was no chance for another card game. However, the cook gave me some coffee. Eventually, O’Hara showed up at the back, as I asked, with half a dozen officers in plainclothes.
“What the hell is going on?” he asked me.
“One of the guests died, and I don’t see how it could be anything but murder,” I said and gave him a quick summary.
“Christ almighty,” he said. “Who the hell would do that?”
“Your job, not mine,” I said. “I don’t envy you. Now, I know you can’t cover this up entirely, but if you can continue to be discreet, Simon Rutledge will be very grateful.” O’Hara brightened at that. “Anyway, most of the guests are gone, but I’m sure you can get a list to see if anyone saw anything.”
“It’ll probably turn out to be a crazy servant with a grudge. Oh well. Anything else you can tell me?”
“Yes. Don’t have the punch. I hear it’s disgusting.”
CHAPTER 5
I made a half-hearted attempt to get Alice to go home, but I knew it was no use, and I figured O’Hara might want me around to speak with me again before the night was over. After the captain started with his investigations, Alice didn’t seem to care where her escort was but wanted to find Philly, who seemed to have disappeared. “I know where she’ll be. I’ve been here enough times to know where she’ll go.” We located her in a cozy little sitting room by herself. She stood as soon as we entered the room.
“Alice! You always know what’s going on. Apparently Lynley Brackton is dead, and some are saying it was a heart attack, but there’s a rumor going around he was poisoned. Is that true?”
“It would seem so,” said Alice. “They always try to hush these things up, but it never works.”
“That’s some ending to my party,” said Philly. She shivered. “I’m so glad you found me. I was tired
of people soothing me. I just had to sneak away. You aren’t going to say anything sensible, I’m sure.”
“Of course not. I’m going to tell you how lucky you are. You and your party will be the talk of the town,” said Alice. “Every debutante ball is the same, but we’ll remember this forever.”
That got Philly to laugh. “I like the way you look at things.”
“I would’ve thought your mother would be all over you,” said Alice.
“She was; dragged me away the moment they carried Mr. Brackton out then fell apart herself. You know my mother. She’s got to have her dramatic moment, and then she took to her bed, where she’ll probably stay for days. And Father is trying to minimize the police presence.” Then she took a look at me.
“I’m being rude,” said Alice. “This is Mr. St. Clair, my Secret Service bodyguard. He helped me when I was investigating.”
“Yes, the servants were talking about a crazy young lady who was pretending she was a police detective, and I knew that could only be you, Alice,” said Philly, and both girls laughed. Philly gave me an appraising look. She seemed to be one of those Society girls you came across by the dozen in Alice’s social set, pretty enough with pale blonde hair that was beginning to slip out of its combs. She was freckled across the nose, and I could see just how young she was. But I also saw a certain shrewdness in those cool blue eyes as she took me in, and her chin was set, making me think this was a young woman who was never going to take to her bed at the first sign of unpleasantness.
“You’re the lucky one, Alice, getting your own personal cowboy. How can I get one?”
“We’re available in the Sears catalog,” I said, and there was a moment of quiet before both women laughed.
“You get one automatically if your father is president. Mr. St. Clair was with my father on San Juan Hill, and as a reward for his heroism, he gets to spend his days with me.”
“Yes, my reward,” I said, and this time, only Philly laughed.
“Make yourself useful,” said Alice to me. “Don’t you have some tobacco with you? Philly and I would sure appreciate a smoke.”
“Ooh, if you could?” asked Philly.
“All right, because I know you didn’t show up here with your own supply, Miss Alice, but you owe me.”
“Very well, but you owe me a trip to a firing range. You promised to teach me how to properly fire a revolver.”
“You are lucky!” said Philly. I quickly rolled a pair of cigarettes for the girls, then struck a match on my boot nail and lit both of them up.
“Now, if we only had something decent to drink,” said Philly.
“Mr. St. Clair only has bourbon in his flask,” said Alice, shaking her head, and Philly wrinkled her nose.
“When you girls are older, you’ll appreciate bourbon.”
“Don’t make your uncivilized taste in drink an excuse to patronize us,” said Alice.
There was a knock on the door, and another man joined us, darkly handsome, almost exotic, with midnight black hair. With hair that dark and a complexion so pale, he probably needed to shave twice a day. He was wearing well-fitting evening clothes, and I guessed him to be just a little older than the girls. He grinned. “Is this a private party, or can anyone join?” he asked.
“It is private, but you’re absolutely welcome,” said Philly. “Alice, this is Abraham Roth. We met a couple of months ago at the Mortons’. Abraham, this is Alice Roosevelt, one of my dearest friends.”
“The president’s daughter? A pleasure, Miss Roosevelt.”
“And this is Mr. St. Clair, Alice’s Secret Service bodyguard. He was a Rough Rider.”
“Were you now?” he asked, sitting down, and he seemed genuinely interested, not condescending the way so many of the young Society men were. “Can I interest a veteran in a real drink? I have some brandy.” He produced a flask.
“I don’t know about Mr. St. Clair, but you have two young ladies who would welcome something civilized. Mr. St. Clair only has bourbon,” said Alice.
“Bourbon? That sounds inviting.” So the girls got something besides Rutledge punch, and Roth and I did a quick change for his good brandy and my good bourbon.
“We were talking about the murder,” said Alice.
“Murder? I heard only that Mr. Brackton had died. I assumed it was just some sort of sudden attack.” He looked at me, and I nodded. Captain O’Hara could keep it quiet for now—keep the press away and cover up the worst details—but there would be no hiding it for more than a day or two.
“I’m sorry, Philly,” he said. She just smiled and shrugged. “Is it just me, or are you two young ladies not particularly upset at the loss of Mr. Brackton?” asked Roth.
“He wasn’t widely liked,” said Alice. “Word gets around—about his cutting remarks, his womanizing. They said he and his wife had trouble keeping servants because of his temper and other behavior. Even his own household’s maids weren’t safe from him, it was said. Still, as long as his behavior wasn’t too blatant, he still got on the lists.”
“So, in Society, it would be more of a scandal to cut him off, so it’s just easier to ignore him?” I asked. That’s High Society for you.
“I’m afraid so,” said Alice. “There are lines you can cross and lines you can’t, and he knew the difference. At least up until now.” She turned to Roth. “Did you manage to make his acquaintance?”
“No. I just heard him but didn’t speak to him. I know that sounds strange. I was within hearing distance of him, as he well knew, and heard him remark to another guest that he remembered when you wouldn’t find Jews invited in the better households.” He smiled wryly, but Philly turned red.
“I am sorry you suffered such a discourtesy in my house. Party or not, I’m glad he’s dead.”
That sent a chill through the room. But then Alice complimented the band, and the conversation turned to safer topics for a while until there was another knock on the door, and a male servant entered the room.
“Excuse me, but Mr. Rutledge asked me to find a Mr. St. Clair. He would like to see you in his study.”
“I’m St. Clair. Miss Alice, stay out of trouble. I’ll be back.”
“I’ll be your lieutenant,” said Roth, and he gave me a salute. I laughed and followed the servant.
I knew Alice was not happy about being left out of a conversation, but she realized she wasn’t going to be welcomed into Mr. Rutledge’s study so apparently decided to make the best of it with my tobacco and Roth’s brandy.
It was Alice, when I was first assigned to her, who told me the difference between money that was made yesterday and money that was made a century or so ago. When I entered Mr. Rutledge’s study, I realized right away what I was dealing with. Nothing was new, and everything was expensive. Any rich man can buy fancy paintings for his walls, but if you have fancy portraits of your grandfather and great-grandfather, well that’s all the difference in the world.
“Mr. St. Clair, thank you again for your discretion and for arranging things with Captain O’Hara. Please, take a seat. Can I offer you a cigar?” Rutledge selected one from a wood box on his desk and lit me up from a gold lighter. A chair in his private study, a thank-you, and the best cigar I’d ever had. I was going to be asked for a big favor.
“Glad I could help, sir,” I said.
“You seem like a cool-headed man. I’ve had a discussion with Captain O’Hara, and he agrees with me that it wouldn’t be in anyone’s interest to ask too many irrelevant questions.” That is, make an arrest without poking into the business of all the leading members of New York Society who had shown up that evening, I thought. “But you’re a federal agent, Mr. St. Clair. I was wondering if the Secret Service had an interest in an investigation beyond what the city does.”
“I’m not that high-ranking,” I said. “It wouldn’t be my decision.”
“But the nature of any report you made to your superiors would no doubt have some influence on their decision.”
“I guess so
,” I said. “It doesn’t sound like anyone is going to miss this Mr. Brackton, however. I never met the man myself, but word travels fast, and his death doesn’t sound like a great loss.”
Mr. Rutledge didn’t pretend to be shocked at that. He just nodded slowly. “Can I ask you about your background? There’s a reason for my question.”
“I don’t mind. Before I joined the Secret Service, I was a deputy sheriff in Wyoming. I was a sergeant in the Rough Riders and ran up San Juan Hill with the president.”
“Good. Then you will understand what I mean when I say that Lynley Brackton had become unreliable. Think on that, Mr. St. Clair. As a lawman and a soldier, you know what it means to be unreliable and the depth of that criticism.”
I nodded and thought about what Alice had said about crossing lines. Had Brackton crossed a line, and someone had been pushed to extremes? Had Rutledge done it and was warning me off? I doubted it. Poisoning someone at your daughter’s debutante ball would be the act of a madman.
“Miss Roosevelt doesn’t seem to have been under any particular threat. I won’t report to my superiors that she was in any danger here, if that was your concern,” I said.
That seemed to please him. “And speaking of Miss Roosevelt, she seems to have taken a deep interest in this evening’s situation. I hope that won’t continue. It would be embarrassing for everyone, her most of all. Could you discourage her?”
“I doubt it. Unfortunately, I’m her bodyguard, not her nanny.”
Mr. Rutledge paused at that, as if he didn’t understand if that was a joke or not. “Would it help if I called the president? Mr. Roosevelt and I have known each other for years.”
“Again, sir, I doubt it. If he could control her, he wouldn’t have packed her off to New York under my care.”
This time, he decided to treat it like a joke and gave a brief chuckle. If nothing else, he realized that he had gone as far as he could with me. He stood.
“Thank you, Mr. St. Clair. I’m sure Alice is eager to get home, so I’ll say good night.”
A servant led me back to the little parlor, where Alice, Philly, and Roth were laughing about something.
