The bell fetched a servant, who fetched a servant, until at length Willie Schermerhorn strolled into the room, gave his father a tight nod, and then stood near the doorway through which he’d arrived, staring openly at Charles Lenox.
He was just as Kitty Ashbrook had described. In height he was perhaps six inches over five feet, not more, but he dressed well and carried his chin high, showing off a fine profile. He was much of a piece with his father, Lenox thought, though with fair curling hair that must have come from his mother.
They were introduced to each other.
“How do you do?” Lenox asked.
“Miss Allingham was in a group of us that had lunch on my boat the day she died. I can hardly believe she is gone.” He sounded sincere. “My father tells me that you are the best detective obtainable.”
Obtainable! Only the tenacity with which good manners had been instilled in him kept Lenox from saying anything. “I doubt it very much, but I am here.”
“Yes, you are.”
The three men filled an awkward few seconds by staring at each other. The door came to their rescue: The younger Schermerhorn had brought with him a cup of coffee, and wordlessly, two maids appeared, one to refill the coffee, the other to replace the monogrammed silver ashtray on Schermerhorn’s desk with a fresh duplicate.
“I understand that you saw Miss Allingham two nights ago.”
“Yes, that’s correct.”
“And followed her out of the ball.”
Willie Schermerhorn looked at his father, then back to Lenox. “Yes.”
“Did you find her?”
“No.”
“Or see her from a distance, perhaps?”
“No, I didn’t,” he said.
“It’s peculiar, then, that she was killed so close to your family’s house.”
“Yes, beastly odd! Listen here, whoever you may be—I didn’t kill Lily.”
“No?”
Willie Schermerhorn stopped his pacing and looked Lenox directly in the eye. “No. I would sooner have slit my own throat than do anything so dishonorable. I would never have harmed her. Never.”
There was real passion in his voice, and his father looked satisfied. “Even if she had rejected your proposal?”
Willie Schermerhorn stopped. “Who told you she did that?” He waited for Lenox to reply without his effort being repaid. “It’s a damned lie. We were engaged, as it happens. I loved her and she loved me.”
This last line he delivered with less vigor than his defense of himself. Lenox wondered why—wondered if perhaps it had not been quite so settled. “Did you have plans to announce the engagement in the papers? I don’t know what the custom is here, but in England such things are announced.”
A look was enough to tell Lenox that it hadn’t been. “Not yet.”
“You don’t know of anything about her and Mr. Vanderbilt?”
To Lenox’s surprise, Willie gave a short laugh. “I do. I know that every—listen, did you see her?”
“See her? I did.”
“She was the fairest creature on earth.”
“She was very beautiful,” said Lenox evenly.
“She was more than beautiful. You must know that if you are to capture her murderer. She was the prettiest girl New York has seen in a century. McCallister himself said so, and he has seen every girl since the ’30s with his own two eyes. Yes, I know Vanderbilt proposed to Lily, along with every scrounger and cripple who could find his way within shouting distance of her. You do not surprise me there, Mr. Lenox.”
“How many proposals?”
Willie threw a hand up, as if to say Lenox was missing the point. “Pick a number. A dozen? One or two a month since the fall, I’m sure. Men here aren’t shy.”
This seemed intended as a sneer at England. If it was, Lenox ignored it. “Did she wear a ring on her right hand, Miss Allingham?”
“I think so—at least, she often had some kind of jewelry on, and I remember that she sometimes wore rings. Why?”
“You don’t recall a specific ring?”
Willie Schermerhorn looked puzzled. “No.”
Lenox made a tick in his notebook. Though it hadn’t been his intention, he didn’t mind the irritation it induced in this princeling of New York. “How long had you two known each other?”
“She came out in September, and we grew close over the course of the winter. It was at a benefit for the fire department that she was graceful enough to tell me that she reciprocated my regard for her. Since then we have been planning to marry.”
“Can you tell me why she left the ball two nights ago?”
“She was tired.”
The father chimed in. “The start of the season is very busy here, Mr. Lenox. Miss Allingham was in an archery competition a few days ago, a pastime many of the girls here enjoy, and she would have been out every night. There was also Mrs. Astor’s ball to come. The official start of the season. She and my son were scheduled to dance.”
“You are attending?” Lenox said.
“Of course,” Schermerhorn said off-handedly, though without managing to entirely camouflage his pride that his attendance was past doubt. “As for what my son says about their engagement, he is too reticent. I can say that I regarded Miss Allingham nearly as a daughter.”
Lenox nodded gravely. “Then I am not surprised her death has so upset you.”
The father nodded, looking a little happier. “Yes.”
He turned back to the son. “Did Miss Allingham tell you she was leaving the party?”
“She mentioned that she wanted to walk back home. It was very busy, and I’m not certain we said an actual goodbye, in so many words. I wish we had.”
“Had you argued?”
“No.”
Had Willie Schermerhorn hesitated infinitesimally? Lenox would have to play the scene over in his mind later. For now, he said, “I understand Wales House is the cottage where she and her parents were staying?”
“Yes. It would only have been a ten-minute walk or so.”
“And safe?” asked Lenox.
“Women regularly walk here at night.”
“Alone?”
The younger Schermerhorn frowned. “Perhaps not alone. But I did not think anything of it at the time—I offered her my company, of course, but she said she was planning to catch up to a friend.”
“What friend?”
“She did not say. It could have been one of half a dozen girls with whom she was close.”
Or one young gentleman.
Lenox was debating whether to ask something: Why, if Lily Allingham had been headed to bed, was she found at the opposite end of the Cliff Walk from Wales House, where she was staying—here, near Cove Court.
Instead, he said, “Do you carry a flask?”
“Sometimes, certainly, like anyone. Why?”
“Did you have it two nights ago?”
“I can’t remember. No—I do. I did have my flask with me.”
“May I see it, please?”
The young man looked at him with a trace of haughtiness. “Why?”
“Get it, Willie,” said the elder Schermerhorn.
He, at least, had cottoned on to the fact that Lenox was not here to exonerate anyone out of hand. The young man frowned, rose, and called out (“Hey, there”) in a fashion that produced three people—a butler, Clark, and a footman.
“Dillon,” he said, evidently addressing the butler, “fetch my gray cloak with the warm lining.”
“Yes, sir.”
The butler reappeared a moment later and handed over the cloak. Willie patted the pockets and produced a small flask. It was made of bright silver encased in pebbled light-brown leather. His initials, WSS, were monogrammed in the leather.
“Would you like to inspect it?”
Lenox shook his head. “No, that’s quite all right. Do you have another?”
“Should I?”
“A gold one? With a ruby?”
The young man seemed to scoff at the notion. “No.”
“Does it sound familiar? Do you know anyone who carries such a flask?”
“I do not.”
In situations like this, Lenox’s mind calculated very rapidly, discarding options one by one. For a few minutes he had been contemplating a question, and now he asked it.
“Did you kill Miss Allingham?”
Willie Schermerhorn’s reaction was made up of an unsatisfying blend of confusion and anger at Lenox’s effrontery. “Of course not,” he spat at last.
“You know I must ask.”
“Father, is Clark—listen, whoever you are—”
“If you didn’t kill her, who do you think did?” Lenox asked.
Willie Schermerhorn stopped in the midst of his appeals and considered the question. “I don’t know,” he said at last.
Lenox studied the boy for a moment. There was something odd in the way he spoke and carried himself—a mixture of grief, Lenox thought, and bewilderment. Yet with it, also, whether it related to Lily Allingham or not, some strangely hidden triumph gleamed in Willie Schermerhorn’s eyes.