If it had not been in motion, the solitary train car puffing its way from New Haven toward Newport two hours later—the “special,” as such privately owned train cars were called—might have been a drawing room on Fifth Avenue. It was furnished with sofas and chairs, a liquor stand, a shelf of books bound in morocco leather, and there were even, rattling just slightly on the walls, a series of three handsome oil paintings depicting the Battle of Brandywine.
Riding in the car were Lenox, Blaine, O’Brian, and Mr. Clark; Wyatt had gone on to Boston, where Lenox promised to be the next day. (“Is Boston the last stop on the train?” he had murmured to the conductor before leaving Wyatt behind. “Yes, sir.” “Good,” he’d said, “thank you,” his anxious visions of Wyatt slumbering into the northern reaches of Canada assuaged.)
The rapidity with which Blaine had received his replies from William Stuyvesant Schermerhorn had quite astonished Lenox, until he learned from Clark that Schermerhorn had a private telegraph office in his house in Newport. It was a privilege that so far as Lenox knew only the Queen and one or two others had in England.
In the first telegram, Blaine had asked for more information about the murder, signing with his own name. That information had arrived within five minutes.
Hello Blaine STOP Death near the 40 Steps STOP Regret very much to say it was Lily Allingham STOP Spotted early this morning by fishing boat STOP Body in situ for now STOP Please represent to Mr Lenox that we wish him to come with all possible dispatch STOP
Lenox had listened as Blaine read this aloud, standing in the New Haven wire office.
“You’ve gone pale,” he said when Blaine was finished.
Blaine looked up. He had been reading it over again, to himself. “Oh! I suppose I probably have, yes. I’m sorry. I know Lily Allingham. Knew Lily Allingham.”
“Oh no. I’m terribly sorry.” Blaine looked dazed. “You must—sir, could you fetch him a cup of tea with plenty of sugar?” Lenox said to one of the young heir’s cortège.
The fellow nodded and walked purposefully away. Sweet did well against shock. “She was a beautiful girl,” murmured Blaine, staring at a spot on the floor about ten feet from them.
“What are the Forty Steps?” Lenox asked.
“Eh?” Blaine looked up, still clutching the wire. “Oh! They are a famous landmark in Newport.”
“Do you know the town well? Where?”
“I do. The finest houses there are along the Cliff Walk. That is a promontory at some height above the water—twenty feet, say. The Forty Steps are built into the Cliff Walk. They lead down from the height of the houses to the shore. Anyone may use them, by long tradition. The right of way along the Cliff Walk is always unobstructed, though many of the wealthier people in Newport should like to have the shore to themselves.”
“I would like to know whether there is a chance it was an accident before I go there. Would you prefer me to compose the response?”
“No, not at all,” Blaine had said. “I am quite myself again.”
Again the answer to Blaine’s query had come very rapidly.
No chance of accident STOP Cause of death blow to head STOP Please transmit Lenox that police here unfit for murder investigation STOP Small town STOP
And that had been the moment that decided Lenox, the reference to the local police. He had no doubt of the veracity of it.
Now they sat on the train. Clark, with sunlight playing over the unblemished side of his face, was staring quietly ahead, accustomed to sentry duty. Meanwhile, Lenox’s young Irish valet was toward the front of the car, where the engineer had his booth. The two of them were sharing some sort of snack. Perhaps something from the otherwise untasted delicacies laid on a table against the right side of the car.
Blaine was seated, gazing through the window. All but one of his various aides-de-camp—to their obvious displeasure—were following in a different train. The cup of tea at the station in New Haven had steadied him, but he was very quiet, very still.
As for Lenox, having observed his fellow passengers discreetly for some time, Clark particularly, he was reading.
The delicately inked little book of maps that Lady Jane had given him before his departure had a glossary, too, in part stocked with brief descriptions of significant places in the States. The entry for Newport was illuminating.
Port city of Aquidneck Island, in Narragansett Bay, Rhode Island. Notable for its summer population, drawn earlier in its history primarily from the large southern plantations, but since midcentury more broadly, and in particular from New York society. Founded in 1639. Housed Jews fleeing Spanish persecution in 1658, and consequently still home to a large Jewish population; boasts the oldest synagogue in the United States. Known for its cottages and the striking views from the Cliff Walk. Recreations: Sailing and fishing, April–October. Recommended lodging: Mrs. Berry’s, Bellevue Avenue; Bradley House, Thames Street. Recommended dining: The Paul Revere Tavern, The Old Black Horse. Plentiful shops located in and around Bellevue Avenue. Attempts to gain access to the island’s private homes not advised.
“Mr. Blaine,” Lenox said, “I wonder if I could impose upon you for whatever information you might have about Miss Allingham. Mrs. Allingham?”
Blaine drew his stare from the windows only after a beat. “Miss—Miss Lily Allingham.”
Lenox could feel Clark’s attention, though he hadn’t moved in the slightest. “And?” he said.
“I cannot say that I knew Miss Allingham well. She was a year or two younger than I,” said Blaine. The scenery blurred past them in the windows, and unconsciously the young fellow reached for the lower part of his leg, massaged it for a moment. “The first thing you are bound to hear is that she has been considered one of our great beauties. The diamond of the season, one of the columnists here has taken to calling her. So she has had a taste of fame this year.”
“She was a member of Newport society, then?”
“Oh! Yes, certainly. I should have said that first. And New York.” Blaine shook his head clear. “Let me see. Lily Allingham. Yes. Only child of Mr. Creighton Allingham and his wife.”
Lenox was taking notes. “Do you know her name?”
“Cora, I believe, though I wouldn’t swear to it. I suppose you would say that they were socially of the—the middle tier, of the group here that cares for such things. That sounds bad.”
“You must speak as frankly as possible.”
“Miss Allingham’s beauty gave them a heightened social significance. They were perhaps not of the first rank until she was noticed. Now they go everywhere. They were on the Flagler yacht in Monaco over Christmas. Lily herself has been much courted, needless to say. I do not know whether they have a house in Newport. I don’t believe that they do. There aren’t many. But it’s no surprise at all that they were guests there, if indeed that’s why she was there. She would have had a dozen invitations. Many of the hostesses like to have the season’s darlings stay with them.”
“How does someone like Schermerhorn come into it?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Is his wife one of these hostesses?”
Almost reluctantly, Blaine said, “No. She’s abroad. But there were rumors—well, that Schermerhorn’s son and Miss Allingham might be married.”
That changed the complexion of things enormously. “An engagement?”
“Not that I know of.” There was a long pause. They both looked at Clark, but he stared steadily on, silent as the grave. “When I told you I was interested in crime, I did not imagine—I could not have foreseen—”
“No, of course not,” said Lenox.
“I didn’t know Lily well.”
“If you should wish to return to New York, Mr. Blaine, I understand. Indeed, you have already given me a great deal of help.”
A strange stubbornness passed over Blaine’s face. Perhaps something of his father in it or, who knew, his mother. “No. I—my family—I have a convenient place to stay, in Newport, as it happens. With your permission, I should like to come.”
Lenox inclined his head. He reflected that in all probability it was the sort of case that would be over in two hours, perhaps even solved by the time they arrived. If not, though, Blaine would be a useful ally. He knew the terrain.
“Then follow my lead,” said Lenox.
“Of course. And I hope you shall stay with us.”
“Thank you, but I will find lodgings,” said Lenox. “I shouldn’t like to impose.”
More to the point: It was better to have independence. He had no real conception of what kind of little world he was entering—only the knowledge that the word Newport was freighted with a certain magic here in America, denoting to the more humbly blessed enormous parties, breathtaking costumes, the most concentrated and intensely enjoyed wealth in all America, perhaps. At least, that was its reputation.
The train was passing by a gray, serene stretch of water, very close to the tracks. “We’re nearly there,” said Clark, the first time he had spoken in an hour.
Lenox felt a flash of weariness; of being a long way from home. In truth he hoped that the matter had been resolved already, that he could spend the night in Newport, visit the sea for half an hour’s walk, and be on his way to meet the Poe Society in Boston, a group of retired professors who solved crimes together. He had been looking forward to it particularly.
To their east, the town came into view: charming New England spires, white clapboard houses, a densely populated place. Beyond it the rough choppy white waves of the bay were visible, gulls wheeling above, the sight of all that open water tugging at Lenox’s heart.
He still didn’t see any of the great mansions for which Newport was famous. The other side of the island, perhaps.
When they arrived, Lenox gave O’Brian (who had evinced no special surprise at the sharp change in their plans) money. “Could you please take a hansom cab and find us two rooms for the night? Mr. Blaine, shall he try Mrs. Berry’s first, or Bradley House—or some third option?”
“Mrs. Berry’s,” said Blaine without an instant’s doubt. “You shall be very comfortable there. If she is full, Mrs. Clumber’s will do. Bradley House at a pinch.”
“Thank you. O’Brian, look at the rooms yourself before you take them, if you would, thank you, and make sure they are suitable. The only thing I mind is any very active animal life or visible dirt. I am sure there shall be no difficulty with either. An uncomfortable bed I can stand. And leave word of where you have landed at—well, where?”
“The Horse and Foal,” said Blaine. “It is two doors down from Mrs. Berry’s.”
“O’Brian? You have that?”
“Yes, sir.”
The train was pulling to a stop. “Very good. Let us see, then, what we shall see.”
It was scarcely twenty minutes later that Lenox found himself near the summit of the Forty Steps.
Beneath them on the beach, a small crowd of people, perhaps a dozen in all, stood around a white sheet that was pinned to the ground at its corners with heavy stones. One by one, they looked up at the new arrivals, shielding their eyes against the sun and the furious wind, their faces all filled with dismay and fear, along with perhaps a trace of hope that whoever was on the steps had come to rescue them. A few must have recognized either Clark or Blaine, for they waved up in the direction of the trio. Lenox took a deep breath, situating himself mentally, and then started toward the steps with the other two men at his side, Blaine fighting, it was obvious, to walk without a hobble.